Stowing Your Gear at Rocky Ridge Ranch

Sunday's a slow-down-and-smell-the-roses kind of day up here.

There's climbers my grandma planted when she and Gramps first dug a well on this ground. She was so sure they'd find water, and he doubted. When they hooked into an underground spring she turned to him and did not say "Well, then. I told you so."

She might have thought it.

She did not say it.

And that taught me a lot, that story there. It taught me to expect good things and to not gloat when they happened. Because what if they'd stopped two shovelfuls before the water sprang forth?

What  if they'd packed up their gear and moved on, her great with child and him tired of traveling, searching, testing.

But they kept digging and here we are, four generations later.

My name's Shane. Shane Ridge, and Rocky Ridge is our place. It's been our place for nearly one hundred and ten years and I'm hoping that my daughter and her family will keep on keepin' on...

And that one of the grandkids will do the same.

Time will tell that and many other things, but for right now, I want to say welcome. Welcome to Ghost Falls, to the ranch and to our home. For this week, or as long as you stay, let me say my home is your home.

And when Laraby puts on the afternoon snack wagon... and Cookie delights us with his August rendition of Croc-hide Soup and Sandwiches... we'll have a chance to get to know one another.

And that's the best thing I know of.