Chapter 4: Homecoming

0630 Hours (6:30 AM) Mountain Standard Time, Monday 16 April 2012

Buckley AFB, Colorado

As we began descending upon Buckley Air Force Base, Aurora, Colorado, Loni clutched my hand in a death grip. Focusing my attention out the cabin window, I fancied I could identify my grandfather’s ranch by the distinctive folds of the terrain miles to the west of the suburb of Boulder. If I had not been listening for it, I probably would not have heard Loni’s quiet whimper. Surreptitiously, I glanced at her; I needn’t have bothered being subtle. Loni’s gaze was fixed on the forward bulkhead.

Probably I could squeeze her hand tighter, but seemingly she was drawing as much comfort from me as she could. For a petite young woman, she was demonstrating an impressive grip. I wondered if she might have left permanent indentations if she was clenching the armrest instead of my hand. She continued clutching me during the smoothest landing I have ever experienced. Her grip slackening as we taxied towards the terminal. As the engines spooled down, she let go of my hand.

While everybody prepared to deplane, she slipped me her business card. I noticed there was some writing on the back of the card, before I slipped it into my wallet. Because of my prosthetic, I was granted the courtesy of exiting first. I slowed things up, but it would have been even more awkward if the “Feebs” had tried to squeeze pass me in narrow cabin of the C-37B. The flight was smooth, and the seats very comfortable, but the modified Gulfstream 550 is hardly a widebody jet.

Soon after I entered the terminal, a USAF Staff Sergeant let me know they would bring me my dunnage, but it would take approximately fifteen minutes, so I might as well relax. Turning my cellphone on, I called Enterprise, the clerk told me they would have my reserved rental vehicle at the loading zone by the time my baggage was offloaded. Matters were out of my hands, so I hit the head, then selected a location to sit with my back to a wall, and sightlines to the doors. I read an article in the Wall Street Journal, that due to reconnecting with Loni Hellström, I had not had an opportunity to peruse during the flight.

Before the FBI and Homeland Security agents had departed the terminal, I was informed that my baggage and Pelican case had been loaded into my rental vehicle, and I could proceed immediately. I drove the rental Ford Edge from the loading zone, and parked in a nearby parking space. Before going any further, I read what Loni wrote on the back of the business card she had slipped me. In addition to a phone number, she wrote Dinner? To the number on back, I texted my reply: When and Where?

Before I finished programming the GPS, Loni texted me: 6 or 7 I will text when I get confirmation of our reservation.

I sent: See you then.

She replied with a winking smiley face.

Navigating the greater Denver area and morning rush hour traffic can be a hassle. I am not comfortable in traffic. I realize there are not any VBIEDs lurking on the freeways or byways of metro Denver. None-the-less, my survival instinct prefers maneuvering room, and fewer targets to assess. I chose to leverage the benefits of technology. I don’t need GPS to get to my Grandfather’s ranch, it is my Home of Record; the only place I ever considered home. While there are some similarities to the Hindu Kush, I vastly prefer the Rocky Mountains; I could feel my soul being refreshed.

We took off from Joint Base Andrews at approximately Zero Six Hundred Hours (Six AM for civilians) EST (Eastern Standard Time), flew 1,488 miles at a cruising speed of Mach .8, just under six hundred miles an hour in roughly two and a half hours. Changing time zones, we landed at Zero Six Thirty (6:30 AM) MST (Mountain Standard Time). Acquiring my rental, hitting the Green Bean for another cup of coffee, and I still got on US Route 36 West before Zero Seven Hundred. Switching to Colorado SH (State Highway) 119 in Boulder, I pulled into the parking lot of Ned’s a few minutes before Zero Eight Thirty.

Ned’s is not the best restaurant in dinky Nederland; the small town nearest my grandfather’s ranch. They do serve good ‘Home Style’ cook’n. Not as good as Grandma Rose, but certainly better than Grandpa Adam, or I could cook. Both of us were bachelors, and decent cooks, but neither of us got much practice. Perhaps Gramps had more opportunity after Grandma Rose passed away in the winter of 2009. It was a weekday, and not crowded. There were several tables with what I presumed were tourists, a smattering of locals, and at a table in the back was a Boulder County Sheriff’s Deputy, and a “Ranger” of the US Forest Service.

I was hungry, five hours earlier I had eaten a Starbucks breakfast sandwich; a light snack on the flight took the edge off. I ignored the sign that said: Please Wait to be Seated. I sat with my back to the wall, with an empty table between me and the LEOs (Law Enforcement Officers). Both glanced at me, and nodded casually. I returned the silent greeting. Other places in rural America, merely ignoring that sign might invite harassment from cops or townsfolk. Fortunately, this is my hometown, even though I didn’t recognize the cops, they probably knew who I was. Wearing my Marine Corps uniform, even if it’s the rather casual forest green slacks, and olive green “Wooly-Pully” sweater, didn’t hurt.

“Marcus! Welcome Home! I’m just sorry it’s for such a sad reason. I figured Adam would be around forever,” Mable said.

As soon as she poured me a cup of coffee, she set the pot on the table, and opened her arms; I stood up and hugged her back, saying, “Thank you Mable. I missed you almost as much as the cooking here. This has been Gramps’ favorite place for breakfast since the last century.”

“You sure look handsome in your uniform! I can’t recall you wear’n it before? Adam was always so proud of you. You gonna be round for a while? We gonna see you for breakfast often?” Mable asked.

I couldn’t help grinning, before answering her questions in order, “When I was home Gramps kept me humble doing chores, it’s against regulations, not to mention impractical to muck out the stable in my Charlies. I haven’t been out to the ranch, but I’ve been told it’s not habitable. So, you’re likely to see my ugly mug for the breakfast for the next week or two. I’m on bereavement leave, however, depending upon circumstances, I may be here past the funeral.”

“Please let us know when the service is, we want to pay our respects. Adam was one of my favorite regulars,” Mable said.

We chatted a bit more before she asked me, “What’ll you have?”

I told her, “Philly omelet, sourdough toast, a tall glass of water with a bit of ice, and plenty of Rancher’s coffee.”

Mable bustled off to place my order. I sipped my coffee. Hardly Starbucks, but they keep a fresh pot of dark roast coffee for the ranchers, LEO, and others who prefer it strong. Typical coffee is served to tourists and others. Colorado is cattle country, most restaurants that aren’t some chain procure local beef. The Philly omelet at Ned’s features thin sliced prime steak. Considering the quality of the food, the price is a bargain. Chow at Quantico is very good, but Ned’s is better, and I took time to savor my second breakfast.

I was reading the editorial section of the Wall Street Journal, and finishing my coffee when Boulder County Sheriff Joe Pelle said, “mind if I sit down?”

I told him, “please join me. To what do I owe the pleasure? Sir.”

“Adam Randall was a respected member of the community. Not to mention that Mr. Maclaren, your Godfather would have some harsh words for me if I did not pay my respects. I expect that lots of folks would like to attend his memorial service. If you don’t mind, I would appreciate an invitation.” Sheriff Pelle said.

Mable refreshed my coffee, and pored a cup for the sheriff; we continued chatting for a bit, then he said, “I won’t keep you, and I have other duties that require my attention. My condolences Gunnery Sergeant Randall.”

Sheriff Pelle excused himself and headed to the cash register. I followed him, intending to pay my bill too. Mable told him the coffee was on the house. The sheriff grinned, but insisted on paying, despite only having taken a sip during our brief conversation. He also gave Mable several dollars as a tip.

When it was my turn to pay, Mable told me my meal had been paid for anonymously by some other customer. I wonder who had paid my bill? I also wondered why the Sheriff had bothered to talk to me an hour after I arrived in the county. Adam Randall, my grandfather, had a modicum of respect from his peers at the VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars), and the Cattleman’s Association. However, even in the 80’s and 90’s he was not among the biggest ranchers in the region, or even the county.

Mable said, “Marcus, we appreciate the sacrifices of those serving our nation. Don’t be a stranger Hun.”

Prudently, considering the amount of coffee and water I had consumed, I hit the head, before heading out to the ranch. I Drove north on State Route 72, also known as the Peak to Peak Highway, and turned left just before the Lakewood reservoir. A little further than the west end of the reservoir I turned right onto an unpaved road. It soon turned back west and generally paralleled Big Boulder Creek, a tributary to North Boulder Creek. North Boulder Creek merges with Middle Boulder Creek a bit east of the Barker Meadow Reservoir and the town of Nederland; South Boulder Creek merges on the east side of the city of Boulder.

My Family’s ranch encompasses land on both sides of Big Boulder Creek. Water rights are the most valuable asset, especially since increasingly harsh regulations restrict the ability to graze near the creek itself. Cattle and horses must drink from tanks, rather than from the creek. The original Deed specifies our right to divert water from Big Boulder Creek, and there are several freshets, or springs on the property. Over the years we have installed several deep wells, with pumps powered by windmills.

Great Grandfather Amos Randall bought the land in the early years of the Great Depression. He kept adding to it, and making improvements until he died in 1967. Black cowboys were not uncommon, but it was unusual for a Negro to own a ranch; even as humble as our spread was. Times were tough, yet Amos Randall was a good neighbor, aiding fellow ranchers, and others, in need. Amos employed Top Hands; most were fellow Black men. He did not discriminate, and over the years he hired a few Caucasian, Hispanic, Cheyenne, Shoshone, and Nez Peirce as hands (“cowboys”).

Dad never enjoyed working on the ranch, so after I joined the Army in 1999, Grandpa Adam began selling off his cattle, and eventually his bulls too. For a while he focused upon breeding horses, but then he sold off the horses too. He hoped I would continue the family tradition, so rather than selling the ranch and retiring to Florida or Arizona, he leased the grazing land to nearby ranches; renting fallow land for growing alfalfa and hay. He didn’t like corporate beef growing operations; not that they would be inclined to lease comparatively small grazing land lacking good access to the interstate; or at least a decent highway.

Great Grandpa Amos built the ranch house for his wife on a low ridge about four hundred meters (a quarter mile) north of Big Boulder Creek. Single story, four bedrooms, but unusual for the time, two bathrooms with indoor plumbing (on a septic system, of course); one bathroom was exclusively for Great Grandma Tulip, and only occasionally Amos. Their sons, and frequently Amos shared the other, smaller bathroom. Our kitchen is large, as is the pantry; there was also a root cellar. A dining room connects the kitchen and the parlor. Originally there was no electricity; there were several fireplaces and wood stoves.

In the 1940’s, through the Rural Electrification Administration they got electric lights. Later, in the 1950’s Amos had the root cellar expanded, the floor and walls cemented, and an oil furnace installed. In the 70’s Gramps converted one of the spare bedrooms into a den and office; not long after Grandma Rose had another bedroom converted into a sewing room. In the 80’s they put a bunkbed, and a separate twin bed in the only other bedroom (other than their bedroom); for me and my brothers to use when we visited, or lived there.

In the 90’s Gramps had the kitchen updated for Gram, adding a propane gas range, hot water heater, and inserts for several of the fireplaces. A large propane tank is just outside the covered porch/mud room adjacent to the kitchen. Attached to the back of the house is a carport; access via the mud room allows avoiding trudging through snow or mud. About 30 meters (100 feet) to the east is the stable and riding arena. In the 90’s Gramps decided to focus on breeding horses, the old stables replaced by a much nicer stable, with an indoor riding arena, to show horses to potential buyers, and even allow them to ride, if they chose to.

Most of the stalls are on the south side of the stable, many have an exterior door to paddocks; they have gates to a corral. On the north side is a larger riding arena with a roof, and an additional partial wall to the east. A sliding, barn style door provides access between the two arenas. There was an office in the southwest corner of the stable/arena complex; between the office and the stalls is a small head with a sink and toilet, then a tack room. In the middle of the stable are a couple large stalls, running north to south, they had sunlamps above them; intended for mares about to give birth, or still nursing their colts and foals. A walkway separates those stalls from the indoor arena, and also provides access to a few more stalls in the northeast corner.

In the center of the east side are a pair of horse washing stalls accessed only from the outside. Opposite the plumbing wall is another equipment room, with a pair of large sinks, as well as taps to fill containers to replenish the troughs. That equipment room, and a larger tack room have doors to both the north and south walkways. Behind the larger stalls for birthing was the feed room. Between the feed room and tack room are the stairs. At the top of the stairs, to the left, or west, is a viewing lounge that looks down upon the arena; there was another small head with a toilet and sink off the south side of the lounge.

To the immediate right, or east of the stairwell is a windowless storage room. Beyond that was a kitchenette, a pantry and a dining nook, that also lacked any windows. A large head with both a tub and a shower, as well as a toilet and a sink share a plumbing wall with the kitchenette. The bathroom was shared by a pair of 20x20 apartments with windows looking east. In the center of the west side of the stable is a hay door with an A frame winch. The west side is just an 8-foot-wide walkway, open to the arena below. Bales of hay could be stored on the area above the office and first several stalls; a railing made of two by four’s separated the hay loft from the arena below. There is a ladder down to the southeast corner of the arena.

Adam’s stable and arena complex was well made, but not nearly as fancy as most breeders who showcase their thoroughbreds. What made Gramps’ facility state of the art, at least at the time, is that he had hydronic underfloor heating installed throughout the ground floor, and under the viewing lounge, and living quarters. The entirety of the south face of the roof is covered in solar panels. Unfortunately, I wasn’t certain if he kept up on the maintenance, as he was winding down operations on the ranch.

I knew the old stables, for the ranch horses, had been neglected for more than a decade. Located about two hundred meters to the east, and thus lower down the ridge, really more of a spur running down from a ridge to the north. About that time, he had the last of the three bunk houses torn down. Gramps had the barn for the bulls, and the facilities to collect and store semen mothballed when he sold his last bull; I figured the pens and pasture had been neglected. South of Big Boulder Creek was a big metal barn that dated back to the harsh winters of the 1970’s. There was a feed silo, also pens and chutes for shipping cattle.

At one time there had been chicken coops, a pig pen, and even some turkeys. There was also a workshop, and a garage for a tractor, a couple of trucks, and a horse trailer; he sold all of those vehicles when he sold the herds. As far as I knew the only vehicle kept in any of the garages was Gramps’ 1978 Ford F-100 Custom, with its two-tone dark olive and mustard paintjob. The paint had faded to light olive and pale tan, and there were plenty of dents, but not a speck of rust; he had a new bedliner installed a decade ago. Since Gramps could no longer work his magic on it, he had a buddy who kept the engine tuned. The 351 Windsor V8 engine rumbled like a well fed grizzly. It only had farm tags on it, since Gramps rarely drove very far.

On the rare occasions Grandpa Adam drove to Boulder, or to Denver, he used my 1994 Ranger XL Super Cab; which Gramps kept licensed and insured while I was on Active Duty. I bought it used from Duncan, my Godfather’s youngest son, when he went off to college in 1997. He bought it from the dealership after someone else had it for a one-year lease. Back then it was gloss black, but the XL package was the baseline, so it had vinyl seats, but it did have a tachometer because it was a five-speed manual transmission. The 182 cu Vulcan V-6 provided 140 hp, enough in four-wheel drive to get me, or Gramps around, even in the snow. It was eighteen years old, and only had a bit more than sixty thousand miles; although it was no longer glossy black, and had a few dents.

I knew the moment I entered our property, even though nothing is posted. My intuition was confirmed when I saw barbed wire fences on both sides of the road. The fence on my left is not as obvious, because its more than a hundred meters back from the south bank of Big Boulder Creek. The gate to the ranch was ajar, but the cattle guard (metal girders over a ditch) would most likely keep any stray cattle off of the property. I wouldn’t worry about it until after I had inspected the entirety of the fence line; a task that would take several days, at least.

Despite the circumstances, it is good to be home. I was recalling many good memories. However, as I got closer, it looked like my home had been hit by a hurricane, or maybe a bomb. I parked the rented 2012 Ford Edge between the house and the stables. Slowly, I got out of the vehicle, only partially due to stiffness, twinging pain, and my artificial leg. The roof of the carport, and other debris had been blasted to the north and were laying upon the road to the workshop and garages, with some bits scattered in the kitchen garden. Incongruously, I thought that the garden seemed much bigger than I figured Gramps needed, or could easily care for. My Ford Ranger was rolled on its side behind the house.