Eel River Ridge

I could see the ridgeline from the sharp turn in the road where I left the ‘87 Toyota 4-Runner in the eddy of a snowdrift formed against the sparse pines slowly sinking down the hill toward the green-gold valley in the distance where I could just pick out a couple barns set far below on that snowless, grassy landscape, like seashells exposed by a receding wave. The sun was sharp and the reflection on the snow broke through my lingering stresses of being trapped in the Mendocino hills. I put on my pack and began to follow the tracks of a truck making a run for it. The tracks gave me some hope of an escape. Back at the ranch we had only seen a timid snowfall that had quickly melted away down our hill into the Eel River, exposing old cow bones from when cattle was king.

Halfway to the ridgeline I noticed a couple ranchers on horseback, kicking up snow as they moved fluidly up the hillside, following along one of the many barbwire fence-lines with two collies bounding through the drifts, doing their best to stay in the trail broken by the horses. I tried to catch them out of my periphery, consciously trudging with confidence and purpose. I could see they had sidearms exposed and lever action rifles in scabbards on their saddles, and calmly turned to them to wait. As they rode up I offered a slight salute and removed my sunglasses so they could see my eyes; see that I was sober, serious, and nice enough. --Driving to my folks’ place on the island in Maine, where we lived on a seasonal basis, small salutations were often how folks would determine whether you were supposed to be there, whether you belonged. Most of the time, a two or three fingered wave from the steering wheel or tiller would be enough to avoid suspicion that we were interlopers, out-of-towners, strap-hangers.-- The ranchers responded with their hats and seemed amiable enough as they rode up.

“How ya’ll doin’.” I asked politely.

“Not bad. Where you comin’ from?” They wore Mossy-Oak patterns with mustaches tying their hambone cheeks together: slight smiles exposed by their good-enough-humor and the chewing tobacco packed into their bottom lips.

“Just over the hill past the Zeroes Gate, down toward the river.” Though it was never explicitly outlined upon my arrival at the cannabis ranch, I determined nobody in the valley was keen on specifics with strangers; neither cattle folk, nor cannabis folk. “Not much snow down thataway, but I was tryin’ to head out before too long. Decided to take a gander at the ridge and see what we’re workin’ with.”

“Seems to be pretty well fucked.” The bigger fellow leaned his belly into the horn of the saddle. “Yep. Rob went up there a couple days ago and said it’s drifted pretty good.”

“Huh. Well, I figured I’d check it out. May try and hike out if it comes to it.” I turned to look up at the ridge.

“Christ. Fuck that.”

“I’ve got places to be. Or I want to be. It’s awful pretty up here, though, so there are certainly worse places to be holed up.” I say this regarding just about everywhere, sometimes I’m being facetious, I’m not in this moment and I hope my earnestness is apparent.

“Sure enough. Ya’ll got food enough and what have ya?” Folks tend to keep small and regular kindnesses to their relations but most don’t hesitate to make sure a stranger doesn’t starve.

“Yessir. I appreciate it. Ya’ll have a good ride.”

“Good luck.” And they turned to cross the road and continue along the property line.

I hadn’t convinced anyone that I belonged, but I presented myself as honestly as I could. This,I feel, can sometimes be a gamble as when I am being earnest some people take it as I am in fact yanking their chain and they withdraw their trust from me. Maybe I should take my sunglasses off more often, or allude to the truth versus tell it outright, or maybe armed men on horseback are more confident in their decision to give a solitary figure in the snow the benefit of the doubt. I kept walking along the packed tire track.