Seasonal Migration Quotes

In the winter, I'm always in Europe. July and September are New Zealand and Chile camps. I'm always on the road.

I live between Barcelona and Berlin. Staying in Spain over the winter and Berlin for spring and summer is an ideal combination.

I divide my time between homes in Arizona and England, six months a year in each place.

Windy or not, a day this beautiful has to be lived. The day is bright and clear, the sky blue, and the dry air feels light. A northerly wind stirs a primal urge to move. The geese feel it, and so do I. Perhaps it is a last internal vestige from a time, long ago, when we migrated with the seasons across open plains, following the animals we pursued for food. Perhaps that is why the sight of migrating geese arrests our attention, why we feel the pull. We want to go, to travel in fresh or moody weather, taking in each newly revealed vista.

I live in Canada in the summer and some time in the fall.

Quite honestly, I live in California in the off season. Going off to Green Bay is just like two different walks of life - I hunt, fish, practice with firearms. Back in California, it's spend time at the beach, go to the movies.

There's a lot of people around Alaska now who are actually running the place who claim to just have gone there for the summer once 30 years ago. And that seems to be what happens.

If you look in the animal world, many, many organisms will enter into states of suspended animation.

I split my time between Santa Barbara and Aspen. I live on a pretty fast horse.

There were three classes of inhabitants who either frequent or inhabit the country which we had now entered: first, the loggers, who, for a part of the year, the winter and spring, are far the most numerous, but in the summer, except for a few explorers for timber, completely desert it; second, the few settlers I have named, the only permanent inhabitants, who live on the verge of it, and help raise supplies for the former; third, the hunters, mostly Indians, who range over it in their season.

O thou who passest through our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O Summer, Oft pitchest here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

We moved around every winter. I don't know. Maybe my dad was, like, on the run from the law.

I spend a part of the year in New York when based in L.A. and vice versa. It's the only way I feel balanced. Outside of theater and my community of friends out there, my family is still in N.Y., so I have a lot of reasons to spend time out there as well. I guess I'm bi-coastal.

Decade after decade, artists came to paint the light of Provincetown, and comparisons were made to the lagoons of Venice and the marshes of Holland, but then the summer ended and most of the painters left, and the long dingy undergarment of the gray New England winter, gray as the spirit of my mood, came down to visit.

All those golden autumn days the sky was full of wings. Wings beating low over the blue water of Silver Lake, wings beating high in the blue air far above it . . . bearing them all away to the green fields in the South.

I have a whole life in New York and a life in L.A. and to live one-third of the year in a place that isn't one of those is kind of a bummer.

Quite possibly there's nothing as fine as a big freight train starting across country in early summer, Hardesty thought. That's when you learn that the tragedy of plants is that they have roots.

The bus roared on. I was going home in October. Everybody goes home in October.

Followers of trails and of seasons, breakers of camp in the little dawn wind, seekers of watercourses over the wrinkled rind of the world, o seekers, o finders of reasons to be up and be gone.

I spend a lot of time just listening to the ospreys. I watch them go through their life cycle. They spend the winter in South America. The mother and father osprey stay together. It's a monogamous relationship. And every summer they raise a new brood of children. They came back to the nest in the middle of April. They take separate vacations in the winter - the mother and father.

I don't actually think I could be happy on one coast all year round. California is a sweeter lifestyle, but I need the energy of New York to keep me on my toes.

Most of these wild animals depart in autumn when the sun changes their behavior and they feel the urge to migrate or go off alone. While they are with us, however, they become characters in my books, articles, and stories.

Every year, I travel extensively in the autumn and the spring. I set most of the winter and summer aside for my family and my own tribal relatives. But during that traveling time, I often find myself visiting other native communities around the continent - perhaps a dozen or more each year.