When I arrived at Barry Lopez’s home last fall, tucked in a grove of Douglas firs beside the McKenzie River in Oregon, the first thing I noticed was the prie-dieu, a type of wooden kneeling bench that might be found in a monastery cell, only here it stood alone on a deck beneath the trees. This felt right. Though not overtly religious, Lopez’s writing has a prayerful tone; a feeling of invocation or incantation; a reverence that elevates the mundane. In his hands a raccoon’s jawbone, found in the detritus of the forest floor, might reveal to us something new about ourselves.