YayHills Are the New Creachers

A new tribe has invaded Outer Backroads. Gone away are the Creachers, the strangers who used to congregate at our creek beach. All not-good things must end, I suppose. But they've been replaced! So don't you worry about Val having idle time on her hands, with nothing to blog-complain about. The new menace is the YayHills! They are yayhoos staking a claim on higher ground.

 

Saturday afternoon, I was almost home. T-Hoe was chugging up the roller-coaster-like long hill, before coasting down the other side to Mailbox Row and the Creach. Up top, I spied a human! Standing on the pavement at the crest of the hill. Well. That's an unusual sight. I'm extra-curious these day. A pitchfork-waving, tar-and-feather-justice-craving, stark raving vigilante since Hick discovered the stolen vehicle on our detached 10 acres.

 

This hill area is the unoccupied land where Hick lost Juno many years ago, after she followed him and the Gator down to the mailboxes, and he left her. In fact, the last human presence I saw on that property were the Rockers, raping the land and hauling giant boulders out on a flatbed trailer. It was three years ago. Maybe four.

Now, here were three dudes mucking about at the fence line. Maybe they were putting in a gate? Maybe they had undone a slipshod gate made of barbed wire and sticks? There's no metal hinged gate there, that's for sure. The property is completely wooded, except for the small clearing to get a car off the blacktop.

Anyhoo... the road dude was dressed like a frat boy. Khaki pants that Jake from State Farm might envy, and a royal blue t-shirt with a white logo. He had dark hair, in a nondescript cut, that might be replicated by putting a bowl on one's head and trimming what sticks out.

A second dude was dressed like a moonshiner! Wearing the pointy, wide-brimmed, felt hat, favored by moonshiners, and camouflage clothing. The third dude was dressed like a moonshiner's helper. Nondescript jeans and a dark t-shirt, with a cap covering his hair.

They had a red pickup truck parked in the little clearing just past the barbed-wire fence. It was a not-Ford, not-Chevy. Beside it was some kind of small vehicle, either a 4-wheeler or a side-by-side. I couldn't turn my head to look, because I had to skooch T-Hoe over to avoid that Frat Boy, and keep an eye out for oncoming traffic cresting the hill from the other side.

Maybe they were long-distance owners or heirs of that property, getting it ready for a deer-hunting expedition. It's about that time of year, you know. Or maybe they were city folk with country acreage, funnin' with us, trying out their Halloween costumes out here in the sticks.

 

The Frat Boy waved at me as I drove by. Um. RED FLAG! Unless we are neighbors with connecting land, nobody waves on these roads. Not even a courtesy wave if you stop to let them cross the low water bridge before you do! Was Frat Boy trying to throw me off my just-opened investigation? To make me think he belonged? We'll probably never know.

One thing is for sure, though. Creachers AND YayHills are POO. People of Outside Origin.

Yes. I am Judgy McJudgerson, perched astride my high horse upon a pedestal, my lovely lady-mullet skimming the clouds, peering down my nose at the YayHills. I earned this position the day Hick found a stolen truck parked in the woods of our detached 10 acres.