What I Would Take
I tend to fight if I’m threatened.
Twenty years ago, I wanted retaliation on the guilty parties who bombed us.
I wanted those bullies to pay.
But this week, I started thinking about the innocent people who live like me -- the farmers and ranchers who don’t care about the politics and power structure of nations, they just want to be safe and keep their kids happy and healthy.
I thought about the farmers and ranchers in Afghanistan, Venezuela and other collapsing countries controlled by crazies.
They choose to leave.
What if my country collapsed and I had to leave?
Where would I go?
I’ve always liked Australia, but they don’t let many people in during good times. In a crisis, I doubt that would change.
Central America intrigues me, but it is falling apart.
Canada is close. I could drive across the border and take more with me than if I needed to fly.
If the border were closed, I could load a couple of pack horses and find my way north.
I would take a few photos and lots of food.
Camping gear would keep me warm.
Cash would be in my pocket, along with my little bit of jewelry to trade and a pistol.
But winter is coming.
How would I feed horses in Canada’s deep snow?
I would leave this land.
The land where I felt the wind bite my cheeks and crack my lips.
The land where I felt the sun warm my shoulders.
The land where I watched fawns, ducklings, lambs and calves stretch and grow on bright green grass.
The land where I scattered my husband’s ashes.
The chickens and barn cats would be on their own.
I would sell my sheep and cows.
It was hard enough to send a few of them to a better home the other day, after grasshoppers and drought ate up my ability to keep my end of our deal. None of them would go to a better home this time.
I would have to leave my four guard dogs -- the very dogs who have chased away countless coyotes, my partners in protecting the ranch.
The dogs I have fed every morning and night, patting them for a job well done and looking into their loyal, dedicated, trusting eyes.
Would I leave them here to starve?
Winter is coming.
Their trusting eyes would first turn to concern, then worry, desperation and, finally, hopelessness.
Or would I shoot them?
I have had to shoot a dog before. I never want to do it again.
Would I shoot all of them in one day, get it over?
Could I?
I would leave most of my horses, my partners on this ranch and in the mountains.
They have carried me hundreds of miles, shared the magic of peaks and creeks with me.
One horse was born the day we buried my brother, 21 years ago.
She and a couple of others could never make a pack trip.
Winter is coming.
As I cocked my pistol, how would I keep each one from knowing what is next?
Who would I take with me?
My daughter would ride shotgun.
My son flies fighter jets in the Air Force. I might never see him again.
My brothers have wives and they have families.
My parents would argue that they could survive without my help, but I’m not sure.
My friends have helped me through many hard times.
Yet large groups are awkward, slow and unwieldy, especially my crowd of hard-headed bosses.
And winter is coming.
Despair threatens.
Where would you go?
What would you take with you?
Who would you leave behind?