Cowboy Junkie: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-5

Lyndy Life Observation: I have a question about Star Trek. Did they have janitors on the Enterprise? Place was spotless, yet in all the hundreds of episodes, I can’t recall ever seeing a person with a vacuum cleaner or a mop. And what a job it would have been to be janitor on a starship, no?

Touching with his fingertip Jared traced along the perimeter of the Circle-Bar-Circle. One could practically feel the contours despite the map being printed on flat paper. It was a land spanning diverse environs, nurturing clusters of plant communities like secret gardens, little tributes to them all. Here a bit of the lush western Sierras. There a joshua tree patch, cottonwood lined ravine, forest of golden cup oaks and a hint of the Great Basin too.

The existing log cabins, having stood in place over fifty years, were shown on USGS quad maps. Atop this he squared a set of transparencies mailed to him by Holly’s company. These showed many proposed buildings and new roads overlaid on existing infrastructure.

Perched on the rock strewn east ridge, where ponderosa pines now towered, swaying mightily against the wind, were little black rectangles indicating rows of condominiums. One-hundred units in all. Where presently deer and occasional elk grazed in dry meadows, the shallows would be filled with a ten acre manmade lake. Good for fishing, except that was the majority of the prime pastureland.

But this plan allowed them to keep the historic main lodge. As a focal point of the resort it would be receiving fresh coats of paint, a decorative rock skirting, re-designed interior and more upscale furnishings. To the northeast, the highest point would be leveled and a steel-sided water tank installed. There was a natural granite dome there now, adorned with a dozen scraggly pines. Those stunted trees clung to life in impressive ways, their fortified root systems reaching down the sides of boulders, into caves, some specimens hundreds of years old. He played Lone Ranger there as a kid.

Historical fact revealed the Circle-Bar-Circle always had a checkered past. The lodge had been constructed not to introduce city slickers to the cowboy way of life, but as a speakeasy, isolated from the reach of law enforcement or the bureau. One had to know it existed, receive coordinates and a secret map; the perfect combo of maze-like backroads and day’s proximity to LA. Movie stars dined here. Opera singers performed here. The bar hosted many a notable Californian. The cover story: it was a working cattle ranch. But it wasn’t really. It was a mountaintop distillery disguised as a cattle ranch.

They had plenty of other dusty places to run cows.

Despite the free-wheeling history, Granddad would’ve hated this business plan. On the bookshelf near his maps, he could see an Edward Abbey book, the spine of Fool’s Progress peeking out. Abbey would’ve hated this plan too. But he didn’t have a payroll or all these bills stacking up. Hell, Abbey couldn’t even keep up with his own bills.

Jared lowered himself down, the maps glued in place by the force of static. Slumping into a chair beneath the stuffed head of a buffalo, he rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t concentrate on business or anything to do with numbers. The vision of Siberia danced in his brain, like a mythical Pegasus. He felt silly. This obsession was something he could not explain.

His mind kept returning to the continental divide, six hundred miles distant from this ranch. He remembered the numbing, frigid stream and the slippery rocks. The way cold air lingered in the gullies at daybreak, inducing goosebumps. The thundering river, crashing through boulders and echoing across the valley. The way snow patches glinted on the peaks for what seemed like half a summer. The yellow daffodils. The way that place made you feel.

The divide was no excuse to have a party. It was a serious working ranch; everything there seemed massive. When he dreamed big dreams, he was dreaming of Warner Ranch. The land did not suffer fools. Cowboys died there. A man drowned in the Rio Bonito, crossing with horses. Another froze to death in a snowstorm. He was with his dad when they found that one. Jared could still picture the iced up beard, the all-white eyes.

He and Nash were fearful of those stern giants who resided at the divide, including the beasts. On a chilly morning the pack horse’s nostrils flared, fogging the air. These weren’t the placid, lazy ponies at a state fair petting zoo; these western steed were lean and muscular—much tougher than a fragile racehorse. He’d seen them take a hard tumble, get back up and look at you as if to say “I’m good. Saddle me up.”

The battle-worn horses thought highly of themselves. With a bellow and stamp of their metal shoes, they could scare off a wolf pack or a rampaging bull. They sized men up in the same way human’s did to their kind.

Yet the boys couldn’t have been older than fifth grade, yanked out of school on a Friday with a job to do. He and Nash were at the makeshift corrals, off a muddy track, in a valley where men visited but a handful of times in a year. Indian tribes used to hunt here. Perhaps a real mountain man holed up in there a hundred years ago.

His dad lectured the pair, his lips hardly moving, looking like the original Marlboro man in a trapper jacket and rugged hat. Jared saddled up for a long day. Had a bedroll, matches, a pocket knife, wool sweater in case they had to spend the night. One cattle company staffer, Nash Spotted Wolf, provided to assist him. Dad called him “Mister Spotted Wolf” despite his young age.

They didn’t have child labor laws back in those days apparently, or else, nobody was made aware of them. He and Nash were picked to do a grownup’s task: recover three horses from a cabin where the occupant had been evacuated via airlift due to a health emergency. No roads in there. Eight miles up and back from the nearest staging area.

Everything out there was big, including the storms.

Jared owned a comfy western saddle given to him by his grandfather. Nash used a wool blanket only on his horse, said he preferred riding this way. Kid had one tough ass. He carried a well-loved 1894 Winchester on permanent loan to him by the cattle company. When he slept outdoors Nash simply pulled a second blanket over top of himself. Nash was into minimalism before minimalist camping was a thing.

The day started out with fair weather and blue skies, but this meant nothing.

They navigated with barely any semblance of trail, just following the main creek, bushwhacking. His fingers always felt frozen in the morning, moving through each gully shaded with pines. Gripping the reins was all he could do to stay in the saddle. Being trailless, the pace was slow. Willow thickets along the creek threatened to pull you right off. One had to practically lie down across the back to avoid it. If one wasn’t careful, thorny wild raspberry patches sliced up your forearms.

Most places the rocks were scree, larger than railroad ballast size and coated in slippery moss. The horses stumbled in these regions, their shoes and hooves unable to find sturdy enough footing. They hated trails like this and were eager to get up onto the higher slopes where less water flowed and they could stand on grass, even if the angles were slanting. One had to be vigilant the horses didn’t get too much bruising on their ankles.  

With a gain in elevation they eventually reached the incline, where the flowing creek became a trickle and they entered a dense forest. Here, there wasn’t enough headroom to ride, so they had to get off their horses and lead them by hand, up what felt like a 35 degree slope. At this stop, he and Nash had one of their only serious disagreements. Nash wanted to ditch the horses, tie them to a tree and come back for them, knowing they would move quicker on two feet. Jared believed they would need these reliable pack horses to convince the remaining trio to return with them. The three horses had been stranded near the pass for upwards of two weeks and may be reluctant to follow humans. Nash didn’t think it would be an issue. Jared used his authority, as a Warner—probably didn’t phrase things as maturely as he could have—to convince Nash to climb on. For a time the going got worse.

And then a hard rain came. Afternoon storms swept in with astonishing swiftness. Lightning came crashing around them. They climbed to a rock overhang, ruins of a mine adit which didn’t extend very deep. In the shelter of the mine entrance, they consumed deer jerky and shared some apple slices and cashews Jared’s mother had packed him. Together they calmed the horses, spoke of comics, girls, and baseball teams they preferred.

After their lunch, the going got even tougher. The incline became steeper, wet turf and soil together causing the boys and horses to slide. Riding was still impossible, and they had to coax the animals higher for every ten feet of gain. A swirling mist formed, obscuring their view and making navigation a challenge.

They picked their way through a maze-like patch of buckthorn, dipping in and out of a gully, crossing a mine tailing. His muddy jeans, flannel shirt were soaked to the bone. Both boys were shivering.

He was relieved as they pressed open the doorway to a humble cabin, its untreated boards rotting, turned grey and moldy by the elements. In his mind he could smell that earthy dwelling, every inch in crisp detail like a photograph preserved in his mind. One oil lamp. A coffee can, so clear now he could read the label. The mix of colors, orange and blue. A set of dominoes stacked on the table. A man’s pocket watch, with Sears & Roebuck imprinted on the dial side. Not having been wound, it had ceased running. He reached for this, checking the time it had stopped.

Meanwhile Nash moved uphill, to the makeshift corral, a barrier of tree limbs, piled stone and barb wire.

Seconds later Nash burst through the doorway. “One is missing!” he announced.

“What do you mean?” asked Jared, setting down the watch.

“There are only two horses here.”

“How could that be?” Jared wondered. As a kid, your brain always assumed the worst case: perhaps a hungry bear had been here. He followed Nash outside.

Several light taps at the office door—a person having long fingernails—snapped Jared back into the present. That place couldn’t get him; he was a Californian now. Yet his skin was tingling with the chill of the Rocky Mountains.

And so, in private moments he often wondered, “what exactly was the most remarkable thing about Siberia?” The only man who understood was there that day, but he wasn’t much of a talker.

---

Meanwhile, five minutes away …

In Hermosillo the industrious residents would take their traditional siesta every weekday afternoon. If you happened to be away from home, say on a jobsite, you threw down a towel or an old corn sack and dozed off under the nearest tree limb, sometimes adding a sip of tequila or other spirits to calm the nerves. This lasted from roughly one o’clock to three o’clock, often the warmest period of the day and she always wondered why they didn’t adopt this same practice in the US. It made sense. One could learn a lot from Mexico.

But by the grace of god she’d managed to coax the Ford back to the Circle-Bar-Circle, nosing in a little too close to the red Mercedes. Now The Spitfire was looking forward to a leisurely unpacking of her things in the guest bunkhouse, a clean change of outfits and perhaps a welcome dip in the hot tub. Except while viewing Annabel go about the afternoon chores, it was clear Dr. Stork had become impaired, needing to be supervised. Turns out the girl was a lightweight. Even Ruby appeared anxious.

Near to the pinewood sided barns she attempted to heave a 50-pound haybale onto an empty wheelbarrow. But the unwieldly mass threw Annabel off balance, knocking her from her feet and nearly causing her to tumble headfirst into the muddy paddock. Uninjured and undiscouraged, she reached down, curling her fingers and hooking it by both wires.

Exhaling and making a grunting sound, Dr. Stork continued her grumbles. “Oh believe me, after college I had plenty of opportunities other than this. I could have taken a job anywhere.” Annabel spoke loudly, with wide eyes and irregular speech. “In Santa Barbara county there was a family farm who wanted to hire me. Place is stunning—you can see the Pacific ocean from the corrals and they raise thoroughbreds.”

With Annabel starting to list like an ocean liner in a choppy sea, Lyndy rushed to steady her by gripping the back of her coat, preventing another fall.

“I’ve fantasized about quitting my job, thumbing it down the interstate like some country song. Somehow I just haven’t been able to commit. Could you imagine how this place would go to hell in a handcart if I weren’t around for a week?” Using gardening cutters she snapped apart the wires and the hay bulged out, filling up the wheelbarrow to overflowing. Then grabbing the handles, Dr. Stork zoomed off, zig-zagging through a gap in the fence with the front wheel squeaking the entire way.

Choosing her footpath more prudently The Spitfire maneuvered around mounds of horse dung, while Annabel plowed through them, shouting back: “Of course the Warner’s think they know everything—believing their kind of folklore is good enough and college education is a tax on suckers. What do they need me for?”

A smaller mare, tan but dappled in black and brown splotches came trotting up to the fence line as Annabel began scooping armfuls of hay into a feeding trough. “This family is so old fashioned. Give Mr. Warner a corncob pipe and rocking chair—he’ll feel at home.”

The mare’s tail twisted and swished away flies as she rubbed her muzzle on the metal trough. Without warning Annabel wilted against the sideboards, wrapping an arm around a vertical post. Lyndy tried to help support her but Dr. Stork seemed defiant, pushing her away.

“What’s this one called?” asked Lyndy, pointing to the tan horse, desperate to change subjects from Annabel’s spiral of personal despair.

“This pony?” Annabel eyed the horse, as if not recognizing where she was or how she’d ended up here. “This girl … is named Chipeta. She’s one of my absolute favorites. You can ride her tomorrow.”

“Yeah, maybe we ought to head back and lie down a while,” suggested Lyndy, pointing enthusiastically to the lodge. “At least get out of this sun and drink some cold tea.” The Spitfire wasn’t much of a tea drinker; she had selfish motivations. For one thing the outfit she was wearing, including the sexy underwear, had outlasted its comfort zone by several hours. In fact the underwire was making her itch and she wanted to change.

“Here’s something very important to know,” lectured Annabel, springing to her feet again. “You can’t just go off and buy whatever saddle looks the fanciest. You gotta match the saddle to your animal. Look at Chipeta here. She has a lesser distance between the shoulders and croup. So I have a saddle just right for a pony.”

“Hey, what’s the official difference between a horse and a pony anyway?”

Annabel grinned, as though prepared to dispense great wisdom. “Simply put, a pony is a vertically challenged horse.”

Lyndy nodded, admiring the strong horse. “We share in the struggle.”

“Look at it this way. Chipeta might be considered a pony, but she’s a mustang at heart.”

Lyndy pushed back her hair, then folded her arms. Maybe it was time to embrace her cowgirl side and agree to the ride. “I think I like her.”

“Hand me that groomer,” said Dr. Stork, gesturing to a heavy brush laying face up.

Reaching down, Lyndy passed off the heavy object, looking like a bathtub scrubber with fibers stiff as a broom. Annabel then began to vigorously stroke the back of Chipeta, as a cloud of dust rose skyward above the horse’s body. Lyndy backed away, not wanting an allergy attack. Chipeta snorted, seeming to enjoy the back scratch aspect of the cleaning.

They were both interrupted by repeated nudging from Ruby, who was signaling the approach of a visitor. Lyndy recognized the young cowboy Ben, who was out of breath. He smiled and tilted his hat at The Spitfire. “Hey Annabel, the mail truck left a big package in the office and it’s got yer name on it.”

“I have a package,” voiced Annabel in disbelief. “Serious?” She turned to Lyndy with a quizzical expression, as though The Spitfire had something to do with the unexpected event.

Ben nodded. “I would have brought it with me, but it’s too heavy.” He studied Annabel with one eyebrow raised. “Are you alright? Your skin is all red.”

“I’m fine,” said Annabel confidently. “I’ll check it out. Can you finish up here?”

Ben agreed to take over the afternoon feeding duties.

“Well this is sounding interesting,” said Lyndy. “I had almost written today off!”

“Yeah, I never get packages. Long time ago when I was in school my parents used to send me stuff. But now, never.”

“Maybe it’s a gift from an admirer,” said Lyndy, voicing a tone of intrigue.

Annabel chuckled, turning to face Lyndy with a look of incredulity.

---

Moments later …

“Watch it ladies. That box weighs a ton,” remarked Wade, who was busy checking a man in at the front desk.

The package was partially clad in faded shipping paper, bound with plentiful scotch tape. But otherwise looked to have endured serious abuse, as if weathering months out of doors and used as someone’s impromptu footrest. The top had once been emblazoned with numerous colorful customs stamps, indicating it must have come across the ocean. The dimensions were irregular, roughly four-and-a-half feet long and over a foot wide.

“You got a relative who’s an Aussie?” queried Lyndy, already on hands and knees examining the stickers and ink stamps. She passed her fingers over them as she tried to read the dates and work backwards.

“Nope,” replied Annabel. “None that I know of.”