By Mary Beth Baptiste
Acutely aware that her formative years is slipping via, Mary Beth Baptiste comes to a decision to flee her lackluster, suburban lifestyles in coastal Massachusetts to pursue her lifelong dream of being a Rocky Mountain woodswoman. To the horror of her conventional, ethnic relatives, she divorces her husband of fifteen years, dusts off her flora and fauna biology measure, and flees to Moose, Wyoming for a role at Grand Teton nationwide Park. In those rugged mountains, unforeseen classes from nature and flora and fauna advisor her trip as she creates a brand new existence for herself. Set opposed to the dramatic backdrop and quirky tradition of Jackson gap, this fantastically written memoir is a considerate, frequently funny account of a woman’s bumbling quest for function, redemption, and love via barren region experience, solitude, and offbeat human connections.
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Good save, I think. Like Jace, Julian sports a cleft between his brows as deep as the Marianas Trench. He wears understated wire-rims and seems fully aware of his craggy handsomeness. But Julian seems to have the social graces of a mollusk. “Yut. Yut. Yut. Yut,” he says, giving each of our hands an uninterested shake. “Tell ’em about your research,” Tim says. ” Julian blinks, then points and straightens his foot. “I’m studying predator-prey interactions in the park. Mainly the big carnivores—grizzly bear, mountain lion, lynx—and their prey—moose, bighorn sheep, elk, deer, pronghorn.
I told her I was crying because I doubted I would ever live in a place like that. Why would a scene in a book elicit such strong emotion in a young girl? And why feelings of sadness and hopelessness rather than joyful anticipation? The answer lies in my family machinery. Near the turn of the twentieth century, my great-grandparents on both sides fled poverty and despair and sailed to America seeking more prosperous lives. One line hailed from the gritty streets of Dublin. The other three came from Faial, São Jorge, and Terceira, three of Portugal’s nine Azorean Islands, Gulf Stream–warmed beauties fabled to be the tips of the sunken continent of Atlantis.
As I approach, I catch a whiff of lighter fluid as charcoal burns in a hibachi grill on the picnic table. The trailer’s side window slides open and a voice calls out. ” If I’ve learned only one thing through this drama it’s this: The universe blows holes into your darkest moments so light can flood in. “Rachel. ” The door opens to an angelic vision. Even in drab gray shorts and a faded blue T-shirt, Rachel’s sunny hair and radiant smile chase the Creature back into its lair. “I think we got the House Beautiful trailers,” she says.