Down the torn-up dirt and gravel road, bound by second-growth hemlock and pine, sat stark, white red-roofed buildings encased in an endless vista of unbroken forest. Nestled in that hollow, the camp appeared a remote outpost, isolated, as though a fort on a distant frontier. A dilapidated grey jeep, rusted amphibious landing craft, a decrepit military truck and two red ship anchors heightened the sense of misplacement, failure and utter neglect.
Brad opened the jeep door feeling the crisp, cool wind and stared in disbelief. Part real estate investor, part explorer of dusty roads, Brad had a habit of searching the back roads, believing he had good reason to go where he was not welcome—to trespass. Unlike the old country farmsteads with their wood-sided farmhouses, the renovation or subdivision a quick flip for fast money, before him lay a grander scheme—a land to love, a place in need, a challenge to turn a history of bad luck, disregard and the harsh conditions of the Vandenberg Valley.
In the old days, the valley was called the Vly, those who lived there known as Vly Yonders—Dutch for people of the valley. Mostly squatters, they lived in a cold-blooded land, a puddle of ice and wet. They subsisted amidst the bogs by weaving baskets, the land not proper for farming. The Vly sat below Snake Rocks, the ridge quarried last century. Immense bluestone slabs were gouged out, gutting the ridge to line city streets and stoops of elegant townhomes. Left behind, talus slopes of chipped...
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