My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
At noon, Miller’s blue pickup truck pulled up.
He was sixty-two, with a gray beard and a heavy orange canvas coat. He got out carrying a metal tripod and a yellow legal pad.
“Cold day for a line check,” Miller said, nodding to me.
“I need you to look at a road easement description,” I said, handing him the folded paper from my pocket.
He took the document and adjusted his glasses.
He read the first page, then walked over to the gate post, looking down the gravel lane.
“Who wrote this?” Miller asked.
“My stepmother brought it to me,” I said.
He walked twenty paces down the road, his boots crunching on the frozen gravel.
He stopped and looked toward the small draw where my well sat.
“This easement is not just for driving,” Miller said, pointing his pen at the paper. “They wrote in a thirty-foot clearance on both sides of the center line.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means they can clear brush, dig trenches, and lay pipe,” Miller said. “And look at paragraph four.”
