A veteran writer on the pleasures of walking out in nature unearths his favorite treasures in this amiable book, itself written in the style of a country ramble. Fletcher (The Man Who Walked Through Time, The Complete Walker, etc.) has taken an interesting gamble that for the most part pays off. Although he describes in close-focus detail those secret places he holds most dear, he does not tell the reader where they are, and even withholds or obscures critical identifying details. Instead, he tries to evoke the beauty of looking, the almost mystical return to a state of grace that these places inspire. At best, Fletcher succeeds in re-creating delicate moments: "All I could see through the white plastic. . .was the circular pattern of [the spider's] outspread legs at the points they touched the tarp. . .It occurred to me that this was what an insect-eating fish, such as a trout, must see." He can deliver sharp, unsentimental portraits of life in the wilds: e.g., "in watching a vulture insert almost its entire neck through the anus of a dead zebra to get at its intestines (apparently because the hide was too tough for other ingress). . ." But he also commits the sin of cuteness (mice are "anonymouse"). A book for Fletcher's fans and for urbanites in need of a Zen moment or two.