We’re spending the days between Christmas and New Year at a ranch house on the Eastern slope of Mt Shasta. There are no neighbors apart from two horses who show mild interest whenever the kids run to their enclosure, only to turn away in disappointment when it becomes clear that they’re not going to be fed any apples or carrots. The cattle have been driven to another ranch further south for the winter, leaving the meadows to a vagrant family of deer.
Each afternoon, the ranch manager comes by to feed the horses. He’s not keen to chat, which is risky considering that I could retaliate by subtracting a star from my guest rating (I won’t). He is around 70, has rheumy eyes, wears a thin blue line cap and has lived in Siskiyou county for decades. After a few of my attempts at making conversation, he asks me where we’re from. When I tell him that we live the Bay Area, he nods and says that we all have to make a choice between money and all this, by which he means Mt Shasta, the horses and the 500 acre ranch. “I chose this,” he concludes before shaking my hand and driving off.
Nehaveigur 