The Campfire

I find myself alone, sitting next to a camp fire in mid December in Southern Arizona on a 3 day quail hunt. The fire sits atop a cement pad 6 inches high by 3 feet square. On the pad the fire is corralled by a steel fence to ensure that no wandering embers terrorize the surrounding environs.

The fire’s warmth soothes my tired legs and feeds my soul. I sit and reflect on the camp fires of the past. I don’t really visualize the memories; rather I seem to feel their warmth. The warmth of friendship and the bond that occurs between companions who have explored and discovered something of value together; summiting a mountain, rattling around in the desert in a WW2 Willys, or ogling big titted women in a bar. Snippets of memories float and swirl around in my head like giant snow flakes from a February snow storm. I see glimpses of my companion’s faces in the fire light; the crooked teeth of one, the dough boy face of another, the thatched roof for red hair of a third. I remember the taste, the glow and the gift of gab that a shot of old rot gut afforded us. These faces and voices seem just out of reach, only a moment away. I jerk myself back to the here and now and remind my self that I have just turned 50. I suppose it is true that time is relative. Relative to what? A stone? The thought seems silly. Why is it that these memories seem so fresh when they are some 25 to 30 years old? Time does not seem relative to memory.

My feet are cold, damn cold, but the inside of my thighs are hot from the fire. I snicker to myself – qualities of a good woman. On this note I pour a slash of Irish whiskey. The taste is sharp, full, and hot; just the ticket on such an evening. The stars are coming out, the moon is at half bay, the temperature is below 30 and I am right with the world. I am well on my way to becoming God’s own drunk and a fearless man.

My two hunting dogs are curled up on the sleeping bag I laid on the ground next to the fire. Both dogs are females, one is the Alpha and the other one is definitely not. The Alpha lies snoozing while the other lies stiff and apprehensive next to the Alpha. She knows that it is not her place to occupy the same space as the Alpha.

My glass is empty, God Damn it! It must have a leak. I stroll over to the camp table, pour another slash, and light a cigar. I stop and look at the lit cigar. I hold it up for inspection like a child holds up a caterpillar. Why are cigars so pleasurable? May be it gives me the sense that I am not quite house broken after all. That I still could run with the Big Dogs if I choose to. Where the Big Dogs are going or who the Big Dogs are I don’t have a clue. What if I am a Big Dog? This is an odd thought.

I look at my glass again. The whisky level has dropped precariously low. Son of a Bitch my glass does have a leak! It occurs to me that the whiskey is leaking, leaking out the top of the glass. No wonder my feet have warmed up. Yes, I have arrived. I am God’s own drunk and a fearless man. At this point the Alpha stands up, ears erect, hackles standing on end, and sounds the alarm. I am startled and shrink to the fire. I hurriedly search a 20 foot radius around the fire with my flash light. I wonder if I am about to have a reunion with the same mountain lion I ran into last year in a canyon not far from here. I am relieved to find no glowing, piecing eyes. The spell is broken. Hum… Maybe I am not quite the fearless man I thought. Better back away from the jug. It is time for dinner and then bed, with my dogs as guardians and companions.

Copyright Stephan Fowler 2008. All rights reserved.