"Work Weekend: Part One"
The temperature gauge in the top right corner of the pick-up’s rearview mirror read 99 degrees. As the truck turned off the blacktop and onto the dirt-and-gravel road, dust and sand flew up behind it the way a contrail follows a jet as it streaks across the sky. The ground was arid and dry. Weeks of no rain combined with 100-plus degree temperatures had turned the countryside into a tinderbox. The two men inside the truck peered through waves of heat that throbbed and radiated off the hood.
When the truck passed through the open gate and rounded the only curve in the road, its occupants saw two men standing around a 55-gallon drum, leaning on long poles. The poles – old-fashioned wooden crutches with metal caps on the bottom – were used as fire pokers. The older of the two men wore khaki pants, no socks, boat shoes and an old golf shirt, through which he’d sweated completely. The younger wore a tee-shirt, camouflage shorts and hiking boots. A jet of flames shot up from the drum. Black smoke rolled and tumbled overhead, batted randomly about by what little breeze there was that hot afternoon. Thirty-or-so feet away sat the firepit, already loaded with wood for the evening’s social agenda.
“Figures Bill and Richard would be the first ones up here,” muttered the driver. “They’ve already cleaned out the camp house and are burning last year’s leftover trash,” he added. “Now we get to hear about how much they already done before anyone else got here.” The passenger chuckled quietly. The truck lunged to a stop as the driver threw the gearshift into Park while the vehicle was still moving. They flung open the doors and walked over to the fire.
“Damn, Bill, y’all trying to set fire to the whole place?” asked the driver. Everyone shook hands.
“It’s alright, Pete,” Bill said. “Besides, the landowners have been promising us they were gonna run a fire through here for years. We’d be doing us and them a favor.”
Bill, the club president, started the hunting camp with Tom, his longtime friend and co-worker, more than 18 years ago. He was mildly obsessed with the camp, worked harder than anyone else at keeping it up and epitomized the role of benevolent dictator.
While the four men were updating one another on how their families were doing, what their kids were up to these days, what vacations they’d taken and how their jobs were, another truck pulled through the gate from the asphalt and wound its way toward them. Soon, two more members had gotten out and were exchanging handshakes and good-natured ribbing.
Suddenly their conversation was interrupted by a loud whine screaming down the road outside the gate. Everyone looked up the road as a shiny, jet-black Kawasaki Ninja sport bike came zipping down the road toward the camp. The machine nose-dived to a stop in front of the six men as a cloud of orange dirt caught up to the bike and shrouded it and its rider. The man straddling the bike pulled off his helmet without flipping up the mirrored face guard. He swung his right leg over the seat and then plopped his helmet on it. With his back to the group of men assembled by the burning trash, he slid a pair of aviator sunglasses onto his face and then snapped around and walked toward them. Despite the heat, he was wearing a black Kevlar motorcycle jacket with patches sewn all over it. Fingerless leather gloves still adorned his hands. He smiled a wide, toothy smile as he stepped over the neck of a trailer and squeezed between it and the pick-up to which it was attached. He stretched out his right hand as he approached the group. “What’s goin’ on, guys?” he asked.
“Not much, Mav. Where’s Goose?” chided one of members. Everyone except the biker in the black jacket laughed.
“Very funny,” he said, trying to mask his insecurity. “How y’all been?”
“Good,” answered a heavy-set man who had been poking the fire more than anyone else. “Splash any bogies on the way up here?”
“You just wish you could fit on one of those things, Chris,” came the retort.
“When’jya get that thing, Don?” asked another man.
“Right after the divorce,” he answered. “She got the kids, so I got myself a toy.”
“Ellie would kill me if I came home with one of those things,” Bill interjected. “Alright, who’re we missing?”
“Just Tom and Wayne,” one of the men said.
“Alright,” said Bill, “I know it’s hot as hell, but we have a lot of work to do. We need to clean out all the shooting houses and we need to move some of them. We gotta do some bushhogging, cut and stack firewood, spray some Round-Up, fill the feeders, edge around the camp house, cut some new fire lanes and trim around all the ladder stands and probably a bunch of other stuff I’m forgetting. I have it all written down inside. Y’all get your stuff unpacked and let’s sit down and figure out who’s doing what.”
Everyone started unloading their trucks and taking their stuff inside the camp house. A few minutes later, a maroon F-250 Powerstroke towing a medium-duty tractor on a gooseneck trailer rumbled onto the dirt road and pulled toward the camp house.
“Good. There’s Tom,” smiled Bill. “Now we can get to work.”
(c) Roger Guilian 2011
When the truck passed through the open gate and rounded the only curve in the road, its occupants saw two men standing around a 55-gallon drum, leaning on long poles. The poles – old-fashioned wooden crutches with metal caps on the bottom – were used as fire pokers. The older of the two men wore khaki pants, no socks, boat shoes and an old golf shirt, through which he’d sweated completely. The younger wore a tee-shirt, camouflage shorts and hiking boots. A jet of flames shot up from the drum. Black smoke rolled and tumbled overhead, batted randomly about by what little breeze there was that hot afternoon. Thirty-or-so feet away sat the firepit, already loaded with wood for the evening’s social agenda.
“Figures Bill and Richard would be the first ones up here,” muttered the driver. “They’ve already cleaned out the camp house and are burning last year’s leftover trash,” he added. “Now we get to hear about how much they already done before anyone else got here.” The passenger chuckled quietly. The truck lunged to a stop as the driver threw the gearshift into Park while the vehicle was still moving. They flung open the doors and walked over to the fire.
“Damn, Bill, y’all trying to set fire to the whole place?” asked the driver. Everyone shook hands.
“It’s alright, Pete,” Bill said. “Besides, the landowners have been promising us they were gonna run a fire through here for years. We’d be doing us and them a favor.”
Bill, the club president, started the hunting camp with Tom, his longtime friend and co-worker, more than 18 years ago. He was mildly obsessed with the camp, worked harder than anyone else at keeping it up and epitomized the role of benevolent dictator.
While the four men were updating one another on how their families were doing, what their kids were up to these days, what vacations they’d taken and how their jobs were, another truck pulled through the gate from the asphalt and wound its way toward them. Soon, two more members had gotten out and were exchanging handshakes and good-natured ribbing.
Suddenly their conversation was interrupted by a loud whine screaming down the road outside the gate. Everyone looked up the road as a shiny, jet-black Kawasaki Ninja sport bike came zipping down the road toward the camp. The machine nose-dived to a stop in front of the six men as a cloud of orange dirt caught up to the bike and shrouded it and its rider. The man straddling the bike pulled off his helmet without flipping up the mirrored face guard. He swung his right leg over the seat and then plopped his helmet on it. With his back to the group of men assembled by the burning trash, he slid a pair of aviator sunglasses onto his face and then snapped around and walked toward them. Despite the heat, he was wearing a black Kevlar motorcycle jacket with patches sewn all over it. Fingerless leather gloves still adorned his hands. He smiled a wide, toothy smile as he stepped over the neck of a trailer and squeezed between it and the pick-up to which it was attached. He stretched out his right hand as he approached the group. “What’s goin’ on, guys?” he asked.
“Not much, Mav. Where’s Goose?” chided one of members. Everyone except the biker in the black jacket laughed.
“Very funny,” he said, trying to mask his insecurity. “How y’all been?”
“Good,” answered a heavy-set man who had been poking the fire more than anyone else. “Splash any bogies on the way up here?”
“You just wish you could fit on one of those things, Chris,” came the retort.
“When’jya get that thing, Don?” asked another man.
“Right after the divorce,” he answered. “She got the kids, so I got myself a toy.”
“Ellie would kill me if I came home with one of those things,” Bill interjected. “Alright, who’re we missing?”
“Just Tom and Wayne,” one of the men said.
“Alright,” said Bill, “I know it’s hot as hell, but we have a lot of work to do. We need to clean out all the shooting houses and we need to move some of them. We gotta do some bushhogging, cut and stack firewood, spray some Round-Up, fill the feeders, edge around the camp house, cut some new fire lanes and trim around all the ladder stands and probably a bunch of other stuff I’m forgetting. I have it all written down inside. Y’all get your stuff unpacked and let’s sit down and figure out who’s doing what.”
Everyone started unloading their trucks and taking their stuff inside the camp house. A few minutes later, a maroon F-250 Powerstroke towing a medium-duty tractor on a gooseneck trailer rumbled onto the dirt road and pulled toward the camp house.
“Good. There’s Tom,” smiled Bill. “Now we can get to work.”
(c) Roger Guilian 2011
posted by Days Afield Host | 3:17 PM
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