Pooping Trees (rough draft)

 

Pooping Trees

Steamboat Island, located in the Puget Sound near Mud Bay is a little less than a half mile around and accompanied by approximately 40 homes. Of those 40 homes, one house stood out like a sore thumb. It was located at the northern most tip of the island, which opened a panoramic view of Hope Island, just to the East, and Squaxin Island due north. Looking west, Arcadia and Hungerford Point created a narrow passage northward. Access to the island meant driving across a very narrow one lane bridge. You may be thinking, Ok, it’s a bridge. What’s the big deal? The big deal is Alvie. My best friend, Andy, had an Australian Shepherd. This Australian shepherd wasn’t your ordinary shepherd or dog. Andy and his brother Ricky, taught Alvie how to skateboard. He was on T.V. and performed in the former King Dome in Seattle Washington. So, it is extremely hard to forget such an amazing friend and family member. I can remember Andy’s mom pulling up to the bridge, stopping, and letting Alvie out of the car to run across the bridge. To this day, Alvie is still one of the fastest and strongest dogs I have ever seen. Andy’s mom, Nancy, drove behind Alvie while he ran across the bridge and she did not cut him any slack. Nancy, honked the horn and raced up to him, causing Alvie to run at speeds close to 30 MPH. I’d always get nervous that Alvie would stop running and end up under their station wagon. Thank God, that never happened. I can still see Alvie streamline as an arrow rocketing across that 200-meter stretch like Usain Bolt. It was a sight to see! Anyway, that house which stuck out like a sore thumb, that was Andy’s house. I probably spent half my childhood at Andy’s: fishing, camping, crabbing, clamming, scuba diving, adventuring, boating, water skiing, and partying. Thank God we didn’t have smart phones, computers, or gaming systems like we have now. I wouldn’t be writing these stories and I would have missed out on some of the greatest life experiences. I consider myself blessed. We may not have had much money, but we had the best playground on earth.

Hope Island, just off to the east, was a little over a mile and a half around, and between 400 and 500 meters from Steamboat. 90 percent of Hope Island involved heavy brush, trees, nettles (a plant that stood three to four feet tall with stinging thorns), and berry bushes. For teenage boys, jumping in a dinghy and rowing over to the Island for a day of traipsing around in search of a new fort, playing army, fantasizing, or getting into mischief was living the life! Alvie joined in the fun also and usually swam the entire distance from Steamboat to Hope. The currents were strong and if there was much of a wind, the white caps sometimes crashed into and over his head. Andy often got nervous if Alvie began to slow down and start panting, for fear that he might drift too far from the boat and start to sink. I can remember Andy and I trying to rescue Alvie on one occasion, almost capsizing the boat while pulling him out of the water. I believe that was the first time I saw extreme concern and fear in my best friend’s face. I was truly worried for him. For any dog, even a Newfoundland, that swim was no piece of cake; hence, why I stated that he is one of the strongest dogs I have ever seen. Once Alvie reached the shore, he collapsed on the beach for an hour or so before moving. Alvie’s body relaxed to the point of practically melting into the sand. You’d swear he crossed over the rainbow bridge, but Andy never looked back. He knew his dog and had seen him crash on the beach after multiple trips to the Island. Andy, would always say, “Don’t worry, he’ll catch up.” He was right. We’d be halfway across the island and Alvie would come out of nowhere. He’d be strutting his stuff as though he just won the Westminster dog show. Alive was one of the gang and Andy’s best buddy. He will always be missed and never forgotten. Thank you, Alvie, for the memories. We love you!

I believe it was a beautiful spring day and I was between 16 and 17 years old. I had spoken to Andy the day before and let him know I’d be out the next morning. As usual, I drove up in my Datsun B210 hatchback and parked it right behind Andy’s 1970 Ford Torino. Andy’s Torino had a 351 Cleveland and ran like a raped ape. It is amazing we lived to see another day after riding with Andy! I had never been over 100 MPH until I road in Andy’s Torino. To this day, I can still remember praying in the passenger seat as Andy merged onto highway 101 at 120 mph on a 55-mph curve. All I could picture is drifting onto the shoulder, losing control, and soaring over the ravine into a mass of Evergreens. Thankfully, the good Lord was looking out for us that day, and many before and after. I know for a fact that we defied the laws of physics at that rate of speed. Anyhow, Ricky, Andy’s younger brother wasn’t driving yet but he was only a year behind us, so he ended up with a Toyota Celica a year later. Ricky wasn’t the younger brother that most older brothers try to lose or ditch. He was always welcome and added a bit of chemistry to the gang that kept things interesting, especially when intoxicated. To be honest, we were all quite interesting after a few beers or some Yukon Jack (nasty stuff). Yukon Jack and I had an awfully bad evening once, and without getting entirely off topic; let us just say, I had to be tied up and secured to the foot of a bed soon after our friend Troy, tried to hit me in the head with an iron skillet. Needless to say, I was a bit out of control that evening and had to be subdued. Getting back on track, I stepped out of my car to see Andy walking out from under the car port with a couple of oars, a life vest, and his faithful friend, Alvie. “Andy, are we bringing the fishing poles? I brought mine in case we decide to throw in a line.” Andy, stopped and stared at the ground for a second, looked up, and said, “I guess we can, but I figured we’d be running around the island more than anything, and it’s more junk we have to haul down to the boat.” “You do have a point and I don’t think the tides coming in until late in the day. Did you pack anything to eat?” I was infamous for not bringing food. Sadly, my mother passed away shortly after my 16^th birthday, so it was just my father and me. In other words, we lived the life of bachelors, which meant I was mostly responsible for preparing my own food. Not to mislead you or give you the wrong idea, my dad always made sure there was plenty of food in the house, but I was too lazy to take the time and put together a sack lunch before leaving the house. Now, if my mother were around, I’d have a five-course meal with me that could have fed an army. She always made sure her Boop (that’s me) had enough to eat. I believe Andy and the guys had a soft spot for me when it came to my mom, so it was a rare occasion that I received much flack for not having any food. “I think my mom made some sandwiches for us with chips and soda.” “Cool, I can’t wait to get to the island and see if anything has changed. Where’s Ricky? “He’s on the bulkhead getting the boat ready. Do you mind running up stairs and getting our food while I take the oars down?” “You don’t have to ask me twice”.  

Descending the long steep staircase to the bulkhead, I remember hanging onto the rails to keep from falling. Whoever built the staircase, didn’t take into consideration the angle of decent or the narrowness of the steps. I don’t think I ever ceased to white knuckle the rails of those stairs in all the years I gingerly stepped down them. Falling on that set of stairs meant tumbling approximately 30 feet to the ground. Teenage boys might be physically resilient, but that fall wasn’t one I wanted to test. Reaching the bottom of the staircase and stepping onto the bulkhead, I saw Ricky and Andy to the right of me, lowering the boat into the water. The bulkhead consisted of large wooden planks and pilings, creating a manmade beach that protected the island from erosion due to high tides and inclement weather. Without the bulkhead, we’d have to use a dock to lunch and store the boat. It also made a great place to sit and fish when the tide was high. “Andy, did you remember the life jacket?” “Yes, you didn’t see me carrying it down with everything else?” “Yah, I guess I did but I forgot. You know how my dad is, so I just wanted to make sure.” Until the day I moved out, my father expected me to have a life jacket if I was going out on the water. I never asked him why he was so worried, but I can guess it was the protective instincts of a parent. No matter how strong or confident of a swimmer I might be, he didn’t budge when it came to the life jacket. Thankfully, I never had to rely on it but now that I’m a parent, I understand his reasoning. We love our kids, and we want the best for them, but we want them safe!

Now that we had everything in the boat, the challenge was getting into the boat without tipping it over. While we practiced our balancing acts, Alvie’s anticipation grew. Knowing what it meant as we climbed into the boat, he shook with nervous energy as he waited to launch himself into the cold currents of the Puget Sound. Soon, the three of us managed to get seated; Ricky at the bow, Andy amidships, and me at the stern. Andy usually did the rowing. I’m not entirely sure why, except that he feared I might drop an oar in the water. I was cool with it though because that meant I didn’t have to row. The dinghy barely fit the three of us and sat well below the water line. In other words, the hull created a sufficient amount of drag that made it very difficult to row. By the time you reached the beach, you were as buff as Arnold Schwarzenegger. The boat sat so deep in the water it was only a couple inches from spilling over. Needless to say, it was a regular balancing act from Steamboat to Hope in order to keep the water from spilling over and sending the captain and crew to the bottom of the ocean. So, while Andy kept us steady and true, I’d throw a line out the stern in hopes of catching a salmon or cutthroat trout on our way over to the island.

Splash, Alvie sprung into the water as soon as we cast off. Alvie always had a head start due to his overwhelming excitement to reach the other side. As Alvie started to swim out ahead of us, we played catchup rowing against the currents and manipulating the eddies that pushed and pulled against us. God forbid we had to fight a strong wind and white caps, or our work and Alvie’s became a lot more demanding. Alvie fought to keep his head above water while white caps collided against his body, and we did our best to stay on course, trying not to drift too far up the channel and away from Hope. Fortunately, this voyage was smooth sailing.  

Land hoe! We jumped out of the boat and set our feet on the pebble covered beach of Hope Island. Driftwood lay all around us and an old, pitted Styrofoam buoy hung from the bottom branches of a Madrona tree. Approximately 20 feet from us, Alvie lay crumpled from his crossing of the English Channel. The three of us turned around and grabbed onto the gunwale and pulled the boat closer to the beach berm. Then Andy wrapped the anchor line around a nearby tree while I snatched the fishing poles. Ricky seized the backpack and headed into a thicket of brush directly ahead of us. “Ricky, hold on!” Andy knew if Rick managed to escape us, our food might also, so he made sure to keep Ricky close. Three teenage boys on an island without food, not a good idea! “I’m taking a leak!!” Ricky tended to get snappy when Andy asserted his big brother voice. “Alright, I wanted to make sure you weren’t running off with our sandwiches.” “Whatever.” Andy and I wasted no time catching up to Ricky shortly after leaving the berm.  

Creating more noise than a heard of Elephants, we stomped through a detritus that consisted of pine needles, broken branches, twigs, and leaves. So, I guess it was a good thing we weren’t hunting. Thinking back, now I know why we rarely spotted wildlife. As we traversed the island, practicing our balancing acts on mossy covered fallen trees, we looked for the perfect place to set up basecamp. We were usually quite hasty when searching for a place to set our things down, but the truth is, we wanted to eat. As I stated early, and many males can agree, a teenage boy thinks about two things and two things only, food and girls. And in that order! Thus, basecamp meant, filling our endless gullets, taking a pee, and slinging expletives that might embarrass a sailor. God help you if you had to take a dump! Chances are, none of us brought a roll of toilet paper. You didn’t want to look for leaves! When I said pine needles and leaves, the pine needles outnumbered the leaves by a 1000 to one. To top it off, the odds of finding a leaf large enough to do the job was the difference between crapping your pants and getting your fingers a little dirty. Sorry, I have to take a moment for myself (laughing hysterically). Ok, I’m back. While writing that last sentence, it reminded me of another story that I will have to tell at a later date. I’ll give you a hint, it has to do with one of us putting our hand in a pile of crap. That’s all I can say. In other words, hitting the head before hitting the road; or water in this story, was a wise decision.

Pushing through a dense thicket, Andy leads our efforts as branch after branch slapped Ricky and I in the face. One from the left, one from the right, and another, and another, until both hands were guarding our faces, and all you could see is the other guys heals. Finally, the thicket opened into a clearing umbrellaed by three giant Evergreen Trees. The lowest branches were approximately six to seven feet off the ground and spanned some 25 to 30 feet out from the tree’s trunks. The effect was much like a cave, resembling protection and solitude. We found basecamp! Just as Andy stepped out of the thicket and under the canopy, “I think we found it.” I was quick to ask, “Found what?” Then I noticed nothing was hitting my face and hands and the brush quickly disappeared. I looked up under the shadow of the Evergreens and said, “Yah baby, let’s eat!” Ricky stepped out from behind me, “So cool. This is perfect.” I took the tree to the right, Ricky took the tree in the left, and Andy took the tree in the middle. Before I knew it, Ricky was yelling heads up as a flash of aluminum foil came hurtling at my head. At 16 years old, my cat like reflexes quickly seized the unknown object out of the air. “Thanks, do you know what kind of sandwiches she made?” Andy piped up, “I think it’s bologna and cheese.” “Bob, soda?” “Sure, toss it Ricky, but not as hard.” Ricky laughed and thankfully, lobbed it.

As the three of us sat down to eat our sandwiches and drink our sodas, Andy jumped up and grabbed a branch directly above his head. He swung his feet up and crossed his legs over the branch. Then he pulled himself up to the branch and rolled himself up and onto his belly. From there, he was able to reach up and grab the next branch and stand to his feet. Tearing the foil from my sandwich, I watched Andy climb the tree. “Holy crap, you made that look easy. How high do you think you can go? These trees have to be at least 80 to 100 feet tall.” Andy hesitated for a second, “I think I can get pretty close to the top, but I think you’re exaggerating, Bob.” “Well, they might not be that tall, but they sure look it.” Ricky watched while he stuffed his face with more than his bologna sandwich because he conveniently neglected to point out the peanut butter cookies that Nancy added to our lunch. So, he was slightly occupied. From age eight to 16 or 17, we couldn’t stay out of a tree. We liked to climb to the top of small Evergreens, swing the tops back and forth, build tree forts, and cross from one tree to another. In other words, this kind of thing was not uncommon for the three of us. “Ricky, throw me a couple of those cookies.” “Alright, hang on.”

“Ricky, these cookies taste home maid. Did your mom make these cookies?” “Andy, did Mom make the peanut butter cookies? There was silence from above as I looked up expecting him to answer, and then I heard a quite giggle, the snapping of small branches, and falling pieces of bark. I yelled up to him, “Andy, did Nancy make these cookies?” Then the giggle turned into laughter, hysterical laughter. Both Ricky and I stared up at the underside of the tree trying to figure out what was so funny. Ricky shouted, “What the heck is so funny?” And, Andy yelled back, “You will find out in a minute.” “Can you see him, Ricky?” “I can’t tell. I thought I saw his feet but I’m not sure.” “Ricky, Andy’s taking a shit, watch out!” Instantly, Andy broke into uncontrollable laughter as a large turd hit the ground directly between Ricky and me. We jumped back in absolute disgust but when the second turd, and the third turd, hit, and splattered several feet from the epicenter, we laughed until our bellies hurt, and tears flowed from our eyes. The smell was enough to drop a water buffalo! The kind of lurking putridity you cannot get away from. Ricky and I scattered into the thicket waving our hands in front of our faces and screaming for fear that the smell was going to kill us. Andy, he damn near fell out of the tree due to the weakening of his muscles from his overwhelming laughter. Fortunately, Andy made it down in one piece. I was laughing so hard I could barely stand, so I know I would have hit every branch on the way down. Lastly, that perfect basecamp, became the smelliest basecamp. So needless to say, we went looking for a basecamp without pooping trees!