I’ve been rating a lot of books four stars lately. I wouldn’t call it a rut. There are lots of good books out there and I’m glad I’ve read them. Some, because I feel I should have and I’m glad for the belt notch (The Secret History, The Secret Garden), others because they were remarkable finds and charming reads but they may have fallen just short of greatness (The Planets, The Singing Bones).
The Snow Leopard is a remarkable book, rightfully shelved as a great American travelogue. It fulfills every expectation from its genre. The author perfectly balances his account of a personal, spiritual journey with his physical, geographic, scenic journey. Even the title lends itself to a motif, the goal of seeing an elusive, beautiful creature out in the snowy wastes, and the author does not fail to use this symbol to impart the lessons he learned. I may never set foot in Nepal or Tibet, but I understand how such a sparse, introspective religion as Buddhism could have thrived there. Westerners really only associate Nepal and the Himalaya with Mount Everest, and that very male, western, phallic mission of conquering her summit. Mathiessen’s journey had nothing to do with mountain climbing and everything to do with studying wildlife, visiting temples, and meeting the local lamas. That mission breathes a fresh vitality into the Abode of Snow as a place of discovery, healing, introspection, and wonder.