Getting Away

My definition of vacation is a trip somewhere warm
and sunny where you stay in a place nicer than you
usually live in and someone else does the cooking and
cleaning and caters to your every whim. For college
students this means going home, but since I live in
Maine, home is seldom warm or sunny. I have never
been on this kind of vacation, although I have been
on many trips.

A trip is similar to a vacation in that you travel
somewhere, but that's where the similarity ends. Usually
it is cold and rainy when you get there (regardless of
where "there" is), you have to handle your own food
(the word "food" is used in the loosest sense), and
the accommodations make you realize how important it
is to have a roof. Most people would not take trips
if they knew in advance that's what they were. Trips
are usually planned as vacations, although some
people actually intend to take trips. Mostly they
are campers, recognizable from their general
sogginess and dour expressions, except for the
leader (whose idea it was to go camping), who is
grinning maniacally.

Someday one of my vacations will turn out right,
especially now that I have wised up and crossed
off any destinations whose brochures even mention
"nature," "clean mountain air," or "exotic
wildlife," because they are all located in the
woods. Never go anywhere frequented by camper
types, as they are always trying to convince
the management that they should take the roof
off their buildings. Also, bedraggled wives
and children of campers will keep stowing away
in your car and asking for asylum, which is,
of course, where all campers belong.

This brings me to my point: I am not much of
a camper myself, and so I am turning the
remainder of this essay over to my friend, and
occasional guest columnist, Fred. Fred is
currently taking a well-deserved rest at
Happy Dale, but he finds writing to be more
relaxing than working on his tunnel. Take
it away, Fred!

The people here at Happy Dale are insufferably
polite, but they have a lousy tailor. He keeps
making these shirts with only one sleeve, and
of course the staff gives them all to us to
wear. You would not believe how difficult it
is to write in one of these, to say nothing
of how slow it makes the digging process. But
you can't tell them that. They go and fill in
your hole so you will stop digging, instead of
addressing the real problem and giving me a
decent shirt.

I'm almost through to the outside now, and I
can hear the little birds twittering their
defiance to crows. They are our allies in the
ongoing fight against those black demons who
seek our destruction. I have some plans to aid
in the struggle when I get out, although I
wonder how small a target a Stinger missile
can lock onto. We'll see.

As you can tell, I am well rested now, so I
have no reason to remain here at Happy Dale.
Besides, I have recently gotten a brochure
for a vacation spot that sounds terrific.
"Come and commune with nature and enjoy our
clean mountain air," it says. "Miles of hiking
trails through countryside full of exotic
wildlife." Sounds great, doesn't it? Of
course I'll have to see if I can convince
the manager to take the roof off over my
room. They usually respond well when I
repeatedly sharpen my knife, Mack, in public.
I love the outdoor experience.

I have high hopes for this place because
half of the guys here at Happy Dale went
there right before the padded wagon came
for them. They all smile a lot when they
talk about their vacations, although some
of them suspect their families didn't have
such a good time. But the wives who are
here all say it was great. So, fellow
campers, I'm looking forward to seeing
you soon!

Moose News

What a great country this is! Only in America
are you free to make jewelry out of gold, silver,
lobster claws, moose droppings. . . .
Some of you are thinking that something is wrong
with that last sentence. No, the dots are
called an ellipsis, a perfectly acceptable
literary device.

As for the moose droppings and lobster claws,
they are products produced by, or at least
marketed by, a company called Mainely Speaking.
Both have been made into earrings and have
become popular tourist souvenirs. (I should
point out that the lobster claws are just the
hollow shells, which probably makes them a
good deal less painful to wear.)

The moose dung idea was originated by a
Rangeley, Maine, entrepreneur who is clearly
a marketing genius. I say "Send that man
to Washington!" He would be just the kind
of guy who could make progress with the
Japanese over our trade deficit with them.
A sample negotiation might go something
like this:

Japanese Diplomat: We are sending you
300,000 more cars this year.

Rangeley Entrepreneur: Fine. We're sending
you 1,000,000 units of moose dung.

Japanese Diplomat: (sounding very worried)
Maybe we can cut a deal.

Of course, we would have to be careful
about entering the Asian market with such
a commodity as moose droppings. It would
likely become considered an aphrodisiac,
sparking a multi-million dollar illegal
moose droppings trade. Just think of it.
Moose would be captured by the dozens
and fed a diet of oat bran and high fiber
to supply the raw material for the industry.
Soon the SPCA would be running commercials
showing pathetically bloated, incontinent-
looking moose. "This is the dark side of an
industry," the voice-over would say.
"Please. Just say no to moose droppings."

But this is getting ahead of ourselves.
For now, this is just another product
with a unique, local flavor, if I can use
that expression. Of course, I'm sure
consumers will have the good taste
(oops, there I go again) not to jump
head first (yechh) into this fad without
looking carefully before they get their
feet wet(argh). If the market expands,
however, there is sure to be a profound
impact. For example, why only moose
droppings? Soon farmers may not be able
to fertilize their fields in peace.

Farmer Bob: "It doesn't matter what I
use: cow manure, pig manure, whatever.
As soon as it gets dark the poachers come
out, steal a few handfuls, and run off
into the woods. I just can't keep the
manure on the ground. I remember when
a man could feel secure that his manure
was safe on his own land."

There are sure to be repercussions among
Maine's wildlife as well. Already there
has been an alarming increase in Moose
paranoia, according to leading fictitious
animal psychiatrists. Deep in the Maine
woods moose are saying to each other:

First Moose: "Wherever I go, I just can't
shake the feeling that someone is
following me."

Second Moose: "Yeah, I keep seeing this
weird guy with a spatula. (At least I
assume that's what they use; I don't
really want to know.)

So I warn the vast American public: Take
the moose dropping industry seriously
and. . . . Hey, quit laughing. This is
a serious matter! Hey! Anyway, our local
entrepreneur is unconcerned about all
this. He's enjoying the sweet smell
of success.

Locusts and Wild Honey

One of my youthful hobbies was scampering around in the
tall grass pursuing winged insects, wearing a single glove.
No, I am not borrowing from the Michael Jackson story
(so far as I know). I really did. I was trying to catch
grasshoppers.

As winged insects go, grasshoppers are fairly tame.
They may eat the vegetables in your garden, but at
least they don't bite, sting, or otherwise assault
people. Indeed, their vegetarian pacifism has won
them numerous accolades from Greenpeace, although
the grasshoppers don’t seem to care. Perhaps they
are still holding a grudge against certain members
who are pioneering “insect cuisine.” Apparently
crickets and grasshoppers are an excellent source
of protein. After you have received numerous blows
to the head from police batons, this may even begin
to sound like something you might want to try.

At any rate, grasshoppers are a good deal more fun
to catch than, say, hornets, which have a reputation
for being downright inhospitable. In the course of
grasshopper catching, I have often had occasion to
visit the ground hornets living in the fields. That
is, I always seemed to manage to stick a foot into
one of their nests. They have a very rude method of
greeting, and while bees are also less than hospitable,
at least they have the decency to produce honey. I don’t
really know what hornets do for a living, so I would
respond in kind to their overtures with an appropriate
housewarming gift. A couple of quarts of Raid usually
did the trick.

Unlike hornets, grasshoppers are fairly safe to handle.
Their defensive technique is to try to jump away, which
is half the fun of catching them. If they just sat there
and let any random passerby grab them, perhaps fewer
kids would bother. On the other hand, escargot are not
exactly known for being difficult to catch and look
how popular a menu item they are. Grasshoppers may
not be as dumb as they look, and they should be very
thankful for that.

The second defensive measure grasshoppers take comes
after you catch them and is the reason I wore the
one glove. They spit a bubble of liquid that is some
secret enzyme mix that smells putrid. The idea is that
when you smell the grasshopper's secretion, you will
no longer wish to eat him. Not that most people without
massive head trauma need extra incentive not to eat
them. They're too leggy for my taste.

A good rule of thumb is never to eat anything which has
more legs than a standard cow. I make an exception in
the case of such seafood as crab and lobster because I
don't count the claws as legs, and they also taste pretty
good. I do not make an exception for squid because,
in a word, yuck.

Once I had attained mastery of the craft of grasshopper-
catching, I yearned for more of a challenge. So I set off
to capture white tigers in the jungles of Ceylon. All right,
you caught me. Perhaps I was thinking of Ziegfried and Roy.
I really only pursued locusts.

A locust is basically a large grasshopper with better-
quality wings. Regular grasshoppers can only flutter ten
or twenty feet, but locusts can fly great distances.
Being young and foolish, I would run along after them
in hopes that one would get tired and land. I kept this
up for weeks until I finally did catch one. Then I read
in the paper that a locust swarm had descended on the
Midwest cornfields and was wreaking havoc. Scientists
couldn't figure out where they had come from. Now that
you know, don't tell anyone. I've given up locust-
chasing anyway.

These days I hunt and fish and go to Africa for big game,
and it is good. The plains are as wild and savage as the
untamed heart of the hunter. Or maybe that’s something
Hemingway wrote. My adventures were comparable. After all,
how many locusts did he catch?

"Scouting" Around

"Hey look! The weather forecast is calling for three days of rain, flash-floods, lightning, high winds, and maybe hail! Everyone pack up for a camping trip." Thus spake my beloved scoutmaster shortly before his untimely demise at the hands of a black bear. We warned him not to take shelter in that cave. At least that's the story we gave the authorities.

Yes, for a brief period in my life I was a Boy Scout. I probably built a lot of character in the Scouts, since I remember it as one of the worst experiences of my life. I learned only two things in the Boy Scouts.

One, is that you cannot start a fire by rubbing two sticks together, using flint and steel, or any other method that does not make use of matches. If you will need to start a fire, always bring matches. Second, don't bother to bring matches on a Scout campout. It will always be raining anyway, and guess what? Wet wood doesn't burn. Now that I think about it, I learned three things, the third being never go camping with the Boy Scouts.

The more I reflect on it, the more I realize how educational Scouting was for me. I remember learning several other valuable lessons, like never give a kid who is wet, cold, and hopped up on "survival rations" (twinkies, chocolate bars, and straight granulated sugar) an axe. Our assistant scout master actually was the one who discovered this. Good old "Stumpy" McGee. Also, never swim downstream from where the cub scouts are, as they are all incontinent little weasels.

"Scouting" Around (Part 1.5)

I was not in Scouts long enough to learn what a true veteran told me was the most important lesson. Namely, leave the shower immediately if the Scoutmaster walks in, and don't stop to help him pick up his soap. But I suppose you can't put much stock in hearsay, or at least that's what the lawyers tell me.

Many of these things might not have bothered me so much if we had ever gone anywhere interesting. I would have been willing to go about wet, unwashed, hungry, and tired from sleeping on rocky ground if we had camped at Yellowstone or in the Canadian wilderness.

I might have learned valuable wilderness survival skills such as how properly to load and carry a high-powered rifle. Most Scouts I know who have gone on real camping trips have shared this lesson with me. I suspect, however, that Boy Scouts may attract fanged animals the same way they attract thunderstorms. Perhaps this is why my troop never went anywhere.

"Scouting" Around (Part 2)

Instead, we camped in such wilderness locations as Farmer Ed's field, or the Litchfield fair grounds. It must have been a good ten minute stroll to downtown. So there we sat in the rain (of course) huddling around sputtering fires, trying to keep warm. It was hard for me to discern what lesson I was learning. And then I realized it was probably that I should know enough to come in out of the rain. So I went home.

The leaders, meanwhile, were sitting warm and dry in front of their kerosene heaters under the huge awning they had put up (a restricted area where no Scouts were allowed), eating steak cooked on their gas barbecues, and staying up late drinking beer by the light of their
kerosene lantern.

They thought the campout was going great, except that they had to keep pushing sopping-wet, teary-eyed twelve-year-olds out of the leaders' area and back into the rain. "A little rain never hurt anyone, you wuss!" they declared loudly. Yeah, step outside and say that.

It was shortly after this performance that the unnamed parent who was making me be in Scouting (who happened to have been a Boy Scout) decided I could quit if I wanted to. Surprise, I did.