Telling tales around a campfire is one of the great joys of life. Outdoor writer and photographer Glenn Wheeler is one of the best campfire storytellers in the country and will occasionally bring one of his tales to www.lurenet.com . Here's his first installment of Campfire Tales With Glenn Wheeler.
By Glenn Wheeler
Have I ever told you about the time I learned how NOT to bathe in the woods? I haven’t? Well pull up a chair this is good.
A few years back, me and Stu and Cifford were in deer camp back in the hills. It was early muzzleloader season, so the weather was still a little balmy. By a little balmy I mean 80 degrees with 127 percent Ozarks humidity. It was one of those deer seasons when you had to be careful if you killed anything, beyond the self-defense murder of half-bushel of ticks and mosquitoes.
Our deer camp was just that, a real deer camp! Not one of these fluffy lodges or a nice little cabin in the woods. Not an RV with a stove and fridge, TV and a shower. It wasn’t even a pop-up camper with a three-speed, oscillatin’ fan. We knew we were men and we wanted to camp like men, regardless of the fact we couldn’t afford a pop-up with a three-speed oscillatin’ fan.
We did give one of those solar showers a shot, you know, the big plastic bags you fill with water, lay in the sun to get “warm” and then hang in a tree. You then either hang up a tarp for a shower curtain or just stand butt-naked in the woods, which seemed always timed to coincide with a visit from Ed and his wife from the campsite down the hill.
Well, we tore up that solar shower pretty quick. Now, if you’ve never spent a few days walking up and down the Ozarks during a balmy muzzleloader season, it doesn’t take very long to get a little “gamey.” Parts of your body start sticking to other parts of your body and when you undress it makes that sound that Velcro makes when you pull it apart. “Scent management” takes on a whole new meaning.
Now that the scene is set, let me tell you a little about Clifford. Clifford looks pretty normal, heck, even kind of cute after a few days in deer camp. But, he has some “disorders.” For instance, he produces certain bodily wastes that few of us could ever dream about. From his famous flatulence to his belly button lint, Clifford is a well-honed bodily waste athlete. If there was a “What the heck is that in your belly button?” event in the Olympics, he’d be on the Wheaties box every four years.
He sits by the fire every night and pulls up his shirt, and every time he runs his finger around inside of his belly button he says, “hmm…” or “well…” He pulls out a wad of a multi-colored substance that looks like a mixture of cotton candy, pillow stuffing and lawn clippings. When he flicks it into the fire it produces a little flash of light accompanied by a “SWOOSH!” and a tiny mushroom cloud rises from the flames. On a good night, he can produce three to five of these fluffy little WMD’s, and each time he pulls one out he seems genuinely surprised. The rest of us all know it’s gonna happen, but it’s always the first time for Clifford. (We think maybe the mystery substance has some hypnotic effects on him.) At one point we looked into selling it as fire starter, but after investigating it turned out we couldn’t afford the EPA permits and HAZMAT certifications.
Early in the week we visited the local town for supplies. Legally I can’t mention the town, but it’s a sizeable Ozarks town -- two convenience stores. Both are about the size of that part of Wal-Mart you first walk into, the part where the pop machines and claw games are located. You can buy soda pop, cigarettes and candy bars, but these are a step above your normal stop-and-rob. In these you can also get chainsaw chains and oil, plumbing supplies, fencing stuff, lard and other necessities.
We visited the nearest one and Clifford headed to the restroom. He’d been in there for a while, so Stu and I started to worry a little. We were doing the best out of three on rock, paper, scissors to decide which one of us would approach the door to yell. We also discussed claiming ignorance and contacting the local volunteer fire department to do a “welfare check” on some guy trapped in a bathroom.
Clifford eventually walked out looking happy and refreshed. He hopped in the Jeep and said “We probably ort to go now,” so we did, much like the Duke boys. We could tell by the look on his face that a quick departure was the best option.
Apparently, Clifford had gotten quite comfortable in that little bathroom, stripping down and using the soap, toilet paper and paper towels to wash down. We’re not sure what was left in that dirty little bathroom, but for years afterward the crooked little door bore a sign saying “Out of Order, NO HUNTERS!”
Clifford’s convenience store sponge bath wore off after a couple days and his “not so fresh” feeling returned. Plus, as any of you who have ever spent much time in a REAL deer camp knows, chaffing can become a real problem, bringing excruciating pain with every step. Clifford announced that it was time to freshen up a bit. Stu and I watched him walk over the hill and into the woods with a roll of paper towels and a bottle what we assumed to be some kind of special, biodegradable, rinse-free body wash he had had the incredible foresight to purchase.
We were impressed, but our conversation went back to the weather and how it was cool enough now that the mosquitoes and yellow jackets no longer had to rest every few minutes as they swarmed any exposed flesh. We sat back, chugged Gatorade, wiped sweat and watched the birds pant and heat mirages rise off of the wilting golden autumn leaves.
It was getting close to suppertime so I got up to open a can of Beanie Weanies. Even in the woods I remember what my Momma always told me about cleaning up for supper so I went for my family sized bottle of hand sanitizer. I looked high and low, but couldn’t find it.
As I turned toward Stu a blood-curdling scream shattered the peace of the woods. Moans of agony were interrupted by desperate cries for help.
Stu jumped from his folding chair, then quickly sat back down to keep from passing out. He then slowly stood up to rush, well, walk, to Clifford’s aid. I grabbed the camp first aid kit in case Cliff had fallen or been attacked by a wild animal. Then I grabbed the snake bite kit in case he had been bitten by a rattler. Then I grabbed the bee sting kit in case he had been stung by those danged yellow jackets, and I took off to see what I could do. Then I remembered I had forgotten the Calamine lotion in case he had fallen into a clump of poison ivy, so I ran back and got it, plus the .22 pistol in case it was real bad and there was nothing we could do.
As we were leaving camp toward the hellish screams, Clifford appeared running toward us, obviously being chased. A bear? A mountain lion? A copperhead? An armadillo? (Armadillos carry leprosy you know). It had to be something bad since Clifford’s face showed pain, fear and extreme confusion. The worst part, however, was that his overalls and multi-colored Fruit of the Looms (formerly white Fruit of the Looms) flopped around his ankles. Although I’ve got to say that his short, choppy stride -- limited by the waist size of his pants -- didn’t seem to slow him down too awful much.
Stu and I quickly realized that Clifford would hurt himself or us if we didn’t get this situation under control, so Stu took off after him. I dropped the first aid kit, the snake bite kit, the bee sting kit and the Calamine lotion, but held onto the pistol just in case. Our strides were at least three times that of Clifford’s 36-inch limit so we caught up within about a quarter mile. We got him tackled and rolled him around a minute or two in case he was on fire and his running speed had just kept the flames down.
Once we were certain the fire was out, Stu sat down on Clifford’s chest and I put a stick in his mouth to keep him from biting his tongue off. In controlled panic we shouted at him to tell us what was wrong but he just kept panting, wild-eyed. Later we considered that being out of breath from running in the Ozark heat, having 250-pound Stu sitting on him and the small white oak branch wedged in his mouth may have had kept him from answering, but we’re still not sure.
A feeling of despair and great sadness settled over me as I thumb-cocked the pistol to do the only thing a true friend can do for a man obviously in so such misery. Stu then noticed that Clifford was holding something in a death-grip. I took my finger off the trigger and looked to see.
In his right hand was a wad of slightly discolored paper towels. About then Stu said, “Hey, there’s that stuff you was a lookin’ for.” Tightly clinched in Clifford’s left hand was what we had thought was the new wilderness body wash, but when I pried the container from Clifford’s hand it read, “Hand Sanitizer, Kills 99.9 Percent of all Germs – Contains Alcohol” in bold red letters. It was, indeed, my bottle of hand sanitizer.
Clifford lay there quivering, tears flowing and snot dripping. His breaths were gasps between sobs sucked through the leaf litter, his face was planted in the autumn dirt. This chiseled athlete -- a pillar of masculinity -- had been reduced to a blob of quivering, sobbing, snotting, gasping child by a four-day raw rearend and a couple of 80 percent alcohol hand-sanitizer-soaked paper towels.