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SNOW STILL LAY ON the shady slopes of Hershey Ridge in late spring when Jim Neven saddled Rusty and headed toward the mountain. The end of April and temperatures reached into the 40s, but only for a couple of hours. He wanted to enjoy the spring day on the ridge at a favorite scenic lookout, he’d discovered in his youth.
The horse climbed steadily through the tall timber of the National Forest, crossing numerous snow-fed brooks and treading on beds of tiny spring flowers. Jim breathed deeply of the cold clean air and pleasant forest odors.
Rusty, a six year old gelding, picked his way carefully over the rocky ground with stones loosened by melting snow and countless rivulets of runoff. Jim held the reins loosely, trusting in the horse’s judgment. As he neared the ridge top, Jim angled Rusty more to the right, aiming for his favorite lookout near Hershey Peak. Rusty stopped suddenly. His ears and posture told Jim that something unexpected was in the trees. Jim let his gaze sweep the forest around him, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He reached down and petted Rusty’s neck and shoulder.
What do you hear, Rusty? Something out there? Smell something?” He kept his voice calm and petted him again. A light tap of Jim’s heels and Rusty took a few steps forward and stopped. Then Jim heard it; a whining sound, not very loud.
Okay boy, we’ll check it out.”
Jim dismounted and led Rusty through a stand of Douglas fir, coming upon a small utility trailer painted in camouflage black and green. He went closer, curious about the whining noise, and found it to be an exhaust fan which, when he put his hand to it, vented a small amount of heat. On the roof, he saw two rows of solar panels and assumed it was to charge batteries. A telescoping antenna tower, attached to the corner of the trailer, rose about 20 feet in the air. There was also a small whip antenna mounted on the trailer roof.
What the heck is this thing?”
Jim saw that Rusty had lost interest and was tugging on the lead rope, bending his head to nibble on grass. He walked around the trailer, saw that it had been raised to take the tires off the ground. Jim turned to Rusty. “What do you make of this? There’s no identification on it at all. Some kind of National Forest thing?” Rusty kept at the grass.
Jim examined the two heavy duty padlocks. “Some serious locks.”
He turned to Rusty and pulled his head up from the grass. “Let’s go, boy. I’ll have to ask around about this thing, maybe check with a ranger. Strange place for something like this.”
Jim climbed into the saddle and headed for his favorite spot, just below the crest of Hershey Ridge on the east side, looking out over Tillman Creek Valley and Tillman Ridge beyond. He put a hobble on Rusty and removed the bridle, letting the horse look for choice morsels of spring grass. He sat down at the lookout with his lunch and canteen. The breeze up the slope was steady and cold, but the warm sun made it an enjoyable repast.
The two shots were close together. Jim came alert, listened, but there were no others.
“What the hell was that?” he mumbled.
The shots seemed to have a reverberation to them, maybe echoing from the canyon below, he surmised. He was sure they had been pistol shots; not the sharp crack of a hunting rifle. Someone target practicing, he wondered? But there hadn’t been any more shots. Had it come from Cedar Canyon? Sure sounded like it.
Jim leaned back against the tree enjoying the warm sun. The view from the ridge top had always pleased him. A bald eagle rode the thermals just below his elevation, the white head easily seen against the dark forest below. Jim’s eyelids seemed to get heavier, his head drooped. Thoughts of the gun shots and of the strange trailer drifted out of his mind. He dozed with the warm sunlight on his face.
Jim heard Rusty whinnying. His eyes popped open. Another horse was approaching. |
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