The Loop
High in the Rocky Mountains …
Following the huge success of The Horse Whisperer, Nicholas Evans again chose animals – this time wolves – to take centre stage in his second novel, The Loop, published in 1998 – but well worth coming back to. 
Evans was a screenwriter and film director before he became a best selling author, and something of his eye for what makes a dramatic scene is there in his writing … the bleak scenery high in the Rocky Mountains where wolves, bears and coyotes roam; the basic shack which must serve as a home for a solitary female wolf biologist, even in the depths of a harsh North American winter; the bloody scenes of animal savagery; the magic of wild animals doing what comes naturally.
At its heart is a young biologist, Helen Ross, who is sent to a small ranching town in the Rocky Mountains to defend a pack of wolves from those who want to destroy them. Wolves are an endangered species and the law protects them, but local ranchers are sure they are slaughtering their animals, and they’re determined to eradicate them from their area. Chief among them is the brutal but charismatic womaniser, Buck Calder. Helen treads carefully but then, alone in this hostile place, bruised from a broken love affair, she embarks on a dangerous love affair with Buck’s teenage son, Luke.
Although the book includes this tender love story, the vast sweep of the Rockies and the bigger ongoing struggle to achieve harmony between man and nature somehow keep the lives of the central characters in perspective. Knowing the basic narrative, perfectly at ease with the well-wrought cast of characters, I had leisure this time to be fascinated by the techniques the author uses to convey the inner turmoil driving people to act as they do.
Young Luke Calder is a closet animal-lover – a ‘bunny-hugger’ as his domineering, overbearing, amoral father Buck puts it scornfully. His pronounced stammer in all the dialogue with Buck is in sharp contrast to his fluent articulation in the presence of his gentle speech therapist, and the confidence he finds with Helen.
Helen’s dialogue too varies according to who she is speaking with – sarcastic with her prospective stepmother, but jauntily jokey with her fellow wolf enthusiast, Dan, and softly reflective with Luke. Her public assurance as she moves in the treacherous world between the wolf-lovers and -haters, shows in stark relief against the heartbroken Helen we see sobbing uncontrollably when more time goes by without a word from her erstwhile lover Joel, and the gently supportive Helen we see in her role as older lover.
The descriptions of animal behaviour are redolent of David Attenborough‘s rather breathless explanation of predators and prey engaged in life and death struggles. Half way through the book a whole chapter is devoted to the encounter between an old male moose and a pack of nine wolves, conveying the cunning and cleverness of survival tactics. Life deep within an earthen tunnel seen through the eyes of a mother wolf giving birth to and guarding her six newborn pups is breath-holdingly tense when we know killers with guns and flaming torches are approaching, starvation a very real prospect.
My own experience of having trekked in the Rockies, seen bears roaming wild there, carried pepper spray in case of a personal encounter, and felt the remoteness deep in my bones, made this all the more real and immediate.
As you may recall, I love lyrical language from these master-storytellers, but a couple of short examples must suffice:
silence lowered itself like a murderer’s pillow over the forest
The blizzard had been blowing for the last two hours. It was coming from the northeast, straight across the lake. Helen listened to it wailing around the cabin like a choir of the unforgiven.
What Celia had said about her ‘tragic destiny’ and self-indulgent wallowing had the cold truth of a scalpel.
If I have a quibble it’s the title of the book – The Loop. It refers to a devilish instrument of torture designed to lure wolves towards meat left as bait on spikes which, when taken in the mouth releases deadly sharp prongs that penetrate the throat of the unsuspecting animal. The very idea, and the descriptions of it acting, are so barbaric, that I didn’t want the book to be defined by it. It’s something so much more deep and beautiful and unforgettable.
First lines
What is it that makes us pick up a book and then buy/borrow it? The author’s name? Title? Cover? Back cover blurb? A combination, maybe?
What makes us open the book and having started, keep reading? First line? First page? First chapter?
Well, last week I told you about Ian Rankin releasing the first line of his new novel. I doubt very much if that will ever become an oft-quoted introduction, but it led me to thinking about famous first lines and what it is that makes them memorable. Ones that spring instantly to mind are …
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. (Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice)
Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. (Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina)
The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. (L. P. Hartley, The Go-Between)
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. (George Orwell, 1984)
Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. (Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca)
Marley was dead, to begin with. (Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol)
But I rather think that some of these have acquired legendary status, not just for their literary merit, but because they evoke fond memories of classic favourites.
There are other first lines, less well known, that instantly grabbed my attention and made me want to read on to see what the book was all about. If this author could write a few words this well, I’d be happy to commit a day or two/a week or two to finding out what he/she has to tell me.
It was the day my grandmother exploded. (Iain M Banks, The Crow Road)
Not an everyday occurrence, grandmothers exploding, so intriguing. How? Why? Where? When? What happened next?
The scent of slaughter, some believe, can linger in a place for years. (Nicholas Evans, The Loop)
Who’s been slaughtered? Who’s smelling their deaths today? Is it true?
I am a lawyer, and I am in prison. It’s a long story. (John Grisham, The Racketeer)
A story I want to hear. Why? What’s he done? How will he be treated? Is he guilty?
In their sacks they ride as in their mother’s womb: knee to chest, head pressed down, as if to die is merely to return to the flesh from which we were born, and this is a second conception. (James Bradley, The Resurrectionist)
Makes your skin crawl, doesn’t it? Who are these people condemned to such a death?
When the first bullet hit my chest, I thought of my daughter. (Harlan Coben, No Second Chance)
Was there a second one? Who was shooting him? Why was it his daughter who sprang to mind?
The clothes of the dead won’t wear long. (Barbara Vine, The Brimstone Wedding)
There is so much wrapped up in this thought that transcends this one story, but I want to know what happened to make it an apposite statement.
My name, in those days, was Susan Trinder. (Sarah Waters, Fingersmith)
So, why has it changed? What happened when she was Susan Trinder? What has transpired since?
I’m now thinking hard about my own first line. To date I’ve tended to concentrate more on getting the first page gripping. That introductory bit is so important; if you haven’t hooked your reader from the outset, he/she’s probably not going to bother to read on. I’ve actually often written the beginning last, spent ages refining it, for that very reason. I’ve sometimes even added a prologue to bring all the key intriguing elements to the fore and make the reader want to know how everything was resolved.
But first line? That’s a different level of demand. Fascinating to ponder.