The drive to Open Sky Reservation was an easy one. Few turns across a flat open land left plenty of scenic horizon for a bored traveller to take in. Flecks of green shrubbery dotted the desert landscape, giving you a full view of the world for miles in any direction. Far into the distance the earth crested like a wave of dirt and stone.

Large rock formations dotted the horizon, which came in handy when you were trying to make a long drive a little less boring. You could keep an eye on unique looking mountains, pillars, or the occasional jutting slope, keeping track of how far you’ve travelled based on the next stone landmark. The really interesting ones were tourist traps. People were bound to show up where sediment and volcanic rock formed in a way that looked like an angel, or pizza slice.

Jane had a few landmarks she followed when travelling north, to help her pass the time. A rock she thought looked like a rabbit. She named it Theo, after her favorite cereal mascot. Long drives made her nervous, but once she hit Theo she knew it wasn’t far to her next destination.

Unfortunately, Open Sky Reservation was to the west. It was a drive she was familiar with, but one devoid of landmarks. Dry, open space slowly gave way to scattered pine and prickly bushes. It made for a slightly more interesting landscape until hitting farmland, where everything became a uniform green.

Corn and wheat fields were the last major destination on American soil before officially entering reserve territory. Its close proximity to the Open Sky had blended the municipality’s culture over the years. Many young men and women living on the reserve that were looking for a way out made easy roots here. Homes weren’t cheap, but there was plenty of work for eager farmhands.

The cultural exchange went so deep that the locals had even voted to change its name from Flincher’s Park to the more humble Elk’s Rest. Jane had been there for the occasion and she was relatively impressed. Those kinds of exchanges more often dissolved into pointless arguments. She guessed the non-Indigenous locals must have really thought the name was cute.

Despite feeling anxious Jane keep a close eye on the road. There were few homes in the area. Even fewer side roads. If Lynn Kline had taken the trip on bicycle she would have stuck to the main highway. Skid marks or tire treads could points to signs of an accident. If Jane couldn’t find any reliable information on the reserve she would need to stop by these farms along the way back. It was always better to be thorough.

With fuel becoming a precious commodity there weren’t many cars on the road. Electric-only vehicles like hers were a rarity. Even still, there were signs of normalcy here. Harvest was soon. Long stretches of corn and wheat were occasionally interrupted by farmers working in small groups, inspecting crops or repairing fences. Some were armed, and gave Jane’s vehicle careful consideration as she drove by. Theft from desperate outsiders had become commonplace over the past few months.

Jane watched a group of teenagers working together to pull up a scarecrow. She always wondered how effective those things were. It was probably more busywork for the kids than it was anything else. In a few days they’d be swarming with crows looking for a place to rest if they didn’t go the extra mile to find some bright colored clothing to flap around in the wind.

Most of her farming experience had come from her mother’s side. Alejandra Pilton could do it all. Baking, gardening, fixing a plow, sculpting clay, setting a broken leg; even coaxing a nervous animal on a stormy night. No one ever knew how she managed to accomplish so much in a single day. On Jane’s quinceañera she converted their barn into a lavish dance hall, complete with twinkling stars that would swing above guests.

Jane only ever absorbed a small portion of it. Mostly the baking. She could make a mean pretzel bun. Her father spoiled her with all the really fun lessons.

He was a modern hunter, if such a thing could truly exist. Jane followed his every step both figuratively and literally. Summers would be spent taking outings once a month, where they would look up at the stars while recounting their favorite birds and constellations. In the winter he would hide paper-wrapped gifts in the woods for her to find. He was the kind of man who thrived under pressure. Graduating from her academy training made him so proud he cried for an entire week. Any time it was mentioned.

They used to target practice on scarecrows for fun. Ten points for the bucket head. Twenty if you could knock a hole in a glove. Those were good memories. It brought a smile to her lips. How strange it is, the things that make us return to the past.

The sign for Open Sky Reservation was large, beautifully painted and carved from several treated and stained planks of wood. It was well maintained and taken care of. A keen observer could fall in love with the small details carved into the wood. Rushing waters and strong trees. This attention to detail was a pride not often shared so openly by small communities.

In remarkable contrast to the reserve’s sign the well-maintained highway pavement suddenly came to an end, giving way to a rougher looking, more worn down highway. The road was smooth, but had clearly seen better days. You could travel past the reserve’s sign for miles and encounter several branching routes. Some marked, others left unnamed. Private driveways and dirt shortcuts made with time and enough off-roading.

Before all that, the social center. An impressive building that reminded Jane of a fancy modern art exhibit. Curved walls and high windows let plenty of light pour into the building from almost any angle. There was something unusual about the brownish coloring that made the building seem old. Maybe older than it was. It was designed to be a place to gather for a number of social events. Weddings, birthdays, celebrations, pow wows and holidays.

Normally Jane would stop by and say hello, but the gathering of trucks and absence of music or outdoor stands suggested an important meeting was being held. She didn’t have enough time to get caught up in a politics talk today. Instead she gave a friendly smile and wave to a group of older man standing guard near the road. Patio chairs gathered just outside of a weathered RV, they reciprocated the gesture, rifles kept at rest.

“Just you?” an older man called out as she drove past slowly. He looked buried under a wide-brimmed hat, barely able to see.

“Just me, a quick visit.” she tipped her cap back in thanks as they waved her by.