The men around town

I saw a cougar in a tree once. Poor thing was huddled high up as he could climb, carefully eyeing the half-dozen hunters surrounding the tree's trunk, each of whom was loosly handling his manly mechanism. Only took one bullet to drop the poor creature, of course, so most left the scene with only vicarious satisfaction, you know, like from an all right dirty magazine. Can't say I blame the men for any sort of cruelty; if the tables had been turned, the cougars would have done the same--and eaten him like savages. Cruel animals, those cats. And I'll tell you with certainty that they're no more moral than a man with a gun and the godless thirst to watch death happen. None better. Trust me. What I saw wasn't some misconceived, self-aggrandizing encounter of man v. wild, no, it was the way God made us all: wild v. wild.

The West is still wild, and I'm on a mission to show it to the world. Check in periodically to read stimulating accounts of the New Western Adventure (NWA) including my encounter with a moose, my encounter with a snake, the squirrel I thought was a larger animal, the old man in the library who reads only Readers Digest from the 1950s, the rusted bike axle that was no match for my hammer, and my high noon showdown with the bank. The metropolitan lifestyle of back East won't do out here; no, friends, there's no point scheduling appointments with nature. Sometimes she keeps them, but sometimes she cancels without calling.

I'll start with a list from my past.

Nicknames of 5 men from my hometown and one notable thing about each:

High Pockets
Jungle Bunny
Our x-rated neighbor
Mud Duck
Joe the Potter

Each, respectively:

Paid me for babysitting his children one night with the rusted shell of a motorcycle.

While my adult supervisor at scout camp, in retaliation for my having poured a cup of water on his head, dragged me out of my tent, down the hillside, into a creek and held my head underwater for 10 seconds. Later made fun of me in front of the other scouts for reacting poorly.

Tried once to warn my brothers and I of my parents, while chuckling, “Look, I know firsthand: if the truck’s a-rockin’, don’t…” Was cut off abruptly.

While leading a small group of teens on a multi-day hike, got lost for two hours on his own property.

Accused me of plagiarizing his Sunday school lessons in a brief speech I delivered to our congregation. I was 12.