The Ranch House

The Ranch House

by Andrew J. Perez

I heard once that Sacramento is second only to Paris in the number of trees per capita worldwide. Therefore, it's no surprise that the variety and frequency of the trees lining Riverview drive on either side of the road create a verdantly stunning panorama. On one side: trees and farmland. On the other side: trees and the Sacramento River. It is this type of road that explains why, on the giant water tower just off of I-5 at Pocket Road, a titanic painted slogan proclaims Sacramento to be "The City of Trees."

My Honda Shadow 600 purrs deeply underneath me at every turn, winding along the moonlit road inside the tunnel of leaves and branches. The smell out here is astounding. The temperature, too. Riding down I-5 from downtown Sacramento at eleven-o'clock on Saturday night after two performances in an un-airconditioned theater, even the hot, muggy eighty-mile-per-hour Sacramento breeze felt nice. Out here along the river, though, I'm almost cold.

I zip my jacket tighter, close the ventilation zippers to keep the warmth in and follow the taillights ahead of me. The miles roll by and I wonder how far this legendary house can be down this road. It seems like we've been going for days and yet the moon still shines through the crystal clear sky, much less polluted by the city lights this far south.

We make a right turn onto a semi-paved road and pull up in front of one of the largest houses I've ever seen. The stage manager stops her car, clicks off the ignition and runs over to me.

"Go ahead and park in the carport just around the house," she tells me.

"Sounds good," I reply and rev the engine in first around the corner. I savor for the shortest of breathes the feeling of the bike beneath me and I tell myself,

"Tonight is going to be a good night."

The grand tour of the house is overwhelming. At least four bedrooms, two living rooms, several decks and patios, an enormous kitchen and three bathrooms. Couches are in nearly every room but the kitchen and each bedroom is fully furnished and ready for guests. I drop my backpack, helmet and jacket by the fireplace in the first living room and pull the fifth of Jack Daniels from my bag. The stage manager asks me,

"Do you need a drink, sweetie?"

I reply by cracking open the seal, holding my revered beverage aloft for all to see and respect, and finally by brining the mouth of the bottle to my lips, taking a long pull at the rich, woody flavor.

People start arriving in fast succession and before I'm even aware it's happened, we're gathered around the dining room table about to play King's Cup. I pick up a beer and prepare myself.

By the time we're done, I'm four beers (plus the whiskey) into the night, my voice is hoarse from laughter and I can't hear the word "Rainbows" without wanting to punch someone in the gall bladder.

Now, I feel it's only fair, at this juncture, to elaborate upon the legend that The Ranch House carries with it. As a new member of this conglomeration of thespians, I have been told repeatedly about The Ranch House. I have heard stories about searches for missing guests in the three hundred acres of fields. I have heard stories that I was sworn to never tell to another soul (a promise I intend to keep). Mostly, though, I've heard one thing over and over, as though the house itself were speaking through the fortunate guests and tenants:

What happens at The Ranch House stays at The Ranch House.

With that said, I return to the tale of what happened at The Ranch House.

After the hilarious round of King's Cup, it is time to experience the wonders and excitement that The Ranch House truly holds. We all strap on shoes while several of our inebriated cronies crooned miscellaneous tunes and songs at the piano accompanied by some variant forms of percussion and strings. Enjoying the musical festivities but not wanting to miss out on the magic that the property holds, we wander out into the darkness.

Immediately we are confronted with a brief but intense battle. Duct tape and foam covered PVC pipes are flying in every direction attached to willing warriors plunging into the fray like vultures on some forgotten carcass. The game ends quickly when a stray blow from the back end of my quarterstaff knocks our lead to the ground. He recovers and we move on.

After some time of wandering seemingly aimlessly through row after row of pear trees, the land suddenly opens up into what seems to be a wasteland with a plateau at the far end. As we walk onto this new terrain, I feel the crunch and smell the familiar pumpkin-patch scent of hay and I realize that, in fact, it is not a plateau I see before us, but a hay stack fifteen feet high, six feet wide and ninety feet long.

Once atop the buttresses of hay, the wind is much more noticeable. Again, I find myself nearly cold in Sacramento at the end of July. The discordance of it ought to ring louder in my ears, but at this point my ears are ringing loudly enough from other stimuli.

As we depart from the haystack, I somehow find myself below one guest who's leap of faith is much less precise than anyone would have necessarily desired. Once the stars clear from my vision after I help soften her fall by catching her elbow with my forehead, we head back to the house. Once back, the music continues, as does the drinking. I'm not sure at this point how much I've had, but I can't deny that another shot of whiskey sounds superb.

Eventually, people start to head out - some back to their homes, some to the myriad beds available to the guests. I opt to join several of the crew atop the car port just feet above my Shadow. As the guitar plays and we all start slowly to fall over, we begin to create something new. Eight-bar blues in E with each roof-topper taking a turn at making up a verse, one fellow reciting his raps in a freakishly impressive Miss Piggy voice, the sound of the high E string snapping and the disappointment we all share at the lack of everyone's favorite soloing string. After several hours, we all pile onto each other under blankets and sleeping bags, huddling like prostrate penguins for warmth. Not to miss a cue, just as we all start to roll over to get an hour or two of sleep before the day breaks, the sky at the horizon lightens and the first distant rays of sunlight peek over the walls of the rooftop.

I sleep for some little while before the sun and the sounds of men and dogs working the fields drive me inside. I curl up on the floor and sleep for a few more hours.

When I finally officially awake, one of our party has prepared himself for a massive waffle extravaganza. We all enjoy the Decemberists' album that our waffling friend explains to us as we listen through it and, just as it ends, we sit down to enjoy the fruits of his labors. As we eat, I notice the photographs framed on the kitchen walls. I learn that this house and property have been in the family since the 1850s and that the photos are of the original property and the man who started it all. His attire is straight out of a Western and his moustache is one that would make Sam Elliot weep with envy. We all mill about for some time before I realize that most of the day is gone and I ought to get on my way home.

The Shadow roars to life beneath me once more. I open the choke and the engine revs like some medieval beast yawning at the mouth of a cave. I pull out onto Riverview Drive once more and soak up the cool breeze off the river while waving to each of the many bikers coming in the opposite direction. It's not until I reach Freeport that I realize there is a biker convention in progress. I ride through, feeling that I suddenly fit in more than I have since moving to California, and head north to home.