Still Reeling

An excerpt from The Riven Country of Senga Munro, the first novel in my Black Hills series, was awarded the Frank Nelson Doubleday writing award by the Wyoming Arts Council.WAC_CMYK_HorizBox-01-1-300x185 Twice in as many years, I am indebted and grateful for their support; this year especially to Neltje for her generous spirit. Visit for other news of our state’s brave efforts to enhance and enrich rural living.
I’ll be attending the Jackson Hole Writers Conference July 28-30 for a two-fold purpose (probably more, but these remain to be seen). To see the Tetons is actually a primary cause. It’s been too long between visits and dramatic mountains figure prominently in my memory palace. When I was five or six and visiting Grindelwald in Switzerland with my family, my father bade me look through binoculars at the Eiger’s peak , where a man dangled from his ropesunfortunately deceased. For some reason, I don’t feel accompanying dread with this memory, and can only believe it was due to my father’s tone and explanation. That being said–I hold rocky mountains anywhere in great respect, and long for their sight.
I have heard we may be drawn to either mountains or the ocean. While I love the ocean–with some trepidation, for its depth, I love mountains more, for their heights. The thing about continuing a story after the first novel is concluded, is the possibility of sounding the depths and scaling the heights. A facile comparison, surely.
I look forward to being in high mountains again. Here is the text (I think) for the reading I’ll do in Jackson Hole on Saturday night, June 30.


The crow dipped and cawed as it approached the coming chasm, having followed the silver snake of moving water from far above the tree tops. The unusual conifer near the lip of the falls caught its eye, for its colorful ribbons, and the crow marked the place to later return for nesting material. Falling water gave way to thundering spray and the black bird swooped with the earth, into the wide, red-to-violet rainbow, sparkling in the mist. Humidity dampened the bright resin fragrance of the forest.

The crow was sharply made aware of a figure below. Upon closer inspection, a man sat hunched over a child, folded in his arms. Both seemed carved of stone—one with the slab whereon they sat. Coltish blue legs skirted the muddy ground, unmoving, and the bird sensed death. The man stared into the shallow, rock-strewn pool before him, to occasionally glance up, as though expecting someone.

Movement at the base of the cliff startled the bird. A woman appeared. Black, greasy mud stained her clothing, hands and jaw, her face mostly hidden beneath a green hat, the color of ponderosa pine needles. A long, roping braid, like woven, autumn grass, piqued the crow’s interest, then, with another caw, it pumped its wings to climb higher.


Western North Carolina, 1960

The boy led the healer along a hidden path only a rabbit could follow, or make, the woman decided, as she meandered back and forth behind her young guide. Kit bag swinging across her body, her eyes ranged between the rough ground and the swift feet ahead. She would not demand why on earth they’d had to struggle through the knotted rhododendrons, when far easier routes existed. She knew. After a sharp turn north and several more minutes west, below the ridgeline, past the old mine, some of whose timber had been repurposed, a light, gurgling noise alerted her to the creek, flowing their way. Grannie Cowry heard the still before setting eyes on it—the aptly named thump barrel—and when the thumping stopped she knew the whiskey would come.

“Leman.” One of the men quietly greeted her guide when they entered the grove of evergreens. The man gestured for her to follow.

“What’s he done?” Grannie asked.

“Broke a leg.”

She’d learn soon enough how seriously. The injured person was the man’s little brother, who’d only been working a couple months as sentry, he told her. He led her toward the shade. The flies were thick and grasshoppers thicker, drawn to the smell of blood, but mostly, to the sweet mash. Early September, even in the higher hills, brought sticky air; it seemed the insects stuck to it.