Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
By nine the next morning, the sun was high enough to melt the frost on the hood of my truck, though the air still carried the sharp, dry chill of early spring. The ranger station sat on the far edge of town, a low building made of square-cut lodgepole pines that smelled of damp earth, woodsmoke, and old paper maps. The floor was covered in gray linoleum that had worn down to the black backing near the door, showing thirty years of muddy boots passing through. I walked inside, the floorboards groaning under my own heavy soles.
Ranger Davis was behind the high wooden counter, sorting through a stack of topographical maps printed on heavy, waterproof paper. He was a man of about forty with a quiet, steady way of moving that came from years of solitary backcountry patrols. He adjusted his wide-brimmed uniform hat, settling it just above his brow before he looked up at me.
