by Matt Wheeler
A generation before Wendell Berry, there lived a man who loved the land. Not only the ground, the soil, the terrain - the entirety of the living creatures that called it home. To him, working toward a harmonious balance among these and the people who dwelt there was the best way to steward the gift of life. He saw humankind as important members of this community, but not its only members. That man: Aldo Leopold.
An Iowa native born in the late 19th century, Aldo Leopold was a Yale-educated naturalist, forester, and professor who, in the late 1940s, served as an advisor on conservation for the United Nations. In 1935, he and his family bought and restored a worn-out farm in one of Wisconsin’s “sand counties”, a region shaped by a former glacial lake and with notoriously poor soil.
The winsome prose in Leopold’s seminal work, A Sand County Almanac and Sketches Here and There, shows this genuine affection. What comes through is an author with a sense of wonder at the mundane details, inspiring the same in readers. The result reads like journal entries by a trusted mentor. Leopold’s work evokes the Rich Mullins proclamation that “there’s so much beauty around us for just two eyes to see, but everywhere I go, I’m looking.”
The book has become a foundational text in conservation thought, though a reader need not identify as an avid conservationist to appreciate the book—this is simply great literature. Leopold provides readers ample evidence to grasp for the “why” of nature conversation before introducing them to the “what” and the “how”.
The author has a knack for impactful and direct statements. To wit, read his opening words in the foreword, to set up this work:
“There are some who can live without wild things, and some who cannot. These essays are the delights and dilemmas of one who cannot.”
After he explains the structure of the book, he gives his thesis:
“That land is a community is the basic concept of ecology, but that land is to be loved and respected is an extension of ethics. That land yields a cultural harvest is a fact long known, but latterly often forgotten. These essays attempt to weld these three concepts.”
The first section, “A Sand County Almanac,” is a series of short essays organized by month, a January-through-December chronicle of one year at the farm. Leopold kicks off “January Thaw” with these words:
“Each year, after the midwinter blizzards, there comes a night of thaw when the tinkle of dripping water is heard in the land. It brings strange stirrings, not only to creatures abed for the night, but to some who have been asleep for the winter. The hibernating skunk, curled up in his deep den, uncurls himself and ventures forth to prowl the wet world, dragging his belly in the snow. His track marks one of the earliest datable events in that cycle of beginnings and ceasings which we call a year.”
Leopold is a noticer, and he invites his readers to join him in his noticing. He plays out in his mind what has transpired based on the tracks he sees in the snow—the tunnelings of a meadow mouse, the sweeping of the wings of an owl on the hunt, the lumberings of the skunk.
The singular February entry, “Good Oak,” is my personal favorite passage in the book, and the portion I would give to a potential reader. The author starts off by suggesting that we should remember that, as food at its origin doesn’t come from a grocery store, neither does heat from a furnace. His prescription: that the reader should do as he has done and “should lay a split of good oak on the andirons, preferably where there is no furnace, and let it warm his shins while a February blizzard tosses the trees outside.” Leopold tells of the origin of the aforementioned wood, from a lightning-struck tree that dates back to the end of The Civil War. What follows is a discourse on par with Robert Farrar Capon's ode to the noble onion in his masterwork, The Supper of the Lamb. As “fragrant little chips spewed from the saw cut, and accumulated in the snow before each kneeling sawyer,” a memoir of the tree itself and the history of the land around it unfolded, backward through time as the team cuts through, like in 1874, when “the first factory made barbed wire was stapled to oak trees; I hope no such artifacts are buried in the oak and under saw!” The fullness of the poetry and history woven together in these eleven pages defy easy summary, as Capon’s “onion” piece also does—it must be experienced for oneself.
Later, the early-rising Leopold tells us of his habit of arriving early to behold the birds’ dawn chorus:
“At 3:30 am, with such dignity as I can muster of a July morning, I step from my cabin door, bearing in either hand my emblems of sovereignty, a coffee pot and notebook. I seat myself on a bench, facing the white wake of the morning star. I set the pot beside me. I extract a cup from my shirt front, hoping none will notice its informal mode of transport. I get out my watch, pour coffee, and lay notebook on knee. This is the cue for the proclamation to begin.”
In a short vignette titled “Draba”, we take a careful look at a small and little-noticed flower, among the smallest that bloom, often missed by all but those who kneel in the mud - and there find it in abundance. He writes,
"Some botanist once gave it a Latin name, and then forgot it. Altogether, it is of no importance - just a small creature that does a small job quickly and well."
Leopold waxes poetic about the migration of the “feathered navies” of geese; the theatrical and, in season, daily “sky dance” of the woodcock; the extraordinary chickadee with #65290 emblazoned on his band and the winters he weathered; and his love of pine trees—of which his family planted over 3,000 a year, according to The Aldo Leopold Foundation—among much else. The almanac section is heartfelt, intriguing, and simply beautiful.
The second portion, “Sketches Here and There”, contains portraits of Leopold’s travels across North America, spread over forty years. This rich and varied section features reflections ripe with wit and wonder. For this section, I think it best to highlight a few outstanding points in Leopold’s own words:
On the short-sightedness we as humans often exhibit:
“He has not learned to think like a mountain. Hence we have dustbowls, and rivers washing the future into the sea…We all strive for safety, prosperity, comfort, long life, and dullness…Perhaps this is behind Thoreau’s dictum: In wildness is the salvation of the world.”
On recalling a trek in his young adulthood, when he and his brother explored a Mexican river delta wilderness by canoe:
“For the last word in procrastination, go travel with a river reluctant to lose his freedom in the sea. ‘He leadeth me by still waters’ was to us only a phrase in a book until we had nosed our canoe through the green lagoons. If David had not written the psalm, we should have felt constrained to write our own.”
And Leopold showing his cards as plainly as at any point in the book, following up a statement about how humankind tends to harshly handle the gift of wilderness:
“Be that as it may, I am glad I shall never be young without wild country to be young in. Of what avail are forty freedoms without a blank spot on a map?”
Aldo Leopold lands the book with “The Upshot.” Professor Leopold has taken us on a long series of field trips, taught us to appreciate what we have seen, and is now bringing it home. Here he outlines his “land ethic,” his core philosophy as a naturalist:
“A land ethic of course cannot prevent the alteration, management, and use of these ‘resources,’ but it does affirm their right to continued existence, and, at least in spots, their continued existence in a natural state…it implies respect for his fellow-members, and also respect for the community as such.”
The best teacher is often a person who loves what he or she does and who teaches by giving others a window to see that. Aldo Leopold loved the land and saw the wonder of it, and he had a gift for inspiring others to do the same. In this book, we are welcomed into, as Wendell Berry put it, “the peace of wild things” and are invited to appreciate, protect, and, in an exhortation much-needed in our increasingly technology-driven world, to get out and enjoy the good earth around us.
A troubadour, poet with a guitar, & stage banter-conversationalist, Matt Wheeler lives in Lancaster County, PA with his wife & teenage son. He specializes in songs based on classic works of literature - his 2021 album "Wonder of It All", featuring songs & stories based on books including "The Horse & His Boy" & "Watership Down" is an example. His new album, "A Hard History of Love" is based on Wendell Berry's short stories. You can read and listen to more of his work at www.mattwheeleronline.com.
If you’ve enjoyed this article or other content coming out of the Rabbit Room, you can help support the work by clicking here.
Our weekly newsletter is the best way to learn about new books, staff recommendations, upcoming events, lectures, and more. Sign up here.
Comments