Take Only Pictures (3 page)

“I can’t wait to see where you’re going,” her mother said.

Gloria nodded because she was sure if she answered, her voice would crack. She readied her camper for travel and opened up the gates. Her mother remained inside, never one to make a big deal of her departures. Gloria pursed her lips as she eased out onto the road, plenty of time ahead of her on the long drive to work through all her mother had given her to think about.

Chapter Three

It’s funny how quickly it all comes back, Kristine thought, bent down on one knee next to the sorrel mare. Like riding a horse…or is it supposed to be a bike? Having been on a horse since the time she could sit up, years before attempting to ride a bicycle, had forever ruined the phrase for her. She smiled to herself and turned to the task of getting her tiny rider into the saddle.

“Trust me,” she said to the adorable pigtailed young girl whose head tilted all the way back to get a look up at the saddle. She had her father’s jet-black hair and almond eyes and her mother’s dimpled chin, Kristine noted, patting her chap-covered thigh. “Put your right foot here. Left foot in the stirrup, and swing aboard.”

The girl’s feet followed orders, and the seven-year-old sat proudly in the saddle.

“A natural,” Kristine said, making sure the girl’s feet were secure in the stirrups. She handed her the reins. “You remember her name?”

“Goldie!” she shouted.

She could feel both the approval of the little girl’s mother and the scrutiny of Brian, the young cowboy learning the ropes who would be making this same trip at least two hundred times over the course of the summer. He at least had the costume down with his Western brushpopper shirt, Wrangler jeans and black felt hat. When they got back to the corrals, she’d let him in on some of her secrets to securing better tips from the dudes who did the shortest of their rides down to Rainbow Falls and back. So many of the kids Leo hired cared only about spending the summer in the saddle. They treated the guests, who very often had never been on a horse, disdainfully simply because of their lack of experience, their being “dudes.” But he surprised her, dropping to his knee in front of the beautiful twenty-some- year-old woman whose horse he had pulled around.

Kristine dipped her hat to hide her embarrassment for him. Though the young woman was short, she was clearly experienced. He might have noticed that if his eyes had gotten past the vest zipped tight over her long-sleeved polo shirt and her form-fitting riding pants tucked into her paddock boots. She proved Kristine’s intuition true when she took the reins, captured the stirrup and launched herself into the saddle.

They finished loading the rest of the riders, Brian leading the three other dude horses to the stump that served as a mounting block. He and Kristine rode the as yet untried horses from the employee corral. The willowy redhead who had refused Brian’s leg up angled her horse behind Kristine for the loop down to lower falls.

“How long have you been riding?” Kristine asked, turning in her saddle to make sure the whole group fell in behind her.

“Since fourth grade,” she answered, “but all English, hunter/jumper.”

“Clearly, the skills translate to Western,” Kristine said with a quirk of her eyebrow, smiling at the blush the woman didn’t try to hide.

They fell into easy discussion about the different riding styles, horses they’d owned, how great it must be to get to ride all summer and get paid for it. Engaging her in discussion had been easy, and, as usual, it made the ride go so much faster. Kristine had always had a knack for being able to find something to talk about with anyone. She pointed out wildlife and flowers and hollered the story of the fire that raged through the forest in 1992 and what the outfit had done with the stock. It was a talent that had been rewarded with rave reviews from the guests and extra cash to help with her college expenses.

They returned to the Lodge via the wagon trail and riding between the mule corral on their left and the horse corral on the right. The horses automatically lined up at the tie rail by the horse corral. Kristine wasn’t surprised when she circled around to tie them up and Miss hunter/jumper handed her some bills. She also wasn’t very surprised when she whispered that she was in campsite seventeen and would really like to get to know her better. The guest winked and sauntered away as the little squirt ran over with her own fistful of bills.

“Don’t go asking mom for a pony,” Kristine said to the youngster, tucking the money into the breast pocket of her plaid shirt. As mom smiled on, she bent down to whisper just to the little girl, “tell her to start you on a horse.” The little girl beamed and galloped off toward the café.

“How do you DO that,” Brian grumbled.

“Get tips or get campsite invites?” she asked.

Brian’s head snapped in the direction of the young woman he had attempted to help. “She invited you over? YOU?” The scrawny teen tipped his hat back and scratched his red hair.

Feeling like she had shared too much with the newcomer, Kristine slipped off Rip’s bridle before tying it to the saddle, steering the conversation away from the personal. The tack shed behind them held four-by-four beams, two high, to house the saddles. Kristine heaved the first saddle onto a top rung. Brian followed her lead, grunting to push the saddle into place.

“Watch your guests,” Kristine said, as they worked on the next two horses. “You pick up on little things. Bigger kids like to try on their own. They’re independent—as are most women.” He hung his head. “You’ll get the hang of it, and fast with three rides down to the falls every day.”

“You make it look so easy.”

Kristine shrugged but remembered very well feeling awe-struck by the day-ride crew years ago when she herself had been the newbie, learning the trails, the horses, the soap-opera dynamics of the people she worked with.

“Teeny!” a deep voice barked.

She groaned at the annoying nickname of her youth. “Where the hell you been, girl?” The voice came from a cowboy so old and bent by time that he had to peer up at her. She saw the smile behind his eyes, his brown skin darkened and wrinkled from years in the sun and couldn’t deny him a hug. She snapped his red suspenders as they pulled apart.

“How’r you, Sol?”

“Still dodging the question, I see. I knew your daddy made a mistake listening to Leo about going to school. Can’t see what they have to teach you that you haven’t already learned from us…”

“How are my mules?”

“Yeah, I figgered that’s why you were back. Not for us geezers. C’mon.” He tugged at his battered baseball cap and limped across the yard.

Kristine gave Brian instructions for putting up the stock and joined Sol down at the mule corral. She scampered onto one of the felled trees that served as the corral and gazed out over the stock.

“Suuuuuuuzy-Q! Scooter!” Out of the thirty head in the corral, four long, dark ears swung her way. The pair broke from the herd and strolled over to put their faces in Kristine’s lap, snuffing for treats in her chap pockets. Most of the mules in the corral were bred and trained by Kristine’s father, but Kristine considered Suzy-Q and Scooter her babies since they were the first her father had let her train on her own. Amazingly, they had not forgotten her.

“You been spoiling this year’s foals, too?” Sol grumbled.

She shoved him with her shoulder. “I don’t have the time to live down at the corral like I did when I got these guys. I grew up with them. I learned a hell of a lot having free rein with their training. They taught me about boundaries, so no. No more spoiling. Don’t go telling my dad he was right.”

Sol worked the chew in his lip a minute his eyes still on the mules in the corral. “How’s the old man?” he finally asked.

“Same pisshead he’s always been.”

“You watch your mouth, girl,” he growled.

But Kristine laughed at his attempt to scold her. “And who taught me about pissheads?”

He hmphed and joined Kristine in scratching the ears of the mule in front of him. “Clifford might be an asshole, but he sure breeds a fine mule.”

“You’re the only person in the world I know who calls him that.”

“You talk him into doing a draft horse cross, get something a more respectable size?” he asked. “Get a Belgian mare and one of those Mammoth jacks. He’s got more than those bitty donkeys now, right?”

“We picked up a Mammoth jack stud.”

Sol rubbed his hands together. “A cross like that would make a fine mule.”

“Only problem is how attached we are to our Morgan mares on the ranch. They’re always going to throw a smaller mule, and there are plenty of people who agree that it’s a great cross. Not everyone thinks bigger is better,” Kristine said even though Sol was one of the few packers who agreed with her. She straightened Suzy-Q’s forelock. “They all need haircuts.”

“Unlike you.”

Kristine hid her smile by tilting her hat, shading her face from Sol.

“You got any hair under that hat, or’d someone scalp you?”

“Not scalped, Sol. Just grown up.”

“You sure about that?”

“Hell, I’m not even sure you’re grown up, old man.”

He laughed then, his eyes disappearing into his weathered face and chins multiplying. “C’mon, young ’un. You can call me anything you like…”

Kristine smiled and couldn’t resist completing the sentence. “But don’t call me late for supper.” She swung her arm around Sol, always thankful for his support. She’d missed the gruff cowboy and felt guilty for the years she’d let pass without at least contacting him. Her mules a close second, he’d been the hardest part to leave, especially since she’d lied about why she had to go. She knew he’d suspected but hadn’t pushed, for which she was grateful. His questioning eyes resurfaced time and time again in her mind. When it came to flight or fight, she’d chosen to run, and she’d always wondered what would have happened if she’d stayed instead.

Chapter Four

Gloria swung the postcard rack a third time staring at the beautiful vistas, sunrises, sunsets, scenic panoramas of the Red Cones, Rainbow Falls, Devils Postpile and more. As a wildlife biologist who had worked for the Forest Service and was now conducting research for the Department of Fish and Wildlife, she had worked in some beautiful places, but she rarely took photos. She’d been disappointed too many times by her images which failed to compare to those done by the professionals. They were somehow able to portray the awe she felt when she was out in the wilderness.

“Against the wall, we have cards done by local artists,” the clerk offered from the counter across from the doorway. She had a classic outdoorsy look and had probably taken the job here so that she could hike every second she wasn’t working.

Gloria smiled her thanks and walked across the store. No doubt the Lodgepole Pine Pack Outfit’s store charged more than the larger places up on Mammoth Mountain, but it was a lot closer. It looked like they had a little bit of everything as far as staples went as well as some tempting treats. She again looked at the young woman, probably still in college, absorbed in a supermarket thriller.

Far too young, she chastised herself, remembering what Meg had said to her just that morning. She thumbed through the rack of tees and sweatshirts. When she was new to the area and on yet another temporary assignment, she forced herself to orient to the community instead of tucking herself away like a hermit, which came much more naturally to her. Having arrived in Mammoth the evening before, she had spent the morning at the Forest Service office. Scott, the Wilderness and Trail Supervisor, was welcoming enough but clearly distracted by dozens of pressing tasks, all of which would have been effortless for a fully-staffed department. They were a clear challenge for his small staff of three, all of whom she’d been able to meet since the camping season had not yet officially begun. Lean times everywhere, she mused.

She wondered what it was about any ranger station that drew together a standard cast of characters. The supervisor was always a fatherly type, stern and distracted but also concerned with the welfare of his employees. She’d met Mitchell, their touchy-feely guy, laid-back and relaxed about everything including casual sex. This type was always the first to hit on Gloria, and he was no exception, standing close and offering to walk her through their past season ranger reports personally.

Rick held the high-strung wilderness ranger role. She’d seen both female and male rangers fall into this category. People came second to him. He barely had any energy left over to communicate with people because so much of his attention keyed in on the current state of the entire ecosystem. He would be extremely knowledgeable and informative, but any information would feel like it was distributed. He kept professional distance from everyone.

Some stations had the backcountry hostess ranger—the soft-spoken gentle soul who took personal responsibility for every guest’s camping experience. Gloria’s job was to reduce the interaction between humans and bears. That more often meant managing people, not the bears, so she was used to causing conflict by demanding that people respect the rules of the backcountry. Thus, she usually butted heads with the hostess ranger type.

But not as much as she butted heads with the straight competent ranger. Juanita fell into this, her least favorite of the female ranger types. Her first priority was for people to know that just because she wore comfortable shoes and enjoyed the out-of-doors did not mean that she slept with women.

Occasionally, she ran into the gruff one-of-the-guys dyke rangers. Friendly enough, but never a romantic interest for Gloria.

Professionally, they’d all be helpful, but socially, she’d be on her own. Mitchell would be sure to offer his assistance with her acclimation to the area. She frowned. Why wasn’t it ever a charismatic and friendly woman making the offer?

Gloria moved to the display of mounted enlargements on the wall of the store. The individually crafted and packaged cards had a different feel from the postcards she had selected. The commercial version of the Devils Postpile picture, for example, was obviously taken directly at the site and captured the fascinating detail of the geographic formation. The local photographer had taken the picture from across the San Joaquin from atop a mule whose ears framed the tiny, but clear, national monument. She liked the sense of familiarity that the artist had captured. This photo wasn’t for the hit-and-run tourist. It was for the nature enthusiast who cherished the wilderness like she did, who saw, she laughed at herself for thinking the cliché, the whole picture. She scanned more of the cards by the same artist.