In December 1935, in a hotel room in Nazi-governed Berlin, Aldo Leopold sat down to a desk and pulled out a sheet of hotel stationery. Turning the paper over, he scratched the word "Wilderness" across the top, and then proceeded to write 10 sentences in his tight cursive hand. Thoughts had come to him that day, and he wanted to get them on paper. The ideas were not new ones, at least not for him, but the phrasings that evening seemed clearer, more exact, and worth keeping.

Leopold's aim in writing was one that often moved him to put pencil to paper. He wanted to explain, in the plainest, simplest language, the conservation predicament of his time. How did human life fit into the planetary whole? Why did people abuse their natural homes? And what cultural shifts were needed before people would align themselves with nature's order?