covered trees, that black river, came a flash of bright, dazzling light. He sat up and watched and waited and then it came again: a quick burst like a white star burning out of the trees. At first he took it for some sign or signal and then imagined that he could see movement in the empty field below, as if that blank space had been visited by the tiny shapes of distant animals: martens and raccoons and the flapping wings of raptors. A wolf and a mountain lion. And of course the bear. But he knew that such a vision was impossible and so he waited and when the flash came again he understood what it was: sunlight glinting off the windshields of passing cars. As if in confirmation, the sun broke wholly through the clouds for the briefest instant and the highway itself blazed as a long strip of bright white light, as if it suddenly had been drawn in glowing ink upon what had been, only moments before, the endless wilderness.
He did not know how long he remained there but the sky was covered in clouds when he finally began the process of struggling to his feet, his breath hard and his body feeling as if it were fading out all around him. And yet he managed to stand, his legs knee-deep in the snow, and then to take a single agonized step forward, and then, at last, to begin his descent. Below him lay the shining line of the highway and beside it the slow oxbow curves of the river, its surface reflecting the sky so that clouds seemed to float gray and swollen in its depths. Sometimes in his descent, he could see them as they ran free through the fresh snow, their muzzles blowing steam, their bodies long and muscled and whole. All of them. Even you. He could see them and then he could see only the vacancy of that snow-covered meadow beyond.
If he could just reach the highway, he could flag down a passing car to drive him the hour and a half to Coeur d’Alene, although in the profound depths of his fatigue he could not always recall what might be waiting for him there: people he loved, people who loved him in return, and between an endless geography of white earth and black trees. In his descent, what he held fast to was the bear. He took that shape with him through that forest of frozen pines. Sometimes he fell. Sometimes he rested. Sometimes he staggered on.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
TO MY FRIENDS AND FAMILY WHO STRUGGLED WITH ME THROUGH endless drafts and redrafts, pondered new ideas, concepts, and themes, wrestled with philosophical debates, and/or put up with late-night phone calls: Jason Sinclair Long, Andrew John Nicholls, Jason Roberts, Tim Rutili, Amanda Eyre Ward, Josh Weil, and Lance Weller. Of particular help were the detailed notes of Lois Ann Abraham, Lydia Netzer, Michael Spurgeon, and Karin Erickson. Thanks to Chip Conrad and to my father, Gary Kiefer, for joining me on research trips to Reno, Battle Mountain, and North Idaho, and to my uncle, Jeff Kiefer, for straightening out my use of plant biology terms. Especially helpful were the thoughts of my wife, Macie, who allowed me to fill her head with my characters so I could watch them walk around (and watched the children so that I could actually write the thing).
In and about Reno, Nevada, many thanks to L.C.; Tim Dees (Reno Police Department, retired); the particularly fine memory of Kathy Eastland and everyone at Reno’s Wonder Bar; Linda Gardner; Tupelo Hassman, author of Girlchild; Steve Reed; Lynn Tower, LCSW; the fine novelist, musician, and Nevada native Willy Vlautin; and Michael Wirtschafter. I would also like to acknowledge that participants in the Facebook group You are probably from Reno if … were consistently helpful.
In Battle Mountain, Nevada, many thanks to the patient information provided by Lori Price at the Battle Mountain Cookhouse Museum; Paula Tomera, executive director of the Battle Mountain Chamber of Commerce; Lander County sheriff Ron Unger; and Robin York. Josh Scovil was the first to introduce me to Battle Mountain. His stories and those of his father, Jonn Scovil, were invaluable.
In North Idaho, my aunt and uncle, Pam and Greg Mangum, and cousin, Dale Mangum, were excellent guides to the area; wolf handler Mario Marzio helped with information related to that beautiful animal; Dory McIsaac offered her expertise in rehabilitating ungulates at Mystic Farm Wildlife Rescue in Sagle; Kathleen St. Clair–McGee of American Heritage Wildlife Foundation helped me navigate through the paperwork associated with the care of injured Idaho wildlife. For news and geographical information, I am indebted to Mike Weland of News Bonners Ferry; to the research skills of Jessica Bowman, cataloging assistant and reference technician for the East Bonner County Library District, for providing me with copies of the Bonner County Daily Bee; and to the memories of the Facebook group Bonners Ferry Back When. The Northwoods Tavern is a real place, fictionalized for the purposes of this book. Apologies to its patrons and its current owners, the very kind Roger and Laurie Doering, for any liberties I have taken.
Special thanks to the very patient Jill Lute of the Folsom City Zoo Sanctuary for answering my questions on the practical side of zoo management, and to the San Francisco Zoo’s Debbie Marin-Towey, assistant curator of carnivores, and Sandy Huang, carnivore animal keeper, for specific information about grizzly care. M. Paul Atwood, wildlife biologist, Upper Snake Region, Idaho Fish and Game, kindly shared his insight on grizzly behavior and cognition, and on the paperwork and legal ramifications of running a wildlife rescue in Idaho. (The IFG conservation officer in this novel bears no relation to him or any other real IFG CO
whatsoever.) I should also mention here that the wildlife rescue in the book was inspired, in part, by Animal Ark, north of Reno, Nevada.