Selected Works

Outside (September 2014)
Orion (Jul/Aug 2013)
Outside, Nawakum Press (March 2013)
Kyoto Journal 75, September 30, 2010
Portland (Winter 2008).
Selected for Best American Essays 2009.
Memoir of Lopez's childhood in California's San Fernando Valley. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize in feature writing, 2002. (LA Weekly, January 11-17, 2002)
Short Fiction
Manoa (January 2011)
Orion (Jul/Aug 2010)
Orion (Jan/Feb 2010)
TriQuarterly #133
Nonfiction Books
With an Introduction by Barry Lopez (Trinity University Press 2006)
25th Anniversary Edition with a new Afterword by BL. Photographs and marginalia throughout. (Scribner 2004)
Interviews by BL
BL talks with Oren Lyons, Orion (January/February 2007), Manoa (August 2008), and Resurgence (September/October 2008).
Short Story Collections
Nine interrelated stories. H.L. Davis Award for Short Fiction 2005 (Knopf 2004, Vintage 2005)
Thirteen stories, including "Stolen Horses," "The Letters of Heaven," and "The Mappist." (Knopf 2000, Vintage 2001)
Retold tales of Coyote as trickster and sage, from the traditions of Native America. (Andrews and McMeel 1978, Avon 1981)
Interviews of BL
Michigan Quarterly Review (Fall 2005), Georgia Review (Spring 2006), and in No Bottom: In Conversation with Barry Lopez (2008) and Conversations with Barry Lopez: Walking the Path of Imagination (2013).
This collection includes five essays and an excerpt from Arctic Dreams in addition to six short stories. (Vintage 2004)

Best American Spiritual Writing 2005

INTRODUCTION (opening paragraphs)

One benign, summer morning, I departed a small tent camp, pitched on the back of a valley glacier, and headed with a few friends for an embayment a couple of miles away in the La Gorce Mountains, in the interior of Antarctica. We were curious about the place, an unnamed natural amphitheater we’d examined through binoculars some weeks earlier. A curving wall rose sharply from the valley floor on three sides, towering over a dark expanse of frost-shattered porphyry and other igneous and sedimentary rock that had fallen, over dozens of millennia, from the walls and serrated ridge above, or been pushed up from the glacial ice below this rock barren.

     It was a clear day of unusually still air. By now, at the end of a forty-five-day field season, the six of us were so accustomed to the steady cold I can’t recall a specific temperature. It must have been around 0°F. The few people who have actually traveled in the interior of Antarctica have all done so recently and their journeys have been carefully recorded by the U.S. Geological Survey; so it’s possible to say, with a high degree of certainty, that no one had ever been where we were headed. The La Gorce Range, with its many unnamed peaks, shoulders its way through the continent’s permanent ice cover about 225 miles north of the South Pole. The vast, dead-slow river of ice, flowing off the polar plateau, around this range, and toward the edge of the continent, buries the lower seven thousand feet of these mountains. The upper several thousand feet are bare, wind-blasted rock and steep snowpack.

     Eyeing our destination from camp and scrutinizing the topographic map, we guessed that the only problems we might face in our traverse would be a crevasse field, which we could skirt, and the steep pitch of an ice wall where Klein Glacier, on which we were camped, curved around the base of Kessens Peak, the valley’s southeast portal. Like a river streaming around a boulder, an ice sheet moving around the corner of a mountain range leaves a cavity on the downstream side of any obstruction. It was this side slope of the passing glacier that we would have to descend to reach the mouth, about four miles across, of this deep amphitheater.

     The pitch of the ice wall raised a few eyebrows but was not perilous to navigate. We descended, crossed the ice apron to the foot of the valley, and parked our snow machines at the threshold of the felsenmere, the dozen or so square miles of rock blown clear of snow by perennially strong winds (which happened not to be blowing on this day).

     My tent mate, John Schutt, the expedition leader, had the same unannounced idea I did. The two of us hiked in a few hundred yards over the angular boulders and rocks, looking for a relatively flat patch in the rubble that had been soaking up solar radiation for weeks. Using a couple of sun-warmed boulders as backrests, we settled in to peruse what many would characterize as a scene of desolation.

     To the northwest of us, on the right, was 10,823-foot Mount Paine, the other portal to the valley. From there a sharp ridge, an aręte, swung toward us and curved around behind us to terminate on our left, at Kessens Peak, 8,645 feet. Directly before us, about a mile distant, the ice wall of Klein Glacier rose up some hundreds of feet, a rigid tsunami of translucent grays and brilliant whites cutting across a pale blue sky, a great expanse lighter than azure, darker than pearly blue, and without a cloud.

     The silence around us was so deep it induced an aura of anticipation. The present, the time in which John and I were gazing west, grew taut, like a manufactured object tightened. And then it broke, in the manner of mercury dispersing. Each of us felt he was being given what he had deliberately sought here—an unbounded moment when immaculate light filled an immense space, a moment devoid of history, empty of language, without meaning.