Journalist And Author John Mcphee Still Finds Wonder In The Outdoors, Chocolate And Circus Bears

WALK AROUND A GIANT GLOBE IN THE LOBBY OF Princeton University’s geosciences building, Guyot Hall, and ascend an elevator to the fourth floor.

- Sean Gregory​​​​​​

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 this early December day, however, McPhee’s not filing on deadline. Instead he’s winnowing down a pool of 76 applicants to select the 16 Princeton sophomores who will take the spring writing course, now called Creative NonFiction, that he’s taught at the university since 1975. McPhee, 87, doesn’t write during the semesters he’s teaching. But he insists that being a professor ups his productivity, since he returns to his projects recharged. “When I got to be an old man, I didn’t quit,” McPhee says. “I’d rather be dealing with these students than staring at the wall.”