"We'll work it all out as we go along. Let our practice form our doctrine, thus assuring precise theoretical coherence."
Traditionally, mid-February is the time when I allow myself to begin daydreaming about spring.
Planning the garden, plotting bike rides, researching camping trips. Trying to intuit the balance between my ambition and Kid Fink’s age. And I do a lot of reading – hoping that it boosts my dubious Naturalist Intelligence for the coming season.
Reading is a poor substitute for doing, I know. But it passes the time. Late winter in Maine isn’t its most stellar moment. The snow is grainy, icy and dirty. The glaciers in the neighborhood recede revealing three months of accumulated dog turds. The sun teases and the wind freezes.
On a recent trip I read a collection of Edward Abbey’s essays and fiction. Last year it was Colin Fletcher. These guys write inspiring stories about the Southwest. Fletcher is practical. Abbey is subversive.
The problem is, I don’t live in the Southwest! About as far from it as you can get. Who’s writing good outdoors literature about Maine?
A quick survey of the Maine Literary Map gave me some ideas. I should probably give Thoreau a try. Carson’s “Sense of Wonder” sounds nice. I liked “One Man’s Meat”, although it never really felt authentic. A gentleman-farmer writing for the New Yorker?
What do you know? Any recommendations out there?
