This time Merry did aim the hose at him, though she waited until she would only hit the closed door of the truck.
Next time I won’t wait, she thought murderously. Channel the llama, Merry. Channel the llama.
Fifteen fraught, silent minutes later, Sam pulled the truck to a stop at the top of a campground sparsely dotted with tents and RVs. The drive would have been breathtaking had she been riding with anyone other than the surly llama handler. Even so, Merry couldn’t help appreciating the scenery, which was all sheer gray cliffs and tall ponderosas intermixed with bright golden pops of aspen from the higher elevations. She’d missed mountains, she realized. More than she knew.
She rolled down her window and sniffed appreciatively of the evergreen-scented air. It was a glorious day, crisp and pregnant with that peculiar high-altitude clarity that made one feel the air like a spiritual caress against the skin. “Where are we?” she asked, looking around. “My readers will want to know.”
Sam bared his teeth as if the notion of her readers irritated him.
“It’s great publicity, remember?”
Sam sighed. “We’re in the Carson National Forest. Takes up about a million and a half acres round these parts, and it’s some of the most pristine wilderness anywhere in America.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Smartest thing you’ve said all day.”
Merry was saved from having to dignify this remark by the appearance of a late-model Suburban that screamed “rental car.” It hesitated, seeing their unusual truck bursting with woolly occupants. Then, as if deciding to man up, it pulled in two spots away, near the head of the trail. Out popped a white-haired Hansel and Gretel, geared up in hiking fleeces and walking sticks, mesh-roofed sun hats and fanny packs dangling everything from bear spray to extra camera batteries.
Thank goodness, Merry thought. They’re old. She wouldn’t have to worry about them bounding up the trail like the gazelles she most certainly wasn’t.
“Guten tag,” called the gent, and his wife waved. “Are these the ya-mas?”
Sam hopped out of the truck, beaming ear to ear as he swept off his hat in courtly fashion. “Hey, folks. Welcome! I can tell we’re off to a great start because you even pronounced ‘llama’ the traditional way. Give the man a prize, Merry!”
Merry goggled at the stranger who had taken Sam Cassidy’s place. “Go on,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth. “Give them some feed for the llamas while I get everything unloaded.” He thrust an old coffee canister filled with grain pellets at her, then moved to the back of the truck to retrieve his cadre of creatures and their gear.
Slightly dazed, Merry moved forward to shake hands with the two trekkers, who looked like they’d stepped straight off the cover of the Bavarian edition of the L.L.Bean catalog.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, hesitating a second before giving her grubby mitt over to the care of the enthusiastic gentleman. She didn’t want to give him hantavirus, but it would be rude to ignore his outstretched hand.
“Ja, ja, you too! We can’t wait to climb with the ya-mas. They are friendly, yes? They don’t spit? Birgit went on the Google from the hotel last night, and she read they sometimes spit.”
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Merry said. With a wide, guileless smile, she held out the can of grain to the anxious Germans. “Here, would you like to feed them?”
As the sun spilled over the mountaintops, our llamas hummed hymns to greet the dawn and grace the day ahead.
To my mind, they are creatures of myth, magic, and considerable charm.
Our guests (two delightful Teutonic hikers of the elder set) were equally captivated. They cooed and petted the beasts’ necks with gentle hands, heeding Sam’s words about llamas’ eyes, which, ever keen for predators, act as natural magnifying glasses. You don’t want to appear suddenly in their field of vision by reaching to scritch behind their ears, for example, or grabbing hastily for their lead rope. (Lesson learned.) The couple fared better than I in their introduction to the boys, laying their hands flat, palms up to let the llamas snarf the grain from them as Sam instructed. I could tell they were smitten—and really, how could you not be? These dudes are like walking Shmoos. But the sun was climbing rapidly, and we couldn’t stand around shmoo-zing all day. So, harnessed and packed with Sam’s expert assistance, we hit the dusty trail, and soon found ourselves entering a pristine paradise of crystal-clean air, thick, majestic ponderosas, and sharp, high ridges of sheer stone that limned the horizon like the proverbial silver lining on a cloud. In the distance, as Sam pointed out to our awed guests, snowcapped Wheeler Peak rose; at 13,000-and-some feet, the tallest mountain in New Mexico. Can you believe I never skied it?
Well, today was for hiking it.
The trail was narrow, but not so narrow you couldn’t walk two abreast—two meaning one human and one heffalump. The fun of the trek is (in part) leading your llama like the world’s biggest puppy while it hauls your snacks, folding chairs, Gatorade, sweaters, etc., for you. This the boys did without complaint, ambling along on cleft-toed feet (not hooves, as Sam gently corrected Karl, our gentleman trekker).
And speaking of toes, get this, kids: Sam only hikes barefoot.
Bare. Foot.
Though as a journalist I have an obligation to investigate the mysteries of human behavior—and I bet you’re dying to know what gives—somehow I hesitated to ask Sam about it. There is something oddly intimate about discussing one’s decision to eschew shoes, particularly when one’s feet are as…well…handsome as Sam’s. (Feet can be sexy. Who knew?) Thankfully Birgit, Karl’s intrepid wife, beat me to the question, exclaiming in a mother-hen voice that he was sure to injure himself on the stony trail without some form of foot protection.
“Walking barefoot brings me closer to the land,” he told her. “I’m far more likely to get hurt if I lose my connection to the earth. Besides,” he said with a twinkle (Sam is full of twinkles), “I’ve been going bare so long I really can’t get comfortable when I’m confined.”
Me and my fellow frau shared a blush. God knows why.
Blushing Brigit seemed relieved to turn her attention to Aslan, a beige beauty with a bit of a beard and flirty long lashes. In fact, she stared so deeply and lovingly into his limpid eyes I heard Karl clear his throat as he walked next in line behind her, squiring Paddington. Sam, bare feet and all, had taken point with Little Lord Fauntleroy, who naturally would allow no other beast to take precedence. I can tell you it was no hardship for either of us ladies to watch our guide saunter up the track in snug denim, sunlight glancing off his long blond hair (think Thor, gals). I was charged with rounding out the rear. Well, more accurately, Severus Snape was. But he seemed determined to catch me up or even pass me any second.
Now, I’ve always assumed “breathing down my neck” was a metaphorical saying. More fool, I. In a scarily accurate impression of Alan Rickman’s character, my heavy-breathing pack animal whispered insidious spells into my shrinking ear all the way up the mountain. I would not have been surprised to turn and see him sporting a wizard’s cloak or flickering a forked tongue. Nothing I could do would dissuade him from maintaining a snout distance of about six inches from my shivering nape.
Fortunately, the breath of a llama is surprisingly ungross. It’s warm, and grassy—and, okay, a wee bit moist when it tickles the back of your neck—but not foul or satanic the way one might suspect. However, after about an hour, even the most excellent of exhalations become a hair less than welcome. Severus didn’t get the memo. “Humph,” hummed he, his rubbery lips a breath from my ear. “Hmmmm, hmmmm, snorkel-hmmm, hmm.” I tried to teach him some Tom Waits, but he apparently doesn’t appreciate musical geniuses. He kept up his refrain as we crossed tinkling brooks spanned with picturesque plank bridges, stopped here and there to sniff wildflowers (Sam telling the tourists all about the medicinal properties of the edible greens and occasional fungus as we walked), and generally enjoyed our nature hike. At last, however, Severus
must have felt lunch was in order, for he traded his sweet nothings for a bit of a nosh.
On Dolly’s ex-husband’s hat.
Before you ask, no. No, no, no—I am not going to post selfies of me in that ratty old thing. While I have succumbed to the practical necessity of wearing cowboy couture for the sake of my fry-prone ginger-gal skin, I do not intend to put up with the indignity of having my picture in said hat plastered across the Internet. So forget it.
Well, unless you ask nicely in the comments.
Anyhow, Severus seemed to agree that le chapeau was not flattering, and he attempted to do me a service by munching it to death. But since it was not my hat to dispose of, I had to deny him. I walked faster, trying to put some distance between his cud processor and my battered topper. Severus, that scamp, sensed the hunt was on and quickened his pace. The grassy breath laved my tender neck once more, and again I increased my pace. I was crowding Paddington’s butt now, and even that mellow fellow wasn’t appreciating such discourteous behavior, his stubby tail twitching with annoyance. Desperate, I decided to toss my hat up the hill ahead of me, hoping that by the time we crested it, Snape would have found a new preoccupation and I could retrieve it on the sly. With rather more gusto than I’d intended, I winged it like a Frisbee through the thin air, where it passed all three llamas ahead of me and landed just beside Sam.
Friends, do not play Frisbee with a llama. Some of them like to fetch.
Severus shook off his air of insouciance and charged up the trail, pulling me along with him like a runaway dog on a leash (which I had not the presence of mind to drop). Bye, Paddington! Farewell, Aslan! And hello, Fauntleroy’s tushie!
Oof!
I crashed hard into Sam as my llama lunged for the hat, coming up with it in his yap. A “Who, me?” look was on Severus’s snoot as I shot him Evil Eye Number Forty-Five—a particularly potent blend of “You’ll rue this day!” and “You don’t fool me with that innocent expression, buster!” But I had bigger troubles.
I wobbled on the uneven ground. Teetered. Lurched. Reeled, and tumbled…right into my new boss’s grasp. Instantly, strong arms wrapped around me, keeping me from toppling right into the steamy, shiny pile of fresh poop the llamas had used the pause in our trek to deposit. “Whoa there, gal!” Sam said, that inimitable twinkle in his eye. “You alright?”
Folks, I could scarcely summon the wits (and the wind) to stammer that I was. Those unholy blue eyes, the smile etched into his craggy features…be still my heart! “Y-yes, I think so. Thanks, Mr. Cassidy,” quoth I, hand to my fluttering heart.
“Please, darlin’, call me Sam.”
“Sure…Sam.” (Suave, right?)
“Alrighty then,” he said, making sure I was steady on my feet once more. Then he turned to chide my beast. “Now, Severus, you behave with our Merry. You want her to have a good impression of our little outfit, don’t you?”
As if there was any chance I wouldn’t. My friends, I know we’re calling this column “Don’t Do What I Did,” but I would urge you, if you’re ever in the mood for a walk on the wild side, to check the folks at the Last Chance Llama Ranch out. A stroll through the stunning Sangre de Cristo Mountains, guided by the inimitable Sam Cassidy and accompanied by his magical beasties, is really bucket-list material.
And that was before we unpacked Dolly’s lunch.
After a few miles of walking, gaining perhaps twelve zillion feet of elevation, we stopped by the banks of a stream to appease our appetites and rest our posteriors. (And, happily for me, wash my grody hands with the special easy-on-the-environment soap Sam carries.) A secluded, wildflower-dotted meadow unfolded before us, and Birgit took the opportunity to fling wide her arms and do a little Sound of Music twirl I wish I’d captured on camera. The valley was ringed with glorious snowcapped peaks on all sides, and I could see our final destination silhouetted against the horizon, beckoning us on. Sam and I switched out the llamas’ short leads for long, then tied them to some of the saplings that dotted the meadow so they could graze (which made for some interesting crop circles).
Gals, take note. The sight of a long-eared llama kushing in a meadow is as one of those medieval unicorn tapestries is to a tween: the exact sort of thing you want a poster of on your wall. I must tell Dolly to stock some photos for sale in her shop.
When the four-foots were seen to, Sam settled Karl and Birgit around the remnants of an old fire pit, teaching them how to angle themselves into the V-shaped folding chairs the llamas had carried and fetching them some of the delicious Blue Sky sodas that one sees a lot of in New Mexico. (Try the pomegranate white tea flavor if you’re feeling adventurous.) Meanwhile, I dug out a camp table from one of the panniers and endeavored to solve the quadratic equation that was its construction. At last, after I’d misaligned Pole A with Slot B for the fourteenth time, Sam ambled over and offered to take the task off my hands. Whoosh! Done. So I laid out Dolly’s lunch offerings upon it, and…oh, man. Yum.
There was fried chicken, bathed in buttermilk and battered in fairy tales. More of her astounding biscuits. Peach cobbler that clobbered your diet while canoodling with your taste buds. A salad so fresh it made you blush, and even veggie portobello sammiches smothered in homemade goat cheese in case any of us was opposed to meat. The trek had whetted our appetites, and we all dug in with a will. Moans of delight and cries for the chef to be elevated to sainthood rang through the meadow, and Sam beamed, promising to pass the compliments on to his aunt.
At last, appetites sated, we settled happily into our camp chairs and got to know one another a little better.
“So,” said Karl, “Mr. Cassidy, in Germany we would call you naturverbunden. A…how do you say…a true spirit of the wilderness.”
Sam smiled modestly. “I wasn’t always,” he surprised me by saying. “I’m actually from New Jersey originally.”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. Cowboy Cassidy, a Garden State native? I listened intently.
“Really? We have heard of New Jersey—we watched The Sopranos, of course—but the guidebooks had very little positive to say about it, so…”
“Well, I didn’t have much good to say about it myself,” Sam said, smiling. (Sorry, Jersey folks—he said it, I didn’t.) “I worked across the river on Wall Street for several years, as a matter of fact.”
Forget the feather. A mosquito could have laid me out. My mind tried, but I could not envision our barefoot, weather-sculpted guide in a Brooks Brothers suit or Ralph Lauren tie.
“So how did you find yourself here?” asked Birgit, taking the words out of my mouth.
Those delightful lips twisted—delightfully. “It was time for a change. So I changed.”
He would not say more. Damn it.
“And you, Merry?” Birgit asked. “Have you been with the ranch long? I could swear I know you from somewhere, but…”
I declined to bore the folks with my past history. “Sam’s the real mountain man. I’m basically just a tourist like yourselves, along for the ride. So, Sam, how about you show us how you build a fire the old-fashioned way, or set snares for game? Something like that.” (I was sure Karl and Birgit would love it—and you guys too.)
“We have everything we need right here,” he demurred, extending his arms out wide to include our feast, the bubbling brook, the sun-drenched meadow. “Part of my job at the ranch is teaching primitive skills classes, and the first thing I tell my students is always, ‘make only the minimum effort it takes to stay alive.’ You want to conserve energy, and never waste resources in the wild. When I need it, I build it, hunt it, or gather it. When I don’t…I just enjoy the bounty nature provides.”
I blushed at my ignorance, but Sam wasn’t judging. He is a teacher first and foremost, I am discovering, and he’s most in his element when sharing his knowledge. I believe I’ll be joining him on some of his survival skills classes soon, so do stay tuned!
A crumpled napkin arced over the top of Merry’s laptop and landed on the keyboard, st
artling her half out of her wits. She looked up to see Sam standing over her, hands on his hips—or what she assumed were hips beneath the all-encompassing overalls he wore. For a second it surprised her to see him as he really was—a haystack sporting a scowl—instead of the dreamy fiction she was spinning for her readers. “Wrap it up, Wookiee,” he said shortly. “We’re getting ready to go. Your fans will have to wait a little longer for their next installment of ‘How to Antagonize Llamas and Completely Miss the Point of Nature, with Host Meredith Manning.’” He turned and strode off to fetch the llamas without waiting for a reply, oblivious to the tongue she stuck out at him.
Too bad. That man is in dire need of a raspberry.
“My name’s not Meredith, just so you know!” she called after him, but he didn’t hear her. Probably for the best. Her sudden need to confess her true identity since she’d arrived in Aguas Milagros was totally inexplicable.
Karl and Birgit, she saw, were off looking for a stand of trees thick enough to hide the call of nature they were attending. (Sam had provided them baggies for the used TP so they could “carry out what they carried in.”) Their absence was clearly all the permission Sam had needed to show his true colors…
Or was it only Merry who got his goat?
Talking to the tourists, he’d seemed relaxed, at peace…even happy. It was rather a stunning transformation. Without the dyspeptic look he wore around Merry, Sam’s plain features were engaging, if not handsome. He looked younger, in his element. He radiated the sort of masculine confidence she’d often seen in her male counterparts on the ski team, though instead of competing to conquer the slopes, all Sam seemed to want was to share his understanding of the natural world with the people who signed on for his tours. Merry had had no cause to doubt his sincerity, or his obvious love of his adopted home. Everything she’d written about him, and their journey so far, was true.
Last Chance Llama Ranch Page 11
