Read Online Badluck Way: A Year on the Ragged Edge of the West by Bryce Andrews - Free Book Online
Authors: Bryce Andrews
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my head into the old calving barn that sat next to the creek. Inside I found a dry-docked flotilla: inflatables for running rough water, a ski boat with a massive outboard, and a pair of aluminum drift boats that looked brand-new except for a coating of dust and bird shit. While poking through another old shed, this one behind Jeremy’s house, I found a wooden crate that held an unused birch canoe.
After seeing that pristine collection, I didn’t expect Roger to pull up to the bunkhouse in a muddy Subaru. I didn’t picture him small of stature with a boyish grin, dressed in faded jeans and a pair of black over-the-glasses shades that hid his face from nose to forehead. But that was Roger.
He stepped out of the car, walked over to me, and stuck out his hand.
“You must be Bryce.”
I was a little disappointed. I thought the owner of a twenty-seven-million-dollar ranch would at least wear a gold watch or fancy shoes. Instead, Roger looked like a fisherman, like my father on vacation, right down to the quick-dry shirt with a fly shop’s name stitched across the breast pocket.
Roger asked about the accommodations and how I liked my work so far. We talked for a couple of minutes before he excused himself and drove off to his house for a conference call. “Stop by anytime I’m up there,” he said.
Roger was courteous, kind to his employees, and curious about the workings of the ranch, but he was always pressed for time. He skipped from one commitment to the next like a stone across water—there and gone in an instant, leaving ripples behind.
Two wolves wandered separately through the foothills of the Madison Range. The land was sliding into winter, and deep snow had driven hundreds of elk down from the peaks. At night the elk drifted out of the hills to graze on the flat, lush pastures of the ranch. They squealed and chirped to each other in the dark. Though both wolves began to haunt the edges of big, milling herds, the two of them did not get together right away—such things are usually complicated. They orbited each other, sniffing at tracks and keeping a safe distance. They courted across half a dozen drainages and bounced howls off the bottom of the moon.
Even as he made sense of the new presence, the wolf continued to learn his country. Down on the South End, he found his way into and out of the Squaw Creek bog, a trail-less rat’s nest of broken timber, moss, and deep sinkholes. He discovered the overgrown logging road that cuts partway through the bog and used it thereafter as a shortcut. On Moose Creek, he patterned elk, learning which trails they used to cross through the foothills and where they chose to graze at night. Up Bad Luck Creek he found a perfect little defile, almost a box canyon, with live water and a well-worn game trail running through the bottom. He returned to it often until the elk grew wary and the canyon floor was littered with bones.
As he traveled, the wolf grew bolder. He learned the contours of the lower ranch and left a line of palm-sized tracks across the road when fresh snow covered the gravel of Badluck Way. From a lofty remove, he watched a bewildering variety of machines growl across the landscape. He saw men come and go from the shop and barn, and watched as they rode horseback to gather cattle. He kept a wary distance.
In time, he found ways to become invisible, honing this skill to a razor’s edge on the North End, where every misstep sent deer and antelope scattering to the far horizon. That broad plain was a wild ungulate’s dream, a place where the deck was stacked in favor of the prey and solidly against the predator. Nearly every spot out there had a commanding view, and the ground was perfect for running. When large, vigilant herds grazed the Flats, it took a stroke of luck for wolves to get anywhere near them.
The wolf still managed to eat. He followed the gentle, almost indistinguishable swales that wind across the Flats. He covered open ground at night and
After seeing that pristine collection, I didn’t expect Roger to pull up to the bunkhouse in a muddy Subaru. I didn’t picture him small of stature with a boyish grin, dressed in faded jeans and a pair of black over-the-glasses shades that hid his face from nose to forehead. But that was Roger.
He stepped out of the car, walked over to me, and stuck out his hand.
“You must be Bryce.”
I was a little disappointed. I thought the owner of a twenty-seven-million-dollar ranch would at least wear a gold watch or fancy shoes. Instead, Roger looked like a fisherman, like my father on vacation, right down to the quick-dry shirt with a fly shop’s name stitched across the breast pocket.
Roger asked about the accommodations and how I liked my work so far. We talked for a couple of minutes before he excused himself and drove off to his house for a conference call. “Stop by anytime I’m up there,” he said.
Roger was courteous, kind to his employees, and curious about the workings of the ranch, but he was always pressed for time. He skipped from one commitment to the next like a stone across water—there and gone in an instant, leaving ripples behind.
Two wolves wandered separately through the foothills of the Madison Range. The land was sliding into winter, and deep snow had driven hundreds of elk down from the peaks. At night the elk drifted out of the hills to graze on the flat, lush pastures of the ranch. They squealed and chirped to each other in the dark. Though both wolves began to haunt the edges of big, milling herds, the two of them did not get together right away—such things are usually complicated. They orbited each other, sniffing at tracks and keeping a safe distance. They courted across half a dozen drainages and bounced howls off the bottom of the moon.
Even as he made sense of the new presence, the wolf continued to learn his country. Down on the South End, he found his way into and out of the Squaw Creek bog, a trail-less rat’s nest of broken timber, moss, and deep sinkholes. He discovered the overgrown logging road that cuts partway through the bog and used it thereafter as a shortcut. On Moose Creek, he patterned elk, learning which trails they used to cross through the foothills and where they chose to graze at night. Up Bad Luck Creek he found a perfect little defile, almost a box canyon, with live water and a well-worn game trail running through the bottom. He returned to it often until the elk grew wary and the canyon floor was littered with bones.
As he traveled, the wolf grew bolder. He learned the contours of the lower ranch and left a line of palm-sized tracks across the road when fresh snow covered the gravel of Badluck Way. From a lofty remove, he watched a bewildering variety of machines growl across the landscape. He saw men come and go from the shop and barn, and watched as they rode horseback to gather cattle. He kept a wary distance.
In time, he found ways to become invisible, honing this skill to a razor’s edge on the North End, where every misstep sent deer and antelope scattering to the far horizon. That broad plain was a wild ungulate’s dream, a place where the deck was stacked in favor of the prey and solidly against the predator. Nearly every spot out there had a commanding view, and the ground was perfect for running. When large, vigilant herds grazed the Flats, it took a stroke of luck for wolves to get anywhere near them.
The wolf still managed to eat. He followed the gentle, almost indistinguishable swales that wind across the Flats. He covered open ground at night and
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