The dreaded curse of Covid 19 finally caught up with me, and then my husband. Just in time for my 70th birthday. How timely. How rude. How telling. And we were expecting our daughter for a visit. Did you observe the many planets and moon in alignment recently? They still are, for that matter. The gods laugh. God winks. We sigh. The trick was to “keep going!”, “keep moving!”, “stay focused!”–even as I succumbed to several days in bed, throwing off the entire litany of motivational self-talk. That which we call God encompasses All. As in: Everything, Everywhere, All at Once. Yes, the name of an Oscar winner. (How could they not win?)

So, the quick précis—you do not want to get this disease—even for two-three days. I’ve felt worse but had forgotten how miserable one can truly feel. A five-day course of Paxlovid mitigated the severity of our symptoms and their length. Husband caught the beast (the other way around) four days later, after testing a couple times and showing negative. Apparently, he hadn’t received as heavy a viral load as I. Going about my business, as usual, I’d felt invincible. I was not. My last booster was administered six months ago, so a month past the proposed “safe zone” of five months. Daughter had been reimmunized just before traveling to see us—and so far, (knock wood) she’s avoided it.

Sometimes we’re nudged in a whisper, Pssst! Slow down. Sometimes we’re counseled by a passing breeze, Ummm, you don’t want to go that way. Sometimes we’re told flat-out, Whoa! Hell, no! But sometimes (often) we ignore these better angels. I hit a massive brick wall, as they call it. A friend in Scotland suggested, “You’ll be drained,” in a Scot’s understated manner of speaking, and this was weeks before Covid paid a visit. When one is drained, one has no resources to draw upon, nothing to prime the pump. Zip. Nada. And so it was I found myself in Frost’s dark wood on a snowy evening.

Blessèd are those who find themselves drained, for they shall be restored. Made to rest, slow down, and accept loving care from friends and family was good medicine. My husband experienced a shorter span of illness. After three weeks, I finally tested “negative” yesterday and sense my wits and health returning, but news of yet another obscene school shooting sickens me spiritually. . . .

Now, a strong pivot. . . following is an excerpt from my latest work, CROFTER, “On Hunting,” wherein I discuss firearms. The recent Nashville murders must be the last ones. Join me in working toward changing the culture in this One Crucial Thing. Caveat for those of you who feel a strong aversion to hunting your own meat, best skip.

On Hunting

On the first day of deer season, November 1, Jeff and I register the near and distant booms! of gunfire in our valley, much as one might hear an old grandfather  clock’s chime, cycling time. Area ranches permit hunting, for the most part. Friends and family arrive to answer an ancient call and celebrate a true Harvest Home, or in the case of spring turkey season, the return of warmer weather. Just as poignant and welcome.

The Hunt addresses an ancient question: that of hunger. It has come to be associated with sport, however, and, never an apologist for trophy hunting, I believe the game biologists are good at what they do regarding game management. Using the meat, and the hide, if possible, answer a moral question. Neither of us have taken an animal in years, but our son (normally) returns each year to hunt. Jeff helps him butcher as part of the responsibility, and John has become adept at preparing game in recipes. It’s good meat. If you’re not vegetarian. And it impacts global warming far less than beef.

Some specify the entire state as “frontier,” further removed from mere rural, hence, game abounds in our county. Multiple species of fish, including walleye, as well. I once heard someone “highly suggest” the construction of a wall around the entire state to keep it pristine. This would mess with herd migration, however, and not be particularly helpful. Thanks to our open spaces and sparse population, hunting of white-tail and mule deer, turkeys, geese, ducks, pronghorn antelope, and elk is closely regulated through the Wyoming Game and Fish Department, to promote and sustain the health of the species. (Yes, the upshot is not lost on me.) Mountain lions and coyotes, as predators (like us), are treated differently, through a management program. Presently, the big cats and coyotes are considered fair game, if deemed a threat, existential or not. My own view  on  cougars  depends  on  their  distance  and intention. When we kept horses and sheep, I would have defended them from a prowling cat, to be sure.

Sage grouse populations are falling, an issue of concern to those who would prefer the species’ survival. When I was eleven, my father took me dove hunting. I still have the 4-10 shotgun I used, now at the ready against rattlers and other varmints. Mom always roasted the birds, with rice and gravy. I didn’t hunt again until Jeff and I were first married and we needed a more economical food source, being cash-strapped newlyweds. Hunting provided us with venison and antelope, ducks and geese, and myriad bonding experiences. I took my first deer near Casper Mountain, at 400-plus yards. Dad always said we dove-hunt to practice for the next shot. It just took a while for my next shot.

Rites of passage notwithstanding for a kid, or anyone who feels a deep connection to the circle of life (an I eat you, now you eat me sort of thing), I believe we owe our integrity the bare facts of our nourishment, and its origin—even vegans, à propos the plant people. Perhaps I do write a manifesto of sorts, perhaps not. That our son can provide meat for his family, from a purely bedrock manner (no reference to cavemen— rather, as a fundamental talent) gives me a measure of peace and, yes, pride.

In 1978, Jeff and I drew an elk license. A boon! Except for my being seven months pregnant with our daughter at the time of the hunt. We borrowed the old Alaskan camper from Jeff’s father and headed for the hunt area in the near center of Wyoming. As luck would have it, we filled on the first day out. I say “we,” as it was a concerted effort in my view. Once home, the large cow elk took us eighteen hours straight to butcher in our small kitchen.

The weather prevented our hanging the carcass outdoors for any length of time. We had once learned that painful lesson. I will never forget the writhing swarm of maggots that “spontaneously generated” on an elk quarter given to us by a friend when we lived in Cheyenne. We had hung it in a too-warm room off our kitchen, resulting in a terrible loss.

Those not acquainted with meat processing might be appalled, envisioning a right bloody mess, but it’s not like that at all. Once the carcass has cooled out (and thankfully, this one had), and with the valuable assistance of one of my cookbooks that show cuts of meat, we simply sharpened filet knives and saws and dove in. My job mostly entailed cutting the fascia connective tissue from the muscle—basically sliding the long blade between the two, and dropping the tissue in the trash can.

It was our first elk, wonderful meat, and we were more than grateful.

Now a conversation I need to have, regarding firearms: I contend that certain guns are suitable on a homestead. However, I distinguish between rifles, shotguns, and pistols used for hunting and protection (being isolated and living among badgers, snakes, and cougars), and those military-grade weapons that are horrifically used against school children, congregations, concert goers, and protesters. Further, Wyoming reports the highest per capita suicide-by-gun statistic in the country. Two-thirds of suicides, 114, were by firearm in 2019. A newly established hotline number for the state is 1-800-273-8255. Nation-wide, it’s 988.

The subject of gun legislation riles many in the United States, but I believe the salient questions are being glossed over and ignored. My husband proposes a designation on one’s driver’s license, or a similar document, contingent on certain criteria, including a background check with psychological assessment. Unfortunately, if some poor devil is hellbent on destruction, he will find a way and regulation be damned.

So many ills of society hang on a simple solution. Caring for our brothers and sisters, and learning to forgive ourselves and one another—an Occam’s Razor of a remedy—simplest is best.

Copyright 2023, by Renée Carrier


A traditional book launch is generally accompanied by myriad components—reviews, signings, readings, advertisements and the like. As I lack the luxury of a publicist, some of these <details> fall on me. As mentioned in my last post, word of mouth is my literary act of faith. However, I may take advantage of the Amazon Countdown Price Reduction on CROFTER’s e-book. So, beginning March 1—through the 7th, you can purchase the e-book for .99 (on the 1st), and each day the price rises incrementally until it returns to the listed price of $9.99. Please leave a review for the book page if you’re inclined, and thank you.

The Prairies Book Review is up, and I am grateful by their, yet again, grokking the essence of my writings. I’ve added it to the Review page, but here it is, in case you’ve missed it. It’s a gem. My thanks and deep bows to this Canadian firm:

Poetic, wholesome, and engrossing…A stunning achievement.

Carrier’s love for words beautifully combines in this remarkable story of her dedication to whole-Earth philosophy. Carrier and her husband’s journey from becoming the owner of a remote parcel of land with nothing but basic electricity, well, and a mobile house in rural Wyoming to the aging crofters and keepers of a thriving homestead has the narrative tension of a novel. There are details of Carrier’s upbringing as a military child, her marriage, family life, her love for reading and writing, her musings on the heightened political tension and war in America and global warming, and recipes for delicious family favorites, but the highlight of this book remains the homestead she and her husband has come to call home, and throughout, she employs her flair for words to engage her readers. Readers learn much along the way, including how to employ proper pruning techniques for growth, the reason orchardists paint trunks of apple trees, how to properly pick a fruit or a vegetable, and remedies for various plant ailments, such as powdery mildew, blight among others.  Accompanying vivid, black-and-white photos compliment the narrative. Carrier’s determination, resilience, hope, and gratitude are all on display here as she and her husband revel in the sweetness of discovery in the face of the harsh realities of being the owner of a flourishing homestead. Both a personal memoir and a homage to nature, the book makes for a stunner.”

Link below to CROFTER on Amazon, for now. It will eventually be available though other online sites and your favorite bookstores if you request they order a copy.


CROFTER is out—its long subtitle trails behind: A Wyoming Homestead Manual and Radical Memoir, Rooted in Place. On Amazon it’s available on Kindle, as paperback and hardback. Ask your favorite bookstores to carry it, please, and, if you’re inclined, leave reviews, or let me hear from you via comments below. I have dropped social media except for WordPress. Marketing is a mystery, but word of mouth yet reigns.

In the book I define “crofter” right away, as it isn’t commonly used (in the States, anyway), though a neighboring town is named Moorcroft. Did the Wyoming landscape of endless sage remind someone of the moors of Scotland? However, I do not provide the reader with the several definitions of “radical.” My usage has the word “relating to, or proceeding from a root,” though my phrase should raise curiosity. Regarding the cover, behold the art, “Light on the Horizon,” by Joan Fullerton. Find more of her artwork on

From the Foreword by Sarah Pridgeon:

“We are all of us born, I think, with a longing to be one with the land. Even as we make our livings in the concrete forests of a city, for many of us there comes a time when the call to return to a quieter, more natural way of life becomes so loud it must be heeded.

“When Renée approached me to edit this book, her intent was simply to create something helpful to be passed on to the next owner of her land: a thriving orchard with a view that stretches to every horizon, here in the northeast of Wyoming. Part memoir and part manual, it was to be ‘useful’.

“But as I began to read through the chapters, I realized it was so much more. Woven through the recipes and detailed instructions for watering apple trees and tending the vegetable garden is Renée herself. Her personal history is so entwined with the land and what caring for it has taught her that the two cannot be separated.

“As Renée needs to feel the soil with her fingers, to nurture both soul and mind, so the land needs her tender care to flourish, in partnership with her equally wonderful husband, Jeff. Crofter is a tale of timeless symbiosis: the relationship between humans and the earth that gives us life.

“I moved to this corner of the world from England’s largest metropolis, after years of wistfully reading magazine articles about planting my own potatoes. Alas, it was not to be, for no London home has room for an honest garden.

“As I read Crofter, all that yearning rushed back to me. I’ve often been asked what possessed me to move from a capital city with all its modern conveniences to a tiny, rural community where the nearest cinema is a 40-minute drive down the interstate. I may, in future, simply hand my interrogator a copy of Crofter.

“In an era of global warming, heightened political tensions and war, Renée reminds us that life at its core is simple. What you take, you must replace. What nourishes you must be offered nourishment in return. What you give of yourself will always be returned.

“Perhaps not all of us will have the chance to harvest apples and garlic grown with our own hands, but we can all stand to learn a little something about the umbilical cord that links us to the world we call home. And so, I convinced Renée that her manual has value to more than just her heirs.

“There are lessons within this book for us all about finding fulfillment, and true peace.”

Thank you, Sarah, from the middle of my heart.

Here is a link to CROFTER in three formats: , or contact me.

Of Signings and Such

Here on the croft, we prepare to harvest Honeycrisps, Macintoshes, Haralsons—among other apples—and several grape varietals. The garden suffered a flooding early in the season, coinciding with a microburst, or tornado; we weren’t sure which. Our son the pilot related that microbursts tend to fell trees in neat parallels,  while tornados simply wreak havoc any old which way. This storm created a bit of both, a half mile away. The growing rows have somewhat recovered, though replanting beans was necessary.

My sister Alexandria is traveling here to help pick apples, bless her, and during her visit we’re heading to Livingston, Montana to the Wheatgrass Bookstore for a Riven Country series book signing , weather-permitting, of course. Thank you, Lisa Snow! Come on over if you’re in the area. It’s scheduled for Saturday, October 1, 2022, from 1:00 to 5:00. We’ll stay the night at the venerable Murray Hotel, then swing back down to Powell, Wyoming, to retrieve an old autoharp luthier Anton Lehman is repairing for me. Caveat: be sure to check your instrument case latch before grabbing it—this one wasn’t secured and the harp fell out, breaking a crucial piece, scattering chord bars, popping strings, and inflicting a painful lesson.

I have been busy formatting my latest project, in case the literary agencies don’t bite. Below, I offer an excerpt, taken from one of the chapters focusing on autumn. My next post or two will be in the form of a travelogue, as daughter and I are embarking on a longed-for trip to Scotland, then on to Paris, to pay our respects to the dear family of our nounou, Micheline Pommeret Labrousse, who passed away this winter. Here we are near St. Remy-les-Chevreuses in 2017. She wanted to crash a wedding taking placeat this old abbey we were touring. We did not. The notion was enough.


If “first frost” honors the traditional date, by the Fall Equinox we should see utterly deflated winter squash greens spread like languid strands of seaweed over the garden. The buttercup variety is our favorite, as it tastes the sweetest and keeps well enough. These near globes must be “hardened off,” meaning, left in the sun for a few days after they have been harvested. A curing process, much like allowing garlic to hang.

In consulting Jeff’s tidy daily agenda, I’m reminded of his industrious bent—and recall what jobs fit the season. Only “a hand” in certain enterprises, I would not expect him to sit beside me in my writing cabin, compose sentences and/or type my thoughts. Besides, he is the “hunt and peck” type. I typed most of his papers at university. We do consult on chore procedures, however, and he willproof the salient chapters herein. The man is a work horse. Which? you ask. More of a light breed—certainly not a Clydesdale. Quarter Horse, maybe.

September 9 entry (not officially Autumn, but relevant): Trimmed hail-damaged grapes on lower vines. For the next day, after noting his early-morning temperature record (forty-eight degrees), and the sky as “clear and hazy,” I read(?), Cleaned and organized shop bench [Halleluiah!]. Fall can be rainy, and on the eleventh day of that month, he recorded .7 inches in the plastic amber gauge (fastened, recall, to the top of the fence, near the cattleguard). Jeff also noted he had misread the bedside clock, to rise at two-thirty in the morning, believing it was five a.m., his usual Rise and Shine. I see he cleaned out the gutters on that day; between storms, he wrote. The next day, Cody arrived to help with a project. Our go-to help when we need more expertise, we thank heaven for him and his affable willingness. Our acquaintance began when he was eight years old and his family moved to the area. Cody’s a good carpenter and plumber, two useful occupations in a rural area. He and Jeff re-plumbed and installed a new water heater, in case. It wouldn’t do to have the current one break down at an inauspicious time; it was old. Practicing preventive maintenance is not to be mocked. Especially in rustic America.

The twenty-third of September had Jeff building a dog house for the new pup, Gabe. Several members of the Amish community arrived to pick grapes at $1.25 a pound. On Saturdays, members of the colony can be found outside the local grocery store until the weather changes, selling their goods. Once, after picking, several jars of grape jam and jelly appeared that weekend on their sale table. I also put up preserves, much of it to give as gifts.

A neighbor’s son helped us last year. We harvested the rest of the grapes and sold several pounds to a farmers’ market in Spearfish, where Jeff is renowned as “The Garlic Guy.” Apple harvest must wait for frost, which coincided with “first freeze” this year. Tricky, guessing when apples are at risk. It’s a-seat-of-the-pants decision; intuition and gut feeling. Celebrating harvest time is an exercise in mindfulness and acknowledgment of generosity. “The desire to celebrate is the longing to enter more deeply into the mystery of actuality,” wrote the late John O’Donohue in Eternal Echoes: Celtic Reflections on Our Yearning to Belong. In spring, as we celebrate the orchard bloom, we might also assign the latent intention to further anticipate and rejoice in the crop—like neo parents around the birth of their first child.

On a bright, sunshiny day in early October, crisp and invigorated by radiant heat from our very own star, Ivan helped us harvest twelve bushels of apples and haul firewood. We protect the neat wood pile with a large tarp against rain and snow—which brings me to these “uncertain times,” as they are being called.

I debate mention of the present chaos, to wit, the falling economies, the Covid-19 pandemic, the changing climate, and worldwide political unrest. A mouthful of dust and ashes, all of it. But when I consider my reasons for this manual (and memoir), I feel a shiver down my spine, with respect to purpose. In wishing to create what may serve as a map for our children (irrespective of their decision to spend more time here), I quickly revised the notion to include anyone who might find themselves in a similar lifestyle situation, never mind where (though location would make a difference to the details).

Today the news cycles once again report horrendous statistics and painful realizations, and each morning I awake conscious of a world in upheaval. The tide has turned, and not merely so. A tsunami threatens—a tidal wave of woe. Could it transform us like raw gemstones tossed into a rock tumbler, in too-facile analogy? Living sanely on the Earth, with renewed respect and purpose, will require and entail a more profound epistemology and appreciation of the land: how to defend the planet, work with her systems and, finally, for her. Listening more attentively to aggrieved parties in the world, with “the ear of the heart,” as Saint Benedict suggests, is just as crucial. Peace follows justice. It seems we’re all still grains of sand in the oyster, evolutionarily speaking.

The present age is being hailed the Anthrópocene, with emphasis on how humanity has altered the course of species and the Earth herself. Elizabeth Kolbert’s Pulitzer winner, The Sixth Extinction, An Unnatural History, ishardly escapist literature, but strangely comforting, despite well-researched studies designed to keep you awake at night. No, really—wouldn’t you rather enter the future with eyes wide open? With a clue? With hope? I came away feeling more pragmatic than ever. And determined. At least more aware. I wish to grasp the dynamics and repercussions, at least insofar as I am able.

When I read about the symptoms associated with the Covid-19 virus, i.e., difficulty in catching one’s breath and hypoxia, landing many on ventilators in order to simply breathe, I hear the Earth whisper: “Now do you understand how I struggle to breathe as well? My lungs—the forests—are being decimated every day. Now do you see? I choke on pollution, too. What will it take, child?”

Rather than create a radical’s manifesto to accompany this homestead manual and memoir, I take up my original intent, by way of personal Field Notes, in a yin-yang balance of duty and observation. I take the tortoise tack, to keep on keepin’ on, in equanimity, letting the low side drag, as they say, meaning, “This is a disaster; I’m depressed about it. I let it drag behind me and keep on going,” to allow it. It somehow belongs here at this particular time in history. I’ve heard it phrased as letting the rough side drag. Feeling rough is British for sick. But onward! As friend Shirley encourages—to good effect, recalling Churchill’s advice, “If you’re going through hell, keep going!”

Excerpt from CROFTER, A Wyoming Homestead Manual and Radical Memoir, Rooted in Place. © Renée Carrier 2022

Musical Chairs

My daughter recently paid a visit and commented, pointedly, on the vast number of chairs in our home. Tongue in cheek, I reminded her (as I’d mentioned before) that, “They’re for my characters.” It’s a fancy I enjoy, in order to feel less isolated, I suppose. Which brings me to the last couple years of relative solitude and “social” distancing. (I prefer the phrase, “physical distancing,” as it describes the thing more accurately.) Between my husband and our Lab, and the occasional visit from physically distant children and grandchildren, sisters, brothers, and friends, the Covid pandemic demanded (demands?) a sabbatical of sorts; a retreat, a withdrawal, a quietude. I already live in the least populated state, 56 miles from a large town.

Notwithstanding the telephone calls, texts, and other communications during the imposed isolation, I was able to finish producing the first three novels of my Riven Country series. Having nothing to do with the present polarities in the United States, the title refers to a woman’s heartbreak. CROFTER, my non-fiction narrative/memoir, is being shown to agents as I work on a fourth novel.

Regarding the writer’s seeming self-isolation and need for solitude—I am not strictly “alone” when writing my stories. As CROFTER is largely a homestead manual, fleshed out by memoir, my conjured company therein appears mainly as ghosts of my past, loving or otherwise. I include a few dangerous critters sharing the land with us here in Wyoming, one of which needed killing just yesterday, a large rattler coiled a few steps from our front porch. And, no ma’am, they cannot be reasoned with, enticed away, or asked to leave quietly. They are deadly. “Situational awareness” is, perforce, an ongoing practice here. The land itself (not a character) cannot be relegated to any notion but that of respect. And neither can the weather. The Earth is her own, and always shall be.

But back to those chairs and literary characters. . . . So far, I’ve agreed and managed to find a home for a single chair: a sweet second-hand, blue wingback we had reupholstered thirty years ago. And yes, it was uncomfortable to part with it. Marie Kondo, a maven of uncluttering, asks us to politely thank our possessions for their service and gratefully release them. I’m contemplating a few more farewells.

My characters have adequate seating in our home, the very least I can do. I’m fairly certain I’m not alone in this train of thought, that we authors forge such friendships (and yes, aversions) to these imaginary friends and foes, so that our so-called solitude is not quite that. And here’s the crux—if I ignore these folks for any length of time, they play the sullen card and by turns, ignore me. I’ve found I’ve had to coax their precious or peevish presence (depending on the character) if I’ve had to attend to other responsibilities for a time, such as having shoulder surgery, or entertaining house guests, or, when traveling. And so, resolve calls for more attention paid to all my friends. And, to watch out for the snakes.

A summer day, with the Loving Lab in the mountains