In the Northwest, where Oregon, Washington and Idaho come together, the desert forms a motionless landscape that stretches in all directions with an astounding, disconcerting sameness. There are no markers for distance traveled. The near sagebrush is the same as the far sagebrush, and in between is always more sagebrush. Only the numbers on the odometer advance.

Smokey Monroe drove his old truck across that desert, classic country music playing on the radio, windows open to the dry wind. He tapped rhythm to the music against the edge of the steering wheel and thought, once again, how he really should learn to play guitar. Then, once again, the engine of the old red Ford sputtered, hesitated and died. He switched off the key and let the truck coast onto the shoulder. The radio went dead right in the middle of an old George Jones tune, but Smokey kept singing to the end of the verse. He knew the words as well as he knew what was wrong with the Ford. Besides, it was just rude to leave The Old Possum hanging in mid-verse like that. As the truck rolled to a stop, Smokey felt the sun’s heat beat into him, and breathed in the scents of dust and sage as the enormous silence of the desert replaced the noise of the radio.

The temperature gauge on the dash registered in the red, and the aroma of antifreeze filled the cab. That old slow leak in the water pump had caught up with him again; nothing to do but let the engine cool a bit before he added water. He settled deep into the well-worn pocket in the truck seat, gazed out across the sage flat and let last night’s ride in Lewiston come back to him.

His first draw had been a saddle bronc with a good kick, but Smokey had ridden it out. His spurs raked front to back across the bay horse’s hide as it pitched and bucked around the arena, doing its best to lose him. He rode loose in the saddle, his left hand high, as he whipped and swayed with the movements of the horse. When the buzzer sounded, he twisted his body toward the pickup rider and bailed off the bay. He swung across the back of the pickup horse and landed on his feet in the dirt on the other side. He doffed his hat in response to the clapping, cheering crowd. The announcer’s voice boomed out over the loudspeaker: “Smokin’ Joe Monroe from Burns, Oregon. Well, look at that, boys – the best points so far tonight. This cowboy could win a prize.” Smokey sauntered from the arena with a limp that was only partly for show.

In the bareback event his draw had been a rangy gray gelding, a horse who was not having a fun day at the rodeo. The horse fought the chute, rearing up on his hind legs. He struck the rails with his front hooves, driving the cowboy away twice. Smokey finally got astride the horse and tugged his hat down tight. He nodded to the gateman. The gate swung wide and the gray lunged from the chute. The horse hit the ground, grunted hard and launched himself into the air, all four feet off the dirt of the arena. The cowboy drove his legs forward then pulled his knees up toward his chest, raking his spurs along the horse’s shoulders. The big gray mule-kicked both back legs out behind, his head straight down between his forelegs.

Smokey leaned back and raked him again. The big horse squealed and see-sawed up on his hind legs, threatening to go over backward. The cowboy pushed his weight forward, yelling curses at the horse. The gray’s front feet hit the ground with a thud that jarred every bone in the man’s body. With barely a pause the horse leaped straight up in the air, thrashing his body like a fish fighting the hook. The crowd roared. The rider spurred and cursed and prayed for the buzzer. Every muscle in his body screamed with strain. Every bone ached for mercy. The horse put his head down again and crow-hopped twenty punishing feet across the arena.

The pickup men were closing in for the end when Smokey lost his seat. His bad leg wouldn’t hold. When the horse went left, he went right. For an instant he had the heady sensation of being completely airborne. He heard the collective gasp of the crowd and remembered to tuck his chin before he hit the ground. He landed in an untidy heap on top of his hat.

The crowd politely applauded his effort. The pickup man brought his horse alongside.

“You okay, Smokey?” he asked.

“Hell, yes,” Smokey said and turned to the crowd and waved. They were already focused on the gates, ready for the next rider. He bent to retrieve his hat from the dust and made his way across the chewed surface of the arena. The gray loped past as pickup riders hazed him back to the holding pens. Clods flew from the horse’s hooves raining one last indignity on the limping cowboy.

The fall had put him out of the running for over-all, so he had drawn his winnings from the first ride and headed for the parking lot.

The cooling truck made a gargling noise that drew Smokey’s attention back to the here-and-now. He got the water jug from the back of the truck and propped the hood up with the stick he carried for just this purpose. The cap was still hot, but he knew from long experience gurgling meant the radiator had cooled enough to be safe.

He dribbled water from the jug into the radiator slowly, letting the coils fill. Then he got down on his knees to check under the engine. The leak from the water pump seemed no worse than normal. The engine purred to life at the turn of the key, just like always. He steered back onto the highway and continued across the desert.

Early next morning, a loud noise outside the pickup startled him awake. He sat up too quickly and smacked his head on the inside of the canopy.

The noise was a motorcycle in the parking lot of the motel where Smokey couldn’t afford a room. The canopy on the back of the pickup truck was his home-away-from-motel and contained his sleeping bag with a foam pad, and his championship saddle with “Best All-Around Cowboy, Calgary Stampede” stamped on the skirt with a year that was a long time ago. Next to that was his worn old bucking rig, a duffle with three changes of shirts and jeans, his riding gloves, and a shaving kit with twenty dollars stashed in the lining.

With his only towel over his shoulder and the shaving kit under his arm, he used the bathroom at the gas station next door to freshen up. The glow of the single bulb cast a gray tint over his skin, turning every crease in his face to a shadowed fold. The water in the sink ran for some time without getting warm, so he splashed cold water on his face and scraped the towel across the stubble of his beard.

In the hotel café, hovering over his second cup of coffee, he contemplated his ibuprofen level. He had paid his fee to ride in Caldwell the next day and was signed up for Boise on the weekend. Not for the first time, he felt as tired as his aging truck, held together with stubbornness, long experience and odd bits of wire.

As he hesitated before shaking pain medication into his palm, a shadow fell across the table. He looked up into a familiar face, lined with wrinkles and topped by a shiny bald scalp that reflected the morning light like a new coin.

“Smokin’ Joe Monroe,” declared the man, tossing his hat onto the table. “How the hell are ya?”

Smokey stood to grasp the gnarled and weather-beaten hand of his friend. “Red Shannon. I’m fair. How’s yourself?” The two men shook hands hard and grinned at each other for a long moment.

“Sit down,” Smokey invited, gesturing to the other side of the booth.

“Saw you ride last night.” Red signaled the waitress for coffee. “You still do pretty good, for an old man.”

Smokey snorted, “And feelin’ it this morning.” He juggled the pill bottle from hand to hand.

“I figured you would be here this morning, like the old days. Where you headed next?”

“Saddle bronc tomorrow in Caldwell.” Smokey drained the last of his coffee and slipped the ibuprofen back into his pocket. The waitress refilled his cup when she delivered Red’s coffee.

“What are you up to these days?” Smokey asked. “I haven’t seen you around since that wreck a couple years back.”

Red’s eyes crinkled in his weathered face and he ran a big knuckled hand over his naked head. “The bull won,” he said, raising his cup in salute. “My daughter talked me into retiring.”

“I heard that. Couldn’t believe you gave up bulls for a rockin’ chair.”

Red grinned, “No chair. Got a regular job at a Western store, talking folks into buying fancy gear. I work a couple days a week and play with my grandkids the rest of the time.” His eyes twinkled, “I keep an old horse out at my place, teach the kids to ride. I leave the rough stuff to you young bucks.”

Retirement, Smokey thought. Turned-out for good. But a man needs a little more to fall back on than a worn-out Ford, a well-used bucking rig and past glory. There had been a time when the future seemed sure and the rides would be good forever. That was before Pendleton four years ago, that big roan horse and weeks in rehab with pins and plates in his leg. But hell, he could still ride. Plenty of time yet for that last go-round.

Red was fishing in his wallet. “You meet all sorts of people workin’ retail,” he said. “I’ve got a customer from over at Emmett. He breeds and trains quarter horses for the track. Comes in pretty regular to talk horses and rodeos and such.” The old cowboy extracted a business card from his wallet, studied it for a moment, turned it in his fingers. He laid it on the table between them. “He’s lookin’ for a trainer.”

Smokey looked at the card, then at Red.

Red poked the card with a finger, nudging it across the table. “I told him I knew a fella. A good hand with a horse. But I didn’t know if he was ready to turn-out since he’s still ridin’ in the money.” He drained his coffee and got to his feet, one joint at a time. “I’m workin’ today, so I better get movin’.”

Smokey rose to face his friend and the two of them shook hands again. Red ambled out the door and Smokey dropped money next to his coffee cup. He left the business card lying on the table.

He was set to walk away. Then with the same twist that got him off the plunging deck of a bucking horse and behind the saddle of the pickup man, he reached back and snagged the card off the table.

Out in the desert it all looks the same; the only thing that changes are the numbers on the odometer. But at some point, a line is crossed. Weathered old fence posts and fallen down barns come into view, then fade behind. A mailbox flashes by. And closer and closer all the time, the green blush of cultivation.

The day starts with my wife’s tears. Since our son was stillborn last fall, many of my days start this way. All I seem to be able to say is that we can try again. It may be early spring out in the world, but sometimes it seems like winter lives in our house.

The old red Ford starts right up after a push-start down the driveway. I bail into the driver’s seat and give it some gas. There’s a forty-five-minute drive out to Trail Creek, where I’m clearing right-of-way for Pacific Power. Curt is bringing in a portable saw mill this morning to process the trees I’ve taken down and I need to get the loader running before he arrives.

I drive with the windows down; the cold morning air sweeps the sleep and sadness from my brain. A spring shower in the middle of the night left the air clean and smelling of wet asphalt; the highway is black and shiny in the early light. Just before the turn-off, I stop at The Happy Taco for coffee and a burrito to eat cold for lunch. The waitress at the drive-through knows my old truck.

“The usual, Mr. Zee,” she says with a smile and a twinkle in her eye, she hands me a crisp paper bag and a carton of hot coffee in trade for a few crumpled dollar bills - just like every morning when Dennie is too sad to fix my lunch bucket.

“You know what I like, Carla.” I can still twinkle a bit myself, if I do say so, and tell her to keep the change.

The smell of the burrito almost gets the better of me, but I gulp the coffee in quick hot mouthfuls. In a mile or so, I’ll need both hands to steer the Ford. The unpaved road up through the timber is steep and rough cut, mostly mud and boulders. Last night’s rain left the surface soft and slippery. The truck bounces from rut to rut, slewing sideways, tires spinning for traction. It takes a fine combination of spinning the steering wheel and teasing the gas pedal to keep the pickup moving up hill when she really just wants is to slide into a rut and rest in the mud. My hat meets the headliner more than once; the paper bag with the burrito ends up on the floor. My contract states when I finish this job I have to leave the road impassable. It won’t take much.

The sun is just clearing the tops of the trees when I get to the clearing. The old yellow Case loader squats like a huge prehistoric bug, its long outriggers flexed like legs, loading tongs dangle like huge pincers against the sky. I park the Ford pointed downhill for a rolling start and slam the truck door twice before the latch catches. The new fittings and hoses for the loader are in the back, they make an arm load but I get it all in one trip.

The sun feels good on my neck. I hate to crawl under the loader, but the slick new mud makes it easy. On my back on the cold ground, I reach up to remove the old worn-out hoses and install the new. It takes a few tries. I pause now and then to rest my arms across my chest and ease the ache in my shoulders. It’s dry but claustrophobic under the machine. The scarred and dented belly pan hulks mere inches from my face, the smell of old crank case oil is rank and heavy. It’s dark and cold down here, and hard to get a breath.

There was a time when I thought I owned all the light in the world. When Dennie told me we were going to have a baby, it was the best possible news. The loss of that child has dimmed the light and thinned the air to where sometimes I can’t fill my lungs.

Frogs. there must be hundreds of them, sing from the marshy spot across the clearing. Maybe it was last night’s rain, maybe today’s sunshine. Whatever the reason, they are making a happy racket. When I crawl out from under the loader to get some air, they shut down like someone flipped a switch.

One more slide under the machine and everything is back together with no extra parts and I pour new hydraulic fluid into the Case. The gasoline pony-motor cranks a few times, chokes, and finally turns over. I wait for the diesel indicator to warm up, then kick the diesel engine over and adjust the idle, till it makes the right kind of noise. Then test the outriggers – they respond clumsily, one at a time. I crawl off the machine to check the fittings. An adjustment to a hose clamp stops a pressure leak. I wait a minute or two. Everything seems tight, so I climb back on. The controls respond to my touch, the crane swivels and extends, the pinchers clench and loosen. Another check for leaks, and we’re good to go.

Logs are piled off to one side of the clearing to leave space for the portable mill. Curt should be here soon, so I sit on the end of one log, eat my burrito, inhale the sharp pitch smell of cut timber and listen to the frogs. Then again, like a switch the frogs, all at once, stop singing. I can hear the growl of Curt’s truck and the screeching groaning protest of the mill being towed over the miserable surface of the road. I walk over to meet him.

“Hey, Curt,” I say. “What do you call a frog that can recite the Gettysburg Address?”

“Hell if I know,” he says. “What?”

“A talking frog.”

“Well,” he says, releasing a chain binder, “if you’ve got one, we can cash in and give up this crazy romantic way of life.”

I clap the shoulder of his old jacket, raising a cloud of dust and the smell of diesel fuel. “Hell, Curt, it’s spring. Anything can happen.”