It took nine years for wilderness activist Amy Irvine to write Trespass (North Point Press), about her father’s suicide in Utah’s rugged, desolate red-rock landscape. From the chilling opening line, "My home is a red desert that trembles with spirits and bones," Irvine delivers a distinctive, affecting meditation on loss-an amalgam of personal history, natural history, and a search for spirituality (she is a lapsed Mormon) in unexpected places. He was always "a good shot," she recalls, and "on the first night of the new millennium, as the rest of the world toasted a new era, my father put a bullet through his own heart." The book’s title comes to take on multiple meanings-familial, religious, natural. And through her despair at feeling like an intruder in the places where she yearned most for an embrace, Irvine writes her way toward a thin but sturdy hope.
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