Escape to the High Country

Reluctant to break the spell, he got up, found that the door opened when he pulled up the latch. He went inside.

An old tin cup rested on the table, a few faded pictures cut from old National Geographics decorated the back wall. The blackened fireplace in the west wall, the old metal stove on the east end–cold, forsaken and black, a gray circle on the side of its belly all portrayed how hot the fires had been on some winter days in years now past.

Dust had accumulated on the well-laid pine floor, showing Chris' tracks as he moved about, and light refracted through the windows with slowly drifting dust particles suspended.

"Not bad at all, Sport! With a little work, we can have ourselves a fine, snug little home here."

There would be plenty of time to get everything shipshape before winter. He knew it would start in September in this high country, and would be long and hard. The thought, however, brought a very contented peace over Chris. This would be something his soul hungered for. He wouldn’t care that he might be snowed in.

"Gonna need a broom and mop first off, and some good ol' elbow grease" he smiled happily.

Chris got busy, carried his supplies up from the truck and stacked them high on top of each other in a corner. Then he drove back down where he had left the U-Haul for the rest of his belongings. He had a few hard moments as he handled once again the things that had belonged to his mother.

By mid-afternoon, Chris had everything in the cabin–a pretty healthy pile, taking up half the cabin. He had looked the shed over closely by the house, and with a little work he could store some of his belongings there until he could build another room on the cabin, as well as a place to park his truck. But first, he would have to work on the road--for the pickup was a good hundred feet from the house.

The cabin was built of hewn logs, probably a foot square, notched at the corners, and snugly fitted together with one by four strips nailed over the cracks, all quaintly weathered with the years.

The barrel used to collect rainwater from the roof's runoff was rusted through and no good. Chris made a mental note to get one when he returned the trailer to the nearest town miles away. He had noticed the last ranch on his odometer, and found that his nearest neighbors would be twenty miles away, the town, fifty.

The ranch house he had seen set back from the road quite a ways. Chris hadn't seen anyone as he passed, though there was a pickup parked out by the barn.

He cooked his first meal back in America there in the peace and quiet of the high Colorado valley on his old faithful Coleman camp stove he and his dad had used so many times years ago, and the old memories came flooding back.