The old man struggles at the slow end of the leash as his 80 pound bulldog, Cochise, strains like a John Deere with a plow at the other; dragging them both up the steep, winding mountain path.

The path was once a crude dirt road; just a common access for owners of property on the undeveloped, upper portion of the mountain. For several years an occasional 4-wheel drive pick-up would trek up the mountain to release hunting dogs, cut firewood to haul home, or just enjoy a few hours sitting in the woods soaking up the solitude.  Then, for a while only ATVs went up there to rip and snort along the path and tear new trails through virgin woods.  The old man was glad when the kids lost interest in their new toys and stopped coming.  Now, it had been a year or more since anyone went up the old road.  No maintenance had been done, not even the farmer who occasionally used his tractor to drag a scraper blade along to even out the humps and ruts and shear off the saplings. Now those saplings were crowding in from the shoulders and taking over again, trees had fallen, shattering branches all over and heavy rains were forming huge ruts and rills that made the road difficult for any vehicle to navigate faster than a creep.

Only he and Cochise – occasionally his wife and a foster dog would accompany them a short ways; just to where it got steep – where the only ones to go up there.  They managed to keep a path trampled down for a half mile or so up the main route and a few hundred feet along a branch road.

By the time they got to the first switch-back the old man’s heart is pounding and his lungs heaving the crisp cold October air in and out of his lungs. The cold burn is invigorating.  The warm burn in the backs of his thighs feels good too. In years past he lifted weights to keep in shape and knew well the satisfaction of a good workout.  But then age and deteriorating connective tissue put a stop to such heavy work.

The ground is strewn with gold, russet and brown leaves, building over the past few weeks from a sprinkling to a deep carpet. The loud crunching of their quick march up the road warns any critters of their approach and avoids a confrontation – or, normally it would.  It rained hard last night and the leaves are tamped down into a sodden, slippery coating this morning.

Cochise lets out a sudden, “Grrouf!” and bolts ahead, practically wrenching the old man’s arm from his shoulder as he stumbles along behind just trying to keep his feet under him. He manages to look up the pathway in time to see a white shape bobbing along about 3 feet above ground. In the dim, early morning light it’s difficult to see much, especially under the tree canopy, but a flash of fawn colored fur and an eyeball finally identifies the object as a young deer bounding up the road a ways then turning and leaping into the forest. The creature slides between the saplings and disappears with nary a sound.

“So, that’s what you’ve been so excited about every morning, huh boy?”

Cochise stood, forepaws on the mound at the edge of the road, his gaze darting about trying to catch a glimpse of his alleged prey through the trees.

“You don’t want to tangle with a deer anyway, Cochise.  They look sweet and helpless, but when cornered they can beat the daylights out of you AND me with those front hooves.”

The dog doesn’t understand the words, of course, but he seems to get the meaning.  A slight tug on the leash and a, “Come on boy.” and Cochise obediently turns back onto the road and continues his trek upward.

The old man smiles; it wasn’t but a few months ago that Cochise came to stay with them as a foster dog with the Dogs in Danger pet rescue program.  He’d been picked up as a stray and held at the animal shelter until he tested positive for heartworms. A death sentence for too many dogs. Fortunately the Shelter got funding from public donations to pay for the medications and the old man and his wife provided the care and quarters for his treatment and recovery process. When Cochise first arrived, taking him for a walk was a battle of wills that often stalemated with them at opposite ends of the leash glaring at one another and telegraphing through their squinting eyes, “We are going THIS way.”

“No, we are going THAT way!”

They often stood there for many minutes stubbornly staring one another down.  A pocket full of dog treats, administered each time Cochise relented to the old man’s will, sped the training process. Now, most of the time Cochise is a pleasure to walk with, he leads well and obeys commands that keep him from putting the old man into dangerous situations.

They continue on to the fallen log that lies across the pathway and offers a convenient excuse for the old man to halt their travels in this direction. The first few times, Cochise bounded up onto and over the log as if to say, “Look, it’s easy to cross, see. Come on, let’s keep going!” but the old man’s refusal to clamber over the barrier brought his dog back over with a huff.  Now he knows this is the limit.  Some days he stands with his forelegs up on the log, looking and sniffing  the dense packing grass on the other side, but accepts that this is as far as they’re going – at least until some fool with a chain saw comes and clears the way again!

They turn around and head back down the slope. In this portion of the trail there are few oak trees.  Once they round the switchback again there are a lot of them and acorns dropped by these trees work like ball bearings under the man’s feet.  Or did while the ground was dry and hard.

But before they get there, Cochise elects to take the left turn onto a spur road; the high route, the old fella calls it because the connection to the main trail is a 60° slope upward for about 20 feet. This path hasn’t been traveled in any way by anyone but these two and a few forest critters in a long time. The saplings have almost entirely reclaimed it; only a narrow winding path where their daily tramping and crushed the vegetation allows any passage at all.  They don’t get far and another fallen log marks the end.

This one is small enough that the old man could step over it fairly easily, but the area beyond is so dense and congested with brambles that he has no desire to do so.

Cochise spends some time doing a detailed inspection of several plants, leaving his own scent before moving on to the next.  Occasionally he finishes with an aggressive four-paw digging of the ground that effectively denudes it of vegetation and leaves deep striations in the dirt from his claws.  The old man figures this is his way of saying to any passers by, “I am the mighty warrior, Cochise; chief of these woods. Do not enter here or I’ll do this to you too.” It’s a territorial thing.  The old man lets him have his fun up on the trail, but puts a quick stop to it when on the lawn in their yard.

Heading back down, the old man is glad to find that the softer ground now allows the acorns and bits of stick to push into the ground and pose little danger of slipping.  It was these acorns that caused him to hurt his knee and hip a couple of weeks ago, rolling under his weight-bearing foot as he stepped forward, causing him to have to slam his trailing foot back down or fall.  The shock strained ligaments in his joints and hurt intensely until recently.  They’re healing now, but this is what caused him to restrict their daily tromp up the old road from two, sometimes three times a day to just the one early morning trip.

It is Cochise’s need, after being crated all night, that causes him to double-time their ascent, determined to get to the furthest point he’s allowed before depositing his spoor.  The return trip is always more sedate and Cochise sniffs his way along and gazes off into the woods.  On clear days the sun is just coming over the mountain now and the rays of sunshine stabbing through the trees is a beautiful sight. Today the sky is overcast.

Once they exit the old road, Cochise turns aside and leads them along a perimeter walk around the two acres of cleared land where they all live. He inspects the bushes and freshens his markings.  They loop around the house and up the slope on the other side to a play yard that was put in as a place for Cochise and their Foster dogs to romp without being on a leash. Fenced and gated, they can run to their hearts content without dragging the anchor of the old man along behind them.

The old man laughs as Cochise runs laps like a race horse around the fence, then tightens into for a couple of loops round his human companion, back out for another lap then gallops head-long toward the gate, skidding to a stop with his nose just brushing the juncture of gate and post. “OK, I’m done playing now, let’s go home.”

Back on the leash and a short walk to the house, a big dish of cool water awaits the exhausted canine.  The old fellow gives him some dog treats, scratches his neck and says, “Good boy, good dog.  He’s my boy.”  Then a cushy pile of pillows and blankets beckons from within his crate.  His room.  His safe spot. HIS place.  He walks in, circles a couple of times and drops down, curled up and ready for a snooze.  But first, he shoots the old feller a look that says, “Thanks for the walk old man, I love you too.”

A couple months ago, a good friend who operates a very successful bed and breakfast here in the Arizona desert asked if we would be willing to accommodate guests when she wound up with double bookings. As a favor to her, we agreed. Then the wheels started turning and our mindset about our homestead changed a bit.

While our fairly frugal budget and our current income permit us to live simply and well, it is pretty much a no-frills operation here. We decided we could use some more consistent extra income here at the homestead to make visiting our kids and grandkids easier.

   
We really didn’t have much to do to make the Bear Cave attractive, in a rustic sort of way. We hoped to attract those who enjoy the outdoors, built-by-hand living, and good farm cooking. I trenched in some Ethernet cable from our straw bale house to provide internet access for those guests who wanted to maintain contact with the outside world. Stuff stored in the Bear Cave was moved and we relocated our computers to the main house.  

Our little 320-square-foot Bear Cave, now referred to as the Dragoon Mountains Guest House, sleeps four with a double bed and by pulling out the trundle bed. We lived in the Bear Cave while we built our straw bale home and loved it. We believed our guests would feel the same.

 
A comfortable recliner, a wicker-seated rocking chair, and the trundle bed doubling as a couch with pillows and bolsters provide relaxed reading for those who just want some time to wind down.

Winding-down, serenity, and plenty of quiet are really some of the big attractions.  Recently, I read and listened to two separate accounts on the importance of quiet.  One was an article in the Dec 9, 2011, New York Times by Pico Iyer titled “The Joy of Quiet.”  The other was an interview on NPR’s Diane Rehm program with Dr. P.M. Forni discussing his new book, The Thinking Life.

Pico Iyer, educated at Eton and Oxford, now lives in Japan. He refers to himself as a “global village on two legs.”  Dr. Forni is a professor at Johns Hopkins and writes and teaches on Civility and Ethics and their role in our social world. Both articles are worth reading and listening to in their entirety.

In his article, Iyer suggests that we people are moving away from what has become a barrage of input. He says that the average American spends 8½ hours per day in front of a screen and that the average American teen sends or receives 75 messages per day. Think of the people you see in markets, cars, parks, or wherever with eyes or ears glued to a communication device.

Iyer contends that Americans are getting tired of the constant deluge of input. He cites an advertising CEO as saying that the upcoming market among young people will be for stillness. In the article, he mentions a California resort that offers lodging for over $2,000 per night and features no TV, WiFi, or telephone. There must be an easier and cheaper way to locate the ‘off’ button.

Dr Forni’s book title speaks for itself. The subtitle is “How to Survive in the Age of Distraction.” Forni warns of the perils of not taking time to just think. He writes, “If we agree that life is important, then thinking as we go through it is the basic tribute we owe it.”

 
We asked family and friends that had visited us as unpaying guests what they valued most about their stay at our homestead. Most said the combination of silence, serenity and scenery made them want to come back. The ability to sit quietly with a cup of coffee or tea and look across the valley at our many mini-mountain ranges, our Sky Islands, was very meaningful to them.

 
While many of our guests enjoy at least one meal prepared by us, most like to find their own rhythms for meals and choose their own diets. We stocked the guest house with basic kitchen utensils – plates, cups, glasses etc – and installed a propane range (a drop-in designed for RVs that I enclosed in a plywood box), an under-the-counter fridge, and a microwave. They’re good to go.

 
On the other hand, hiking, biking, and rock climbing around our homestead appeal to many. We have had competitive racing cyclists stay here for winter cycling and lots of birders and hikers.

Apart from the extra income, which we appreciate, there are other benefits. We have the opportunity to share the land we have come to love – its history, its scenery, its wildlife – with people unfamiliar with the beauty of the desert. We have made lots of new friends. People from England, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and California have been our guests during our first three months of operation.  

 
If you would like to quit a “day job” and spend your time on your land, you might want to consider sharing the beauty of your place and making some money and some new friends. We even found a network of guest houses that manages the financial end of things for us. If you’re curious, take a look at this website for yourself (http://www.airbnb.com/rooms/281607)  Or, if you feel you just have to come visit us to see what we’re doing, you can make arrangements there as well.

This week’s been a little different for us. We’re staying on the golden beaches of Southern Oregon. It’s a bit of an unexpected trip. Hubby came home Tuesday night and told me we were leaving the next afternoon, that he’d gotten a job for the dump truck. I had the distinct pleasure of pulling the camp trailer to Gold Beach on what I consider one of Oregon’s worst highways – 42S. It’s windy and tight on a good day. We won’t talk about what it's like pulling a camp trailer. Little Man did not want to ride in the dump truck with Hubby – dang it! But I had a stroke of genius and brought along six CDs of Farmer Boy. It worked like a charm. He did not peep for four hours and I didn’t feel the need to drive us all in into the Coquille River – a bonus in my book. 

Being so close, I decided to take Little Man south of the border – to California. We made it through the agriculture inspection which consisted of me driving through at a slow speed and the lady in uniform waving me by. I guess I didn’t look like I was carrying any contraband fruit – their profile must not include big dusty Ford pick-ups with a dog in the back. I did take note of the large sign that said I couldn’t abandon my dog for fear of a large monetary fine. (There are some days it would totally be worth it, especially since the crazy lady that accuses me of not taking care of my dog visited again. I think that might be considered irony.) 

In Crescent City we stopped at the Redwoods National and State Parks Visitor Center to get a brochure and find a place to hike. We have big trees in Oregon and I wasn’t sure that Little Man would be impressed, but it was a trip of firsts for him – first new state, first National Park (gasp – no I haven’t taken him to the one in our own state! Bad Mommy!). 

Being a Forestry school alum I think that I have a different take on National Parks. I’ve visited several and this one was no different. Right inside the door was somebody’s great idea to brainwash young children. Kids were supposed to draw a postcard to send to Michelle Obama and appeal to her to “save the Redwoods.” (Because they aren’t already preserved in the National Park System?)  

The gal that handed me the brochure had dreadlocks. (If she had Berkley tattooed on her forehead it wouldn’t have been more obvious where she was attending school. Strike One.) She asked me where I was from and when I replied that we were “down for the day from Gold Beach” she looked at me with complete and utter confusion. I might also mention that I had on a t-shirt with Oregon State University emblazoned on it in four inch orange letters. She says, “I’ve never heard of that.” Strike Two. I tell her it’s just a little ways north over the border in Oregon. I tell her that we’d like to go on a short hike to see some big trees.  

Marking the map with a yellow highlighter, she gives me elaborate driving directions. Here she undoes half a strike for her ability to make sense of a map for people that can’t tell north from southwest, but then she tells me about the road. She explains that it’s an “old logging road” that winds through the trees and is very tight, so trailers aren’t allowed. I reassure her that I’m not towing a trailer and have driven a gravel road or two in my lifetime. Then she says, “It’s such a beautiful road that winds through the big trees, and they didn’t cut down any of the trees to build it.” Strike two-and-a-half and three.  

What? No trees were cut down to build this “old logging road”? Are you listening to yourself? Roads that are built through a forest cut down trees. It’s not a bad thing. It happens. In fact those trees can actually be used for very useful things and redwoods actually regenerate from the stump. They don’t need to be replanted like other species. (This is one of the many very interesting things I learned at Oregon State University in the College of Forestry even though we don’t have many redwoods in our state.)  I was very proud of myself, I did not say any of those things to the poor girl. I just smiled and thanked her for the brochure and directions, and Little Man and I went off to look at the big trees.  

They were awesome. They were magnificent. They were bigger than huge. Little Man thought they were “intrasting.” We saw a bright yellow slug. We saw lots of cool hollows in the bases of the trees and we talked about who might live there. Little Man thought maybe badgers. I told him that was last summers’ trip. We talked about that people sometimes lived in them in the old days and now I’m going to have to read My Side of the Mountain again because I think that boy lived in a tree. It might make a good bedtime story. 

I love National Parks. I love National Forests. I even love the reject areas that Bureau of Land Management has been left with. I think that our country has a rich heritage of natural resources that should be protected for future generations. But two of those three agencies were founded on multiple use policies and I think many information officers do the public a disservice when they give out misinformation. It’s a pet peeve of mine. If you’re going to work in an area that you aren’t from, then do everything in your power to learn accurate information. 

This adventure has left me thinking about my time at a visitor center at Mt. St. Helens. My roommate and co-worker there was a Berkley student. That was a real eye-opener for us both. But that’s a whole ‘nother story.

I wish I had better news on the hunting front, but unfortunately all I was able to harvest were some good views. The upside to that is that, regardless of how much I'd like to sit around a table with all of you and share some fresh venison, it's a lot easier to sit around our computers and let me share the views.

Hope you all enjoy. 

This was at the top of a mountain about 45 minutes from my house. It's called Monte Cristo. It's regularly on the lists of best places in the west to view the fall colors. In this case, it was plum full of hunters on horseback and all the trails were rutted out really bad from it. I opted to only enjoy the views and moved on to another location.

At the next location, where I arrived a little later that afternoon, I immediately came across this doe and a yearling. Look closely, they're hard to spot. The doe's on the right of center and the yearling in on the left of it with it's head down. Hard to see huh? Imagine trying to spot them from 250-350 yards away? That's a common shot range when hunting in the west.

As I got up to the higher elevations, where the bigger bucks opten hide out during the hunt, the ground was covered injust a little bit (4-5 inches) of snow. It made for a beautiful hike!

Part of the area I was hiking/hunting in had been subject to a very very large forrest fire some years back. It was caused by a couple of Boy Scouts..?! Go figure? Makes for dramatic scenery though.

Finally, I made sure to get a video for you to take a look at from the top of the mountain where I was hiking and stalking a few deer. I didn't get them, but the view was almost worth it! This is in the High Uinta Mountain Range at about 10,900 feet elevation.

I'll be trying again this next weekend, but that will be about it for my season this year. Wish me luck!

Best

Paul~

You can reach Paul Gardener by email, or check his personal blog at A posse ad esse.