{"product_id":"the-guide-isbn-9781984898968","title":"The Guide","description":"\u003cb\u003eNATIONAL BESTSELLER • The best-selling author of \u003ci\u003eThe River\u003c\/i\u003e returns with a heart-racing thriller about a young man who is hired by an elite fishing lodge in Colorado, where he uncovers a plot of shocking menace amid the natural beauty of sun-drenched streams and forests.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Peter Heller is the poet laureate of the literary thriller.\" —Michael Koryta, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e best-selling author of \u003ci\u003eThose Who Wish Me Dead\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKingfisher Lodge, nestled in a canyon on a mile and a half of the most pristine river water on the planet, is known by locals as \"Billionaire's Mile\" and is locked behind a heavy gate. Sandwiched between barbed wire and a meadow with a sign that reads \"Don't Get Shot!\" the resort boasts boutique fishing at its finest. Safe from viruses that have plagued America for years, Kingfisher offers a respite for wealthy clients. Now it also promises a second chance for Jack, a return to normalcy after a young life filled with loss. When he is assigned to guide a well-known singer, his only job is to rig her line, carry her gear, and steer her to the best trout he can find.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut then a human scream pierces the night, and Jack soon realizes that this idyllic fishing lodge may be merely a cover for a far more sinister operation. A novel as gripping as it is lyrical, as frightening as it is moving, \u003ci\u003eThe Guide\u003c\/i\u003e is another masterpiece from Peter Heller\u003cb\u003eNATIONAL BESTSELLER • A \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e Book Not to Miss • A \u003ci\u003eLitHub\u003c\/i\u003e Most Anticipated Book • A \u003ci\u003eCrimeRead\u003c\/i\u003e Novel You Should Read • An \u003ci\u003eAlta \u003c\/i\u003eBest Book • A \u003ci\u003eVeranda Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book • An AARP Hot New Novel\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Heller writes like a veteran outdoorsman influenced by Cormac McCarthy and Jon Krakauer…. Masterclasses in the unsettling.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eBoston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In his new mystery, author Peter Heller pulls off a rare balancing act once again: He gives us fast-paced action and intrigue, interspersed with closely observed, reflective nature writing. Speed up for the crime-solving, slow down for the Zen.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eAssociated Press\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eThe Guide\u003c\/i\u003e is a literary work and a paean to fishing, as inspiring as \u003ci\u003eA River Runs Through It\u003c\/i\u003e…. Poetic … Engaging … \u003ci\u003eThe Guide\u003c\/i\u003e is a beautifully written book, a tribute to Colorado, its bounty and its ability to heal the soul.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eDenver Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Stunning ... Stunning descriptions ... Precise and evocative ... \u003ci\u003eThe Guide\u003c\/i\u003e is an excellent book, one to sink into and enjoy in one sitting, if you can. Readers will be transported, and find themselves just as wrapped in the mystery as Jack himself.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eMystery and Suspense Guide\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"A devastating indictment of the lengths to which people of extraordinary means will go to protect themselves.... The simple, sensorial beauty of Heller’s writing about the natural world ... is the true soul of the book.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eAirMail\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Mr. Heller’s descriptions of nature and fishing are Hemingwayesque, and he’s also good at writing about people—their passions, impulses and ethical boundaries.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eWall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Peter Heller’s thrillers unfurl like campfire yarns.… The scenery cascades in long, panoramic passages, whereas the human characters are rendered in quick glances.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An ever so subtly dystopian wilderness noir that speculates on the horrors of a post-pandemic society.... The enticing mystery keeps the pages turning, but not too quickly. \u003ci\u003eThe Guide\u003c\/i\u003e is too beautifully written to speed through it, the descriptions of nature lush and vivid.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Riveting.... A chilling reminder of the dangers that might lie in wait for us all.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eMinneapolis Star Tribune\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Heller is building a reputation as a modern master of the wilderness thriller.... Heller manages to perfectly balance meditations on nature, memory, and loss while also unspooling a gripping thriller.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eCrimeReads\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Heller is an expert at building suspense, and he’s a first-rate nature writer, lending authenticity to the wealth of wilderness details he provides.… \u003ci\u003eThe Guide \u003c\/i\u003eis a glorious getaway in every sense, a wild wilderness trip as well as a suspenseful journey to solve a chilling mystery.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eBookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Heller presents another brilliantly paced, unnerving wilderness thriller paired with an absorbing depiction of a remote natural paradise.… Masterful evocations of nature are not surprising, given Heller’s award-winning nonfiction about his own outdoor experiences, while his ability to inject shocking menace into a novel that might otherwise serve as a lyrical paean to nature is remarkable.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e(starred)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Heller’s lush descriptions of fishing and river country are matched with a riveting, surprising mystery that captures the difference between the filthy rich and everyone else. The novel’s speculative approach to the lingering effects of Covid-19 is frightening in its subtlety and one of the book’s special charms. Readers looking for a credible couple and a story of redemption will love this.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Fisherman’s noir isn’t a genre, but maybe it should be.... This is an unconventional mystery, an unconventional romance, and an unconventional adventure, creepy and spiritual in equal measure.... The author clearly knows his way around a river; the long, descriptive passages create a vivid sense of place and action.... By the time Jack and Alison encounter a young woman running down the road in a hospital gown in a scene right out of the sinister noir \u003ci\u003eKiss Me Deadly\u003c\/i\u003e, they’re in too deep, and they’re too curious, to quit the dangerous puzzle before them. You might feel the same. There's danger at the end of the line in this unconventional mystery.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Peter Heller is the poet laureate of the literary thriller, and \u003ci\u003eThe Guide\u003c\/i\u003e offers further proof for the case. Powered by Heller's trademark prose, which alternately thunders and eddies like his beloved western rivers, this sinister and soulful story unfurls so skillfully that it's easy to ignore all the layers beneath—but you shouldn't. Heller writes about the eternal questions and the exquisite details, and he knows the places where they intersect in the human heart and the natural world.\"\u003cbr\u003e—Michael Koryta, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThose Who Wish Me Dead\u003c\/i\u003ePETER HELLER is the national best-selling author of\u003ci\u003e The River, Celine, The Painter,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Dog Stars. The Painter\u003c\/i\u003e was a finalist for the \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times \u003c\/i\u003eBook Prize and won the prestigious Reading the West Book Award, shared in the past by Western writers such as Cormac McCarthy and Terry Tempest Williams, and \u003ci\u003eThe Dog Stars,\u003c\/i\u003e which was published to critical acclaim and lauded as a breakout bestseller, has been published in twenty-two languages to date. Heller is also the author of four nonfiction books, including \u003ci\u003eKook: What Surfing Taught Me About Love, Life, and Catching the Perfect Wave\u003c\/i\u003e, which was awarded the National Outdoor Book Award for Literature.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe holds an MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop in poetry and fiction and lives in Denver, Colorado.CHAPTER ONE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat first afternoon he dumped his duffel and pack on the rag rug in the  cabin and changed fast into nylon shorts. He put a packet of split shot  and a small fly box in the breast pockets of his shirt, then pulled the  five-­weight Winston rod out of the truck and pieced it together. His  wading boots were drying in the back seat and he tugged on wool socks  and laced the boots, and slung the lanyard cord over his head that  dangled nippers, tippet, forceps, Gink. It was just warm enough and he  liked best to go without waders. The water would be icy but he was on  his own: he wouldn’t have to stand in the water for hours beside a  casting client. He’d be moving fast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe did. He began at the big dark sliding pool below the cabin and worked  upstream. He could see a hatch of mayflies coming off the slow water  beside the shore. Blue-­winged olives. He always loved how they rose  from an eddy in deep shadow like animated snowflakes and flew up into  sunlight and flared in a haze of soft sparks. He crouched on the bank  and turned over a rock the size of a brick in the shallows and the  silted underside was covered with the pupae of caddis, almost like a  crusting of cloves. A stone fly also crawled over the cobble in the  unexpected air. Due diligence. He’d fished the mountains of Colorado all  his life, and he had a good idea what bugs would be where. He tied on a  dry and a dropper, a tufty elk hair stimulator on top and a bead-­head  pheasant tail on the bottom. Clients loved fishing this rig and he did, too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stepped into the icy water, caught his breath at the first clinch of  cold. And then he waded in up to his knees and began to cast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e•\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe rhythm of it always soothed him. Laying the line out straight over  dark water, the blip of the weighted dropper, the dry fly touching just  after, the—­\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe tuft of elk hair barely touched and the surface broke. The lightest  tug and he set the hook and the rod bent and quivered and a colossal  brown trout leapt clear of the water into a spray of sunlight. Jesus. It  splashed down and ran straight upstream and he let the fish take the  line to the reel and he heard the whir of the clicking drag and he ran  after it. He splashed through shallows, slipped, stumbled, half his body  in the water, didn’t care if he spooked everyone in the big pool.  Somehow he tightened down the drag knob on the reel just a little as he  went—­it was sleek this brown, all muscle, and the flash of gold as it  hit the air was better than any treasure, God. He ran and fought the  fish. Ten minutes, twenty? Who knew. He lost track of time, and of  himself. Forgot it was he, Jack, who fished, whose limbs and hands acted  without thought. He forgot his name or that he owned one, and for the  first time in many months he was as close as he could come to something  like joy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was almost under the bridge when he raised the rod high and brought  the exhausted trout in the last few feet and unshucked the net from his  belt and slid it under this beauty and cradled her in the mesh. She was  a species of gold that no jeweler had ever encountered—­deeper, darker,  rich with tones that had depth like water. He talked to her the whole  time, You’re all right, you’re all right, thank you, you beauty, almost  as he had talked to himself at the shack, and he wet his left hand and  cupped her belly gently and slipped the barbless hook from her lip and  withdrew the net.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe crouched with the ice water to his hips and held her quietly into the  current until half his body was numb. Held and held her who knew how  long and watched her gills work, and she mostly floated free between his  guiding fingers, and he felt the pulsing touch of her flanks as her tail  worked and she idled. And then she wriggled hard and darted and he lost  her shape to the green shadows of the stones.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThank you, he said again after her but it was not so much said as an  emotion released; released like the fish to the universe. He  straightened. He was almost under the plank-­and-­timber bridge and he  looked up and he saw the camera.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e•\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was a black fish-­eye lens fixed to the main beam. A half bubble  three inches across. Glassy like nothing else out here, inanimate and  silent. Was someone watching him? Should he be bothered? He was. Kurt  hadn’t mentioned any cameras. He splashed his face and glanced up at it  again. Was it menacing? It was just a camera. But he felt violated.  Because he had so given himself—­to the river, the fish, the first  afternoon on a new stretch of water—­because he had, for the first time  maybe since the death of his friend Wynn, allowed himself to feel a  shiver of peace. He was pissed that he had thought himself completely  alone and someone might have witnessed it all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFuck it. He had his hand half-­lifted to give the camera the finger, but  stopped himself. Whoever might be on the other end, he didn’t want to  give them the satisfaction. He waded back to the far shore, ducked under  the bridge, and fished on. A kingfisher dropped from a limb above him  and swooped upstream to the next perch and kept him company. And he  didn’t have to look back to know there was another lens on the upstream  side of the bridge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e•\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe fished. He was in no hurry now. He didn’t care if he was in time to  chat it up with the guests, or meet the other guide, or the staff. He  fished with the evening sun on his back, and around the tight bend,  south, into shadow. Fuck ’em. Maybe not the best attitude for a new job.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut the fishing was a separate thing, as if the spilling river and the  breezy afternoon could not be stained. They couldn’t. Around the bend  was another long riffle with a scattering of boulders, and low ledges  foaming into smooth black pools and he could see why fishers went crazy.  There were still a couple of hours of good daylight and he had to make  himself turn around.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e•\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was back at the cabin at 6:05 and he rinsed in the hot shower, put on  jeans and boots and a snap shirt, and coasted the teal bike down to the  main lodge at 6:20. The clouds had cleared, it would be a cold night,  and they already had a fire roaring in the stone hearth. Overkill, Jack  thought; it might be sixty degrees outside. To the left of the fireplace  were half a dozen tables, four of which were set for dinner. A swing  door with a little window led from the dining area to what must be the  kitchen. To the right of the hearth was a U-­shaped mahogany bar where  five people sat on stools, and a tall broad-­shouldered Brit with shaggy blond hair presided behind it. Ginnie the Enforcer. Two-­Drink  Ginnie. He knew she was a Brit because she called, “Ahh, come on in,  mate. We’ve been expecting you. You’ve barely got time . . .” And he  heard the sigh of a cap being cracked and she set a sweating bottle on a napkin on the polished wood, Cutthroat ale.  “Come in, don’t be shy. Everyone, this is Jack. Jack, Everyone. Have a  seat.” The conversation stopped and Everyone turned on their stools.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Scooch a bit closer, love,” Ginnie said to Jack, and she raised a  no-­touch thermometer from behind the bar.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e•\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSuddenly staying at home and working the ranch with a taciturn father  was looking more appealing. It was the second time in a few hours that  Jack had been set back on his heels. Ginnie was exuberant, she had  little use for polite preliminaries, she left no room for second  thoughts. He got it. In this way she was the perfect maître d’hôtel of a  rustic getaway for the rich and famous. Once the guests got used to her  provincial pub manners they were at ease in a way that was probably  refreshing. Ginnie blew zero smoke and didn’t give a shit what was in  your portfolio or how many gold records you had made. Was the fishing  good? Was it fun anyway? Did you see the bald eagle in the big aspen right over the trout pond? Did you know that he ate  their precious stocked trout like popcorn? That you couldn’t shoot the  sonofabitch because he’s federally protected?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I wish I were federally protected. Can you imagine? Hand over all your  large bills and see you tomorrow! Ha!” She was a hoot, he got it. She  also seemed to know just when to dial it back. She must have noticed his  discomfort as he pulled up a stool, because she stuck out an elbow to  bump, and in a calm, confiding tone, she said, “I’m Ginnie. Glad you’re  here,” and she smiled a real, almost shy smile. “I know my reputation  precedes me, but I’m not that strict. Kurt means well. Tell me where  you’re coming from, love.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd in that way she slipped him into a bubble of conversation in which  he did not have to meet the guests all at once, and she slid him a jar  of long beef jerky twists, the real stuff, made from strips of sirloin  probably, and crusted with pepper, and she said, “Eat as many as you  like but save your appetite, Gionno has made his famous elk loin tonight.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn a few minutes, he had acclimated enough to introduce himself to the  others—­Alison K, early thirties, who was famous but who had creases at  the corners of her eyes and an air of someone in the habit of pursuing  truth; she was seated next to a large man, heavyset with dark  combed-­back hair, who wore a blue sport coat and a pinky ring; he  glanced at Jack, swept him up and down with dour eyes, nodded, no fist  bump or name. Next to him was Will in a silver-­buttoned vest and  ostrich boots, maybe sixty, clearly well-­heeled, and his wife (?),  Neave, fortyish, with turquoise earrings and the most luxurious black  hair halfway down her back; a younger couple in their late twenties, in  Arc’teryx fleece and moccasins, who Jack bet were accomplished  fisherpeople and who had probably already thrown flies on every  continent. And Cody, the other guide—­lean, maybe six feet, three-­day  beard, high cheeks, and eyes set wide like a wolf’s—­who was too far  around the bar to shake hands. But when the dinner bell did chime, and  they all stood, and he and Cody met by the hearth and shook—­the  handshake an F-­you to the virus—­Jack noticed his White’s packer boots,  and felt in the iron grip and calloused fingers the temper of another  ranch kid. Cody’s eyes when they met his were not friendly or  unfriendly, just watchful. Fair enough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e•\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe  and  Cody  shared  a  table  in  the  far  corner,  downstream, beside a window that overlooked the river. In the long silences they ate with a sharp hunger and Cody raised a finger to Shay, the  server,  twice,  and  she  picked  up  his  plate  and  brought  it back heaped with elk loin and gravy and mashed potatoes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You can do that?” Jack murmured. “Get seconds or thirds?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Eat as much as you want.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’ll get used to it.” The second time he’d heard the phrase that day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJack  ate  and  looked  out  the  French  window  and  watched  the river fill up with shadow and watched the low sun burnish the tops of the tallest pines.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Did you fish it?” Cody said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Huh? Sorry . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShay set down two dessert plates, panna cotta with fresh blue-berries. She stepped back quickly as if she’d just fed two lions. “Three- two-one go!” she said. “No seconds,” she added, “but I do have tons of ice cream.” Jack thought her accent was Caro-linas  somewhere.  She  wore  tight  jeans  and  a  light  plaid  shirt and had a simple small anchor tattoo on the inside of a wrist, maybe homemade.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCody  actually  smiled,  first  one  Jack  had  seen.  “Ain’t  gonna bite,” he said to Shay.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“TBD,” she said, and went back through the swinging door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJack said, “Sorry, you were asking.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Did you have time to fish before dinner?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, yeah, I did.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCody slipped his spoon into the flank of the panna cotta, didn’t look up. “Which way?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Upstream.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The pool under the bridge.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yep.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Get to the post?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I saw the meadow, turned around.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCody  didn’t  say  another  word.  He  ate  his  dessert  and  lifted a  chin  at  Shay,  who  came  through  the  door  with  a  silver  cof-feepot.  “Really?”  she  said  as  she  sailed  by.  “Ice  cream?  Gee,  I wouldn’t have guessed. Jack?” Jack shook his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn her way back Shay filled their coffee cups. They both drank it black. “What’s with the cameras?” Jack said finally.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCody  was  studiously  corralling  blueberries  with  his  spoon, tongue in the corner of his mouth like he was solving a math problem. He glanced up. “Cameras?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yeah, on the bridge.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dude lives in England. Mr. Den. Most of the year. He likes to watch  the  trout  under  the  bridge.  The  salmon  when  they’re running.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Huh. Bet he likes to see who’s fishing, too.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCody shrugged. “He knows your face. Knew it before you got here. No alarm bells there.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Any other cameras? I mean on the river.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCody  gave  up  and  tilted  the  blueberries  on  the  plate  into  his palm  and  ate  the  whole  bunch.  His  wolf  eyes  never  changed. No light there, really, no passing shadows, just a flat watchful-ness. “Never seen any. The one who’s probably got cameras is Kreutzer. I wouldn’t take a half step beyond his line. He shot at me last summer, no shit. I don’t know if he missed or he’s just a really good shot.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Damn.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dicey around here. Downstream? Past the wire? Ellery doesn’t shoot, he just has dogs.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dogs? Mr. Jensen didn’t mention any dogs.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He  wouldn’t.  I  guess  he  figures  he’ll  ease  you  in.  Make  sure you don’t get shot first, tell you about mauling later.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Damn. What kind of dogs?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mastiffs,  hounds.  Like  five  of  ’em.  And  a  couple  of  German shepherds.  They  chase  deer.  Once  in  a  while  they’ll  drag  one back. Never seen anything like it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Whoa.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mauled a fisherman in June. Nearly killed him.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They weren’t put down?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Guy had a Glock in his vest. Armed intruder was how Ellery framed  it.  Had  the  right  to  self-defense.  DA  went  along  with it. Not sure why the dude didn’t get the gun out fast enough.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJack  knew  why.  Mastiffs,  unlike  most  other  dogs,  will  some-times silently stalk their prey. Probably leapt on the poor bas-tard mid-cast, the way a lion would.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jesus,” Jack said. “Fishing around here is high stakes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCody’s laugh was short, more like a cough, and joyless.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJack  sipped  his  coffee.  He  noticed  that  Cody  picked  up  his cup in two hands, the way you would at a fire on a cold night. Hunter  for  sure,  rancher  almost  certainly.  Jack  said,  “You  all run cows? You and your folks?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor the first time Cody’s eyes darkened. “Folks passed.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m sorry.” Jack was about to say that his own mother had gone many years before but he closed his mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We did run cattle,” Cody said. “The Flying W. Dad had a little airstrip.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Where at?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hotchkiss.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJack  nodded.  He  knew  the  country.  He  and  Pop  and  Uncle Lloyd had hunted units in the West Elks a couple of years for a change of scenery.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEnd of conversation, apparently. Shay brought a soda fountain glass stuffed with three scoops of chocolate ice cream and Cody dug in. Jack excused himself. “Been a long day,” he said. “I bet-ter get sorted.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe  passed  the  table  where  Alison  K  ate  with  the  man  in  the jacket  and  she  looked  up,  smiled,  said,  “See  you  bright  and early.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes,  ma’am.”  He  touched  the  brim  of  his  baseball  cap  and pushed out through the heavy door into the cold night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSky  deep  with  stars  and  the  smells  of  coming  fall  stirring  up the river. Might even frost before morning. He rolled the bike off its kickstand and walked it up the smooth track. Just up the hill was a grove of aspen and their leaves ticked and rustled in a  brief  wave  as  a  breeze  came  through.  In  the  morning  he’d encourage Alison K to linger over her coffee, maybe they’d talk about hatches and flies and strategies in the sun on the porch while  they’d  wait  for  the  water  to  warm  a  little.  Many  fishers thought  the  earlier  the  better,  thought  daybreak  was  best.  On the salt, maybe, in the ocean; but in the mountains the insects hatched  when  the  day  warmed,  and  trout  were  a  little  like people:  they  liked  to  wake  up  and  get  stirring  before  they  ate breakfast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat night he was uneasy. He cracked the windows and turned the black thermostat on the wall to off and started a fire in the woodstove.  More  for  the  flutter  of  flames  and  the  popping aspen than for the heat. A fire was good company. He tugged his sleeping bag out of its stuff sack and laid it over the blan-kets. Did he feel claustrophobic? How could he? He could hear the river through the open windows, intermittent, almost like breathing. And it was his favorite kind of stream, a mountain creek, really, coursing through rockfall, pushing gravel bars up into  the  insides  of  the  bends,  sifting  through  blowdown.  The best  kind  of  water  in  the  world  to  walk  and  wade  and  cast  as you went. And it flowed through the sweetest cut. The canyon brimmed with pines and spruce and scattered aspen, and bro-ken sandstone up high, and there was nothing above the bands of rimrock but higher mountains, the Beckwiths and Raggeds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd above those a felted blackness, limitless, and dense with stars.  What  could  be  better?  It  was  his  mantra,  what  he  told himself again and again as he went through his day and tried to keep his eyes clear and his heart open. If not open, at least strong— his  spirit. What could be better?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut  he  did  feel  closed  in.  He  remembered  the  same  sensa-tion during his first weeks at college in New Hampshire— the relentless woods, the private property and fences everywhere, the narrow views of the sky. It took him a while back then to discern  the  particular  beauty  of  northern  New  England,  the more intimate expanses, the pockets of true wildness.","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302271275237,"sku":"NP9781984898968","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781984898968.jpg?v=1767739687","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-guide-isbn-9781984898968","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}