A neighborly visit. . .
(This story has no importance. . .it is just a diversion, a break from emotional overlaod that many of us are experiencing right now. . .it is just the story of an adventure. It is a true story, but still just a story.)
One day during that first week or so, a rancher from the East side of the mountain came over to visit the rumored “hippies” that had moved into the area.
I was off looking for the quarter section marker. . . still, as Don and Peter were over near the road where the car and small trailer were parked going through things that we would want at the main campsite.
The hefty, bib-overalled rancher dismounted his pickup truck and ambled over to talk with the two guys as they were working. As they related the conversation to me later that day, I really enjoyed the laughter it brought as well as discovering the misperceptions that were apparently held by the locals.
“Hi. I’m from over the other side of the mountain, name is Burton, Ward Burton.” He extended his hand for the customary handshakes. “Just heard there was some folks over here and was wondering what you all are doing.” Nosey, but straight to the point.
Don and Peter introduced themselves and explained that they were with the owner of some property here and we were camping while looking for a good site to build a cabin. Gay people could speak quite circumspectly, especially in those days of rather persistent antagonism and hostile reactions. We knew very well how to minimally say anything we had to say without giving out more information than we wanted to.
“Oh, there’s more of you?” Burton replied. “Well, I didn’t have any idea how many there was over here (of course he knew exactly how many of us there were). How come you came to buy land here where there is no water? I got land over the other side that has water, you should have bought some of that.” No Water? Did I forget to tell you there was no obvious or easy source of water here on our mountain top? There was no water. No Water. NO WATER!
I didn’t see that as such a big freakin’ deal. We had several 5 gallon water containers that we filled up when we made our infrequent trips into “town. What would happen when the snows came and the dirt road out of the mountains would not be passable by a touring car? Don’t be silly. You melt the snow, boil the water to make it clean enough for drinking and cooking and you fill up the 5 gallon water jugs. Did you know that 5 gallons of water weighs 40 lbs.? Do you know how heavy 40 lbs. feels going down one side of a 30′ ravine and back up the other side? Let’s just say it is heavy. But I finally got to a place I could carry 2, one in each hand down and across the ravine and up the other side to the campsite. This was damn healthy living!
After they became comfortable with rancher Burton and his curiosity, the guys told him it was just the two of them and me. . .the wild mountain woman. . .and we were doing just fine. No, none of us was married to each other, just good “church” friends.
“Damn!” Burton exclaimed. “You all can get a woman who will stay out here in a tent and cook on a campfire, clear brush and split wood for a fire? Heck, the wife and I have a real nice truck and camper and I can’t hardly get her to want to go camping with me once a summer with all the conveniences.” He rubbed his hands through his short cropped hair as if this were something bordering on the unimaginable to him. The guys explained that it was MY idea and they were the ones that were convinced to come along.
“Well, all I can say is she must be one hell of a woman.” He shook his head from side to side, “Yep, one hell of a woman. . .” a slow grin crept across his face as he continued. . .”One hell of a woman that can take care of two fellas and do all of that work as well.” The guys did not miss his innuendo. They let him think whatever he wanted. Burton suggested if we ran into problems or needed help we could call on him. I think he meant that in a real neighborly way, not that he wanted a share of this “One hell of a woman” if there was any sharing going on.
He walked off back to his pickup truck and drove back up over the mountain . . .muttering. . .”One hell of a woman.” As you see, the beginning of the myth started here. Admiration and fantasy thoughts with no real connection to reality birthed a minor legend in those small Utah towns.
During the days that passed so filled with exploration and building at least 2 fires and cooking 2 full meals every day, I had my moments of pondering the state of my life and the apparent inability to have a lasting relationship. I didn’t spend a lot of time in dwelling on “oh my poor broken heart.” But it found its way from time to time into my now every breathing moment conversations with the Higher Power. A lot of talking going on there. It set the tone and direction for the rest of my life.
I built a cupboard out of downed and dried branches from the Ponderosas. Four posts about 3 inches around and cut to a proper height. The top I fashioned out of similar “poles” that I used the draw knives to flatten and smooth the top surfaces. Cross braces, called stretchers, were added for stability and fastening the top and an inner shelf. I covered the inside with plastic to water proof it then anchored the sturdy structure to a large pine tree that was nearest our campfire site. It held a lot of supplies and was very convenient for preparing things to cook as well.
I loved using the draw knives. . .tools our pioneer ancestors were very well familiar with. Sometimes I would sit on a large log and use the knives to peel away the bark and smooth out a flat surface. It was like a soothing meditation to me. I just plain loved doing it. The flattened tops of logs made pretty comfortable seating as well. But there was often really no purposeful creating of seating areas in my mind. It just felt so good to do it and to discover the grain and the feel of the smoothed wood under my fingertips. You didn’t need many fancy tools in the mountains. . .many of our ancestors managed with just a broad axe and a hunting knife. These tools had all been ones I found well used but in good shape at garage sales. I didn’t pay very much for them but they were worth their weight in gold.
Somewhere here about two weeks into our stay, I found the quarter section marker that was at the bottom NW corner of my 40 acre parcel. We had a great laugh and celebrated the find. The laugh was on us. . .it wasn’t more than 25′ or 30 ‘ up the hillside just behind our current camping site. . . it was a great laugh to think of the far flung forays we had taken looking for it. Now that we were oriented to where the property actually was, we began anew our treks off in search of a site to build a cabin. Of course, build a cabin, doesn’t everyone know how to build a cabin? I sure thought I did.
About three and a half weeks had passed when we decided we would take the trek into town. There is not really a way you could call Henrieville a town, a general store and Post Office smaller than most modern convenience stores today. There were a few houses scattered around. Panguitch was the town closest of any size, and it was 60 or so miles West. I checked our supplies and we talked about what sort of things we might like to eat so we could make a grocery list. We gathered up our dirty clothes to take them to a laundromat. Make no mistake, a trip to town was quite an event for us.
We were pretty darn excited and took off about 9 in the morning the day we left. It was a beautiful drive on the dirt roads out of the Dixie National Forest where our mountain residence was located. Three miles down the road towards the highway we saw the remains of a long abandoned small saw mill. Time was not so important to us that we couldn’t stop and poke around to see what treasures there might be there. There were indeed treasures that we would gather up some other time.
As we drove the remaining mile or two to the highway, we all had great anticipation. When we came to the Henrieville store, we stopped to see if we had mail and to get a coke and some other treats we had done without for these past weeks. There was mail. The Cokes tasted wonderful and the small bag of chips was quite a treat too. The best part was talking to the owner and Post Mistress. She had to know all about our camp, what we did for food, why we were there, where we were from, and how in the world did I cook every day over a campfire. It took us an hour and a half.
We passed through Cannonville which didn’t seem to have more than a few houses and no store at all. Next we came upon another “bend in the road” called Tropic. They had a gas station and a store large enough to be called a grocery. We stopped there too. We put more fuel in the car, picked up some ice cream bars to eat along the way and spent another half hour or 45 minutes telling our story again to the woman working in this store. “Oh, you’re the ones,” she said as if the word was already out about the “One hell of a woman” and the two guys living up there in the old Cannon mountains. “Cannon used to run sheep up there. Course he died 15 or 20 years ago. Guess his son is the one dividing all that up and selling it off. What in the world are you doing for water up there?” She asked. . .something we would hear many times during our ventures into town.
We had only come about 20 miles. We were already two hours or more into our trip. The next stretch of road would be red canyons and desert fields of sagebrush for 30 or so miles to Panguitch. These every three or four week trips to town became not a one day event but as long as two or three days sometimes. We had to stop and visit with everyone along the way, and once in Panguitch there were several folks we had to see and spend time with. Gosh! I loved these small town people. It was right then I understood I was a small town hick at heart and I had no business ever living in a big city again.
Into the “big city” (maybe 1,100), new friends to meet and camp mishaps and humor for all. That’s coming up in part 4.
