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I passed through my old college town, Oneonta, NY, stopped in a bookstore, and spotted Blood Mountain on the shelves. I don’t normally look for my titles, and I never say a word to the staff. I remain anonymous, stealthily make my purchase and drift away. It all feels embarrassing to me.
But, yes, when I can step beyond the awkwardness of it — when I can actually appreciate the moment — it is kind of cool. This is the place where I went to college, became an English Major, and had teachers who inspired me. Where I began to dream the dream.
Maybe one day . . .
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This little passage is from a quiet moment I particularly enjoyed in the book. When Carter, lost and alone, climbs a tree and imagines himself a pirate . . .
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Somehow he senses, like never before, that he is in the presence of an ancient, mysterious, living creature. An alive thing. Hey, Tree. His right hand reaches up, fingertips almost touch the lowest branch. Carter impulsively jumps, catches hold, swings his legs, hoists himself up.
He begins to climb.
Rises branch by branch.
He exhilarates in the texture of the rough bark in his hands. His arms straining, reaching: his back muscles heaving. Timbers creak and groan, and still he climbs. He comes to a spot where two branches split off and upward, forming a V shape. Carter finds that he can lean against the trunk, his feet propped against each limb, and comfortably relax. He’s a lookout in the crow’s nest, a pirate’s skull-and-crossbones flag blowing in the breeze, searching the riotous green sea. Shiver me timbers!
The view stuns him. The land is laid out like a map draped across an uneven table. Off in the distance, beyond what he accepts to be Crater Lake, he discerns a dirt road needled through the wilderness like a faint thread. So far away, but at last a lodestar for his wanderings.
I am not lost, he thinks.
I am right here.
This is the gift he receives from the tree.
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Blood Mountain was a Junior Library Guild Selection.
