Cowboy In the Jungle

Bill Trotter

Description

Trying to decide what you're going to do for the rest of your life is not an easy decision to make. But this is the quandry that Hank Stuart finds himself in. Motivated by 'do-gooder' tendencies, Hank who comes with an agricultural and ranching background, is concerned whether or not the world will be able feed itself over the next 30 - 40 years. With this motivation and these concerns Hank decides to leave his beloved family ranch in the Sandhills of Nebraska to search for answers and his individual purpose in life. Initially his departure leads him to Arizona State University with a goal in obtaining a Master's Degree in International Agriculture. Following graduation he departs for Central and South America visiting farms and ranches as well as meeting people from all sorts of various backgrounds. Two years later while living on a ranch in Paraguay, Hank is confronted by a decision where he must decide his purpose as it relates to the future of his family and ranch in Nebraska and to the agricultural dilemma confronting the world and the process of feeding the people of the world.

Sujets

• Adventure
• Fiction
• Action

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 13 juillet 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9798369400579
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

COWBOY IN THE JUNGLE
 
Volume II
 
 
 
 
 
Bill Trotter
 
 
Copyright © 2023 by Bill Trotter.

Library of Congress Control Number:
           2022921002
ISBN:
Hardcover
979-8-3694-0059-3
 
Softcover
979-8-3694-0058-6
 
eBook
979-8-3694-0057-9
 
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
Cover Artwork by Barry Jacobs
 
 
 
 
Rev. date: 07/13/2023
 
 
 
Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
848504
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank my friends Theodore and Deborah Nelson for their endless support and technical assistance in the production of this book. A special thanks also to Connie Vance who supported me like no other. Thanks also to my son Kevin and his wonderful wife Taylor Trotter who worked and managed our farm while I was writing and proofreading. Thanks to my daughter Makayla and her husband Steven Bonney for their support. And thanks to longtime friends Steve Arduser and John Gilmore as their acquaintance, friendship and spirit was present as I wrote aspects of the Panama stories.
 
Panama, my second country. The Pan-Am Highway—I had driven it so many times. Now I was on it again. I had returned.
A few hours into our ride and approaching the town of San Carlos, I asked our bus driver to drop us off at Playa Rio Mar.
Ronnie asked how far we had to walk once we started our hike down a dusty, unpaved road.
“Maybe about half a mile,” I answered.
“Piece of cake,” he replied, liking my answer.
Rio Mar would bring back memories. Good memories. It was one reason I wanted to return. Memories. Good times—once, when everything was new.
My mom said she liked my “war stories” about Panama. She had heard a lifetime of Dad’s World War 2 Marine Corps stories about the Pacific. When I returned home from the army, she heard new stories to compare to those of her husband’s. Some were funny, some adventurous, and some stupid. One story was very sad. After all, it was the army, and in the army, I didn’t do good living with stupid.
But there were the weekends. At least some of them—the ones when we weren’t working. Unfortunately, we worked most weekends. But for the weekends when we didn’t work, we made memories. Today I would share a place with Ronnie where I had good memories. Ronnie would be a beneficiary of those times. He didn’t know it yet, but I was going to show him a good time while we were in Panama.
When the army weekends came, I made every effort I could to get off base. The army was paying me to see the world. And with that offering, I was going to see it. And I did. Within my year of living in Panama, I had seen more of the country than most Panamanians saw of their country in their lifetime. I learned about Panama, and I learned it well. Rio Mar was a place I came to know. It was a place I liked. It had a comfortable feeling about it. Rio Mar was a great place for poor GI s living on a couple of hundred dollars a month.
Rio Mar was a just couple of hours up the coast from Panama City, located on the Pan-American Highway, which meant it was just about three and half hours from Fort Gulick, my military home. Some of the guys, like me, had purchased cheap cars, which, on a good day, could make the drive to Rio Mar. And if we didn’t drive, we could take the train across the isthmus and then wave down a Panamanian Chiva bus to take it up the road to another Chiva bus and eventually to Rio Mar. Other times, we used our thumbs which usually got us a free ride.
Rio Mar had been more than a destination. We had used it as a demarcation point to other regional destinations. It was a perfect jumping-off location to the pristine mountain village of El Valle de Anton, which was just up into the hills and a good cooling-off place to beat the heat of Panamanian afternoons. Or Rio Mar could be just a brief stop for a cold beer and a snack as we headed up the highway to the mountains near Costa Rica or to other beaches.
“I hope I like this place,” Ronnie told me as he dumped his backpack onto the floor of our bungalow. At fourteen dollars for the night, he expressed concern. For our tastes, it was a little “cashy” and the most expensive abode we had experienced on the trip. But when I checked my mattress, I approved of the cushiony softness. For the two nights at Rudolph’s, we had slept for free, but the concrete floor had come at a price. My back was sore and stiff. The mattress here at Rio Mar would provide soothing comfort. I wasn’t going to complain about a fourteen-dollar charge for a rustic cabin that overlooked the ocean with a real mattress and bed.
“So what is first on the agenda?” Ronnie asked.
“Enjoy the place. Hang out,” I answered.
Rio Mar was a simple place. Nothing fancy. A couple of decades earlier, proprietors had created the getaway spot for Panamanians and Zonians. It was a perfect weekend retreat. On Sundays, the beach was crowded with families and couples desiring to experience a near-perfect beach setting. The architectural design of the open-air bar and restaurant created the perception of an Italian villa somewhere along the Mediterranean or Adriatic coastline. Such was the perception of my buddy Corky Wolfe when he first set foot in the restaurant as he appreciated the ocean view and the refreshing breeze sweeping through the dining area. And today as Ronnie explored Rio Mar and took a seat at a table, he said, “This place is similar to a quaint historical coastal locale in Italy.” And Ronnie’s words reminded me of how similar many of my friends were and how they thought alike.
A waiter approached. He took interest in our arrival and that Ronnie had taken a seat. But we were not yet ready for a meal. We were only killing time and appreciating the seaside ambiance. “Luego,” I suggested. My one word sufficed, and the waiter returned to the bar.
I wondered off onto the grounds of Rio Mar walking towards the Pacific. The flowering plants and shrubbery were adequate but not grand. Gardening was not a high priority in the managerial budget for Rio Mar. My interest in my stroll took me to a specific location. At the edge of a cliff high above the beach, I stopped. Before my eyes stood a grand cactus plant. It stood at least a dozen feet tall and was probably a first cousin of sorts to the great saguaro back in Arizona. At its base were other cactus plants of different types. This impressive creature was the first thing I had witnessed on my first morning at Rio Mar eight years earlier. From our military residence at Fort Gulick, we had gotten a late departure on a Friday afternoon. We arrived at Rio Mar during the dark of night when no vacancies were available.
But we were young! We were an army! We had our ponchos and air mattresses stashed away in the trunk if needed, and now they were needed, and we slept the night on the cliff. In the morning light, my first scene of the day was a morning sunrise across the Pacific with these same cacti plants, not tropical jungle vegetation, which was dominant in the Canal Zone. It was a strange feeling. It would take me nearly a year to comprehend the sunrise across the Pacific.
And now the giant cacti remained standing tall and proud and dominating the gardens. It made me feel good, and I felt as though I understood my surroundings here at Rio Mar. After all, this was Panama. The country my mother described as my second country.
I didn’t stay long. I took the sidewalk and the steps down to the beach. Ronnie was still in his seat at the restaurant.
My first full day at Rio Mar produced the greatest sunburn of my life. I had been reckless during my visit. Our air mattresses served as surfboards, and we used them all day. Shade was limited, and we didn’t deem it important. We ignored the advice we had been given that the sun’s rays in Panama was stronger than back home. The sun had pounded down on us all day, and all day we remained on the beach or in the water. By late afternoon, I realized that it was too late. My sunburn which I experienced nearly put me in the hospital. But that would not happen today. Today, I strolled the beach wearing a shirt and pants. Little of the sun would touch my skin.
But off came my shoes and socks. I stepped into the water. Ankle depth for the time being was good enough. I let the ocean splash up on my pant legs. It felt good. It felt like it was how the ocean should feel as it splashed up on my pants and legs. And the moment was good. Rio Mar had always been good.
I found a high dry spot of sand. I took a seat, and there I remained sitting, a long way from Nebraska and Arizona, and a long time since first experiencing Rio Mar. Where were my buddies, I wondered. Wolfe and I still corresponded. I owed him a letter. I promised to send him one from Panama. Jackson, I had seen once in Alabama. It was good seeing him. Morris, who lived in Denver, had joined me once during the National Livestock show. The experience had been an eye-opener for him. It became quickly apparent to me that he knew nothing about cattle or western American agriculture. It was great seeing him, but we had talked very little about cattle. But we did talk about Panama. We had the army and Panama in common. And we both liked Panama. I probably more than him. But t