The Sheep Fence


We had crossed the Wild Jubilee Refuge hundreds of times, chasing horses, donkeys, and mules, mending fence lines, and simply exploring, but it was the first either of us had seen the rock wall.

“What the hell?” Sally asked.

It was a rhetorical question, so I didn’t answer.

We parked the truck, got out, and went to have a closer look at it. We agreed we were looking at what might be an old sheep fence.

The thing was at least six-feet high and so long that neither of us could see the far end of the structure. We were standing at the northernmost point of the wall, so we had that going for us.

“How long do you think it is?” Sally asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “But I think we should find out.”

“Okay,” Sally said. “You walk on that side, and I’ll walk on this side, and we’ll meet at the other end.”

It took about an hour to reach the end. However, when I stepped around the corner, I found myself standing near the truck from where I had started.

Half a minute later, Sally came around the corner. She looked as puzzled as I felt.

“How did that…?” she started to ask.

“Hell if I know,” I interrupted. “I think we should try it again, only this time you start on that side and I’ll walk on this side.”

Another hour passed, and again I rounded the corner, not only to find the truck where it had been all afternoon but Sally, too. We stood there, perplexed and with nothing to say.

“We have enough time to do it once more,” I said.

Sally sighed, “Okay.”

The results were the same.

“What do you think is happening?” I asked.

“You’re either dreaming and I’m in it or vice versa,” she said.

“Well, I’m thouroughly spooked and think we ought to get out of here before it gets dark,” I said.

Neither of us spoke as she drove back to headquarters.

That night, after getting home, I researched stone and rock walls and fences and found nothing to explain what we had witnessed earlier that day. Finally, I switched off the computer and headed for bed, where I dreamed of walking around that stone wall.

That morning, I grabbed my camera and headed back to the refuge. Sally was waiting, a cup of coffee in her hand and another on the hood of her truck.

Together, we drove back to the rock wall but could not find it. We knew we were in the right spot because I found my wild rag tied to a bush where I had left it the night before.

“What the hell?” Sally asked.

It was a rhetorical question, so I didn’t answer. Besides, I had none.

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