I stopped at an overgrown county road, the kind where wheel ruts disappear into tall grass. There was room at the juncture of this county road and the small highway I had been travelling on, so I pulled off and parked. It was June, and although there was a stop sign at the entrance to the route, I dared not drive on it. Catalytic converters can touch off fires, even on cooler days like this. Instead, I snagged my camera, locked my vehicle, and trekked over the rise and down into a little valley.
As is often the case where I live, my efforts were rewarded. Nestled among the sage was an entire homestead comprised of at least two separate homes, a barn, and several utility buildings. The spot lacked any official warning signs, perhaps it was so remote and hidden that none were needed, so I deemed it safe enough to explore.
This image, which I call Troubadour of the West, was taken with a Hoya infrared filter. I need to revisit this spot, perhaps this winter, when snow burdens the rafters and smooths out the fields. Or, certainly before some idiot drives down that lane, sparks a fire, and destroys all these lovely old bones of the past.