Please give me break. I know that I have neglected the Christmas letter the past few seasons. But here is the deal: I have been hunting elk instead. You see, for the past 60 years, my dad and his cronies trek to some remote corner of eastern Oregon during hunting season. They have been at this a while and their camp is epic. No comfort is spared: Enormous canvas tents are erected; wood stoves are leveled and lit; generators power lights, microwaves, and laptops; days are spent falling trees and making wood; and a lovely open air shit box is strategically placed in a nearby clearing (This is exactly what it sounds like and is a recent upgrade. Up until 1995 they would just randomly designate a downed tree nearby the compound and designate it the “shit log”).
So I have found myself out there the last few seasons and the general take-away is this, Elk Hunting is a misnomer. The practice should be referred to, simply, as Farting. As a well-adjusted adult person, a husband, father, and regular voter, I have no choice but to comment on the pervasive farting. When at camp, these men have no boundaries and no shame. Furthermore, Elk Camp Farting is an entire magnitude of order more obscene than what takes place in the regular world. If farting were accounted for like temperature, ECF would be measured on the Kelvin scale.
Here are some highlights:
- A group of men stood talking about important recent world events. Many had differing points of view but the men were respectful to one another. As one was making a heartfelt but somewhat lengthy point about his disappointment with the current President of the United States, he let one go. It was really long. Maybe 15 seconds or more. Lots of tonal quality and a crisp finish. Throughout this gastric feat, he never broke from his monologue or showed any non-verbal cue of what was taking place south of the border. To my further astonishment, no one in the group batted an eye or made comment. It was like it did not happen.
- Breakfast usually happens around 4:00 a.m. (which is delightful). When the food is blackened enough to serve, whoever is cooking goes around the table and scrapes a portion of the meat, eggs, and potatoes onto everybody’s plate. Then this happens: While serving food, the cook’s backside was positioned next to the guy he had just served. It was loud and extremely vulgar. His face was just inches away from the source. Hair was blown back. And yet he just sat quietly, chomping away in silence. Then somebody said, “Pass the fucking butter.”
These are stalwart men and have provided me with treasured memories.
We are down one at The Kingman now since Nina went off to college. Ann Marie and I never see Pete anymore; he might be invisible for all we know. But we continually find enough evidence that he is still nearby and surviving: Balled up socks in the couch, empty milk jugs in the sink, data alerts from Verizon. It is like having the place to ourselves.
Merry Christmas have a great New Year.
