It had been three or four days since I’d checked my email, so I figured I’d probably have to sift through a pile of junk to get to anything that truly deserved my attention. I started at the top of the screen and deployed my best speed reading maneuver as I worked my way through the long list of auto-generated messages, daily ag updates and assorted phoniness. I knew the best method was to take a few minutes each morning to sort through it all and weed out the rubbish, but as is too often my MO, I’d procrastinated my way away from the straight and simple path in favor of a rough and rocky trail through the brush, up and over the highest hill in view. I hoped I wouldn’t skip over or delete anything of great importance in my haste to finish the chore. I weakened, but only momentarily, as the possibility of winning a $25 gift card if I filled out a survey on my calf vaccination protocols enticed me with its bold font in the subject line. I held my resolve and pressed the delete button to banish 73 unwanted messages to the digital trash bin without so much as giving them anything more than a disdainful, cursory glance. I’d wasted little time, so I gave myself a mental pat on the back.
Now, to take a look at what was left in the inbox. Hopefully I hadn’t missed anything that required my attention several days ago. Most of what remained was familiar to me and not of an urgent nature. One message, however, caught my eye, mostly because I didn’t recognize the peculiar name of the sender, and there seemed to be a positive vibe that beckoned my attention.
The sender was Kelly Gorecki. It was a name I’d never seen before, and I was sure my pronunciation of it was most likely incorrect. Kelly explained that she and her husband, John, ran a little bunch of cows in Nebraska and that they were planning a trip to Idaho to check out a state they’d never before visited. They’d read some of my ramblings and were thus aware that I was a resident of the fair state to which they planned to travel. Kelly further inquired as to whether or not I’d be amenable to their stopping by my place as part of their Idaho high adventure. She insisted that I not change up any of my work plans on their behalf. They simply wanted to experience a “day in the life” kind of thing.
Oakley, Idaho, is not on the way to anywhere. It’s literally at the end of the road, and it’s rarely a destination spot for anyone other than kids coming home from college for the summer or family members of residents who come to visit during the Pioneer Days celebration in July. If someone tells me they’ve “been through” Oakley, I know they’re lying or they were lost. Beyond that, my place is a far cry from the Ponderosa, and the Marchant family saga is far less intriguing than that of the Yellowstone Duttons. Nevertheless, I thought it’d be great to have out-of-state visitors for a day, and I figured I could use an extra couple of hands to help work on the mountain fence before we turned the cows out the following week.
On the appointed day, Kelly and John showed up with an eager work ethic and a new fence stretcher and fencing pliers as gifts. Along with my 85-year-old father, we loaded up in the pickup and headed up the Birch Creek road for the rough, dusty, hour-long drive, past the entrance to the Silent City of Rocks and up the ridge to the head of Second Carson Creek. We spent the better part of the day splicing and stretching decades-old wire, replacing posts and enjoying each other’s company and the view of the Oakley Valley from 8,000-plus feet.
We didn’t finish the job, but we made a decent-sized dent in it. As the shadows began to grow longer in the shade of the pines on the timberline, we loaded up and headed back down the mountain. Before heading for home, we took a detour off the back side of the mountain and stopped for a late lunch at the Almo Store, the lone business establishment in the tiny hamlet of Almo. They cater to local cowboys, summer tourists and rock climbers who frequent the City of Rocks in addition to the occasional Oakley visitor from the other side of the mountain. As we entered, I recognized a couple of the Dewsnup girls from Oakley. They were there helping their grandmother for the summer. Mrs. Durfee warmly greeted us from behind the grill as her granddaughter took our order. I introduced the Goreckis as visitors from Nebraska, to which Mrs. Durfee inquired, “Well, what in the world are they doing here? Are they friends of yours?”
My reply came without thought or hesitation. “That’s exactly who they are,” I replied. “They are most certainly friends of mine.”
The next day as we bade farewell to John and Kelly, I was struck with a moment of amazement. On one hand, it could be argued that I barely knew these folks from Nebraska. On the other hand, I might argue that I know exactly who they are. In the years prior and since the visit from my Nebraska friends, I’ve gained scores of friends, many of whom I may never meet. It’s a blessing that comes with the lifestyle, and I pity the millions of city dwellers across the country who most likely cannot relate to the sentiment. It’s a byproduct of the land and the crops and the critters and the responsibility of stewardship.
Whether it’s the Shenks from across the Snake River, the Schotts from South Dakota, the Goertz family from Wyoming, the North Dakota Koesters, the Montana Ketchums or dear, sweet Doris from Kentucky, our shared love of God’s land and beasts and the dedication required to care for them somehow bind us in a way that can’t be explained. No matter how deep into the heartland or cow country I may find myself, I can rest assured that I’ll never really be lost. I know there’s a friend close by.
