Watching the sun rise over the valley was the best part of the day.
The quiet of the morning brought a brand, new day full of possibilities. The ranch had been my home since I left the Army and I wouldn't trade it for anywhere else in the world.
Some might think that I was living like a hermit, isolated way out here from the world, but I preferred it that way.
I didn't have to deal with traffic, or blaring horns, or people around me.
People could be jerks at the best of times, and the less I had to deal with them, the better. I’d been disappointed too many times in my life and isolating myself from people seemed like the best option.
At least for now.
That way, they didn’t bother me, and I didn’t bother them.
My living style out here on the ranch was primitive and rustic. At times, it felt like I lived in the late 1800’s, but it suited me just fine.
Fancy creature comforts weren’t meant for a man like me.
Being alone for so long had given me a new perspective on life. It gave me a chance to enjoy the little things, the things that are free. The things that I took for granted before I joined the Army and the things I missed the most when I was in Afghanistan.
The sound of rain and the wind howling through the trees.
The smell of fresh dew on the grass, and the stars shining brightly against the dark night sky that went on forever.
Those were the things I loved the most about being out here.
My days on the ranch were quiet and peaceful. Sometimes when I looked out across the valley, I was swept away by the sheer beauty of nature, even if I had no one to share it with.
My mornings on the ranch were always the same routine.
I’d wake up before the sunrise, have breakfast, and head out along the path leading to the fields. There were still a few cows sauntering around, lazily grazing on grass. I’d make sure that the road was clear, especially if there was a rainstorm the previous day.
I always kept a watchful eye out for forest fires and checked the plains for curling smoke every morning. The trees were brittle from a drought that struck two years ago and still hadn’t recovered.
After I brought out hay bales to the field for the cows, I fed the few chickens that still roamed around the yard near the house. Every morning, they would leave me a couple of fresh eggs in appreciation.
“Thank you, ladies,” I would always say to them even as they tried to peck my hands.
I would go weeks at a time without seeing another person. The only visitors were an occasional real estate agent who would bring a potential buyer to view the ranch, which wasn't all that often. The buyers were always city people who thought it would be easy to run a ranch.
Once they saw the condition everything was in, they would hightail it back to the car and drive away like a bat out of hell.
Or maybe it was the actual bats living inside the house that scared them away. They never stuck around long enough for me to ask them.
I never paid much attention to them and always carried on with what I was doing, since it didn’t make a difference to me one way or another if the ranch sold. My caretaker duties extended only to the ranch, not to the house itself.
The main house at the ranch was a mess, and I hadn't checked on in for almost a month now. Frankly I was almost too scared to open the front door and see what came running out. An assortment of rats and possums had moved in the previous winter.
The last time I peeked into the window there was a power struggle going on over who was allowed to sleep on the couch. The Mama possum and her litter of babies hanging onto her back seemed to be winning the battle.
I’d thought about changing the name to Rat Ranch, except I knew the state historical society people wouldn’t be pleased.
The whole ranch was a mess, truth be told.
The wooden fencing needed to be replaced, the trees were overgrown, the barn needed to be repainted, and the lone tractor needed a good cleaning.
Once a week I’d start the engine and allow it to run idly for a short while. At least it kept the mountain lions fooled that there was activity on the ranch.
Not that it stopped them from coming around.
There was an incident last year when I surprised a full-grown mountain lion in the barn, lounging on an old hay bale, looking mighty comfortable.
I left him alone because there wasn’t another alternative.
Eventually he got bored with napping and left.
There was no way to contact me here except for a trip out in person, so if someone was thinking about buying the place, I’d never know about it until they showed up.
I’m not worried.
Even if some idiot does buy the place, it won’t be too hard to run them off.