It’s an early evening in late July, and surprisingly, the weather is cool. The sky is deep blue with white, cottony cumulus clouds that tower in the sky offering a chance for rain. The breezy air smells sharp and fresh. I’m waiting for my friend, Darlene, to arrive at my off-grid trailer, as we’re planning to take a ride in her nephew’s bench-seat Kubota. Darlene knows every trail on our hillside—she knows where to find the best view of the distant mountains and the valleys below. I’m ready to go. I’m wearing jean’s, a tank top, and flip flops, not the best choice for shoes, but I’ve packed my boots away for summer. Darlene arrives, and I hop into the seat and grip my right hand tightly on the hand rail. The trails are rugged, and I’d prefer not to fall out of the ATV.
We travel up the hill toward the ridge. The trails are narrow, and I occasionally get smacked in the face by manzanita or scrub oak. When we reach the top where fire came through a few years ago burning down pines, Madrone, and cedar trees, the new growth consists mainly of four-foot-high poison oak brush that thrives in the dry, rocky, earth. We slowly bump along the red-dirt path, then stop. I climb out of the ATV to take in the view. I count four mountain ranges. Thankfully, the forests is thick and lush with trees where the fire had ended. Darlene and I are both in awe of this view with its ever-changing sunsets. Now there’s an amber glow, but soon the sky will turn pink, then red. Satisfied with our gazing off into the horizon, we return to the Kubota and follow the back roads to the trailer where Darlene lives.
It’s still somewhat light when we go out to sit on Darlene’s back deck. Here, we watch hummingbirds dart through the pink and white Oleander trees. A young crow sits in a decrepit cedar tree, creating an Edgar Allen Poe-like-portrait—a silhouette of a large black bird against a rosy-salmon sky. Darlene and I reminisce about camping in the days when our children were young—a time when campgrounds were quiet and uncrowded. We both cherish memories of cooking over a campfire—bacon popping in a cast iron skillet, roasting hotdogs on a stick, and toasting marshmallows to a golden brown in a fire pit. She tells me about the high lakes, rivers, and forest near Sweet and Emmet, Idaho. Places where waterfalls flow and fish are plentiful.
We change the subject to current news. “Did your son-in-law get his job back?” she asks.
My son-in-law, Jaime, is second generation Mexican. Bilingual. He was recently laid off from his job of 23 years with Migrant Education when Trump’s Department of Education froze funding for schools that had already been approved by congress. After pressure from both Democrats and Republicans, the decision was made to release the funds.
“My daughter said that Jaime received a text from the county office of education stating that they were carefully optimistic that jobs would be available soon, but the money hasn’t arrived yet,” I say. “The Trump Administration’s Secretary of Education doesn’t know what’s in the grants they froze. She knows nothing about education and how critical that money is for student programs.”
Darlene supports the Trump Administration and knows who she is. Darlene is a World Wrestling Entertainment fan. I know I shouldn’t cross lines that might harm our friendship; but sometimes, I can’t help myself. As a former high school teacher in a poor, rural school district, I know how valuable those grants are to students with numerous needs.
“I think she has some educational experience,” Darlene says.
“Oh look,” I say, changing the subject; “I see hummingbird babies at the bird feeder. They’re so tiny.”
Darlene watches the hummingbirds, too. We watch as a dozen or more tiny birds buzz past us and dart through the flowering shrubs. A Ruby-Red Throated male sips at another feeder, the sun illuminating its colorful neck. Two male Anna’s dive bomb from high above us in dazzling speed with a full array of colorful feathers. The birds are so close we can hear the buzz of their wings, their chirps, and squeaks.
Eventually, the hummingbirds quiet, and we gaze at the lake and valley below while the sun sets. As darkness approaches, it’s time for me to leave. Although the side by side has headlights, it’s safer to ride the trails with a bit of light in the sky. I gather up the jacket I brought, but don’t bother to put it on. The evening coolness feels refreshing. We drive down the hill to my place as the sun lowers. Fortunately, the trailer is brightened by solar lights in the darkened sky. I give Darlene a hug goodbye, thankful for the opportunity to share our common love of birds, landscape, and lifestyle. The dogs bark as Darlene rides away from our home. They bark until the sound of the ATV disappears.
Kandi Maxwell writes creative nonfiction and lives in Northern California. Her stories have been published in Hippocampus Magazine, The Raven’s Perch, The Meadow, Wordrunner eChapbooks, and other literary journals and anthologies. Learn about Kandi at kandimaxwell.com.
