

Bitter Fish

Benjamin Thomas

Copyright Benjamin Thomas 2013

Published at Smashwords

### PREFACE

### The following events happened. Times, names, details were rearranged to fit a storyline making this a work of fiction. Several characters were combined into one. Names are irrelevant.

### There was a man living in a cave in Southern Missouri, I don't know where he has gotten himself too, or if he is still alive.

# Chapter 1: On the river

I finally broke the silence by saying "Everything I have ever done has been an effort to attract a mate."

Erik looked up from his side of the camp fire, "Everything?"

"Everything."

The sun was just touching the top of an Ozark mountain, shades of yellow, red and pink bursting from the Western sky. The early twilight, still hot and humid from a blistering summer day, was slowly slipping into night. Overhead bats had begun the nightly hunt for mosquitoes, but the roaring fire kept the bugs away and gave us something to center our attention on. Locals like to call this an Ozark television, the hypnotic flicker of the flames that draws one into a trance.

We were camped on a gravel bar along the Huzzah River. The loose rocks stretched away from us and around a bend. This is truly the deep wilderness, fifteen miles up from our take out point, on a remote section that almost no one ever floats. This is good and bad, good because we get to see some amazing sites that no one else ever will, bad because we have to deal with log jams, fences and other obstacles. Since no one floats this, no one clears out the trees except mother nature.

"What about all the books you read? What about this? Aint no women around here," Erik asks.

I think about my reply for a while. "Well you may be right, but I think I read because I want to appear educated. I do all this outdoors stuff cause I want the bragging rights. To be able to say that I floated something no one else has, to be able to say I did 120 miles in my canoe in a year; bragging rights."

He pokes at the fire as he thinks about my answer. "Why do you care so much if you meet someone? You have a full life, friends, and family, what's the rush. You want to be tied down again like you were with your X?"

Again he has me stumped. I stare at the fire and wonder. Why do I care? Why would anyone care? What drives us, me, the human race to find that special someone you can't live without. He obviously isn't looking for anyone, he hasn't been on a date in years. And that last girl was a friend of a girl I was trying to bag. He was the wingman and ended up with her for a few months before he got sick of her free loading off of him.

"I think I am trying to replace the love I never felt from my mother" It isn't easy for me to admit this, but he is like a brother to me and I can tell him anything. We go back a long ways, went through our divorces about the same time. A nice spring day a year later I sort of saved his life after he took a bad spill on a motorcycle. The years have brought us close.

"That's ffff'd up." I suppose I don't need to explain more to him. What little I have told him of how I was raised answers those questions. It wasn't a bad childhood by third world standards. I had enough to eat and clothes to wear. Lots of books lying about the house so I got to read a lot. A set of encyclopedias that I thumbed through. Nowhere in those encyclopedias did it mention cutters. People who are so self loathing they will take a knife and cut themselves . My left arm is a maze of scars from my childhood. I wish I could say none of those scars were recent but I would be lying.

"Is that why you are going to Africa? Just for bragging rights? That's a long trip to hell just to be able to tell a girl that you have been there." He is right, it is a long trip to hell. I get on a plane at six AM next Saturday and am not done traveling till Monday morning at four. There are some layovers in that itinerary but it is a long trip regardless. I don't know why I am going there, but my when my sister in law asked me to go to Burkina Faso I asked her what country it was in. Silly me, it turns out it is a country, the second poorest one in the world. She warned me about it, but I decided to go anyway, get a sneak peak of hell before I end up there permanently. This is my going away float, last chance I have to be out on a river before I leave.

We are each drinking pretty heavily since the night has settled in on us and there is nothing left to do to get camp ready. It's a good location, a nice flat gravel bar with plenty of wood to be had, nice log to throw your ass over for the morning dump. I have spent so many nights out on the rivers that each camping spot starts to look like the last.

Morning comes fresh and clear, a strong breeze from the south, a few puffy clouds in the sky. What a day! This will work out great, we are heading north and with this strong wind behind us we will make good time. Breakfast consists of beer and snickers. I organize a lot of float trips, and tell first timers to plan on a case of beer a day. This might seem like a lot but it is amazing how fast it can disappear. Generally I bring along some "dehydrated beer" in the form of whiskey. You never want to run out of booze out here if you are dependent on it.

We break camp quickly and head on. Both of us have been paddling for years, and we have shared a canoe so often that it is second nature. It gives me time to ponder what he said last night. His break from his X was so easy. He never loved her, was not very attracted to her and went straight into the arms of hot girl, young enough to be his daughter - in Arkansas maybe. That might have lasted 2 months, I forget how long they were together and try not to bring it up; it's still a sore spot.

My break took years. Years of us tearing each other apart. She did most of the tearing, I did most of the crying. I don't know why she was so unhappy with me. I am not perfect but wow, it was bad. I found out about the affair the morning I was released from the hospital where I had spent a few days with viral meningitis. I guess she picked that day because I was still so sick there was nothing I could do. What a way to add insult to injury. We tried to hold it together but after something like that it pretty much destroys everything. So we divorced. Three weeks after she moved out she showed up with the new guy to pick up some stuff she had left. I never realized how much I loved her till that moment.

Erik looks back at me "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Thought I heard thunder"

Crap, a storm on the river is never any fun, in fact it is very dangerous. I swing the canoe sideways in the water looking back to the South. Nothing. But in these Ozark canyons you can't see much of the sky. We sit like that for a bit both of us straining our ears. This time we both hear it. The wind is still from the South, that is good. If it changes and starts coming at us from the another direction that will mean a big storm is heading North and sucking air up like a vacuum cleaner. This hot humid air at the surface is what feeds those monsters.

Erik asks "What now?" He doesn't need to ask more. We both know we are in a bad situation. I look around, deep forest everywhere.

"Let's paddle like hell and hope we can find a gravel bar, I don't want to be in these trees if it is bolting lightning."

The beer cans are down and we are off. Racing the storm is no fun, but if we are lucky we might just find an old barn or a bridge or somewhere to ride it out. Maybe we could even find a cave to paddle the canoe into but I doubt it, not many caves on this chunk of the river.

The storm is evident now, we can hear the frequent cracks of lightning, the wind has whipped around and begins to work against us. This is a big one. Erik pulls his paddle up and points it to the sky. He doesn't need to tell me what he is doing, I know. He is testing to see how much electricity is in the air. Fishermen do it with their rods, he does it with his paddle. We are sitting ducks out here and won't be much safer on shore. Being on this river in a canoe makes us the highest point around. Being on a gravel bar makes us a pretty high point as well. In theory if you get close enough to the trees they bleed the static charge away. In theory communism works. If you get too close to the trees the lightning can jump from the tree to a human body.

"We need to get off the river" he says over his shoulder.

"Up there," and I nod to a gravel bar just coming into view around the bend. We both dig in deep and fight our way there.

The canoe beached and Erik has the tarp out as the first of the rain begins to hit. I grab the bottle of whiskey.

"What's that for?"

I look at him for a moment, "You wanna die sober?"

He nods and we walk a few feet away from the canoe, pull the tarp over our heads and try to bunch it so that we can step on the edges a bit and keep it from flying off. We have made it, just in time. The storm comes roaring along, we listen to trees snap in the wind, lightening striking all around us as we pass the bottle back and forth. No point trying to talk, the wind and the rain on the tarp drown out everything. I think to myself; this is a good way to die.

The storm passes as fast as it came, and we are able to set out again with the skies clearing above us, both of us a bit shaken up and a lot more drunk than we should be on a Saturday morning. We both knew we had been lucky. "You know" I said to him, "How many other people have gone through a thunder storm out on a river with nothing but a tarp and a bottle of whiskey? Bragging rights!"

I remember that bragging rights are useless without someone to brag too. Also, who cares? From what I can tell women seem to be attracted to money and power. I have neither. On the rare occasion that I go to a bar that plays dance music I notice the dance off mating contest. If aliens are watching us they are probably featuring the mating habits of the white middle class male on their version of the National Geographic Channel.

I can just hear the announcer , "Notice how this young bucks thrusting gyrations have attracted the attention of a table of females that are in prime breeding age. He will make eye contact with all that return his look. Notice how he eyes them up and down before turning to shake his backside at them. This truly is a perfect example of a bucks mating dance. He is sure to attract a mate and pass on his seed, thus ensuring his dancing genes are passed on"

Watch a show on the breeding habits of a gorilla, you could play that narrators comments over a video of the goings on at a dance club and get pretty much the same results. I tell my theory to Erik, he just laughs and keeps paddling. I am guessing he is pretty drunk by now.

We keep going down the Huzzah without much incident and finally hit the parts that are used for floating by the big outfitters. The river here has had a path chain sawed through the logs and the going gets easy. Then there is the Huzzah Valley Resort, a huge campground, probably 100 acres or more. People paying to camp, to float, to get away from it all while still keeping their RV plugged in. I wonder if those people knew that for the price of their weekend they could buy a canoe and go every time they wanted. Probably not. It is strange to see them in their perfect little world, big awnings set up, mosquito nets to keep out the bugs, the hum of generators.

I see lots of families. I could be one of those guys, watching my kids play, hoping to get a shot of leg off the wife when they finally take a nap. No face I see looks happy though.

Several people on the banks notice our canoe piled with gear and ask how far we are going. When I tell them that we have already done 20 some miles and will take out at Scotia today they look amazed. "Where do you sleep?" "What about the storms?" "Wild Animals?"...

I am sort of drunk and do my best to come up with a Chief Joseph type answer, "The Great Spirit will provide for all," I say in my deepest most profound voice, that I imagine Chief Joseph must have sounded like.

The camp ground behind us we see no one else till Scotia. Nothing marks the town of Scotia now, just a low water bridge. The locals still remember that this was once a port for moving iron down river. Lost in the woods a few miles from here is an old smelter, a massive stone iron furnace. It is slowly crumbling away, visited only by history buffs and lost hunters.

On the return drive to get my truck, which I left upstream, we see the campground guard. He had let us park my truck next to his house so the local vandals wouldn't smash a window looking for god knows what in my beater. He seemed surprised to see us.

"How was it?"

"Good," I reply "much easier than I had expected. Once you get a few miles down there really aren't many trees over the river"

"What about that storm?"

I give Erik a quick glance and reply "The Great Spirit will provide." There is no way to describe what it is like so I don't bother to try. It's scary. You think you are going to die. You hope it is quick.

# Chapter 2: Witch Doctor

The hut I am in is just like every other hut I have seen so far in Africa; low thatched roof, dirt floor, mud walls. The huts generally are clustered together around a central courtyard with the backs of the huts against an enclosing wall. These are little fortresses against the wild animals, stray dogs and covetous neighbor. Often the wall will have broken glass set atop and inlaid into the mud. Entire generations of extended families share the courtyard and the central fire burning in the middle. At night the pigs, goats and chickens are brought in and locked up. There are far too many predators and hungry people in these remote areas to risk leaving out such valuable livestock.

This particular compound is in some village in the Northern part of Burkina Faso. My sister in-law told me I would get a chance to see an "honest to goodness" Witch Doctor and this is one of many I have seen since going into the bush. She can spot them by their scars, their medicine bags, the way the others respect them. Slowly I am learning to do the same.

I had to stoop to walk into his hut. The Witch Dr. eyed me curiously. He looked to be very old, but here in Africa people age quickly. I guess he might be 60, I am sure he was the oldest person I had seen my entire time in the bush. He sat cross legged on the dirt floor of his hut and motioned for me to sit across from him. I wonder what story the scars across his face tell, what they mean to him and his tribe. I would ask my guide about it, but to talk to anyone here takes forever. Everything has to be translated from English to French, French to Bamanankan, the desert trader's language of the Sahara, and then back. This isn't as easy as it sounds because the guides French is rough, a dialect of French. My brother and him often babble back forth for a long time just to get a basic understanding of each other.

He puts a dry bony hand to my face and stares deep into my eyes. I wonder when the last time he washed his hands with soap was. I have seen their idea of a toilet, sitting over a pit and then cleaning your backside with water from a pitcher and rubbing any leftover residue off with your hand. I make a mental note to wash my face with baby wipes when I get back to our compound.

He says something which I don't understand.

"He wants to know why you are here," my brother translates.

I am still trying to figure that out myself. I am here to see something no one else will. I am here because my sister in-law is doing PhD. research on the weavers of this area. I am here because I hate modern society and want to see the way real people live. I am here because when my sister in-law asked me to go I knew I had to. I am here for bragging rights, to impress women back home.

But now I am really wondering why am I here. Why am I sitting sick and miserable in the dirt on the wrong side of the world? The Witch Doctor means what is my particular problem, why have I sought out his help. Where to begin?

"I want to be happy."

That's the only thing that I can come up with. I think it is true. I know I am not happy back in the states. I have heard that you can't run from your problems but by creating new problems you can forget about your old ones. Here every day is a new problem, food, water, bugs...

After it is all translated back he takes a small rug from behind him and sets it between us. He hands me some bones and I am told to scatter them on the rug. Looking at the bones I see thousands of years of history that is quickly disappearing. The traditional animist priests are dying off, disappearing, their followers being converted to Christianity or Islam. Animists are seen as uneducated and backward. One religion makes as much sense to me as the next, and for some reason I like this wizened old man.

"Your problem is women."

He stirs the bones with his hand and chatters on to the guide. After a while of this he stops and the guide speaks to my brother, apparently there is a lot of confusion because the guide has to ask the Witch Doctor several questions for clarification.

"The Witch Doctor says he can cure you with a simple laying on of hands, he just has to touch you on the forehead a few times. He says all your problems will go away. He says if you don't like the cure just find another priest, it is easy to fix"

I consider this for a moment, I don't want to seem rude and here is a poor Animist Priest offering to help. I nod my consent, a universal thing which needs no translating. He reaches over and taps me lightly three times low on my forehead, between my eyes.

Leaving his compound we say thank you's and shake hands with everyone several times. The people here are just happy to see someone interested in their culture and the five dollars the witch Dr. made for his services is serious money to these people, about three months salary to a healthy grown man.

We head back to the compound we are staying in. Very simple rooms made of concrete blocks and infested with bugs and vermin. It beats a mud hut, but just barely. I am just trying to keep from falling over, something is not right within me. It could be the heat, the food or some bug I picked up but I know I am breaking apart quickly. I tell my brother I need to lie down. He asks what is wrong, I tell him I don't know, just don't feel right. His wife comes to my bed side to take my temperature, 104. Now we have a real problem.

I know that my brother and his wife have left to discuss what to do with me, they both looked concerned. The guide poked his head in to say "Hi Cowboy" about all the English he can speak. I stare at the ceiling and think about the witch Dr., he never told me how to be happy.

My brother his wife come back and press pills into my mouth, and set a fresh water bottle by me. The water is hot from sitting in the truck but tastes good and washes some of the dust from my lips.

"We are going to stay here until your fever breaks." I am told. That is fine with me; at this point I just want the oblivion of the pills and the bliss of sleep. They leave me to rest and I hear the ocean roar in my head as the pills kick in.

After 36 hours the fever breaks. I have to admit, for being on a cot under a mosquito net in Africa, without AC, with running water being "run to get water", it was one of the best 36 hours of my life. I don't know if I hallucinated or dreamed but the entire time I had a fever my mind roamed the world. It must have been the pills, some strong anti-biotic magic there.

We throw our gear back into the truck. I have been trying to figure out what sort of truck this is. The steering wheel says Range Rover on it, but the truck panels say Mitsubishi. The seats must have come from some other vehicle, they don't seem to fit in it correctly. Regardless, it is 4 wheel drive, and has been very reliable. Except for flat tires we have had no problems.

The plan is to go to the place where the weavers dye the cotton with indigo before we leave this area. My brother, being something of a history expert, explained that the indigo, though beautiful, stinks to high heaven. In the middle ages they kept the indigo pits far from town and on the downwind side. I think to myself that it must smell like death because the open sewers running through the streets and piles of burning garbage have made me gag more than once.

We get to the dyers compound and find weavers and dyers hard at work. They not only do the dying here but live here and farm the surrounding area for millet and vegetables. The smell, while bad, is much like the rest of Africa, you get used to it.

My brother and his wife are bartering for cloth with what appears to be the matriarch of the clan, he holds up a beautiful weaving with variegated shades of blue. Each weaving means something different, which my sister-in law records. "This means 'Forgetting the bad in your Past', or 'Putting the past behind you', depends on how you translate it." My sister in-law writes this down and photographs it for future reference.

I yell over to my brother as I hop up from the shad of a scrubby tree, "I'll take it, how much does she want?" My brother asks and after much talking with the guide tells me it is five hundred cefas, or about five dollars. He adds that we are paying the "white price" since we are foreigners they ask outrageous sums of money. At least that is what the guide told him. He thinks it is a joke, five dollars is a beer in the airport.

I give her the money and as an added gift a small notebook and pen. Paper and pens are rare here, but I did not realize how rare as the old weaver looked over the notebook with her family. They examined each page talking about the gift excitedly. The guide translates some of it to my brother, "The family would like to thank you very much for this gift. With it they will be able to write down the names of their fathers and fathers fathers." He listens to the guide for a minute more. "Oh, I see, they are going to make a family tree, so they can pass it down to their children. They say they can trace it back so far that it is getting hard to keep track of. That they tried carving it in wood but termites ruined it."

I am a bit embarrassed of their thanks. It is a simple gift, I had no idea how much it would mean to them. At the same time I feel guilty for paying so little for something that took hours and hours of labor to make. I mentally run through what other things I have brought along that I could part with. All of the natives have been amazed at my flashlight, it is the LED crank kind, never needs batteries and worth a fortune in the bush, but I can't part with it. There are no lights here and using the bathroom is challenge enough, I can't imagine doing it in total darkness . As gifts I brought pens and paper, four bottles of aspirin, which I have already given away to various medicine men. I promised the guide my compass, and he has reminded me repeatedly of that, with it he says he will be able to cross the Sahara. Other than that I have nothing but a Swiss army knife, clothes and my personal medicine. Instead I buy another one of their weavings and they seem more than happy. Between my brother, his wife, and myself, they have made more money in a day than their crops and weavings would normally bring in a year.

# Chapter 3: Back to work.

48 hours ago I was sitting in a roadside hut in Africa that smelled of sewage, drinking beer and eating mystery meat. 48 hours ago I left a primitive civilization to return to the center of the United States, the other side of the world, basically another world. I wonder what the guide would think of paved roads, air conditioned cars and street signs. That would probably be enough to give him culture shock, never mind skyscrapers, the Gateway Arch, supermarkets and all of our other modern wonders. St Louis had never seemed so beautiful to me as the plane banked over downtown and we made our final approach.

At three A.M. the airport was slow. I sort of doubted Erik would be waiting for me, but there he was. I found him standing by the baggage claim carousel, a tired look on his face. He gave me a big hug and asked about the flight, Africa, commented that I had lost weight. I told him to watch for my sea bag as I had to visit the toilet every fifteen minutes, and was currently over clocked, it being at least a half an hour since the stewardess had made everyone sit down and buckle in.

My things collected we walked to his car. "You prayed for me in Africa didn't you?" I ask as soon as we were out of ear shot of everyone. This is a strange question for me to ask. Erik, like myself, was raised Catholic and abandoned that religion the moment he could, I bet he hasn't set foot in a church for a mass in 25 years. I know he and I share a similar view that organized religions are mostly money making businesses.

"What?" Erik stops and looks at me. "How did you know?"

I don't know how I knew. "I got really sick over there, had all these hallucinations, that one just sort of came back to me when I saw you."

He is silent for a while then responds, "Yes, I did. I didn't tell anyone, I know you think it is silly, but I was worried about you and where you were going."

I thank him and we head to work were I had left my car. I had taken every day of vacation that I could to spend the month in Africa so I was due back at work in a few hours. My job as a computer programmer suddenly seemed like a mystery. I didn't think I would be able to remember what I did, or how to do it.

I do know that Monday through Friday I basically do enough work to not get fired. I used to be a motivated employee. I used to give my best effort every day. My employer rewarded me for this by telling me how great I was and promising a raise or a promotion soon. Dangle that carrot in front of a horse long enough and the horse will give up. So now I have my own theory, I will work at the level they pay me.

I think the entire IT department has taken this attitude, even up through the lower level management. Work is as work does and we all plug away at our jobs. None of us like our jobs though. I remember I used to love writing code, couldn't wait to get to work, now I am just another burned out programmer. It was a slow process, the burning out. At first everything is new and exciting, but soon one project looks a lot like the last project. You never do anything new or interesting, just modify existing components to fit some existing piece of another puzzle.

The first day back at work goes pretty easily, mostly just going through the hundreds of emails and phone calls I missed. Then I had to talk to random people that come by to see how it went in Africa, see how I am doing. Everyone asks to see pictures, to which I told them that I just got off the plane a few hours ago, haven't had them developed yet. Everyone comments that I lost weight, a lot of weight. I tell them how there wasn't much food, what we could find to eat was often not very good. Dysentery had gotten all of us that went, but all in all, I loved my trip.

"Ready for the Stratford?" Robert asks. I am glad to see him poke his head over the cube, finally somebody who could care less about Africa and just wants to drink some beer and have some fun. The Stratford Bar and Grill is a filthy vile hole full of belligerent drunks and rough women where happy hour never ends. I suppose there is a down side to it as well, but the beer is cheap, so we keep going there.

"What time?" I reply.

"I am ready now, can't take this place anymore," he says. I am sure he means it. It's close enough to quitting time so Robert and I head over.

Walking in to the Stratford I see the same gray faces that were here last time I visited. They sit in a row at the end of the bar, nursing their beer through the day. Not so much to save money as to not get too drunk before last call. It's a strange mix of retirees, some younger, some older all with a vacant look. Its hard to tell it is the same exact people as last time, but they are the archetypical drunk that any barfly has come to know and is replaceable with any other.

"Get any strange over there?" Robert asks as we order beer. "Not only no, but HELL NO! Half the country has aids, other half is waiting to get it. No way in hell I was going to risk it, even double bagging it," I reply. "Besides, I can't even speak the language how do you go about trying to hook up with that sort of language barrier."

"Wave money and point, works in those brothels down in Mexico."

I just laugh, Robert has been in and out of more cheap whore houses than many a sailor.

"There were a lot of whores in the Ouagadougou, one of them even spoke English. Sort of sad, she was a refugee from Liberia. I am sure she didn't want to sell her body, but with no other options, well you do what you got to do. "

"Was she hot?" Robert asks suddenly interested

"For an African I suppose, they like their women bigger and curvier over there, it's a symbol of wealth to be fat"

"Well anyway, you think any whore likes what they do? Hell, we are all prostitutes, we all sell something. Some sell their muscles doing manual labor, some sell their minds, some sell their skills; but everyone has to sell something. Trick is find something you like to do and sell it. That is why we all have jobs."

# Chapter 4: American Doctor

"The Doctor will see you. He is waiting in his office."

The nurse and I should be on a first name basis by now, as this is the fourth visit here in as many weeks. Plus I've been to the office down the hall for the MRI, and numerous other tests. She is very attractive. I could care less. Since coming back from Africa my sex drive has gone from on overdrive to nothing. At first I thought it was jet lag, but jet lag and various stomach problems only last so long. It took me a few weeks before I sought medical help.

This can't be good I think to myself as I have a seat. Doctor Hale is studying a huge book.

"Once more for my records, and to make sure I didn't miss anything, I want you to tell me exactly what happened while you were in Africa."

"Not much to tell, I got really sick, vomiting, diarrhea, nausea. I lost 15 pounds while I was there because there never was much food around."

"When did you first feel ill?" he asks, as he scribbles notes. I look around his office, degrees on the wall, a skeleton hanging in the corner. I briefly wonder if we shouldn't toss some of those bones and see what they will tell us.

"Around noon either the third or fourth of October, not sure of the day. We had all been eating the same stuff, hell we all got sick at different times. I just seemed to get it the worst."

"Ok, I've got all the antibiotics you were on, there was no drug interaction there." He studies his notes. "You are sure you didn't try any local street drugs?"

"Of course I am sure!"

"Let's see, now your brother and sister in law had no lasting effects. You don't have any of the various river water diseases. You could develop Malaria in the future, but you show no signs of it yet. You have been back nine weeks with no libido to speak of." He writes some more, "I have good news and bad news, what would you like first?"

"Good." I reply.

"Well, the MRI didn't find a brain tumor. I didn't want to scare you but that is what I thought might be wrong. Plus, almost all your blood tests came back normal, and I have found a name for your condition." He pauses, "The bad news is not so bad, your pituitary gland has slightly failed. The pituitary is often called the master gland, sort of controls everything in your endocrine system and makes all sorts of hormones. Yours is not making one that tells your gonads to work. So basically your Testosterone levels have fallen to nothing." He writes a little more "I can fix this with a weekly shot. But I am not sure it will fix you. You have idiopathic secondary hypogonadism, it is very rare. I have been reading about a few cases." He closes the book. "Although the testosterone is replaced, in these cases I have been reading about, the patient does not feel the same, sometimes the patients say they have lost the ability to love, and they don't care about not feeling those emotions. Do you have any questions?"

"Where is my pituitary gland?"

"It's located at the base of the brain in the frontal cortex." He taps between his eyes, just above the brow. "Right here."

The Witch Doctor! I wonder if I should tell the doctor that part of the story. I don't want him to think I am crazy, but this is crazy. Getting shots of testosterone, every week? Maybe for the rest of my life? I glance at his degrees on the wall and wonder about it all. Doctors are all logic and science. I don't think telling him a grubby old man sitting in a mud hut was able to knock my system out of whack would make any sense to him. The Witch Doctor versus modern medicine, I wonder who to go to now for a cure.

"There is one thing I didn't mention." I briefly relate my encounter with the Witch Doctor.

"It's just an odd coincidence. " Dr Hale says with a smile, "I am sure it had nothing to do with this. Sunday morning televangelists curing people with Jesus, late night TV psychics telling the future, it's all garbage. No, what happened to you is just a chance, but I am sure the Witch Doctor had nothing to do with it."

"So this shot will fix me?"

"Yes and no. You are going to be on maintenance shots for a while and then we will drop you off to see how you do. As I said this is very rare, in some cases patients were able to jump start their endocrine system and get off the shots. This is going to be a wait and see situation"

"When can I get a shot?" I ask not being able to think of anything else to say.

"Give this piece of paper to the front desk, I pre-ordered the steroids after your second visit," he said looking at me carefully. "I will need to see you in the office in a month. I am going to start you off on low doses and build up slowly, this might be a bit of a jolt to your body. Don't worry, together we will get through this."

The nurse at the front desk looks over my slip of paper, calls to another nurse and I am led into an examining room.

"Drop your pants and lean over the table. This is an inner-muscular shot, so I need to give it to you in your upper thigh." The nurse tells me this as she pulls back on the syringe. "This stuff is really thick, so it is going to take a while, just relax. What hip do you want it in?"

I opt for the right and wince as the needle goes in. After a few seconds she pulls the needle out, slaps a band aid on me and sends me on my way. Walking out the door I feel the same as when I walked in except now I have a pain in my right upper thigh. I didn't think the effects would be immediate but am curious what, if any, side effects I will have. Probably going to lose my hair, the pundits always say your junk shrinks up. Perhaps I should have thought about this a bit before going down this path of treatment, but it is too late now. The steroids are in me and there is no going back now.

# Chapter 5: Night Hunt

Slowly I slide along on my belly to the edge of the cliff. Looking down I can see tiny figures walking around. I led them into this place, one of the largest cave openings in the country, and it is my job to lead them out, in the dark. The plan is to watch the sun go down, have the bats fly out around us, go through the cave and then bushwhack back to our cars at night. I have done this a few times before so I am not worried. Funny no one on the hike seems worried either, I guess they trust me.

I feel like god perched up here. I hardly know any of these people but like them all. Anyone who goes night hiking has got to be my kind of person. I have 17 people down there, ranging in age from the mid 20's to I don't know, a few are retired. You get a strange mix showing up for these things, but I think we are all drawn to the wilderness for our own reasons.

Since coming back from Africa I have been more and more drawn into the wilderness. Before it was a passing hobby, a chance to hang out with friends and drink some beer. Now it consumes me. I joined a hiking group and was soon leading hikes. I never really felt like I had that much experience in the wilderness but if you pretend like you know what you are doing with a compass and a map people will generally follow you anywhere.

I hear someone coming up the trail, I assume it is one from my group but am mistaken.

"Jim, what are you doing out here?" Jim is a friend of mine, great guy, great hiker and something of a pyro maniac.

"I brought you guys a little show, hiked in from the north so as to surprise you, didn't think I would find you up on this cliff." His little show was sticking out the back of his pack, a load of fireworks, the big professional kind. "Walking up here I thought you might be that Ozark Wild Man I been hearing rumors about."

"Never heard of him, but do tell."

"Rumor is that a guy gave up on society, headed off to southern Missouri, lives off in the woods somewhere."

"Where did you hear that rumor, or did you make it up?" I ask with a grin, Jim has some tall tales.

"Heard some Ozark Trail Association people talk about it. They had a work party way down south putting up trail markers. As soon as they put them up someone was tearing them down. So they set up one of those automatic game cameras. They got one picture of a wild haired guy wearing buckskin tearing down the sign. Then the rest of the pictures were of his junk."

"Funny, my kind of guy filling up their film like that."

"They talked to some locals and turns out others have seen him from time to time. They are pretty sure he is camping out in the woods somewhere, maybe back in one of those caves. They contacted the sheriff and the National Forest Service, told them to keep an eye out."

"Over this? Haven't they got bigger problems?" I ask. The forest service has lots of problems controlling their land. Illegal logging is rampant; misuse by ATV's is destroying the trails. Lately meth production has moved into the area and remote sites are used to cook it up.

"Yeah, believe it or not, over that. So now the search is on for an uncircumcised wild man, I would love to be the sheriff handling this: "Pardon me sir, but I got a pic of some guys' junk and I need you to drop your drawers and see if we have a match." Jeez, I say they should let it go. He doesn't want people down there is all. I know other folks who tear down their signs, when you are in a pristine forest it should be entirely pristine."

"Eh, I would rather the city folk had a sign. I don't want them wandering around lost down there. The more people we get into the woods the better a chance we can get something done about the problems and illegal use."

"Good point, now hows about a little show?" Jim says, as he pulls off his pack and begins removing his fireworks.

"Let me scramble down there and tell everyone." I climb down a side trail as fast as I can, sending a shower of rocks and debris before me.

At the cave entrance I find everyone sniffing butts and wagging tails, what I call the idle chatter people make. There are two unattached women and that generally drives the men crazy, so the sniffing butts portion of this hike is in full gear. I wonder about these two, both of them catches in their own way, wonder why they are out here on a late fall evening, with the sun setting, a cold wind blowing, hanging out with a bunch of rowdy hikers. I say a silent prayer of thanks to the Witch Dr. At least I am not out to hump every attractive leg that comes along anymore. Watching these guys try and be something they are not makes me feel sorry for humanity.

Before I can say anything about Jim the show starts. Jim is blasting away with rockets up there and all eyes turn towards the heavens. Everyone, that is, except one of the hikers who has brought a dog. That dog split on him as soon as the fireworks started booming in the sky.

"I'm going to go find my dog" I am told and I am not worried, I have hiked with this guy a few times before, and figure he knows what he is doing so I don't send anyone with him. Generally at night, alone in the forest is a bad thing, but I think he will be alright and I am not his boss.

"Good luck Paul! See you at the parking lot." So we are down to 16 and off we go into the cave. I am the tour guide, pointing out different formations, giving a history of this cave, the state park we are in, how this was all supposed to be underwater. I am sort of amazed that people don't know more of the history of the Meremac, how for years there was a legal battle to build a damn and have flood control for the Mississippi and a big lake for boaters. Nothing could stop the government though. They wanted a damn and they were going to get one. Eminent domain, the farmers were run off, the land was taken over, bridges up stream rerouted.

No one ever bothered to ask mother nature about this. The pilot holes for the damn were drilled and they kept finding caves. Caves ran everywhere under the hills. A big hole was drilled and cavers sent down to survey the size of the cave. Engineers were brought in to examine alternatives. There were none, no damn here would last, would ever hold water and would probably be a ticking time bomb if built.

Sort of like life, the best laid plans always look good on paper. I suppose if I showed God what I had planned for my life he would get a good laugh out of it. Perhaps that is why I quit planning anything out, let the forces of nature take me where they may.

Inside the cave my hikers oooh and ahhh. When I was caving down in central Mexico the local Indians considered caves a portal to the spirit world and held them in great respect. Perhaps these caves are a portal to another world, a world before time. These formations have taken eons to grow, drip by drip into the beautiful curtains and spires that we see. When we are all dead and forgotten this cave will still be here, growing and changing. Our time here as stewards of the land is nothing compared to eternity.

On the way back to the parking lot it is pitch black. No moon tonight, no stars, just an overcast sky. The path we are taking is combination game trail and creek bottom. Everyone has wet feet at this point and a couple of breaks are needed as people pull off boots and wring out socks.

"Just keep moving and don't tie your boots too tight. You gotta keep circulation to your feet" A few other more experienced hikers offer their bits of wisdom, I am sure some of the new people are regretting this trek. That wind just keeps coming up the valley, with wet feet it is cold! We make good time even though there is no trail and the brush is thick in places.

On the hike back I learn a bit more about the girls. They are out sniffing for guys and figured this is a better way of meeting someone than hanging in a bar. I tend to agree with them. Hiking and caving you really get to know one another, its low pressure, no awkward attempts at conversation. One of them is about my age, divorced with kids. I should probably care. But I also realize it will never go anywhere, will just sleep with her and throw her away. Of course there is the awkwardness of her being in the group so I think better of it. I need to thank the Witch Dr. again. It is curious to hear what she is looking for in a guy though, "I want someone clean cut and professional, a West County kind of guy." I have no idea what that means, but am pretty sure I am not that kind of guy, as I am long haired, unshaven, and normally a bit drunk.

I lead the group back to the parking lot. It was a great hike, lots of scrambling around. At the trailhead I notice Paul's car sitting there, but no Paul. It's about 10:00 at night, perhaps 40 degrees out, and a cold wind is blowing from the North. This is not good.

Most of the people leave but a few of us are planning on bivouacking in another cave not far from the parking lot. Paul was planning on doing that, and he has left a different dog in his car. One of the guys who had gotten in his car to leave gets out and pulls a note off the windshield. Written on the back of a Park Rangers business card is a note telling us there is no camping here. Great, now I have a guy missing and a park ranger out here looking for us.

There are 6 of us remaining, and we argue over whether or not we should go back and look for Paul. I can't leave a guy out there at night, he could die. The others argue against this, saying they will just be looking for 2 bodies in the morning. They have a point. I ask around to see if anyone knows what Paul had in his pack. If his light went bad does he have a spare? Does he have any survival gear, matches, emergency blanket, lighter, compass? No one knows anything. One of the guys thinks that as long as he doesn't fall asleep he will survive. I agree, basic common survival, everyone should know that, I wonder if Paul does.

Perhaps the ranger will come back and try to run us off. If so maybe he has some resources he can call in. I keep replaying this in my mind, I should not have let him go alone, should have gone with him, but I needed to take the people through the cave. Damn, why did he have to go off and get lost.

Plus I was hoping on getting a big fire going up outside that cave, drink a few beers, tell a few lies. Maybe if I get really bored try to chat up the two women who had stayed to camp. God had his own plans, now I am shivering and wondering what to do.

"I bet he is lost up one of those hollows", we hiked 5 miles to get to that cave and had to cross several hollows, "I bet I can find him by walking to the bottom of each hollow and giving a yell." No one wants me to go, but I don't want to sit around and wait, hours go by, he still doesn't show up. I hear a truck coming and hope it's the ranger. The truck pulls in and out hops Paul, dog in his hands.

"I missed the trail completely," he tells us amid our questions. "I don't even know where I went, just kept moving till I found a road and flagged down a car. " He is tired and worn out and a bit scared, so he just heads home.

Too late to do much else but settle in for the night. Paul leaves and the rest of us crash in the cave. I wonder what other plans God has for me.

# Chapter 6: Natures Law

"Look at that piece of jail bait on TV." Robert says taking a swig of beer and motioning at one of the big screens at the Stratford Bar. "It's basically entrapment. They get these little teeny bopper hotties, put them in pigtails and half shirts and then trot that tight belly around. Course it is against the law to touch them till they are eighteen, they call us lecherous for even looking. But don't tell me that every director and producer in Hollywood knows exactly what he is doing! They are all pimping big time." Robert and I are drinking away another day with the usual drunks. Next to him is a man burning cigarettes, he doesn't smoke them, just lights them and lets them burn away in the ashtray.

"Yeah," I agree, "but fourteen will get you forty."

"When did eighteen become a magic age? I say if they have boobs they should be legal!" He pauses to wave his hand in front of him trying to get a ghosts trail of cigarette smoke away from his face. The cigarette owner is slowly nodding off and waking up and nodding off again. He looks to be ancient but has the puffy face of ill health and overdoing it. A common trait with the patrons of the Stratford.

"I know some women who would never be legal." I reply with a smile.

"Alright, eighteen, or a decent sized rack. But we are usurping nature's law. It used to be that women in this country got married shortly after puberty. Hell, it is still that way in most countries. 'Bout any third world country they are knocked up with a few kids by 20. Down in southern Missouri I met an older lady who had gotten married at fourteen. Course in the last thirty years we have managed to change society's norms to the point where that is no longer acceptable."

"Robert, do you want to be married again?"

"Hell no. I just want to know that on the off chance I bang a Girl Scout I am not going to jail."

"Well, you might wanna get some roofies if you are planning on having any luck with anything but a bar fly."

"Why do you say that?" he asks. We both look over to see the cigarette burner slowly slide out of his chair and collapse on the dirty floor. I look down at the bar, past the empty glasses, loose dollars and see that his cigarette has finally burned down, at least there is a bit less smoke in here now.

"Unless you are rich, famous, or a serious player, women have no interest in you. That is also natures law. The only guys out there that have it lining up for them like that are celebrities, and I don't see you being featured on entertainment tonight."

"All right you have a point." He pauses, and his eyes shift to a different TV where George W. is fielding questions at a press conference. "Have you noticed that since the 1960's when presidential debates became televised it has always been the best looking candidate that wins the election. I'm not saying that the best looking candidate wins their party's nomination, but it is always the best looking guy who wins the general election."

"Who was against who when this started?" He might have a point here that I hadn't thought about.

"Nixon versus J.F.K." he replies. "Nixon appeared old and tired, was also unshaven. Kennedy looked clean and fresh. Besides, it's a no brainer. I aint gay but Kennedy was better looking than Nixon."

"Nixon's uh faggot," the drunk yells from the floor, I didn't realize he had been listening to us or was even capable of hearing. He is sort of on his back with one leg still propped onto the bar stool, like a cowboy thrown from the saddle with a foot stuck in the stirrup. Being drug by a horse, he holds on, trying to keep control and perhaps climb back on or break free.

"Who did L.B.J. go up against for the next election?" I ask, trying to remember my history, and ignoring the drunk.

"Only the greatest, smartest, candidate of the last 60 years. A man by the name of Barry Goldwater. A true visionary who could have done wonders for this country. Problem is he was uglier than L.B.J and that is pretty fuggly!"

"Goldwater's uh faggot," the drunk again yells from the floor, he has reached a zen state where his breathing has slowed and if he wasn't yelling every so often I would assume he was dead. We both choose to ignore him.

"Who was in the next election?" I am really curious now cause he has been correct both times. I have vague memories of seeing Barry Goldwaters photo and do remember him looking pretty bad.

"L.B.J. decided not to run if I remember correctly, but I might be wrong. Next president was Nixon and he ran against Hubert Humphrey. Trust me, Humphrey is a train wreck when it comes to looks." Robert paused to think. "Nixon got deposed, Ford took over. Carter beat Ford, Reagan beat Carter. Reagan, hell for his age was a handsome man, and that is why he was so popular. "

"Reagan's uh faggot," the drunk echoes himself. Like a broken record he is on a one track mind of hating everyone.

"So you are saying that George W. won the elections over John Kerry and Al Gore because he is better looking than either?" I ask.

"That is exactly what I am saying. George W. will go down as the worst public speaker to ever hold any office. Horrible foreign policy, horrible domestic policy, the country has fallen apart in the eight years he held office." Robert pauses to suck down some more beer. "But none of that matters in an election. Somehow in our minds we want to be with the better looking candidate. We want to be associated with him, want him to be our leader."

"I think George W. looks like a retarded monkey." I reply.

"But Al Gore is uglier." Robert answers, "He's fat, going bald and appears to be constantly sweating. I'll grant you George W. is no looker but he is just slightly better looking than Al Gore, which is also one of the reasons the election was so close."

"According to your theory then Barrack H. Obama will be the next president?"

"He's a shoe in. McCain has something growing on the side of his head and a comb-over. He is just worn down with age. Obama is younger, better looking and does give a good speech."

We both pause expecting the drunk to comment on the sexual preferences of one of the candidates but he has gone beyond this realm, saying nothing and sleeping with his eyelids mostly covering his eyes.

"So what's this have to do with you picking up jail bait?" I ask.

"Everything. Cause it's an election constantly going on in every chicks mind. That election happens with every interaction, every glance, wink, brief encounter. That is your campaign as you try to get yourself elected to their bed." Robert is getting worked up. "Now you can influence the election results by buying them drinks or trying to be someone you are not cause no presidential candidate ever really shows his true self to the public. The ultimate goal is to get elected to as many beds as you can."

"You can always buy the election." I tell him trying to crack a joke.

"I've bought the election several times." Robert says with a grin, "and let me tell you, when you buy the election the constituents don't fawn and rave over you. Hell, they mostly lay on their backs and don't do a damn thing except keep track of the amount of time you have left in office."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Quit voting! I like this bar cause there aren't any chicks in here at all. Only the waitresses and as a rule of thumb they hate everyone that ever walks into their bar." Robert pauses to suck the last drop of beer out of his glass. As he pushes it away from him he continues, "I have tried working my magic in every way I can think of. Tried passing myself off as a nice guy, a half breed Miami spiritualist, as an intellectual, none of that worked. Now I am going back to my true self, a crazy drunken hillbilly."

"That's going to get you tons of chicks"

"I don't care anymore, am tired of the game, if they can't accept who I really am then we do not need to be together. If they expect me to wait around till they break up with their boyfriends they can go jump off a cliff. I have become omniscient with female thinking, and let me tell you there is nothing more devious or evil."

We sat in silence for a bit, ordered another round of beers and Robert starts again, "If our ancestors could see what we have become they would disown us."

"Why do you say that?"

"I don't care what side of your heritage you wanna pick, American Indian, German or Welsh but 500 years ago your fathers ancestors were men. They worked hard, fought hard, drank hard. Hell, back then the strongest and bravest had all the women. Here we are, the strongest and bravest, and women want metro sexual guys who act gay. Not that there is anything wrong with being gay, according to our esteemed floor dwelling colleague many of our presidents were, but I see those metro guys and I just want to chop their heads off."

"I gotta agree with you there," I reply. One of the reasons I won't go to most bars is the metro guys acting like fags.

"500 years. Have we progressed much? Most of us are unhappy, stressed about our daily lives, paying the bills, keeping up with the neighbors. What have we gained?"

"Well," I reply "We have better health care. Nicer homes, better entertainment; TV, radio, the internet, think of the access to information we have that our ancestors didn't. But you got a point. And I am not that sure modern medicine is all that great. The Witch Doctor in Africa was as good as the internist I am seeing. Plus with all this crap, and let me make myself very clear it is crap, we are no happier. Look at us, a nation of spoiled babies always crying for the next toy, the next bright shiny car to make us happy. Its CRAP. Now you and I and the people we hang with never bought into this philosophy, but we are the odd balls according to society. They don't understand how we can be happy with so little."

We pause for a while to look at the old drunk collapsed on the floor.

"You think that is going to be us someday?" Robert says, prodding him with his foot. "Drinking away our savings, lost and lonely, no family, only friends being the drunks at a bar?"

"I can think of worse things." I reply as I order another beer.

# Chapter 7: Wilderness

Tom spread the topo map out on the matted leaves and studied it carefully.

"We are here," he said pointing to a small intermittent blue line that fed into a thick blue line, "Just where Brushy Creek joins the Current River." He pauses, looks at the map a while longer. "What I think we should do is work this valley north. I don't want to have to worry about anyone getting lost, so remember, all you have to do is stay in this valley and walk down hill to get back here. I won't leave till we get everyone back. There is a lot of ground to cover, stick together, I don't want anyone being alone. This is about as remote as you can get in Missouri, there are still wild horses running around down here. The wild horses won't bother you, but there is one very dangerous animal in these woods, MAN."

There are eight guys and two women here and a few people murmur agreement. . The plan is explore some of the more remote areas looking for caves that have not been found. This area of southern Missouri was once sparsely settled but the population was pretty much completely wiped out during the Civil War. The Union and Confederate raided the farms for food and valuables. The irregular troops known as Bushwhackers, Bald-Knobbers or Jayhawks looted and burnt what was left. The few farmers who held out from that eventually went bankrupt. This land was good for timber, after the trees were felled there isn't much you can do with this rocky soil. I don't know when the government took it due to unpaid taxes but ninety percent of this county is owned by either the state or the department of the interior. Generations upon generations have passed since it was logged, now looking around it is hard to tell anyone ever disturbed this wilderness.

"If you find a cave make sure you get a good gps reading. " Tom went on "If you don't have a gps take some surveyors tape and mark some trees. Get me a rough idea where the entrance is on your topo and I'll go back and get the lat and long and get it on this map."

We break into teams for the hike. I am with a guy I have never met before named Alex. He seems to know what he is doing so I am not too worried. Like me, he carries a compass and a GPS. I notice he has a shoulder harness on and assume he is carrying a sidearm. This has become more and more common among the hikers as the forests become more dangerous. Meth production has become big business in these wilderness areas. The meth cookers will drive as far down an old logging road as they can and run a batch. Usually the cookers are users as well and aren't to be treated as sane rational adults. They are wild animals who will kill in order to protect their operation. No one I know has actually found a meth site but guns have been pulled on a couple of my hiking friends and a lot of yelling went on. Figure it was probably meth cookers guarding the perimeter of their cooking site.

Tom tells Alex and I what chunk of the map he wants us to cover and again warns us to be safe. He reminds everyone to check all the exposed rock we can find and let the GPS sit for ten minutes if we do find a cave. Letting a GPS sit ensures an accurate reading.

Alex looks at his photo copied chunk of the map. "I'll take from the 750 foot line up to the sandstone, if you don't mind taking the valley up to that. 750 feet should be about halfway. Course if you find a cave give me a holler and I'll drop down, will do the same for you."

"No problem," I reply. "I'll give you a loud 'HUZZAH' if I need your attention. The farther up that valley we go I am going to get squeezed up to your level with the elevation change. So yell loud if you kick up a big rock, I don't want it crashing down on me."

We head off into the woods, bushwhacking through the dying brush and fallen leaves. It is late Autumn, almost early winter and the underbrush is sparse, making for easy hiking. This is the best time of year to hunt for caves, in the spring and summer the foliage is too thick to see anything. In the winter it is too hard to get a truck down the logging roads to the unexplored areas.

We scramble up and down, over rocks and under fallen trees. The eastern red cedars have invaded this area after it was logged and stands of them provide a challenge for hiking. Low branches cause us to stoop and the thickness of the trees makes us take a winding path through the woods.

After a few miles we reach our spot, Alex heads up the steep hill and I watch as he kicks rocks loose. They tumble down smashing into trees and churning up leaves. When he is about halfway up the side of the valley he turns and waves. I am guessing that is his signal that he has hit the height he wants on the valley wall. We head upstream again, him several hundred feet above me. If I look carefully I can see him moving in and out of the trees.

These old hills certainly have their secrets and lots of forgotten caves. A cave to an early settler could provide a roof over their head till the cabin was built, a premade storm shelter, even some basic refrigeration. Every cave in Missouri is rumored to have been a Jesse James hide out. Tales of lost gold, veins of silver, Desoto's lost treasure are all said to be in these here. I doubt I will ever find anything that interesting. I am just hoping if I do find a cave it doesn't already have a family of skunks or bears making a den in there.

I drift into my own world, making my way up and down my section of the slope checking rock outcroppings, poking my head around boulders. Then I see the sole of a boot poking out from around a tree. Before I really can register this the boot moves and a face pops out from around the tree. A guy I guess to be about 30 has his finger pressed to his lips motioning for me to be quite.

"What's up?" I ask in a whisper.

He motions for me to come closer all the while looking over his shoulder at something behind him. "I heard you guys coming. Figured you were out here ridge walking, looking for caves. " He said quietly.

I get closer and see that he is pointing at a cave opening .

"Do me a favor, don't report this one right now. I am going to winter in it and then head south next spring. You can report it then. It's not very big anyway, just one big room and then a small passage that goes maybe a hundred feet till it tapers out."

"You live here?" I ask in amazement. "You're in the middle of nowhere."

"Apparently not far enough in the middle of nowhere, you found me. So is my secret safe with you?"

"Sure. But can I come back in a few weeks? I want to hear your story, find out how you came to be down here in the woods."

"No problem. If I am not around just wait, I will be back. I'm always here at daybreak and dusk."

"I have to go, my partner up the hill will be looking for me soon. I'll be back in a few weeks, and don't worry, I won't mention you or your cave to anyone."

I continued hiking and see Alex a few minutes later, still way up the side of the valley but directly above me. I am glad he took no notice that I had stopped hiking. I'm glad he didn't see the squatter in the cave, I don't want to have to convince him to keep the secret as well.

We continued the ridge walk, finding several springs and a very tiny cave opening that neither of us could fit into. Back at camp, we all talked about what we had found, no one had anything major. Leaning against my truck I realized I had found one of the most interesting things in years; a guy who had made a break from society and was living on his own in the forests of Missouri. I made a mental note to hurry back down here in case he decided to head south or move caves before winter really set in.

# Chapter 8: Player

"You gotta be a player to get ahead. Now your boss will tell you that being a 'Team player' is what is important. But that is all BS. What anyone wants is somebody to play up their ego, their sense of self importance, build up that old Freudian id." Robert pauses to suck down more beer. "That's why bosses, are like women. They want someone on their team, building them up, telling them their great, telling them what they want to hear. And the reason you are single and you suck at relationships is you never learned this. Same reason you never get promoted, you aren't a 'Team Player'. Sure you are honest, good at your job and deserve a big fat raise, but you got to learn to suck up. Same with women, you are nice, kind, have everything going for you but you don't suck up to them."

"So that is why I am single and in a dead end job? I am sort of sorry I asked." I was contemplating life at the Stratford bar and grill once again. After all the weekend hiking I had returned home to an empty house and a frozen pizza. Waitin I had started to wonder what exactly was wrong with me, why I was still single. Thinking that Robert knows me better than most people, maybe anyone, I decided to try asking him. I sometimes hate it when I do this, he always has an answer and sometimes he might be right. "Well I have no idea how to suck up to someone. I never learned, I grew up on a farm in the middle of nowhere and was not exposed to women till I was a lot older. I missed out on all the playground stuff, all the hanging out at the pool, going roller skating, playing little league. All of it, I am a social moron."

"You are right about that, you are a social moron, and you have a gift for coming off as sorta scary, plus you talk way above people's heads. Most people haven't read as much as you and have no interest in talking about books anyway. You gotta dumb down some for most people, your boss, the next girl you take out, hell everyone..."

"How do I come off as scary? I never do anything to insane."

"How bout the time you were out floating and decided to give a little demonstration in surviving on the river. Grabbing crawdads out of the water eating them, well not the best way to impress a girl. I mean that sound of you crunching through the shell, that's pretty rough. And then doing it again! Oh, and then saying how fish under 4 inches you could do the same with and going off to catch a fish, dude my stomach was turning." Robert pauses to finish his beer.

I look at the bar in front of me. The Stratford once might have been a really nice place, the construction and joinery of the bar were very well done. Now it is riddles with scars from years of abuse, burn marks from cigarettes, rings where the varnish lost the fight to condensation. With a power sander and a weekend this could be a nice bar again, but with the current clientele there is no point in fixing anything up.

"I didn't think it was that bad, and I was trying to teach all those folks the basics of river survival, that anything is food when you are hungry. You have to be willing to eat whatever you can catch. Maybe they learned something, maybe I will save a life someday." I am rather shocked that he thought it was bad, I know he has eaten his share of bugs and wild plants. Robert knows his way around the woods pretty well and we have shared various tips on wilderness survival.

"Hey, you are preaching to the choir, but if people had wanted to learn they would have asked you to teach them, giving an impromptu demonstration, well it bothered a few of them. You could have just said 'here is how I like to poop in the woods', dropped britches and pinched a loaf right there in front of them. Probably would have had the same effect."

I am wishing there was something else to talk about so I look around for a bit. The usual old drunks at one end are muttering to themselves. Behind the bar a waitress in a stripper costume is serving beer, she is hot, fake rack, all put together well. A few guys with "Septic Services" shirts shoot pool. Strange these guys come here straight after work and don't even change their clothes. If I worked for septic company I would at least change my shirt or make sure I wasn't wearing a dirty one when I went out, some of those guys had stains on their clothes that could be mud or human mud.

"Well, not like I was there to impress anyone. Besides, there was a royal ass on that float." I don't need to remind him about that guy, first and last time we let him on one of our floats. He was bragging the entire time about how great he was as a rock climber, how he was better than anyone at wilderness survival. He was really talking himself up, and was pissing everyone off. Then he went and paddled like a maniac, got so far ahead that we had people strung out for a mile. We figure the only reason he did that was he had a hot chick who had needed a spot in a canoe with him. He did his best to make sure no one caught up, and that ruined the float for a lot of people.

"See that guy was selling himself, he was trying to at least build himself up and stroke her ego at the same time. You just grossed everyone out, and that is what is wrong with your life. You do this at work too. Somebody starts pumping up the boss, lubing the old ass up with their tongue in order to get a raise and you see it and sabotage not only their efforts but your career as well." Robert looks around the bar before continuing . "Let's pretend that there was a decent looking female in here. Do you have any idea how to go up and start talking to her?"

"Hell no, but I suppose I could just show her how I shit in the woods and get it over with" I am annoyed with him now because I know he is right.

"You could do that, and it might work if the chick was into German porn, but for the kind of women you like, the ones that have jobs and aren't covered in needle tracks, you gotta have a better line, hell any line. And not a line like 'I bet you'd weigh about 120 pounds field dressed' telling a woman that is never a good idea." Robert loves to bring up low points in my life. Once a woman told me she only weighed 120 pounds, I told her yeah, if you are field dressed. That went over like a lead balloon, I thought it was funny, she got up and walked away. But in my defense she had been really annoying.

"Well Robert, I am sorry I asked now because I do believe you are right, but I also believe that I can't change who I am. I am not going to stroke egos, not going to try and be someone I am not. Really I am so tired of this society that I am starting to question why I even belong to it. Perhaps it would be different if I had been one of those kids who had a normal childhood, that learned about flirting at a young age. You can't just pull a guy off a farm and from Catholic schools and expect him to understand how all this crap works, and by the time I got out of my parents house at 18 it was more than a little late in life to be taught all of this" He has me riled up now and knows it.

"Dude you asked, I answered, don't shoot the messenger. Besides why do you even care? You seem pretty happy, got lots of friends"

"I don't know. A guy that was with my group on the last float was close to hooking up. Seems like women just look past me. Course I wouldn't have touched any of the chicks in the raft he was working on but still it is nice to be wanted now and then."

"Aw come on, you get your fair share of attention, look this bartender brings you beer and dolls herself up every day for you." She hears him talking and stops by our spot at the bar to refill our glasses. As she takes away the empties she reaches down to put the dirty glasses in the sink exposing a generous amount of cleavage "How much beer do I have to drink before you love me?" Robert asks as she walks away. "There is a good pick up line and I am going to let you have it. Consider it a gift from my yet unpublished work of funny things to say to a hot bar tender at Stratford bar and grill. But you got me thinking now, why are you still part of this society? You definitely didn't grow up in it, don't seem to enjoy it. It's funny you work all week so you can go live in a tent on the weekend. "

"I don't know, I sometimes ask myself the same thing. " I sat and drank beer with Robert a while longer. I was really just wanting to get out of there. I knew he was right in everything he said about me, and found that really annoying.

# Chapter 9: Return to the Wilderness

According to my topo map, if I follow this ridge line I should be able to get right above that guys cave that he is living in. So far I have been able to drive my truck three miles down the old logging road that runs this ridge. The road is rough, with several trees fallen across the path that I have to gingerly crawl my truck over. Sometimes I can't get my truck over the tree so I weave around through the forest following ATV's that have been here before. More than once I have been thankful that I have a small foreign four wheel drive that will fit where most full size trucks never would.

But I think I have finally come to a dead end. A big old oak is across the road and there is no visible way around it. I have a winch on the front but could never move this monster. A brief scouting mission shows that all the ATV's have turned around at this point. A few other trees are also down where it would have been possible to fit a ATV through. One of these trees was obviously cut down with an axe. I know I could winch it out of the way, but I think I know who cut it down and why, so decide to leave it and do the remaining two miles on foot.

Checking my day pack I make sure I have the basics for any hike I would go on.

In my water proof/shatter resistant box:

2 Lighters

2 Fire sticks

10 fishing hooks

20 feet of fishing lead line

Cell Phone

In my Pack:

Compass

Whistle

GPS

Hunting knife

Camping hatchet

Multi-purpose tool

Wind up flashlight

2 liters of water

Water purifier

Emergency Blanket

Emergency poncho

String

Bottle of whiskey

Energy Bar

Topo map

Spare socks

Some might question my choice of survival gear, especially the whiskey. I consider that my first aid kit, worst comes to worst and I think I am sure I am going to die, I can always drink the whiskey and slit my wrists. Albeit, not much of a first aid kit but have heard enough horror stories about people dying of hypothermia, or eating poisonous mushrooms, that I have opted for my own way out. The string is for setting up snares. Everything else is pretty much self explanatory. The energy bar is for baiting snares and fishing hooks. Spare socks make good mittens. The cell phone is useless out here but text messages work even though the voice system is down. I read about how and why that was once, something to do with the way the phone sends packets of information.

Locking up the truck I hope no one notices that the back sliding window won't latch. But I don't think anyone will be along here till deer season and that is still a few weeks away. Before I left my house I drew out pretty detailed instructions on where I was going, that I was looking for a guy who lived in a cave, the general area of where he lived. I then sent emails to Erik and Robert saying that if they did not hear from me by Monday to go to my house and get the coordinates of where I had gone and start looking for a body. This is not the first time I have done this too them, and obviously I have always managed to get out of the woods.

Two miles of easy hiking and my topo map tells me I need to start the decent. Going down is always easy, I am not looking forward to coming back up. The hill is steep and the descent, while not treacherous, does have me grabbing at saplings to use as occasional breaks . I hit the creek bed a bit north of where I think I should be so that I will only have to hike south. Heading down the river I wish I had hit south and hiked north because that is how I first found this cave and everything looks different going the opposite direction.

I finally see the cave opening, no sign of life. If I hadn't seen the guy there before I never would guess that it was lived in. Now I was doubting what I had seen. Nearing the cave entrance I shout 'HELLO' and continue shouting every few steps. Finally right outside the cave entrance I hear an answering 'HELLO' coming from the bluff behind me.

I shout a few more 'Hello's' as he draws nearer, helping guide him in with the sound of my voice. When I finally see him moving through the woods I stop my yelling and stand idly with my hands at my sides.

"You're that caver that was down here a few weeks ago" he says as he comes to a stop about 20 feet from me.

"Guilty" I reply. "Not every day you run across a guy living in a cave in the wilderness of the Ozarks, just wanted to hear your story, figure out how you made the break from society."

"Am I that rare in these parts? Back where I come from it happens quite a bit. People are always sneaking off into the wild areas."

"Where ya from?"

"Grew up near a place called Pine Ridge, South Dakota. Some folk call that area the bad lands." He replied and walked a few steps closer. I noted a large knife on his belt, wish I had mine on my belt as well but from the looks of him he could skewer me quick if he wanted to. I put him at my age and about my height, but he was a little wiry guy, not an inch of fat on him. He had dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, sort of looked like the son of the earth himself. I am sure I was physically stronger than him, but he looked like he could handle himself. Not that I felt threatened but seeing that big knife made me aware of just how remote I was.

"I gotta hear your story, how did you get here, why are living in this cave... Everything!" I am curious how he managed to make the break from society.

"Grew up on the Oglala Sioux Reservation up by Pine Ridge. Had a scholarship to a local college, so went to school up there, got a degree in nothing in particular, got bored. One of the things I really studied there, not so much in class but in the library, was original people's technology. How they survived, made tools, lived. So after graduation I went down to the white river's edge one day with a chain saw and cut down a big old cotton wood, dropped it right next to the river. Got the big branches off of it, spent a day hollowing it out into a dug out. That night I said my goodbyes, grabbed my gear and took off."

"So how did you end up in this cave?"

"Well, I took the White river to the Missouri, figured I would run the Missouri all the way down to the Mississippi. I failed to realize how slow the Missouri river is with all the damns on it. Bout killed myself paddling to the first one. I sold that dugout canoe for two hundred bucks to some fool who wanted an honest to goodness Sioux canoe. I don't know that it was very authentic, like I said got general ideas on how to do this stuff from the library. Hopped a train and headed south with all the gear I could carry." He paused to take a seat on a downed log. " I sort of bounced around from train to train till I got caught by a yard boss just north of here; up outside of a town called Hermann. So I figured I would walk south, had heard these Ozark hills were something worth seeing, and it was starting to get cold. Nothing better than a cave to ride the winter out. I walked and hitchhiked down to this area and just headed into the most remote part I could find."

"So you are just staying for the winter? How are you planning on getting out of here come spring?"

"I am hoping to ride out on a horse next spring, sell it for a few bucks and buy myself a real canoe. Figure a good horse is worth about a thousand dollars. A canoe and some gear is two hundred, leaves me enough coin to last a year or so. I live pretty cheap."

"Ride out how? And go where?"

"Lots of wild horses down here, I just got to break one. Man has been doing it since time began. I have been getting to know the herd, watching them, getting them used to me. Next spring I'll grab one and tame it. Ride it back north to civilization, find a public library and put the horse on the internet for sale. Then back on the river and down to Memphis. I have heard a guy can make decent money playing a guitar on Beale Street ."

"So you play guitar that good?"

His answer was to crawl into his cave and when he emerged from it he carried a beat up six string. He strummed a few notes to check the tune and launched into a blues song I had never heard before. Something about the crickets singing a love song to the moon, praying the sun does not return, it was hard to tell because he played with such intensity that I got caught up in the song itself.

"That's amazing" I said when he had finished.

"You think? I don't know, I am self taught. I guess enough people have told me I am good that I figure I will find out for sure in Memphis. Listened to a lot of Hill Country Blues when I was a kid, my grandma was big fan of it, sort of just trying to imitate some of what I heard." He strummed a few other notes. "I like to play, figure I can make enough coin down there to pay for whiskey and a bed, maybe even a new set of clothes from the salvation army."

"Whiskey eh? I got some whiskey if you are needing a drink. I always carry a bottle, just for emergencies though."

After a few more pulls on the bottle he introduced himself as John MiniWaka Richardson, MiniWaka meaning Water Man in his ancestors language. Most folks just called him Walker. We sat outside his cave for a few hours telling jokes and BS'ing about life. Later as I checked my compass before hiking out I had to ask "There's a rumor going around that there is some wild man living in these woods, tearing down Ozark Trail signs, filling up a game camera with pictures of his unit. That wouldn't happen to be you would it?"

"That Ozark Trail is a bad idea. All it does is give ATV's an easier way to come out here and tear up the land. Now I am not admitting to doing that, but I can understand why a person would."

"Well, the Sheriff was told about it, as well as the National Forest Service. The sierra club or whoever was out hanging signs was all sorts of pissed off. But I have met others who have done the same. Just thought I should warn you that if you get questioned about it play dumb"

I took my best guess at how much daylight I had left and started up the bluff. That wild man sure can drink the whiskey, I left with an open invitation to come back anytime; he said he enjoyed having some company now and then.

# Chapter 10: Business as usual

"A six hundred dollar economic stimulus package, wonder how many happy endings that will buy me over at the Asian massage parlor." Robert says as he eyes his ATM receipt. "Six hundred dollars of my money the gov'ment was nice enough to let me have back. You know, they think they own us!"

"They do own us," I reply "I thought you knew that. They own the land, the roads, the sky, the airwaves, you name it and the feds will have their fingers in the pie. They are the new mafia."

"I know, I know, but how many other people realize that? I bet if they had to write a check to the IRS once a month for their portion of the income taxes we would have a revolution in a matter of weeks." He paused to suck down another gulp of beer. We were back at the Stratford drinking away another afternoon. It was too cold to do anything outside, too early to go to bed, so we decided to drink the evening away in the beauty of someone else's heating bill. "The state takes a slice of my base pay, taxes everything I buy, consume, use... I wonder if it will ever end. We once had a revolution in this country to throw off unfair taxation. In a matter of 150 years they had completely reassembled the entire monstrosity and even added to it."

The same usual drunks were at one end of the bar, the old retirees drinking away their pension checks. One of them had a gin blossom that was taking over his face. Strangely there was a woman near their end, very skinny, about 60 and sporting a black eye. Nothing says classy like a grandma with a black eye, I figure she was barflying, getting free drinks from these old codgers, while these old codgers were hoping she would get loaded enough to lose her inhibitions and go home with one of them.

"Meet the new boss, same as the old boss. During the revolutionary war a third were for it, a third were loyal to the crown and a third figured that no matter the outcome they would be boned." I said "Now who was right? I figure for a few years the revolutionaries had it pretty good, but in the end the boned cynical third turned out to be the ones who saw the handwriting on the wall."

"You have been measured and found wanting" Robert said looking at his half full pint glass. I wasn't sure if he was talking to me, about the revolution , talking to his beer or all three. If I remembered correctly that was the translation of the handwriting on the wall from the Old Testament, I think David translated it for Darius, but I could be wrong.

"Will there ever be a revolution? Will we ever get tired of living in this so called free country?" Robert asks. "Will the peasants with pitchforks storm the castle, wrestle back the wealth that the czar and his ministers have squeezed from the populace?"

"There will never be a revolt as long as the populace remains fat dumb and happy. Think about it, the American revolution was a bunch of rich W.A.S.P's who didn't want to pay taxes anymore. They were the wealthy, and they managed to convince enough people to go along with them. They won, set up a government that they wanted and that benefitted them. Now the ruling elite and fortunate sons have the power, will do anything to maintain their dynasties and any revolution will be quickly squashed. It will take a huge uprising of the masses to change anything and as long as people have plenty of fatty foods and mindless shows on TV to watch, there will never be a change." For some reason I don't want to mention Walker off in his cave. The Water Man who has found a way to beat the system. I know if the Forest service found him they would run him off, they have a bunch of rules about how many days you can spend in one spot, and they really hate it when people sleep in their caves.

"Well then we are screwed." Robert laments, "Sad thing is I really don't want much. Just a few acres that I can live on and raise some chickens, maybe a few goats for milk. But land costs more than I can ever afford, then the damn state comes through and taxes you for owning it, for every head of livestock you have, for every piece of equipment you have, for your house, it just never ends."

We pause to drink and think. Looking at the patrons of the Stratford I realize they would all be for the revolution, these are the people left behind by society. Although we don't have an official caste system here we are mostly grouped by our income, the ones of us who can pull out of the cycle and make it to middle class do, the ones who can't end up at the Stratford or a place like it.

"Ever thought about doing it underground? Just heading off into the wilds and trying to be self sufficient?" Robert thinks about his answer for a while. I add "You know how to fish, trap, ever wonder how hard it could be? Plus there is the whole underground economy. Mowing grass, doing odd jobs, just not reporting it"

"Dude, I can't live like that. You are a cheap bastard, can eat fish every day, scrounge food from dumpsters. Besides I like society. I like sitting here drinking beer, I like television, going to the library, people watching. Hell I get the occasional shot of leg, I am not the one that is fed up. I am not happy, but not ready to walk off into the woods yet. Besides what would I do for beer? I am addicted to this stuff and my job, as worthless as it is, does provide me with the means to get drunk whenever I want."

"I don't know what I will do for beer if I make the break." I reply. "but I don't think either of us would need it or want it so bad if we could get away. At least, I think if I was free, living off the land, I could live without beer. Besides mother nature provides all sorts of intoxicants, weed, mushrooms, toads. I think I could get by."

"So what are you going to do, take some seeds and head off into the woods. Spend your days smoking and fishing?" Robert asks.

"Sounds like heaven doesn't it? I don't know what I will do. I just keep thinking that I was not put on this earth to sit in a cube, write software and fret over my retirement. Most people are content with this, 99.99 percent of society thinks this is the way to live. Hell without them we wouldn't even have a society. If it was people like me we would be off in the woods sleeping in survival shelters."

"You know you are right." Robert twirls his beer thinking about it. "I read somewhere that one of the major reasons, perhaps the only reason man settled down was that he learned to grow crops. Now why would any fool want to settle down and grow stuff when he can roam the earth and hunt. You are thinking to yourself that must have been some pretty damn fine corn for him to settle down and earn his keep from the sweat of his brow. Nope, when he started farming, he learned to brew beer. Wonder how life would be different if mans first crop had been weed."

"I know you are sick of hearing about Africa, but over there people had nothing and were happy. It was a terrible place, starvation, disease, abject poverty. You name the affliction it was there. But they were happy. Any why were they happy you might ask? Because they lived a real life. They had families, friends, a village to share their life with. Most people in this country are miserable. Look at how many people are on anti-depressants. How many people think that a big house, big new car, all this material crap will make them happy and it never does. We could learn something from them."

I looked around at the patrons of the Stratford, not a smile to be seen on any face. They were just killing time and easing pain till they took their last breath.

# Chapter 11: Mustang

Walker bent down and studied the ground. Horse prints were everywhere but he looked carefully for one in particular.

"This one has shoes on." He said excitedly, pointing to a horse track that looked identical to every other horse track.

"What's so great about that?" I asked, I had left home at three in the morning to hike down to his cave before dawn. He wasn't expecting me, but there is no way for me to reach him to tell him I was coming so I just made sure to get there really early. I had an open invitation to come down anytime I wanted so I figured I might as well use it. I am always curious to learn more about the wilderness and I was sure he knew more than I.

After he had roused himself from sleep and made some hickory nut coffee he had told me that today he was going to try and track down some of the wild horses, see if he can find where they bed down at night. He invited me to join in, I went along curious as to how you track anything on this hard rocky ground.

"Wild horses don't wear shoes! This one ran off from a camp or a farm. Plus that means it is tame, or relatively tame. A horse will usually throw its shoes in about a year. This one has got all four on." He paused to brush some leaves aside from the tracks. "Now if I can just figure out which one it is that will be the one I try and grab. Problem is, it is with a herd, the herd is wild and will behave wild. Singling this guy out from the herd will be tough."

We were in the bottom of a ravine, mud had washed through from just above us where a tree had been uprooted by a storm. Other than this small patch of soil it was all rocks and leaves. We continued up the ravine, following an intermittent stream, Walker constantly scanning the ground. I had no idea if we were still on the trail of the horses but Walker seemed to know for sure. While we walked he told me some of the history of this area. "The civil war was vicious down here. The Confederates came through raiding, every farm was fair game, except if it was one of the raiders farms. The Union came through and any farm that wasn't raided they assumed to be a confederates or a sympathizer so they burnt it. This area never really recovered. The only thing this land was really good for was logging anyway. When they cleared it for railroad ties right after the war there was nothing left to sell. The government ended up with most of it due to unpaid taxes during the great depression, converted it to a wilderness area in the fifties." He paused to look up the side of the hill. "Up we go."

We climbed in silence, both of us trying to catch our breath. Occasionally he would point to the ground and say "print", I still had no idea how he was tracking these animals. The Ozark hills are deceptively tall, and very steep. Every hundred or so steps we would stop, pant and try not to slide back down the hill. The leaves and rocks made the going harder, never giving us firm traction, but after a bit the hill gradually got easier and we found ourselves on a rock outcropping with a beautiful view of the valley we had just left and a nice clearing in the forest ahead.

"Horses gotta eat." Walker said as we paused to catch our breath. "What they are eating is what has been confusing me. Deer eat about anything, I suppose horses will too. Something tells me they hit this clearing often, lots of clover in there. How much range does a horse need?"

I had no answer and so we continued along the hilltop through the clearing, "Look at that!" Walker was pointing at some plants near the edge of the forest. "Those are day lilies, you know what that means?" I had no idea so he went on to explain. "Day lilies mean a cabin. Day lily's probably mean that it was a good sized cabin cause guys don't plant lillys. I am going to assume that there was a woman with the guy, maybe even an entire family." He scanned the ground, walking forward a few steps. "This was the foundation, right here" he said pointing to a faint line running along the ground. Slowly we traced out the size of the cabin, about fifteen by fifteen. "They generally built these cabins the size of the trees they can find. One big sleeping room, big porch, outbuildings for washing, cooking, storage. Bet we can find a spring with 200 feet. "

"Why do you say that" I was really amazed at how he deduced what was invisible to me. I would have walked right by the plants, even if I had noticed them I never would have made the connection to why there where here and what they had meant.

"You don't build a big cabin and plant flowers that need water without there being water around. " Walker replied and I could see where he was following obvious logic that I hadn't ever considered. A brief search and we found the spring, it was very small, just a trickle flowing. But that constant trickle would be enough to sustain a family, animals and even water a garden. We both drank from the spring and decided to abandon our tracking of the horses. Walker thought they were probably very close, as they had food and water here, we might have scared them off with our climbing up.

"Besides, I am not ready to catch one yet! What would I do with it? I just want to get a general idea of their habits and in the spring will try and grab one."

Heading back to my truck that evening it struck me that a hundred years ago or so a family have lived, played, loved, struggled and survived for a while on top of that mountain. They had done all of this and disappeared. Perhaps burnt out during the war between the states. Perhaps they lost the land during the great depression, but regardless now the only trace of them was the faint lines in the earth that showed where once they had built a life. Now not even their names are remembered. The same will happen to me, Walker, Erik, everyone I have ever known or cared about. When we are all dead and gone we will no longer be remembered and will probably not even have a foundation left for future generations to notice.

# Chapter 12: Herd Behavior

"Where the hell did you disappear too last weekend?" Erik asks as I straddle a bar stool. "Was trying to get a hold of you, but your cell phone was off, and you never turn that thing off. Hook up with some internet chick and bump uglies all day?" He and Robert were enjoying their after work beer.

"No, was just off in the woods" I still haven't told them about Walker, although it wasn't really a big deal I thought it best to keep his life quite. "What did you need that was so desperate, you never call anyone."

"I wanted your eye, was thinking about buying a new bike. Found me a big ole metric v twin. Figure I might finally be able to outrun your 750. I went ahead and bought it, for 700 bucks how can I go wrong? Did you see it sitting outside?"

I hadn't, but hadn't really been looking so we walked out to look at his new ride. New is a lose term, new to him but definitely not new, the bike had been more than broken in. The tank was scraped on both sides where someone had lain the bike down. They must have been going at it pretty good when they did it, the rear brake on the right side had been bent and then poorly bent back into shape. Overall the bike looked like something the grim reaper would ride; no chrome just flat black paint and rust.

"Well for that price I thought it must be a little rough, but damn, this thing has been though hell." Robert laughs as he criticizes the bike. "Hope the guy through in the can of spray paint he was using to touch it up. Bike this nice you know, don't want the paint to not match!"

Erik responded by firing the bike up. Someone had hollowed out the mufflers so the bike was extra loud. Black and blue smoke fouled the air as he revved it with a foolish grin. "Lots of low end torque with these V twin motors, plus the center of gravity is lower than yours, you guys will never be able to keep up with me now. Once I get the horn working and get it licensed we will have to go out riding."

We went back inside to finish our beers. For some strange reason there were actually women in the Stratford bar, a place few women dare to go. They were all together sitting at a table in the corner. Robert quickly makes inquiries as to what they are doing here. The waitress doesn't know much, says they just came in for a drink after work.

"It's the herd mentality, they bunch up. You got to attack, scatter them and then get the weakest one." Robert says eyeing them. He has completely lost me and I ask him what he means. "It's like a lion stalking a herd of antelope. You eye them up for a while, slowly creep in. When you get close you decide on who you are going to attack. Then go scatter them, try and break the one you want out of the herd. Run her down. Women are pack animals, ever wonder why they go to the bathroom in pairs? Keep the predators away."

"Are you planning on eating this woman or buying her a drink?" Erik asks.

"First buy her a drink then I eat her, I'm a gentleman, and don't worry, she'll like the way I eat her." Robert always has his mind in the gutter. "Now how to go about it? I hate it when they herd up, must be some way to sneak in there and make my presence known. I could scatter them by getting naked, throwing up, farting. But none of those things are going to bring them any closer."

"Yeah I am thinking most of those will get you kicked out of here, but go ahead, would love to see you go vomit on their table." Erik eggs him on.

"Table? I was going to barf in her hair. That way I can tell her how sorry I am, help her clean it up, make it up to her by buying her dinner. I would totally break her out of the herd by doing this. Now, if I just had some of that ipecac I could attack." Robert pats at his pockets, "Damn, I left my ipecac at home. Looks like this lion is going to be starving tonight."

I laugh and am reminded of Walker and his theory of breaking a horse out of the herd. It is pretty much the same idea. Track one down, learn about them, attract them somehow and perhaps tame them to where they can stand our touch and having us ride on their backs. Roberts approach is only slightly different, they are both hoping for the same results. I still don't care. My doctor has slowly upped my dosage of testosterone to where I am slightly above normal, but it just isn't the same.

"Well anyway, can you guys come by and help me with this electrical problem Saturday, afterword's we can go riding."

"I can't" Robert says "I have a cook out planned for that day. You guys stop by afterwards though. Won't be any chicks, just my sister and my lesbian cousin. Suppose you could try and pick her up but she is a bull dike. Bet she has a bigger dick than the two of you combined."

We continue drinking and watching the herd. This kind of hunting is not so bad, good music and conversation. All we have to do is wait for one to show a sign of weakness. But an hour later there has not been a crack in their defenses. Out of desperation we ask the bartender how she would want a guy to approach her if she was out with her friends. She says she does not know, that when she is out with her friends it annoys her when guys interrupt them.

I often hear women say, "Guys never talk to us when we are out" but these same women never give a guy a chance. If they wanted to be talked to they should break free of the herd. When my x wife told me of her affair and how she met the guy "I was getting a drink at the bar" it sort of made sense. She had gone out dancing with her friends, got separated from the herd and someone swooped in and got her. Of course she could have resisted but she was bored with being married and decided to put a little spice in her life. I didn't find out about the affair till years later, our marriage had recovered we were both madly in love with one another again and the guilt got to her.

I often wondered where I would be if she had just lived with the guilt. Ignorance is certainly bliss, but she had to clear her conscious and ruin my life. We held the marriage together for a few more years but that kind of betrayal is just too hard to overcome. Now I am stalking women the same way she was stalked, hoping for one to break free of the pack.

We leave the bar with plans for me to meet Erik next Saturday and have a look at his bike. Robert goes home the hungry lion with dreams of an easy kill. Erik fires up his beast from hell and roars off like a stage magician in a cloud of smoke.

# Chapter 13: Dark Horse

"I hate tracing out the wiring on these bikes" Erik says looking at his beast. "Whoever worked on this and rewired it must have been doing acid. The damn wires are all the same color! And look at all this electrical tape, what a mess."

We both pull and tug at various wires. I have my multi meter to check for voltages at the horn, have already verified that there was power at the horn button, now we just have to trace it past there. He presses the horn button again, I see the voltage rise on my meter.

"You've got power to the horn. So we either have a bad horn or a bad ground to the horn, I am betting it's the horn." We quickly pull the horn apart and find a wasp has made a nest in there, preventing the horn from working. That fixed and cleaned up we take a further look at the wiring.

"I should just pull it all off and rewire it." Erik tugs at a few more pieces of tape. As he lets go there is the sound of a spark jumping a gap and a little finger of smoke rises up from the tape he had been pulling on. I laugh as he checks the bike to make sure everything still works. We decide to put the rewiring off until this winter when it is too cold to ride and head out for Roberts.

My street bike is a Honda 750. I bought this bike shortly after the divorce. I had always wanted a motorcycle but after paying for everything my x wanted there never seemed to be any money left over. In the divorce I got all of her debt and the house, which seemed like a fair enough deal. Within a year the debt was gone and I started shopping for a bike. Erik, who grew up riding cycles and has had several, test rode this one for me. He said it was heavy and fast. Now that I have been riding it for a year I understand what he means. The majority of the engines weight sits up high, making it top heavy in corners.

Erik is proving his V twin's design is better in corners, he is really throwing it into them. Since he is by far the more experienced rider, I am following him trying to see how fast I can hold a corner on my Honda. It is a strange chase, I can see him briefly on straights then see the tail light come on and he leans and goes into a corner. I ride as fast as I can to the corner and get there as he is exiting.

The first time I scrape a foot peg I realize I am leaning the bike too hard. The foot pegs are hinged so that it doesn't dig in and throw the bike into a slide. It is scary though, my foot is on that peg it is the only thing blocking my foot from meeting the concrete in a bad way.

I am slowly catching up with him, I gun the bike harder drag the pegs longer and get where I want to be, about twenty feet behind him. I make a mental note to tell him when we stop that he wins, I am scared at these speeds and would rather take it easier. Hard to tell this to someone on another motorcycle who is constantly shifting, turning, leaning, speeding up and slowing down. I hate the feelings of those pegs grinding on each turn, the sound of steel on concrete, but I am determined to keep up.

He down shifts and enters an S turn to the right. The bike goes over way too far, the pegs and engine guard grinding away at the pavement. Erik comes up from the corner early out of the corner way to fast to enter the next corner and takes the bike off the road onto the right shoulder, down through the ditch and goes hi on the embankment.

I think he has the bike recovered, but it shakes out from under him as he comes back on the road. Down it goes and he hangs on for dear life as the bike skids across the pavement in a shower of sparks. I thought briefly that he would be okay, would slide off the other side of the road and down the embankment, we would laugh at his road rash later over a pitcher of beer. A small ford truck comes around the corner and hits the bottom of the bike as he slid through their lane, launching him and the bike into the air. He hits and flies off like a rag doll, arms and legs going everywhere. The truck turns to miss him and goes down the embankment.

It seems like forever before my bike comes to a stop, I fumble with the kickstand and finally am off running to his aid. I can see him try and move.

"HOLD STILL" I yell as I draw nearer. He lays back down and squirms a bit more, then is still. His bike is laying so that the tank is facing downhill. Gas is pouring out of the bike, spreading out into the rough asphalt and encircling him. I look at the bike and then him, which is safer to move? I need to get him out of this circle of gas. Obviously move the bike, I don't want to risk moving him in case he has a broken neck.

The bike is heavy, my first attempt I get it up a few inches and it slips out of my hands. The second attempt I have it and stand it up. Woof! The unmistakable sound of gas igniting. I drop the bike run to Erik and get my hand in his arm pits and use my forearms to support his head. Pulling him out of the fire I notice he seems limp.

People show up. I don't know where they came from, how they got there. First a couple walking one of them on a cell phone, then some cars, people running; an ambulance. The ambulance people are pumping on his chest, asking me questions.

Pump, pump, pump, the paramedic turns to look at me "What's his name"

"Erik"

Pump, pump, pump. "How old is he?"

"42 I think"

Pump, pump, pump. "Do you know if he has any health problems?"

"I dunno"

Up on a stretcher, then in to the back of the ambulance and they are gone.

I turn to see that a fire truck had come in the other way and put the fire out. Cops are everywhere, marking things, putting up tape, taking pictures.

"Were you with him?" A state patrol man asks me.

"Yeah, was following him, watched it all happen" I go on to recount the wreck. He takes it all down and asks for my license, takes down some more information and turns to leave.

"Where did they take him?" I ask as he turns to leave.

"St. Anthony's" he says over his shoulder as he walks away.

# Chapter 14: The burn

I have always been told that there are two reasons to go to a funeral. One of them is to say good bye to a departed friend, the other is to make sure the bastard is dead. The line of people at the viewing was definitely the prior. I was asked to stand at the reception line, I suppose because we were good friends and I was with him when I died. I was hesitant at first, but he had no real family besides his parents. Aunts and uncles came by shuffling slowly, the slow trickle of humanity coming up to see what was in store for all of them.

I had only been to my grandmothers funeral before. All of my other grandparents had spared me the tedium of having to attend their funerals by dying well before I came along so I thought this would be like the other, Catholic, lots of food, some liquor. Erik's parents didn't ever drink, nor did anyone in his family and they had never attended a church. I suppose the church of the heathens is the funeral home for that was where the funeral was to take place.

Having only seen the inside of a funeral home in movies I think they must have done their research well for these films - soft colors, plastic plants, plenty of places to sit with a box of tissue on every flat surface. The funeral director is hard to miss, always hovering about in the back, well manicured, perfectly dressed, he stuck out from the rabble that came in to pay their respects.

This was a first come first serve visitation. Mostly elderly relatives that got there early, a wave of people that came directly after work boss, the bosses boss, all there to make an appearance and get home to the wife and TV as soon as they could. The friends stuck around and talked, remembering him as he was, commenting that he died doing something he loved. I sensed some anger towards me, as though it was my fault he had wrecked, that I had pushed him into this. Funerals aren't the time or the place for the airing of grievances so I just let it slide.

After an hour of shaking hands and saying I was sorry for their loss. After an hour of explaining to people I had never met who I was and why I was standing with the parents I gave up. I saw Robert in the viewing line and motioned for him to come over. We snuck out a side door of the funeral home and crossed the street to buy some beer.

"What time they push they push the button to cremate him?" Robert asks as we sit on the curb of the funeral home drinking good beer. We sat away from the door down toward one end where we wouldn't be seen, we didn't want to seem disrespectful, and for that reason we bought good beer.

"Well, the visitation is from four to six but if that goes long they will wait till everybody gets a peek at him in the box before they push the button" I reply. I don't like my choice of words, I know it is not him in the box, just an empty shell, made up to look lifelike but really just looking like a store manikin, wearing newly bought clothes.

"I think we should be there for that, Hell we should have put him in a canoe and filled it with seasoned wood and burnt him up like a Viking king. I don't like modern funerals, I want something tribal or barbaric when I go." Robert paused to sip some more beer. "Perhaps a canoe full of dry wood let lose on the Missouri River, my friends throwing virgin women off of a cliff overlooking the site where I am cremated, now that would be a funeral."

I smile, glad he is here and unchanged. "When you die it will probably be in some flop house with a bar fly girlfriend stealing your last dollar. You'll probably sit in the un air-conditioned room for a week or so before the smell drives even the junkies to complain. When the super of the building opens the door the wave of stink from your rotting corpse will cause him puke up the Raviolis he had for lunch."

"You think? Man that would be awesome." I don't know if Robert is serious, I don't know if he would find that a horrible death or a fine way to go, cause in the end it all boils down to how much fun you can cram into your life and that sounds like his idea of fun.

We head back inside as the time draws nearer. It's strange now seeing the stony faces of those who loved him, Robert and I have taken on the glow of a few drinks. I notice his ex wife has shown up, luckily I got out of the receiving line before she came along, she and I have never liked each other. She walks over and asks how it happened. I tell her I wrote it all down for his mom but she wants to hear it from me, for her own satisfaction. I recount the tale once again and then wonder why she is here, probably to make sure he is dead, she truly hated him at the end.

The minister says a few words and the coffin moves down a conveyor belt into the oven. Later when the remains of him have cooled they will be put in an urn and given to his parents. Forty four years of life put in a jar. Forty four years of life and this is all that it comes too.

# Chapter 15: Release

My boss never talks to me, goes out of his way to avoid me, so I thought something was odd when he came by my cube at eight in the morning with a sad look on his face.

"Can I see you in my office?"

"Let's just cut to the chase, I'm laid off right?" I ask as I close the door to his office behind me. I'm not surprised, there have been layoffs going on for months. So far five people I know have been let go, it's just been getting worse.

"Have a seat" he motions to one of the tattered chairs that, with boxes of computer junk, and stacks of paper are the sole decorations of his windowless cell. "As you know the company has been struggling this year. Profits are down, expenses are up, we are having to make some tough choices." He looks down at a folder on his desk, reads a bit and continues "as the company continues to adjust to the demanding market it is often necessary for a company of this size to rethink the needs of their staffing levels." He pauses to read more, I notice that all the heavy objects have been removed from anywhere near me, no mugs, scissors, anything that could be used as a weapon. "In an effort to more correctly fit these staffing levels in the IT department we are doing a reduction in force based upon several criteria, years in service, education level, pay level and performance being the major factors."

"Can you just give me that silly speech, tell me what benefits, if any, I get and let's get this over with. If I am a free man I don't want to listen to anymore of this."

My former boss smiles, "I always liked how you cut through the BS. You get 6 months of pay, I'll give you a great reference letter. I hate doing this, but as you know it is not up to me and we are getting rid of the entire department. It's all getting outsourced." He folds shut the folder he had been reading from. "There's a form letter in there you can read if you like, plus your final check. You can clean your personal effects out of your cube but HR wants me to grab your laptop so you don't destroy any code or send out any hate mail to the company."

"The entire department? Robert too?"

"Everyone. I have a meeting with HR this afternoon, I think I will be let go as well." I notice that some of the boxes have his personnel stuff already packed. "The economy has gone, nothing to be done about it. This is the nature of things."

It's odd for my boss, or former boss, to be so philosophical. I suppose with worries of his own job on his mind he is slipping into comfort mode; rationalizing a major life changing event and coming to grips with his future. We walk back to my cube and he pulls my laptop from it's docking station and hands me an empty box.

Ten years of cubicle life and you tend to accumulate things. Knick knacks from trade shows, with IBM, Lotus, Sun and other technology companies. Really just garbage to set on your shelf, no need to haul it out to take it home and throw it away. I pack away the few books on programming that I have that are somewhat current and useful, my radio and headphones. Other than that there is nothing in here that I want.

A few cubes over I can hear someone quietly sobbing. They are packing away things as well, I wonder who it was. The sobbing sounds female, it is coming from the general area of the quality assurance team. With no programmers we won't be needing QA, testers, business analysts, probably a hundred jobs lost today.

Other than that I have the place to myself, I decide to leave a present for the company. Shifting through the top drawer of my desk I find the key to the desk. This kind of desk has one master key on the top drawer that unlocks every drawer through some sort of internal mechanism. Quietly I unzip my pants, pull out the lowest drawer and squeeze everything I can from my colon into a steaming pile dead center in the drawer. Suddenly I realize this was not a well thought out plan, nothing to wipe with. Standard copier paper is rough, but an Intel teddy bear seems appropriate. Luckily there isn't much of a mess and the point nose of the bear does an adequate job of the cleanup. Adding the bear to the drawer my work here is done.

Quickly locking the desk and pocketing the key I make my escape before being noticed. First stop is the bank, I want that check cashed before they realize it was me, but how could they prove it, anyone could have done it. Of course I would be the prime suspect, it is my old desk, I am the kind of person who would do such a thing, but circumstantial evidence for a random shitting never put anyone away for life.

Outside the building I notice the parking lot is looking bare. Layoffs all over the company today, a black Monday for many, but I am thinking this is might be the push I needed.

# Chapter 16: Freedom

Robert is in his usual perch at the Stratford, mug of beer in one hand, the other feeding his face with popcorn. I thought I would find him here, where else do you go after you get laid off.

"Going to drink away six months of pay?" I ask as I climb up on the stool next to him. I place an order for my own mug of beer.

"Not in one sitting, figure I will stretch it out over a few days, get my monies worth."

"So what's to be done? We are both out of work with a tiny fortune."

Robert sucks away at his beer looking around the dilapidated bar. He doesn't answer me right off, but pauses to light a cigarette and puff on it lost in thought. "I dunno. I saw this coming, hell who didn't company is losing money, they had to move what they can off shore. " Another long pause as we watch a reporter in front of our company probably doing a report on the layoff's but with the juke box howling nothing can be heard.

"Would ya?" Robert asks without looking at me. I know what he is asking, would I do the reporter. I look her over, middle aged with a bit of paunch, would hate to see her without makeup; nothing sadder than an aging reporter who got hired 25 years ago because of her looks.

"Yeah, but I wouldn't tell anybody" and I know I am lying. I would have to tell my friends and anyone that would listen every time I saw her on TV.

"I'd do it if I could do her right now, as she's reporting just coming running up with my cock out, bend her over and start humping. Now there would be something for the evening news. Wild man rapes reporter, the unedited version at 9."

"So back to the question, we are now unemployed, and Robert I don't think you are going to be finding work as an anonymous rapist. Whatcha gunna do?"

"I'm going to finish this cigarette, go home, masturbate a few times and then get rip roaring drunk, Not necessarily in that order. What are your plans now that you are a free man?"

I have been thinking about this since I was let lose. My options are as good as Roberts, pretty much nothing. I wonder how Walker is doing down in the cave, or Erik in his jar on the shelf. Each of them seem to have everything they need, odd both of them spend a lot of their time in a burial place. "I think I'll go camping for a long, long time. What other options do I have? I can send in my keys to the mortgage company and head out. This economic downturn is not going to end soon and I don't really care. I was not made to sit in a damned cube writing code that has to be upgraded every time we get a new server, every time Java deprecates something. I'm tired of it!"

Robert pulls on his cigarette and looks at me "You're serious aren't you? Is this why you have been off in the woods all this time? Learning how to survive out there and all."

"The basics are common sense, cleaning fish, hunting. But you can live near the edge of society, big cities have food banks, few jars of peanut butter and I will be set for a month. I'm going to miss beer, but I figure mother nature will provide me with something. "

Robert looks at the old drunks drinking away their retirements. "I always wanted to be one of them, that isn't much to ask for is it? I just wanted to make it long enough to be able to drink all day and sit around on my ass. " The old drunks notice us looking down the bar to them and one waves a grizzled hand. If I had worked for a few more years I might have made it. Time to put everything on Craigslist and move in with my mom."

"So that's your plan? Sell it all and give up. I would rather be homeless or living in a tent than living with my parents. Hell anything is better than that."

Robert stubs out his cigarette and finishes his beer. "I'm going to miss this place but being poor now I'm going to have to get used to drinking at home. If you are serious about heading out in a canoe, let me know. Not sure what I am going to do but it sounds fun for a few days. Not sure about doing it the rest of my life."

# Chapter 17: A channel of your peace

Stopping on the bridge we watched the brown water boil below us. The St Francis river is not considered a float stream, it is too remote, too fast and too rough. It spills out of its namesake mountains tumbling through the Ozarks scouring the soil down to granite in many places. The upper sections at the old silver mines are used for white water kayaking, the lower sections are not used by anyone.

"You sure about this Jim?" I ask as I watch a tree slide down the river, bobbing up and down, rolling as it hits unseen obstructions below . The leaves on it are green, less than a day ago it was standing proudly on the bank, now it has succumbed to the recent eroding rains. Though Robert and myself are now unemployed we decided to have one more float trip, one more last hurrah on a river. It's cheap entertainment, jus the gas to get there and a bottle of cheap whiskey.

Jim is the constant optimist, "We'll be fine" I love that about him, never a worry. We both watch the river for a few more minutes judging its size and strength and figuring our best approach. I hear a horn beep and Andrew who had been following us shoots by and pulls on up ahead. Slamming his car down a gear and forcing the engine to rev he slides it sideways in the road and turns the car around facing the other direction and parking it perfectly. Jim and I both laugh as Andrew's car rocks to a stop and he hops out ready for the river. I pull forward off the bridge and turn around slowly in the middle of the of the old two lane blacktop to be on the side of the road where a faint path leads down to the water.

Besides Andrew there are the usual suspects, Robert, Jim and myself. We have talked about doing this river for months and finally have the chance. No rain forecast for today, the river is up, finally all the conditions are correct, but all of us are a bit apprehensive. None of us have been here before and the guidebooks barely cover it. The put in and take outs are not publicly owned, aren't actual boat ramps and I am sure we are trespassing. We might come back to vandalized vehicles, might come back to an angry local with a gun, but these are the risks you take.

At least we are traveling light. We had planned on camping on a gravel bar but last night we had a pow-wow and decided that with the river up there might not be any gravel bars. I pushed for this option worried we might get a spot storm tonight and not knowing the river thought we might have canoes tipping and wet gear. So it is just the basics in the boat, whiskey, food, and a paddle.

Finally we are unloaded and on the river. It is moving fast and if my memory serves me correctly I can recall reading that we will cross some rapids, Class II, nothing I haven't seen before. Since the river is out of its banks it is sometimes hard to tell if we are on the main channel or going over a gravel bar. Many times we find that we have gone the wrong way and are pushed into trees, the main channel of the river having taken a sharp bend and we were moving too fast and not positioned correctly for that turn.

"According to my map, some guess work and this here GPS, fish trap is around the next bend." Jim yells over the sound of the front of my canoe slapping the water. "We should get out and look at this before we do it, supposed to be bad, big rocks, tight turns."

I agree and we pull over into a stand of sapling willows, we are still in 6 inches of water but it is calm enough to walk and we manage to bush whack along the side of a bluff till we begin to hear the roar.

"There she is, the canoe eater." Jim says as we watch the water spill and turn through the rapids. From the bank we talk about the different lines to run through this.

"If you come out six feet from the far bank, you see that dip in the water?" I ask pointing it out to the group. "If we hit that far dip it will keep us off the rocks, then, paddle hard to the right, keep away from the rollers. "

Walking back up to the canoes Robert and I decide to run it, the rest decide to walk their canoes along the shore and avoid the rapids. Jim looks at the knot he had tied from the bow of his canoe to the tree, the knot is now under water. "I tied this right at the water line just to see if it was coming up or going down" Jim felt around along the tree for his knot. "We have been gone maybe 45 minutes at the most and the water has come up a good 8 inches. I'm wondering how much rain fell upstream, I've heard this river drains fast, but this is crazy"

Robert and I both take a few shots of whiskey to get our courage up and head out. The added water in the river is noticeable as we are moving even faster now, I am in front with Robert about 6 canoe lengths behind me, both of us going on the theory that as long as we keep the canoe straight in the water we will be okay. Around the next bend I can hear the roar of the fish trap.

I paddled hard to get the line I wanted, it was clear straight and I couldn't see any obstructions in the way. My life jacket was at my feet, I am of the frame of mind that while they can save you they can also pin you under or trap you against a tree. On big rivers I wear it, on fast little rivers with lots of trees across them I don't. It's a calculated risk.

The canoe does great, holding the line I chose perfectly as I entered the rapids. Paddling hard to avoid what looks like a big rock just to the left of me I see the front of the canoe go under and bounce back up from the rollers. It looks like a lot of water but in reality it is not, maybe a pint or less, just a little bit of sponge work to soak up later. This canoe is a new one to me, I bought it for racing, it is narrow and fast and this is a test run to see how it holds up on a river. Most of my friends use aluminum canoes, bought from defunct outfitters, I have one of those as well. This canoe though is fiberglass. Most people do not think a fiberglass canoe can hold up to the rocks and beating a fast river will hand to it. I realize I might be rebuilding the canoe ever couple of years but the tradeoff is worth it to be the fastest vessel on the water.

Out of the fish trap the water is still moving. I dig in hard with my paddle to swing the canoe around and wait for Robert to come through. He is soon there with a big smile on his face. "That was FUN!" We both paddle to the side of the river and grab onto willow saplings to await the rest showing up. They trickle in one at a time, Robert first and lastly Jim and Andrew.

As Jim and Andrew paddle up Jim yells. "Where I was walking through with Robert and his canoe is now under water. This river has come up at least 3 feet since we stopped to look at the fish trap. "We all knew we were lucky not to have tried to camp tonight, another storm could come along and our campsite could be underwater. No one wants to deal with that in the middle of the night.

Continuing down the river I start to get scared. Where once it was moving fast and something of a challenge it is now roaring and wider. While we were in the narrow valley the channel was easy to find, now in a wider area the river has spread out with many islands and false channels. These false channels were once the true channel, but floods move the main channel, shifting the gravel bars, the river is always looking for the shortest route downhill. Normally we would know where the true channel was but with large islands and blind river bends we take or are taken by the current into many old ox bows.

After a few times of paddling the canoe through tops of tree I got caught by the current and taken over a small willow. I hit the tree dead straight and can feel the branches and leaves scraping at my feet as I slide over it till I stop. Hung in the middle of the water, centered on a bent over tree and the current moving fast , the aft end of the canoe comes around on me and I hit another willow tree. Slowly the tree bends and the canoe leans over with it. Six inches more and the gunwales will be in the water. I lean against the rising side, trying to hold the canoe steady. I think I have it and catch glimpse of a log coming barreling down the river straight at me. I hold tight as it hits and know as soon as it does that this game is over. The canoe rolls with the impact and water pours in, gallons and gallons pulling the canoes gunwales ever deeper till in a matter of heartbeats I am tipped and in the drink.

Damn, no life jacket. It must have washed away along with my whiskey bottle. Okay, no problem, Jim and Andrew are coming along behind me, I just have to wait till they get here and they can help me right the boat and I will be on my way. I cant touch bottom but I have the trees to hold onto and the canoe is on its top with air holding it up.

The canoe slowly swings out, catches the current and I am off again, straddling the back of it, as I climb higher on the canoe trying to ride this out the air inside the boat shifts and I just hang on as it puts me in the water. Deeper and deeper I can feel the pressure on my ears build. Then I remember, this is a racing canoe, it has no floatation, I am being taken to the bottom of the river.

I let go and resurface. I am not sure how long I have been under but I am back in white water. Each time I try and catch my breath I hit a roller. In comes the air and water, out I cough water and air. Something bumps me from below and then the canoe barely makes it to the surface, still on its back with a tiny bit of air trapped inside to keep it buoyant. Crap, survival training, swim with the water, don't fight it. Keep your head above the rollers, don't struggle, don't panic. All this races through my mind as I watch the bank shoot by, a few feet away is safety. I catch another roller in the face as I was trying to breath. Well this is it, I think to myself, I bit off more than I can chew and am going to have to pay the price. I have gotten closer to shore though, I see a limb hanging down and do my best to jump out of the water and grab it. Miss! Under I go again, then back up , more rollers but I see them and don't take more water into my lungs. There is another tree branch hanging down, nothing more than a twig but it is green and has leaves so it should be strong enough.

I grab it and it holds, I swing around in the current and the tree pulls me out of the main channel into shallow water where I can touch. I walk up the bank to dry ground and cough up some water. Stopping to think about what I just went through I watch the river and see Jim coming down it, without a canoe. He has his life jacket on and is bobbing through the water; crazy smile on his face.

"Jim!" I yell as he goes past but he can't hear me. I take off through the woods down river, he is already out of my site but I have a fifty fifty chance he will get out on my side of the river. If he doesn't I might never see him and run right by him as the underbrush is thick. Up over another fence, back into the weeds and I keep going. Up ahead I can see a mobile home through the trees.

Two hunters in camo with shotguns under their arms are standing in the driveway of the trailer, a strange look on their face. They see me and the look gets even stranger. "You lose a boat on the river or sumpin?" The taller one asks.

I explain the situation, canoe gone, buddy of mine floating down the river. The shorter hunter goes and beats on the door of the trailer and an older guy comes out, maybe 60. He accesses the situation and starts shouting orders. He will retrieve Jim and whoever else he finds. The hunters are to take me to my truck. I watch the old man run down to a jon boat with a big outboard motor, he has it started and is heading off down the river before we have even thought about getting in the hunters trucks.

"One question" the younger hunter says to me "Were them clothes ripped up before you got in the water or did the river do that to you?" I look down and see that indeed my shorts are ripped and I am bleeding from scratches that I had not noticed. I must look like something like Jonah after the wale spit him up.

"I don't know if this was the river or the run through the woods. I wasn't this bad off when I started though" They both laugh and tell me I and everyone I know must be crazy to be on that river, that it eats canoes and people and livestock. We head out in their truck down a winding private lane. After about a half a mile we come to a locked metal gate, access to a public road.

"You guys don't want anyone sneaking up on you!" I mention as they relock the gate after exiting onto the dirt road.

"Oh, we don't live down here, that's my sisters husband. He don't want nobody bothering his home business. He's cooking meth." I then realized how far and remote I was. The guns they carried weren't only for hunting, but also for personal protection. In these parts bodies could go missing and outsiders were not to be trusted.

As we pulled up to my truck I offered to pay them for their time and effort. They refused so I left all the cash I had sitting on the back seat of their truck were I had been riding. I followed them back to the trailer and saw that everyone was there. Robert had picked up Andrew, who had been swept downstream with Jim. Robert had gone a different route than me, had gotten holed up in some trees so he had come in last, picking up gear and people. Jim had been rescued from the water (he swore he didn't need rescuing) but the old man had got him and brought him back. We all laughed about it, a canoe was gone but we had all lived through something amazing.

# Chapter 18: Walking

I live outside of St Louis, a little town on the Missouri river, quaint and isolated from the problems of the city. I don't know anyone here, work in the city and commute every day. It's hard to meet people in this town. I have often commented to my friends that living in this town is like going to a high school reunion and you didn't go to that high school. But it is a nice town. I don't have to lock the doors, no crime, no problems. There is a library and 6 bars within walking distance to my house. Everything I need is just a stroll away.

I like to walk through town and look at the houses. This town was built on the wealth of the river, Steamboats plying the Missouri made this a major trading center. Merchants and river boat captains built fine houses near the river. Now these old houses have been made a historic district, just two blocks from my house. Walking at night you can see into many of the houses, see their antiques, heirlooms, usually all of this is illuminated by the glow of the ever present television.

Sometimes my walk takes me past the parking lot of the bar where my ex wife first cheated on me. I don't like going past the place, sort of treat it with the same dread as though the murder of a loved one had happened in that spot. I suppose in a way that it did. I always feel my stomach sinking as I approach the spot, I should have no idea what parking spot it was but for some reason, some sixth sense I know. It is across the street from the bar, a little East of the place.

For years I thought that if I was to commit suicide that would be a good place to do it. Just sit down in the gravel and slit my wrists; let my life flow out onto the dirt. It's a good enough spot to end it all. The bar faces the river, a nice unobstructed final view of all that brown water rolling down to the gulf. When it comes to it any spot is as good as the next, but this spot is where things really ended for me.

I know I shouldn't blame the guy she cheated on me with. She later told me that she had told him the marriage was over, that she would be filing for divorce soon, that she hated me. How could the guy resist a beautiful woman with a perfect figure? She was always dressed and coifed to perfection, her false breasts a nice complement to the nose surgery. Teeth whitened and straightened, nails manicured, toes painted and polished. I don't blame the guy, who wouldn't jump on the chance to sleep with a former model.

I know the night she did this, she later confessed as to when the affair began. Perhaps that would be a nice night to end it all, on one of the anniversaries of the adultery. I remember the night, I was out of town attending a software conference. I didn't want to go but she pushed me to get ahead, to make more money so that she could have nicer things. Plus there were the bills to pay, plastic surgery doesn't come cheap and the BMW wasn't a gift from Germany. So I was off to support my bored wife, doing a job I hated so I could try and make her happy. She didn't work, always said no one would hire her, that she didn't want to do the jobs she could get. I can't remember how many times she told me she wanted a house with a pool, nicer car, better clothes. Writing software was supposed to provide all of this for her. I suppose it can if one was really motivated, I was not.

It would have been nice to give the guy the bill for taking the wife out for a spin. "Here you go dude, your cost of the upkeep for this woman for one night is itemized right here. 65.88 for plastic surgery. 380.19 for BMW payments and insurance. 61.03 for clothing, makeup and sundries. 207.36 for spa and beauty treatments. Just write me a check and enjoy yourself."

Of course no bill would ever cover the heart ache, pain and desolation an affair can bring to a marriage. That night was the fatal beginning of the end, the butterfly effect that leads to a hurricane. Even years later I don't have an answer as to why, I know now there is no why, some people have no empathy, no sense of morals, no thoughts but only for themselves.

I walked down there again the day after the St Francis river fiasco. My final resting spot of dirt still sits there, no watery grave for me this time. The St. Francis taught me something, I don't want to die. I had the chance, right there, right in front of me to let go and sink down and I didn't. For some reason, some drive, some stupid base instinct I swam.

The sun slowly sinks into the southern shore of the Missouri river. Looking around I can watch people entering the bar. There are the standard types, married couples out for a drink wearing their work clothes, tired of each other and of their lives; guys looking to score, all dressed up in what passes for well to do out here; groups of girls with high heels and too much makeup looking for someone to take them away. It's early yet and the night crowd is just starting to show up. Later the inhibitions will be broken down by loud music and cocktails. Girls grinding on guys will work themselves into heat. For all I know a few more marriage contracts might be broken in this parking lot tonight.

Walking home I am glad to have the bar at my back. The early night air is moist, the town just settling in to sleep and I have the streets to myself. Several houses have their windows and doors open to the mild night and I can catch the noise of the domestic life inside. Mostly television, occasionally a real human voice, parents yelling for the children, children yelling for their pets. You can tell a lot about people just from walking by their house and observing the yard, house and cars.

I look more carefully at the houses I think are of married couples. The yards are nicer, usually a car and a truck in the drive, windows have curtains instead of blinds. Half of all of these marriages are going to fall apart. Some of them easily, some of them painfully, but half are doomed, this is the way of our land.

# Chapter 19: the happy hunting grounds

"Quiet, stay low and always keep something between you and the target" , Walker whispers . "Most animals have screwed up vision and have trouble seeing you if you hold still and have a branch or something obscuring you. Don't ever move when an animal is looking at you." He was flat on his stomach, his head up to watch the horses. We were on the edge of a clearing, looking onto a small field nestled in the trees. Six horses were there, eating clover in the warm morning sun. We could smell the horses now, not a bad smell, just different.

He had led us into the wind to find them. The wind, he had told me as we started our hike, does more than carry scent, it can also carry sound. This didn't make sense to me but it is hard to argue with someone who knows so much more than I. "Walking up on a herd is hard, cause they are always watching but I have shown myself to them several times, been able to touch the horse I am after, so I am not worried," Walker says as we scoot back from the edge of the clearing. He is carrying a rope, halter and a small sack with a bit of grain in it.

When we started our hike this morning I asked if today was the day to catch the horse. He explained that he had to bring everything with him that he would need when he finally did decide to grab one so as not to show up with anything new to the horse that day. Horses were smarter than most people believed, a new smell or site might be enough to make the horse skittish.

"You can watch from here, but don't move, make any noise or do anything to startle the horses" Walker said "I'm going to go get close to the one I am after and just spend some time with it.

He waited a moment for me to settle in then made his approach. Walking slowly, only small step every minute or so he came into the horses view. He held the rope in one hand, with a loop dangling and the feed bag in his other hand. He cooed softly as he went gently shaking the feed bag.

The horses noticed him immediately. All of their heads were up and attention focused on him. They had quit feeding and rotated their ears to point in his direction. He quit going forward but continued to coo and shake the feed. A few minutes later the horses begin to lose interest and return to eating. Still cooing he moves forward, again the horses notice him and look, lose interest and return to eating. This goes on for each step, the horses noticing him but not seeming concerned.

Horses don't stand still when they graze, but move a step or two after several bites. Watching the horses I notice them shifting, they are mostly moving away from him. One horse is not concerned though and makes no effort to eat farther from Walker.

After what seems like an eternity, but in reality was probably thirty minutes or less, Walker is next to the un afraid horse. He shakes the feed a little louder and the horse raises its head and takes a bite from the bag. It crunches the oats and looks at Walker, then takes another bite from the bag.

Walker gently touches the horse, starting at the shoulder, just smoothing the hair on it. The horse doesn't shy away, but moves a step closer and eats more. Walker continues to rub the horse, I can see him knocking away horse flies as he runs his hand over the coat. Soon the bag is empty and the horse walks away. No fear in it, no hurry, just looking for its next bite. Walker backs away from the animals, still moving slowly, but not nearly as slow as before.

"That was amazing" I say as he returns to where I am watching them.

"Nothing to it, slowly build their trust, the one I was with is the one I am after. If he wasn't with the herd he would have been easier. Those other horses are wild and skittish of me. This is about the tenth time I've approached the herd and the first time I've touched that horse so much, usually I just stand close."

"When you going to try and ride that horse?"

"Oh not for a while, once I catch it and ride it I can't let it go. You got to look at it from the slaves perspective. That horse was once a slave, a well fed, well groomed slave but a slave none the less. Now it is free, does it want to go back to its life of servitude or does it want to rough it out in the woods with its friends?"

Walker looks at me as if expecting me to have an answer. "I have no idea."

"Me neither, that's why I won't risk it. I don't have enough feed to keep him for long, once I grab him I've got to get out of here pretty quick. I figure, once I have grabbed him, I can have him reasonably tamed in a month. Just a guess but he has on shoes, that tells me that he was once owned, you don't shoe a horse if you aren't going to ride it so I bet he is already broken, he just needs some reminding."

# Chapter 20: Departed

I knew before I got there he was gone. The cave opening looked the same, he had tried his best to hide that he was living in there, was smart about it and never left evidence of his coming and goings. I thought I might as well take a look, I had driven this far, hiked these miles, might as well go that last few steps.

The cave seemed so different, it was the same cave but changed, it was truly back to a wild environment. The air smelled dank, musty. The smell of habitation had been replaced with the smell of desertion. I walked over to where Walker had kept his personal things, just a bare ledge there now. His sleeping area was apparent only if you noticed that a spot had been removed of pebbles and rocks. I had to admire the job he did, left no mark or sign behind, cavers would be proud.

Crawling out of the entrance into the sunlight, there nailed on the back of a tree a few feet away was a small plastic bag. It was positioned so that you had to be standing in front of the cave or crawling out of it, the tree being only a few feet from the rock face.

Curious, I removed the bag and opened it to find a hand written note.

"To whoever finds this:

This cave was my home for the winter of 2008. It is a good cave, and I lied about it to someone I should not have. The cave is big, if you wait till the summer drought the small spring moving through it becomes a trickle. This opens up a tiny crawl way. Crawl this for about 50 feet and it opens into an amazing room, maybe 200 by 200 with a 40 foot ceiling, heavily decorated with formations. The cave keeps going after that but I was here alone and did not explore it further.

If you are the person I lied to about it I am sorry and am doing my best to make amends. I did not know you well enough at the time to trust you with the secrets of my home. Perhaps we will meet again and you can tell me. I have caught a horse and am heading out. Wish me luck."

I tucked the message in my pocket and looked back at the cave. The entrance to it was about 3 feet high, maybe 6 feet wide. There were plenty of fallen rocks around, mostly limestone but some sandstone as well. I spent the rest of the day closing off the entrance. I am not sure why I did it, it seemed fitting though. Perhaps someday I will need this place as my own home, perhaps Walker will come back and live here. Perhaps it seemed wrong to let skunks or coyotes take over what had been my friends home.

Driving back I realized I should have joined him. Erik is dead, Robert has holed himself up in his basement, I have no job. I also have nothing to hold me here, no debt, no family, I can be as free as Walker if that is what chose. I tally up my assets, house, car, truck, motorcycles. Selling all of that should give me about twenty thousand, I have another twenty in severance. Forty thousand dollars without a house payment to make, gas to buy, a car to maintain, without any bills at all except food, I think I should be able to live a long time off of that.

The question is how to do it. I could backpack, bicycle, drive the truck or float. If I take the truck then I am a slave to gas and maintenance of a vehicle. But I can go anywhere pretty quickly, have a capper on the back so I have a place to sleep, easier to get supplies. It's a good choice cause with the truck I can also bring a canoe and a bicycle. The truck is the best of all worlds. But the truck is old, the frame shot, nothing really works on it and it is due to be relicensed in 6 months. I don't know if you can get a vehicle relicensed if you don't have an address. The bicycle is a road bike, that's out, I don't want to be stuck on busy roads. Backpacking or floating, the choice is obvious.

When I get home I review some maps and make a few mental calculations. In theory there is a waterway that connects a giant loop of the Midwest to the Eastern sea board. From St Louis I can go down the Mississippi till New Orleans, then cut east across and around the inter coastal way. This system of canals and passages leads all the way to New York city. Then the going will get tricky, up the Hudson to the St Lawrence, up the St Lawrence to the great lakes. Across the great lakes to Chicago, through the locks and in Chicago to put me on the Illinois river. Down the Illinois to St Louis.

For some reason I find myself smiling. I am finally free in every way that I ever wanted to be. No more job, no more bills to worry about, nothing but a clear future. It will feel so good to put this town behind me, to forget about the past, to give up on society and live as I see fit, to live as close to the land as Walden or Crazy Horse. For years I had felt depressed clinging to a job I hated, wasting my time sitting around a bar, being haunted by the memories of my ex-wife. I wonder how many hours I have wasted looking for love when in reality all I wanted was out. Now I had clear direction, nowhere.

# Afterward.

A month after I had made my plans to canoe away and things are finally settled. My parents took over payments of my house and plan to use it as a rental till I return. The contents of the house went to craigslist. A lifetime supply of junk brought in nearly five thousand dollars, more than I could have hoped for. I have carefully selected my gear and splurged on a few items that will add some comfort along the way, such as a nicer tent, an old army cot and a better paddle.

The plan is easy, get on the water and go, buy supplies when I need them, fish when I can. The Mississippi is a whole new world and I am looking to be reborn.

The End.

Authors Note: Thanks for reading, any feedback, good, bad or indifferent I would love to hear it, I can be reached at benjaminthomas@yahoo.com

# Note from the author

This is a work of fiction based on events that happened in my life. In order to simply the story names were changed and events rearranged. If you enjoyed the book please leave some feedback. If you did not enjoy the book let me know what was wrong.

benjaminthomas@yahoo.com

