WALK AROUND A GIANT GLOBE IN THE LOBBY OF Princeton University’s geosciences building, Guyot Hall, and ascend an elevator to the fourth floor. Then head past some rocks—from Italy, British Columbia, Vermont—enclosed in two glass cases. There, a narrow flight of stairs leads you to the top of a rooftop turret and a lone office belonging to the venerable nonfiction writer John McPhee, no geologist, though his book covering fault lines and formations won a Pulitzer Prize two decades ago. Within the walls of Guyot, McPhee essentially works in its Alaska, one of his favorite places.
McPhee, who’s contributed pieces to the New Yorker since 1963, has spent a lifetime mining fascinating stories from the unsexiest of subjects, like Alaska, geology, oranges, fishing, the wilderness of southern New Jersey. On…
