Returning to the Scene

I once threw two size 13 hunting boots at a skunk in the pitch darkness of night while inside a new $1000 wall tent. This may seem slightly brash to some, but my potato chips had come under assault earlier in the evening by a chipmunk of ill-repute who I thought had returned for seconds.

After my Vibram-soled mortars failed to drive off the intruder, I extricated myself from a warm sleeping bag, walked over to the card table, and turned on my flashlight. It was at this juncture that a case of mis-stinking identity became apparent. There, directly between my feet, was a voluminous tail in the full, upright, and locked position.

What followed remains a partial mystery due to the frenetic pace at which events transpired. During what amounted to only a few seconds, I conservatively estimate that I circumnavigated the interior of the tent 3 times and attempted at least one MMA rear choke hold. Seeing that my foe was attempting to lock in a firing solution, I began jamming his launch sequence with blistering midnight profanity. At one point during the match I ended up outside the tent without using the door. It was here the skunk forfeited the bout and disappeared, much to the delight of the tent’s owner -- my father.

Last weekend Dad and I returned to the scene of this very incident, and caught brook trout in obscene numbers until our rotator cuffs had worn down to nubbins. It was great to spend time bending graphite together during the day and reminiscing around the campfire at night.