Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
At three in the afternoon, I took my wooden rocking chair out onto the front porch. The wind had died down to a gentle breeze, carrying just a hint of the snow that still sat on the high peaks of the Absaroka Range. I sat down and pulled the dusty blue microfiber cloth from my shirt pocket. I took off my wire-rimmed glasses, breathing onto the lenses until they fogged, and began to wipe them clean with the soft fabric.
Without my glasses, the clearing was a green and brown blur, the edges of the pine trees softening into the gray of the mountains. I rubbed the glass in slow, circular motions, removing the dust from the wood stacking and the faint smudges of grease from the morning’s chores. When I slipped them back over my ears, the world snapped back into sharp focus. Every needle on the lodgepole pines stood out against the blue sky, and the fence line at the edge of the property was a clean, dark line.
