The Country Duet(3)
“Jesus.” Something heavy slams on his end of the phone. “Head out on the old highway.”
I find a pen in my truck and scribble down all of the directions on an old deposit slip.
“Turn right. No, shit, left on 1200 then go about twenty miles and the road will fork, keep left…”
He rattles on for several minutes, and I do my best to keep up. He changes left to right and east to west about ten times when giving the instructions.
“Okay…”
CLICK. Then dial tone.
I pull my phone from my ear and just stare at it. Did that just happen? Maybe a party filled night with Burton doesn’t sound half bad. It’s the need and urge to work and feel alive in my country roots. Even though I love the academic work toward my agriculture degree, there’s been something missing since not living on the ranch.
I miss my cow dog Tux, who is always loyal at my boots ready for work, and my horse Remi, who has the biggest heart. That damn horse has worked more cattle than any in the state of Idaho. That’s the high I’m chasing.
I swerve off the road, trying to decode my chicken scratch on the damn paper. About after the fourth turn, I’m pretty sure whomever I talked to sent me on a damn wild goose chase.
It’s not until the front tires of my truck meet a gravel road that I think I might be on the right path. The man had mentioned a gravel road. It’s more like a washed-out track that has never been kept up type of road. Living in Idaho all of my life I know a dirt road. Hell, I’ve been on trails that you can only access via horseback, and this isn’t a damn gravel road.
The further I drive, the more I begin regretting this decision, but then the lingering reminder assaults me. What do I have to lose? Nothing. Hell, I was days away from knocking on random doors, ready to volunteer to do any ranch or farm work. I’m that desperate.
Finally, something that resembles civilization comes into view. The closer I inch to the place, there’s acres and acres of old machinery with an old house coming into view. I have to admit the landscape surrounding the farm is gorgeous. Mountainous, with pine trees for miles and it’s a stark contrast from the desert back home at Sweetwater Ranch.
I never checked the clock when I left the restaurant, but I’d bet it was a good forty-five minute drive from the campus on shitty roads nonetheless. There are long lines of fence around the place. Not just any old wooden fence, but one built from old metal wagon wheels, spray-painted white. The once pristine paint chipping away, but the welding work perfect with the stacked wheels of varying sizes, making the perfect fence framing in rows of thick pines.
“Jesus,” I whisper.
It doesn’t just stop at the fence, but these wheels border every single inch of the property perched everywhere. How in the hell does one get so many damn old wagon wheels? It would take decades to collect all these.
I survey the surroundings, realizing this is the only house in sight. I don’t grow frustrated easily, but this adventure has pushed me to my limit. So I pull into the driveway, creeping my truck to a stop several yards out, deciding to walk up the dirt path. Several seconds float by as I take in everything around me. It’s a damn museum of artifacts, telling stories from several generations ago.
The Type A personality in me appreciates all the old junk lined up in neat rows with similar models paired together. My palms grow sweaty, and I couldn’t even explain why. I only second-guess my choice to knock on the old door as I grow closer to the red brick house. The house has character with a quaint charm nestled in between all the junk. A sturdy chimney on its roof and rusty metal awnings above the windows.
The first step creaks on the old wooden porch, making me decide better against this for the fifth time. Something inside me tells me this visit is going to change my life forever. Can’t say why, but the thought is lingering there. The sound crackles the silence in the northern beauty of the panhandle of Idaho. The noise too overwhelming to ignore similar footsteps embedded back home on the Sweetwater. There are just some things a country boy never backs down from.
My knuckles crack on the worn door. It creeps open, not even securely closed.
“Hello?” I rasp out on instinct.
A loud creak is the only sound that fills the air. It’s as if all my senses are on high alert. Sounds, smells, and feelings are all swamping me at the same exact time. The sense of smell assaults me first. I’ve been around the smell of life and death over the years spent on Sweetwater, but nothing could prepare for the stench wafting from the house.
“Who the hell are you?” a gruff voice shouts.
I look up above the mounds of trash and clutter to see an old man is dressed in all black staring at me. His gaze bores holes through my flesh. He’s hunched over in a recliner, barely able to raise his head. His hair is white as can be and his skin is wrinkled from the former days of his life.
“Hunter,” I stumble out. “Called about the job.”
He continues eyeing me up and down for long beats of time. I’ve witnessed my life flashing before my eyes when being bucked off a horse or charged by an angry bull, but none of that compares to this. It’s quite simply the scariest moment of my life. What have I stepped into?
“You here to work.” His voice continues to slice the air between us with cruelty.
I’m not certain whether he just asked me a question or if he’s making a statement.