compactly as activated grains of beachrnsand, and the cold drives with the forcernof an ice ax. When the storm moves outrnit leaves behind a landscape as white andrnglaring as the Antarctic beneath anrnozone sky, with only the feathered ti|5s ofrnthe tallest sagebrush showing. Winter isrnthe sole defense a brave countrv knows.rnn winter, when the only tourists arernthe skiers and ranchers have little to dornbut pitch hay from sleds and wagons tornthe stock and repair equipment, thernsphere of human activity narrows tornhome improvement, enhancing famih’rnvalues, ice fishing, snow-machining, andrnschnappes-drinking, not ncccssarih inrnthat order. Some years ago Fred Chambers,rnfeeling restless, contracted to haverna water-well drilled on the 40-acre parcelrnhe had bought the previous fall on TwinrnCreek ten miles west of Kcmmerer. Fveryrnday from November through MarchrnFred drove out from town to sit in therncab of his truck on muddy, then frozen,rnground, holding down his 40 acres like arnbrick on a piece of carpet or spread ofrnnewspaper while he drank coffee,rnsmoked filterless cigarettes, and waitedrnfor spring, with nothing better to lookrnforward to in the meantime than my arrivalrnlate in the afternoon to help himrncarry water to our several head of horsesrnin the corrals. When we had fed and watered,rnthe two of us sat until dark inrnFred’s truck with binoculars on the seatrnbetween us and the rifles muzzle-downrnon the floor of the cab, while Fredrnsmoked and we conversed between takingrnshots at the cottontail rabbits as theyrnemerged from the willows along TwinrnCreek. Fred, an engineer prematureK’ retiredrnon a disability pension after fallingrnfrom the smokestack of the Utah Powerrn& Light plant south of town, is a nati’ernof Tennessee, though he has lived in thernWest for most of his adult life. As arnyoung man he had a car, a girl, and a stillrnback in the woods in the eastern part ofrnthe state. With the girl’s help, Fredrnwould load the bottles into the backseatrnof the car and throw a coat oer them.rnNext he adjusted the headlights downwardrnfrom marks he had made on therndoor of a barn, until the angle of shinerncorrected for the angle of the car bodytippedrnback on the chassis. Finally Fredrnand the girl started out through the darkrnforest among the lurking revenue agents.rnThe girl, he explained, had two basicrnfunctions, the second of them being tornheave the bottles out of the car at Fred’srncommand. One day his mother askedrnhim, “Fred? Do you know a man bv thernname of Bill Tinker?” “Sure do.” “Well,rnhe sas it would be a good thing for ‘<)urnif he don’t see vou around eastern Tennesseernfor a real long time.” So I’Vedrntold his parents, “It looks like it’s time forrnme to migrate,” and headed for northernrnAlabama. (The girl was claiming pregnancyrnanyway.) On account of Fred’srnback and in the absence of a dog I actedrnas retriever, but Fred alwa’S supplied thernhot coffee. We cleaned the rabbits inrnthe truck, tossing the guts from the windowsrnand picking out the fleas and snappingrnthem awa between thumb andrnforefinger. One afternoon, seeing a cowrnmoose and calf in the willows, Fred discoveredrnthe need to learn how a moosernreacts when ou fire a shotgun into thernair at a distance of twenty-five pacesrnfrom her across a fence. He found outrnwhen she jumped the wire and wentrnafter him, and I knew how IchabodrnCrane looked floundering uphill in twornand a half feet of snow brandishing anrnantique shotgun above his head.rnWhen we had finished breaking arncouple of horses by riding them intornsnowdrifts and goading them to franticrnattempts at bucking, Fred was bored andrnready to spend 512,000 on a well. Fiernhired a driller from Bridger Valley whorndragged up a single-axle camper trailerrnbeside the drilling rig for himself and hisrnwife Laurie, his assistant Jim and Jim’srnRuth, and two small bo s to live in whilernthe’ punched the well. Fred said therndriller, yvhose name was Bob Stocks, wasrnan Arapahoe and that the’ were all ofrnthem Indians, though Ruth was blondernand admitted to having been a Mormon,rnonce. The trailer was ten feet bv se’en,rnwith bunk beds at one end and a truckrnseat across the other, and between themrnon the ruined linoleum floor a gas stovernand an electric heater to thaw the frozenrntruck and generator batteries. A lengthrnof wire holding the door shut slumpedrnover the heater and burned the hand ofrnan’onc who went in or out of the trailer.rnWhile Fred sat in his Stetson and hisrnsheepskin coat drinking scalding coffeernfrom a water glass, the boys plaed cars inrnthe top bunk and the women lounged inrntheir soiled thermal underwear as theyrnsmoked cigarettes and brewed hot tearnwith sugar on the stove. It was Januaryrnand forty-five below zero at night; therne’ening before v’hcn the bottled gas ranrnout the temperature in the trailer hadrndropped to twent- degrees. The trucksrnfroze up, and Bob and Jim built fires ofrnha’ and wood beneath the engine blocksrnto thaw them. Work proceeded intermittentlyrnbetween freezeups: the menrnwould drill three das, then sit for two.rnYesterday they reached 120 feet withoutrnhitting groundwater and halted to waitrnfor Fred to instruct them. “She’s arnbitch,” the driller told Fred. Though hernstopped short of recommending thatrnthey drill to artesian water at 300 feet.rnBob said privately to mc, “Fhcrc ain’t arnthing else wc can do.” Fred’s mood grewrngrimmer each day until after three weeksrnthe well was at 212 feet, when a cavc-inrnoccurred and Bob and Jim had to reamrnout eighty-odd feet of cla’. The trailerrnstood surrounded by a field of emptyrnoilcans and frozen twists of human excrement,rnand grease and oil had seepedrninto every corner of it; the floor was slipperyrnwith clay and melted snow. “I tellrnyou what boy,” Bob Stocks said, “I’m arnfascist in a lot of things, but I’m againstrnthis g—damn police state we got here. Irntell you boy, if I saw vou poach a deerrnover there on that hill, I’d come overrnand hep you skin him out. You’re fromrnW’ helons here! I haternthem g—damn game wardens, dirtv sonsabitches.rnFver since them bastards hasrngot to carry guns—I tell you boy, it’s illegalrnand unconstitutional when themrnbastards has a right to shoot you and yournain’t got the right to protect yourself. Irntell you what: I believe in game protection,rnbut the people—the people ofrnWyoming—can take care of her.” TogetherrnFred and I went out into the clearrnand open night where the moon laid arnluminous shine over the land, the buttesrnand mesas glowing on the cobalt skv andrnthe platinum valleys running smoothlyrnto them as if on their own momentum.rnBy February if not before the mountainsrnof October are a distant memoryrnand summer an ephemeral dream. I tryrnto recall the horseback ride into GannettrnPeak in the Wind River Range lastrnJune: up the switchbacks from TorreyrnLake south of Dubois to Arrow Mountainrnand across a seven-mile expanse ofrntorrs and wildflowers; down into therndeep forested canyon cut by DinwoodyrnCreek and along its rushing waters, jadecoloredrnfrom their burden of glacialrnflour; past the oxbows and gravel barsrnstrewn with the skeletons of flood-uprootedrntrees to the sweaty granitic base ofrnthe peak itself, mantled with glaciersrnfractured by ragged crevasses. Time nowrnto visit Jim Rauen in New Mexico again.rncrn50/CHRONICLESrnrnrn