Florencio Ortiz, being on the passenger side of the pickup, got out and opened the gate to the Kelly pasture and closed it after Bob Milford drove through it. Then the two were off again, heading up the dirt road on the Diamond W that leads to a lonely windmill in need of checking.
There's nothing out here to hit but maybe a careless cow, so a man driving a pickup truck can afford a few minutes of philosophy. Bob was beginning to appreciate moments of philosophy more and more these days.
Life, he thought, could be compared to one of these rough old ranch roads in some ways, these rough old trails that cut across timber, through grass and arroyos and mud holes until they reach a windmill, house, corral, campsite or some other rural treasure.
The driver of a pick-up on this kind of hard corduroy road has a choice to make; he can either creep along, letting the tires dip slowly in and out of the washboard recesses, or he can spur that baby up to about fifty-two miles per hour and let the tires skip their ways along the tops of the high spots.
If he chooses the former, it takes forever to get somewhere and the view never seems to change. Between the creeping speed and fifty-two miles per hour is a punishing, back-and-forth and up-and-down action that will tear a pickup to pieces.
But at fifty-two miles per hour, the scenery goes by in changing beauty, the shaking of the vehicle becomes a pleasant vibration, and there comes to the driver almost an exhilaration of knowing he's taking a chance on hitting an arroyo or an oil-pan-killing rock around the next bend.
Bob's riding boot mashed down the accelerator as he watched the needle climb to more than fifty miles an hour.
Now this, he thought, is living. He and Florencio gave war whoops out the windows at almost exactly the same time.
Brought to you by “Ol' Slim's Views from the Porch,” available at www.slimrandles.com.
