In memory of Jeffrey Williams, a good man from West Virginia. RIP Brother. It was a pleasure walking off a map with you. Jeff and I were quickly becoming the hot topic of discussion right about supper time at a rustic diner in Cusick, Washington, a diner sopped in the smell of saw dust and hungry lumberjacks. A dozen deer heads peered down from above. “Them stupid wannabes walked right off the map,” cackled Chip Wood, the owner of the diner. “Four damn miles clean off the side of a government topo map. Ned Fisher found the two goofballs at his ranch, standing next to his mailbox. What a couple of Air Force losers." Jeff and I were a two-person team accomplishing our week-long land navigation phase of training, one of the many trials in becoming a bona fide member of the walking Air Force. At the moment, though, Jeff and I were in a serious predicament: we were standing on a dirt road next to a mailbox that looked like a trout and we were lost. It wasn’t long before a dusty blue Dodge USAF pickup truck slid to a stop beside us. Two angry Instructors jumped down and shouted in stereo, “You and your pack! Get in the back! Sit down! And no talking!” We quickly did as we were told; then, the truck blasted away. Off we went traveling at breakneck speed on a narrow road leading towards doom. As I bounced this way and that, holding on for dear life, I pondered our punishment. Had Jeff and I messed-up that bad? Would we be dropped from training? Would we become MPs? Walking security, circle after circle, around a mammoth B-52 bomber? At a base in North Dakota? During the winter? Damn it all! Graduation was only a few months away. The banter continued at the diner. “No way them two fellas are gonna be Survival Instructors. Not a chance." "Them two fellas are dumber than a sack of rocks." "Both are gonna be washouts for sure." "Won’t see them fellas back out here again. Lost or found.” Raucous laughter permeated the diner. Meals were getting cold because folks were laughing so hard. Even the deer heads were moving their lips. We were getting closer to camp; I could feel it. Closer to the scorn and ridicule of seasoned, smoke-cured USAF Survival Instructors. Fearless men who were part wolverine, part rattlesnake, part grizzly bear. Wilderness men who used Bowie knives for toothpicks. Suddenly the truck veered onto a two-track that quickly petered out. We had entered a small meadow surrounded by stately hemlocks. The truck slammed on its brakes and we heard the engine shut off. We had arrived. And there before me, right before my eyes, was what I’d longed to see for hours: an archaic wooden trestle crossing a creek, the landmark of our day’s final point. We came close, Jeff and I did, because earlier in the day we had been at this very creek. But, instead of turning left and walking the creek to the trestle - which couldn’t have been more than 50-yards away - Jeff and I made a really bad decision and turned right, walking miles and miles in the opposite direction. Right off the map. “Get out of the truck! Now!” Jeff and I got to our feet as fast as we could, grabbed our packs, and leapt to the ground. There before us stood four snarling Survival Instructors. The Instructor nearest me slammed a half-opened map against my chest (darn near knocking the wind out of me) and hollered, “Kerns! Show me your specific location!” With a shaky index finger I pointed on the map to where the trestle crossed the stream. “Correct! Now show me where you were when we found you!” I pointed to the map’s right margin about midway up. Then, I moved my finger off the map to the right about half a foot, where I left my finger dangling midair. “Right about here,” I said. All four of the Instructors began laughing like hyenas. Stomping the dirt and carrying on to no end. After what seemed like hours, the laughter stopped. “You two grab your packs and get out of our sight!” The command echoed deep into the oncoming darkness. Jeff and I scurried away through the trees in the direction of our classmates. The next morning we waited for the worst, but it never came. Business in camp was as usual. After the morning campfires were extinguished, all of the travel teams (including Jeff and I) were given coordinates and a description of the next point. On a level piece of ground Jeff and I plotted our heading and off through the brush we went, lensatic compasses in-hand, eyes peeled, toward a lake a few miles away. Late morning Jeff and I stopped for a break in a copse of fantastic-smelling cedar trees. Shucking our packs, we settled to the ground, propping our tired bodies against a good-sized stump. It was time to hydrate and study the map a bit. And that’s when a crazy thing happened. “Uh, Byron,” Jeff said. “There’s some writing on the back of the map. Weren’t no words there yesterday. You write ‘em?” I flipped the map around and there on its dirty white backside were the following words: ‘Remember. Always learn from your mistakes. And teach from your mistakes if you plan to teach well. Signed, Your Brothers from the Instructor Training Branch.' Yep, I admit it, a tear or two did squeak out. ` There's a lesson to be learned here. I call it 'Wagging Your Heading.' Wagging (not the same as a dog) is nothing fancy, but it will help keep you from wandering the wrong way. Let's use the example of the trestle crossing the creek. Our initial heading was to the trestle and that was our first mistake. We knew from map study we were going to approach the creek because it ran perpendicular to our heading. We should have wagged our initial heading. And by that I mean if our initial heading to the trestle was 270 degrees, we should have wagged in a few degrees and made the heading 273 degrees. That way walking the new heading, we already know we are probably going to hit the creek to the right of the trestle ... so, on arrival at the creek, we know our best bet is to turn left. Simple and effective and no more walking the wrong way.
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"I was driving the dusty backroads in Virginia one day when I took notice of a tanned and grizzled farmer standing near the road at the end of his lane. Being as I wasn’t quite sure where I was in this neck of the woods, I pulled over and ambled his way to ask directions. Before I could speak a word, the man said, “You’re the guy that teaches survival up in these parts, ain’t ya?” “Yes sir, I am,” I answered in a polite tone. “Ticks!” he said. “They get on your students, don’t they?” “Well, they sure do,” I answered. “Damn things get on me too.” “Well, Mr. Survival Instructor, you sure got lucky today! Name’s Rafe. Rafe Jacobs. And I got the sure-fire answer for ticks.” Rafe let go a doozy of a fart, shivered twice, spit once, and went on to say, “WD-40! That’s the answer! Spray WD-40 all over your students and spray some on you too.” “Are you kidding me, Rafe? Really? WD-40 works for ticks?” And that’s about when the fella started laughing. I thought he would never stop. Once his guffaws had petered out and he’d caught his breath, Rafe slapped me hard on the back and said, “Hell no, WD-40 don’t work for ticks! But y’all sure won’t squeak when it rains!” I instantly wanted to slap him silly, but he turned and went back up his lane without a word. Nary a goodbye. Nary a see ya later. Nary any directions. When I think about ticks for too long, two things happen: 1) I get to feeling buggy; and 2) the cobwebs of my brain part and I remember a funny incident with a soccer coach from Puerto Rico. Eight students and I (the soccer coach included) were finally enjoying the luxury of walking on a trail. For more than two hours we’d been tromping through thick underbrush, fighting skeeters, and slicing through vines. Our bodies and clothing had become bathed in sweat. Ahh, the Florida wilderness. Finally, camp was within view. Through the leafy branches, about one hundred yards away, we could just begin to see the orange and white colors of the parachute canopy stretched tight over our fire circle. For most of the day Benny the soccer coach had been in the lead. And now he was our point man tasked with getting us home. This was our final stretch and all was good and wonderful until Benny went and tripped over a root and landed in a bush in the woods. Ol’ Benny picked himself up as gracefully as he could and acted like nothing happened. After brushing off a few leaves and pine needles and a spider web from his face, Benny was good as new. Off he went leading us to our cozy camp. Benny didn’t take more than ten steps when he let out a blood-curdling scream and started scratching and hopping and fidgeting all over the place. Then he was gone faster than a Pabst Blue Ribbon at a Nascar event, making a mad dash for the parachute canopy. The students and I hurried after Benny. And there at the fire circle he stood. Crying. And naked, except for his blue thong. One lady giggled. Another gasped and covered her eyes, The men stood saying, “Whaat?” “You okay, Benny?” I asked. “No, I am not okay! My body is covered with hundreds of tiny ticks!” Benny bent over, grabbed his clothes and shoes, and ran barefoot - sans pack, tent, sleeping bag, or any personal gear - a half mile to the vehicle parking area, jumped in his car, and drove away. Wearing a thong. And hundreds of ticks. Being a wilderness survival instructor, dead branches excite me. I’ll pick a branch up if I see a good one driving down the Interstate or any other road – asphalt or dirt – for that matter. Better than that, twice a week I’ll do a walkabout at our Georgia farm looking for fallen branches. I gather ‘em up for firewood and put the branches in our barn where they’ll stay dry. Strange this branch fascination, but quite attributable to the fact that I’ve wandered about the wilderness hundreds of times gathering wood for campfires. All in all, over the years branches have been good to me. They’ve helped make outstanding fires and helped create many bodacious memories. Then one day I found a branch that wasn’t so helpful, a branch that caused me harm. It was a beautiful early-October afternoon, 2022. I was moseying down our farm lane in my truck, whistling a Christmas tune, on my way to a store in town. After passing through our electronic gate, I noticed immediately to the right a deader-than-the-dickens branch. Hanging there, held up by vines. I put the truck in park and hopped out. This particular branch grab would only take a minute or two, so I left the truck running. The task seemed simple: grab the branch and tug a tad. So, I grabbed the branch and tugged a tad. The branch didn’t move much because of the vines. What if I pulled harder? With all my might? That would probably do it. So, I grabbed the branch again and pulled with all my might. And that’s when the end of the branch - right where I’m holding - breaks off. I have never been shot from a slingshot, but I think I know what it feels like. With more momentum than I ever thought possible, I was flung backwards across the lane and into a small ditch, where I went down hard, slamming the back of my head against a fence board. Holy bonkers did my head slam against that damn board! Cuckoo birds were everywhere. The lights flickered, but never went out. My body lay stretched on its side, my back pressed tight against the fence, my left arm stretched out on an active ant nest. How wonderful. I shook my head and nothing rattled. And my neck seemed to be working okay. So, I commenced to remove myself from this sudden and humbling predicament and couldn’t. My dern right leg had quit working. My right foot? That dern thing was twitching like crazy. On its own. I stared in amazement. PMA. Positive mental attitude. Was I going to panic? Was I going to give up? Was I gonna have the right attitude to make it through this unexpected emergency situation? What about the four major fears of a survivor? Did I have a fear of death? No. Didn’t seem to be anything life-threatening. No blood. I was breathing. Did I have a fear of wild animals? No. But the dern ants were becoming a bit obnoxious. Did I have a fear of darkness? No. The afternoon was bright and sunny. Did I have a fear of being alone? At the moment, yes! I needed to attract attention to myself and quick. Pain was setting up camp. Attracting attention to myself was not going to be a problem. My wife was a quick call away. Up at the house where she was working. I reached into the cargo pocket of my pants with my free right hand (where usually I carry my phone) but the pocket was empty. $%#@&%!!! My phone is in the truck. In a $#@%$#ing cup holder. I attempt to crawl to the truck to retrieve my phone. Well, what a joke that was. I went nowhere. Seriously? What a mistake I’d made. Why wasn’t my phone on my person? On the asphalt road, less than thirty yards away, vehicles were passing by, albeit sporadically. “HELP ME! HELP ME!” I shouted, as I waved my right arm crazily, as high as I could, back and forth, back and forth, so as to create movement that a vehicle’s occupant might see. “HELP ME! HELP ME! PLEASE HELP ME!” It seemed like hours (but more like twenty minutes) when I heard a voice. “Hey, Mister! I’m real sorry I didn’t get here earlier. Didn’t see you soon enough and had to go up to the church and turn around. I’m real sorry! Name’s Matt. What can I do for you?” My eyes open and there is a face staring at me. A kind and caring face. “I’m Byron. Nice to meet you. Up there at the house. Can you get my wife? Her name is Kelley. And Matt, if you don’t mind, I’m just gonna stay here.” The good Samaritan smiled, vaulted the fence, and ran to the house. Propped on an elbow, I waited patiently. To pass the time, I crushed fire ants between my thumb and index finger, one at a time. “Byyyyyyyyron! Byyyyyyyron! Are you okay?” My wife was on-scene. Instantly I felt safe and bodaciously better. Call it the power of love. “Please call 911,” I said. “Something isn’t working right. I can’t move my right leg and the pain is crazy.” Kelley made the call and an ambulance was on its way. From Athens, where the Georgia Dawgs live, thirty miles to the north. Surprisingly, five-minutes after the 911 call, a fire truck pulled into the lane. The local volunteer fire and rescue squad had arrived. Two paramedics, carrying bags full of medical gear, hustled their way towards me. Without delay they knelt near me and started asking questions. What’s your full name? What’s your date of birth? On a scale of one to ten, ten being high, what is your level of pain? How did you get in this predicament? And, why in the heck did you do such a thing? I answered dutifully. The scene survey. The patient survey. Vitals. Then, “Get the morphine started.” A siren wailed off in the distance, its soft music gaining on my position. Overhead in the blue sky, a kettle of turkey vultures flew a graceful figure-eight. Everything was so peaceful. Even the medics putting me on the backboard. I’d equate it to a magic carpet ride. At the hospital. X-rays of hips, knees, and leg bones. And then the announcement: "Ah ha, Mr. Kerns! We have discovered the problem! You have a fractured femur. At the top, near the ball joint. No worries, Mr. Kerns! Your surgery is scheduled mid-day tomorrow. A three-night hospital stay, a titanium nail and some screws, several crappy meals, and a huge medical bill ought to fix you right up." Damn. I was only going to town. A year and months later, I’ve arrived at the conclusion that I am a mighty lucky fella. My goodness, if my head had hit that fence board any different - instead of smack-dab at the back of my head - I could have occurred a spinal injury, maybe paralysis. I do believe everything happens for a reason. There’s a purpose for an incident and a lesson for every difficulty. The past? Hug it for the educator it is. And if someone tells you to 'break a leg' they're really wishing you good luck, Whaat? Darn near every class I’ve taught, someone will ask, “What’s there to eat in these woods?” Usually, I say nothing and just pull a candy bar out of my pants pocket. Probably a better answer would have been, “Bugs. Six legs or less.” Because bugs are the most readily available source of protein in the wilderness, and one doesn’t need special skills to catch a bug. Anyone can do it. Just remember, some bugs are faster than others. Earthworms? They’re not quick on their feet at all. Grasshoppers? Quick. Really quick. Watched a fella once chase one into the next county. Whatever you do, don’t eat bugs that have been tromping around in dung, or those in or on a dead animal. Stay away from brightly colored bugs, and hairy ones too. Remember. Six legs or less. No caterpillars, centipedes, or spiders. Bugs are the hot ticket. Eat them raw or roast them over a campfire. Six legs or less. “Plants, Mr. Kerns. What’s your opinion on foraging for plants?” Frequently I get asked this question too. As a former Air Force Survival Instructor, I will forever be a ‘bug eater.’ I do not get excited about plants. For a couple of reasons. Years ago, a group of scientists conducted a study on whether it was beneficial for a survivor to forage for plants. The study found that a survivor wastes more energy gathering plants than the nutritional yield gained from eating them. Please don’t think I have anything against plants. I don’t. But the last thing I want a person to do if they’re in a survival situation is eat a plant, especially in the first three days. Imagine a fella being so hungry he gulps down a plant on Day One of his survival situation. He’s sure the plant is edible, but he’s wrong. Soon he’s sick to his stomach with pain and cramps, some severe. Then, the hallucinations start and he begins making weird faces at his signal mirror. Right about the time a rescue plane flies over. All because of a hunger pang. On the very first day. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll munch a cattail tuber and fry-up prickly pear cactus with the best of ‘em. I just don’t have edible plants in my curriculum. I’d much prefer those with plant-eating, inquiring minds to visit and spend time in the field with an edible plant specialist. There are all sorts of critters to eat. Like snakes, frogs, birds, deer, fish, rabbits, squirrels and more. While most assume snaring and trapping and hunting critters is an easy proposition, well, let me tell you, it’s not as easy as it seems. Catching a critter can often be mighty tough. Most often tougher than a wad of shank. Eating critters is one thing. Catching them? A whole different story. Speaking of stories, here’s one about eight Air Force survival students and a porcupine called Spiny. My students - ranging in rank from Airman First Class to Lt. Colonel - and I had been walking a compass heading through the brush since daybreak. It was now mid-morning and we were still a good five hours from the final point, our evening camp. I was bringing up the rear, moseying along about fifty yards back, when I heard the men shouting at the top of their lungs, over and over, “Death to Spiny!” The men had come to a halt underneath a tall tree. Thirty foot above a porcupine was squeezing the tar out of the tree and hanging on for dear life. The men had begun hurling fist-sized rocks at the porcupine, successfully pummeling it to the point of mange. “Knock off the damn rock tossing!” I hollered. “Knock it off now!” I walked up to the group and asked, “Gentlemen, do you really need to kill this animal?” In perfect unison the men shouted, “Spiny dies!" The verdict was unanimous. In a moment of humaneness, I told the men about the soft spot at the top of the porcupine’s head - their primary target. I also advised the students of the porcupine’s unprotected belly - their secondary target. It wasn’t long before the men had a plan. Four would climb a nearby rock outcrop and position themselves above the porcupine. From there they would rain large rocks upon the porcupine’s head. Call it an Air Force bombing mission of sorts. Four men ascended, each carrying a rock as big as they could carry. A Tech Sergeant, with biceps bigger than footballs, was toting a rock the size of a riding lawnmower. Those on the ground began moving back. Collateral damage was clearly understood. The bomb droppers stood ready above their target. “5-4-3-2-1. Bombs away!” To this day I’m not sure what killed the porcupine. Sharp shards from splintered branches? The long fall to the ground? Brain damage? The men were so thrilled they posed like ‘great hunters’ behind the porcupine’s lifeless body. I regretfully took their picture. Lots of questions came next. Questions like do we have to keep this thing? How much does this critter weigh? How long does it take to cook a porcupine? What’s the meat taste like? What do we do about all them quills? Is it a boy or girl? I threw the group leader a hunk of parachute material and said, “Have the men improvise a bag. A bag big enough to put the porcupine in.” “Hallelujah!” exclaimed the group leader. “We’re burying this damn thing. Thank goodness we don’t have to carry Spiny all the way to camp! C’mon, a couple of you. Let’s dig a hole while the others make a bag!” “Group leader!” I hollered. “Be sure to put a shoulder strap on that bag. You and the men will be carrying Spiny’s body all the way to our evening camp.” Evening camp was five hours away and the men would encounter moderate hills, periods of thick brush, several drainage ditches, and two streams. Along for the walk would be Spiny who would prove to be a real pain-in-the-ass to carry. With two hours of daylight remaining, we arrived at a small beaver pond, our evening point. I immediately commenced giving orders. “Get your shelters built! We’re making them out of ponchos. Be done and back here in forty-five minutes. And, if I find a shelter that isn’t built right, I’m tearing it down! Group leader! First people finished with shelters will build our evening fire!” The group surprised me. As weary as the men were, they completed their shelters on-time and every shelter was built well. They even had a blazing fire. It was about dinner time so the men stood smiling around the campfire, holding their canteen cups and assorted food items, ready to cook their meals. “Gentlemen, forget about that food in your hands. There’s been a change in the menu. Tonight, you will be having Spiny, and only Spiny, for supper.” I watched as their smiles quickly disappeared. “There’s work to be done,” I continued. “But first things first. Follow me and let’s gather around that dead critter.” With ol’ Spiny on the ground before me, I demonstrated the procedure for removing quills and explained how to clean and cook the porcupine. After all was said and done and the marching orders given, the men did what they had to do. Finally, at a little past three in the morning, the men were porcupined-out. Together they had plucked, parboiled, parboiled some more, cooked and cooked some more, chewed and chewed, and swallowed Spiny until Spiny was gone. The next morning over coffee I told the men the three reasons why a porcupine is one of nature’s best survival foods: 1) They’re high in protein; 2) Not too hard to catch; and 3) Porcupine meat doesn’t need cooked. I’m darned near certain it was #3 that caused ‘em to pull their knives and say bad words. I’m inside a nursing home in Indiana. It’s 11 pm and I've been here like two minutes and already the joint is giving me the creeps. Might be the weird ICU-like lighting. Plus it's quiet. Deathly quiet. I've come again to see Tuffy, a dear friend of mine. When I enter Tuffy's room he's awake and sitting up. He laboriously moves his lips and forms a lopsided smile. I hold his hand and smile back. And, that's when I heard the death rattle. I'd only heard it once before. On TV. Watching a western. And it didn't sound good. For almost two hours I sat by the side of his bed. Sometimes Tuffy and I would exchange a few words. Sometimes we just looked at each other. And sometimes he would doze off for a minute or two and wake suddenly and grab my arm. At damn near exactly 1 am in the morning, Tuffy sneezed twice, one right after the other - ACHOO! ACHOO! His jaw went slack, his head flopped forward, and my good friend Tuffy was dead at 92. I cried. It seemed like hours but was probably only a minute or two. While wiping my eyes and cheeks dry with my fist I hollered for a nurse. When all was said and done and there was no more to do, the nurse told me I could go. I excused myself and walked out into the darkness and immediately thought funeral. Yes, a funeral would be happening. Undoubtedly there’d be military honors. And for sure there’d be plenty of folks paying their respects. Including me. I crawled into my car and drove like a zombie the ten minutes to Tuffy’s house. Tuffy and I go way back. Hell, Tuffy’s known me since I was a baby. He watched me grow up all the way through high school and was always there cheering me on at baseball games. Then, I entered the military and had to go away. Tuffy’s the reason I joined. Every now and then when I was growing up he'd tell folks he was a WWII veteran. And I always liked the way that sounded. Tuffy got lucky never having to be in combat. In ’44 he left San Francisco on a troop transport headed for the war in the Pacific, but while taking on stores in Hawaii, Tuffy had to have an appendectomy. His howitzer crew went to the war without him. Tuffy healed, did some sight-seeing, took some pictures, and came back stateside. I have seen his black & white photos of Hawaii. Some large, 8” x 10”. Most 4” x 6”. Diamond Head. Beaches. Lots of people in bathing suits. Tanned people. Huge waves. And lots of palm trees. He’d hold up a picture, stare at it, and say regretfully, “Always promised a lady I’d take her there. We were going to fly in an airplane.” Tuffy never flew in an airplane his entire life. Back home after the war, Tuffy first became a railroad man; then, moved on to being a cabinetmaker for a few years. Finally, he found his calling at a factory. For 32-years. Making bushings and springs and small parts for Detroit. Noisy, dirty, repetitious work. Monday through Friday, every season of the year, Tuffy punched his employer’s clock religiously. Mostly to make money, stay hired, and receive his favorite perk: a two-week vacation. Tuffy usually spent his two weeks fishing, within an hour or so of his home. He'd rent a rowboat at one of his favorite lakes and surround himself with water, corn and soybeans, and the enjoyable calls of red-winged blackbirds. Sometimes, if he was flush, Tuffy would rent a cabin at a lake up in Michigan so he could catch perch. Tuffy’s favorite fish were bream: bluegill and sunfish. Big ones. The size of your hand. Tuffy despised the little devils, the tiny fish, the bait stealers. “Go grow up and then come back!” he’d holler every time he tossed a little devil back in the water. I was a first grader when I started fishing with Tuffy along the banks of the Wabash River. We used cane poles with orange bobbers. Wiggly red worms dangled from our hooks. One day Tuffy caught a fish called a channel cat - first one I’d ever seen. Oh, Tuffy did not like catfish. He wouldn't even take the hook out of its mouth. Instead, he took out his pocketknife and cut the line. Damn fish swam away hook, line, and sinker. I reckon Tuffy was a tad jumpy because one of his brothers got horned by a catfish, got blood poisoning, and died. You want to see a man nervous as a dog pooping bones, well, that was Tuffy around a catfish. When I look back I laugh when I think about the times Tuffy would say, “Byron, take over the oars. You row the boat and keep us straight.” Tuffy and I would switch places and I'd row about five zigzaggedly pulls and Tuffy would kick me off the seat, take over, and say, “You’re doing it all wrong boy. You’re doing it all wrong.” Off he’d go a rowing, never teaching me a damn thing. I eventually learned by watching. Tuffy grew up during the Great Depression, so he understood about not having stuff and how important earning money was and that sometimes there was situations when folks had to eke out a living. The word credit did not exist in his vocabulary. If one wanted something, money was saved. In a cookie jar or in a coffee can. Tuffy was never a rich man when it came to money, nor was he a businessman. Come every January, though, he did do his own taxes each and every year at his kitchen table. Tuffy’s ciphering and printing were neat and precise thanks to a brand new, freshly sharpened #2 Ticonderoga pencil. Tuffy hardly ever needed the eraser. Tuffy made stuff. Even heirloom stuff. Like walnut jewelry boxes with velvet-lined drawers His ordinary stuff ranged from macramé owls to red bird mobiles to chimes to wooden projects, like wooden chests, corner tables, beautiful picture frames, even coffee tables. And, boy, did Tuffy’s workload increase when word got out he was wheezing and having coughing spells. Tuffy never charged much for his ordinary stuff. The heirloom stuff? He gave that away. If one were to consider time spent on many of Tuffy’s projects, and did the figuring, Tuffy was probably making close to a nickel an hour. Plus paying for materials. Tuffy was a generous man. I was walking to the store one day with Tuffy when I spotted a twenty-dollar bill laying in the gutter. I went for it and before I could touch it Tuffy hollered, “Boy! Let that twenty-dollar bill be. It ain’t yours.” I wanted to scream (because I really needed the money), but I understood. I got it. Tuffy was also an honest man. Thinking on it, I don’t think he ever told a lie. Tuffy went about his business even though he wasn’t a businessman. He was kind to everyone he met. He said please and thank you and held doors open for ladies. At home, Tuffy loved to sit in his favorite chair and watch TV, especially Big 10 basketball. I called him once when the Indiana Hoosiers were playing and he said he couldn't talk until a commercial. I knew Tuffy was getting old when he quit doing his projects, his piddling in his dirt-walled basemen workshopt. It was the steps. They’d gotten more difficult to negotiate. Tuffy’s legs were giving out. Same with fishing. He couldn’t walk the path to the better fishing spots, away from the little devils, or up and down hills, even the slightest elevation.. He’d get winded sometimes and gasp for air. “Boy! I’ve lived too long!” It was the morning before the day he died and Tuffy was confiding in me and squeezing my forearm. So tightly I had to pry his fingers loose. As frail as Tuffy was, his muscular strength was amazing. Then, out of nowhere, Tuffy said, “Gabe’s coming!” Gabe? Who was Gabe? “Is Gabe your insurance agent?” I asked. “No! Gabriel! Gabriel’s coming!” Ohhh. That guy. Ok, this just got a little weird. And, then it got weirder quick because I started to feel people that I couldn’t see bumping into me. Crowding me. So much I was pushed out Tuffy’s door. Into the hall. Where I stood a bit in shock. What just happened? Old friends and relatives coming to visit? I pressed my back against the wall and tried to breathe normally. That stuff in Tuffy’s room had me shook up. I gave it a few minutes, opened the door, and crept back in. The room felt empty, except for Tuffy. Asleep. Reckon he was tuckered-out from seeing so many visitors. Arriving at Tuffy’s house I immediately went to the kitchen cabinet where Tuffy kept his whiskey. A stiff drink was needed. And there was not a drop to be found. There wasn’t even a bar open in town at this time of night. So, I thought I’d get my head right by sitting in the fresh air out on Tuffy’s porch. I stepped out and all of a sudden the chimes hanging on the porch started ringing. For damn near five-seconds the metal tubes made music and then they quit. I checked the wind and like whiskey there was none. Whaat? I went back and opened the screen door. Back and forth. With force. To see if I could get Tuffy’s chimes to move. No matter how hard I swung the screen door back and forth the chimes remained still. Damn. My dad got his wings. A lot of folks wander our planet. Billions of people of all shapes and sizes. Some smart. Some dumber than rocks. Some neat. Some sloppier than the dickens. Some full of pep and vinegar. Some downright lazy. Some are young. Some are old. Some strong. Some weaker than a turd. Some are mean. Some are kind. Some would rather shoot you than look at you. And some wouldn’t hurt a flea. People. One day back a ways, a day when I was pleasantly minding my own business, I received a phone call from a man in New York City sitting at a desk in a cubicle seventy floors high. He was phoning to inquire if I would accompany him and five of his co-workers on a week-long survival trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Gear would be minimal. Each would bring only a water bottle, a knife, and what they were wearing. “Sir, what about fire?” I asked. “How are y’all going to make fire?” “Well, by using fire-by-friction, of course,” he answered. “I watched a YouTube video the other night and it didn’t look that difficult.” I said, “Sir, how are you going to disinfect water?” There was a pause, then the caller said slowly, “What do you mean?” “Well, it’s critical that your group remains healthy,” I advised. “Therefore, you must make sure any water procured from a pond, lake, or stream is made safe to drink.” “You got to be kidding me,” he replied, as if I was pulling his leg. I briefly explained amoebic dysentery. “Yuk!” he exclaimed. “Who wants the runny dukes!” “Sir, what’s everyone going to eat during your week in the woods?” “Well, we’re planning to forage and hunt,” he answered. “Like our ancestors did. For plants and berries and fish and wild game. Nothing big, though, that’s for sure. Mostly mice, squirrels, rabbits, and racoons.” “Sounds like you have it all figured out,” I replied. “You betcha! I’ve put a lot of thought into this adventure. We just need you to keep an eye on us and make sure that we get back safe.” “Sir, you don’t need me,” I chuckled. “Y’all go out there and do your thing.” “Really? We’ll be glad to pay you handsomely for your time.” “Keep your money, sir. Or, better yet, use it to buy some common sense.” I disconnected and shook my head. Maybe I shook my head too much because I started hearing a voice. The voice of Tonto saying to the Lone Ranger, “Kemo Sabe, phone caller watch heap too much reality TV.” About a month after the man’s call, I received an email from a friend, a fowl friend who is a CIA-trained, top-secret bluebird. Sure enough, the New York group did go on their survival adventure to Virginia. Attached to the email was a report detailing their wilderness activity. The report follows in its entirety. Day One. At 0915, the men parked their vehicle, a Toyota van, at a designated parking area in the George Washington National Forest near Natural Bridge, Virginia. Armed with water bottles, pocketknives, and the clothes on their backs, the six men found the trail head and entered the wilderness. After walking approximately 100-yards, the men stopped to bicker. One man was trying to convince the group it would be better to walk off-trail. Another argued the merits for staying on the trail. Two of the men wanted to return to the car immediately. And one reminded the group they had forgotten to fill their water bottles. The sixth man said only one word: “Ralph” and he said it repeatedly as he emptied his stomach behind a tree. Arguments and complaints continued for 30 minutes. During this time the names of all individuals were noted. Bobby is the man desperately wanting to walk off-trail. He’s the phone caller and leader of the group. Tim is the man arguing to stay on-trail. Ryan and Alvin are the ones with the strong inclination to return to the car. Alvin, a heavy-set fellow who looks to be the oldest in the group, maybe mid-40s, is not happy at all about the steep terrain. Gabe is the man who mentioned the status of the water bottles. And Phil is the fellow not feeling so well. “Finish up that puking, you sissy,” Bobby hollered. “We’re moving out in two minutes!” Phil answered with a horrifying dry heave. The group left the trail with Bobby in the lead and Gabe at the rear. Not more than a few steps in, Gabe spotted a small roll of pink surveying tape lying on the ground, nearly covered by leaves. Gabe fetched the roll, unseen, and slipped it into his front jeans pocket. Then, every so often he’d pull off a length of tape and tie it to a shoulder-high branch. He continued doing this, unseen, every now and then. At 1315, the roll was depleted. “Hey, does anyone know where we are?” Tim asked. The group was resting mid-afternoon at the bottom of a steep hill. “Well, we definitely ain’t in the city,” Bobby answered with a hearty laugh. “Hey, when are we going to find water?” asked Ryan. “I’m starved,” Alvin chimed in. “Four sausage biscuits for breakfast wasn’t enough. Darn it! I knew I should have ordered six.” “Suck it up you bunch of babies!” bellowed Bobby. “On your feet! Off we go!” Up the steep hill they went, clawing and grabbing, following their leader. And, down the other side they slid. At 1715, the group reached a narrow stream. A small, picturesque meadow captured the day’s remaining light. ”You all can keep going if you want,” said Alvin. “I’m spending the night right here at this meadow, by this nice stream.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the bubbling water. The others, even Bobby, agreed. The group had arrived at their Day One camping site. Any ordinary group of hikers upon arrival at a camping site would have pitched tents, procured water, gathered firewood for the cool night ahead, built a fire, and cooked and ate a meal. This bunch of fellows seemed at a loss for what to do. Maybe because there wasn’t much to do much with. The men are bedraggled, except for Gabe who has energy to spare. Quicker than a cheetah, he scrambles to the top of a huge rock formation and there he sat, bird-like above the others. A couple of minutes passed and Gabe shouted, “Come and get your red-hot, New York pizzas!” Alvin, totally humorless at this point of the adventure, picked up a two-foot-long chunk of wood and hurled it at Gabe, striking him dead-center in the chest and knocking him off his perch. As Gabe fell his head slammed violently against the jagged edge of a large rock, cutting his head badly and smashing his eyeglasses to smithereens. Blood quickly covered Gabe’s face from forehead to chin. Tim and Ryan hurriedly made their way to Gabe. Carefully they removed Gabe from the rocks to a more suitable position on the ground. But their maneuvering wasn’t careful enough. Gabe let out a blood-curdling scream that traveled like a bullet through the woods. Gabe was alive, that was for sure. But his right arm was definitely broken. “We need to call 911!” shouted Ryan. “Now!” “Don’t think that’s going to be possible,” declared Alvin. “Our wonderful leader had us leave our phones in the van. Stupider than that, we don’t even have a first aid kit.” “Piss-off, fat man!” Bobby said with a snarl. “You guys get busy fixing the little twerp. I’ll make a fire!” Darkness came. And with it a steady drizzle. Thunder boomed and lightning danced. The evening’s temperature hovered in the low 40s and a north wind blew steady at 20-mph. The fire? Never happened. The odds were better for a fart to linger in a fan factory. Bobby’s inability to make fire had lowered each man’s morale to a level lower than whale poop. The group huddled under the sparsely needled branches of a pine tree, doing their best to stay warm. Silence had replaced bickering. The men shivered, giving away energy like it was free. Blood leaked steadily from the gash on Gabe’s forehead. His right arm dangled, remiss of immobilization. The night could have been the longest of their lives. But it was a night when the group did one thing right: they stayed together. Day Two. The rain-free morning brought amicable discussion. Focus was on two important issues: 1) Which way to the van? and 2) Should they drink from the stream? Regarding the van, each man (except Gabe) pointed a finger in the direction they thought correct. Not a one pointed in the same direction. Lacking any conciseness whatsoever, the group began addressing the second question. In this they were unanimous. They would drink from the stream. Last evening there had been a suggestion of drinking rainwater, but the majority foolishly ruled rainwater was contaminated. With radiation. Also, it was unanimous that the week-long adventure was over. Of utmost importance was to get Gabe professional medical care. The men would stay together and do their best to backtrack the footprints of Day One. The soggy adventurers ventured forth with Bobby in the lead. Gabe was bleeding still and barely able to see, but he did his best to keep up. Using slender trees as handholds the men pulled their way up the hillside. At the top, the men performed an organized search for the previous day’s footprints. None were found. Off a way, a lone deer stood watching the group. “Hey look, Bobby! There’s breakfast!” Phil exclaimed. “Jump on it and stab it with your knife, you big bad ass!” The deer flicked her tail and bounded away. “Hey guys!” said Tim. “I got a good feeling the way out is over to our right. Over that rise. I’m sure of it! Bobby, can I take the lead?” With the wind completely gone from his sails, Bobby conceded his role as point man. “Sure, Tim, take the lead.” The men journeyed on with Tim in the lead, weaving their way through a claustrophobic mass of young trees. At noon, the men plopped to the ground and took a well-earned rest. With a quivering lip, Phil broadcast, “We’re all going to die.” “Everything will be alright,” said Gabe with a strange calmness to his voice. “Everything will be alright. We’re going to make it. Everything will be alright.” The men sat transfixed. How could a person in such a banged-up way say such positive words? “Hey guys,” exclaimed Alvin. “I feel bad for clobbering Gabe. Honest. It was stupid me that ruined our trip. I’m sorry. Really sorry. But, like Tim, I’ve got a good feeling too. Because not too far back there was pink tape hanging from a tree. There’s got to be a road nearby.” “Pink tape! Where?” Gabe asked excitedly. “Back there, about where that deer was,” Alvin answered. “Didn’t you see it?” “Funny. Very, very funny,” Gabe replied with a broad smile. “You trashed my glasses. Remember? Right after you gashed my head and just before you broke my arm. We need to find the pink tape! It’s our ticket out of here!” “Gabe! What’s gotten into you?” asked Bobby. “Is your brain okay?” “Seriously, we need to find the pink tape. Get us to the tape, Alvin!” Gabe sounded like a sergeant fresh from the battlefield, a badly injured sergeant concerned about his men more than himself. Gabe’s blood-soaked, white underwear, wrapped about his head, lent dramatic credence. Alvin moved swiftly in the direction of the pink tape. “There it is!” he yelled excitedly. “Just ahead! Look!” An innocent bystander would have thought he’d seen Sasquatch. The men gathered around the strand of pink tape and Gabe provided the following explanation verifying he was indeed of right mind and not suffering from brain damage: “Lend me your ears gentlemen as I pay homage to this pink piece of dangling tape. It is truly my own glorious concoction. More importantly, I must give credit to the Brothers Grimm, Hansel and Gretel, and …” “Gabe, c’mon man,” chided Bobby. “Quit beating around the bush. What’s that pink tape got to do with us?” “Okay. Here goes. I found a pink roll of tape on the ground at the start, almost hidden in the leaves. Simply put, I used it like breadcrumbs. Guys, look around. I hung at least a dozen pink tape pieces out there in these woods, during the beginning of yesterday’s walk. We find the trail of tape and I guarantee we’ll find the way out of here. But, please guys, when we locate the van, please promise me you’ll take me to the nearest hospital.” Pandemonium broke loose when they found their vehicle. Bobby, Phil, Tim, Alvin, and Ryan whooped and hollered and danced a jig up and down the forest road. Not Gabe, though. Gabe didn’t dance. Didn’t even let out a whoop, didn’t even holler. Off a bit from the others, Gabe just stayed put and grinned ear-to-ear. He had helped people and was feeling good. - End of report. Having read the entire report, I sat in my office utterly amazed, with a strong desire to phone Bobby. So, I phoned him right then and there and he answered on the second ring. “Dude, this is Byron, the survival guy down in Georgia. You called about a month ago.” “I remember,” Bobby replied. “You’re the guy who told me to buy some common sense.” “Exactly,” I said. “Good memory. Hey, soon as Gabe’s right arm heals, I’d like you and the guys to join me for a four-day survival class. On the house, a freebie. This time, though, we’ll use my equipment list, and pink surveyor’s tape will be on the list for sure.” “That would be great, Byron! Wow, how’d you know about Gabe’s arm and the tape?” “Let’s just say a little bird told me.” If you’re out in the woods and you come across a black and yellow waspy-looking critter with severe mental issues, it’s probably a yellow jacket. They live in the ground and when they come out of their hole they’re quick and they’re fast and there’s usually a bunch of them. Flying at eight miles per hour, no person will outrun one. They like to sting just to pass time and their sting packs a mighty punch and can cause anaphylaxis shock, an allergic reaction that causes a person’s airway to swell and limit breathing, a serious medical situation. By my desk hangs a blue ribbon. A blue ribbon won at a city-wide track meet. A testament to the moment when a dash of fifty yards identified me as the fastest sixth grader in town. I didn’t think I was fast; I knew it! Didn’t take long to learn I wasn’t so fast at all. The weekend had finally come. Two of my neighborhood classmates and I were meeting at a secret place in the woods where we were going to build a fort. We were going to sweat and get dirty and cuss and fart because there wasn’t going to be a grown-up around. I was to bring a rake and shovel. My friends would bring the other fort-building stuff. Meeting time was 10 am sharp. When it got time to leave the house and head to the woods, I had me a dern predicament. Dad was up to something in the basement, same place as the rake and shovel. My plan was to sneak the rake and shovel because I knew Dad would definitely say “No!” if I asked to borrow them. He was real funny about loaning out his Sears & Roebuck stuff. A temporary hold pattern was on with nothing to do but go sit on the couch, watch Saturday morning cartoons, and wait. Sure enough, two cartoons later, dad came up the stairs, went out the front door, got in the car, and drove off. With bodacious haste I flew down the basement steps, grabbed the rake and shovel, and exited the back door. Through the yard I ran with the tools, past a giant lilac bush, and down a gentle hill to the railroad tracks. The sun was beating down making my hands sweaty causing the rake and shovel to constantly slip my grip. I stopped to wipe my hands, purchased a good grip on the tools, and continued walking north between the rails. Up away I spied what we called the cut-thru trail heading in an easterly direction, a trail not used much, not much at all. The main trail, the popular trail, was another half-mile. But since I was running late I made the decision to take the cut-thru trail. Just when I was thinking the cut-thru trail was going to get me there on time, I went and stepped on a nest of yellow jackets. Instantly, the guards called for an all-out attack. Soon, way too soon, an angry swarm of yellow jackets were upon me. “Help me! Help me!” I screamed. I threw the rake and shovel to the ground and began waving my arms frantically, doing my best to ward off the stinging maniacs. And home I ran as fast as I could, ducking and weaving like a prize fighter and slapping yellow jackets like crazy. I arrived in my backyard after what seemed like hours. I screamed for mom and dad and in an instant both came running. Mom took one look at me and almost had a heart attack. Dad? He was counting stings. He was up to fifty-nine when mom went and put an end to his tabulating. “Shush, Garland, you’re scaring the boy!” Swishing me up into her arms and holding me tight, mom carried me up two flights of stairs, running the entire way. In a matter of minutes, I was sitting naked in our claw-footed bathtub in water deep enough to fish. Mom and Dad had zero plans to take me to the emergency room at Memorial Hospital, only a block away. It was so damn close I could see flashing lights at the ER entrance from my upstairs bedroom window. What does mom do? Instead of calling our doctor, mom called every neighbor she knew. Wasn’t long before folks of all descriptions were peeking in on me and offering sweet condolences. Most gasped at my riddled body. Sitting there looking up, I watched each of them hand mom a box of baking soda. Mom would open each box and efficiently scatter its contents about the tub. When she finished with a box, I was supposed to wiggle my legs and feet and stir the water. At the end, when the neighbors stopped coming, the final tally was twenty-three empty boxes of baking soda and ninety-one yellow jacket stings. No EpiPen. No antihistamines. Only a lengthy soak in a tub full of water with a bunch of baking soda put in. Yes, mom was a marvel at home remedies. Ol’ Doc Kerns. A kind and caring lady who also put butter on burns. I first learned of Buck Brannon from an article in the Atlanta newspaper. An article describing how Buck had gotten in trouble for ripping the heads off three men and how his charges were being dropped on a ruling of self-defense. Without hesitation, I hired Buck to be my bodyguard. An upcoming trip had me traveling into a wilderness area rumored to be rife with dangerous beasts. That’s why I needed and wanted a guy like Buck. He’d be there to rip the heads from rattlesnakes, wolves, mountain lions, and who knows, maybe even Sasquatch. Buck doing all the fighting while I watched from a distance. Nothing could get me. I’d be safe with Buck around. Buck was not a huge man by any means. He was small, especially by bodyguard standards, only standing 5’ 11” in his stocking feet. Was he good-looking? No. Did he have broad shoulders? Sort of. Square jaw? Not really. Muscles? A few. Quick? Quicker than greased lightning. Ferocious? A mob of wolverines whimpers in his presence. I couldn’t wait to see Buck in action. Buck and I drove to the wilderness area rumored to have such dangerous beasts, traveling in Buck’s car because it was a station wagon and could hold more stuff. Up and down and north we traveled into the hills of Georgia, Buck doing the driving. Just shy of dusk we came across a nice camping spot, so we stopped and began the fun tasks associated with the establishment of a camp. I gathered the sticks because it was my job to build a fire. Buck was in charge of erecting the tent. And right about when I had a fire going good and Buck had the tent somewhat standing, Buck started screaming and running in circles and slapping himself all over. “Get them off me! Help me! Get them off me now!” Buck hollered. “They’re biting me! They’re biting me all over!” “Fire ants, Buck,” I said calmly. “They’re fire ants. Georgia’s notorious for them.” “Dang things hurt!” Buck exclaimed. I helped Buck finish the tent and we stowed our sleeping gear inside. Out around the inviting fire, we cooked our supper, ate, and about the time I was going to smoke my pipe and relax, Buck started asking a bunch of questions. “What if it’s a raccoon?” Buck asked. “With rabies. What if it’s a bear? Or a panther? Is it gonna get us?” “I thought you were supposed to be a tough guy! I thought you were going to be my ever-vigilant protector.” “I am a tough guy,” Buck answered. “Ants and raccoons just aren’t my strong points.” We both fell asleep that night with the assumption our combined snoring would scare away a majority of the night creatures. Then, at 2 am, Buck shook me awake. “Byron, wake up,” Buck said, his voice barely a whisper. “I think I hear something out there crawling around. Do you think it will get us?” We hadn’t even gotten near the wilderness area rumored to have dangerous beasts and already Buck was acting like a big chicken. I seriously was beginning to question my decision to hire Buck Brannon as a bodyguard. “There it is again,” Buck whispered. “Something is out there.” I stormed out of the tent, flashlight in hand, and there the something was. An opossum. Digging around in the leaves looking for bugs. I crawled back into the tent, held my breath, and counted to ten. “It’s an opossum, Buck,” I said. “They’re harmless. Now go to sleep.” Morning came. Coffee was consumed. And Buck and I set forth with Buck doing the driving again. Me? It was time to assume the role of navigator. I’d never been to this particular wilderness area rumored to have dangerous beasts, so I was keeping a keen eye on the map and the various physical features as we drove along. It wasn’t far up the road before Buck began screaming. He’d ran over a rabbit with the right rear wheel. We both heard the sickening thump and I could see in the passenger’s rear view mirror the critter twitching alongside the road. Buck jerked the wheel to the right and skidded to a stop, turned off the motor, and started crying. There we sat, never leaving the car once, never checking on the rabbit, while Buck cried his heart out for fifteen-minutes. Then Buck drove on. It was early afternoon when Buck and I arrived at the wilderness area rumored to have dangerous beasts. At first glance, there was not a dangerous beast anywhere. Instead, we saw deer, dozens of deer. And swans. To our right eight gorgeous swans floated peacefully on a gorgeous pond. And woodchucks. To our left four rather large woodchucks smiled from the wood line as they chucked wood. I thought to myself, hmmm, where are the dangerous beasts? Buck and I put our packs on our backs, locked the car, found the trailhead, and started walking the trail. Up the narrow path we went, moving at a snail’s pace, on the lookout for dangerous beasts. It wasn’t long before they appeared. There they stood, blocking our path. Some hissing and swaying. Armed to the gums with shotguns and pitchforks. Six ornery-looking men, not a one with a tooth in their mouth. I turned to Buck and taunted, “Well, bodyguard, what are you going to do now?” Buck didn’t say a word. He didn’t even look at me. I reckon he was too busy staring at the six men, sizing them up. All at once, without warning, a skinny guy with a pitchfork lunged at Buck. Big mistake. Buck shoved the fork’s tines into the man’s stomach, twisting until the man was dead. Holding the man high in the air, Buck flung him into the branches of a sizeable oak. Buck looked back at the remaining men with a vicious glare. All five at once charged Buck. Pulling out his .357 revolver, Buck in five shots shot four completely dead. A tall, ugly man, the lone survivor, writhed on the ground, pleading for Buck to shoot him, to put him out of his misery. With a sixth shot, Buck blew the man’s brains out. We covered the five fellas with leaves, hiding them good as we could. The pitchfork guy we left hanging in the tree. Dang Buck was something else. Onward and up the trail we went passing vacant camping sites until we came to Camp Site #7, advertised in a brochure as an exquisite place to spend time in the woods. Wrong. It had to be the nastiest camping spot I’d ever seen. Trash, cigarette butts, beer cans, and used toilet paper were scattered everywhere. And everything, including the smoldering fire, was fresh. Like recent. Like today. Off in the distance we heard a rumbling, a loud rumbling, a rumbling getting louder by the second. And then the rumbling was upon us. Eight nasty-looking, long-haired dudes on motorcycles pulled into the site and parked and dismounted next to the smoldering fire. “What you two doing here?” a man inquired, obviously the leader. “You come to rob us?” “No sir, we didn’t come to rob you,” I explained. “My partner and I have no need for trash, smoked-down cigarette butts, empty beer cans, nor used toilet paper.” Apparently the guy didn’t think too kindly of my statement because before I could blink he was holding a Bowie knife to my throat. I stood there not moving a muscle and that’s when Buck took off running, zigzagging through the woods. Where the heck was he going? What a time to disappear. Especially when I’m having a terrible time with a dangerous beast. “Let the chicken run to his mommy.” The man pressed the knife tighter against my throat. I could feel a trickle of blood and nearly fainted. “You, my little friend, you ain’t going nowhere.” The man’s breath was horrible. Arriving at the station wagon, Buck quickly unlocked the doors and reached into a bag and pulled out three hand grenades. Going faster coming back, he swiftly evaded his way to the edge of camp. And there he sat and watched. Soon he realized his predicament. He couldn’t throw the damn grenades because of me standing smack-dab in the middle of the bikers. Then, I caught a glimpse of movement and seen Buck sitting there in the woods. Hot golly damn, ol’ Buck didn’t run away. He was nearby and everything was going to be alright. Buck was holding something up so I could see. And that something was a grenade. I immediately got the hint. Buck needed me to move. And that’s about when eight more nasty-looking, long-haired dudes showed up. Coming in quiet and hot. On bicycles. The group slid-in like a precision drill team, parked their rides, delicately lowered their kickstands, and dismounted. Several of the men reached over and gently patted their bicycle seats. Some offered soothing words. Then, with faces of stone, the new arrivals stood tall with their hands on their hips and eyes straight ahead. All except one, a man at least six foot six, who walked with purpose toward me and the man holding the knife. “Let him go, Clive,” the tall man ordered. “He’s got no dog in this fight.” “Okay. Sure, Percy, no problem. I was just having some fun.” The knife slid away from my throat and that’s when I stomped on Clive’s foot and started running as fast as I could in the direction of a dirt embankment. I dove up and over like a running back into a rather thick bush. From the darkness I heard a KABOOM! Followed by two more. KABOOM! KABOOM! Buck had thrown the grenades! I peeked carefully out of the bush to see what I could see and boy did I see a mess. And what a mess it was! All sixteen nasty-looking, long-haired dudes were dead and pieces of them and their bicycles were all over the place. Buck and I met up and took a minute or two to look around. Our backpacks? Blown to smithereens. Our gear - the tent, sleeping bags, clothing, and other necessities? Nowhere to be found. We agreed it was time to call the trip quits and head on home. Buck and I took one last look around and headed down the trail. “Buck,” I said while walking along. “Did you know that during this brief adventure you killed twenty-two dangerous beasts, as well as a rabbit?” “Seriously, Byron. Did ya have to mention the rabbit? Did ya?” My instructor camp is private, mine and mine alone. It is a place where I have things students don’t. At the start of every class I make it a point to show my students the exact location of my instructor camp. With emphasis I say, “Do not come to my instructor camp unless there is an emergency. And if it’s an emergency, it better be a damn good emergency.” Historically, student emergencies have occurred most often between midnight and 3 a.m. When I’m in my tent. Comfortably asleep. A knock, knock. On the fabric of my tent. Softly a voice, “Hey, Mr. Kerns. You awake?” I rouse, check my phone for the time, turn on my headlamp, quickly dress, crawl out of my tent, and say to the student in a most pleasant voice, “What the damn Sam Hill’s the problem?” “Mr. Kerns, I can’t find my shelter. Can you help me?” It is two hours and twenty minutes past midnight. At 11:10 pm, the six students as a group departed the fire circle for their shelters. Whether to sleep or not to sleep. My goodness. What is going on with this knock, knock guy? The man stands in the light of my headlamp covered head-to-toe with a year’s supply of dirt and leaves. A large rip adorns his hoodie, chest high. Another longer tear runs down a leg of his pants. My eyes continue downward and I see his shoes are untied. His hood? Up and pulled tight covering his face, so I’m not yet 100% sure who I’m looking at. “It’s Willy, Mr. Kerns. Willy Hartman from Nashville. I’m the one who sells guitars.” Willy is speaking to a space a good three feet to the right of my head. I reach up and pull his hood back around. “Willy, I thought you wore glasses?” “I did, sir. But they got ripped from my head and disappeared. A limb was what did it. Hell, that’s been two hours ago and I haven’t been able to see worth a damn since.” “Willy, have you been wandering about these woods all this time?” “I have, sir. Other than when I sat down on a log, but only for a minute. Something spooked me, spooked me bad, so I got the heck out of there. I’m so glad I found you, Mr. Kerns.” The student started crying and hugging me, squeezing tight. A few minutes shy of 3 am, Willy and I arrived at his shelter. And that’s when my headlamp shined upon a whistle. Hanging from his shelter. An item required to be on your person at all times. In case you need to attract attention to yourself. Three short blasts. An international distress signal working most places in the world. But only when the whistle is on your person. Here’s another knock, knock. Different time, different date. Same place. More frantic. Knock, knock. “Mr. Kerns! This is Alfredo! Me and my boys have a serious problem sir. A real serious problem. All our stuff is soaking wet! Mr. Kerns, you awake?” I liked Alfredo. He and his boys had done extremely well in class on Day One. They’d been outstanding team players, jovial, and extremely kind to all of the other students. And, in this story when thinking boys, think boys in their 40s. The time is 12:05 am, the temperature is 48-degrees F., and it’s raining cats and dogs. A lot of cats and dogs. I crawl out of my cozy, dry, toasty environment and instantly I’m soaking wet. At a good but slippery run, Alfredo and I wove our way through the trees to his tent. There the two boys stood, appearing in our headlamps through the pouring rain. Both standing diligently and quite wet by their tent. “Alfredo, where’d you get this tent?” My headlamp was directed at a white imprinted label full of oriental characters, some big, some small. Some bold, some not so bold. “Online, Mr. Kerns. The four-person tent was $18.50 and the sleeping bags were an even better deal: $12.00 for three. A good bargain, don’t you think? And the shipping was free!” I wouldn’t have paid one dollar for the whole kit and caboodle. Pulling back the tent’s door, I was shocked at the amount of water inside. Their tent had become a swimming pool. Sleeping bags, pretzel and potato chip bags, assorted draw-string bags, and inflated pillows floated about. The rain continued to fall, as did the temperature. The wind, well, you could hear it, making. conditions ripe for hypothermia. “Guys, I hate to say it, but your tent and sleeping bags ain’t worth a darn and we’re getting wetter and colder by the minute. Let’s go to my truck and get out of this soup. Follow me guys!” At the truck I quickly rigged a tarp overhead so we could stand under it and be out of the wind and rain. Their tent? Unfit for habitation. Their sleeping bags? Worthless. Their wet clothing? No one had a change of clothes. Alfredo spoke first. “Mr. Kerns, me and my boys took a vote and we each think it’s best we go home. Stick a fork in us, sir, we are done.” “Are you sure?” I asked while looking at all three of the men. Each nodded their head. “Well then, go pack up your stuff, and I’ll get y’all out of here.” At exactly 2 am I drove the wet men and their wet stuff to the vehicle parking area - a half mile by a soggy two-track. At the car the men hurriedly tossed their gear into the trunk, dove in, turned the heater on full blast, waved, and drove off. And that’s about when the rain quit. Of all the knock, knocks, I absolutely dread medical knock, knocks. Knock, knock. “Mr. Kerns! Mr. Kerns! I’m bleeding to death!” I stir in my sleeping bag thinking how this could be possible. It’s 4:40 am and a student is bleeding. Not ordinary bleeding, but the death kind of bleeding. Had there been a bear attack? A bobcat attack? A coyote attack? A stray dog attack? A pissed-off squirrel attack? Or, had an axe murderer recently visited camp? I crawled out of my tent and there in the shine of my headlamp stood Stickley Jamerson III. On a student performance scale of one to ten, ten being the best, Stickly was a minus seven. My light scanned his entire body for blood and I saw none. “Stickly, what is your problem?” “My thumb, Mr. Kerns. I cut it bad. Please help me.” With a painful grimace, Stickly held out his injured thumb. “Stickley, where in the heck is all the blood?” “I wiped it all off, sir. That’s when I saw it was just a scratch.” “Darn it, Stickley, you said you were bleeding to death.” “Sorry, Mr. Kerns. Real sorry. Medical things, well, they make my mind go bonkers and think funny. Bears do that to me too. Like the one back at my shelter.” “Bear?” I growled. “What bear?” “The bear that made me climb the tree,” declared Stickley, holding his thumb out at me. “That’s where I got this scratch. Let me tell ya, that bear was a right big fella!!” “Okay, Stickley. Off you go to your shelter. See you in the morning.” Stickley responded with a weak thanks and disappeared into the darkness. Before noon the next day, the skinny was out, the beans had been spilled. A student in a nearby shelter heard and seen the whole thing. The bear wasn’t a bear. The bear was a dern armadillo. Imagine. You’re in the wilderness and it’s dark, really dark. There's not an inkling of light anywhere. The moon? Gone. Disappeared. Thank goodness for the headlamp strapped to your forehead, shining brightly, lighting the trail to camp, only a mile to go. Suddenly the headlamp peters out. Completely out because the batteries are dead. What do you do now? Well, most certainly, grab the spares and put new batteries in. Spares? What spares? Damn. Gotta make a torch. Imagine. You’re snowshoeing in the backcountry in snow so deep seven-foot fir trees are hidden beneath, and you don’t even know it. When lucky you walks directly on top of a tree and without warning you fall, swish, all the way down, down to the bottom of the tree. You heard a loud snap while falling; and, sure enough, one of your snowshoes is broken. Broken to pieces. You look up, see the blue sky, and determinedly climb out of the hole. You brush yourself off and realize one snowshoe ain’t gonna cut it. Damn. Gotta make a snowshoe. In each scenario a need existed and there was a problem that needed solved. Not only is improvisation a problem solver, but boredom - one of many stressors that mess with a survivor’s head - is dealt with. The survivor keeps active and busy while improvising, using both head and hands. It’s a bodaciously good thing. Over the years I’ve improvised a few items: mukluks, ropes, nets, knives, baskets, snowshoes, lanterns, slingshots, spears, walking sticks, water catches, shelters, tables, benches, you know, stuff like that. My students improvise all sorts of things too. “During this next block of training, each of you will improvise an item. A spoon. A table. Maybe a chess set. A pair of sandals. A flashlight. A Frisbee. A spear. Anything. Something. Something you think up.” And that’s when I get asked, “Mr. Kerns, could you give us some ideas of what to make?” Back a tad I mentioned some of the improvised items I’ve made over the years. But I forgot one. I forgot to mention my favorite. The specially equipped, human-sensing, electronically talking border tree. “Thank you for calling Byron Kerns Survival School. This is Byron. How may I help you?” “Hello, Byron,” replied a lady with a sweet southern drawl. “I want to enroll my husband in one of your classes.” “I’ll be glad to help you do that,” I said. “Your name please?” “My name is Deborah, sir, and my husband’s name is Jerry. He’s a defense attorney – voted the best in Atlanta. Anyhow, I read on your web site where students enrolled in your Bare Bones class participate in a map and compass walk. I do not, I repeat, I do not want my husband becoming lost. So, let me get right to the point. Is your training area bordered by a fence?” Never had I been asked such a question. “Yes, Deborah, the training area is fenced-in, but not by an ordinary fence. Instead, I have installed trees, specially equipped, human-sensing, electronically talking border trees. Along every edge of the training area and not too far apart. “That’s wonderful!” she said gleefully. “How nice. Now I won’t worry so much.” “There’s a catch, Deborah, one you must know. If your husband does get lost, without a doubt he’ll come before one of my trees. And when that happens the specially equipped, human-sensing, electronically talking border tree will alert Jerry, in a thunderous and terrifying voice, to stop and not move a muscle. Then the tree will ask your husband three important questions.” “Well, that shouldn’t be a problem for Jerry,” the lady said with a hint of confidence. “He gets every question right when we watch Jeopardy. Tell me the three questions! I promise I won’t tell Jerry. Better yet, I’ll pay you $300 a question.” Hmmm, I thought. That’s not enough. Not for security questions asked by a talking tree. “Okay, Deborah. I’ll share the questions with you. But it’s going to be $500 a question." “Not a problem. Oh, so-o-o not a problem. Jerry is worth it, absolutely worth it. My dear little man earned a $300,000 bonus last week. That’s why I’m shopping today and buying new dresses and shoes and handbags and all kinds of woman things. My dear Jerry is such a wonderful provider. You can understand my concern for him getting lost in your woods. $1500 extra it is. Now, tell me the three questions!” “Alright, Deborah, here goes. Question #1: Who is buried in Grant’s tomb?” “That’s an easy one!” she exclaimed giddily. “What’s the second question?” “Question #2: When was the War of 1812 fought?” “My goodness,” Deborah laughed. “Jerry’s going to know that one, too. He is such a historical nut. What’s the third question?” “Deborah, the third question is the most important question,” I said as if death had rolled in. “Jerry must answer this question correctly, or he will face tremendous devastation.” “Oh, for damn sakes! Tell me the question!” she ordered in a tone not so very peach-like. “Question #3: What is your latitude and longitude?” “Well, if that isn’t the stupidest, the damn stupidest question I’ve ever heard! If Jerry knew that, well, he certainly wouldn’t be lost and talking to your contraption of a tree would he?” “As I said, Question #3 is very important. If Jerry answers incorrectly, if he tells the tree the wrong answer, the talking tree will shake and shake like there’s no tomorrow, fall sideways, and smash your husband dead.” There was silence. Way too much silence. After a good minute’s worth, I said “Deborah, you still there? You still on the line?” “I’m here, Byron. Let’s skip Jerry and enroll my mother-in-law.” |
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