Finding a long lost friend
The first book I read by Barry Lopez was an anthology of essays. I was captivated by his profound sense of the spiritual and naturalistic qualities of the land. He was a successful nature photographer who gave up the camera because it narrowed his way of seeing and knowing the land. He is a traveler who appreciates the intimacy with a specific place in nature that can only come from staying there, not traveling. He is a naturalist who also writes fiction.
I lost the book years ago, loaned it to somebody and never saw it again. That was one of the chief reasons I adopted a policy of not loaning books.
Since then I've read two of his books of short fiction, Light Action in the Caribbean and The Grace Note of the Canyon Wren, and Arctic Dreams, an epic compendium of essays about his experiences in the Far North. He is one of my favourite writers.
I've long sought the first book. His way of seeing and his ideas (about things like photography and travel) have influenced my relationship with nature. It was an essential source.
But I couldn't remember the title. I've scanned bibliographies of his work; nothing rang a bell. I've checked the shelves of used book stores. His titles are not hard to find, but none of them offered the memorable first chapter about his visit to a Caribbean island, the name of which also escaped me.
Until this morning. During a leisurely shopping stroll around downtown, I stopped and browsed for a long time at Macondo Books. I'm fortunate to live two blocks from one of the best used book stores I have ever visited, with a respectable fiction section and outstanding non-fiction.
At this moment in my life, which feels like a watershed, I crave something to perpetuate the wave of inspired motivation. Browsing the fiction shelves at Macondo I saw Light Action in the Caribbean, which led to me ask for directions to Lopez' non-fiction. They had six titles on the shelf. I picked and perused each one. Giving Birth to Thunder, Sleeping With His Daughter, retold tales of Coyote the trickster, nearly beguiled me into a quick purchase.
Then there it was, last in the row: About This Life, described in the flyleaf as "a literal and figurative journey across the terrain of autobiography." The title meant nothing to me, but the cover photo was familiar. The first essay is Searching for Depth in Bonaire.
Clutching the book tightly, I paid the cashier and brought it home. It's exactly what I need to read right now.