Winter at Mustang Ridge by Jesse Hayworth Page A

fully mapped out in his head yet.
    “No, it’s state land. We used to see mustangs down there all the time—little family groups, sometimes bigger herds on the move. I’d come out here by myself, bring my camera, and just sit here until dusk, waiting for the perfect shot.” She scanned out to the horizon. “I don’t see any tracks. They must be ranging someplace else for the winter.”
    He looked around. “I should’ve brought a blanket or something for us to sit on.”
    “Ah, let me show you the trick. Come on, this way. Watch your step.” She flicked on her flashlight.
    To his surprise, she led him back to the tree line near the parking area, and then down to what looked like a fault line in the stone, but turned out to be a narrow path that ran below the promontory to a small sheltered area he hadn’t seen from above. There, old, worn logs were set in a semicircle around a fire pit that was lined with stones and blackened with soot.
    The logs were carved with a myriad of names and dates, some in hearts, others with threats or boasts, and a few RIPs, spelling out the history of a generation or two of teens. The nearby stones were bare of graffiti, though, and there wasn’t any trash, suggesting that either the local rangers patrolled the area, or the kids had a code of conduct when it came to using the point.
    Jenny sat at one end of the center log, leaving room for him to sit beside her as long as he didn’t mind squeezing in with their bodies pressed together from knee to shoulder.
    He didn’t mind that. At all.
    “Here.” She handed him a fork and took one of the dessert containers. “Keep track of your trash. We carry out at least as much as we bring in around here.”
    Which answered that question. “Thanks.” He took a bite and looked around, appreciating the shelter, the view, and the company. “This is definitely better than the diner. As long as we don’t go over the edge, that is.”
    She bumped him with her shoulder. “I like living a little dangerously.”
    He could relate, but it also brought a twinge of
been there, done that, learned my lesson
. He wasn’t the same guy he had been before, though, and they were just having fun. “Is that what got you into photography?” he asked. “The call to adventure?”
    “Either that or vice versa. Chicken, egg, who knows? According to my parents, when Krista and I got chicken pox—we were maybe ten or so—I recovered first and was driving everybody nuts because I wasn’t sick enough to stay in bed, wasn’t well enough to be out doing much, and was bored with everything in between. So Gran gave me her instant Polaroid and two boxes of film, figuring that would kill an hour or so.”
    “And an artist was discovered?” He liked the image.
    “Something like that. Two days later, I had my first showing.” She grinned. “I matted the photos on construction paper, hung them along the hallway leading to the kitchen, got Gran to make cookies, and—if you believe my father’s version of the story, anyway—tried to charge admission.”
    He chuckled. “Way to be an entrepreneur.”
    “I didn’t get away with selling tickets, but my parents got me a few more packs of instant film, which I burned through in a weekend. A few days later, Dad handed me his thirty-five-millimeter camera—a decent Canon with a zoom and everything—and told me that he would buy the film, but I had to pay for the developing out of my allowance.”
    “Which, I’m guessing, taught you not to waste your shots.”
    “Yep. It also motivated me to do extra chores, which I suspect was part of his plan. Anyway over the next few years, I took some classes, won some prizes, and did most of the yearbook candids and a bunch of the senior pictures. It was a natural progression to head for film school, even if it meant moving out of state.”
    “And from there, to Belize.”
    “Actually, it was an internship in Kenya first, followed by a couple of bottom-barrel jobs in L.A.