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58 pages, Paperback
First published June 18, 1991
I [Barry Lopez] remember a Nunamiut man at Anaktuvuk Pass in the Brooks Range in Alaska named Justus Mekiana. I was there working on a book and I asked him what he did when he went into a foreign landscape. He said, “I listen.”
And a man named Levine Williams, a Koyukon Athapaskan, who spoke sternly to a friend, after he had made an innocent remark about how intelligent people were, saying to him, “Every animal knows way more than you do.”
And another man, an Inuk, watching a group of polar bear biologists on Baffin Island comparing notes on the migration paths of polar bears, in an effort to predict where they might go. “Quajijau-jungangitut,” he said softly, “it can’t be learned.”
I remember a Kamba man in Kenya, Kamoya Kimeu, a companion in the stone desert west of Lake Turkana—and a dozen other men—telling me, you know how to see, learn how to mark the country. And he and others teaching me to sit down in one place for two or three hours and look.
When we enter the landscape to learn something, we are obligated, I think, to pay attention rather than constantly to pose questions. To approach the land as we would a person, by opening an intelligent conversation. And to stay in one place, to make of that one, long observation a fully dilated experience. We will always be rewarded if we give the land credit for more than we imagine, and if we imagine it as being more complex even than language.
In these ways we begin, I think, to find a home, to sense how to fit a place.