Last Tide

Last Tide

            The fog drifted in ghostly tendrils along the smooth dark waters of the Puget Sound.  Sputterings and rumblings of outboard motors, which pushed wood and metal through the dark, could be heard to mark the passing of unseen numbers of fisherman on the early August morning.  In one such 16 foot aluminum Lund, two men could be seen, illuminated by the white light of a Coleman propane lantern.  One looked on in abject silence as the other, with studied confidence, deftly cut herring at precise angles as he steered with his knee. 

            Small sharp slaps of the water, and the whisper of a fishing knife slipping across a cutting board were, for a brief instant, the only sounds that could be heard.  It was well past the hour of the dead, but perhaps death didn’t carry a wristwatch.  These were the morbid mental wanderings of one man’s mind just before he felt he must shatter the silence or go mad. 

            “I don’t know Marty, I’ve never fished with a downrigger before.” Jim Zahn said, breaking the misty pre-dawn silence of the Puget Sound.  Jim looked on the rugged lantern lit profile of Marty Shore as the man thought this comment over with the apparent depth of an Eastern Sage.  “I’ve always used Pink Ladies.  They take the bait plenty deep for the silvers.”

            As if touched by divine talent, Marty Shore spat a glistening brown stream of tobacco juice in a fabulous arch that passed out of the sphere of lantern light, more than fifteen feet from the boat.  He spoke low, and slow, as he leveled his empty gaze at Jim.  “You tryin’ to teach me how to fish, boy?  In my own boat?  I been feedin’ my family for thirty years outta these waters.  They been eatin’ well too.  Every one of 'em fat.”  The volume of Marty’s voice never changed; it never raised; it never changed pitch, but a cold dread ran all along the length of Jim’s spine all the same.  “You try givin’ me advice again, I’ll kick your sorry Bellevue ass outta my boat, and you’ll be luck I don’t tie you to my anchor line first.”  Marty leaned his compact frame toward Jim.  “Are we clear, Boy?”

            “Uh-huh” was the best response Jim could come up with.  He didn’t think now was the time for anything humorous.  He had been regretting for over an hour that he had begged Marty to take him fishing.  This feeling had just increased exponentially.  He remembered his discussion of the fishing trip with a buddy at work.  Jim had told his buddy how he was going to be learning how to fish “The Sound” from the best.  To this his friend Daryl had responded that the fish were biting so good on the Sound this summer that all you had to do was shake your dick at them and they’d jump in the boat to get at it.  Daryl had insisted that learning a few new fishing tips was not worth spending a day in a boat with the scariest son-of-a-bitch this side of the Mississippi.  Jim was just thinking that he had come to agree with Daryl and was seriously considering faking an appendicitis attack to try to cut the day short with his guide, when the master spoke.

            “Okay, your line’s ready, Boy.  I’ll hook on this weight.  See how you do it?”  Marty didn’t wait for a response.  “Then you loosen up the drag on your real a little.  Yeah, like that.  Now, back off the drag on the downrigger.  Not that much!  Okay, there.  Now, let it bail out until it reads 80.  Then you tighten it back down.  Don’t light up a smoke though.  You’ll have a fish on your line before you could dig that pack of smokes out of your shirt pocket.”

            “Wanna bet?” Jim said, taking a risk and trying to gauge his mentor’s mood. 

            “Ten, or fifty, what’ll it be?”

            “I can’t afford fifty.”  Jim said, not knowing how Marty would react to losing fifty dollars before the sun had even come up. 

            “Okay, Pussy. “  Marty spat contemptuously.  “You’re on.”

            Jim watched as Marty quickly set up his line, and noticed that he didn’t put it into the water.  “Aren’t you going to fish?”

            “Don’t want to get our lines tangled.”

            “So you say.  Here I am coming up on eighty.  There we go.  Tighten it up.”  Jim murmured “Like that?”  He asked and caught the nod from Marty.  Jim decided he’d test Marty’s mood a little farther and was reaching for his Marlboro Lights when the tip of his fishing rod began to dance.

                                    *                                  *                                  *

An hour later, Jim and Marty were setting up to catch their last two silvers.  They had been throwing back “Humpies” left and right, and were sticking to silvers for the day.  It hadn’t even become fully light and the two were about ready to head in with their limits.  Jim, not only had given up his plan to fake appendicitis, but was considering recommending Marty for sainthood. 

Marty had kept them fishing the same area since they started, but now decided to change his tactics for their last two fish.  Jim didn’t see and point, but he had long since ceased to question Marty’s expertise in this fishing expedition.  Jim figured if he wanted to keep his next month’s paycheck, he had better keep his mouth shut.  He was already close to a hundred dollars down from taking Marty’s bets.

The two were making a pass near a buoy a bit south of their previous location and Jim was letting out line.  Marty was holding back on his bait as Jim had noticed him doing all morning.  Suddenly, the tip of Jim’s pole dropped hard.  He turned to give his guide another “well done,” but noticed a strange, anxious look on Marty’s face. 

“That don’t look right,” was all that Marty said.

As he worked at bringing up his catch, Jim said, “This thing must be huge.”  He slowly heaved up on the pole.  Then he let the tip drop as he quickly reeled in, trying to keep up with the fishing line before he lost any headway. 

“No, it just ain’t fightin’ any.  Might even be dead.”

Jim didn’t know why, but he was feeling that prickly sensation along his spine again.  “Should I just cut the line and let it go? If it isn’t anything we want to keep we might as well let it go before we even bring it up.”

“No!  No, we ought to see what it is, at least.”  Jim was thinking this was the first time during the day that Marty had seemed to have gotten riled up.  He hadn’t even wiped that sleepy look off of his face for the last ten strikes.  All of a sudden, a spark seemed to have been lit under him.  Jim guessed that Marty had played the same fishing scenario over and over for the last 30 years without anything out of the ordinary happening.  It must have gotten to the point of being tiresome if nothing unexpected turned up. 

“Don’t jerk up on the line like that.  You’ll snap it.  Just pull up slow and steady.  Let him come up through the water at his own pace.  There you go.”

“Can you see it yet, Marty?”

“Sometimes fishin’ is slow work, son.  Just keep at it.”  Jim wondered at being elevated in rank, in Marty’s book, from boy to son.  “Well I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch.”  Marty shouted.  “Hey, you gotta’ weak stomach?”

“No, not really.”  Jim grunted as he wrestled the weight up with his pole.  “Why do you ask?”

“Cause if you puke in my boat, you’re cleaning it.”  Marty answered, never raising his eyes from the murky green waters of the Puget Sound.”

“I don’t puke.”

“Betcha fifty bucks you do today.”

“You’re on!” Jim spat quickly before Marty could take it back.  He figured he could make back at least some of his losses on the day.  Jim leaned over the side to get a look at what he was bringing up.  He was so shocked at the sight of the shirtless corpse, which looked like it might be a young man, suspended five feet below the surface that he lost hold of the fishing pole he was using.  Through the swirling eddies of plankton and green tinted water, the man’s pants, held up by a black belt, appeared to be a pale green, though Jim assumed they were actually white.  At least, they probably once had been.  Through the imperfect light of the morning the men could not make out any more details. 

Marty sprang from the back of the boat and lay hold of Jim’s pole on the first bounce.  A bloated body doesn’t sink fast, and this one looked as though it might already have been floating up on its own, so there wasn’t much worry that it could have dragged the pole over the side in any hurry. 

“Boy, that’s a $150 setup you almost had to pay me for, alongside the other $150 you owe me.”  Jim guessed he had just lost ground on the Marty respect scale again. 

“Huh. . . $150?  Wait a second.  I haven’t puked.  That’s going to bring me back to 50.

“We’ll see.”  Marty said confidently.  Jim watched as Marty called for Coast Guard help on his radio.  “They’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”

“I heard.” Jim responded.

“Well help me get it in.”
            “What?  No way.  What would you want to do that for?”

“Cause if we lose it before the Coast Guard gets here, they’ll think we made it up, and they might fine us.  I’m not sure you can afford that.  You’ll be eatin’ Top Ramen for the next month as it is.  Hand me that boat hook.  I’ll wrap it around the belt and yank it up.” 

“Okay, but I’m not touching him.” Jim said weakly.

“Whatever you say, Pussy.”  Marty then jabbed the boat hook toward the belt, but the body’s bloated abdomen deflected the pole several times before he got it caught up.  Eventually, Marty was able to bring the body close enough to the boat that he was able to run a length of rope through the belt and secure the body in case they lost their grip on it.  “Okay, now you can cut your fishin’ line”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Let’s stow the gear so it ain’t in our way.  I guess we’re about done fishin for the day.”  After the men had packed away the fishing equipment in the sixteen foot boat, Marty announced that they were going to bring the body aboard.

“What the hell for?”

“We keep it hanging off right here in the open, something’s gonna start trying to snack off it.  You want to tell its family, and the Coast Guard you let that happen?  Don’t worry, Pussy, we’ll loop this rope under the armpits.  You won’t hardly even get your hands dirty.”

After a few minutes, the two, men had the line around the body and were trying to lift it clear of the water.  Jim had worried about it being gross when Marty had insisted on bringing the body in.  Now he realized, it was going to be hard work, too.  The body, which had floated lightly, didn’t seem so light as they tried to lift it up and clear over the gunwale.  The boat tipped, though not enough to put it in danger of flipping.  As the men brought the shoulders above the gunwale, the head flopped toward Jim.  Hearing the clunk of the head against the cold aluminum side of the boat, Jim wondered that the body wasn’t stiff with rigor mortis, like on TV.  Frozen, he stared at the cracked and pale purple blob that had swollen to fill the mouth.  There was a wet belching sound and gas escaped past the tongue, followed closely by an insect that scurried out of the mouth and dropped into the bottom of the boat.  When the sour, sweet smell of decomposition hit him, Jim lost his hold on the body, and lost another bet.

“I guess maybe we better just leave him tied off on the side here until the Coast Guard shows up.”  Marty chuckled darkly past a smirk.  “Gotta’ hand it to ya’.  You didn’t get none of that puke in my boat.”  Tucking chewing tobacco into his lip, with dirty hands, Marty said, “I guess you got time for that smoke now, son.”

Shaker and Rock

Charlie Jansen could feel the cold breeze and spray of salt water splashing up against his face. Through the dense ocean fog he could see the transport boat that was carrying his buddy Aaron. They had grown up together; gone to school together; even went to basic training for the Coast Guard together, and now they were going to be stationed together on the rock, Tatoosh Island. Charlie had arrived a week earlier, and now Aaron was pulling up to the dock. Charlie could see that his lifelong friend had been making his usual amount of friends, in the short ride from Neah Bay, out to the island. One of the deck crew was roughly throwing his duffel bag onto the dock. It looked like he would have liked to throw Aaron out onto the dock, as well.

Over the crash of the waves, Charlie couldn't hear Aaron, but he could see his mouth moving while the men working on the boat rolled their eyes and turned away. Then Aaron looked up to see Charlie on the rail above and waved animatedly. Aaron's bags, and other supplies for the island were loaded in a large metal basket and brought up to the top of the cliff by enormous galvanized hoist. Aaron started up the ladder talking well before he was close enough for Charlie to hear. Charlie knew it didn't matter, Aaron would repeat everything he had said several times. It was his way

"Oh man, this rock is desolate," said Aaron.

"Get used to it, you're going to be here for a while," said Charlie.

"You said there were trees."

"There are. See, there's one over there and one over there."

"Oh man, those aren't trees, those are weeds. I mean being from the Northwest aren't you supposed to know what trees look like? Trees are big things."

"Oh, those kinds of trees? You are going to have to look over to the mainland for those," Said Charlie said while he pointed southeast, over the bluff.

"Well, at least the view is nice from this hockey puck of an island."  Aaron looked around sadly.  "I guess there aren't any girls here either, are there?"

"Not a one."

Aaron reached over the side of the giant metal basket that carried the duffle bag that was his luggage and said, “Well, are you doing to show me around this landfill?"

The men started up the gentle basalt slope toward the light house and research buildings.

"Holy crap, am I seeing what I am seeing?" Aaron said, pointing. From the top of the rise, the men looked down towards the buildings. Moving along a wall and then disappearing around one corner of the building, was a Jack Russell Terrier. With a hopping style of walk, the dog was tipped up on its front two paws, with its rear end up in the air.

"Be quiet, Man."

"What are you talking about man, did you see it, or did you see it."

"Yeah, I saw it, but shut up."

"Why?"

"I'll tell you later. Just shut up."

"Fine," Aaron said, looking puzzled and annoyed.

The men walked down toward the buildings. There was a lean, tan, gray-haired man sitting on a bench, next to the door. As they approached the man looked Aaron up and down. It didn't look like he approved, or disapproved of what he saw. He also didn't look like he was very interested.

"Hey Derek, this is my buddy Aaron that I told you about. Derek Jansen, meet Aaron Blaine.  Aaron, Derek."

"Hi, Derek, it's good to meet you," said Aaron.

"Yup," Derek said. "I can already tell you were right about him, Charlie."

"I often am, Derek," Charlie said, and then putting his hand on Aaron's shoulder, he said, "Follow me Buddy, I'll show you where you’re bunking down."

Charlie pushed open the door and walked in. The room had that tight, musty, sealed-in smell that is usually reserved for junior prisons and junior high buildings. The light that filtered in through the dirty windows did nothing to brighten the heavily painted cement and cinderblock interior.

"So what did you tell Derek about me?"

"I told him you would get on his nerves pretty quick."

"Well thanks a lot, Pal.”

"I was right. That is Derek's dog, and that dog is the only thing he cares about. Don't get me wrong, he is a good guy. He'll treat you better than you deserve, but I'm pretty sure he won't get attached to you. Eric doesn't attached to anyone or anything, except that dog."

"What are you talking about?"

"How old do you think Derek is?"

"About 45?"

"Not even close, Buddy.  Try two decades younger."

"No shit, what happened?”

"Derek has seen a whole lot of hard, in his lifetime. He used to run an auto shop. Owned it, actually. They say he's some kind of genius with a wrench. I don't doubt it.  I've seen him fix everything there is around here in just the one week that I've been here. He got a shop running and open for business before he even turned 18. He got his girlfriend pregnant they got married and had a kid. Heck, they may even have done it in the proper order. Then I guess when the kid was about four, the neighbors pit bull got into the yard and attacked him. That dog broke them up and tore him up pretty bad. It probably would've killed him if it hadn't been for that two legged wonder you saw a few minutes ago. That little Jack Russell was about six months old and it took on that pit bull. Shaker over there, kept that big dog busy until the neighbor on the other side took out the pit bull with his 30-06 rifle.

That poor little kid lasted three weeks. One of his lungs had been punctured, and they couldn't get the infection under control. Derek's wife killed herself with a bottle of vodka and a handful of painkillers a week later.

I guess Derek kept trying to work in the shop, but not long after the accident, he turned the business, house, and everything he owned over to his brother. One day, he climbed into his truck with his dog and headed north leaving Eugene, Oregon behind. Some friend of the family got him the job as the caretaker of this rock, and he's been here for the last two years. He isn't actually an employee of the Coast Guard, or NOAA, he works for the local Indian tribe. Apparently this island belongs to them with an indefinite lease to the US government."

"Damn, how do you live through something like that? I mean, damn! What would you even say to a guy like that?"

"For Christ's sake, don't say anything. If you ever thought there might be a time in your life to shut up, this would be it. Don't ask him about it at all.  If you just go on with your work, and keep your mouth closed, he will talk a little bit. I got the story from Steely."

"Who's Steely?"

“Luke Steele, he's one of the weather guys. He's pretty cool, not quite as dirty as the rest of them.  If you don't get on his nerves, take a salmon fishing. The guy is a fanatic."

"All right, why does that dog walk on its front feet?"

"Broken back."

"That pitbull got him?"

"No, that happened here. Some asshole from one of the local fishing tenders, got tangled up in one of the tsunami warning buoys. He tore up some of his equipment on it, and was pissed off. He broke it loose and brought it here wanting to yell at somebody. I don't know if he is going to do any really hard jail time, but the Feds don't like it when you mess with their equipment. Well, he pulled up to the dock and rolled that 200 pound float off the side of his boat and clipped little Shaker. I guess for a while, Shaker was paralyzed from the middle of his back on down. Derek took care of that little dog, twenty-four seven. At first he would just drag himself around by his front feet, then one day he realized he could get around a lot better, and a lot faster if he just walked on his front feet. It's funny, his back has healed up a bit, so we can walk on all fours again, but most of the time he just tips it up on the front two anyway. You should see that little bastard go up and down stairs." 

"No shit?"

"No shit."

First Step

“I hate it.” Willy screamed at his mother.

            “Honey, Uncle John got it for you.  He knew you wanted a puppy.  He was just trying to help. “

            “It’s a freak.  I don’t want it.”  Willy pushed up against his headboard, kicking his blanket covered leg at the black lab puppy. 

            “Sweety..”

            “I don’t want it.  It’s a freak like me.  Get it away.”

            “I’ll just put it in its bed in the corner, here.”  Jane MacArthur carefully picked up the struggling bundle of happy black fur and chubby folds of skin and tucked it into the dog bed in the corner.

            “Get it out.”

            “I’ll just leave him here while I get you some soup,” Willy’s mom said and quickly exited the room. 

            “No!”

            Willy fixed a malevolent stare at the squirming puppy.  “Stay,” he grumped at it.  At the sound of his voice, the puppy looked up and noticed him.  Big round eyes fixed Willy with a joyous gleam, a pink tongue popped out between smiling lips and the little mass of fur and folds came to life.  “No!  Stay!” Willy yelled as the pup started into motion.  The pup staggered to get out of its bed and fell tumbling out onto the hard, cold oak floor.  Three legs scrabbled on the slick surface as the young lab labored to reach the human.  He could feel the hurt and wanted to make it better.  Try as he might, the pup couldn’t stand on the slippery floor, so he dragged himself.  He had to reach the boy. 

            The long struggle ended at the side of the bed.  Willy’s protests grew less and less as he watched the puppy’s determination.  Willy looked down over the edge of the bed at watery adoring eyes.  He didn’t move.  He just stared quietly.  Eventually, the puppy whined, and again tried to stand, to reach the boy. 

            “I don’t know what you’re whining about.  You got two more legs than I do,” Willy said.  He continued to stare down.  “Oh, fine,” he said reaching down and grabbing the puppy.  His fingers sank into the warm soft wrinkles, which seemed all the puppy was made of.  He could feel the wriggling excitement travel all the way up his arms. 

            “Here’s…” Willy’s mom froze at the doorway.  A tear dripped down her cheek.  There could be so many reasons why.  For now, relief seemed the most likely cause as she looked at her poor damaged son, asleep with a ball of black fur nestled up under his chin.  She didn’t know how long she stood there, but she finally left the room with the lukewarm bowl of soup.  She had seen the puppy’s nose twitch at the smell of the soup and worried that it would break the magical scene she was looked on.

            “John, it’s Jane, “ she spoke into the phone.

            “Ya, what’s up.”

            “We’ll keep the puppy.”

            “Oh, so you don’t think I’m an asshole anymore?  You decided this isn’t a sick joke?”

            “John, I’m sorry.  I didn’t understand.  You should see them.  They’re so beautiful.”

            “I can imagine.”

            “Thank you, John.”

            “I did it for the boy.”

            “I know, but thank you anyway.”

            “You gonna be all right?”

            “Yes.  Yes, I think we will be.”

            “You want to talk about Bill sometime, you let me know. “

            “I will, but not yet.  I’m not ready for that.  I just want to look at Willy and the puppy for now.  I better go,“ Jane choked.

            “You got it, Sis.  You need me, I’m here.”

            Jane hung up the phone, and shaking, slipped down the wall to the cold linoleum floor.  All of her grief and pain, everything she had held in since the accident, came spilling out as she held her palms to her face.

Anastasia

            Long ago, I began my second career, teaching.  There was so much I needed to learn.  I got the job by having developed the reputation in my old job of being able to turn around difficult groups of kids.  Note to self:  When you are hired specifically for your ability to work with difficult students, “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!”

            The memories of that first group of kids, the first that I could truly call “my kids,” are still vivid within my aging skull.  One of these young beings, Anastasia, brings a smile to my face every time I think of her.  Well, now I smile; back then I’m sure I walked around with a constantly surprised and frustrated look on my face.  

            Annie was an exceptionally brilliant young lady, and because of this I held her to a higher standard than the rest of the class.  She was also more mature than the average sixth grade student, particularly in the way she liked to dress.  

            From the first writing assignment, I knew Annie had a gift with words.  She was clear, precise and could unveil “her” world to her audience.  That is where the trouble began.  Once I saw what Annie could do, I wouldn’t accept second best.  Most of the rest of the class was starting the year with average, to sub-average writing ability and I expected them to do their best and progress.  I wanted the same from Annie, but that meant more effort than she was willing to give.  She felt the higher expectation was unfair, especially when I handed work back for her to redo.    

            Our relationship was punctuated with misunderstandings.  The first thing I misunderstood was Annie’s morning behavior.  I knew that she was on the swim team, and when I was a kid swim teams worked out in the morning.  When Annie would walk in at the beginning of the day with wet hair, I assumed that she had just finished practice.  

            I am an extremely energetic morning person, and Annie was extremely not.  Each wet-haired morning, at 9:00am, Annie would trudge into the classroom, shoes scraping along the tight-knit carpet, hunched over, head down, her wet, dark-brown hair pinned back except for one long, beautiful, corkscrew curl dangling over her left eye. I would assume that she had been up exercising for hours and that her entry behavior was simply her way of expressing a bad attitude.

            I would greet Anastasia loudly and enthusiastically, trying to get her energized for the day. 

            “Good morning!” I would boom to Annie each morning, trying to get her energized for the day.  “Aren’t you excited to be alive?”  I had no idea that my enthusiasm was considered borderline torture by my 12-year-old zombie. 

            “Unnngh.”

            “Come on Annie, it’s a great day!”

            “Unnngh.”

            “Annie, before you start your morning work, look over your exposition paper.  I put it back on your desk. There are a few things you need to give a little more attention to.”

            “What, again?  You have to be kidding,” Annie bellowed with her first real words of the morning, her long curl whipping over as her head snapped up.  

            “Nope, not kidding.  Give it a look over.  You’ll be able to find the problems pretty easily.”

            I agreed to wait until well after 10:00am to focus my peppiness on Annie.  At her conference, I also brought up the lack of modesty in the way Annie dressed for school.  Her mom suggested that I let her express her individuality through her wardrobe choices.  I suggested that I would hold Annie accountable to the school dress code, which would mean she would either be sent home or have to cover up with ugly old sweats from the nurse’s office if her wardrobe choices did not begin to cover more skin.  That did not improve my popularity with the family.  Annie tested me on that policy throughout the year, always choosing the ugly sweat option over the calling for a ride home option.  

            In the springtime, we had the Drug Abuse Resistance Education (DARE) program in our school.  The culmination of the program was the “DARE Essay Contest,” which was an expository piece stating the student’s resolve and plan to resist drugs and alcohol.  No matter what I did to inspire Annie to do her best, she continued to turn in work far below her ability.  I think the essay contest was where she had decided to “make her stand” against higher expectations. I handed Anastasia’s work back to her time after time; close to 20 rewrites.  Eventually, someone must have convinced her that she might want to go outside with the rest of the girls instead of rewriting an essay over and over during her recess.  The final product was outstanding.  

            Annie won the essay contest.  There were no other papers near the quality that she had created.  The DARE officer then sent the essay off to the National Headquarters, where it was recognized as exceptional. 

            In the years since, Annie has continued to send Christmas cards and presents.  When she graduated from high school she had to submit an essay as part of the application process for a college scholarship.  The paper was to be an exposition about someone that was influential in her life, and that person was me.  

            Annie wrote, “I wish I had realized he was helping me.  I thought he was hard on me because he didn’t like me.”  Annie candidly talked about the rough times we had together, and thanked me for not giving up on her or letting her do less than her best.  She said she knew how that had made a positive impact on her life and character.  

            I believe I taught Anastasia to be her best.  I know she taught me to be a better teacher. 

Roasting by an Open Fire

          As I sit down to write this little piece, I breathe deeply and enjoy the aroma of wood smoke that wafts up from my clothing to wrap my office in a comforting blanket of scented memories. 

“What stinks?” says my daughter as she passes my office door.

“She who smelt it…, oh you mean the wood smoke?” I reply.  I find it deeply offensive when she refers to any smells in my vicinity as “stink.”  Stink? You couldn’t get further from the truth.  This is the stuff of boyhood memories.  Not all of these recollections are pleasant, but they are my past and have made me what I have become.

          I recall sharing a compassionate shoulder, when my friend’s house burned down and he thought he had lost his pet rabbit to the blaze.  Incredibly, there had been no need for all that sissy compassion stuff, because his parents had amazingly taken his rabbit to live out in the country that very morning.  Wow, can you believe the luck?

          There is a memory of playing ranch hands with my buddy Derrick.  That day I learned that if you are going to be pretending you are a ranch hand out on the range branding cattle, there are several things you shouldn’t do.  First, don’t make real fires.  Second, don’t put real metal in those real fires. Most importantly, don’t let your clumsiest friend play the ranch hand while you play the cow.  The good news about that is the doctor says that after one more surgery the branded part of my anatomy will look almost as good as new.

          I also hold closely many memories of talking with friends around a campfire in the deep woods.  Or lately, in my lazy old age, I have been talking with them around the fire pit in my back yard. 

          Last evening, as we stood around the fire, tendrils of smoke from the crackling teepee of fir and cedar wrapping around my legs, I was struck by the recollection of a long ago scouting trip along the Pacific Ocean.  This trip was on the Olympic Peninsula, on the coast of Washington State.  I was a young teen and had spent the previous two days along the beach practicing my swearing.  As our last night of the hike approached the leaders were, of course, wishing me warm thoughts, mainly about the warm place I was likely to spend eternity for all of the swearing I had been doing.

I had spent much of that day saving huge amounts of time over my hiking companions by wading all of the coastal streams instead of wasting precious exploration time walking half of a mile upstream to the bridges. 

          One stream in particular stands clear in my memory.  I knew to take off my pack and hold it above me as I waded, since I was pretty sure that the water was deeper than my waist.  I chuckled as the water reached my waist, knowing that I had outsmarted the stream.  I didn’t feel quite as smart when the water suddenly closed in over my head for three or four long steps, but upon reaching the other side I was pleased to find that my pack was still dry.  All would have been fine if gravity and that crumbling stream bank hadn’t conspired to throw my pack back down into the water that I had so bravely crossed.  That point wouldn’t be important except that I was standing in dripping wet clothes as the spare, and previously dry, clothes in my pack thirstily soaked up as much of the stream as they could.

          As luck would have it, we were scouts and well versed in the art of fire building.  At the end of that day’s hike I coaxed a first year scout into building a camp fire that would surely have my clothes dry in minutes.  Or at least before the frigid spring evening winds off of the Pacific Ocean turned me into a human popsicle. 

          Again, I used my incredible intellect to increase efficiency, and reduce effort.  I decided not to waste time removing my clothes, but instead decided that they would dry just as well on me, and keep me warm in the process. 

          It was quite toasty, so I had to keep turning in circles.  After a while one of the fathers asked if there was a thermometer around because I looked done to him.  I was too much better a man than him to react.

          “Hey Ken,” Nathan’s father said. “I would have thought your pants would be clean after all that walking through water you did today.”

          “They are.  If you were wearing your glasses, Phil, you’d see they are as clean as they were the day I bought them.”  I knew I had him with that one.  “Wait, you are wearing your glasses.”  Looking down at my pants I saw that the left leg was brown from the cuff up to about mid-calf.  It looked like I had walked through bogs all day rather than clear running streams.  Then I noticed something extraordinary.  The brown was moving up my pant leg. 

Amazing as it seems, a coal had jumped out of the fire and landed on the cuff of my then bone dry pants.  There had been no flame, just a gentle smokeless smoldering that crept its way up. 

“I’m on fire!” I yelled.

“Eternity’s a long time, Ken.  You might want to start getting used to it now.” Someone said.  I think it was Phil, though to his credit he was the first one to throw water.  He missed the flames and hit me in the chest with the water, but it did run down to my pant leg and eventually extinguish the flames.  Before the fire was put out, it had burned to just above my knee.  Amazingly, my shin was left unscorched.  However, in track that spring I became known as Hairless Lefty.  I guess there are worse things to be called. 

A few years ago, I went on a campout in the Cascade Mountains, with a few friends.  We hiked in about eight stinking, sweaty miles to our favorite lake.  We started out stinky, and the sweaty part of the hike just made that worse.  I soon began to express my happiness over having just purchased a pair of the most comfortable boots ever made. 

I believe those boots were handmade somewhere in the Swiss Alps, and were reputed to be the most comfortable boot in the world.  This was reputed, mostly by me.  I hadn’t actually heard them reputed by anyone else, but I surely made up for their previous lack of notoriety.  Jealousy soon became apparent, and I was forced to walk on ahead in comfortable solitude while sticks and pine cones rained down around me.

That evening at the camp fire while all the rest of my aging buddies grumbled about blisters and sore tired feet, I spent a short amount of time reputing again on the comfortable ride my new boots had given me on the hike up.

While the others whined and begged for pity I sat with my back against my pack, my feet stretched out to warm by the fire.  Then for the first time since we had begun our trek, I noticed a trace of a smile tug up at one corner of Richie’s mouth. 

“Well hallelujah," I said, “You’re finally going to start enjoying yourself.  Good, it’s about time.  This great clean mountain air and that glistening mirror of a lake have finally brought you around.”

“Yeah Ken, that’s it.”  Richie said, with a vaguely familiar smirk growing on his face.  I knew that look.  I had seen it before, and I knew it for the pure evil that it signaled.  I just wondered what had produced it.  I suddenly felt a weight develop deep in my guts, and could feel the thud of my heartbeats as they resonated through that weight.  A cold oily slick of perspiration beaded up and dripped from my forehead, and a uncontrollable trembling began throughout my nervous system.  That smirk can do that to any one.

I remembered where I had seen that look before.  I had seen it in 110 degree weather, with Richie behind the wheel of my car.  We were outside of Las Vegas, with our friend Ted running behind us for a half a mile, his hand stretched out vainly trying to grasp the bumper of my Datsun B210.    Sure, Richie had had his reasons then; something to do with Ted’s chili dinner the night before.  Richie had been wearing that same evil smirk then and I worried about why it had surfaced again.

“Hey Ken, you know, I have to say those are some really nice boots.  Maybe you want to tell us a little more about ‘em?” Richie said.  As he was talking to me, he elbowed Mel, beside him. 

“No.  Maybe later.” I murmured.  I knew something was up.  My sense of self-preservation had been put on red alert.  As it turned out, it was too late.  The rubber sole on my right boot had heated up so much that the glue attaching it to the rest of the boot had liquefied and the sole slid off onto the dry mountain soil; glue side down. 

Apparently, those Swiss Alps boots didn't have the soles sewn to the boot, as is the practice with pretty much every other boot in the world.  Someone should talk to those Swiss about that.  I leapt to my feet in a cat-like effort to save my boots.  Unfortunately, hot melted glue is about as slippery as greased Teflon, and my left boot still had a thick gooey layer waiting for me. 

I spun a graceful pirouette as my second boot parted company with its sole, and I landed ungracefully on my derrière, in the fire.  I saved myself, and surprisingly, my pants from any fire damage.  This is because of my quickly employing what I like to call “the poodle scoot”, which extinguished the fire on my hind parts as they were scuffled quickly across the campsite. 

I would have returned the boots, but my friends had stuck the soles of them against a tree while the glue was still hot.  I figured it would be pretty much impossible to heat the soles back up to peeling temperature without burning down the tree and starting a forest fire, so there they remain to this day.  I think they are listed as an attraction is several hiking guidebooks. 

I hiked out of the mountains the next day with what amounted to the world’s most expensive pair of camp fire scented slippers.

After the tragedy of the burning boots, I decided that American made was the way to go.  A was able to find a pair of fireproof boots which were made in Detroit.  They seemed just the right footwear for me. 

The next year, the same friends and I made the second annual trip, to the same lake as the previous year.  I thought this strange.  The annual trip was supposed to visit new destinations each year, but for some reason, the rest of the gang insisted.  Apparently, they had such a good time there the year before, they wanted to go back.  They said it was a place that was good for the sole.  They are an odd bunch.

The trip progressed in pretty much the same fashion as the year before.  There was one notable exception. My fireproof boots were fireproof.  Unfortunately, they were not insulated. The steel toe and shank turned out to be great conductors of heat.  Though the boots were fireproof, my feet were not.  Luckily, Richie had brought along a king sized first aid kit; known for some strange reason as the “Ken Kit.”  As I mentioned, my friends are an odd bunch.

For the record, I think it is rather childish for a grown man to name his first aid kit. 

The hike out the next day wasn’t too bad.  The guys carried my gear, and I got to wear my world’s most expensive campfire scented slippers on my blistered feet.

          Some of my fondest memories have been created around a camp fire.  To this day I keep a one legged pair of jeans stapled to my garage wall by my workbench.  The sight of that one amputated leg with the blackened fringe at mid-thigh, and the slightly charred smell, never fail to bring back memories of the good old days.  Hanging next to the pants is a pair of highly campfire scented slippers. This display often reminds me to make it to church on a fairly regular basis.

Nalley Bluff

You wake in the dark of the morning to the feel of my finger tips on your shoulder and kiss on your ear.  After you stand up with mild protest, I hand you a cup of coffee.  Soon, I am buttoning you into one of my quilted flannel shirts.  I move you toward the cabin door.  You know how cold the morning must be outside and take reluctant shuffling steps the entire way, a pout on your face.  Before opening the door, I lift the lid of an ancient cedar chest and withdraw a thick down comforter.  I wrap it around you and lift you off your feet.

          By the time I have carried you down to the beach I am panting and laughing at the same time. And you, you are laughing too, your face buried against my neck.  I hand you a pair of thick gloves and heavy knit hat, from my pocket, then help you into the center seat of the small aluminum boat.  I untie the ropes and then climb in with you.  Before starting the motor I lean forward and tuck the comforter more snuggly around your legs.

          The start of the motor is obscene in the pre-dawn stillness.  The oily smoke from the outboard stings your nostrils.  I back us away from the dock, then turn in a sharp arc and start us skipping across the dark water of the lake.  The blackness of the night has lifted just enough to show that we are heading into a fog so thick it looks like we might crash up against it rather than push through.  But pass into it we do, and as we do I feel the chill bite of the cold droplets against our skin and you fold yourself more tightly into the comforter.  You can feel the vibration of the cold metal seat where your body meets it.  Your hands are warm in the gloves, but you know the chill that is millimeters from your fingers, and your seat.  The waves ring out as they pound against the sides of the boat while we fly through the dark mist.

          The boat begins to slow and I warn you to hold on for when we bump the beach, and soon we do.  I climb past you, pausing briefly to touch and smell your hair.  I climb out of the boat and drag it onto the beach.  I pull a lantern from under the bow and then lift you carefully to the pebbly sand.  In the lantern light, you can see the mark from a boat, and foot prints next to where we have come up and you know that I have been here before waking you.  I feel you smile in the darkness.

          I walk you up a trail, guiding you and holding the lantern out for you to see each step. 

          I take your hand and bring you into a small grotto.  A place carved out of the basalt rock hillside thousands of years before, by a long-gone stream that left only this lovers’ meeting place behind to be remembered by.  I bring you to a drift wood bench and seat you.  In front of us you see a teepee of cut firewood, which you know I have placed there during the night.  I bend and strike a match to the fire starter, and you watch as delicate fingers of flame grow and spread light and warmth through the grotto.  Moving back to you I reach down and find what I am looking for: a thermos and two mugs.  You giggle and say, “Now, that I expected.”  I pour your mug full and smelling peppermint you breathe in the scent, and realize you were right.  It is hot chocolate, with a bit of Rumplemintz.

          You spread open the comforter and welcome me in.  We don’t talk much.  We sip our chocolate, snuggle close, and let the fire warm our faces as our bodies keep each other warm under the comforter.

          Later, we look out the open end of the grotto and see that the fog has begun to drift away and the sun is beginning to rise over the lake.  The fire has died down and I tell you it’s time to see more.  I’m excited to show you the worlds I explored when I was young. 

          We walk up a trail which soon connects to an overgrown road.  “This is the way to the Nalley House,” I tell you.  “It was deserted even when I was a kid, and is still standing … sort of.”  Soon the early morning light reveals the silhouette of a house.  It is very large, almost big enough to be called a mansion.  There it sits, all alone, the only house on this side of the lake.  We know the lake is back behind it, but it is hidden by a wall of Douglas fir and cedar trees.  There is no light in the house, hasn’t been for 50 years.  Only darkness looks out those windows.  I feel you shudder next to me and I know it is not from the cold.  “Me too,” I say. 

I take your hand and lead you to the house.   The porch creaks as we step onto it.  It almost seems to have a bounce.  The front door is open, half torn from its hinges.  We peek in, and then I draw you in with me.  “I have a flashlight if we end up needing it,” I tell you.  You don’t respond.  You just pull yourself closer against me.  I can feel you shaking inside your comforter cocoon.  This house frightened me as a child, and I realize it still does.  There is something wrong in this place.

          We continue through the house.  The hallways and rooms are littered with the remains of parties.  We notice, but are not in the mood to find it funny, that the teenagers in that area seem to prefer Busch Light beer.  There are holes kicked in most of the walls and faded wall paper hangs down in strips in places.  There are stains from water leaks on the ceiling and most of the walls.  In one room there are dark stains splattered up one wall, a smeared handprint tattooed across them in a black that may once have been red.   We lock eyes with each other, and turning as one, head for the door.

          The room seems suddenly smaller, as does the hall and the other rooms we pass, and pass through.  By the time we get back to the front door we are practically running, the comforter flapping out behind you.  Fifty yards from the house we realize we are running.  We stop.  Turning to each other we exhale shaky breaths and then burst into fits of laughter.  Once we regain control, I look at you and say, “Yep, just like when I was a boy.”  At that, the laughing starts all over again.  Eventually, we stop.  I hold out my hand and say, “You’ll like this next place better.”

          I pull you along a narrow path, and we follow a gently chuckling stream up the hillside.  We have begun to work up a sweat, and I take the comforter from you, to carry.  Cresting a small embankment we are just in time to see a beaver lumbering toward the water.  He dives in, swims out a few yards and then with a loud echoing slap of his tail disappears under the surface of the pond.  We sit on a log that stretches out with one end bending into the water.  I point to the water to show you the trout.  They are invisible against the algaed stones.  Then suddenly they become visible as the flick of their tails propels them smoothly forward.  You wonder how you didn’t see them at first, then after a blink wonder again at how you can’t pick them out until the next time they move.

We talk as the morning warms.  You tell me about your best childhood friend, and that you are best friends still.  I tell you about the time I got caught drinking at the Seattle Center.  Then I tell you a joke just to hear your musical laughter.  I tell you another hoping to hear your adorable giggle; you cover your face with your hands and the giggles continue.

When you get yourself under control, you see me looking at the place where your hair meets and leads into the graceful line of your neck.  Silently you lean in closer to me, looking up into my eyes.  I gently caress your neck and up into your hair.  A quivering sigh escapes your lips as I draw you toward me.  The morning is still cool by the water.  Mist swirls up in a hundred places from the surface of the pond, making it look like a miniature white forest.  We don’t notice the chill in the air, as I spread the comforter out on the grass.  The heat coming off our bodies drives the cold of the morning away.