Two weeks I had, between the Teton mountains and the unique thermal and wilderness attractions of Yellowstone.  On my own, without a car, I became dependent on the kindness of strangers.  Initially, I had my doubts.  Are Americans willing to trust?  Are they capable of being open-minded and generous?  Or are hitchhikers a species extinct – killed off by the culture of suspicion and distrust that is growing steadily in our country?  Standing at trail heads with my thumb raised high, I saw confusion, shock, discomfort.  I watched the faces driving past, some looking resolutely ahead, ignoring me, others staring unabashedly, mouths open in disbelief.  What is she doing?! I never had to wait long, though, and in each case the individuals who stopped to offer me a lift were friendly, helpful, and full of concerned goodwill.  Each of them (I caught perhaps fifteen separate rides, anywhere from two miles to eighty) expressed admiration colored heavily with concern.  “You’re pretty gutsy…but jeez, girl, you gotta watch out for those weirdos!  Aren’t you worried?  Aren’t you afraid?” asked Paul the insurance investigator.  Some, like the three old friends on their way to a funeral, told me stories of when they were my age and hitched across the whole west, from national park to park.  “But people aren’t like they used to be – be careful!”  Some were hesitant.  Three thirty-something surgeons from Texas, in Jackson for a conference, told me they would never pick up a hitchhiker, normally.  Others were excited for me.  Jason, a Gulf War vet, on vacation with his seven-year-old son, wished he could be doing what I was.  “It’s so great to meet a true adventurer!  That deserves a ride.”  Some only wanted company.  The emphysemic painter from Las Vegas was almost too wrapped up in his own affairs to ask where I wanted to be dropped off before launching into his life story.  I found it interesting that those who were open-minded enough to pick me up, still maintained a sort of blanket distrust of other people – as if they were the sole safe bet in a world full of serial killers.  Are we too large, as a country?  Are we all strangers to one another, and therefore incapable of trust?  Even I, open-minded world traveler, began in a cynical state of mind.  Not that I was fearful, but that I doubted whether my fellow Americans would be willing to lend a helping hand.  I was reassured, my faith in humanity – Americans specifically – restored, recharged.  I needed help, and got it – over and over again.

Beyond the hitchhiking, there were a few notable encounters with folks interesting, generous, and fun…

There was Jan, the German cyclist, whom I talked into joining me for a spectacular day hike in the Tetons.  Hooray for someone young!  Someone my own age!

Then there was Steve, the Hollywood paparazzi photographer.  When not taking pictures of Brittney Spears shaving her head in a barber shop (oh, yes, that was him), he volunteers as the campground manager at the Mammoth Campground, which is where I met him.  He watched me set up my tent in the freezing rain (this was the evening of the morning during which I was eating oatmeal in the bathroom) before approaching me, shyly.  “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.  I’m not trying to hit on you, but I do have a pull out couch in my RV that you’re welcome to have, if you want it…I have two daughters about your age, and, well, I’d like to know that someone would take care of them, too.”  So, for two glorious nights I had a warm, dry, soft bed and a roof over my head, and a flat screen TV with surround sound to watch movies on.  Thank you, Steve!

It’s been a cold, gloomy Sunday. 45F, rainy, gray. Bob’s away, picking up a friend at the Jackson airport, so I’ve spent the day nestled into the leather arm chair in front of the fire, reading, writing, and luxuriating in the cozy alone time. I’m leaving the ranch in less than a week, heading up to the Tetons and to Yellowstone before flying back home. This weekend has found me wistful and sentimental, both for the time I’ve spent on the ranch this summer, and for past harvest seasons at home in New England. I’m looking forward to being home again, but am content to have these last few days of in-between time in which I have little to do but sit and relax and enjoy my surroundings. I was watching a movie when Cal burst in, and was contemplating making hot chocolate, but whatever he’s got up those red flannel sleeves is bound to be worth it.

We speed along the rough drive between my house and the main one, swerving around puddles and rocks, Cal cautioning me all the while, not to look, not to look! As we pull up outside of the main ranch house, he skids to a stop, shoves the gear stick into park, and leaps out of the Gator. I can’t keep from laughing as I hurry to follow him up the stairs to the porch. “Come, come, don’t look yet, wait til you get to the porch, you’ll get the full effect!” He’s running, actually skipping up the stairs, as if the phenomenon we’re about to observe is on the verge of slipping away. Coming to a halt in the center of the porch, Cal turns east, toward the canyon, and flings his arms wide. “Isn’t it amazing?” he whispers, awed. The first snow has fallen on the Absaroka Range. The clouds, which have hung heavy and thick all day, have lifted momentarily, and the last light of the day illuminates the mountains’ rocky summits, now laden with a thick coat of white. The ranch, the pastures, the houses, and the canyon maintain their standard reds, greens, browns, and yellows, but above them, this tall rampart of white stretches bright. It is stunning.

After driving me back to my own house (slower, now that the initial rush and excitement have passed), Cal sits with me at the window (it’s too cold and wet to take up our usual spots on the front porch) and shares with me the wine he’s brought. He’s still wearing his battered hat. This has become a tradition. One or two nights a week, Cal (the man who owns the ranch where I live) will pull up in front of the house in the Gator, pull a bottle of Yellow Tail Shiraz or Grenache from under his coat, and smile mischievously as he suggests we share a glass or two and discuss the woes of the world. Tonight, we’re talking about literature, the way that styles change through the years and yet build upon each other in an endless sharing of references, imagery and ideas. “There’s not a word you say that I don’t have a reference to. You say a word, and it’s like – ” Cal mimes a stone skimming across water. His mind is crammed with references and experiences, which hum just beneath the surface, waiting for a word or idea to brush against them and bring them springing to life. The stories he tells, like the books he loves, have a way of blending together with their similar references or overlapping characters. It is hard, therefore, to follow the details of his life. He speaks intelligently, but broadly, and has a habit of jumping between stories without warning. Many a night, Bob and I have sat on the porch in the glow of the red tractor lights, and listened, rapt, to Cal’s tales: of being a Presbyterian missionary, and later a minister; of his frustration with the corrupt nature of politics when he was a state Representative for Minnesota and Ohio; of getting lost on a hike in New Mexico and being helped by a woman whom he later discovered was the painter Georgia O’Keefe; of living in Jamaica and the school there that is named after him; or of entertaining the president of Pakistan as a guest in his home in St. Paul. The timeline is vague, but the episodes are rich.

Cal is eighty-two years old, capable of quoting Keats and Wordsworth at length, and more in tune to the current political state of the world than either Bob or I. He has a great passion for the world and its peoples. With all his education and experience, he’s learned to pay close attention to current affairs, and also, to be willing to adjust his views as society changes. I love to sit with my arms wrapped around my knees, quietly absorbing the sound of his voice as he spins his yarns, or to try to see his eyes through his orange-tinted glasses as he bewails the miserable state of modern politics and religion. The three of us, he, Bob, and me, will sit and talk ourselves in circles, about the upcoming election and foreign policy, nodding our heads and wondering why the people in charge don’t think like we do. One night, he quipped, “Now that we’ve solved the world’s problems, I think I’ll be heading off. I’m glad we’ve sorted everything out. Now if only they’d listen to us!”

Thin but healthy, he has thick, messy white hair, and wears hats, gloves, long sleeves, and long pants to protect his skin against the sun while he works outside on the ranch. He lives for this place. His days are spent digging irrigation ditches, stringing barbed wire fences, driving spikes into rail fences, cutting down trees, spraying weeds, and driving off the stray cows that wander across the river and into his pastures. Back and forth across the property, he zips around in his little John Deere like a white-haired Energizer bunny. Bob and I can hear the sound of the Gator as he drives it through the fields and between our two houses, and whenever we hear it coming, we look at each other and grin – “Here comes Cal!” – and walk out to meet him on the porch. If he’s just passing through, we’ll chat, and then Cal will smile up at us, “Well, I can’t think of anything else to do, so I’ll just drive around like I own the place.” He is a master of the parting shot.

It’s become dark as we’ve been sitting here next to the window, philosophizing. The wine is gone, and with a satisfied sigh, Cal stands up from the table to leave, wobbling a bit as he rises. Touching me briefly on the shoulder, he adjusts the cinch on his robe, straightens his hat, and moves toward the door, declaring, “Susan, you are a lovely person, and I enjoy talking to you ever so much. Good night, my dear.” Pausing on the threshold, he peers into the cold, damp night, then sighs and smiles tipsily. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more…” he quotes, then turns, and with a wink and a salute, steps out onto the porch and on his way home.

*moving on…*
The job is done,
my time has come.
I’m heading for the hills of stone and the plains of steam
after which I shall return to my home, sweet home,
to family and friends who are my very own.

(see you in NE – Oct 5)

Lou, the trip organizer, is a local antiques dealer with whom I’ve become acquainted over the summer. The other two, Joe and Tom, are friends of his from way back. The trip is an annual one for them. For the last twelve years running, they (and sometimes other friends) spend the last week in August tramping, fishing, or otherwise enjoying the great, Wyoming outdoors. My invitation was rather more spontaneous. I was standing in line at the grocery store in front of Lou and Tom as they bought a few last minute supplies.
“How’s it going, Lou? What are you up to this week?”
“Hey, Susan, not too bad. Getting ready to head up into the mountains for a few days, up into the Winds, maybe up to the divide. Want to come?”

Experience has taught me to jump with both feet forward; that “yes” is almost always the right answer; that “why not?” can be a way of life. Still, I had to pause before responding to Lou’s invitation. Trust has been a much harder thing to cultivate since I’ve returned to the States. Ours is a culture of suspicion, and it took less than two weeks at home before I was reeled back in. That night, I considered the invitation, worst-case scenarios flitting through my mind. Little, bright red warning flags waved frantically, but I wanted to go. I recalled having similar qualms back in May when I was packing to move in with Bob for the summer: can I trust this man? At the time, a good friend asked me to consider the situation in terms of my experiences in NZ. If I was in NZ, would I be worried? No. So why am I concerned now? Is an American somehow more likely to be dishonest and out to take advantage of me? No. I took her advice, took a deep breath, and I’ve had a great summer. I decided to apply the same thinking to this hiking trip. I packed an extra knife, put on my best “Not a Victim” face, and on Saturday evening strolled into Lou’s house with my shoulders squared and the hopeful conviction that all would be well. Trust inspires trustworthy behavior, I thought. I shook hands with Joe and Tom as we were introduced, firmly, and with confidence. You do not intend me harm, I told them silently.

Sunday morning. We drove an hour east of Dubois, entered the Wind River Indian Reservation, and then rattled along for another hour on a narrow, steep, dirt road that was studded with rocks that seemed intent on gouging out the bottom of Lou’s van. Ruby the yellow Labrador stood with her forelegs on the console between the front seats, trying to keep her balance and watch the road at the same time. At the trailhead, Lou distributed bags of food, carefully doling out equal weights. Except for me, that is. I got the dried bags of pasta and the granola bars: the lightweight stuff. I frowned, but quietly packed away my share. How are they to know that I carried forty-five pounds for ten days through the Fiordland wilderness? The men swing their packs onto their backs, and I begin to do the same, but suddenly Lou is there behind me, lifting my pack off the ground for me. He’s trying to be helpful, but it’s far more awkward this way.

We have an easy afternoon to start. It’s three and a half miles to Twin Lakes, where we set up camp on a wide, rock ledge overlooking the two lakes. There’s a deep rift in the rocks between the lakes where water flows from one lake down to the next, and the sound of the rushing cataract is an excellent soundtrack to our first night. Marinated pork tenderloin and pasta cook slowly on the open fire while Joe plies the water of the calm lower lake with his fly rod. I wander about with my camera and Tom and Lou bathe discretely behind a piney outcrop. Later, we eat, and watch the sun go down. The guys tell me that they’re pleased to have me along: “12 years, and we finally get a woman to come!” It takes a while for the group dynamic to gel, however. I can see my uncertainties reflected in their eyes. Where I worry about harrassment, they worry about having to carry my pack or having to listen to complaints about dirt, blisters, and food. They say it’s not specifically a “boy’s trip”, but I see them wondering if this means they won’t be able to swear and burp and tell dirty jokes. Their instincts tend toward gallantry; mine keep me distrustful. As we bed down for the night, the sky threatens rain, and Lou tells me that I’m welcome to “platonically” share his tent if it starts to pour. I thank him politely, thinking privately that it will take something close to a hurricane to make me feel comfortable about crawling in next to him.

Day two and three pass without incident. The terrain of the Wind River range is stunning. With each foot of elevation gained, the views become progressively more spectacular. Lofty peaks, crashing streams, and pristine pools. There’s even a beach at the end of one lake! Tom and I can’t resist climbing down the rough, cliffy drop to walk barefoot on the coarse, yellow sand. This is heaven. We reach our base camp destination, Lake Solitude, elevation 10,800 feet. It is a breathtaking spot, as far west as a person can walk before coming up against the wall of the continental divide. The weather has been fantastic. We can’t believe our luck: nothing but sunshine, blue skies, and warm nights. I’ve slept outside every night, within shouting distance, but out of sight of the men. On the 27^th, I lay in my sleeping bag and stared at the sky as the shadow of the earth slowly eclipsed the moon and turned it dark orange. The men have warmed to me, and I to them, and every night we cook together, drink camp margaritas (powdered lemon Gatorade, tequila, and sliced limes), share stories, and argue over who has to get water to wash dishes. We tease and harass each other with careless impunity, and I laugh like I haven’t in a while.

Chivalry is still looms large. Lou, in particular, seems incapable of believing that I am competent enough to take care of myself. We have to cross a river, and I actually have to argue with him to be allowed to carry my own pack across. I endure a number of instructional sessions on fire building, trail finding, and pack adjusting. It’s not that I think I know it all, or that I can’t appreciate a helping hand, but I resent the unspoken assumption that because I am young and female, I need someone to take care of me. I get along more easily with Joe and Tom. I earned their admiration on day three when they caught sight of the quarter-sized blister I’d been nursing without complaint since day one. After that, they treated me with easy-going respect, as an equal. I’m pleased to be able to upset their stereotypes of women in the backcountry, and even more pleased to see my own concerns made ridiculous. These are good guys. There is, however, a distinct element of pursuit in our trip, a subtle wooing, an unmistakable flirtation. I am young, healthy, and single. They are older, divorced, and incapable of hiding their interest. It’s a scenario I’ve experienced and witnessed on countless occasions throughout my travels: the attraction of older men to younger women. Between Tom, Joe, Lou, and me, the immediate attraction is sexual; as the days progress, their interest changes. “I envy you, what you’re doing with your twenties,” Lou tells me. “It’s taken me to my forties, and now I’m ready to start over again and do like you.” Tom says my stories of backpacking and living out of a car remind him of his own youth: “I love your spirit, how adventurous you are.”

Summit day! From Lake Solitude we climb 1,000 feet to the continental divide, then haul ourselves through the thin air, up another 500 feet to the top of Mt. Kavageah (which may or may not be the correct name). I lag behind, constantly stopping to gawk at the view. Mountains! I am in awe, in my element. Following the men, I range in and out of hearing distance. All morning, they’ve been talking about potential business opportunities. Cash flow, real estate, interest rates, and locations. I can’t relate. Even as we reach the peak, they’re still weighing the pros and cons. I smile. This is hiking with 40-year-old men: not lewd suggestions, not salacious winks or outright aggression. Instead they discuss remodeling plans for houses, disputes with neighbors, and investment strategies, topics considered from the perspective of three men on the brink of middle age, looking for something to lend a little bit of spice to their lives. It occurs to me that this has been the theme of my summer: older men. An entire summer of feeling young, inexperienced, naïve and slightly off-balance. Constantly negotiating the questionable waters of male-female interactions, from staving off (or simply fearing) sexual advances, to fighting to prove my physical and mental capabilities, to trying to be a good listener for a recent divorcee. How wonderful it will be to spend time with women. To seriously discuss the mid-twenties growing pains with friends who understand rather than to nod politely at the concerns of men undergoing a mid-forties crisis.

After achieving the peak of Mt. Kavageah, and spending a second night on the shore of Lake Solitude, the four of us make our way back to our camp of the first night. Twin Lakes, the return. It is a hot, dusty afternoon when we arrive, and I announce that I’m going to swim to the island. “It’s just begging to be swum to,” I declare, dropping my pack and moving toward the shore before I can cool down or change my mind. “Better you than me!” Joe calls. I can hear them behind me having their doubts. It’s about thirty yards away, and the water is chilly. Still, I try to breathe rhythmically and keep my body moving, keep the blood pumping. Halfway there, I wonder if this is a mistake. Even when I reach the island, I will have to swim back. Have I, in my determination to step foot on that island, made a bad call? I’ve survived for two years on instincts and stubborn determination. I’ve willfully ignored the dangerous undercurrents of human interaction like I’ve chosen to disregard the substantial distance from the shore to the island. I keep swimming. Too late to turn around now. Five minutes later, I pull myself onto the rocks of the island, and hear the men cheering distantly. I grin to myself and wave victoriously in their direction. I’m winded, and cold, but I made it, with energy to spare for the return. Sheer guts and luck, I’m sure, have a limited capacity. But not today. This trip, these six days, has hit the recharge button on my trust. And when I make back to the main shore, I’m going to sit in the sun and drink the cup of hot tea that Lou has promised to have waiting, and enjoy the easy camaraderie of four hiking companions around the campfire next to a lake in Wyoming.

Trip photos here!

Work commences at eight, when the sun climbs from behind the trees and shines in our eyes. We’re nearing the end of the renovation! The railing has been built. The stairs have new stringers and have been sanded and refinished. I’ve patched holes in the kitchen floor, scraped it clean of old vinyl and cardboard backing, and laid down sheets of plywood to create a solid base for the new vinyl, which we’ll be installing sometime next week. We replaced all ten windows in a two-day marathon, tearing out the old, warped frames and panes with flat bars before fitting in the new. Two more days saw us perched outside on ladders with chisels and mallets, carving out the old logs to fit in new cedar trim, and presently we’re working on building window sills and frames inside. I did all of the work on two of the window frames all by myself! I built the frame for my own room out of smooth, aromatic cedar, and then engineered a rustic-looking structure out of old, weathered barn wood for a second bedroom. Bob wrote me a report card for my window frame work – my first independent construction project! “Windows: A+”, the card read. I found an old magnet and stuck it on the fridge. I am getting the hang of this carpentry thing. I’m not allowed to use the table saw, and I am hopeless at the quick figuring of measurements, fractions, and anything math-based, but my pencil and my tape measure have become new, indispensable appendages, and my arm muscles are becoming stronger and steadier with each blow of the hammer or swing of the mallet. My days are made up of foam insulation, wooden shims, joint compound, caulking guns, sand paper and nail guns. My life is construction and creation.

It is boring. And yet – good. For the first time since I can remember, I have time. I read (Vonnegut, Les Miserables, Baudelaire, Bill Bryson, the final Harry Potter book), I write emails, I write for myself. I’m cooking and baking: pita bread, chili, falafel, biscuits, pizza, corn bread, fried rice, curry. Bob and I are still working with the horses, though now we’re riding and training and spend two or three hours with them every night. Cal comes by in the evenings once or twice a week with a bottle of wine. To write it in detail would become quickly redundant. I could describe to you the hundreds of subtle variations of the light as it plays on the steep red sides of the canyon, or the way that storm clouds build, a bluish-black backdrop to the golden, waving grass in the field. The way the wind blows every afternoon at a certain time or the ongoing war I’ve waged against the mice in the house. There are a thousand small details to flesh out the life I’m leading, but to focus on them with deep description or attention would be to negate the unassuming charm that makes them magic. Every day is an adventure, true, but it’s a smaller, more subtle adventure. It is the adventure of a settled, unremarkable life: worthy, wonderful, but hardly cinematic or inspiring. If there is inspiration to be had, it is in learning to love the simplicity and to exist without the need to invent excitement or chaos or distraction: peace.

Still blinking sleep out of my eyes, a movement in the trees fifty feet away caught my attention. “Oh…there’s a bear!” I whispered, nonchalant only out of shock. Bob laughed, thinking my lack of excitement indicated a joke, and then choked abruptly as he looked where I was pointing. A young black bear was stalking us, slowly, cautiously, obviously drawn by the scent of our food, which hung in a tree on the other side of our camp. We lay silently, breathlessly, watching it to within twenty feet. “How close we goin’ to let it get?” Bob asked. “Not much closer than this!” I declared, and we both sat up hurriedly. “GOOD MORNING, BEAR!” I shouted, and watched it stop short to assess this new obstacle between it and its breakfast. Bob worked to keep it away by shouting and hammering his hatchet against the trees and logs. It kept its distance, but would not be deterred. It paced a half circle around the camp, sniffing our cooking gear, and even trying to walk off with Bob’s jute dish brush at one moment. Eventually it tired of the game, and lay down across a log to watch us and wait for us to pack up and leave it to sniff at our leavings.

With this exhilarating start to the morning, Bob and I climbed rapidly up the lake shore to our next camping spot, startling a bull moose and an impressively-antlered elk along the way. At Dead Horse Lake, elevation 9,000 ft, we dropped our gear and cooked up a filling breakfast of oatmeal and trail mix while admiring the view: a small, round lake, more of a pond, really, with spruce-lined shores and steep mountains surrounding it. Several large, recent rockslides spoke of the youth and instability of the peaks, but the tiny hillock where we made camp was peaceful and protected. It was, however, also home to about 3,784,331 mosquitoes. I know this because I was counting the number of times I slapped, whacked, squished and swore at the tiny, needled devils between spoonfuls of breakfast. Our repellent situation had taken a turn for the worse. The plastic bottle had broken, spilling precious, potent elixir all over my backpack. My pack, my book, my stove, my toothbrush, and my water bottle were all marvelously protected from mosquitoes, black flies, horse flies, deer flies, ticks and more. Bob and I, on the other hand, had little more than thin layers of polypropylene and wool to keep the buggers off. These two fabrics, while excellent for keeping warm and dry, put up absolutely no resistance when confronted with mosquitoes. We were covered.

We retreated to higher ground, to Lost Lake, where the elevation (10,500 ft) seemed to discourage the mossies, and spent a pleasant afternoon, miles from civilization, and that much closer to heaven. I read, took pictures, and later, growing sleepy, followed the lake to the place where it narrowed and began to flow like a tiny creek down the side of the mountain. The clear water ran across rocks and grass, and where it touched earth tiny flowers sprang to life and sucked gleefully at its sweetness. Indian paintbrush, purple-and-cream columbine, and dozens of nameless wild things in blues, whites, yellows, pinks, and purples. Bob found me later as I stretched and climbed and worked my way across a massive boulder field, rocks three times my height. “Where are you going?” he called. “To the other side!” I shouted back. “Why?” “To see what’s there!” I laughed. On the other side, I found, was a narrow green valley, and towering above it, a dark fortress of rock. Flat on the top and sheer on the sides, I was looking at a long castle rampart, booby-trapped with precariously balanced rocks and cornices of snow, just waiting for an invading army to attempt a breach. Gorgeous. I lay on my back in the stiff, prickly alpine grass, gazed out into the valley, and just breathed.

Then we had to climb back down. The sun was tending toward the western part of the sky, but several hours of daylight remained yet. As soon as we reached our makeshift camp, the mosquitoes returned. I could almost hear them laughing with glee as they dove upon us and plunged their tiny daggers through our layers of clothing and into already itching skin. Bob caught fish in the lake for dinner, and in doing so acquired enough bug bites to swell his eyes to tiny, puffy slits and his nose to a shape that Karl Malden might have recognized. I cooked potatoes in the fire, and sliced veggies and lemons to roast in butter with the fish. It was a beautiful night – campfire, sunset, fresh fish, outdoor cooking – but I barely took it in. I was rather occupied in squishing the daylights out of any buzzing thing that thought to land on me. The little bastards were relentless. Bob and I could have made up our own rhythm band with the beats we were creating, slapping and tapping and bopping and socking. All to no avail. The buggers kept coming. We stood in the campfire smoke until our eyes watered and screamed. We walked up and down, pacing the length of the campsite while we shoved the food into our faces. Still, we had to stop moving long enough to lay out our sleeping bags and wash our dishes, and the mosquitoes were so thick they formed a visible aura around us. As soon as the chores were done, we were in our sleeping bags, wrapped up and willingly foregoing fresh air in the interest of being without mosquitoes.

I fell asleep, and woke perhaps four hours later, suffocating. I poked my head out of the bag and gasped oxygen gratefully. It took me a moment to realize what was different. No mosquitoes! It was cold – perhaps forty degrees – and a full moon had risen magnificently over the lake, bright enough to illuminate the mountains around us, cold enough to have sent the mosquitoes to bed. It was a small miracle, and I gulped greedily at the air and relished the quiet. They were back by morning, and we literally sprinted out of the woods. Eight miles in four hours, barely stopping for an apple and an energy bar. Back at the Bronco, we slumped into the seats and grinned tiredly at each other. “I. Have. Never. Seen so many mosquitoes on that trail,” Bob panted. A week later, I’m still itching.

Back at the ranch, the days are darn near perfect. It’s hot – 95 in the shade today – but the house is usually 10-15 degrees cooler, and the air is dry, making the high temps far more bearable than a typical New England summer heat wave. My list of acquired skills is lengthening steadily. I learned basic plumbing: soldering pipes together to hook up an outside spigot; connecting PVC and copper to our temporary kitchen sink. We now have running water in the kitchen! I’ve disassembled old doors and learned how to create jam-extensions and casing around the old door frames, then worked on building up my arm muscles while I stripping several layers of ancient paint and finish from the doors themselves. Today I learned how to tape and mud sheet rock, and how to build a framed wooden panel to cover an access hole in the upstairs hallway. Our project for the next week will be constructing a railing for the staircase and then trimming, filling, sanding, and polyurethaning the whole lot.

Forest fires, both close and distant have obscured the horizon off and on for the last couple of weeks. Some mornings we wake to smoke in our throats and a thin gray haze floating through the valley where our house is situated. Then there were lightning storms, some with rain, some with only wicked purple clouds and brilliant white bolts. Bob and I sit on the porch and watch it all, content to be quiet observers, sometimes reading, sometimes talking, sometimes singing along to the radio. Most nights we spend at least a half an hour with the horses, grooming, playing, bribing our way into their hearts with carrots and other treats. There’s a little Arabian that I’ve named Lady – making her mine is my goal for the summer. Bob’s teaching me to gain her trust and slowly get her accustomed to a rider. First, the harness. Last night was the saddle, an ordeal that left the poor girl sweaty and edgy. We’ve got a way to go before I’ll be getting on her, but it’s something to work towards, and I love that I have the opportunity to live with and learn about the animals in this way.

It’s another windy night, and the cats are nestling closer, sharing their warmth. I love it, even though they make my eyes itchy. I’m rereading Les Miserables, the unabridged version. Soon I’ll get up and cook up some soup, or maybe I’ll just have a sandwich. Bob’s working at his shop in town, on a welding project or maybe rebuilding someone’s transmission, so for tonight it’s just me and the cats and the wind. Ahhhh yes.

See my skills!  New photos, befores and afters and inbetweeners and others just for fun.
http://community.webshots.com/user/susanm483

The situation, thus far, is fantastic. Bob is the man who’s hired me, an acquaintance from the Ice. He’s an excellent teacher: patient and understanding. For the first time in my (reasonably) long career as helper/general assistant/laborer, I’m being actively involved in the work. I am a part of the entire project, from conception to design, start to finish. I am learning. No more am I left on the sidelines, struggling to find ways to help – Bob’s determined to see me made a carpenter, and I’m drinking in the skills like the dry earth outside soaks up the water.  It’s an unfinished house, as I said, which means we’re living in pieces – there’s only one sink with running water, and that’s in the outdoor toilet. Our kitchen consists of a stove, fridge and a fabricated piece of cabinet/counter top to hold food and our few mismatched utensils. These are necessarily moved around every day depending on where we’re working. The front and back doors are always open; when I prepare for dinner, I have to rinse the sawdust out of the frying pan and wipe it off the spoons. This is life in a construction site. Still, I’m incredibly house-proud, living among the work I’ve done, fixing up this and that, slowly making this empty log shell into a home.  So far, I have: filled nail holes, sanded and polyeurthaned the wood trim; nailed down loose floor boards; caulked the bathroom; patched a hole in the wood floor; hung sheetrock in the kitchen; leveled the kitchen ceiling and then fitted the entire thing with tongue-in-groove aspen boards; insulated about fifty feet of hot water pipe; and today will tackle the plumbing so that we can have a sink in the kitchen.  At the end of work every day, around 6:30, I sit on the porch, tired, splintered, and filthy, a bottle of Corona cold in my hand and sweet in my dry, dusty throat: perfect.

In our off-hours, Bob and I sit on the front porch and watch the world turn. The ranch is so removed, so peaceful. There’s a sizeable canyon on the property, about a ten minute walk from the house. It is gorgeous. Tall, reddish walls, soft and round yet full of interesting nooks and crannies and ledges and chimneys just begging to be climbed. It’s narrow – perhaps only 15 feet across, and the water at its deepest point is barely up to my neck. The path between the house and the canyon is thick with cottonwoods, wild roses and gooseberries. When Bob gave me a tour of the property, he pointed out animal prints in the dust, and lectured me on safety in the Wild West: how to survive among grizzlies, mountain lions, bobcats, lynxes, scorpions, rattlers, wolves, coyotes, moose. It’s not all bad news, though – there’s no poison ivy! During the day the sun is hot and the air is dry. Rabbits hop timidly around the driveway, magpies screech in the trees, and cicadas shrill along the fence posts. On Sunday we watched a whitetail deer and her fawn prance and feed in the field next to the house.  There are horses too, five of them, and the promise of rides and pack trips to come. At night, the earth is still and eerily quiet. There are no night birds, no crickets or frogs. Silence. Cold, too – from one hundred degrees during the day to forty at night is the norm for late June at 7,000 feet.

There’s no one else around, except for Cal and Arlene, the aging owners of the ranch. Originally from Minnesota, the two of them have spent their summers out here since 1970. Arlene’s not well, but Cal is still actively involved with the upkeep and management of the property. He cruises around in a John Deer Gator, fixing fences, digging irrigation trenches, and periodically stopping in to see if Bob and I need anything. Two nights ago Cal invited us over to watch the sun set from his porch and enjoy a glass or two of wine. Other than that small excursion, my time has been spent reading, chatting with Bob, and exploring the garages and outbuildings for items to make the little cabin more inhabitable. My best find yet has been a string of party lights shaped like red tractors; Bob nailed it up along the front porch. Now every night’s a party on our porch! Is it strange, you ask, for me to be living and spending nearly every waking minute with this forty-something-year-old man?  Maybe.  Is it going well, so, far?  Absolutely.  He gives me plenty of space and privacy, and my time out of work is my own, though we have a surprising number of things in common, and I’ve found that I enjoy his company as a friend as much as a boss.

We’re still trying to sort out the internet situation on the ranch…there’s so much more to write, but I’m feeling pressed for time.  I’ve still got to stop at the lumber yard on my way back out of town, and it’s already nearly lunchtime.  Until next time, I’ll keep swinging that hammer and you all keep sending me love – peace.

Until then, please enjoy this holding music:

Home, home on the range
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where never is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day…

(I’m in Wyoming, USA – I’m living on a ranch – I’m learning to be a carpenter – I don’t have internet – The computer at this internet cafe doesn’t recognize the Word document in which I typed up a decent, long update – Sorry, folks)

(Oh, and life is good!!)