The Frenchman River runs a stone's throw--even a smallish stone, hucked half-heartedly--back of the Stegner house in west Eastend. Last night, around dusk, I watched a beaver the size of my right rear tire swim a four-foot sapling to the old railroad bridge and out of sight beyond.
This morning, I read this passage in Stegner's The Big Rock Candy Mountain: "Beavers swim right out in the river under the railroad bridge".
I love the haunting.
But auto-geography--does anyone know who coined that term?