Free Risky Undertaking by Mark de Castrique

a day when the sun climbed high enough to clear the ridges.
    I’d grown up in the Appalachians, but the Smokies were a range unto themselves. The mountains were squeezed together like deep wrinkles on a prune. Botanists claimed the diversity of plants was unequaled by any other site of temperate climate in the world. With elevations ranging from under a thousand feet to over six thousand six hundred, the latitude equivalent was like driving from Georgia to Canada.
    The Great Smokies are among the oldest mountains in the world, and during the Ice Age became the refuge of wildlife escaping the glaciers. They are a zoologist’s dream.
    They also separate humans into enclaves of hollers and coves—isolated from one another. The farther we followed the road, the fewer the mailboxes along the shoulder.
    â€œDoes Panther’s grandmother live in the national park?” I asked. We had to be getting close to the edge of the Cherokee Qualla Boundary.
    â€œNo,” Romero said. “But her farm’s adjacent to it.”
    â€œFarm?” I looked at the steep ridges. “She must plow using a mule with short legs on one side.”
    Romero laughed. “She’s on in-between land. A bowl that’s neither reservation nor national park. Land she actually owns and isn’t part of the Cherokee’s federal trust.”
    As he spoke, the stream on our right branched away and the narrow wedge of flat land between the ridges widened into a small valley. The scruffy vegetation became green pasture and, behind barbed wire, several cows stared at us as they chewed their cud.
    â€œWhat’s the grandmother’s name?” I asked.
    â€œEmma Byrd,” Romero said. “That’s Byrd with a y . She’s Jimmy’s maternal grandmother. Jimmy’s mother died about ten years ago of breast cancer. His father deserted the family shortly after Jimmy’s sister Skye was born, a good twenty years ago. Emma’s pretty much raised both of them.”
    The farmhouse sat on a shelf of land above the flood zone of the mountain stream. The gentlest slope of the surrounding ridge was behind the weathered structure, providing protection against excessive runoff during a torrential downpour.
    The gravel road stopped at the base, leaving the final approach as a rutted dirt lane that rose to the front yard. There was no garage or discernible driveway. Several vehicles were parked haphazardly near the sagging porch.
    Romero swung his patrol car around the right side where a rusted heating oil tank hugged a paint-chipped wall. He rolled down the windows before killing the engine. “Wait here,” he said.
    The Cherokee left us, Tommy Lee in the front passenger seat and me behind the partition separating prisoners and officers. Instead of heading toward the porch, Romero lumbered to the rear and climbed makeshift cinder block steps to the back door.
    â€œWhy’s he doing that?” I asked.
    â€œBecause he’s smart. Friends are bringing in food so one or two people will be coming in and out of the kitchen. Hector will ask someone to let the grandmother know he’s there without having to make a grand entrance. Then, together, they can decide how and where to answer our questions.”
    I turned in the backseat for a better view of the vehicles in the yard. I expected Romero might ask visitors to leave, but after five minutes, no one had emerged from the house.
    Tommy Lee opened his door. “There he is. Let’s go.”
    Through the front windshield, I saw Romero help an elderly woman down the cinder block steps from the back door. She was thin as a cat-o-nine-tails reed with flowing white hair that reached her waist. Her brown shapeless dress stopped a few inches above her tan moccasins. Romero summoned us with a wave of his broad hand.
    â€œHow do you want to play this?” I asked Tommy Lee.
    â€œLet Hector set it up. Then just ask your questions and go with the