Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
“Morning, Arthur,” he said. His voice had the flat, monotone quality of a man who spent his days reading trail logs and safety brochures to tourists who never listened. “You still up on the county road?”
“I am,” I said, leaning against the wooden counter. “Twelve miles out, just where the old timber line starts.”
He nodded, his eyes dropping back to the map in front of him. “That is high country. It takes a while for the spring to find its way up there, and the snow stays in the draws until June.”
“I have been seeing some activity in the clearing behind the cabin,” I said. “Four elk have been coming down to graze in the afternoons. I wanted to ask about what follows them.”
Davis pulled a yellow pencil from behind his ear and tapped the map. He pointed to a shaded green area that ran along the creek bed less than half a mile from my east property line, where the contour lines crowded close together.
