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Overview
"Anne Coray, the author of three poetry collections, has brought her observational and writing skills to fiction that demonstrates both her attention to language and her passion for her home place. . . Lost Mountain is many things: a love story between the two main characters, a portrait of a small and isolated community, a mystery, a paean to salmon and lives that surround salmon, a not-very-disguised critique of a megamine project, and an example of eco-fiction—environmentally conscious literature."
—Anchorage Daily News
When news of an open-pit mining project hits the remote Alaskan hometown of Whetstone Cove, young widow Dehlia Melven barely takes in the town's nervous chatter. The Ziggurat corporation promises the mine will be fifteen times larger than all the mines in Alaska combined, but Dehlia's thoughts are consumed by the loss of her late husband and the future of her security. At least the new arrival of solar energy expert Alan Lamb brings a distraction and a different dynamic to the small community—one that's surprisingly more interesting than expected.
For Alan, Whetstone Cove offers a fresh start to a job away from all the bureaucracy and politics he'd been running away from. Plus, there's Dehlia, the beautiful and enigmatic artist who begins to occupy more and more of Alan's thoughts. But with Ziggurat's looming presence, he knows it is only a matter of time before the corporation would take over his livelihood as well as the town's way of life. He can't bear the thought of being connected let alone paid by Ziggurat—yet leaving would also mean losing Dehlia forever.
Inspired by the Pebble Mine project in Alaska, Lost Mountain is an exploration on the interconnectivity of the natural world woven into the narrative of people's strength and resistance. Readers will enter a familiar world where environment plays an encompassing role in not just politics of society but in real relationships and careers, and in the hopes and dreams we dare to have.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781513264455 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | TURNER PUB CO |
| Publication date: | 03/16/2021 |
| Pages: | 306 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.64(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Even after summer had collapsed, after the fireweed seeds ceased clinging to their long brown stems and floated out over the bay on a northeasterly breeze, when the robins were gone, and the swans, after the ground had hardened with a resolute frost, she still expected him.
At times she would lapse, find herself lost in a trivial task such as cleaning the windows, her focus narrowed to a smudge on the glass. Or she would be sweeping cobwebs off the ceiling, remorseful for the small life forms whose handiwork she was destroying; or looking out on an overcast day as snow accumulated on the roof of the shed—the flakes hesitant at first, only dusting the mineral paper like white ash before building into half an inch of powder.
Then again, the expectation—that he must be coming home. He’d be returning any minute, rounding the corner of the path, a lanky figure, angular as the surrounding mountains, his gait not rapid but sure. He’d be already at the step, one hand on the railing, one foot poised to ascend. And the door—it was opening now, widening to allow his passage into their spruce-walled home.
"Dehlia?"It was the wind.
"Dehlia?"
It was the creek.
"Dehlia?"
It was her own invention, the recklessness of imagination. But no—this voice that asked her whereabouts, sought her presence—surely this was his, a ghost’s voice.
They were married more than twenty years.
She had her work. She rose early, though daylight in winter was scarcely six hours long. By nine o’clock her desk was littered with stencils and sketches of designs.
She liked drawing when the lingering effects of dreams still governed her pencil. The faces she created were stylized, unusual hybrids of animals and people. Raven-man. Wolf-woman. Frog-boy. Moth-girl.
The best sketches she transferred to birch logs. She used tools that Phil had fashioned from old files: an adze for the roughing out, crooked and straight knives for the detail work. When the carving was complete, she applied paint: washes where she wanted the grain to show, thicker layers for a look of opacity. She decorated the masks with feathers or hair.
She worked in series, which often became seasonal, each requiring several months to complete.
When Barbara Nelson stopped by it was January, seven in the evening, the temperature ten below zero. Barbara slipped inside, unzipped her heavy coat, and removed her mittens. Around her boots melting snow was already beginning to pool.
Dehlia climbed to the loft and returned with a pair of slippers.
Barbara ran an admiring hand over the fur. "What are they?"
"Ugruk skin bottoms. Ringed seal tops. They came from Shishmaref."
Barbara pried off her boots and eased into the slippers. "Ummm, nice."
She glanced around the room and sank into an armchair, tilting her head back so that light from the single lamp cast a half-wreath on her full face. "Comfort—that’s something I haven’t been feeling much of lately."
"Do you want tea?"
"Carolyn’s hiring a new handyman. You heard Rick left."
"I'm sorry."
"God—after twelve years we should have figured it out. We fought a lot, but I never thought—" Her voice broke, a rasp on wood. "I need to get the hell out of here. How do you do it, Dehlia? The cold, the dark … have you thought about leaving Alaska? I might go back to Wisconsin, maybe Eau Claire. My sister lives there."
Barbara planted her elbows on the arms of the recliner. "Besides," she said, "there’s a rumor about this open-pit mine near Lost Mountain. It sounds bad."
Dehlia turned away. In a small town rumors were as common as lice to wild ducks. If you ignored them they usually went away. Rumors, that is. She couldn’t speak to lice.
The teakettle steamed on the woodstove. Dehlia filled two mugs and handed one to Barbara. Close-up, the lines around her friend’s eyes seemed more prominent than she remembered.
"This is such a cheap place to live," said Barbara. "I can’t believe Carolyn hasn’t raised the rent, with her dad and all. But I’m sick of painting. I hate stretching canvases. I’m tired of cleaning brushes, the smell of turpentine, the damn room it takes to store all those paintings. I want to do something different."
Dehlia had heard it before. But this time Barbara might be serious. With Rick no longer in her life, she might strike out in a new direction. And there was the problem of money. Could Barbara make enough off her paintings? Dehlia herself was managing, and in just two more years she’d own her house and her small plot of land. It had been a long wait, but she was almost there.
Barbara leaned forward, a flush of excitement springing like plum stains to her face. "I could learn to carve antlers, weave baskets—"
"You might want to get out of the arts altogether." Dehlia sat down.
Barbara sipped her tea. "You know, it’s just the usual fear. The jolly loneliness. "How do you fight it?"
She lingered on Barbara’s question. Loneliness. She couldn’t explain. What would Barbara understand of Phil’s mysterious presence?
Long after Barbara left, Dehlia lay in bed, not sleeping. A great horned owl sounded: a male, searching for companionship with five haunting notes. She imagined him, feathers fluffed, eyes narrowed, perched in the cover of a tall spruce. She’d never seen an owl with a mate, though she’d heard they mate for life.
She wandered to the window, the loft floor cool beneath her feet. A cloud passed, exposing a half-moon and a jumble of stars. She touched the line of frost on the bottom of the pane. Her fingertip burned and she held it to her lips.
In the distance, the outline of Lost Mountain traced the skyline. At 3,000 feet, it stood apart from the surrounding hills. It wasn’t the most spectacular mountain in the country; the eastern peaks were higher, more rugged, of a more durable stone. But Lost Mountain held a special draw, both mythic and wild. Dghhili Shtunalgguk, the Dena’ina called it, literally "Mountain Where She Lost Her Way." The story was of a six-year-old child who’d been separated from her parents when she fled camp in the middle of the night after a terrifying dream. It had taken three days to find her.
Back in bed, Dehlia ran one hand up and down Phil’s side: the sheets were smooth but cold. She pulled up another blanket and hugged her T-shirted arms to her body. And at that moment she sensed that her world, her defenses, were only illusion, and in the right circumstance all would collapse, leaving a hole so huge and raw that no flannel wrap, no images of swans or ermine or snowshoe hares could fill it.
Interviews
The proximity of the proposed Pebble mine to my home has fed my interest in the mine’s development and the research for this book is drawn from a very deep pool of information including articles, scientific studies, and the controversy that continues to rage. I wanted to personalize the effects of a large-scale development project and was also interested in how two people in love can maintain a relationship when their views on large environmental or political issues are not aligned. How do we reconcile our differences, or do we conclude that this person is not a good fit after all? Do we all practice conditional love, to some degree? With all these thoughts in mind, I wrote Lost Mountain.