Fire on the Mountain is set in a real location, somewhat fictionalized. It’s territory I love; wild but with pockets of civilization, sometimes a lot more civilization than you’d expect, in tiny pockets. The town of Meeker is real, though its inhabitants weren’t dragged into the books against their will. That little disclaimer about ‘any resemblance to persons living or dead’ didn’t strike as much fear into my heart as certain persons who are alive and kicking.
Some of those dirt roads, though, didn’t get any say in the matter. Grading doesn’t seem to tame them; one lane or two lane dirt undercarriage killers lie in wait for the unwary. Seventeen miles of corduroy might lie between you and the best ribs in Colorado, but it’s worth it. Kurt and Jake don’t go into details in the story about what happened to their poor kidneys on the way to the Lodge; suffice it to say that those had to be damned good ribs to make it worth their while. And they were.
