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The Housing Office of Pitkin County has within its basement level bowels a small board in which residents in transition can post notes looking for housing. Adjacent to that board is another which advertises rooms for rent. Those seeking new housing situations are far outnumbered by the amount of rooms that are advertised. 

 Glenda, a forty-something clerk with a nervous laugh tells me that it has been this way for two years now. For years, she says, the ratio was the other way around. The difference, she says, grinning nonchalantly, is that locals seem to be moving out of town, and the people moving here now tend to be foreigners who are on six-month Visa’s. Lots of Kiwis and Brazilians these days, she says. It is on account of their economies. They come in droves, packs of college age kids looking for a cheap place to stay, and they have the pick of the litter, except that none of the houses or apartments can be considered cheap by any favorable currency rates. 

 The only other time that I have been into the Housing office was two years ago, when I decided to sign up for the housing lottery, just to see if I qualified for the program of subsidized home ownership. That visit was short though, because I left when I found out that you needed to be a resident in Pitkin County to qualify. Since I had lived in Carbondale, which is in Garfield County, I was ineligible to “play” the lottery, even though I worked in Pitkin County. 

At the time, I did not put much thought into it. I was happy living at the 680, where my friends lived. Besides, I wouldn’t have had the money to put down on a house anyways. As Brody said, 20% of nothing is still nothing. But now I was a motivated shopper in need of emergency housing. The 680 as we all knew and loved it was played out. It was marred for good, and would be abandoned to the new school roommates who had taken it over. 

My back up plan was to camp up above Aspen on Independence Pass for a month or two while it was warm, if need be. I had cleared out of the old ski bum house in less than two hours the day after the fight. All of my belongings fit into my truck, and the only thing that was substanitive that needed help moving was Cass’ old desk, which Brody helped me put in his truck. We stored it in a corner of his garage in Glenwood under an ancient, ragged Navajo rug. 

 I stood quietly studying the board that offered rooms and apartments and contemplated what life living in the actual town of Aspen would be like. The thought was not necessarily inviting. Too much distraction here. I was not totally against the idea, but something inside of me resisted on the grounds of self-preservation. Living in a town with so much construction going on was likely to drive me mad with anxiety. Everywhere you looked, some giant new house or massive condo complex was going up. Then there were the chemical distractions to consider. There is more booze and cocaine flowing in that town than a man should ever be granted access to on a regular basis. 

No, I knew instinctively that I would need to live somewhere relatively quiet this time. Some place where I can hear myself think. The listings on the for rent board offered mostly Aspen rentals – and the cheapest that I could find was a room within a house with other roommates for $1600. I had paid just $700 in Carbondale at the 680, and that was about to be halved with Cassady before we had to leave. With no job lined up yet, that kind of price was out of my league. Even with my Picavision job they would have been prohibitive. 

As I sat pondering the board, Glenda appeared next to me, smiling as always. In her hand was a small square piece of blue paper. She pinned it up on the for rent wall with a clear plastic thumbtack. Her hands were rubbery and lined with raised tendons, and I watched them protrudingly flex as she pinned the note up. “You need a cabin to rent?” she asked, sounding amused. She had a hint of Claire Huxtable in her manner, and not just due to their similar racial makeup. I peered at the new posting. 

 CABIN FOR RENT ON RANCH 

1 bdr w/ loft 

Dog OK (better be able to fend off Coyotes) 

Emma 

Dave Tripp 

970 555-7707 

 “Damn!” I said aloud. “Where did this come from?” “Oh, he just called a minute ago. Said he needed to find someone fast. He was a funny man. Real talkative, with a thick southern accent,” Glenda said in her sing song voice. “Uh. Yeah. Hey, Glenda. It is Glenda, right?” “Yes.” “Can I borrow your phone? I don’t have a cell.” ‘Sure you can borrow my phone so long as it is a local number,” she said, reverting back to her nervous laugh which punctuated everything that she said. “Don’t need those commissioners wondering why I was calling Toledo, Ohio!” “Right,” I said, smiling. I am just calling this fella back, if that is alright.” “That is alright with me. You go on right ahead.” 

I dialed the numbers feeling an eagerness welling up inside. A cabin, on a ranch. Dogs OK. Jesus. The phone range thrice before the deep, resonant voice of an older man answered. “You have reached the party to whom you are speaking!” the man said cheerfully. “Yeah! Hello. Hello there,” I stammered. The personality in his greeting took me by surprise. 

“And hello to you. This is David Tripp. How may I help you?” he asked with an accent so thickly southern and distinguished that he seemed cut directly out of Gone With the Wind. 

“Great! I am Coy Bixby. I see your ad here at the Housing Office. Do you have a cabin for rent?” “Why yes I do indeed. I must say that your call comes just two minutes after I placed the ad with Miss Glenda there. You must be in the right place at the right time,” Tripp said.

 “Indeed…I was standing here looking for something exactly like what you listed when Glenda posted your note. So, Mr. Tripp. What is the deal there? What sort of cabin are you offering?” 

“I’ll tell you what Cory. Is it Cory?”

 “Coy. But I answer to anything with a C.”

 “Well good Coy. Why don’t you drive out here and see for yourself. Its an old cabin. I believe that it was built in 1880 by the original homesteaders out here in Emma. Do you know where Emma is?” he asked. 

“I think so. Is it out there by the Crown?” “Yes it it. We are right at where East and West Sopris Creek Roads meet out here between Carbondale, Basalt and Snowmass to some degree, depending on which road you are on.” 

“Right. I think that I have been up that road a time or two, looking for deer.” “Well we got plenty of those out here. We got horses and cows, elk and deer. We got bear, cats, coons and a whole bunch of got-damned cai-yotes outchua,” he said, his voice rising and falling in theatrical flourishes. 

“Come on out here Coy. I’ll show you around the place. I got a few hours this afternoon before the damned farrier comes out to wrestle with Miss Sweetie. That girl has done come up lame on me.” 

I had no idea what a farrier was, but guessing by his usage of the word lame, I supposed it to be a veteranarian of some sort, probably for horses. I quickly agreed to meet David at his ranch, and was so excited that I almost had the phone on the cradle before I realized that I did not get any directions. 

“You still there?” I asked after snatching the handset back up to my ear. “Why yes I am, what can I do you for now Coy?” 

“I don’t know where you live.”

 “Oh that’s easy son. Just come off of Highway 82 there at the old Emma Store, take a left at the tracks, follow the road past the old white church on the left, and the sheep on the right, then come up around a curve that is gonna take you past a Hereford beef operations and some old barns by the creek there on the left. Pass those cows and some horses up in Kenny Wagner’s place on a pasture with a grove of cottonwoods lining the road, and when you get to the Y, take a right, our driveway is a dirt road on the left after one pasture. Drive on down to the end of the road, through the green gate, and you will be at our house. Watch out for Max and some of them other got-damned hounds that run around out here when you come in. Miss Marilyn would have a conniption fit if that damn dog got hit again."