To the lover of wilderness, Alaska is one of the most wonderful

Hear, O child of the earth, the words of John Muir, the great prophet of the wild, who declared: “To the lover of wilderness, Alaska is one of the most wonderful countries in the world.” These words are not mere praise of a distant land, but a hymn to the eternal bond between the human spirit and the untamed majesty of nature. For in those frozen mountains, vast forests, and endless rivers lies not only beauty but truth—truth that cannot be learned in books nor whispered in temples, but only felt beneath the open sky.

The wilderness is more than landscape; it is a teacher, a healer, and a mirror to the soul. In the cities of man, the voice of nature is drowned by clamor, but in the silent snowfields of Alaska, the heart hears again the primeval song. The rivers carve their path without permission, the glaciers endure without apology, the eagles rise without fear. Muir saw in these things not chaos, but order—the deep and sacred order of creation itself. To the true lover of the wild, such places are not remote, but close as breath, for they restore what the soul has forgotten.

Consider the tale of Ernest Shackleton, who braved the polar ice with his men. Though his path lay not in Alaska but in the frozen South, the lesson is the same. Amid the endless white, where death itself lurked in the cold winds, Shackleton discovered not despair but the greatness of human courage and endurance. The wilderness tested him, yet also revealed the highest nobility of mankind. And so it is with Alaska—a land both perilous and wondrous, where the weak falter, but the reverent grow strong in spirit.

The origin of Muir’s words lies in his own pilgrimages through the North. He beheld Alaska’s glaciers, vast as empires, and watched the bears and caribou wander as though upon an eternal stage. He saw not only the grandeur but the sanctity of the place. For Muir, to walk in the wilderness was to walk with God, to encounter the divine not through altar or incense, but through mountain and storm. His voice, carried across generations, calls us still: to leave behind the cages of comfort and to return, even for a time, to the wild that first shaped humanity.

O listener, understand this wisdom: what Muir speaks is not merely about geography, but about the condition of the soul. Every person carries within them a hunger for wildness, a longing to be free from walls and schedules, to stand before something vast and untamed. For in such places, we remember that we are not masters but children of the earth. In forgetting this, we become hollow; in remembering, we become whole.

The lesson is clear: seek the wilderness, in Alaska if you are able, or in whatever untamed corner of earth lies nearest. Go into the mountains, the forests, the deserts, or the seas, and let their silence teach you what cannot be spoken. Do not fear the roughness of the path, for hardship is the language of the wild, and in learning it, your heart will grow strong. As Muir believed, to walk with nature is to cleanse the spirit of its dust and to restore its fire.

Practical wisdom follows: make time to leave behind the man-made, even for a day. Walk where no pavement lies, breathe the air unsweetened by smoke, hear the call of birds not drowned by engines. Protect the wild places, for they are sacred libraries of wisdom written not in ink, but in stone, water, and sky. And if you cannot journey to Alaska, know that the wilderness waits in every tree, every stream, every hill that has not been conquered by man.

Thus I say to you, in the spirit of John Muir: to love the wilderness is to love the essence of life itself. And in Alaska, land of mountains and ice, this essence shines in its purest form. Go forth, then, O traveler, and find your own wild places. For there you will not only behold the world’s wonder—you will also behold yourself.