Kirk Ward Robinson

Author/Novelist

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Robinson does not sell his books, they can be purchased from bookstores and online sellers. He will appear at signings and lectures by invitation.

Online reviews from readers are crucial and much appreciated.

Notes from the Field Series

Nonfiction

First Lines

There is a mountain in central Virginia, the Priest, which presents a long, steep climb for Appalachian Trail thru-hikers.

When the attack comes, the shark will have rolled its eyes until only the whites show.

The first time he saw ANWAR was on the front page of a newspaper that a homeless man was using as a blanket.

It is possible that some of us are born to travel.

Sha'raelon looked up the ramp toward her future, which existed 575 years in her past at year one, the Focal Point.

MacKenzie scowled, spat a string of curses, and toed the mess from his shoe.

What's happening to me?

What a remarkable thing is a diary.

I don't have any impressive scars.

Walking down East Laurel Avenue with Rocky, passing thru-hikers singly and in knots, many of them with the beginnings of beards, the women in braids, dreads, or tightly woven rows, all burnished by weeks or even months in the outdoors, I search for that connection, that innate brotherhood engendered by strangers who meet one another in common calling on the Appalachian Trail.

It's cold, so cold.

Blaize allowed a moment to remember the last time she was on her back like this.

Is this a depression of incipient gray winter, or is it of the lingering post-trail variety?

Brussard leaned wearily on his rake as thunder boomed beyond the northern hills.

Robin Luray kept a diary that would disturb anyone who happened to chance upon it.

The professor paused and sighed.

Associate professor Dr. Darren Jamison realized in a startling instant of disbelief that his tenure prospects hung perilously on his next answer.

Kingdom Spring was a mountain village settled in a bowl between heavenly peaks whose slopes were as fertile as Eden.

The little girls came single-file down the shallow creek, picking their way barefoot around overhanging thickets and through algae-clotted water to reach his section of the creek, the only part deep enough after a good rain to form a pool the little girls could splash in on a wilting summer afternoon.

Business was war in the absence of violence.

I have never experienced nostalgia.

The two brothers hopped from boulder to slick boulder as the slanting rain stung their bare backs, chill gusts threatening to send them aloft at a misplaced step.

My name is Ridley Speaks and I was born in the wilderness, under a tree during a howling storm.

His name was Charles Bear Winston and he was 47 years old.