low tilting water tanks and clumps of rusted farm machinery hedged in by bleached tufts of high dead brush. Scattered grazing cattle. A mile or so beyond the gate and signs the road petered out, their rough rutted route concluding in a diminished riverbed choked with weeds and cobbles. To their left extended a turnout of sorts, dirt banked in berms ahead of room for several vehicles, marks of steel tread and claws still visible on the soil. Someone had an earth mover, although she hadn’t seen it while passing the ranch. Pete braked the truck just shy of the furthest berm and they all three climbed out to stretch and gear up.
Not two minutes and a pair of 4 wheel ATVs buzzed up behind their truck. Right before Sue-Min heard them approach she’d been eyeing some bushes where she thought she could squat in privacy. Too late.
The riders were weather-beaten white men, both in Resistol hats, cotton shirts tucked tight into Wranglers. One was stocky and graying, the other lanky and leathered though likely less than thirty. The rancher and his son or hired hand. She guessed the latter based on their lack of physical resemblance. Both rode with shotguns on their ATVs in plastic scabbards like tubes for rural newspaper delivery, and as they slid from their seats both drew those weapons. Drew, but did not raise or level them. The two men let their guns hang at six, seven o’clock. The level of threat was implicit but limited, deferred.
She caught the hand’s eyes flicking on and off her, up and down, that blend of lust and slow rage she knew too well from elsewhere. Smoldering anger over her apparent foreignness, at the shape of her eyes, at her presence in their stronghold. For once she was glad of the Glock Ron kept in his pack, preferred not to think how Pete probably packed one too. Pete was the kind of guy saw unpermitted concealed carry as a point of pride, a civic duty.
Ron found Sue-Min’s hand with his, held it, squeezed. Pete strode ahead to wade in, asking, —Hey guys, have we got a prob—? but Ron called him back, took the lead. He released Sue-Min’s hand, strolled out to the pair and spoke. The wind struck up in the leaves overhead so she and Pete heard little more than the general rhythm of the conversation, its ebb and flow. They watched the mismatched sides commence a session of head shaking, hand pointing, the odd nod here and there. At least the two men never brought their guns to bear. That would’ve meant time to go . . . unless it meant too late to go. How close did things come to going that far south? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Pete sidled toward Sue but she stepped away, determined not to bond.
She had confidence in Ron. She’d watched him work his magic before with surly ranchers on caving trips in the GypKap. Gotten them access to sites no one had seen in a generation or more. His first ten years raised just outside Carrizozo had left him with some social skills in southern NM and AZ, the rural version of street smarts. Pete probably would’ve got them shot.
Several minutes into the conversation the younger rancher pointed back the way they’d come then over the ridge to his right, their left. After final nods and even a lifeless half smile by the senior rancher, a flat expression that never reached his eyes, all parties retreated to their vehicles. The men sheathed their shotguns but did not depart.
Ron returned to where his girlfriend and best friend stood waiting. —Here’s how they say it is. Blossom Creek Canyon is over that ridge, and Blossom Creek leads back to the major Blue drainage, only on Forest Service land. Clear Forest Service land, not checkerboard, so we can go as far as we like from there. But first we’ve got to drive back and park outside their gate. They don’t mind us hiking in so long as we park outside their gate and stay on the east bank of the Blue after we cross. They don’t want us parking on their ranch or driving through it. We’ve got to go
Not two minutes and a pair of 4 wheel ATVs buzzed up behind their truck. Right before Sue-Min heard them approach she’d been eyeing some bushes where she thought she could squat in privacy. Too late.
The riders were weather-beaten white men, both in Resistol hats, cotton shirts tucked tight into Wranglers. One was stocky and graying, the other lanky and leathered though likely less than thirty. The rancher and his son or hired hand. She guessed the latter based on their lack of physical resemblance. Both rode with shotguns on their ATVs in plastic scabbards like tubes for rural newspaper delivery, and as they slid from their seats both drew those weapons. Drew, but did not raise or level them. The two men let their guns hang at six, seven o’clock. The level of threat was implicit but limited, deferred.
She caught the hand’s eyes flicking on and off her, up and down, that blend of lust and slow rage she knew too well from elsewhere. Smoldering anger over her apparent foreignness, at the shape of her eyes, at her presence in their stronghold. For once she was glad of the Glock Ron kept in his pack, preferred not to think how Pete probably packed one too. Pete was the kind of guy saw unpermitted concealed carry as a point of pride, a civic duty.
Ron found Sue-Min’s hand with his, held it, squeezed. Pete strode ahead to wade in, asking, —Hey guys, have we got a prob—? but Ron called him back, took the lead. He released Sue-Min’s hand, strolled out to the pair and spoke. The wind struck up in the leaves overhead so she and Pete heard little more than the general rhythm of the conversation, its ebb and flow. They watched the mismatched sides commence a session of head shaking, hand pointing, the odd nod here and there. At least the two men never brought their guns to bear. That would’ve meant time to go . . . unless it meant too late to go. How close did things come to going that far south? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Pete sidled toward Sue but she stepped away, determined not to bond.
She had confidence in Ron. She’d watched him work his magic before with surly ranchers on caving trips in the GypKap. Gotten them access to sites no one had seen in a generation or more. His first ten years raised just outside Carrizozo had left him with some social skills in southern NM and AZ, the rural version of street smarts. Pete probably would’ve got them shot.
Several minutes into the conversation the younger rancher pointed back the way they’d come then over the ridge to his right, their left. After final nods and even a lifeless half smile by the senior rancher, a flat expression that never reached his eyes, all parties retreated to their vehicles. The men sheathed their shotguns but did not depart.
Ron returned to where his girlfriend and best friend stood waiting. —Here’s how they say it is. Blossom Creek Canyon is over that ridge, and Blossom Creek leads back to the major Blue drainage, only on Forest Service land. Clear Forest Service land, not checkerboard, so we can go as far as we like from there. But first we’ve got to drive back and park outside their gate. They don’t mind us hiking in so long as we park outside their gate and stay on the east bank of the Blue after we cross. They don’t want us parking on their ranch or driving through it. We’ve got to go
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