5
(Cara)
Day one.
My first day on assignment, doing the work I came here to do. I’ve channeled all the great storytellers I can think of—Joan Didion, Tom Wolfe, Gay Talese—to remind me why I made this leap, out of traditional journalism to what they called New Journalism, the place where a literary writing style and reporting can exist together, where the writer’s experience can be as much a part of the story as her subjects.
I spent yesterday deciphering plat maps and then driving around to make sense of what the maps showed. After three hours, I was only slightly better oriented. But I did find a coffee shop in Paonia, one worth the lost time that led me there. Beans roasted on-site, Chemex-brewed coffee that bloomed while the café owner shared more than I ever wanted to know about the summer he spent as a Rainbow Family member. Despite that, I’m going back—the coffee is that good.
This morning, though, I brew my own. After making some oatmeal in the microwave. After making a protein shake. All while holding my breath to stave off any electrical dramas. Then I spread out a plat map and settle on where to go first.
I decide that my first stop will be south of town, where a quarter section of ground is owned by someone named Earl Kidd. By cross-referencing a topo map of the same area, I can see that his land sits below a small mesa, ripe with ridges and ravines throughout. While it doesn’t seem suited to farming, he may have some cattle on it. My main hope is that this isn’t a gentleman’s ranch belonging to some Silicon Valley exec, retired at thirty-two, with enough money and time on his hands to become a well-meaning nuisance to the locals, full of ideas and initiatives to help the community—all of which will likely destroy a way of life that predates any of the apps he’s developed by hundreds of years.
After a twenty-minute drive, I slow the car as I spot a lone mailbox along the road, its address numbers stenciled on in white spray paint on the side. Just beyond the mailbox is a large piece of plywood nailed to a makeshift sign post. Large block letters declare the terms of Earl Kidd’s property.
PRIVATE PROPERTY
POSTED—NO HUNTING
NO TRESPASSING
I stop my car next to the sign and think over my choices. I even consider calling Will, posing the question to him about whether driving up there and knocking on Earl Kidd’s door is considered trespassing or not. But Will would probably tell me two things:
a) He’s a securities litigation attorney, a field where the SEC meets the law. He reads a lot of thick documents full of little type in order to figure out how the Bernie Madoffs of the world operate. Trespassing isn’t exactly in his wheelhouse.
And b) that the big-ass sign erected here is my answer. Will’s logical, law-loving brain would tell me this isn’t worth it.
But my nosy, journalistic brain disagrees. I love other people’s stories, always have—whether real or imagined, logical or not. And given that my master’s degree is in comparative social sciences, I also want to know why Earl Kidd feels the need to post such a dramatic sign. He’s an outlier, it seems, since no one else seems compelled to put up signs like this one, at least not that I’ve come across in my drive around the outskirts of town.
Time to go find out why. And keep on asking, until I discover the real reason.
Slowly, I let off the brake pedal, looking out of both windows cautiously as I cross a cattle guard and head up the dirt road. The road eventually curves up an incline at the base of the mesa, then narrows its way up several switchbacks, where the dirt turns craggy and jarring. I hit a particularly deep divot and wince when a loud thud sounds from underneath my car. I glance in the rearview mirror to see if something important-looking from the undercarriage of my car now lies in the roadway. Nothing but ruts and gravel, thankfully.
An open livestock gate comes into view, along with evidence that I’ve arrived at someone’s domicile. A large travel trailer sits inside the gate, a heavily faded tan color with blue stripes running down the center of each side. Affixed to the rear of the trailer are two flags. One is a Gadsden flag, the signature bright yellow background and the image of a coiled rattlesnake in black, along with the tagline “DON’T TREAD ON ME” at the bottom. The other flag is navy blue with a colonial-era soldier surrounded by a ring of stars printed in white.
Suddenly, my time spent covering a few very rowdy Tea Party protests for the paper is proving pretty useful. Because to some those images are just a return to a bygone era of hearty American patriotism . . . but to others they’re freak flags for politics that are a hell of a lot more volatile. So those two flags being flown together, atop a travel trailer parked in the middle of nowhere, could spell trouble for me. I’m potentially about two minutes away from finding myself besieged by a guy in fatigues who was not joking with his signage down by the road. And he’s not likely to be a very understanding fellow.
On cue, the sound of a roaring motor and gravel spitting into the air causes me to whip my head toward the rear window of my car. Through the haze of dust billowing there, I spot a red four-wheeler barreling my way, looking as if the driver plans to plow straight into the back of my car. Just in time, he hooks a hard turn to the right, speeds down the side, and veers left so he can come to a stop directly in front of me.
The driver is standing on the footwells, dressed in fatigues as I expected. A black helmet covers his head, with the word “KIDD” stenciled in red letters across the top. Attached to the front of the four-wheeler is a metal caddy of sorts, designed to hold smaller-sized cargo. Just right for the short-barrel shotgun this guy’s currently toting around.
The four-wheeler’s motor putters to a stop, but the driver doesn’t step off of it. He simply stands motionless, defiant and terrifying.
Pleasure to meet you, Earl Kidd. You are everything I thought you would be.
Slowly, he removes the helmet, revealing a full head of white hair underneath, cut short into a military style. His head is shaped liked a concrete block. Piercing eyes fix on mine—in all the wrong ways.
I lift my hands from their death grip on the steering wheel and hold them up in front of me, palms out. He squints to take in the gesture but doesn’t lean in or relax his stance. I point toward my driver door with one hand, and then move to slowly open the door, stepping out on legs that feel a little fawn-like at the moment.
Decision time. Do I keep the opened door in front of me as a shield? Or step around it to show I’m not hiding anything? Not sure if this guy would actually think a girl in a Lexus hybrid would come up here packing anything other than a snack-sized baggie of raw almonds, but I can’t be sure. Probably for the best to keep everything out in the open here. Very deliberately, I shut the door behind me.
“Can’t you read?”
“Yes. I’m sorry—”
“If you can read, then is English not your first language? Are you some pale-skinned half-breed? All gracias and de nada?” Earl crosses his arms over his chest. When he does, the gun holstered to his belt comes into full view.
Screw all the other great storytellers I channeled this morning, I need Hunter S. Thompson for this one. His gonzo journalism style suits this situation perfectly—along with his knowledge of firearms and ties to the Hells Angels. Also, my heart rate could do with one of those barbiturates he was so fond of.
Absent of all that, the only thing I can do is lie. Attempt to fib my way out of here with all my limbs still intact.
“No. I’m a freelance writer. I thought this was the address for a cattle rancher I’m supposed to interview, but I must have written it down wrong. I’m very sorry to have disturbed your privacy; I’ll just get in my car and go.” I take two steps backward, reach behind me, and blindly swat about with one hand until I’m able to grasp the car door handle. “Again, I’m so sorry.”
“You do that. Get in your rice can.” Earl reaches forward to extract the shotgun from the metal caddy, gives it a practiced flip in his hands so that the barrel is facing away from me.
This seems like a good thing, right up until he rams the stock into one of my car’s headlights. The shattering sounds like every bad action movie I’ve ever watched.
“. . . And get out of here. If you trespass on my property again, I won’t give you a second chance.”
My shaking hands yank the car door open, fumble across the console for the keyless start button and press down. I jamb the car into reverse, keeping my speed reasonable as I back up, then once I’m headed straight I all but floor it. The undercarriage bounces against the dirt more than once, but if any parts are scattered on the road, I wouldn’t know it. Looking back is the last thing I want to do.
Day one. A hell of a start.