In the Loyal Mountains by Rick Bass Read Free Book Online Page B

she was running, coming across the field toward my cabin.
    I loved to watch her run. I did not know why she had set the fire, and I was very afraid that it might cross the road and burn up my hay barn, even my cabin. But I was not as frightened as I might have been. It was the day before Glenda was going to leave, and mostly I was delighted to see her.
    She ran up the steps, pounded on my door, and came inside, breathless, having run a dead sprint all the way. The fire was spreading fast, even without a wind, because the grass was so dry, and red-winged blackbirds were flying out of the grass ahead of it. I could see marsh rabbits and mice scurrying across the road, heading for my yard. It was late in the afternoon, not quite dusk. An elk bounded across the meadow. There was a lot of smoke. Glenda pulled me by the hand, taking me back outside and down the steps, back out toward the fire, toward the pond on the far side of the field. It was a large pond, large enough to protect us, I hoped. We ran hard across the field, and a new wind suddenly picked up, a wind created by the flames. We got to the pond and kicked our shoes off, pulled off our shirts and jeans, and splashed into the water. We waited for the flames to reach us, and then work their way around us.
    It was just a grass fire. But the heat was intense as it rushed toward us, blasting our faces with hot wind.
    It was terrifying.
    We ducked our heads under the water to cool our drying faces and threw water on each others shoulders. Birds flew past us, and grasshoppers dived into the pond with us, where hungry trout rose and snapped at them, swallowing them like corn. It was growing dark and there were flames all around us. We could only wait and see whether the grass was going to burn itself up as it swept past.
    â€œPlease, love,” Glenda was saying, and I did not understand at first that she was speaking to me. “Please.”
    We had moved out into the deepest part of the pond, chest deep, and kept having to duck beneath the surface because of the heat. Our lips and faces felt scorched. Pieces of ash were floating down to the water like snow. It was not until nightfall that the flames died, leaving just a few orange ones flickering here and there. But the rest of the small field was black and smoldering.
    It turned suddenly cold, and we held on to each other tightly, because we were shivering. I thought about luck and about chance. I thought about fears, all the different ones, and the things that could make a person run.
    She left at daylight. She would not let me drive her home—she said she wanted to run instead, and she did. Her feet raised puffs of dust in the road.

The Valley
    O NE DAY I left the South, fled my job, and ran to the heart of snow, the far Northwest. I live in a cabin with no electricity, and I’m never leaving.
    There aren’t many people in this valley—twenty-six registered voters—and rather than disliking almost everyone, as I found it so easy to do in the city, I can now take time to love practically everyone.
    I have to start small. I have to get it right.
    Jody Michaels is sixty years old and lives up in the woods. She takes in stray dogs that come her way. There are more than you’d think: they jump out of the backs of trucks, or run away from home. They strike out for the North.
    Jody’s is the last cabin they come to before going over into Canada. She keeps a large team of sled dogs—huskies and malamutes, blue-eyed creatures that have so much wolf in them that they don’t know how to bark, and can only howl.
    When the moon comes up over the mountains that ring our small bowl of a valley like a high fence, all of Jody’s dogs begin to howl, a sound that echoes around the valley. Perhaps the wild, strong sled dogs attract the strays. Often we’ll see a stray loping down the road, dragging a broken leash, a broken chain—usually a big dog—and it’ll be heading north, for