By Mary Beth Baptiste
Acutely aware that her adolescence is slipping through, Mary Beth Baptiste makes a decision to flee her lackluster, suburban existence in coastal Massachusetts to pursue her lifelong dream of being a Rocky Mountain woodswoman. To the horror of her conventional, ethnic family members, she divorces her husband of fifteen years, dusts off her flora and fauna biology measure, and flees to Moose, Wyoming for a task at Grand Teton nationwide Park. In those rugged mountains, unforeseen classes from nature and flora and fauna consultant her trip as she creates a brand new lifestyles for herself. Set opposed to the dramatic backdrop and quirky tradition of Jackson gap, this fantastically written memoir is a considerate, usually funny account of a woman’s bumbling quest for goal, redemption, and love via desolate tract event, solitude, and offbeat human connections.
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Extra resources for Altitude Adjustment: A Quest for Love, Home, and Meaning in the Tetons
After Olaus’s death in 1963, Mardy continued to work for passage of the Wilderness Act and the Alaska National Interest Lands Conservation Act. She was invited to Washington, DC, in 1964 to witness President Lyndon Johnson sign the Wilderness Act, which protected millions of acres of wilderness throughout the country. Sixteen years later, she stood beside President Carter as he signed the Alaska Lands Act into law. Her tireless conservation work has won her many awards, including the Audubon Medal, the John Muir Award, and the Robert Marshall Conservation Award.
The “I don’t want to be a bother” drivel that the women in my family excel at. Someone’s tossing you a life preserver—for God’s sake, grab it. “Thanks, Rachel, I’d love to,” I say. “I’ve got some potatoes at home. ” “Cool,” Rachel says. ” We cook and eat and chat in the yard until the scent of fir hovers on the night chill and stars dot the blackening sky. Chris and Robert stroll by, and Rachel invites them over to toast marshmallows on sticks we find under the trees. It’s after eleven when I return to my trailer.
Trumpeter swans …” Tim’s sentence dies away and his dark eyes widen as a young beauty walks in. Rachel is in her early twenties, with corn-silk hair falling in a loose braid down her back. Her open face flaunts an earthy rawness—unrestrained, self-satisfied, woods-wise. I know at first glance she’s that breezy woodswoman I long to be, comfortable in the backcountry from years of experience. As she peels off her gray sweatshirt, the eighteen-year-olds walk in—Robert and Chris. Their eyes track Rachel unselfconsciously from her dazzling mane to her sturdy Asolo-clad feet, with an extended pause at her plump breasts barely contained by a second-skin tank top.