MAGGIE KOGER
THE LOST SHEEP A fascination with back roads and two-lane tracks that used to be roads excited my dad. In the 1950s the population of the Owyhee’s had dwindled to ranchers and their cattle, sheepherders and their charges, and a few bands of wild horses. Only one of these groups paid taxes, and road maintenance fell short of posting Detour signs. On the trip my dad had planned for us that Sunday we would pass a Road Closed sign as well as a Cross At Your Own Risk warning in front of an old wooden bridge. But still, what could possibly stop a new four-wheel drive Jeep with its winch and toolbox, a stronghold for the axe, a shovel, and some chain? When we loaded up that fall morning in the Jeep wagon, we looked a lot like any other family of five outfitted for a picnic excursion. We didn’t own the Willys, but Dad had permission from his sales manager to drive it on Sundays. He could use our rambles into the Owyhee’s as evidence for praising the vehicle as a fine family automobile. Many a rancher cherished the hope of buying a new Jeep wagon, and Dad’s testimony could help persuade the wife. Dad loved the Jeep about as much as a man could love a machine, and he found that asking about this road or that bridge when he stopped by a rancher’s place helped him strike up a lively conversation with an eye to selling a Jeep or a tractor or two. A good Sunday drive involved a lot of researching the condition of the route and confirming that some intrepid traveler had been 58
