“Only boys in college,” I counter. “Besides, I have bigger plans. Petroglyphs to record and catalog, research to dive into.”
“And the museum? Martin mentioned something about you working there, too?”
“Not working there but stopping in once a week or so. They’re facilitating my research paperwork and otherdocumentation. And I’d like to dive into their oral records and historical document archives. Hopefully, they can help with what I’m doing.”
She smiles timidly like my answer is over her head. Her cheeks glow as she adds, “I’m just so proud of you. So smart.”
“Thank you, Grandma.”
That’s when it hits me again. Something she wouldn’t be proud of—me fawning over the neighbor.
Turquoise eyes. Straight nose, well-proportioned features. Achingly handsome face punctuated by a cleft in his square-cut chin.
Grandma takes a seat, resting her chin on her hand. “The boy part and college doesn’t surprise me. Don’t mean to sound cliched, but they don’t make men like they used to.” Ambivalence edges her words.
“That a good or a bad thing?” I huff a laugh.
“Depends on who you ask.”
I nod, savoring the crunchy crust and impossibly soft, spongy center, like cake. The jam is tart with a nice bite, wild as the strawberries harvested to make it.
“Air’s heavy today. There’s a storm coming,” Grandma says, eyeing me affectionately. But I’ve already been here long enough to remember that’s every day around here. “Better make use of the sunlight and clear skies while you can.”
I nod, mind racing ahead to a day spent hiking and surveying landscapes. Mapping out artifact locations and getting a feel for the place.
Sunday. A good day for lazy work.
“Tomorrow I’ll head into the museum to make contact.” I’ve been corresponding with Debbie, the director, for months.
“Good,” Grandma says hopefully. “You’ll feel like you’re part of Raven’s Ridge before you know it.”
Outside, notebook in one hand, I soak in the atmosphere of this place. Off in the distance, Mt. Sawtooth looms, snow-stained in the creases.
People climb it. I have friends who’ve made the summit. I still can’t fathom how when the top looks as dangerous as cathedral spires, sharp as dragon’s teeth.
I sit in the front yard for a long moment, sketching a murder of crows. A rush of inky feathers, loud squawks, and choreographed flight.
In the distance, Grandpa’s horses sprint. Their feet prance, heads arch imperiously when the wind rises, distant clouds drawing closer.
The minty sagebrush breaks as I walk, its medicinal scent perfuming the air. Last year’s yellowed cheat grass crunches underfoot until I reach the first outcropping of sun-blackened stones.
A part of me wants to dart in among the rocks, start exploring and touching.
But no. This needs to be done correctly. Disciplined. Acting from organized field protocol.
I pull out my phone and snap photos of the landscape feature, then pause, leaning against a nearby fence post, to make a quick sketch.
My heart hums, eyes straining as I finally climb among the weathered iconography.
The petroglyphs greet me like old friends, though it’s been years. Grandpa brought me the last time, eye untrained, no education for these carved monoliths.
Back then, they felt like myth. Now they’re measurable.
My hands shake as I take more photos, then start sketching. No adrenaline rush beats interfacing with the past. I stretch a hand, palm touching empty stone, finger tracing where it connects with lines and stories.
I pull up the collar of my light-wash jean jacket, jotting notes.
Pecked rather than incised. The surface oxidation suggests at least several centuries of exposure. The spiral repeats at irregular intervals. Not decorative symmetry but intentional offset. Orientation faces east-southeast. Solar aligned? Or territorial marker?
