It was a cathedral. The pillars of ebony reached to a distant green and vaulted roof, and the hush of sanctity was all around us.

Do all forests have this sacred, set-apart feeling because they are like cathedrals? Or do cathedrals possess their strange magic because they are like forests?

We had been laughing and joking as we entered, but as soon as the light turned green and dim we fell silent, or talked in whispers, for the place was working on us. I had been here before, many times, but not like this. I had seen leopard hunt here, often; seen them kill twice. It had been a place of drama and adventure, but not now.

For this time, we were in a boat. The glade had flooded. The mighty Luangwa River had been having one of the great rainy seasons, and the place was transformed. We went straight from the endless breadth of the river into the trees, and the ebonies, waist-deep, well-spaced, allowed us a gentle chugging passage and a long silent drift.

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Aaronovitch on a family safari of Zambia

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The year was turning. The river was falling now, the glade would retain its watery floor only for another week. This would be the last time we could go in so deep. Ahead, a fish eagle plied his trade. Sweet call of black-naped oriole. Orange-breasted bush shrike sang Beethoven's Fifth. And the ebonies just carried on growing, annihilating all that's made to a green thought in a green shade.

I had flown from England to Zambia for this. Many people will tell me that I mustn't. There used to be a home-made sign outside Stansted airport: “Cheap flights cost the Earth.” If I go in search of wilderness, if I wish to savour the beauty of the planet we live on, I can only do so by destroying it. So people say.

But I went; and God willing, I will go again. Back to Luangwa, of course, and to other places as well, to get back in touch with my wild heart. And I'm not alone. If there were not people like us, there'd be even less wilderness left.

The world is developing at sick-making pace. Every developing nation is in a huge rush to develop faster than the others. Every folly, every stupidity, every shortcut, every bit of destruction perpetrated by the countries of the developed world provides a role model: the inalienable birthright of every nation that wishes to develop.

But if we go to the wilderness that still remains, we are doing something dramatic. We are putting a dollar-value on wild places and wild creatures. We travel across the world to see them: that makes them an asset to be cherished. Even to the most boot-faced developer, this makes sense.

Across Africa, the safari industry makes its millions, brings in foreign currency, and prestige with it. As a direct result, gorillas, lions, wildebeest and zebras are in no immediate danger and the places where they live are not going to be concreted over this year. The visitors are contributing to the continued survival of something beautiful and meaningful. I don't think that is a bad thing.

People go all over the world in search of wildlife, and I think every mile of travel is good. It is not to be estimated entirely in terms of dollars, either. That people will cross continents to visit wild places is not an empty thing. If someone travelled across the world to look at your own backyard, you might think differently about your backyard.

We who live in the overcivilised world know that we have lost something. Our presence in wild places elsewhere trumpets the wild places' value. A benign tourist brings something to the places he visits: his wonder, his need, his love. These are not small things for the place in question.

The good traveller also takes something away. That sense of eternity I had in the drowned ebony glade affects me still. It affects the way I think, it affects those I come into contact with, not because I am a writer, but because I am a human being. Good experiences enrich lives.

And besides, you can do things about carbon debt. The travel company Wildlife Worldwide offers the opportunity to offset the ecological cost of your flight, or you can offset your travel independently - the charity World Land Trust (WLT) is heavily involved in carbon-balancing.

Long-haul travellers can also visit WLT projects, and be enriched by them. I have lurked with jaguars in Belize and drunk beer with hummingbirds in Brazil; in both places, I have loved the forest that has been saved, and admired the forest that has been replanted.

I heartily reject the notion that the tourist can only destroy what he seeks. When you travel for wildlife, you are preserving, and in some cases even expanding, the wild places you seek. Oh, it would be great if conservation happened because we all accept that conservation is our duty, but that doesn't happen.

But conservation doesn't start with duty. It starts with love, and frequently that love is discovered, expressed and exponentially increased by means of travel. Travel? For me, it's pilgrimage. We emerged from our cathedral, our ebony glade, and returned along the falling Luangwa.

At the campfire, I listened for lion and hyena, for the bark of baboon, which means there are leopard about, for the elaborate whistle of pearl-spotted owlet and the chug of Mozambique nightjar; the crickets were stridulating away to provide the background music along with the tinkling of the painted reed-frogs, the dirty-old-man guffaw of hippo and the plink of Petersen's epaulette fruit bat. I am better for being in that place. And so is the place and the world.

How to Be Wild by Simon Barnes comes out in paperback in August (Short Books, £8.99)