Fergus Books

Although Not in Great detail this book is able to scratch the surface of many African myths as well as provide a basis for the folk tradition of African tribes all through Africa. The book does an exceptional job however at presenting the reasoning for African myths as well as conecting the myths between cultures. Recomended for any fan of Myth who wants a brief outline of African myth for their collection or simply just a quick read or refference.

I would recomend checking out the rest of the "Myth and Mankind" series as they disect the beliefs of 19 different cultures from The Greeks to the Mayan.

"Killing Dragons" is an engrossing series of portraits of men and mountains woven into a chronology of alpine exploration that spans 150 years. The bulk of the narrative focuses on two big, suggestive mountains - Mont Blanc and the Matterhorn - and their two principal suitors: de Saussure and Whymper. But there are delightful side roles for a whole throng of colourful characters such as Bourrit, Forbes, Tyndall, Ruskin, Stephen and Coolidge. Ultimately it's also a story about how surprisingly quickly and drastically man's relationship to nature can change: in barely two centuries the general mood regarding the mountain world switched from superstitious awe to scientific interest to exploratory zeal to nationalist competition to, ultimately, solipsistic thrill-seeking (which is still the dominant ethos today).

Fergus Fleming is a masterful storyteller with a penchant for tongue-in-cheeck humour, quirky details and the burlesque. In one or two cases it's even over the top, as when he inserts a footnote with a deadpan comment of Edward Whymper on the ubiquity of "crétins" (deformed, mentally handicapped people) and goitre sufferers in rural Alpine communities: "Let them be formed into regiments by themselves, brigaded together, and commanded by cretins. Think what esprit de corps they would have! Who could stand against them? Who would understand their tactics?" An example of a more successful gag comes when Fleming comments on the death of Coolidge who, after the demise of his beloved aunt Meta Brevoort, withdrew and became and quarrelsome, exasperatingly punctilious Alpine historian. Fleming: "An imp of perversity was loose in Grindelwald that season - either that or the Swiss possessed a keener sense of humour than they were normally credited with - for the great pedant was given an exquisitely apt send-off. The 'Echo of Grindelwald" misspelled his name in its official notice, the authorities put the wrong age on his headstone and the carver missed out the the 'u' in 'mountains'." The book is full of these kinds of hilarious observations. (Incidentally, Fleming himself may have something of Coolidge's pedantry as he is remarkably scrupulous about spelling of French and Germain toponyms throughout the book).

On the whole, Fleming does an admirable job in weaving the locales, the societal trends, the climbing epics, the individual characters and their relationships and rivalries into a rich tapestry. My only complaint is that this book refers only in passing to and omits a more extensive discussion on Albert Mummery, an important and colourful character who heralded a new era in mountaineering. His remarkable ascents on the great Alpine peaks (Zmutt ridge on the Matterhorn, amongst many others) and his fantastic daring to be the very first to attack a Himalayan 8.000 meter peak (already in 1895!) would have been a more fitting and logical conclusion to this very British epic than the unsavoury story of the German siege on the north face of the Eiger.

I am surprised to see only a 3-star rating average currently for this book. I thought it was an engrossing read for anyone with an interest in the history and development of alpinism in general and tourism in the Alps. I had recently read Trevor Braham's "When The Alps Cast Their Spell" which left me cold. Despite it winning the Boardman Tasker Prize I found it dense and dull. Starting into Fleming's Killing Dragons I was wondering why I was reading a book that covered so much of same ground, and expected to more or less skim through it, but I soon found myself hooked.

Braham focused on the players: each chapter is centered on one major figure from the era. Fleming instead works chronologically through the development of the key mountains and towns, and, although he does attach the narrative to each character for a time (especially to Whymper), he really follows the succession of challenges: Mount Blanc, the Matterhorn, the Meije, the Eiger Nordwand. This structure lets him write a book that maintains a sense of suspense and drama that is rare in non-fiction.

Fleming is not, as one reviewer states, a "great writer"; he is, in fact, a fairly dull, lazy one, given to repeating himself, relying on second-hand sources (i.e., he quotes other writers quoting Dumas, Dickens, etc.) rather than the originals, and he has a silly, reductive view of theism (i.e., one either believes in natural development OR God and dragons). I can't say I *enjoyed* reading this book all that much, but it did make me want to hunt down books on mountaineering by Leslie Stephen and Edward Whymper, among others. Fleming approaches his subject--the popularization of the Alps--not from a mountaineering or literary or scientific point of view, but rather from a social one. He is very much concerned about whether so and so was a snob or a gentleman, and that's fine, but prospective readers should be aware. I would much prefer a more technical discussion of climbing, but Ferguson doesn't seem all that well-suited for this. Having bashed this book pretty well, I have to admit I learned from it and am glad I read it. It beats reading Bill O'Reilly or being poked in the eye with a sharp stick.

British historian-author Fergus Fleming has recently been a prolific chronicler of the so-called "Golden Age of Exploration." Since 1999, he has published three relatively lengthy antholgy type works, including "Barrow's Boys," about British Polar and African exploration in the first half of the 19th Century, and his recent "Ninety Degrees North," about the numeorus attempts to conquer the North Pole.

"Killing Dragons," the second of the three, also has the least interesting topic. The polar and African expeditions were mammoth affairs that taxed those who participated in them to the limit, often killing or horribly maiming them. By contrast, being the first person to scale an Alp, as we know today not by far the most imposing of mountains, just doesn't rate as an achievement. Still, the book is interesting as an historical account of the beginnings of the sport of mountaineering.

Fleming is an excellent writer and a good stroyteller. Parts of "Killing Dragons" are quite thrilling, particularly his accounts of the conquest of the Matterhorn and the first ascent of Mount Blanc, the highest peak in the Alps. Between such events, however, the story lags. The history of the founding of Britains Alpine Club and squabbles among its illustrious members, for example, isn't exactly the kind of stuff that takes your breath away.

Overall, "Killing Dragons" is better as a work of history than as a collection of adventure stories.

It was hard to decide whether to give this book four stars or five. The book isn't anywhere near to being a complete history of the conquest of the alps (con), but what is here is extremely well-written and interesting stuff which I could barely put down (pro) even though it's a pretty hefty 360 pages in all.

The first half of the book (176 pgs) is devoted to Mount Blanc, starting in prehistory, working up to its first ascent in 1786, and then continuing on up til the mid-nineteenth century. More than just the climbs themselves enters into the story. Fleming is as much concerned with the philosophical and cultural meaning of the exploits as with the exploits themselves. So he tries to give us a feel for their context in the wider scheme of things and what the people were like who were doing these things. The amount and variety of material which Fleming has researched and brought into the mix is what makes the reading so fascinating. There's everything from what the mountain villages were like to the scientific debate over why glaciers move.

Most of the second half of the book concerns itself with the eventual first ascent of the Matterhorn (1865) and the events surrounding it in the decade before. If Mount Blanc was all about ice, the Matterhorn is obviously all about rock. The author's obviously British perspective weighs heavily in here, which is where we get the most info on first ascents other than the two principals -- esp. if they were done by Whymper as warm-ups for the big prize.

Only the last twenty pages or so is devoted to the "modern" (post-Mummery) era, and the concentration so far as the detail is concerned is on the Eiger North Face.

So even if the coverage is much more limited than I would have preferred, Fleming is such an accomplished story-teller that I could recommend this to climbers and non-mountaineers alike.

Mr. Millar's book is quite old fashioned. Its method and perspective are right out of the Victorian age. This historian obviously is unable to take the perspective of the many diverse inhabitants of the ancient Near East. For instance, his results on 'identity' are based mainly on inscriptions. That is a problem because Greek and Latin inscriptions by no means represent the views of the main bulk of Near Eastern populations; rather, they tend to be written by the minority of faithful servants to the Roman rule, i.e. those people who profited from the imperial system. Mr. Millar admits that he had great problems with the subject because it was new to him. He would have had much less problems if he had learned to take the perspective of members of other cultures. It is somewhat funny that at times of academic cultural studies where perspective changes are literally exercised, and much help is available, such a single minded book is possible.

In his prologue to The Roman Near East, Fergus Millar claims that a small stone altar found at Dura-Europos encapsulates the intricate social reality found in the Roman Near East. The altar reads, "To the Ancestral God, Zeus Betylos, of those by the Orontes, Aurelios Diphilianos, soldier of the legion IV Scythica Antoniniana, has offered (this) in fulfilment [sic] of a prayer" (1). The text of this altar is inscribed in the Greek language by a Roman soldier to a Near Eastern god. With this example, not only does Millar demonstrate the complexities of linguistic and religious identity in the area, but also he shows the Roman Legions' importance to the Near East.

Part one of The Roman Near East, entitled "Empire," is a chronological survey of Roman influence in the Near East. Millar primarily investigates Rome's military and political relationship with the Near East. This chronological survey begins with the Battle of Actium and ends with Constantine's formal recognition of the Christian Church. According to Millar, before AD 66 the Roman presence in the Near East was essentially a bridgehead against the Parthians. Rome's presence was minimally felt and the governments of the Near East were dependent kingdoms instead of being part of the provincial system. The Jewish War, however, drastically changed the political structure of the Near East. Millar writes, "It would be impossible to exaggerate the significance, from many different points of view, of the great revolt which broke out in Judaea in AD 66 and did not end until the suicide of the defenders of Masada in 74" (70). Not only did the war cause Rome to reevaluate its relationship with these dependent nations, but also the war occasioned Josephus's writings, the most important historical works of the first century. After the Jewish War, Rome's involvement in the Near East "came to resemble an integrated provincial and military system" (80). The emperors turned over administration to governors, and legions increasingly defended Roman interests from both outside threats and the local populations. According to Millar, by the end of Constantine's reign, the Near East was the "prime area where the long tradition of Roman imperialism was still active" (219).

In part two, "Regions and Communities," Millar writes, "A social and economic history of the Near East in the Roman period cannot be written ... nothing is clearer than the fact that in this area above all we cannot speak of constant or enduring patterns of social and economic life" (225). In spite of this caveat, Millar attempts to write what cannot be written. He divides the Near East into six regions (Northern Syria, the Phoenician coast, Eastern Syria, Judaea and Syria Palestine, Arabia, and Mesopotamia) and briefly sketches the cultural and social concerns that faced these regions during the period of Roman domination. Instead of writing an annalesque total history of these six regions, Millar follows his sources where they lead and leaves his reader with an impression of the cultural situation of these areas. Since the sources do not allow Millar to detail social structures or the daily lives of the people living in these areas, he explores the events that may not be representative, but nonetheless were possible.

In this second section, Millar attempts to explain the cultural identity of the Near East's inhabitants, answering questions about their relationship to the Greeks, to the Romans, and to each other. He believes that "the step-by-step advance of the Roman army" was instrumental in the development of the Near East's social history (489). Rome's intrusion into the area disrupted all the former hierarchies of power and forced the Near East's inhabitants to reevaluate their understanding of these foreigners and their relationships with each other. Untangling these relationships is a formidable task, however, especially since it is often unclear from the sources with what particular group an individual identified. Millar asserts was much fluidity existed between groups of people during this period, with individuals from all backgrounds opting to use Greek, Latin, or Semitic depending on the occasion. Millar emphasizes, however, that the Jews proved to be the exception to this rule. They formed a distinct community that was founded first on the Temple and then on their books, allowing them to resist the Roman homogenization of the various Near Eastern cultures.

This work will remain the standard handbook to the political, social, and cultural situation of the Roman Near East for two reasons. First, The Roman Near East is a helpful guide to the available sources because of Millar's impressive command of epigraphic evidence. While much of his chronology relies on the contemporary historical writings, he uses inscriptions to flesh out his survey, and his thesis regarding the relationships between the various groups in the Near East and the influence of the Roman military relies heavily on these inscriptions. Second, The Roman Near East helps fill an infuriating gap in the scholarship on the first century and beyond. As Millar freely admits, speculation is a necessity during this period, but he argues his thesis persuasively and attempts to remain faithful to the available sources.

Millar describes the subject of his book as a threefold analysis, covering geography, chronology and linguistics. One of the major themes of the book is the treatment of data that lends insight into the mutual relations of the Roman government, the settled population and the peoples of the steppe-skenitai (tent-dwellers), nomads, Arabs (Saraceni).

Roman military occupation did not correspond to any definite geographical boundaries due to the vast desert steppes that define the Limes Arabicus. Millar states that one of the primary factors fueling scholarly inquiry into this particular period from the mid-first century BC to the mid-fourth century AD is that, from the point of view of Roman imperial history, the step-by-step advancement of Roman direct control demonstrates that, in the Near East at least, Roman imperialism and expansionism was very much alive contrary to the opposing opinions of some.

It also deals with the period that saw the rise of the "epigraphic habit" (inscriptions and record keeping) as expressed in the Near East, for it reveals a lot about political and communal structures at this time. He deals with politics and ethnicity, i.e. what political formations were present in this precarious desert frontier and how did people identify themselves? Millar defines the "Near East," according to the subject matter of his book, as the region of the Roman Empire where Greek (not Latin) co-existed with the family of Semitic languages.

How far was the settled Roman frontier open to nomadic groups? How far did the inhabitants of a settled region share customs and culture (especially religious beliefs) with the Arab tribes of the marginal zone? These are the questions one is confronted with when studying the subject of the eastern frontier, and Millar treats it thoroughly and comprehensively.

This book is valuable to serious historical investigators in search of scholarly research pertaining to this precarious region. Other important books to consider are: Roman Arabia by G.W. Bowersock, Hellenistic Civilization and the Jews by Victor Tcherikover, and Limits of Empire: The Roman Army in the East by Benjamin Isaacs.

This book is a thorough analysis of the cultural, social, economic and military history of the Roman Near East from Actium to the victory of Constantine. This includes Cappadocia, Syria, Palestine (Judea), Arabia, and Mesopotamia. Egypt and Anatolia are not covered. The first part is a chronological history of the region. The second part is a survey of every region. The main point of the study is to analyze whether there was a sense of community among the Semitic, Aramaic-speaking peoples of the Near East, shared with Semitic peoples outside the Empire, or whether they felt purely Roman and/or Greek.

This is all very interesting stuff, and probably the state of the art of Roman history in the Near East. Unfortunately, the author is always questioning theories and making tentative assumptions, comparing half-erased archaelogical inscriptions with coins found in the middle of nowhere. This is a very rigorous scientific process (particularly since we know so little about this period), probably very useful for the professional scholar, but boring for the casual reader like me. This is not helped by the use of long chapters where different topics are discussed in succession without clear transitions. I was so bored I did not finish the book.

Overall, an excellent book. There are many great hunting stories. I found it very difficult to put it down. I read the book in less than two days while on vacation at the beach. If birds are not in season, then this books allows you to imagine they are, and makes you wish they were. For anyone who owns a bird dog, and has a passion for great bird hunting stories, it's a must read!

I borrowed this book from a friend and had a tough time putting it down. Great stories from writers who truly love their dogs. A few of the essays are sad, but all of them allow us to share a part of a fellow dog lovers life with his best friend. Definitely a must read.

I was inspired by the compilation of bird dog stories found within this book. If you enjoy the excitement, fear, despair, and elation associated with the training, ownership and running of all breeds of bird dogs, you will enjoy this book. The authors help you relive the moments you have endured with your own dogs in addition to helping you imagine the hunts you have yet to experience. This is a definite must read for bird dog enthusiasts.

It is tough to get through this book. Only the first half is about Shakleton's expedition. The rest amounts to a log of the Aurora crew that Shakleton relays second-hand.

The Endurance expedition, itself, is quite a piece of history, but the book does a poor job of showing this. The writing is dry. Killing dogs, penguins and seals is a regular thing. Location and weather are reported on almost every page. He does give a good sense of the cold, however and the food supplies.

My case of Shackleton Fever finally ended with this book -- the story of the doomed antarctic expedition as seen through the eyes of Shackleton himself. He emerges from these pages as an intelligent man who is modest about his achievements -- but not so modest as to blunt the excitement of his story. This book also gives many additional details of his attempts to rescue his men, and the often-overlooked story of the not-so-lucky supply expedition that awaited him on the far side of the antarctic ice pack. Perhaps the only fault of the book is that its careful narrative strips some of the mystery away from Shackleton's almost superhuman story. After reading 4 books on the subject, I find I still prefer Lancing's original version (see my review). But true Shackleton buffs won't rest easy until they have seen the original silent movie of the same name, including remarkable cinematography by Frank Hurley -- now available on videotape as a mesmerizing 90 minute movie from the dawn of motion pictures.

--Auralgo

This is one of the best survival/adventure stories that you will ever read. The events which take place during the Imperial Trans Antarctic Expedition of 1914-1917 are re-told by several different points of view and this gives the overall story a multi-faceted persona. The main re-telling of the story of the ENDURANCE is told primarily from Shackleton's point of view and re-affirmed through diary notes of his mates. His point of view is very straight-forward. He doesn't dwell on the painful and depressing conditions as you might expect but, seems to exude a strong, matter-of-fact leadership style which most likely gave his men strength in the face of such disastrous and dangerous conditions. Contrast his account of the ENDURANCE voyage with that of the AURORA which was originally planned to be the expedition's supply ship and you clearly see what I am talking about. The painful, weakened conditions of the AURORA men is agonizing to read...frostbite, scruvy, depression, fatigue, hunger, thirst, and the loss of 3 of their comrades. This is not implying that Shackleton never mentions the poor shape of his conditions or of his crew; it just seems that he doesn't dwell upon it however worried he may have been. Yet, we sense his concern for the failing health of some of his men and we share his pride when they are in fact rescued from Elephant Island and he watches them eat "proper" food for the first time in a very long time. In fact, one can hardly review this book without letting Shackleton, in his own words, describe the joy that found when they encountered when his small party found the whaling village at Stromness Bay, "We had pierced the veneer of outside things. We had "suffered, starved, and triumphed, groveled down yet grapsed at glory, grown bigger in the bigness of the whole."...We had reached the naked soul of men." This is truly one of the greatest adventure stories ever written.

Fergus reminds us of what life was like before cell phones, reality tv, and flip flops. I recommend trading the flip flops for some hikers and getting out to experience what Thornapples is about. As far as the previous reviewer who gave the book 1 star, I heartily disagree. Regardless of where Fergus lives now, the writings on bluebirds, giant trees, and frog songs are all about PA where there is still plenty of wildlife to experience.

Yeah, yeah I know this guy was once a real great author for PA Game News. Well, guess what. Since his writings of the 70s and 80s this guy has turned into an angry SOB. He seems a little bitter that we dumb rednecks (his interpretation) wanted highways and jobs in north central PA. I mean really who blame him for wanting his rarified way of little dirtied by the realities of modernity. I could. He simply won't acknowledge that progress is a little more important than his lifestyle. So, I am glad he left Pa. and went to Vermont. I mean the state is filled with a bunch of granola loving imposters. Good for him, and Pa. I mean thank god and U-Haul he is gone, and taken his elitist tripe somewhere else. Without him pushing this elitist vision of hunting, at least we have a chance of preserving it. I mean, no blue-collar guy will give his last couple of bucks to support yuppie whiners, no way. So avoid this fool, and preserve hunting as a sport for all to enjoy.

I read a lot of nature books, and this one stands out as one of the best I've read in a long time. Chuck Fergus' plainspoken and wise words made me want to take a long hike in the woods. I especially loved his description of the sounds of the "chorus" at a pond on a warm spring evening. It made for perfect reading on a chilly February day. You're sure to love it.

This book is nothing more than an angry man's creed. Yeah, yeah I know this guy was once a real great author for PA Game News. Well, guess what. Since his writings of the 70s and 80s this guy has turned into an angry SOB. He seems a little bitter that we dumb rednecks (his interpretation) wanted highways and jobs in north central PA. This book emphasizes the fact that few "real" hunters do appreciate the wild. I mean really who blame him for wanting his rarified way of little dirtied by the realities of modernity. I could. He simply won't acknowledge that progress is a little more important than his lifestyle. So, I am glad he left Pa. and went to Vermont. I mean the state is filled with a bunch of granola loving imposters. Good for him, and Pa. I mean thank god and U-Haul he is gone, and taken his elitist tripe somewhere else. Without him pushing this elitist vision of hunting, at least we have a chance of preserving it. I mean, no blue-collar guy will give his last couple of bucks to support yuppie whiners, no way. So avoid this fool, and preserve hunting as a sport for all to enjoy. If you want to enjoy a hunting text get Jenny Willow, its much, much better than this angry rant.

What memories this book brought back.

As a soon-to-retire worker, born to a single shot 16 guage, thousands of hours of bird hunting and responsibility to my children pretty well met (for now), I've turned my attention to what I want to do with the rest of my life. Mr. Fergus reminded me of what I had left. It's time to return.

What a true delight it was to read his prose. I could hear the beating of wings. I could smell the dew. I could feel that wonderful tiredness in my legs. I could see the lab run hard for the corn field.

Absolutely, it's time to return. And this book brought it all back.

I was thoroughly engrossed in this short, but surprisingly full book. As a first-year bird-hunter reading this during the height of grouse season, I felt as though this book was probing my mind and transcribing my own thoughts onto the pages. The text was wonderfully thought out and the ideals espoused are those that true hunters wish all others believed as well. Caring and knowledgeable of both people and birds with due attention paid to our interaction with nature, this book taught me much about why my first few outings were not only successful (despite the lack of birds brought home), but worth repeating. I suggest this read to beginning and experienced hunters alike. Now, all I need is a bird dog. I found Fergus's description of the human/canine bond compelling.

Fergus M. Bordewich's CATHAY: A JOURNEY IN SEARCH OF OLD CHINA is a travel log that explores a part of China's buried cultural history rich with literature, art, philosophy, and religious tradition that have been referenced in folk tales, Marco Polo, and Confucius. For those familiar with the 1933 novel Lost Horizon, Cathay may have been that place; a land enamored with a myth-like utopia, and images that the west visualized about the orient. Through his trek to China, Bordewich emphasizes the identity and displacement of the people of the Northern part of the region.

After coming across a second hand bookstore in lower Manhattan as well as spending time in Beijing as an advisor to the Xinhua News Agency during the 1980s, Bordewich became intrigued with China's past. He came across a book by an American writer, George N. Kates, a World War I veteran educated at Harvard and Oxford, who visited Cathay during the 1930s; his fondest memories are recounted in his 1952 memoir, The Years That Were Fat: Peking, 1933-1940. And it was this book that began Bordewich's exploration to medieval China, and his interview with Kates. Although Kates discusses his fondest memories, he sternly believes that the China he once knew would never be again.

Despite that unfortunate testament, Bordewich heads to the beautiful and somewhat untouched landscapes of Northern and Northwest China in order to understand what Kates was talking about. From the land that brought Confucius, Qufu, to the rich cityscape landscape of Shanghai, he travels back in time and encounters the voices of those who knew or inherited a history. He reveals the kingdoms and intellectual communities that helped influence and open its culture to the western world.

The disconcerting aspect about Bordewich's account is that the residents to whom he speaks with appear to have a detachment from their history. While meeting with one of the last descendents of a Yancheng duke, heir to the blood of Confucius, Kong Decheng, Bordewich sounds like a historian hungry to preserve a history that is not his own. He asserts: "I wanted too much. I longed to know how it felt to possess twenty-five centuries of documented history as one's own, as if it bestowed some ultimate key to time itself. But history shied deftly away. When I asked him how he felt about his connection with Confucius, he said, `I don't want to feel noble. I want to feel the same as the common people' (128).

CATHAY is an interesting narrative that resonates a longing or romanticizing for China's very distant past amidst the present embrace of western culture reaped with fast food restaurants and industrial factories. The common sentiment while reading this book is that this part of world history may now have become ancient or mythical history as the years pass. And it is only through the retelling or rediscovery with books such as this one that it will be as real as the present.

The imagery was wonderful and while I wouldn't categorize it as "can't put it down," the book flowed extremely well and I finished it in short order. I would definitely recommend it to someone interested in the lesser-known side of the Middle empire.

This 174-page book published in 2005 is the well-written product of a prolific outdoor writer. The author, Charles Fergus, is a long-time hunter who spent years writing for the Pennsylvania Game News and has completed several books about hunting and nature. The dust jacket has a very nice painting by Rod Crossman of a hunter walking along a snow-covered road through woods, accompanied by a dog and carrying a grouse. Inside the book are six small, simple sketches with similar themes: grouse, hunter, dog.

This is not a "how-to" book. It is a contribution to the classic hunting literature that revolves around upland birds, dogs and double guns. I have hunted grouse on Pennsylvania lands that have incuded abandoned strip mines, abandoned nineteenth-century railroads, along an abandoned segment of the Pennsylvania Turnpike, in forested oil fields and in seemingly trackless wild areas. To me, this book is more complex and realistic than any other grouse hunting book that I have read. I recommend this book to all hunters from the central Appalachians and to experienced grouse hunters anywhere. Because of it's complex nature, I would think twice before giving it as a gift and would not recommend it as someone's first grouse-hunting book. Fergus's 1991 book "A Rough Shooting Dog" might be a better introduction to the grouse hunting literature.

The focus of "A Hunter's Book of Days" is a series of grouse and woodcock hunts during Fergus's last hunting season living among the valleys and ridges of central Pennsylvania. It is also a story of Fergus's service on a zoning committee that tried to limit the impact of a new interstate highway. In his mid-40's, fed up with the loss of wild places to development and after the failure of his group's zoning proposals, Fergus and his family moved to Vermont in 2003.

Fergus hunts with classic British double-barreled shotguns, and a friend uses British double-barreled shotguns with damascus barrels and external hammers. The dog Fergus hunts with in the book is a Springer Spaniel.

Fergus demonstrates a deep appreciation for the natural environment. Thanks to a Botany Professor father, Fergus's descriptions of wild places are as complete with the names of the plants and trees as they are with artistic descriptions of the landscape's hues and textures. Some of the descriptions of hunting are as clear, compelling and artistic as any work by other outstanding classic or contemporary grouse hunting writers including Burton Spiller (Grouse Feathers, originally published in 1935) and Ted Nelson Lundrigan (Hunting the Sun, published 1997). Unfortunately for those who enjoy the purity and simplicity of hunting stories, in this book Fergus has commonly chosen to interrupt the flow of beautiful hunting scenes with mention of traffic noise or other irritations of modern life in a developed region. Another example of realism not often attempted by other authors is Fergus's cautionary tale of his own shooting-related hearing loss and how he has coped with it.

It occurs to the reader that this book may have been written primarily as therapy for the writer: an attempt to reconcile a desire by many for commercial development and material goods, Fergus's love for natural areas, the pain of being on the losing side of small-town politics, Fergus's respect for the people and history of the area, and a scarcity of game that can be temporary or permanent.

Game animals including grouse that have been hunted continuously in the northeastern United States for more than 200 years tend to be adaptable. Hunters are adaptable too. In the end, Fergus lets us know that he understands the priorities that his former neighbors have placed on conservation versus development. And grouse still fly in wild places, both in central Pennsylvania and Fergus's new home state of Vermont.

Avoid this book like the plague. It reeks of selfishness, elitism, and vanity. I tired to post a lengthier review, but Amazon did not post it. So I thought I would try to post another review. Simply stated, this book has a poor tone which leads one to conclude that hunters are simply interested in using our common resources for their enjoyment alone. This is not true. Most hunters recognize the role of progress in promoting the prosperity needed to protect hunting, but recognize the costs of this arrangement as well. Fergus does not. He takes an absolutist's view that denies individuals the right to develop their communities because this would deprive the enlightened of a favored pursuit. Additionally, he rails against a government that tries to maximize benefits for all, instead of protecting the interests of purists (i.e. his discussion of pheasant management in Pennsylvania). And he regularly divests "the average hunter," who does not have the leisure time needed to participate in the sport as he sees fit, of any dignity as a member of the hunting community. Overall, these deficiencies cause the book to become a poor rant. It simply becomes the tract of an angry whiner who could not deal with the fact that his desired lifestyle was harmed by the progress of others.

Fergus's book is ultimately a lament for the destruction of nature in the Bald Eagle Valley of central Pennsylvania. Yes, he does give information about grouse hunting and dogs, enough to satisfy the reader of any shooting book. It is also a song about the delights of hunting birds in the Valley and how that delight has eroded. It is both a happy and a sad song. It should enlighten each reader that every tiny scraping of our natural bounty is an eternal loss.

I recommend it to those thoughtful people who follow dogs into the field and shoot lovingly at grouse.

I am third generation Icelandic, all of my grandparents immegrated to america in the late 19th century. They were all: "west coast Icelanders" Reading Fergus's book was of especial interest because my maternal grandmother [Holmfrethur Hansdottir] was born on Oct 20, 1860 at: Litliahrauni, Iceland, the exact site of Little Lava in this book. I have a journal writen by her husband in 1930 that spells out this history. I would like to send a copy of this journal to Mr. Fergus if I can get his address. Thank you.

You won't find much here about Iceland, but if you're looking for a case study on the American male midlife-crisis, this may be your baby. Taken that way it's unintentionally, although darkly, funny (There's no intentional humor at all. None.) And despite the jacket blurb, don't look for wisdom. A Pennsylvania guy in his 40's with house, wife, toddler and dog is drawn to spending a summer in rural Iceland. His mother worries about how her toddler grandson will handle it, and the author can't come up with any reason to go there, but then his mom is brutally murdered. This provides a good reason. Now the son needs Iceland to cure his grief and rage and also maybe to get in some kayaking on the side. He's no longer able to have sex with his wife, but finds he's generally able to sleep after pulling his pud. So in December he heads to Iceland by himself -- probably not the best time to fix up an abandoned shack near the Arctic Circle, but then he leans heavily on goodhearted Icelanders to pull him through. ("Friends" in the book are horribly used.) The wife and kid arrive in June. Nothing much is going on at the ends of the earth, and this would be a good chance for contemplation and to bring a deep truth or two out of the wilderness. Instead, the reader gets an almost day-by-day action account of what must be one of the most tedious, dreary summers ever. If anything worth mentioning happens, I missed it. The toddler apparently had to be rescued from a manure heap, but the author skirts that. And he finds dead things everywhere: a seal washed up on the beach doesn't smell or look great; baby wagtails fall out of the nest and are eaten. After a month of this everybody gets to go home to PA for a couple of weeks (for a funeral) and then returns to finish out August in Iceland. The guy never tries to learn Icelandic and argues it can't be learned, although his wife learns enough to get by. An Icelander sends love poetry to the wife, but the author breaks that up. He'd like to stay longer, but hears PA calling. You close the book hoping the wife and kid will run away with the poet.

My kind of book is a non-fiction book entitled "A Year in (blank)" or any calendar subset of that (e.g., Sue Hubbell's A Country Year). So when I encountered Summer at Little Lava, I was interested. I knew that it wasn't the journal of the author's life for a year in the country. But a summer in a remote cottage on the coast of Iceland was close enough for me. I was not disappointed. I tended to skim over the detail of natural history and bird behavior, but slowed down considerably when Fergus described crossing the lava fields, ocean kayaking, or having coffee with their distant Icelandic neighbors. The mix of natural history, animal and plant description, and story telling was well balanced. There was enough "journal-like" story telling to keep me reading to the end. The chapter "Poison Cold" was so good it was worth re-reading, but be warned -- be close to a woodstove when you read it because it will make you cold. An added human dimension to the book is the occasional memories and thoughts of the author as he wrestles with the deaths of both his mother and his niece. A particularly touching passage recounts the telling to his son of the tragic death of his niece. I recommend this book for all travel and nature readers. And for readers looking for a book without a hidden agenda and unnecessary symbolism. The author simply writes about what he sees and feels . . . and sometimes what he deeply feels.