Very appealing…[Andrews] can write beautifully… Andrews describes the weapon, a Smith & Wesson revolver, almost lovingly. Its craftsmanship, intricate reliability and directness of purpose engaged his artistic sense.” — Washington Post
“In this beautifully observed book, Bryce Andrews takes us on a courageous and necessary journey toward reconciliation that is as visceral as it is transcendent. The West and its varied inhabitants come alive with every shining line and, when I was done, I found myself wishing for the world that Andrews and his family are daily working toward. This jewel of a book belongs on the shelf with our best Western writers - Norman MacLean, Pam Houston, and Annie Proulx.” — John Vaillant, bestselling author of The Tiger and Fire Weather
“Bryce Andrews’ vibrant, candid account of working as a cowboy in Montana provides a moving meditation on the fragility of life and inevitability of death… As Andrews ruminates on his personal history, he dots his musings with descriptive, emotive prose. Holding Fire is a meditation on the past, present and future of not only Andrews’ own life but also the lives of all mortal creatures.” — BookPage
“An astonishing call to attention. Bryce Andrews' story corrals despair and offers understanding, douses anxiety and offers wonder. This isn’t mere memoir, Holding Fire is a song to the West, a talisman of ferocious beauty for a world on edge. Compelling and compassionate, a must read for all who seek peace in uncertain times.” — Debra Magpie Earling, award-winning author of Perma Red and The Lost Journals of Sacajewea
“A powerful meditation on a rural life of hunting in a world of guns—some of them used for sinister purposes… A welcome, eminently sensible contribution to the literature of the American West—and responsible gun ownership.” — Kirkus Reviews
“Regardless of one’s stance on guns, Andrews offers insightful reflections on their role in the history of the West.” — Booklist
“Andrews’s heartfelt reflection on the American West confronts one of the region’s essential paradoxes: that a place defined by innovation and beauty also has a legacy of horrible violence. For the author, the catalyst is inheriting his grandfather’s Smith & Wesson handgun, which carries its own awful history. From his ranch in Montana, Andrews turns to neighbors and family as he seeks a new way to live in the West.” — Alta
“Bryce Andrews writes gorgeously of what lies underneath the idealized glamour of the American West. In a voice that is honest and humorous and introspective, he explodes the fetishization of the rugged individual and interrogates the hard realities of what Western gun culture boils down to: killing, with guns designed to bring food and mercy, and with guns designed for killing people. How do we live together in this landscape knowing the horrible things we've done to others, and to each other? That is only one of the many questions Andrews asks himself in Holding Fire, and we are fortunate to experience his struggle to find answers.” — Chris La Tray, author of One-Sentence Journal
"A gorgeous, lyrical, and moving exploration of the violent legacy that hangs over the West like the inverted fug of a paper mill, woven through with memoir and the surprising journey of the pistol that once belonged to his grandfather. . .[Andrews] treads a knife edge of vulnerability and scouring grit." — Orion Magazine
12/05/2022
Rancher and conservationist Andrews (Down from the Mountain) portrays the transformative beauty and violence of the American West in this evocative outing. He moved to Montana as a young man just out of school seeking work as a ranch hand, and here details the brutal lifestyle he led in stark snapshots: discovering one morning that someone had killed several deer during the night and left them in a nearby field, fighting his distaste for hunting, and having to put down a sick horse. Andrews, whose father was a conscientious objector to the Vietnam War, eventually wanted a more serene life and moved with his wife to a farm in western Montana. His inherited Smith & Wesson revolver works as a talisman of sorts as he mulls over what to do with it, ultimately deciding to melt it down and refashion it as a spade to symbolically protest the Indigenous lives lost in the settling of the West. Andrews’s personal struggles are mirrored in his examination of the region’s beautiful if treacherous landscape: when he learned during a deadly summer drought that his wife was pregnant, he recalls, “Encountering that fear among our hopes was like finding a rattlesnake in the garden.” It’s a bittersweet meditation on the true meaning of the Wild West. Agent: Duvall Osteen, Aragi. (Feb.)
2022-11-12
A powerful meditation on a rural life of hunting in a world of guns—some of them used for sinister purposes.
“Animals slid backward into holes or crumpled motionless on the ground. I had learned to kill by watching and practicing, just as I had learned to stretch barbwire. I tried to do it well.” So writes Montana rancher Andrews, author of Down From the Mountain, about an early encounter with a hunting rifle. After growing up in the Northwest, the author arrived in Montana without a firearm, which raised considerable suspicion on the part of the people of the Madison Valley, some of whom “took it as an insult.” After acquiring a rifle, Andrews mistakenly killed a 6-month-old fawn instead of a full-grown deer, allowing that while the “meat was excellent,” the guilt was substantial—and an impetus for doing it right the next time. At the heart of the book stands a gun, a .357 Magnum, that has only one purpose. “I had never looked at my grandfather’s black-shining, beautiful revolver and told myself the simple truth: This thing I keep and carry is built for killing people,” writes the author. Andrews has spent considerable time wondering what to do with it. In one instance, he contemplated rowing out into the Pacific and dropping the pistol in the corrosive saltwater; in another, he took it to a shop while deciding whether to sell it, receiving a lecture from the owner: “What it’s made for is protection. What it’s made for is to save your damn life.” Ultimately, in a grand and philosophically charged adventure, Andrews decided to make it into something nonlethal, which required him to learn the skills of a blacksmith. He did so under the tutelage of a merry nonconformist whose every movement and word “told me something about how a person ought to live.”
A welcome, eminently sensible contribution to the literature of the American West—and responsible gun ownership.
