Page 34 of Roughing It with the Rancher

I speed into my clothes, jacket, and boots. Scrambling out of the Cadillac, I stare dumbfounded at a massive dead cottonwood, its branches filled with pairs of shoes tied together by the laces and thrown over the branches.

“Are you kidding me? An actual shoe tree. Seriously?”

“Yes, ma’am. Or ‘St. Crispin stock,’ as your mapmaker put it. Now, we just have to figure out what ‘sunrise to hell’ means.”

“It sounds ominous,” I say, a shiver running through me.

Reese hands me a thermos of coffee. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

As the sky brightens and the last strains of darkness flee from the sun’s rays, it emerges brilliant and glowing, warming every inch of the land it crawls over. My eyes dart to the spot Nick pointed out last night, wondering what’s so special about it. I see nothing, still shrouded in darkness.

“So, I have to ask this question for the sake of due diligence. How long do you actually think the shoe tree has been here? I mean, lots of that footwear looks relatively new.”

“Fair question,” Reese says. “Long as I can remember, and Grandpa had a couple of funny stories from his childhood about it. All I can say for sure is that it’s been dead a long time, and people still make pilgrimages here to throw their shoes in the branches.”

“But why?” It seems like a lot of effort for no reason.

He shrugs, wrapping me tightly in his embrace. I can feel his deep voice vibrating through me. “Tradition, I guess. As the legend goes, the first shoes were those of dead pioneers abandoned in the Bonneville Salt Flats. Scavengers and traders coming through would find and leave them in this tree in caseany passersby could use them. There used to be a funny little trading post and pony express station out here, too, though it’s long since been buried by time and decay. Of course, those are recollections of my grandpa, so take them with a grain of salt.”

“Sometimes anecdotal information is the best,” I counter. “Especially local knowledge. After all, you’ve got to figure right or wrong, if it’s been believed for a long enough time, it informed the map that Tyler Eldon Hayes made.”

“Maybe, and I imagine this was a well-known legend back then.”

I continue to watch the sun’s rays creeping over the land, lighting it up in brilliant shades of gold, pink, and orange. The valley behind the shoe tree glows like it’s on fire. All of a sudden, light hits a section of the sagebrush, lighting it up like a glittering, shining beacon of a thousand fractured pieces.

“Look at that,” I whisper.

“Wow,” Reese exclaims on an exhale. “That’s right where Nick was pointing last night. The old ghost town of High Water. What you’re seeing sparkling and shining in the sunlight are thousands of pieces of glass from the old settlement. Everything from window fragments to colored shards from old bottles and medicine containers. Never thought trash could look so pretty.”

The glittering spot transfixes me as Reese’s words slam into me. “Wait, did you call that place High Water?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Sunrise to hell …” My thoughts race. “Reese, what if the map means ‘sunrise to hell or High Water?’”

“Shit,” he exclaims, excitement edging his voice. “You’re right.” He kisses my cheek exuberantly, letting go of me. “We’ve got to hurry to get down there. It’s at least an hour’s drive by the only roads that access it. And there’s often a crowd down there, so we better get a move on.”

“Another crowd? What are you talking about?”

“Ghost hunters. They swarm rural Nevada like flies, looking for the next Goldfield.”

“Ghost hunters? For a secluded, lonely desert, Foxfire Valley seems to be hopping with people.”

Reese chuckles at my pronouncement, already working to put out the fire where he heated the water for our coffee. He shrugs. “Normal desert rats, you might say. Wait until August when the Burners arrive.”

“Burners?”

“Yeah, the Burning Man Festival. Ever heard of it?”

“I have. But isn’t that more westerly from here?”

“It is,” he confirms. “But Foxfire’s located on one of the direct routes to the Black Rock Desert. So, we get lots of eclectic folks around these parts. Strange costumes, decorated RVs, odd public art displays, fantastic tribal music.”

I chuckle. “Those Burners have nothing on our love song station.”

“Never, Treasure. That radio channel’s all ours. We’ll blare it all the way to Hell or High Water in search of our loot.”

“Deal,” I say, racing towards the convertible to unzip and roll up our sleeping bags.

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