Marjorie Thelen: High Desert Detective

She turned to go back to bed. The moan started again. Sound reverberated in odd ways here. The source could be out in the cow pasture or half-way across the valley. If she didn’t check this out, she’d never get any sleep. Garnering her scanty courage, she cracked the door enough to shine the light through. The wind blasted into the narrow opening. She squinted into darkness.

Nothing. There was nothing. She opened the door a hair further, enough to flash the light around on the porch. Nothing. The sound had stopped. She was not about to search outside on a night like this. The wind honed a cold edge to the night. She closed the door. There was no lock. She propped one of chairs under the door knob, a trick she’d learned from TV. They did not teach that maneuver in design school. Under the circumstances that was the best she could do.

Crawling under the warm down quilt, she pulled it over her head. She’d never thought to make a fire in the rusty woodstove. The evening had been pleasant. But the wind had come up, and now it was cold enough to see her breath. She checked her watch again. 4:00 A.M. The sky in the east had a light tinge to it. She curled up in a ball and wished for sleep.

An unholy pounding woke her. Given the paucity of sleep she had gotten, she was in a wicked mood, and worse, it was freezing in the bunk house. She wrapped the comforter around her unhappy body and padded to the door. Of course, she had to struggle to get the chair out of the way.

She yanked open the door and squinted into bright light. “What?”

Jake stood in full buckaroo regalia. “You aren’t ready. We’re going sightseeing today. Did you forget?”

“I had a rough night.” She related the story. “It must have been a ghost. There was nothing, and then it stopped.”

“You should have taken me up on my offer of sharing my warm bed in the big house,” he said with a grin.

She ignored him. She wasn’t in the mood. “It’s freezing in here.”

“You should have started a fire.”

“There’s no wood, and I don’t know how anyway. Are you being annoying because it’s in your DNA or because you enjoy making my life a misery?”

“You’re in a temper. Get your stuff. I’ll take you down to the big house for a shower and a decent breakfast. Then we’ll get on the road. You don’t have to be some kind of heroine, staying up here at night. Opal has plenty of extra beds.” He paused then said softly. “And there’s always mine.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m trying to get the feel for the house so I can make a proper living space out of it.”

“Right.”

Everywhere a body went in this country the preferable means of transportation was by truck or rig, as the locals called a truck or other motorized conveyance. If it wasn’t four wheel drive, you were asking for trouble. If snow didn’t end you up in a ditch, the grease they called roads in wet weather would put you there. That’s what Jake told her as they drove along the improved gravel road that stretched forever into the distance. Not another vehicle was on the road. They could have been driving into a black hole.

Fiona wore jeans, a long sleeve white shirt with paisley neck scarf, and her new flat brimmed hat that was starting to grow on her.

“You look the buckaroo,” Jake said.

She smiled. “Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment. I don’t understand why I have to wear long sleeves on a hot day.”

“Because it will keep you from getting sun burn and eaten alive by mosquitoes. They’re bad this time of year.”

“I have a few choice welts to testify to that. Do you always drive this fast?”

“What? Eighty? How else you going to get anywhere?”

Around noon they stopped for lunch at Mann Lake. Jake spread an old blanket on the ground, and Fiona laid out the food Queenie had packed. It was leftovers from the party and smelled more delicious today than yesterday.

“Oh, no,” she said as Jake sat down on the blanket.

“What?”

“I think she put goat in the sandwiches by mistake.”

“No mistake about it. I asked for it.”

“You like goat?”

“You don’t?”

Her tummy rumbled. She sniffed the sandwiches. “I guess I do now.” She took a careful bite, like the goat might still be alive and snuffling around in the bread. She was prepared to hate it, but after a few careful chews realized the tangy marinade sauce made it palatable, maybe even delicious.

Jake pulled his vest collar up around his neck and slapped down his hat. “Wind’s coming up. Eat up and we’ll high tail it down the road. We got a ways to go.”

In minutes a fine layer of grit drifted over the blanket and settled in everything that wasn’t covered. They passed on the pie, packed up, and climbed into the truck to continue the southward journey. Her teeth felt like she had consumed goat and grit sandwich. She wondered if they’d have that on the menu at one of the fancy restaurants back home.

The sun held, the sky went total blue, and they continued south, along Steens Mountain looming 9,500 feet to the west. To the east appeared an expanse of sand covered desert that looked for all the world like the Sahara. It stretched to the southern horizon. Fiona couldn’t see a stitch of vegetation. Nothing but white sand in a shallow bowl that stretched to a ridge in the east.

“What is that?” asked Fiona.

“It is stark, raving desert. This country was an old lake bed,” said Jake. “But now there are no rivers that flow from the basin. Hence, you get some places that are so alkaline, nothing but nothing grows there.”

Further south, the sky darkened with heavy gray clouds tinged with black that rolled and tumbled off the Steens. The temperature dropped thirty degrees in a matter of minutes. Jake turned on the heat.

“That can’t be snow,” she said. “This is June.”

“Yep, it’s snow. This isn’t unusual. It’s the elevation. We’re over four thousand feet,” Jake said.

The snow turned out to be a rogue squall and was over as fast as it came on. Sudden bright sunshine forced Fiona to put on sunglasses. This was a country of weather extremes. Harsh was the word that came to mind.

Jake started singing On the Road Again, and Fiona kept time by tapping her fingers on her knee.

“I like the one you sang last night,” Fiona said. “What was the name again?”

“ Cowboy Lullaby .”

“That was nice. It went with the evening. Do you know anything besides cowboy songs? Like opera? You’re a great baritone.”

“No. I never cared for that caterwauling they call opera. I just sing country and western, some bluegrass, a little gospel. I guess you like opera.”

“Of course. I’ve been to the Met to hear James Levine conduct Rigoletto , my very favorite opera. I sometimes get season tickets for the Washington Opera Company.”

He wagged his head. “You and I are very different.”

“I thought you’d never notice.”

He looked at her and smiled. “Oh, I notice all right. Maybe I could learn to appreciate opera.”

“You could teach me cowboy songs.”

“You bet. Do you know Home on the Range ?”

Fiona sang a few bars, and Jake laughed. “You call that singing?” he said.

Fiona laughed with him. “I forgot to tune my voice this morning.”

“It doesn’t matter how you sound. What matters is that you’re making music with your friends and enjoying it. Let’s try Home on the Range together.”

They sang as they rode along, Jake helping her with the words, Fiona enjoying herself immensely. She hadn’t sung in years. There was something about the combination of singing, the endless distance before them, not another person in sight, and Jake’s company on a road trip that made her happy. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this light and free from the cares of the world.