PEAR SEASON

The Ditch The river ran swift and mud brown, lapping up over the riprap on its banks, dead smooth until the trunk of an old tree swirled past, gouged out of the levee by the current. Dan turned off the levee road down into the orchard. The pear trees were all pruned now, rows of crooked trunks, gnarled, knobby joints. They looked aged and sore. The muddy road sucked at the tires of his Jeep Wagoneer. Black delta dirt, peat-rich, bottomless. Four-wheel drive was no help at all in this muck. He wouldn’t be able to drive out to the back of the ranch. He didn’t want to risk getting stuck. His son had enough on his hands without having to hook up a tractor to haul his father out of the mud. His son Rob was doing a good job. He’d taken over the ranch two years ago at Dan’s insistence. Rob had earned the right to make his own mistakes. You can’t have two bosses on one ranch. Dan only came out to run his dog Soot, an old black lab who was panting in the back of his Jeep now, anxious to be let out so he could snuffle the tules along the full ditches for the stray mallard or sand hill crane. Dan was surprised to see the tules still there. He had always cleaned out that ditch in late fall. Soot was the best dog Dan had ever had – a good nose, soft mouth. They’d hunted together for years, crouched in a blind to watch the cold, pre-dawn breeze riffle the duck ponds and creep down the back of Dan’s neck so that he hunched his shoulders and turned up the collar of his hunting jacket. Soot lay beside him, never moved a muscle. Together they watched for the sun to break the horizon, lighting the ponds turquoise, gilding the rice stubble. Then the flights of ducks would start to work in, circling high, spiraling down, and Soot’s body would tense, waiting for Dan to pick out a swift, low-flying teal or a fat sprig. The sound of Dan’s shotgun would send Soot leaping out across the water, splashing in the sunlight, returning wet and happy with the duck held gently in his mouth. Not a mark on it. Their hunting days were mostly behind them. Dan’s cataracts were bad, and Soot’s joints had stiffened up. His hind legs betrayed him from time to time. When he chased some bird into a ditch, Dan had a hell of a time hauling him out again. But Soot still loved the ranch. Dan didn’t have the heart to deny him a run every day. Dan liked being out there himself, though he didn’t like to be seen as interfering.