It was short-lived, an ill-fated love affair. After leaving Michael for good, I placed an ad on the ride board in the Student Union at Kalamazoo College to see if I could find myself a companion for the trip back to California and help with the gas. When I spoke to Clara, she seemed right. She had one request if she accepted. Would I mind stopping at a ranch in Wyoming on the way back? We could spend the weekend there. She had friends she wanted to visit. Why not? I thought. I had my teacher retirement money and no deadlines.

The Diamond L Ranch was high in the mountains near Jackson Hole, Wyoming. It was golden green acres of land, many handmade wooden structures and a view of the Grand Tetons in the high meadow. It was the “back to the land” days. The owner of the ranch was building a homesteading school, complete with a high-altitude garden, shower tepee made of wood and other experimental projects. A group of about 20 workers, ranch hands and young people like myself, were helping to build it: clearing roads, putting up hay, tending chickens and all other matter of country life. The setting inspired pen and ink drawings. While Clara visited with her pals, I spent much of the time drawing: the warm inside of the main cabin with the wood-burning cook stove, the cedar forests, pastures, the Tetons in the distance. When I got home, I had an idea of how I might show my gratitude for this very inspiring weekend. I decided to make my drawings into stationary by Xeroxing them onto different color papers. I sent the owner a large variety of them tied with ribbons.

His thank you came in a pale green envelope with the Diamond L logo in the left-hand corner:

Twenty-five dollars a day, room and board, he wrote. I’d like to invite you back to the ranch to do more drawings as soon as you can.

He wrote that he could use these pictures for publicity once he got the place up and running.

The timing was perfect. I was not in love and still wanted to leave the small town of Benicia, hungry for an adventure, a new life. I was looking at it long-term. I put my belongings in storage and invited friends to my house for a going-away party. Concerned about my plan, one friend reminded me “my horse would know the way home.”

I packed up my old Buick Skylark, the glove compartment decoupaged with photos of sky and clouds, and hit the road, this time solo. I traveled through California, Nevada deserts, by the Great Salt Lake, camping along the way. Finally, I drove over a magnificent mountain pass; the sky opened to reveal a bowl of land filled with smaller mountain peaks below: This was my destination.

An elk crossed my path, his antlers held high, as I traveled the last distance up to the ranch. It felt like a good omen. My sleeping quarters would be the attic room above the kitchen and dining room. Other workers were spread about in all kinds of structures, including the tepees. The room below, where we would all gather for meals had a long, rough-hewn table. The floor was sawdust. I was told they would add more in the winter to help keep the place warm.

In my plaid shirt, jeans and Fry boots, I set to doing drawings and helping with chores when I could. I even got used to walking through a tunnel of logs to the outhouse. It was good I got many drawings done at the beginning because later I would have a full-time job.

It was August close to the end of the season and one-by-one the workers and ranch hands were beginning to pack up and leave, leaving more responsibilities for those of us left behind. I had joined in on the field clearing, putting up the hay and helping with the chickens, all skills new to me, and found myself getting exhausted like the rest of them.

I even learned to ride a horse there. The men viewed me as a candy ass, a wuss, a wimp. The regulars were skeptical that I could pull it off, but I got it and proved them wrong. There was a lot of fear going on inside, but I did it. The owner, Chuck, one of the other workers, Dan, and I took off one day on horseback to visit the old cowboy Garl who lived in a shack down the road. My heart did skip a beat when we needed to jump over a small gully. Garl had a voice like John Wayne and wore a red bandana around his neck. We became friends. I occasionally went to visit him when I had a break on Wednesdays. I’d share cowboy coffee and listen to his stories of living in the valley, his work with cattle in the old days, hunting and fishing. He had many “the fish that got away” stories.

When the cook left the Diamond L, I was asked to take over. I needed to learn more new skills quickly: how to split wood and cook on a woodstove. I was told it was important that I kept the fire burning all day, not only for cooking but also for keeping the place warm at night. Waking at 5:30 in the morning I would split a tremendous pile of wood. The owner bought me my own leather-covered hatchet that came with me proudly when I left. The job also required driving into Jackson once a week, with some others to bring back supplies: meat, canned goods, grains, wine, beer and the mail. Those days were non-stop. Early to bed, early to rise.

But I had the place to myself after 8:00 PM. During the late hours, I would develop menus, organizes lists, and read while listening to Joni Mitchell, falling in love with her clarity, her romance. Those evenings I would sit by a kerosene lamp, the ranch dog at my feet, the smell of smoke and cedar in the air. Sometimes I would even listen to a mystery theater episode on the radio. Occasionally I was lonely, but for the most part, I was thrilled. Could this be my new life?

One night I came across a tattered copy of the New York Times Cookbook, and I decided for a change of pace I’d make Moussaka for the “cowboys:” ground lamb, eggplant, onions, tomatoes, cinnamon, rich red wine, nutmeg, all topped with a rich and creamy béchamel. Until now, simple fare in huge quantities was what I was asked to make. But this recipe spoke to me, and I thought I would treat them to it, knowing I would work harder to prepare this meal than any of the others. Alone by the stove, the smell of nutmeg and cinnamon filled the air much of the afternoon as it cooked. When I pulled the large casserole dish from the oven and saw the sauce on the top bubbling a beautiful brown, I knew I had done it. Bursting with excitement that evening, I brought the Moussaka to the table.

There was a silence, and then I detected some laughter. “What the heck is this?” the owner said shocked. “You know we have a good size side of beef.” I was deflated.

But they ate it, and I actually think they enjoyed it. I know I did. I was filled with pleasure when I placed a forkful of the warm meat mixture in my mouth. I knew right then that in spite of the reception, cooking was going to become a passion for me. I went back to cooking their big steak and potatoes for the rest of my stay. Three square meals-a-day.

It was a shorter stay than I expected. The owner had a romance back East he wanted to tend to. Before I knew it, I was told to pack up. Opening up the trunk of my car, I saw there were some old cardboard boxes I had left there. When I went to pull them out, a family of field mice who had called the place home scattered about. I shooed them away and knew I was onto another solo journey.

It broke my heart the day I drove down the winding road for the last time with my hatchet and drawing materials on the seat next to me. Three elk were heading up as I was going down. I had dusted off my boots, said my goodbyes to the great gray owl I befriended up on the ridge, the ranch dog Sam, a couple of stray cats, a favorite cooking pot and my place at the wooden table. I had written the Moussaka recipe on an index card and drew a little Diamond L logo in the corner. I have it still. It is bent and greasy. If I hold it close to my face, I can almost smell the cedar smoke.

Published by Adanna Literary Journal, October 2017 To order a copy using Pal Pay, go to http://adannajournal.blogspot.com.