I've been thinking about place and our connection to it.
Probably not surprising if you've spent any time with THE STRANGE WONDERS OF ROOTS, which, maybe more than anything else I've written, is very much *about* place. What we seek in a place, why we sometimes run from a place, and what creates a sense of belonging to a place or a community.
On the heels of a trip to Wyoming to celebrate the release of WILD AT HEART, my new picture book biography, I've also been considering how stories can shape a place—and vice versa.
Olaus and Mardy Murie, the wildlife-biologists-turned-legendary-conservationists whose story I trace in WILD AT HEART, spent much of their lives in Jackson Hole. Their log cabin in what is now Grand Teton National Park served as the hub for America’s conservation movement for a good chunk of the 20th century. Here, Olaus and Mardy welcomed scientists, politicians, and curious young people from across the country to their front porch. The conversations that took place on that porch shaped America’s environmental policies and laid the groundwork for landmark legislation, including the Wilderness Act of 1964.
It makes sense, then, that the legacy of Olaus and Mardy is alive and strong in Jackson Hole.
Left: Front Porch Conversation at the Murie Ranch in 2023. Center: Returning to the Murie Ranch in 2024. Right: A great indie bookstore in Jackson. First two pics by Taylor Smith.
I first visited the area in 2023 when WILD AT HEART was yet-to-be-published. I was invited to preview the book as part of the Front Porch Conversations series at the Murie Ranch, Olaus and Mardy’s former home and now a National Historic Landmark.
It was an emotional and surreal experience to step inside that cabin and—on the same porch where so many important conversations took place—share my journey of learning and writing about the Muries. It was also special to explore some of the surrounding mountains and valleys that the Muries had loved so much. (Y’all, Grand Teton National Park is stunning.)
Last month, I returned to the Murie Ranch for another Front Porch Conversation—this time with the finished book to share. While in the area, I also joined a panel discussion on the legacy of the Muries at History Jackson Hole, a local museum. It was an honor—and quite humbling!—to sit alongside several long-term Jackson residents, some of whom knew the Muries personally before they passed. I’ve spent a few years studying and writing about the Muries, but here, I was the relative newcomer, warmly welcomed but still with much to learn. During and after that panel, it occurred to me that my relationship with the Muries’ lives and work—and with Jackson Hole—doesn’t have to end with the publication of WILD AT HEART.
As a nonfiction writer, there can be a tempting “On to the next subject!” mentality. After all, there’s so much in the world to discover! And, hey, my livelihood partly depends on finding that next subject and landing that next book contract. Similarly, when it comes to travel, I often feel the pull to go somewhere I’ve never been before. To see something new. Especially when time and money limit my travel.
But returning to Jackson Hole made me wonder: What would it look like to keep coming back to a certain place? To allow my relationship with it, and the stories that shape it, to continue evolving through repeated visits? To continue actively engaging with the legacy of the Muries even though the book is “done”? (Truly, I don’t think a book is ever really done, as long as readers are reading, interpreting, and responding to it.)
Left: Delta Lake in Grand Teton NP. Center: Old Faithful in Yellowstone NP. Right: A fun readaloud to kiddos at History Jackson Hole (pic by Taylor Smith).
As I note in the backmatter (the supplementary material at the end) of WILD AT HEART, this active engagement includes reckoning with the difficult or contradictory parts of a historical figure’s legacy. And, when it comes to place, it also includes learning more about who has been displaced, and how, and why, and what’s being done to acknowledge and address historical injustices. Lately, I’ve been thinking about this more broadly when it comes to environmentalism—in particular, what lands are preserved, what that preservation looks like, who it serves, and who gets to be a part of these decisions. A question I raise in the backmatter: As we seek solutions to environmental problems, how can we ensure that a variety of voices are part of the conversation, including the voices of Native peoples, many of whom have strong and enduring connections to the land?
Teton Science Schools, the organization that manages the Murie Ranch, has expressed interest in collaborating on more events in the future. Perhaps on an annual basis. And so, as I look forward to my trip to someplace totally new—and my next dive into a new nonfiction topic (some exciting stuff in the works!)—I also look forward to ongoing relationships with Wyoming, the Murie Ranch, and the Muries’ dynamic, evolving legacy.
The book is published but the story continues. Stories tend to do that, don’t they? They are wild things.
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