The Cabin - Part 2

 

The Cabin – Part 2

"Nobody goes through that gate but the ditch walker"

It has been four days since moving into The Cabin. I spent the first day cleaning...cleaning and cleaning some more. Sweeping mouse poop...setting traps and poison out for said poop producers and investing in Scentsy wax to cover aroma of same. Unless the filthy boogers have regrouped to bring in reinforcements for another attack – I believe I have them under control. I'll take my Arizona rattlesnakes any day of the week.

I slept pretty good my first night considering. Considering a Big Foot marathon I watched the night before and my dad's tales of the bear that occasionally comes off the hill behind The Cabin to investigate possible leavings in the garbage cans. Fortunately, the garbage cans are empty and I don't really believe in Big Foot. I don't believe in Big Foot. I don't believe in Big Foot....

Dad had spent the greater part of my childhood preparing me for things such as bears – aliens - Big Foot – communists and hippies.

1. Bears are more scared of you than you are of them. But if you do encounter one...guaranteed at least one of you will be shitting in the woods.

2. If you are abducted by Aliens – you won't remember it because they suck all the data out of your brain and then erase your memory with a plasma probe before beaming you unbeknownst back to your bed.

3. It is universally known that Big Foot is the Hide and Seek Champion of the world and you will likely never know he's there. Never mind that 9' hairy figure stepping just out of view behind the tree at dusk. If you do come face to face...don't make eye contact.

4. Communists – buy, download or stream Red Dawn ...both versions and watch over and over again until committed to memory.

5. Hippies...Dad didn't have much of a solution here other than familiarize yourself with the smell of patchouli and keep a shotgun loaded with buckshot should one happen to show up on your property uninvited. It doesn't hurt to keep a Bible handy...apparently it acts as a repellent of sorts.

The first morning in The Cabin would put my training to use. I'd been up for several hours planning my day, making breakfast and puttering around in general. I thought I heard a vehicle pull up but since the dogs didn't bark, I assumed it might be the creek. A few moments later, I heard voices. I pulled back the curtain to see two hippies scampering up the hill to the west. What appeared to be a female hippie and a male of the same species. It can be hard to tell to the untrained eye.

I knew The Cabin was safe...there's a Bible in every room...two in some. With my pistol already concealed and ready to go....I boldly stepped out the door to confront the intruders. "Can I help you?" Both the male and the female stopped in their tracks and descended off the hill wide eyed and looking just a wee-bit guilty.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: "Can I help you?...this is private property."

Female hippy: "HI!! HOW ARE YOU? We're just going through to check on the head-gate."

Access to the head-gate for Posey ditch sits on The Cabin's property in the form of a locked, green gate separating our property and the neighbors. Dad was adamant about anyone other than the ditch walker accessing that gate. "Nobody goes through that gate but the ditch walker." Remember that girls...commit it to memory – no exceptions." Dad's words echoed through my head and out my mouth.

Me: "Nobody goes through that gate but the ditch walker. Besides...the gates over there." (I pointed in the opposite direction they were frolicking.)

Female hippy: "Oh...yeah, well...um...I was looking for the key...it's not there any more."

Me: "If you knew where the key was...you would know it wasn't in the direction you were going. Nobody goes through that gate except the ditch walker. Who are you?"

Female hippy: "My name is "Meadow Muffin" ...and who are you?"

Me: "I am the land owner of this property. Nobody goes through that gate but the ditch walker."

Meadow Muffin: Oh yes...well, I am the ditch walker."

Me: "You sure don't look like the ditch walker." (I know the ditch walker –Ray's an 85 year old man that's been in charge of this ditch for 43 years and I'm quite sure can't spell patchouli let alone smell of it.)

Meadow Muffin: "I'm the new ditch walker. The old one got voted out."

She went on to explain the gory details of why the folks on the ditch thought it necessary to vote out an old timer who's been doing his job for 43 years...and what a stellar job she was doing as the replacement. It rubbed me the wrong way. Technically, I don't have a dog in the fight; other than access to the head-gate goes through our property, it is of no concern to us. It just pisses me off what they did to Ray and I wasn't letting them off easy.

I glanced over at the male hippy:

Me: "...and what is your name?"

Male hippy: "I'm Milo Treehugger! - I like to ride my bike up here. It's a lovely place."

Meadow Muffin:" Haha...YES! If you see a guy up here in spandex riding his bike – it's just Milo!"

Me: "It's probably a lot safer for everyone involved if he doesn't" 

Sort of a deer in the headlights thing going on here.

Me: "Nobody comes through that gate but the ditch walker. Where do you live?"

Milo Treehugger: "I live in the valley."

Me: "Uh huh...so you both live in Halfway?"

They confirmed they both lived in Halfway Oregon.

Me: "You both live here...yet your pickup has Washington plates?"

They went on to explain that Milo Treehugger still had a place in Washington State. That explains a lot.

I confessed to Meadow and Milo that while I might seem paranoid – we have had problems with trespassers and nefarious individuals lurking about. Now that we live here full time, it stops here. Just last week an unauthorized person had come onto the property leaving the gate propped open.

Meadow Muffin: "It wasn't me...I always close the gate. Do you know who it was?"

Me: "No – the camera wasn't pointed in the right direction and didn't catch them. It is now. I started to walk up and check but didn't have my pistol."

Meadow:" Oh...I'm glad you pack. I pack too. I've been threatened many times since taking over."

Me: "Threatened by who?"

Meadow: "Lot's of the people on the ditch."

She went on to name several of the long-time locals on the ditch that weren't happy with her work. I couldn't help wonder how the hell she got voted in by her peers if most of them were angry enough to make threats? It's hard telling. In Meadow's defense, being the ditch walker is one of the most thankless and dangerous jobs a person can have. A ditch walker once told me that at one time, more homicides have been committed over water right disputes than any other motive in the United States.

We talked for a bit. Turns out Meadow and I went to school together in the 5^th grade. I vaguely remember the name. Milo, on the other hand...never seen in my life. We agreed the safest thing for everyone is to not be frolicking around private property on your bike...spandex or not.

We swapped phone numbers and agreed it would be safest if Meadow sent a text before accessing the gate. I felt a little bad for giving them such a hard time.

Me: "If you think I'm unfriendly – wait until you meet my sister."

Meadow: "Oh...you're not being unfriendly – you are being cautious – I totally understand. What's your sisters name? Should I get her number as well?"

Me: "Nah...she would kill us both if I gave out that information. My bark is worse than my bite. My sister on the other hand...she's the quiet one. You'll never see it coming. We will cross that bridge when the time comes. It's been nice meeting you – we should get along fine as long as everyone remembers..."nobody goes through that gate but the ditch walker."

Note: I later called Ray. (after struggling to remember how to use a phone book and landline) He confirmed that after 43 years – he was indeed voted out of his job as ditch walker. I told him of my encounter with Meadow Muffin and Milo Treehugger. We agreed that dad would have been proud. Ray chuckled, told me to be careful and wished me luck before hanging up the phone. 

The Cabin - Part 1

 

The Cabin

Part 1

A vagabond: A person who wanders from place to place without a home or job. Until a few hours ago – I was the poster child for this definition. I took up official residency in our family cabin less than 8 hours prior to this writing. For the summers at least...I am no longer homeless.

My dad and Uncle bought The Cabin many years ago. They later divided joint properties to prevent their surviving heirs from squabbling over who gets what upon the brothers deaths. I didn't understand it then – but I now recognize it as a smart move. It has been my experience that death brings out the worst in some folks. In the divvying of assets – The Cabin went to my dad. It was his wish that The Cabin stay in our family.

I spent the day cleaning and organizing...moving what little items I have with me from my living quarters trailer to The Cabin. It's oddly emotional at times. I have no problem tossing aside the various items used in the day to day business of a vacation rental: Brochures and pamphlets of local tourism sites – boxes of board games and shelves of books to entertain guests. Keychains stamped with "White Fir Retreat vacation rental" and dad's phone number. The same phone number I can not bring myself to remove from my contacts.

And then there's this bowl of plastic fruit. I hate that bowl of plastic fruit. Plastic pears – plums and peaches covered in what looks like dryer lint and makes my teeth hurt when I have to touch one of the creepy little fuzzy things. I do not understand plastic fruit. What the hell are you supposed to do with it? It has no earthly purpose other than to make my teeth hurt. I look forward to tossing it into the fire-pit...or perhaps .12 gauge target practice. Likely both.

Plastic fruit aside...other things bring on tidal waves of emotions. Things that whisper of my dads presence. The rustic hand rails he carved out of twisted thorn brush. The eclectic hanging lamp he pieced together out of cannibolize parts...all weirdly wired like no electrician ever – yet functions perfectly. The spinning poker-chip holder on the shelf – the same one my sister and I played with as kids. The sound of pine creek at full flow rushing and tumbling boulders in spring runoff. Dad and I standing at the creeks edge - shoulder to shoulder; talking of things...hard things. Things a kid really doesn't want to acknowledge. Someday – her dad would die. He would talk of his wish of leaving The Cabin to my sister and I in the hope that we would keep it in our family for generations to come.

I managed to get through the emotions AND disgusting, fuzzy plastic peaches as the sun dipped behind the mountain. It is eerily dark at night here at The Cabin and scary as hell. If it weren't for two dogs and a .380 body guard, I don't think I'd get much sleep. I suppose watching a "Search for Big-Foot" marathon at my moms house the night before wasn't the best choice of viewing options. The gentle rain sounds suspiciously like Big-Foot hairy fingers tapping on the windows. I'll try not to think about that right now as I get ready to spend my first night in a real bed that you don't have to crawl into and out of like a tree fort. If only that damn tapping would stop...good hell. 

Trail Log: 5-27-2023

•  Trail: Oreana - Owyhee BLM
• Miles: 7.35    
• Riders: Self - Jones - Robin P
• Horses: Drifter - Diesel - Scotty

Notes: Robin (Happy Trails) asked Jones and I if we would ride part of an IMO course she is putting on. She set it on side-by-side and wanted us to ride the sections for markers 4 and 5 to make sure it was doable on horseback. 

I opted to take Drifter. Wasn't really thinking I should probably take Jack into unknown terrain but Drifter proved a good choice. He was a little fresh from being on green grass up to his withers. Still, he did awesome. This was the "sketchiest" terrain I've ridden him on with cliff's off to one side that dropped into the oblivion. He did really well and didn't plunge us off a cliff to our deaths...a certain win in my book. 

*phew* - we made it off the ridge without incident. 

New Email Subscription Service "FOLLOW.IT"

Well shit...the feed burner program I was using to manage subscribers and notifications to The Sage Writer Blog went AWOL.  

Several folks have inquired as to why I've quit blogging as they no longer receive the email notifications. That's weird - just when I assumed nobody actual reads my blog! 

Anyway - I'm looking into a new RSS burner as a replacement. In the meantime - I am manually adding all my THOUSANDS and THOUSANDS of subscribers. This could take...minutes because there is actually only like...35. Close to 34 as Granny passed away a couple years ago and she was my most active subscriber. :)

I found a new service called "Follow.It" I am adding my known subscribers manually. You should receive an email notification asking you to click on a link to verify you want to receive notifications when I post something new.  Of course, you can still unsubscribe should you wish to NOT receive post from The Sage Writer Blog. I mean...it's entirely up to you if you no longer wish to receive vital, thought provoking content developed to expand the human thought process to levels reached only by the most heightened intellectuals. You are free to get your Fireball and Beanee Weenee updates elsewhere. I am not here to judge. 

Laurie B. 

If you are currently not one of my 34 subscribers and wish to expand your horizons to a whole new intellectual level - simply enter your email address into the subscribe box on the WEB PAGE view of The Sage Writer Blog. If you are using a mobile device...you might be SOOL. (Shit Out Of Luck) 

Trail Log: 5-20-2023

Headed toward Coyote Grade

 

Trail: Rats Nest - Owyhee front

Miles: 19.1

Riders: Self - Jones - Robin (Happy Trails Team)

Horses: Jack - Diesel - Scotty

Dogs: Dogs stayed with Dusty, the dog whisperer, in Melba

Notes: I'm back in Idaho waiting for my place to get done in Arizona. It's too hot to live down there without power and/or AC - I'm not tough enough, anyway. I came north and will go to a few shoots, square away some business and visit friends and family. 

With Dusty out of commission for a bit and me in Arizona - Circle 4 is no more as far as IMO goes. Jones has been riding with Robin. I asked to tag along. It felt GREAT to be back in the Owyhee's and putting some actual miles in the saddle as opposed to short 4-5 miles rides here and there. I expected Jack to be a little out of shape but he was a machine. 

It took us 7 hours and we only found 3 markers but it was still worth it. 

I miss IMO and especially miss my friends, Jones and Dusty. I plan to ride with them more this summer while I'm in the area. If my damn house doesn't get finished, I sell out and move back to the Owyhee's and be their neighbor! 

Robin on Scotty - Jones and Diesel

A YELLOW ROSE

 

A Yellow Rose

I seldom write about the past. Certainly not my past. Not that it was particularly horrific. It's just that I would have a hard time drumming up experiences that would lift the readers spirits in a joyful or humorous manner. We don't want to hear about the bad times...the rough times. Those times a normal person would as soon disengage themselves from...and disengaging is something I excel at.  

I don't know if that is a skill to be proud or ashamed of...it is what it is, and I am who I am. With that said – occasionally a memory from the earlier years will fight itself into present day thoughts; appearing as a profound and treasured moment. One such moment fell on a mothers day, approximately 30 years ago. The day revolved around an X husband, “Earl,” my middle son, Dillon James, and a yellow rose.

Earl, Dillon and I, stopped in for a bite to eat at a small town café in Vale Oregon. Dillon was no more than 4 years old. I remember exactly what my son was wearing: a striped plaid long sleeve western shirt I had sewn, blue jeans, little cowboy boots and a straw hat. He looked like a miniature version of Garth Brookes – down to the pouty lips and striking blue eyes.

Two or three other couples patronized the café. We had received our food order when a lady selling yellow roses made her way around the room. The men at the other tables dug in their pockets for eight dollars in exchange for a single stemmed yellow rose. I don't believe it mattered if the woman sitting across from them was their mother, the mother of their children now, or one day hoped to be. Each received a yellow rose.

The lady with the basket of roses approached our table. She smiled at Earl and started to hand him a rose out of her basket. He barely glanced up from his plate...dismissing her with a wave of his hand. After-all, I wasn't his mother. The lady glanced at me with a look that fell somewhere between pity and embarrassment; the latter I could relate to.

You might be surprised how little goes unnoticed by a four year old child. Dillon, always reserved... always thinking and often serious...I feared too serious for his age...sat next to Earl. I could feel the wheels turning in his head as he sat with his arms crossed, brows furrowed staring up at Earl.

Without saying a word – Dillon slid out of the booth next to Earl and slowly walked toward a young couple sitting at a table on the back wall. I watched the intent look on his face as he approached them. Was he looking for the bathroom? They stopped eating and smiled at him as he got nearer. He never said a word. He never took his eyes off the man. He slowly reached out with his pudgy little hand and plucked the yellow rose from between the young couple. He hesitated for a split second – as if daring them to refuse him this gesture. I realized what he was about to do and started to reel him in. The young man shook his head and mouthed: “No...let him have it. Please...” The young woman nodded in agreement...eyes glistening in understanding. I sat down as Dillon made his way back to our table, placed the yellow rose in front of me and without uttering a sound, slid back into his seat.

I don't know what effect, if any, that moment had on the others in the room. I will certainly never forget the effect it had on me. In that moment, I was somebody's whole world. I mattered. I mattered more than alcohol. More than drugs. I mattered more than the next shiny buckle or the bunny attached to it. For once, I was somebody's everything. I was worth enough for one shy little boy to brave what must have seemed like a daunting quest because to him, I was worthy of it.

Mom's come in all sizes, shapes and types. Some of them have given birth to their children – some have adopted - some fostered dozens. Some have been second moms to the neighbors children. Others granted the title of “Auntie Grandma:” having helped raise the child of a single mom struggling to hold it all together.

Whatever type of mom you are – I wish that you recognize the full potential of your worth this mother's day and that you too are blessed to be someone's entire world – worthy of a yellow rose.

Trail Log: 5-5-2023

Ocotillo with vibrant, orange blooms. 

 

• Trail: BLM - Harquahala's - west - 
• Miles: 10
• Riders: Self - Phil 
• Horses: Jack - Tank
• Dogs: Groot - Pearl (Hank opted to stay home)

Notes: Getting in a couple rides before heading north for a bit. We missed the turnoff to where we planned on going and ended up a few miles down the road. We road 5 miles south toward the Harquahala's. There is some sort of ruins at the entry. It's been built into a mound of dirt. I'm guessing it's another powder house. The rancher that leases the property has a well and small corrals there for watering his cattle. 

The desert is blooming full force. The ocotillo are especially vibrant. The smell of sweet blossoms is amazing. 

I'm either peeing or getting the gate. It's what I do.