Arriving and leaving the ranch is never a straightforward endeavor. First of all, it is a 10-hour drive from our home in California. Then, when we arrive, it’s three curvy and bumpy, and sometimes impassable, miles from the road to the house. There are weather-related obstacles as when the road and culvert over Sheep Creek blew out one winter or when rain and soppy snow muck it up pretty bad. Sometimes the snow tires on George’s big ol’ pickup won’t even make it, much less the little bitty things on my Ford hatchback. One horrifying year, there was a literal plague of Mormon crickets in this region of Northeastern Nevada and the road was slick with ‘em. (We made it to the house, but when thousands of them started climbing on the screen door of the house to get in - not kidding! - that was enough for me and we hightailed it out of there.) And there’s five gates to get through, too. Occasionally, depending on the whereabouts of the cattle, one or two of those gates may be open. If they’re open, they can stay that way, but if they’re closed, they need to be unlocked, opened, driven through, then closed and locked again to make sure the cattle stay where they’re supposed to. (Cattle staying put is never a guarantee, though, even when the gates are shut!) Sometimes the cows are on the road and refuse to move until the very last second. Often, if we’re on the road at night, jack rabbits will spring out of the sagebrush and race us down the road, zigging and zagging at warp speed. Sage grouse might be on the road, too. They’re not anywhere near as fast as the jackrabbits.

Nope, it’s not straightforward. But, boy is it worth it.

In fact, for the last twenty some-odd winters, when it’s time to close up the ranch, I have grieved, pure and simple, knowing I’ll not see it again for at least six months. Usually by June, though, the snow is pretty much gone and we can get in again.

It’s June 2023 now. I have been informed by our friends, the Mori’s, who own the ranch now, that the road is clear and passable. I can get in. (Cue heart leaping.)

June and September were George’s absolute favorite times at the ranch. We tried hard to be up there as much as possible during those months. The weather’s usually not too hot, not too cold, and not too volatile although there are still the occasional snow and rain and lightning days. (It’s Goldilocks weather! Sorry…) July and August can be roasters and in October and November, the weather returns which makes planning to go precarious and unpredictable.

But, June is just splendid.

It’s different now that George is gone, gorgeous and beautiful still, but missing something. And someone.

You know what it is? It’s the PURE JOY AND PEACE George exhibited here and no place else. Nowhere else in the entire world did George rest and relax like he did here.

He might set up the telescope and find the myriad constellations he knew by heart. Or he might check to see if he could spot elk on yonder mountain. We might have target practice from the deck (he’d set up the target a fair distance away - he was a crack shot). Or play chess. (I love chess but I am not a worthy opponent to too many in this world and George whopped me easily. Still, we both love the game and he tolerated playing against me quite well!) And, always a voracious reader, he’d settle in for hours to read. He’d mix us up a couple Tuscaroras, a drink he and our friend Kai devised long ago. It has pineapple juice, lime juice, rum, and Coke. It is entirely yummy.

As I ponder it, I don’t think I’ve had a Tuscarora since he died. Maybe I’ll have one when I get up there this time. Yep, that’s exactly what I’ll do.

In 2014, we were headed out of the ranch and were making our way over the “driveway” (as he called it). Clouds were comin’ in and we didn’t want to be trapped at the house or, worse, in the mud. We’d already gotten through three gates, rounding Deep Creek Meadow and the hay loafs, and were on the home stretch to the main road when George realized he’d forgotten his phone. I remember my first thought was, “Good. A little bit longer here.” We turned around and worked our way back to the house.

Oh, fortuitously forgotten phone…

When we headed back out our second time, we were greeted with a resplendent display; a gift from the sky. It was as if we were in a dream of chiaroschuro; of light play and shadow. George stopped the truck and we got out and looked back at the mountains toward the house.

The whole world glimmered with Nevada's other silver and gold.

We saw with new eyes the wonder and beauty and power of this country. And, already mesmerized, sunlight suddenly streamed through the clouds and bathed the road in rays of intense brilliant light.

We looked at one another as we stood there at the back of the truck. Both of us…undone.

That was our last visit to the ranch that year, and the following year, despite his tremendous intellect, George began to inexplicably show signs of the dementia that would, three years later, take him. We were rocked to our cores.

We still had time to enjoy the ranch after that; the first couple years his formidable brain fought valiantly.

As I look back now, though, I see that that last drive out, with that spectacular light show, was a gift, a tender send-off, a holy message through the clouds, blessing our time together at the ranch, and honoring the final chapter of our lives.

The Lightshare Letters Friday Feature is a weekly or biweekly post shining light (see what I did there?) on a remarkable creator and/or creation, especially those who, or which, instill great wonder.

Leave a comment

Share