Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
“Keep it in the shade,” Carl said as he handed me my five dollars change. “If it sits in the cab of your truck, you will smell it before you get to the highway.”
“I am going straight up the mountain,” I said.
“Watch the crows,” Carl said. “They will spot that white paper from a mile up and tear it to pieces before you even get your cameras hung.”
“I will keep it covered,” I said.
The constant howling of March winds against the green metal roof greeted me as I pulled into the cabin driveway. It was a cold, dry wind that came down off the peaks, rattling the loose sheet metal on the lean-to and sending dry pine needles skating across the gravel.
Cornelius’s SUV was parked near the porch, its dark windows reflecting the grey sky. I did not want to face him or Bula just yet, not while I had the heavy package of meat sitting on the passenger seat. I grabbed my tool bag from the truck bed and took the butcher’s package, walking straight past the cabin toward the thick trees at the edge of the clearing.
