Story Time

This is the real bandit country, he thinks as he sits beside his fire of tami and cedar. Tami from the bottom, cedar from high on the plateau where it was carried down stick by stick. No way to be seen down here. Only coming from above, or below, either direction only fifty feet wide. Easy enough to cover. It was a long day of cutting fence, filling cattleguards, and repainting jeep trails into unsurmountable obstacles. Let the bastards find their own way, he thinks, as he takes another drag of his cigarette, smoke stinging the eyes, stream of tobacco juice sizzling on the fire. Nobody here but us buzzards. Someone famous said that, someone he could not remember. His entire life he had lived in this general area, a native of the Rocky Mountains, and every time he returned to a place, he was disheartened. People crowding the trails he himself had pioneered. Well, himself, with the help of a few deer, and higher, big horn sheep. The four legged critters had been overrun by the two leg backpack carrying type. The plains where he used to ride an old mare bareback in the cold winter moonlight were overrun by housing developments and riggers. Damn the bastards for damning me, he thought. Sip on the coffee, the go juice, the substance on which all revolutions are fought upon. He often catches himself, when he gets too angry. He is no better than them. Driving his Jeep, climbing to the tops of long forgotten mountains. Damning himself for his own gains. Giving up his mortal body, to understand his immortal soul. The pop from dried wood echoes once, twice, four times all told, up and down the canyon. A moon bright enough to cast daylight is slowly working down the edge of the great formations. Somewhere, a turn or two above, rocks lose their mooring, begin to fall. Coyotes howl from one lip to the other. Looking for food. The coffee is almost gone, save the cup he will heat in the morning. Now, time for sleep. Dreaming of a better future.

Until next time.....