I am writing a very different kind of book….

Tiger's Nest, Bhutan, 2011

Across my career I’ve published lots about wildlife conservation science.  Today I’m “spilling the tea” (a phrase my nieces taught me) about a very different kind of project I’ve been working on this year: a book about my daughter Linnea. This project has proven to be an intensely personal and healing journey. I am currently looking for the right publisher – please share your ideas with me.

After 2 ½ years battling for justice, I traveled to Norway to help with some research and teaching. This excerpt from my book is drawn from my August 2022 journal entry at Inland Norway University:

Today I paddled the kayak upstream on the river Glomma, against a strong headwind. Past the beaver lodges to where the river, wider now, got shallow. I eddied out of the fast current and ground myself gently in the shallows. I watched the tufted ducks lift from the water, pirouetting white wing flashes as they flew off to wherever tufted ducks go at midmorning in east central Norway. I listened to the ripples, across the whole wide river, and the prehistoric squawk of cranes over the fields beyond the trees. I felt the breeze on my neck and face, smelled the pure freshness. I focused on Mount Rognvola, the round rocky summit that I often imagine Linnea somehow floating above, crisscross applesauce with her legs, smiling and encouraging.

And then: Instead of the gentle rounded rocks just under the surface here, I was peering 60 feet deep, seeing Linnea struggling as she was crushed by betrayal, picturing the abandonment and treachery that followed. Rage of the past 21 months began to fill my vision, my ears, my brain.

The bottom of the boat nudged as the wind and the current, persisting, started to push me off the rocks, out of the eddy, back to the flow. A moment of resentment – part of me wanted to stay focused on the rage. Another subtle bump, a slight spin of the bow. I would have to act now to re-beach myself to stay on the rocks. Or, the choice. To let the wind and flow carry me. Past the beaver lodges and ducks and cranes. Following the water’s lead, never to be the same. Carrying Linnea and emotions of her loss while drifting back to laughter and love of family and friends and new adventures. That’s what I did. Downstream I floated.