The camp was a welcome sight for Bruce. A simple 18 foot camp trailer, but for him it was like a room at the Hilton. A small table, one chair, a twin-size bed, and that oh so important shower. On the table, a small stack of books sat next to the AM/FM radio, a few back issues of Field and Stream, a book of crossword puzzles, and the Bible his wife had given him as a Christmas present years ago. Other than the breeze in the fir boughs outside, the burner on the gas refrigerator made the only sound to be heard.
Bruce had just gotten off work. Ten hours of skidding logs into the landing about three miles up the road was a real beating for a man of his age. Yesterday was his 63rd birthday. This evening he was ready for a cold drink, a hot shower, and dinner--in that order.
The camp was on Rudeo Mountain, about 15 miles out of Monument, in Eastern Oregon. Bruce had been set up there for about two months now, with maybe another six weeks or so to go before the weather forced him to move down into a campground with the rest of the crew. The others had chosen the convenience of town over the solitude of camp. Not so with Bruce. His preference had always been the peace and quiet that only camp could bring.
Dinner tonight was the leftover stew and home-made bread that his wife had sent with along with the canned goods that were carted off to the trailer each Sunday afternoon in preparation for the work week. With dinner out of the way and the dishes done, Bruce could finally get on with what had, over the years, become his favorite ritual: the selection of a pipe and tobacco for the evening.
Bruce always brought no fewer than six briars with him for the week, and had a half dozen or so corn cobs that stayed in the trailer over the weekend when he was home. The cobs were there because of a small creek that ran about a ten minute walk from camp. When the urge to wet a line struck, as it often did, the cob was the choice of pipe, a lesson learned several years earlier when the Rogue river claimed his only Weber--a Canadian--for its own. Tonight he picked a Peterson pre-Republic he had gotten for pocket change at a yard sale.
Bruce shuffled through the tins of tobacco he had packed, and settled on his old standby, Dunhill 965. He turned on the radio, tuned to a talk show from somewhere--he really didn't care--and began filling the pipe.
Bruce had been a pipe smoker since the age of 23. His father and three uncles had all been pipe smokers, and he knew as a boy, he would, one day, join their ranks. He started a week or two after his fifteenth birthday with an old Medico filched from his dad, and a pouch of Prince Albert tobacco. A few days later, when he had recovered the full use of his mouth again, he promised himself to forever forget the notion that a pipe was for him. When he was old enough, he went into the Navy where he picked up a pack a day Lucky Strike habit.
When Bruce finished his hitch with Uncle Sam he returned home to plan his next move. His father convinced him to give the pipe another try, and with some tutoring from "the old man" he came to realize that it really could be an enjoyable experience.
As Bruce popped the lid on the tin of 965, the almost leathery smell of the Latakia brought him back to the here and now. "Some tobaccos are almost best enjoyed while still in the tin," he said to himself. The bowl was filled with all the usual care Bruce devoted to this ritual; to him the whole pipe experience could be made or broken on this simple but often misunderstood step. With the strike of a wooden match the first sweet taste of the tobacco was on the back of the tongue. With a small piece of dowel he tamped down the ash. And, after a second light, he was ready to settle in for the next hour and think of absolutely nothing at all other than his own enjoyment.
The best part of the day had begun. While the radio played by the window, Bruce sat in a lawn chair at the rear of the trailer. The sun was setting, and the coyotes could be heard in the distance. With his rhythmic puffing on the Peterson, Bruce could only guess that the coyotes were sounding their approval at his choice of tobacco.
Soon enough he would be forced to move back down into town, but for the time being he had the quiet, the solitude, and the pipe. Life was truly good on Rudeo mountain.
�year index
01/02-02 index
03/ 04-02 index
05/ 06-02 index
07/ 08-02 index
E mail Perry Fuller at darkcahill.com
�copyright 2002, Perry Fuller
