Chief Mountain is an approximately 80,000-word fiction novel which would best be described as a technothriller with western roots. This work would be of interest to readers of Tom Clancy and Tony Hillerman, but unlike either of those two series, this tale has a strong female character.
The story is set in the northern Montana reservation town of Browning. Joe Kip is a native American combat veteran, and wildlife biologist, who unwittingly becomes involved in the convoluted world of espionage when he investigates a fatal grizzly bear mauling. The victim is a Chinese spy on the run for the Canadian border, with highly classified information on America’s new sixth generation jet fighter. An intense encounter with a charging grizzly plunges Joe into the high tech world of FBI surveillance and forensics, set in a backdrop of traditional native American customs. Foreign agents converge on Browning to gain access to the missing data and Joe, and his unofficial girlfriend Meg, are thrust to the forefront of the ensuing battle. This tale has healing ceremonies, sweat lodges, a Sun Dance, grizzlies, and Reaper UAVs. Intrigue and gun battles abound, but the hero of the story is Joe’s border collie Hank.
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Forward To Moose Snot and Baboon Butts
The men in the photo look remarkably young, tanned, and lean, confident. They smile as if their whole life is ahead of them. The box is filled with many snapshots, dog eared, some of them faded, touches of mold around the edges, and many more memories. Memories of a career spent in wild places, of decades, and friends, and adventures. One by one, the photos liberate their stories of times long since passed, and of people, some of whose voices are now silent.
The photographs are touchstones of my life’s work, condensed into a cardboard container like autumn leaves in a basket, reminders of those heady days of summer, but now only relics of the past. By chance, my career as a wildlife biologist progressed in three segments and spanned thirty-six years. Consequently, this collection of stories is grouped into three parts, each different, but each a continuum.
Part I is a tale of learning, of enthusiasm. I arrived in Athens Georgia in the spring of 1985 armed with but the barest of essentials. I was a carpenter with one hammer and a saw, but I learned what it was to be a biologist, taught by people who were internationally regarded as leaders in the field, people who became lifelong friends.
Part II was a transformation from the humid south to the snowy corn fields of Wisconsin. In Madison, I was relegated to the dungeon, the necropsy suite in the lower level of the facility, but I learned the ways of pathologists, tools which would serve me well in the future. After four years, I gained my parole from the bowels of the laboratory and began a wild ride of travel, which took me many places.
Part III began because I needed a job out west where my wife Lynn worked, but it morphed into two decades of working with people who were truly riding for the brand. Mark Zornes, Steve DeCecco, and I once organized a veteran’s elk hunt on a ranch at the foot of the Commissary Ridge in western Wyoming. Wall tents, horses, and Dutch ovens. A large pot of red beans and rice was simmering when game warden Chris Baird rode into camp, pack horse in tow, headed up country. Those of us in the Wyoming Game and Fish thought nothing of it, like a banker setting up an escrow account, just daily business, but those veterans were fascinated. Chris helped himself to some grub, then mounted his horse and headed up the trail. As he left, I realized I was a small part of something special, a remnant of times gone by.
I am prone to telling stories, and those acquaintances who have normal careers seem to find them intriguing, so I decided to write a few down. I’m not sure if I did it for them, or for me; the musings of an old man whose life’s work is winding down. This tome is a little too long, but it includes just some of the highlights. A multitude of memories remain tucked into the gray matter, most mundane, a few exciting, and many personal, too personal to share.
There are many stories in this book, and I am guilty of highlighting the misfortunes of those who screwed up, because often it is entertaining, but during my career, I encountered thousands of hunters who were doing it right, many of whom were serving as an inspiration to the next generation, the embodiment of Robert Ruark’s the Old Man and the Boy. I also worked with many biologists and wardens who were much more capable than I am, but to describe the efforts of those individuals would require volumes.
I am incapable of writing well, true, and honorably like Hemmingway, or hilariously droll like McManus, so I have endeavored to recount these stories as they happened, with minimal exaggeration, but the distortions of time, personal experience, and personal bias may have fashioned memories which differ slightly from those who were also there. This story is a collection of snapshots, a few photos plucked from an album filled with memories
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