文章如下：

像山那样思考

一声深沉的、骄傲的嗥叫，从一个山崖回响到另一个山崖，荡漾在山谷中，渐渐地消失在漆黑的夜色里。这是一种不驯服的、对抗性的悲哀，和对世界上一切苦难的蔑视情感的迸发。

每一种活着的东西（大概还有很多死了的东西），都会留意这声呼唤。对鹿来说，它是死亡的警告；对松林来说，它是半夜里在雪地上混战和流血的预言；对郊狼来说，是就要来临的拾遗的允诺；对牧牛人来说，是银行里赤字的坏兆头（指入不敷出）；对猎人来说，是狼牙抵制弹丸的挑战。然而，在这些明显的、直接的希望和恐惧之后，还隐藏着更加深刻的含义，这个含义只有这座山自己才知道。只有这座山长久地存在着，从而能够客观地去听取一只狼的嗥叫。

不过，那些不能辨别其隐藏的含义的人也都知道这声呼唤的存在，因为在所有有狼的地区都能感到它，而且，正是它把有狼的地方与其他地方区别开来的。它使那些在夜里听到狼叫，白天去察看狼的足迹的人毛骨悚然。即使看不到狼的踪迹，也听不到它的声音，它也是暗含在许多小小的事件中的：深夜里一匹驮马的嘶鸣，滚动的岩石的嘎啦声，逃跑的鹿的砰砰声，云杉下道路的阴影。只有不堪教育的初学者才感觉不到狼是否存在，和认识不到山对狼有一种秘密的看法这一事实。

我自己对这一点的认识，是自我看见一只狼死去的那一天开始的。当时我们正在一个高高的峭壁上吃午饭。峭壁下面，一条湍急的河蜿蜒流过。我们看见一只雌鹿──当时我们是这样认为──正在涉过这条急流，它的胸部淹没在白色的水中。当它爬上岸朝向我们，并摇晃着它的尾巴时，我们才发觉我们错了：这是一只狼。另外还有六只显然是正在发育的小狼也从柳树丛中跑了出来，它们喜气洋洋地摇着尾巴，嬉戏着搅在一起。它们确确实实是一群就在我们的峭壁之下的空地上蠕动和互相碰撞着的狼。

在那些年代里，我们还从未听说过会放过打死一只狼的机会那种事。在一秒钟之内，我们就把枪弹上了膛，而且兴奋的程度高于准确：怎样往一个陡峭的山坡下瞄准，总是不大清楚的。当我们的来复枪膛空了时，那只狼已经倒了下来，一只小狼正拖着一条腿，进入到那无动于衷的静静的岩石中去。

当我们到达那只老狼的所在时，正好看见在它眼中闪烁着的、令人难受的、垂死时的绿光。这时，我察觉到，而且以后一直是这样想，在这双眼睛里，有某种对我来说是新的东西，是某种只有它和这座山才了解的东西。当时我很年轻，而且正是不动扳机就感到手痒的时期。那时，我总是认为，狼越少，鹿就越多，因此，没有狼的地方就意味着是猎人的天堂。但是，在看到这垂死的绿光时，我感到，无论是狼，或是山，都不会同意这种观点。

自那以后，我亲眼看见一个州接一个州地消灭了它们所有的狼。我看见过许多刚刚失去了狼的山的样子，看见南面的山坡由于新出现的弯弯曲曲的鹿径而变得皱皱巴巴。我看见所有可吃的灌木和树苗都被吃掉，先变成无用的东西，然后则死去。我看见每一棵可吃的、失去了叶子的树只有鞍角那么高。这样一座山看起来就好像什么人给了上帝一把大剪刀，并禁止了所有其他的活动。结果，那原来渴望着食物的鹿群的饿殍，和死去的艾蒿丛一起变成了白色，或者就在高于鹿头的部分还留有叶子的刺柏下腐烂掉。这些鹿是因其数目太多而死去的。

我现在想，正像当初鹿群在对狼的极度恐惧中生活着那样，那一座山将要在对它的鹿的极度恐惧中生活。而且，大概就比较充分的理由来说，当一只被狼拖去的公鹿在两年或三年就可得到补替时，一片被太多的鹿拖疲惫了的草原，可能在几十年里都得不到复原。

牛群也是如此，清除了其牧场上的狼的牧牛人并未意识到，他取代了狼用以调整牛群数目以适应其牧场的工作。他不知道像山那样来思考。正因为如此，我们才有了尘暴，河水把未来冲刷到大海去。

我们大家都在为安全、繁荣、舒适、长寿和平静而奋斗着。鹿用轻快的四肢奋斗着，牧牛人用套圈和毒药奋斗着，政治家用笔，而我们大家则用机器、选票和美金。所有这一切带来的都是同一种东西：我们这一时代的和平。用这一点去衡量成就，全部是很好的，而且大概也是客观的思考所不可缺少的，不过，太多的安全似乎产生的仅仅是长远的危险。也许，这也就是梭罗的名言潜在的含义。这个世界的启示在荒野。大概，这也是狼的嗥叫中隐藏的内涵，它已被群山所理解，却还极少为人类所领悟。

感谢一位博友提供了原文，如下：

Thinking Like a Mountain
By Aldo Leopold

A deep chesty bawl echoes from rimrock to rimrock, rolls down the mountain, and fades into the far blackness of the night. It is an outburst of wild defiant sorrow, and of contempt for all the adversities of the world. Every living thing (and perhaps many a dead one as well) pays heed to that call. To the deer it is a reminder of the way of all flesh, to the pine a forecast of midnight scuffles and of blood upon the snow, to the coyote a promise of gleanings to come, to the cowman a threat of red ink at the bank, to the hunter a challenge of fang against bullet. Yet behind these obvious and immediate hopes and fears there lies a deeper meaning, known only to the mountain itself. Only the mountain has lived long enough to listen objectively to the howl of a wolf.
Those unable to decipher the hidden meaning know nevertheless that it is there, for it is felt in all wolf country, and distinguishes that country from all other land. It tingles in the spine of all who hear wolves by night, or who scan their tracks by day. Even without sight or sound of wolf, it is implicit in a hundred small events: the midnight whinny of a pack horse, the rattle of rolling rocks, the bound of a fleeing deer, the way shadows lie under the spruces. Only the ineducable tyro can fail to sense the presence or absence of wolves, or the fact that mountains have a secret opinion about them.

My own conviction on this score dates from the day I saw a wolf die. We were eating lunch on a high rimrock, at the foot of which a turbulent river elbowed its way. We saw what we thought was a doe fording the torrent, her breast awash in white water. When she climbed the bank toward us and shook out her tail, we realized our error: it was a wolf. A half-dozen others, evidently grown pups, sprang from the willows and all joined in a welcoming melee of wagging tails and playful maulings. What was literally a pile of wolves writhed and tumbled in the center of an open flat at the foot of our rimrock.

In those days we had never heard of passing up a chance to kill a wolf. In a second we were pumping lead into the pack, but with more excitement than accuracy: how to aim a steep downhill shot is always confusing. When our rifles were empty, the old wolf was down, and a pup was dragging a leg into impassable slide-rocks.

We reached the old wolf in time to watch a fierce green fire dying in her eyes. I realized then, and have known ever since, that there was something new to me in those eyes - something known only to her and to the mountain. I was young then, and full of trigger-itch; I thought that because fewer wolves meant more deer, that no wolves would mean hunters' paradise. But after seeing the green fire die, I sensed that neither the wolf nor the mountain agreed with such a view.

Since then I have lived to see state after state extirpate its wolves. I have watched the face of many a newly wolfless mountain, and seen the south-facing slopes wrinkle with a maze of new deer trails. I have seen every edible bush and seedling browsed, first to anaemic desuetude, and then to death. I have seen every edible tree defoliated to the height of a saddlehorn. Such a mountain looks as if someone had given God a new pruning shears, and forbidden Him all other exercise. In the end the starved bones of the hoped-for deer herd, dead of its own too-much, bleach with the bones of the dead sage, or molder under the high-lined junipers.

I now suspect that just as a deer herd lives in mortal fear of its wolves, so does a mountain live in mortal fear of its deer. And perhaps with better cause, for while a buck pulled down by wolves can be replaced in two or three years, a range pulled down by too many deer may fail of replacement in as many decades. So also with cows. The cowman who cleans his range of wolves does not realize that he is taking over the wolf's job of trimming the herd to fit the range. 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. The deer strives with his supple legs, the cowman with trap and poison, the statesman with pen, the most of us with machines, votes, and dollars, but it all comes to the same thing: peace in our time. A measure of success in this is all well enough, and perhaps is a requisite to objective thinking, but too much safety seems to yield only danger in the long run. Perhaps this is behind Thoreau's dictum: In wildness is the salvation of the world. Perhaps this is the hidden meaning in the howl of the wolf, long known among mountains, but seldom perceived among men.

http://www.eco-action.org/dt/thinking.html