"The Caretaker of Lake Stripling Lodge"

The alarm clock on the nightstand chirps dutifully at 4:15. It is not necessary, for I have been awake fifteen minutes, stirred from a sound sleep by the thuds of heavy boots and the clinking of coffee mugs. Pinned down by grogginess and struggling to steal a few more moments of precious rest, I become motivated by the hearty aroma of fresh coffee wafting throughout the camphouse. The turkeys have already been scouted, the most ostentatious of them singled out for an early morning visit. We are briefed over piping hot cups of coffee on where to go, how to get there, how many longbeards have been gobbling, when, and how often. The gentleman imparting this wisdom speaks slowly, his drawl thick as fig preserves, while he leans authoritatively against the kitchen counter. His knowledge of the land and the habits of its game fills the air like the steam rising out of our mugs. He ought to know. This place is his life.

For the last 31 years, a single caretaker has been the steward of this land and the lodge. His name is, simply, D.P., and for three decades he has risen before the tom gobbles back at the sunrise, before the whitetail rises up from its bed, before the wood duck whistles through the swamp, and before the hunter rubs his bloodshot eyes on frosty mornings. He is quiet, humble and supremely capable. The caretaker’s appearance is as proud, practical and functional as the man. His olive drab fatigues are always neatly pressed and creased, his work boots never scuffed or muddy. He is always there and always early.

His wit and subtle sense of humor are rivaled by only his ability to recall the people and events that have shaped this special place. The caretaker is like kin to the owners and their families and friends. To see them interact is not to watch employers interact with their employee, but rather is like observing lifelong friends exchange jabs, barbs, jokes, and memories. Not a single oak, pine or dogwood is as permanent or valued a fixture on this place as the caretaker. Guests like me look as forward to seeing him as they do any buck they might harvest or bass they might catch. Time passes more slowly, the fire warms more invitingly, and the bourbon goes down more smoothly with him around.

I may not shoot a turkey this morning, but I know they’re out there. D.P. said so. And he ought to know.



(c) Roger Guilian 2006