Picked from a box of books I purchased at a mega sale, I had hoped that this memoir would paint a vivid narrative of the connection between man and a place I know nothing about—the America west. While at times it seemed promising that I would be presented with the story I was in search of, that promise was left unfulfilled as I turned the last page. Often confusing the reader of why it was that they picked up this book in the first place, the author’s fixation with the wolves on the ranch where he worked seemed to be both the purpose of the book and an after thought at the same time. Becoming the focus of the book too late in its pages—except for some crudely written accounts, all in italics, between chapters which seemed to be wildly out of place—this memoir could have been a much stronger read and compelling story if the author stuck to other elements of his time on the ranch. I assume this to be the case, having never spent any time on a ranch myself. However, as an avid reader who welcomes new reads outside of his normal haunts, I was sadly disappointed with this book.