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The Wild Marsh: Four Seasons at Home in Montana
The Wild Marsh is Rick Bass’s most mature, full account of life in the Yaak and a crowning achievement in his celebrated career. It begins with his family settling in for the long Montana winter, and captures all the subtle harbingers of change that mark each passing month — the initial cruel teasing of spring, the splendor and fecundity of summer, and the bittersweet memories evoked by fall.
It is full of rich observation about what it takes to live in the valley — ruggedness, improvisation and, of course, duct tape. The Wild Marsh is also tremendously poignant, especially when Bass reflects on what it means for his young daughters to grow up surrounded by the strangeness and wonder of nature. He shares with them the Yaak’s little secrets — where the huckleberries are best in a dry year, where to find a grizzly’s claw marks in an old cedar — and discovers that passing on this intimate local knowledge, the knowledge of home, is a kind of rare and valuable love.
Bass emerges not just as a writer but as a father, a neighbor, and a gifted observer, uniquely able to bring us close to the drama and sanctity of small things, ensuring that though the wilderness is increasingly at risk, the voice of the wilderness will not disappear.
It is full of rich observation about what it takes to live in the valley — ruggedness, improvisation and, of course, duct tape. The Wild Marsh is also tremendously poignant, especially when Bass reflects on what it means for his young daughters to grow up surrounded by the strangeness and wonder of nature. He shares with them the Yaak’s little secrets — where the huckleberries are best in a dry year, where to find a grizzly’s claw marks in an old cedar — and discovers that passing on this intimate local knowledge, the knowledge of home, is a kind of rare and valuable love.
Bass emerges not just as a writer but as a father, a neighbor, and a gifted observer, uniquely able to bring us close to the drama and sanctity of small things, ensuring that though the wilderness is increasingly at risk, the voice of the wilderness will not disappear.
384 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2009
32 people are currently reading
391 people want to read
About the author
Rick Bass
118 books483 followersRick Bass was born in Fort Worth, Texas, and grew up in Houston, the son of a geologist. He studied petroleum geology at Utah State University and while working as a petroleum geologist in Jackson, Mississippi, began writing short stories on his lunch breaks. In 1987, he moved with his wife, the artist Elizabeth Hughes Bass, to Montana’s remote Yaak Valley and became an active environmentalist, working to protect his adopted home from the destructive encroachment of roads and logging. He serves on the board of both the Yaak Valley Forest Council and Round River Conservation Studies and continues to live with his family on a ranch in Montana, actively engaged in saving the American wilderness.
Bass received the PEN/Nelson Algren Award in 1988 for his first short story, “The Watch,” and won the James Jones Fellowship Award for his novel Where the Sea Used To Be. His novel The Hermit’s Story was a Los Angeles Times Best Book of the Year in 2000. The Lives of Rocks was a finalist for the Story Prize and was chosen as a Best Book of the Year in 2006 by the Rocky Mountain News. Bass’s stories have also been awarded the Pushcart Prize and the O. Henry Award and have been collected in The Best American Short Stories.
Bass received the PEN/Nelson Algren Award in 1988 for his first short story, “The Watch,” and won the James Jones Fellowship Award for his novel Where the Sea Used To Be. His novel The Hermit’s Story was a Los Angeles Times Best Book of the Year in 2000. The Lives of Rocks was a finalist for the Story Prize and was chosen as a Best Book of the Year in 2006 by the Rocky Mountain News. Bass’s stories have also been awarded the Pushcart Prize and the O. Henry Award and have been collected in The Best American Short Stories.
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Displaying 1 - 23 of 23 reviews
September 2, 2025
The best thing about this book, I think, is Rick Bass demonstrating how to know and love a place. I wrote words he used in my journal: pause ~ linger ~ look ~ wait ~ watch ~ listen ~ marvel ~ laugh ~ stand.
Rick Bass's place is the Yak valley in the most northwestern part of Montana. He calls the forest a million-acre island of trees. He writes about what he does and what he thinks about: writing in the back cabin; taking the girls to a one-room school; hunting for deer, elk, and birds; pulling weeds; fighting fires that come too close to the house; picking huckleberries; having neighbors over in the winter; leaping from a truck sliding on ice over a cliff. (<- true story!)
Rick is an environmental activist. He totters on the edge of pantheism. I don't share many of his views, although I feel compelled to qualify that with my desire for clean water and soil. What I greatly appreciate is his example of watching and working and caring for the space he inhabits.
I have a question: this book, like many memoirs tied to a place, has a chapter for each month of the year. Is there a literary term for a book like this? You know, like a book that consists of letters is called an epistolary book? The best I could come up with is "month by month" but it seems like there would be a better word. Ideas?
Rick Bass's place is the Yak valley in the most northwestern part of Montana. He calls the forest a million-acre island of trees. He writes about what he does and what he thinks about: writing in the back cabin; taking the girls to a one-room school; hunting for deer, elk, and birds; pulling weeds; fighting fires that come too close to the house; picking huckleberries; having neighbors over in the winter; leaping from a truck sliding on ice over a cliff. (<- true story!)
Rick is an environmental activist. He totters on the edge of pantheism. I don't share many of his views, although I feel compelled to qualify that with my desire for clean water and soil. What I greatly appreciate is his example of watching and working and caring for the space he inhabits.
I have a question: this book, like many memoirs tied to a place, has a chapter for each month of the year. Is there a literary term for a book like this? You know, like a book that consists of letters is called an epistolary book? The best I could come up with is "month by month" but it seems like there would be a better word. Ideas?
May 14, 2013
Sometimes I think Bass really gets it. And sometimes I think he's too far deep in his own head to get much of anything. And all the times I think he needs a good editor (or twenty) to help him curtail his repetitive sentences/sections/seasons.
My primary issue with this book remains the way it reads like a diary that's not been touched since each month was originally penned, and not in the masterful(ly beautiful) way Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek does. Rather, it reads as if it's not been at all edited for content or repetition or concept. Swollen and turgid? They're both great words, to be sure, but as they mean EXACTLY THE SAME THING, you really really (REALLY) don't need to use them side-by-side in the same sentence. (I promise I wouldn't be whining about Bass' repetition and lack of decisive word choice if it a) weren't completely distracting and b) weren't oh so prevalent throughout each and every month. "Swollen and turgid" remains just one example of myriad.)
Indecisive/"all-inclusive" repetition aside, here's the thing: If you set fire to grass in your yard looking for a friend's long-lost earring and then subsequently KEEP lighting it on fire because you like fire (good for you; fire is awesome; Kerri like fire, too; but seriously: stop being an idiot) and succeed in a) nearly burning your house to the ground and/or b) nearly igniting a devastating non-naturally-occurring forest fire, I'm going to want to stop reading your book heralding the dynamic mountain seasons and the world's overwhelming need for sustained outdoor stewardship.
[Three stars for April.]
My primary issue with this book remains the way it reads like a diary that's not been touched since each month was originally penned, and not in the masterful(ly beautiful) way Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek does. Rather, it reads as if it's not been at all edited for content or repetition or concept. Swollen and turgid? They're both great words, to be sure, but as they mean EXACTLY THE SAME THING, you really really (REALLY) don't need to use them side-by-side in the same sentence. (I promise I wouldn't be whining about Bass' repetition and lack of decisive word choice if it a) weren't completely distracting and b) weren't oh so prevalent throughout each and every month. "Swollen and turgid" remains just one example of myriad.)
Indecisive/"all-inclusive" repetition aside, here's the thing: If you set fire to grass in your yard looking for a friend's long-lost earring and then subsequently KEEP lighting it on fire because you like fire (good for you; fire is awesome; Kerri like fire, too; but seriously: stop being an idiot) and succeed in a) nearly burning your house to the ground and/or b) nearly igniting a devastating non-naturally-occurring forest fire, I'm going to want to stop reading your book heralding the dynamic mountain seasons and the world's overwhelming need for sustained outdoor stewardship.
[Three stars for April.]
April 9, 2021
There is so much of interest and delight in this book. As I started it, I thought I might read it slowly and enjoy it throughout the year in the north country, so different from my life in Northern California. First, the book is desperately in need of an editor. Bass didn’t publish the book for nearly a decade and in that time someone should have noticed how often he mentioned his age. By the third or fifth time he tells us he is forty-two years old, I could only think, I know. I know already. And how many times does he compare the antlers of deer and elk to tree branches? I lost count. The repetition of observation grows tiresome. His ruminating on the canted world grows unintelligible and unconvincing. He lives in a geographically isolated valley in the very far north with many days of little daylight. But the rest of the year, when describing the change of seasons in the marsh outside his cabin, searching for the perfect Christmas tree with his daughters, encountering at random wild animals in the forest, the mutual assistance given and received by his neighbors in this isolated place, the writing is delightful. I would love to see the larch trees as he describes them in the fall, but I don’t think I would be welcome in his private world.
March 20, 2017
his is a beautifully written book about the passing of four seasons at the author's home in the Yaak valley of NW Montana. If you like Terry Tempest Williams or Aldo Leopold, then you will enjoy this book. It is a little hard to get through because there is no real story, just observations of nature and the changing seasons, but it is a very poetic book and a good read to bring along on a picnic or to a secluded cabin getaway.
April 16, 2013
Love the concept, love the imagery, would have loved to have seen some brevity. This is Dillard, without the sharp insight; Kingsolver, without the humanity; Leopold, without the ethic. It should not take a year to read the journal of a year, is what I'm saying.
(You could still probably convince me to live in Bass's corner of the world, though. It's not so different from this one, and it sounds lovely.)
[3 stars for feeling like home, even if the writing was overblown.]
(You could still probably convince me to live in Bass's corner of the world, though. It's not so different from this one, and it sounds lovely.)
[3 stars for feeling like home, even if the writing was overblown.]
August 12, 2016
Thick, abstract prose steeped in earth worshiping, not my cup of tea. I stopped at about 100 pages.
I enjoyed the author's book, Winter, but this one is wholly different and in a bad way.
I enjoyed the author's book, Winter, but this one is wholly different and in a bad way.
December 12, 2022
Found this too wordy by half--he's much better when he's describing things than happened than when he's waxing rhapsodic for pages at a time.
May 24, 2023
…Someday when we are all dead and gone, not just this season’s deer and elk, but this generation of mankind—someday soon enough, when we are all dust—these words will be all that is left from that evening, and for that reason, it seems important to me to put down the names of some of the dishes that night, to bear witness to some of the bounty, as I might also seek to celebrate the existence of a wild country—entire mountain ranges—no less imperiled than the foreshortened moments of our own lives, nonnegotiable against time….
Please read my entire review here:
https://rogueliterarysociety.com/f/th...
Please read my entire review here:
https://rogueliterarysociety.com/f/th...
May 1, 2023
I really liked this book. I felt like it was feeding my mind. The descriptions, wonderful! It sounds strange to say but I kept thinking of 'chewing' it's like my mind was chewing on the descriptions, absorbing the environment. I wanted to be outside in nature after each reading. I admit I purposefully stretched the book out. I would have liked to read each month during that month of the year. I didn't quite stretch it that long, but the thought was appealing. Enjoyable read!
March 12, 2019
The seasons pass in a single year living at the wild marsh in Yaak, Montana country.
You feel like you are living there. And you experience the change in the seasons in Western Montana.
You feel like you are living there. And you experience the change in the seasons in Western Montana.
August 4, 2014
Après un passage par l'étape Walden, qui était une bonne idée de lecture préliminaire à un nouveau tome de Bass, nous y voilà donc.
Ce livre est un peu plus long et à la fois proche et différent des autres contes de Bass sur la vallée de Yaak et son quotidien dans cet environnement rare et sauvage. J'ai beaucoup aimé ce journal de l'année, mois après mois, dans le Yaak, tout comme j'avais aimé ce type de découpage, beaucoup moins linéaire, ressemblant plus à une mosaïque pas vraiment chronologique, par saison, dans les Grizzly Years de Doug Peacock (mon héros !).
Le passage des mois au fil de la prose de Rick Bass offre comme une vision double, d'un temps qui passe et de mois qui se succèdent sans accroc, en une progression douce, et d'un contraste merveilleux des spécificités de chaque mois, de la nature et de l'impact des saisons et de l'environnement sur l'homme.
On retrouve cette poésie qui reflète si bien l'amour de Bass pour sa vallée, mais également sa mélancolie face à la quasi-certitude de sa disparition et son émerveillement inépuisable face à une nature à la fois chaotique et ordonnée.
Et puis il y a de longues réflexions philosophiques sur l'homme et la nature, l'influence et l'impact de l'environnement dans lequel l'humain grandit et évolue (à travers l'observation de ses filles et leur interaction avec le Yaak, ses saisons, sa faune et sa flore... et ses quelques humains) sur la construction du cœur de sa personnalité et sa manière de voir le monde.
Et ces anecdotes, moins nombreuses que dans Winter ou The Book of Yaak..., savoureuses, touchantes, hilarantes, pleines d'auto-dérision, mais toujours liées à l'environnement immédiat de Bass, sa réflexion sur ses interactions avec cet environnement, son questionnement sur ce qu'il veut transmettre à ses filles sans jamais leur imposer ses propres passions et lubies. Je me suis régalée de courtes retrouvailles avec Homer (triste passage), Point & Superman, les chiens de l'auteur, après les avoir rencontrés dans Colter.
Mais ce qui a eu le plus d'effet n'était ni le plus évident ni le plus attachant dans le récit de Bass. Je trouve fascinant la manière dont ce scientifique de formation conte les motifs qu'il semble apercevoir dans divers éléments de la nature, motifs se répétant comme la déclinaison d'une forme à l'infini, par exemple le motif des bois des cerfs et des branches, motif le plus évident. Mais pas seulement. Celui des flammes, entre les flammes réelles des feux du mois d'août et les aiguilles des mélèzes au mois de septembre. Rick Bass se laisse surprendre au beau milieu d'une analyse logique des rythmes naturels de la forêt par la soudaine presque-révélation d'un tel motif.
Et là se trouve ce que j'aime le plus chez lui : cette capacité à communiquer des faits scientifiques complexes de manière claire et presque poétique puis soudain à laisser place à la magie de la nature, considérant l'homme et ses progrès scientifiques comme étant toujours si proche de la compréhension, de la révélation, le bras tendu vers cette étincelle, sans jamais pouvoir la toucher, mais révélant une magie aussi merveilleuse que nécessaire. C'est cette notion de magie, de merveilleux, que je retrouve toujours avec autant de plaisir à chaque nouvelle lecture, qu'il soit question de géologie, de stockage de bois pour l'hiver, de chien de chasse ou de grizzlis. Ah, mais j'oubliais, il y a toujours cet appel à ralentir, à prendre le temps, regarder, respirer, aimer, vivre... autant de choses que l'homme semble avoir quelque peu oubliées.
Contrairement à Thoreau dans Walden, même si Bass chante le même refrain quant au merveilleux et à la logique de la nature, sa qualité d'intégration et d’interconnexion de chacun de ses éléments, il y intègre l'homme, même si celui-ci, dans son culte du nombril et de sa supériorité mettant, dans sa logique, le reste de l'univers à sa disposition, s'en est décroché. Il nous présente un environnement où l'humain est mineur et semble reprendre, malgré tout, une place dans les rythmes de la nature et leur logique, un monde où l'homme doit adapter son point de vue et tourner son œil vers une grande toile de laquelle il ne distingue que quelques coups de pinceau sans pouvoir saisir la magie qui les lie, ou vers un détail qui permet de faire un pas vers la compréhension de cette grande toile dont il n'est lui-même qu'un des détails les plus infimes, ni plus ni moins important que les autres.
(boudu, c'est du lourd pour un lundi matin au petit dèj' ! Du coup, pour conclure :)
Encore un bel opus, un peu plus long, un peu (beaucoup) plus abstrait et contemplatif, mais d'une richesse exceptionnelle.
Ce livre est un peu plus long et à la fois proche et différent des autres contes de Bass sur la vallée de Yaak et son quotidien dans cet environnement rare et sauvage. J'ai beaucoup aimé ce journal de l'année, mois après mois, dans le Yaak, tout comme j'avais aimé ce type de découpage, beaucoup moins linéaire, ressemblant plus à une mosaïque pas vraiment chronologique, par saison, dans les Grizzly Years de Doug Peacock (mon héros !).
Le passage des mois au fil de la prose de Rick Bass offre comme une vision double, d'un temps qui passe et de mois qui se succèdent sans accroc, en une progression douce, et d'un contraste merveilleux des spécificités de chaque mois, de la nature et de l'impact des saisons et de l'environnement sur l'homme.
On retrouve cette poésie qui reflète si bien l'amour de Bass pour sa vallée, mais également sa mélancolie face à la quasi-certitude de sa disparition et son émerveillement inépuisable face à une nature à la fois chaotique et ordonnée.
Et puis il y a de longues réflexions philosophiques sur l'homme et la nature, l'influence et l'impact de l'environnement dans lequel l'humain grandit et évolue (à travers l'observation de ses filles et leur interaction avec le Yaak, ses saisons, sa faune et sa flore... et ses quelques humains) sur la construction du cœur de sa personnalité et sa manière de voir le monde.
Et ces anecdotes, moins nombreuses que dans Winter ou The Book of Yaak..., savoureuses, touchantes, hilarantes, pleines d'auto-dérision, mais toujours liées à l'environnement immédiat de Bass, sa réflexion sur ses interactions avec cet environnement, son questionnement sur ce qu'il veut transmettre à ses filles sans jamais leur imposer ses propres passions et lubies. Je me suis régalée de courtes retrouvailles avec Homer (triste passage), Point & Superman, les chiens de l'auteur, après les avoir rencontrés dans Colter.
Mais ce qui a eu le plus d'effet n'était ni le plus évident ni le plus attachant dans le récit de Bass. Je trouve fascinant la manière dont ce scientifique de formation conte les motifs qu'il semble apercevoir dans divers éléments de la nature, motifs se répétant comme la déclinaison d'une forme à l'infini, par exemple le motif des bois des cerfs et des branches, motif le plus évident. Mais pas seulement. Celui des flammes, entre les flammes réelles des feux du mois d'août et les aiguilles des mélèzes au mois de septembre. Rick Bass se laisse surprendre au beau milieu d'une analyse logique des rythmes naturels de la forêt par la soudaine presque-révélation d'un tel motif.
Et là se trouve ce que j'aime le plus chez lui : cette capacité à communiquer des faits scientifiques complexes de manière claire et presque poétique puis soudain à laisser place à la magie de la nature, considérant l'homme et ses progrès scientifiques comme étant toujours si proche de la compréhension, de la révélation, le bras tendu vers cette étincelle, sans jamais pouvoir la toucher, mais révélant une magie aussi merveilleuse que nécessaire. C'est cette notion de magie, de merveilleux, que je retrouve toujours avec autant de plaisir à chaque nouvelle lecture, qu'il soit question de géologie, de stockage de bois pour l'hiver, de chien de chasse ou de grizzlis. Ah, mais j'oubliais, il y a toujours cet appel à ralentir, à prendre le temps, regarder, respirer, aimer, vivre... autant de choses que l'homme semble avoir quelque peu oubliées.
Contrairement à Thoreau dans Walden, même si Bass chante le même refrain quant au merveilleux et à la logique de la nature, sa qualité d'intégration et d’interconnexion de chacun de ses éléments, il y intègre l'homme, même si celui-ci, dans son culte du nombril et de sa supériorité mettant, dans sa logique, le reste de l'univers à sa disposition, s'en est décroché. Il nous présente un environnement où l'humain est mineur et semble reprendre, malgré tout, une place dans les rythmes de la nature et leur logique, un monde où l'homme doit adapter son point de vue et tourner son œil vers une grande toile de laquelle il ne distingue que quelques coups de pinceau sans pouvoir saisir la magie qui les lie, ou vers un détail qui permet de faire un pas vers la compréhension de cette grande toile dont il n'est lui-même qu'un des détails les plus infimes, ni plus ni moins important que les autres.
(boudu, c'est du lourd pour un lundi matin au petit dèj' ! Du coup, pour conclure :)
Encore un bel opus, un peu plus long, un peu (beaucoup) plus abstrait et contemplatif, mais d'une richesse exceptionnelle.
November 26, 2012
A collection of essays about the Yaak valley and nature by one of my favorite writers, Rick Bass. There are twelve essays about living in Yaak, one for each month. I found that his writing made me want to be outside and doing the things he does, which is a testament to his writing skill and his love of being away from it all
I found myself enjoying the writing about his visitors, his kids, his neighbors and occasionally got restless during his long narratives about his observations on nature. I also was intrigued about how much he wrote about his daughters but it felt like his wife was a missing character, the book left me wondering what she was like.
But on the whole, an enjoyable read
I
I found myself enjoying the writing about his visitors, his kids, his neighbors and occasionally got restless during his long narratives about his observations on nature. I also was intrigued about how much he wrote about his daughters but it felt like his wife was a missing character, the book left me wondering what she was like.
But on the whole, an enjoyable read
I
December 5, 2011
The sharpness of the seasons in the Montana Rockies as described by Bass is such a contrast with what I've known on the Gulf Coast. I'm sure I'd tire of snow from November to April - especially with the brutal cold of Montana. But the rapid change of it all - valleys to mountains, spring to summer, yellow larch to Douglas fir - I'd like to live there for one complete cycle. Bass occasionally gets a little too "literary" for my prosaic tastes, but overall his descriptions of a real wilderness and the almost wild places around it are beautiful, and he throws in enough adventure to keep the pages turning, such as fires in August, or November's deer hunts and icy roads.
March 24, 2012
A lovely interpretation about land that most people don't know much about. Mr. Bass writes with simplicity about contemplations on mans place in nature. The sort of book and writing that one savors rather than chews up.
I really enjoyed it, the writing occasionally drags and drifts but I still found the diversions to be interesting.
I would like to point out that I don't think he is trying to write anything like either Thoreau or Edward Abby. I think Mr. Bass is trying to be thought provoking, but really only wishes to chronicle his own personal experiences. If the reader wants to come along, well, all the better.
I really enjoyed it, the writing occasionally drags and drifts but I still found the diversions to be interesting.
I would like to point out that I don't think he is trying to write anything like either Thoreau or Edward Abby. I think Mr. Bass is trying to be thought provoking, but really only wishes to chronicle his own personal experiences. If the reader wants to come along, well, all the better.
August 6, 2011
Bass, noted storyteller and environmental activist, shares a month by month accounting of life in remote Yaak Valley of northwestern Montana. Both a journey and a journal, he recounts the day-to-day events of life in the midst of the truly wild. Lyrical, contemplative and loving, Bass invites you to share in the minor triumphs and misadventures of his family and leads you to appreciate all the small "grace moments" in any day, month, year. Compares well with Leopold's "A Sand County Almanac", Abbey's "Desert Solitaire" or Krutch's "A Desert Year".
November 28, 2009
Rick Bass not only loves the wilderness, but he has an exceptional ability to make this reader, who lives in the crowded Northeast, yearn to see the Yaak Valley area of Montana. Each month is explored and my only complaint is that the months pass too quickly.
February 2, 2011
Jori gave me this book for my birthday. It chronicles a year of Bass's life living by a marsh in the Yaak valley of Montana. The chapters are divided into months. So each month of this year I will read the corresponding chapter.
June 29, 2009
What a poetic look at a year in the northern Montana wilderness! I LOVED this book!
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August 26, 2010I bogged down on this one. I've ripped right through most everything by Rick Bass I've read thus far, but I just couldn't make it through the second half of this book.
May 27, 2010
very nice, some of rick bass' most accessible work. you really get the feel of yak valley and the people, plants and animals who live there.
September 10, 2016
Complicated writing style. Beautiful thoughts.
October 8, 2015
A lovely rambling read, with gorgeous prose.
July 24, 2012
So fat this is wonderful.
Displaying 1 - 23 of 23 reviews