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The Heart of the Monster Paperback – December 17, 2010

by David James Duncan (Author), Rick Bass (Author)

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Editorial Reviews

Review

Yesterday my copy of the new book by Rick Bass and David James Duncan arrived. Simply put = = it is beautifully done. It has many excellent color and black and white photos which give wonderful visual perspectives. The authors dropped everything in their personal lives to achieve this important product in record time. These guys can really, REALLY write! If you are working on this critically important issue you have to have the book as a reference source for advocacy. If you are new to the issue and will please help this book will launch you forward like a rocket. My firm personal belief is that this is hands-down the most important social/economic/environmental issue on the table in the Pacific Northwest. It is also of course now a National and international issue. I am diving into the book today. --Scott Phillips

About the Author

David James Duncan is an American novelist and essayist, best known for his two bestselling novels, The River Why and The Brothers K . Both involve fly fishing, baseball, and family. Both received the Pacific Northwest Booksellers award; The Brothers K was a New York Times Notable Book in 1992 and won a Best Books Award from the American Library Association. Rick Bass is an American writer and an environmental activist. Bass was born in Fort Worth, Texas, the son of a geologist, and he studied petroleum geology at Utah State University. He started writing short stories on his lunch breaks while working as a petroleum geologist in Jackson, Mississippi. In 1987, he moved with his wife, the artist Elizabeth Hughes, to the remote Yaak Valley near Troy, Montana, where he worked to protect his adopted home from roads and logging. Rick has served on the board of the Yaak Valley Forest Council and Round River Conservation Studies. He was a finalist for the Story Prize in 2007 for his short story collection The Lives of Rocks. He was a finalist for the 2008 National Book Critics Circle Award (autobiography) for Why I Came West (2008).

Product details

Publisher : All Against the Haul; First edition (December 17, 2010)
Language : English
Paperback : 249 pages
ISBN-10 : 0615425933
ISBN-13 : 978-0615425931
Item Weight : 1.35 pounds

Best Sellers Rank: #1,281,867 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)

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Robert W Finkbine

Educate our ignorant and greedy politicians and business mean with this book

Reviewed in the United States on May 9, 2014

Verified Purchase

The USA has become the most dangerous country in the world leading the way to extinction.
Find out how this is happening. Fracking is deadly and the Age of Carbon is over but
excessive greed and loyalty to the bottom line will doom our age. These "leaders" are so
stupid they don't even realizing they are destroying their own children, grandchildren
and great grandchildren along with our own. When the earth no longer supports life
where are they going to fly their private jets to?

One person found this helpful

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Rod Newman

Very good read.

Reviewed in the United States on December 13, 2016

Verified Purchase

Duncan and Bass are two of my favorite authors.

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Brooke S.

some of the prose is shear poetry and at times very funny. I'm buying several copies to give to friends

Reviewed in the United States on February 11, 2015

Verified Purchase

Informative, yes, but also very well written. While the topic is distressing, some of the prose is shear poetry and at times very funny. I'm buying several copies to give to friends.

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James G. Workman

Mighty Pen vs. Mighty Sword in a modern day seige

Reviewed in the United States on October 28, 2011

When you hear that two of your favorite writers will collaborate on a book defending one of your most beloved landscapes, you're bound to be both excited and apprehensive, and I was both. Excited at the potentially powerful current of well-crafted and poignant words; apprehensive at the risk of their combining two clear flowing and individualistic streams between one book cover.
Duncan and Bass are masters at storytelling, and while their fiction gives them the most pleasure and sense of accomplishment, it is their non-fiction that reveals the honest and flawed human behind the art.
Heart of the Monster is a modern war story, fought with pens rather then swords, over a landscape that is still besieged by massive forces, much like Troy once was, and told by two contemporary Homers who also happen to be warriors fiercely defending the place they love.
Of the two Duncan is the Paris with his prose -- defiant, lyrical, beautifully sculpted, armed with sharp tipped verses, but remaining deliberately apart from the action while shooting from the ramparts, and gaining political strength from his distance, his reluctance, his refusal to yield.
Bass is more Hector. He's the pragmatist, equally potent in his unleashing well aimed words, but he's also the one who is more comfortable mixing it up in the dusty, putrid, messy world of politics and its handmaiden, compromise. What makes his half of the book engrossing is the sense of human fragility and betrayal he conveys. A few years earlier Bass had hailed Schweitzer in the glowing terms of a True Believer, and was bouncing across the landscape with him like a disciple of the Second Coming. No longer. Much of his prose here boils down into an inquiry into: What the hell went wrong?
I was reminded of All the King's Men, but as non-fiction written by a Jack Burden who really did see the bright potential along with the dark underbelly of politics in a resource-rich, population-poor state that had just elected a big, strong, red-faced, hand-shaking, back-slapping, adulation-craving Montana populist version of Willie Stark. There's no answer that I could find, just some sense that the gods had intervened to turn Schweitzer over to the dark side.
You come away from reading this with a sense of relief and anxiety - relief that the two writers remained true to their own identities and did not attempt to merge currents into a blurred vision; anxiety that while they have done so much and fought so hard, their beloved Troy remains besieged by global interests beyond their ability to control, and that the Governor has opened the gates to bring in the false and hollow horse of nonexistent "jobs" that is in actuality filled with the seeds of rape, pillage, and ecological ruin.
Let's hope the Governor reads this and rediscovers his former identity in time to make good on the early promise he once held out.

6 people found this helpful

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Sean D Steel

A book well worth reading and as timely as ever

Reviewed in the United States on August 26, 2018

David Duncan is one of my favourite authors, and his work here with Bass illuminates the continuing squabbles around pipelines, money, jobs, and the environment. The authors speak from a place of knowledge and experience as lovers of the great outdoors and citizens concerned with environmental degradation. I appreciate the research they did as they wrote the chapters for this book, and I also found the narrative, personal style of the book appealing. While I still much prefer Duncan's fiction writing to his essays and activistic work, it is good to have such a thoughtful voice speaking about this topic.

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Trapper aka ManyMoose

Land Ethics and Monsters

Reviewed in the United States on February 2, 2011

"I get weary of words," Rick Bass writes, "They are useful--they are the building blocks of democracy, and of revolution--but without action, they are nothing more than the relicts of ancient civilization, crumbling across time." (It's `relicts' not `relics.' I love it when I learn a new word. Look it up. I did.)

"The Heart of the Monster" is a call to action, revolution even. Bass is clear about that.

Words. Action. Reality. Rick Bass himself answered my question, asked from the middle of a gaggle of admirers at the Montana Book Festival in October of 2009: "How important is it for a writer to know the woods, rivers, landscape, seasons, of which he writes?"
"It is important, very important--vital," the shy man answered. He ran off before I could collar him.

Bass knows whereof he writes. He has a right to know if I do. Maybe some other people do too, his co-author David James Duncan for example. After all, of what use are words written by somebody who doesn't know what he is talking about?

Before Rick Bass was a youngster in Texas, I was a youngster breaking trail on snowshoes right up the state line at least a day's worth of mushing east of the opening line of his novella: "The earth is burning at the pass." The line in the sand where Montana starts and where winter in the blood burns hot. Yes, that pass. Lolo Pass.

At the time, I didn't know the Pass was burning. I just wanted to check my traps, to see how many marten, weasels, bobcats and mink my Pard and I could take down to Pacific Hide and Fur and convert to dollars. I wanted adventure in the wilderness, and by God I got it.

I shot my first buck hardly more than a good rifle shot away from Highway 12, uphill a bit and over the ridge from Woodman School. I shot my first elk up the Blackfoot, barely out of sight of Highway 200. I shot my second elk on the other side of 12, a mile inside the state line where my trap line ran. I know where the old cabins are, most of them moldered away to dirt, or buried under Highway 12. I know where the discovery holes are, failed dreams of miners holding on to their dream of riches from the earth. And one of those mines, where I peered down to the miners digging the discovery shaft, grew until it took out a snag where I caught marten in my Number 1 Victor leg hold trap. I didn't like that.

My teacher in all this, a man Rick Bass knew and collaborated with in conservation activism, went over the divide into legend last November. He knew more about Land Ethics than all of us put together, and wrote a book called "The Lochsa Story." He and Rick Bass are, were, the only environmentalists I know who hunt and kill, cut timber, and have a lick of common sense. But like Rick Bass, I digress.

I know where the graves are too, and Saturday at Traveler's Rest Park I listened to a regal man with braided hair who told Salish tales, one of which concerned a grave I had found two years ago on the state line, the grave of his great great grandfather who died on a hunting trip in 1900. That was the only one of his stories that did not concern monsters.

Tales of Salish monsters set me off and I drove up to Lolo Pass to judge for myself how well the route could handle the ExxonMobil Monster--a real monster with stinking breath and paws that could crush half a mountain.

Full disclosure: I am an NRA Life Member, Tea Party-ing, Sarah Palin-admiring, elk-hunting, trapping, back-packing, wilderness-loving, Exxon-diesel truck-driving, clearcut-prescribing retired forester. I've never once been to a meeting of AATH (All Against The Haul), and I didn't even know it existed until I bought the book last Monday. Only my heart resides in Montana; the rest of me doesn't.

There: Rick confessed his sins and I confessed mine. Contrary to what Rick Bass believes, there IS a place for clearcutting. Montana, by and large, is NOT it. I say this despite the brand new forests along Highway 12, grown up from the hideous 640 acre Plum Creek clearcuts. Plum Creek, by the way, is not to blame for the squareness. Congress is to blame for that, and we, the sleeping beneficiaries of railroad surveys ordered by Jefferson Davis in 1853, are to blame for that. Nobody cared at the time because the checkerboard was invisible then. I didn't care either because they opened up the road to my trap line--not until they cut down to Highway 12.

These days in winter Earthlings drive right by the turn-off to my trap line dressed like Martians to join hoards of snow machine drivers and cross-country skiers clotted up at Lolo Pass, the flaming line in the sand. I doubt one out of ten sees the clearcuts, but I do. (If you doubt squareness, check out Google Earth. From space, it looks like a chess board from hell. Nonetheless, it IS a new forest. In time, squareness will go away.)

I know where all the pinch-points on Highway 12 are. A bunch of them line up between a hard place and the river, where I drove at illegal speeds in the dark in order to get my wife to Oro Fino before our new-born son presented himself. Kamiah is another, where I thought waiting an hour for a herd of sheep to pass through town was bad. Little did I know that the herd of sheep traveled at warp speed compared to the ExxonMobil Monsters.
Little did I know back then as I drove by the original Heart of the Monster every day to work, sometimes riding on my bicycle, of the Monsters that were to come. I thought the basalt monolith was just a Nez Perce, Nimipuu, legend, or a geological curiosity. I was wrong.

There must be a couple dozen pinch points between Kooskia and Wendover Pond. I don't need to list them. ExxonMobil probably has a database complete with imagery and statistics about every inch of the route. And the grade up to Lolo Pass is no slouch. It was steep back in the 1950s when we stopped to drink out of a can at one of the crystal freshets rushing down the mountain, and it's steep now.

Lolo Pass, the flaming line in the sand: a lot of people don't know that there was once a copper mine on the Idaho side, and there a mud hole at the crest was so bad they kept a D-8 dozer there to pull cars and trucks through. All that is gone now, prettied up so well that Earthlings dressed like Martians flock to the place to ride their rocket sleds. And hell, even I drool over the beautiful log-crafted visitor center, staffed by friendly ladies who probably work just for the privilege.
I wonder, though, if that mud hole doesn't slumber beneath the pavement, ready to suck up the first Monster that dares to awaken it.

Hey ExxonMobil! There's a real bad stretch at Snowshoe Falls. I know it's bad because I nearly went over the side there myself as a youth, and I locked up the emergency brake so tight I had to dismantle it with a lug wrench and pliers right there. They call it Snowshoe Falls because that's where mountain men hung a pair of snowshoes, just in case they needed them to go over the pass in the spring, before the road. But I digress.

Highway 12 can probably let the Monster squeeze through with a judiciously applied rebuild--funded, of course, by ExxonMobil. Yes it will mess up the Lochsa, and if even one boulder gets moved into the river it will change the hydraulic dynamics and have unforeseen consequences downstream.

I see no problems on Highway 93 from Lolo Town to the Reserve Street intersection. Reserve Street, not overtaxed when I walked to and from high school across the field where C. S. Porter School now stands, is where Rick Bass fears that the Monster will mess up the kids' cross-walk. That's the least of his worries.

Reserve Street is now so clotted that every commuter on it probably bares fangs at least once a year. Every power line, telephone line, and every traffic light on Reserve Street from Highway 93 to the place where the Monster turns east will have to be re-engineered. Financed, of course, by ExxonMobil.

So ExxonMobil finances all these modifications and schedules their dash down Reserve Street at night so as to inconvenience nobody.
That makes it OK, right? Hah!

Let's be plain about this: Everybody, and I mean EVERYBODY, in Missoula will be inconvenienced. Half of them will miss work the day or week the Monsters prowl through. I won't be able to visit my Mom at Grizzly Peak until they clear the damn thing. Who compensates us? ExxonMobil? The Taxpayers? Chinese? Who?

For the life of me I cannot visualize how the Monsters will make the turn east off Reserve Street. I just can't see it. ExxonMobil probably knows, but I don't. And when the Monsters get to Bonner and turn up Highway 200, they face an equally formidable array of pinch points, rivaling those along the Lochsa.

If they get that far.

But they won't get that far, because the line in the sand is at the flaming pass, Lolo Pass. That's where they stop.

If the Monsters are willing to run over living bodies or have the same arrested, they might make it over the pass. If they don't go over the side at Snowshoe Falls, they'll go over the side someplace else, hopefully not on Reserve Street.

My trapping Pard, whose father (our mountain-man teacher) went over the divide into legend last November, says the Monsters won't get stuck at the pinch points. They'll go over the side on the straight stretches. I agree with him on this, even though I can't keep up with him in the woods.

The Monsters have all the pinch points psyched out. They'll go so carefully a herd of sheep could run circles around them faster than they got through Kamiah back in the day.

But they'll get overconfident on the straight stretches. They'll go too fast or take a cell phone call on the straight stretch, and they'll go off, top-heavy as they are. And the Monsters are so big there isn't a crane on earth that can lift them out of the ditch.

Think about it this way: There's a hell of a lot more straight stretch than pinch point between Lewiston and the Tar Sands. Statistically, the Monster is screwed.

ExxonMobil: YOU messed up. You're planning and staffing isn't any better than it was the day you hired the drunk who ran the ExxonValdez aground. You thought the iron was hot--time to strike. Tea Partiers like me who can't stand Obamacare are behind you, right? The Blue Man governor of the Reddest State sees the benefits you claim for Montana and wants us to go for it. Now is the time. Just this once. Pretty please.

You lie. It's not `just this once' any more than the Lochsa River is big enough to float the barges you brought the Monsters to Lewiston on. The Tar Sands are huge and the Middle East is afire. `Just this once' will become hundreds, thousands--how many Monsters do you really want?

Never mind. The answer is not `no.' This Here Is Montana, and the answer is Hell No!

HELL NO! Got that?

Rant over. This started out to be a book review, so I might as well get on with it.

Rick Bass's contribution to "The Heart of the Monster" is a novella--fiction. He calls it "A Short History of Montana." He writes in first person as a Governor's aide, the "picker-up of old Shep's poop," as it were. We all know who the Governor is. Old Shep is the Governor's dog. Is old Shep a good dog? "Oh hell no," the Governor said, "He's a scoundrel. He's an old egg-sucker from way back." Maybe Shep is fictional too, but anyway, fictional First Person picks up his poop, fictional or not.

First Person claims to "have a friend, a poet, who is being driven mad by corporations." This poet "came over the pass, staked a claim along the first creek in Montana, closest to Idaho, in the last garden of the world." This first creek in Montana, closest to Idaho, is Lolo Creek.

I think "the poet" is Rick Bass himself, struggling to cope with the inconvenience of objecting to Monsters being dragged down Lolo Creek when he actually lives up on the Yaak, maybe 150 miles away. First Person is a fictional artifice, invented to put Rick's narrative in context of the epic battle in which he finds himself, and to provide the framework for some of the truths that he has to tell. The two of them together are quite sufficient to launch the battle plan.

No matter. Poets make the best writers of fiction. They know how to pare down fat to the irreducible minimum of muscle and bone.
I believe Rick Bass is a poet, though I've never seen a poem of his nor know that one exists. I believe he is a poet because I think poets make the best fiction writers. Richard Hugo, James Crumley, and John Straley prove my point and give me cause to suspect Rick's poethood.

Even if Rick Bass is not a poet, he is still the best, or one of the best, environmental writers around. He is the best because every word, every sentence, packs so much power that if an editor were to remove one word the work would be diminished. Rick Bass is the best because he knows whereof he writes--he has been there--boots on the ground.

I know, because I put my boots on the ground too, and I can follow Bass tracks in the words he writes. I didn't care for his damning faint praise of American heroes and founders, nor of his overly generous praise of certain other politicians. I don't agree with everything he says, but he sure as hell knows what he is talking about.

Rick Bass the writer started out as a geologist, so he knows the slow tick of time better than most. I'm a forester, and my time ticks are two or three human lifetimes. I give nature credit for more healing power on that scale than Bass does. I acknowledge that in geologic time we humans will be like a coal seam I found in the woods, overrun by molten basalt that cooled so a forest eventually developed in the overburden of new soil. New trees on new soil were overrun by molten basalt again, leaving the molds of their being protruding from the ceiling of a cave, and bats hung from the molded stubs. There is yet another forest on top of that, and the logging that ensued will regenerate the forest once again, in our lifetime.

***

David James Duncan deserves credit for his writing too, though at least to me his compares to Rick Bass's as a shotgun compares to a rifle.

More than for his writing, Duncan deserves credit for defining the battleground and blowing the trumpet, giving voice to All Against The Haul. Like Bass, he is a reluctant environmentalist with better things to do, such as writing a novel and fly fishing.
I share his dreams and wish him well. There's nothing wrong with his writing, except that maybe too much consists of quotations from others. Maybe that is necessary after all. This is not a criticism, just an observation. A criticism: quite a bit belongs someplace else.

David James Duncan is all over the map. He rants about global warming, burning pipelines in Bellingham, dams on the Columbia, saving loons at St. Regis, takes cheap shots at Sarah Palin, relates dreams of his that may or may not relate to the Monsters ExxonMobil plans to drag up the Lochsa.

Duncan's monsters are Alberta Tar Sands, global warming, dams on the Columbia that mess up his fly fishing, not the ExxonMobil Monster that Rick Bass goes after tooth and nail from Lolo Pass to the Canadian Border. If Duncan had just skipped ahead in his writing to Chapter 6, "The Road," he would have saved himself a lot of trouble and hit the heart of the monster in its vitals. I can't even tell what the title chapter, Chapter 9, "The Heart of the Monster" has to do with the ExxonMobil Monsters.

Chapter 10, "The Earth Dreams of Beauty" relates an Irish folk tale in a manner that muddies the line between original work and the voice of the Bard, Alice Kane, who sang it to him in her nephew's book "Wisdom of the Myth Tellers." Yes, the story is lovely, but what does it have to do with ExxonMobil Monsters? And who wrote it? I couldn't tell.

Although I differ with Duncan's point of view on some topics that don't concern the ExxonMobil Monster, I find no fault with the beauty of his prose. Duncan credits the wisdom and virtuosity of his editor, but why did she not excise all the irrelevant diatribes and pare down the thing to that which the book's title suggests? Put those someplace else, maybe in a more broadly based book that I won't read but somebody else might.

It's a terrible idea to dig up the Tar Sands, just that "This Here Is Montana and we say Hell NO!" is cleaner.

***

One more comment about "The Heart of the Monster" as a work of art: Most of the photographic images that grace many pages are what they are. Some are actually beautiful, and others show wrecks they are meant to show.

There's one picture I puzzled about: It is the photograph on page 223, showing the marquee of the Roxy Theater in Missoula, which is on Higgins Avenue--nowhere near the planned route of ExxonMobil Monsters.

What does the Roxy have to do with "The Heart Of The Monster?" I wondered.

Then it hit me.

Back in the 70s, before the internet and before porn on DVD, there was a movie people didn't want their friends to see them viewing. It was called "Deep Throat," and it was a sensation.

"Deep Throat" played in Missoula at the Roxy, the first porn ever to show in a Missoula public theater. It was about getting screwed every which way but loose.

That's it. We're getting screwed.

But only if the Monster rolls over the living bodies at Lolo Pass. The line in the sand. The edge of Montana. The Last Best Place.

HELL NO!

***

I get weary of rants.

But, forgive me, I have one more.

You environmentalists, you haters of Big Oil, you walkers up the Kim Williams Trail who long for a Second Generation Volt or Leaf or some other completely electric car, listen up!

Many of you probably know that the wonderful Kim Williams Trail is a reclaimed railroad grade. How many of you know that the train snaking along that grade to take my grandfather to the VA hospital after the war was the Milwaukee Road, an ELECTRIC railroad, all the way to Harlowton? Unlike the Northern Pacific Rail Road that huffed and puffed black coal smoke from old Engine 1356, the Milwaukee Road was clean. It sucked energy off a line suspended over the tracks, and I bet it hauled more people and freight than all the Volts and Leafs that will ever be. Electric transportation is NOT a new idea.

The Milwaukee Road was electric, you see. Like the Volts and Leafs that suck up a big government subsidy so your conscience will be clear as a Petroleum Free World.

Wrong! Be an environmentalist with common sense for God's sake, like Rick Bass. Know what the hell you are talking about.
The Milwaukee Road ran on coal. There were coal-fired generator plants along the route, and they produced the electricity that drove the trains down the line. Just like old Engine 1356, they burned coal. The only difference was WHERE the smoke stack blew, not how much carbon reached the atmosphere.

Your government-subsidized Volts and Leafs are no different.
I lied. I don't have one, I have TWO extra rants, and I promise this is the last:

You people who think Tea Partiers are spoilers, you just get on the internet and look up images of any random Tea Party gathering. Or better yet, actually go to a Tea Party Rally. It doesn't matter whether it's Spokane or the Lincoln Memorial in Washington DC. Look at the grounds before and after the Tea Party. Dollars to donuts the parks are spotless AFTER the Tea Party leaves, whether or not they were tidy before the Tea Party arrived.

Now look up images of the National Mall after Barack Obama's inauguration.

Then tell me which scenario you want the burning line in the sand at Lolo Pass to resemble, after we stop the Monsters in their tracks.

Rants over. I promise.

The Lochsa Story: Land Ethics in the Bitterroot Mountains

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