Above me the sky became a narrow slit of distant blue, and the sandstone was cool to my hands on either side. The crack was only about body-width and, as I worked my way downward, the light turned ark and green from the overhanging grass. I rode back along the crack to a spot where I could descend into it, dismounted, and left my horse to graze. A narrow crack worn by some descending torrent had begun secretly, far back in the prairie grass, and worked itself deeper and deeper into the fine sandstone that led by devious channels into the broken waste beyond. On the verge where that prairie halted before a great wall of naked sandstone and clay, I came upon the Slit. It was to such a land I rode, but I rode to it across a sunlit, timeless prairie over which nothing passed but antelope or a wandering bird. Rocks are wrenched up and exposed to view black pits receive the sun but give back no light. Some are torn, ravaged and convulsed like the features of profane old age.

Some lands are flat and grass-covered, and smile so evenly up at the sun that they seem forever youthful, untouched by man or time.

Loren Eiseley, 'The Bone Hunter' 1907 - 1977 The Slit, from Loren Eiseley's book, The Immense Journey His essay, The Slit introduces his book, The Immense Journey, one of his most known works. Over time, Loren Eiseley, the famous 20th century anthropologist, became such a person for me. For many readers of classic literature, the authors who remain with them through the years are few and for some, can be counted on one hand.

The immense journey