"LESTER AND ME" by Martin Murie

Way before the rest of us caught on, Martin Murie was out there self-publishing his novels, even though they were good enough to attract movie options. (“Losing Solitude” -- might happen yet since these things take years. This book and others by Martin or his mother, Margaret, are available on Amazon.com.) And he accepted the necessity of “running a trapline” by leaving books on consignment all over his area, setting up small displays in bait shops, hunters’ supply centers, hardware stores, and the like. It takes drive (literally and figuratively) and good bookkeeping to succeed at this. The actual books were printed by a local business and were for Martin almost a mission, since the content usually explores environmental salvation. (“It’ll never sell,” say the bigtime publishers who knowitall.)

The latest book, “Lester and Me,” is about the people who are invisible to the throngs of cyber-prosperous around Jackson and Yellowstone: local working stiffs. Decent, diligent and loath to leave their homegrounds, these two “buds” struggle to get along with cranky old employers and co-workers, high maintenance women, and jokesters determined to make their honeymoons miserable. You can read some chapters at http://mrzine.monthlyreview.org/murie110506.html (If you Google “Lester and Me” you’ll get almost 6,000 hits mostly irrelevant but almost all pretty interesting.)

Endearingly unfocused, these two guys -- not quite cowboys -- bumble along, doing their best until they find their lives. It’s the kind of story where things happen kind of unexpectedly, but then -- looking back -- a pattern develops. Sorta like life.

The first chapter clearly could not have been written by anyone who had not spent some summer days bucking old-fashioned bales onto a truck, quite unlike the modern huge rolled bales with plastic overcoats, created by machinery that will yank your arms off if you make a mistake. Example: “One bit of luck came my way that summer, a pair of well-made hay hooks with sharp tips and long gentle taper, just right for slipping into tight-crimped alfalfa bales. It’s little things like that can make a difference around two o’clock in the afternoon when bales put on weight and the sun stands still.”

One episode that Martin knew would tickle me because of my encounters with the Western art world happens on Lester’s marriage night which lands the happy couple, broke and with no room at the inn, at a glossy upscale lodge with a gallery of Rungius paintings, some of the finest wildlife art that ever was. But the feisty bride, watching the filming of a video about how wonderful the colors, the composition, etc., can’t resist butting in to contribute an ornery defense of the actual animals, which are endangered and need help. At first the videographers try to close her out, but then realize the justice of what she’s saying and gradually figure out that this is lending some much-needed spice and edge to their video. In the end they are grateful and moved enough by the “endangered” honeymoon to contribute a nice room. (I don’t know whether Martin was aware that Rungius custom when painting an animal was to shoot one, a la Audubon, and prop the body up for a model. He went through a LOT of moose and mountain sheep.)

Even aside from their lonesome and neglected trophy wives, the rich guys are a problem. “Lester and Me” take one hunting, at his request, and discover that their value systems are entirely out of sync. The local boys are hunting elk for meat to get through the winter. The rich guy, Harold, is hunting according to a code of honor and is happier with a camera shot of a bear crossing talus than a trophy bull. Yet he proves capable and gets that trophy elk when it is crippled by another hunter. The problem is that he doesn’t want the trophy. And the locals are presented with the hard work of packing out three elk, one with an inconvenient rack of antlers. “No problem,” says Harold. “I’ll just see if one of the other hunters has a cell phone and order us up a helicopter. I can afford it.”

The not-quite-cowboys quickly reshuffle their value system. Work is good. Harold wants to do what is good -- therefore, Harold will fulfill his wish to have a “real” hunting experience by participating in the packing out. He sees their point.

In these stories are threaded every which way with detail about the sensory world of the Rockies: “We came into pine country on an easy slope that took us higher with hardly any strain. The ground was carpeted with arnica and pinegrass in speckled shade, some of the arnicas still hanging onto their yellow flowers, droopey and closed up and dry, but still showing some color, and the silky pinegrasses looped over, decorated with slivers of sunshine.”

Good is rewarded: Lester and “me” both end up with spirited, beautiful, capable wives. “Me” even picks up a couple of horses at no cost. Well, in terms of money, anyway. Some might complain that this is unreal, but maybe they haven’t been paying attention to the windfalls that come with optimism and generosity in real life.

Murie, a graduate of both Reed (a legendary source of ornery optimists) and Antioch (a great place to find beautiful, intelligent, and possibly rich wives) is not afraid of mixing rich people and “Bolsheviks” in the same story, nor should he be since he knows plenty of both. This is his and Alison’s last winter at their old farm on the edge of the Adirondacks, so it will be sharply felt, but if you order your copy of “Lester and Me” soon, you can still get it from “Packrat Books,” North Bangor, New York, or by contacting the Muries at skerihog@westelcom.com.

I hope that his next project is “Alison and Me: The Memoir,” with Alison as co-author, though I know she's been contributing all alone.