I’d never ridden in a T-4 at Ione. In this particular model, a piece of Plexiglas separated me from the driver. Sometimes, at La Pine, I’d driven the trucks they’d used in the logging camps, and they’d infused me with this same feeling—a sort of liberty—an appreciation of the wind in my hair, of the sky churning overhead. I tried to stay positive, but as we sped up the hill toward Vargas, all the pleasures of freedom seemed vivid but fleeting. Trees like tall emerald columns lined the main drive. They were some kind of evergreen, and it bothered me that I didn’t know the names of the native plants, as I had in Oregon. Dew frosted the ground and tinged the air with the mineral aroma of wet dirt. As we got closer to the building, it looked more imposing. The clock tower stood at least five stories tall, and a pair of turrets with conical roofs flanked the massive front doors. Vargas cast a long black shadow, and I felt the temperature drop as we drove into the shade. The proctor circled past the entrance and parked on the side of the building.
