Burning through the trunk of a giant tree in the middle of the woods was the plan, and it seemed logical. We had only one problem: Neither of us had any matches. In hindsight it was an incredibly lucky turn of events; had we been packing a handful of strike any-wheres this story might have an even more horrible ending.
It's truly amazing how many close calls I've lived to reminisce about.
We briefly entertained the idea of rubbing sticks together, but both of us had sore arms already and it didn't sound too appealing. Instead we did the honorable thing: We gave up, decided that a raft made out of smaller logs would work even better, and went to look for some less stodgy trees. We must have unconsciously realized that hauling logs through the woods without the help of a skidder, tractor, team of oxen, horses, sleds or even a rope would probably prove more daunting a task than we were prepared to endure, because the next tree we chose was much more reasonable.
At least our subconscious selves had an ounce of latent smarts.
My hatchet sang its joyful melody of destruction as we took turns slowly chipping through our new tree, and when it fell to the earth with a resounding "whoomp" it was both a glorious testament to our perseverance and a depressing reminder that we still had to cut it up into manageable lengths and haul it out of the woods.
It was at this point that we decided that it would take more than one day to build our raft. We adjourned, and re-convened a few days later. Chip brought his bow-saw, which instantly rendered all our work with the hatchet completely irrelevant. It took no time at all to saw that tree into oblivion.
Soon limbs littered the area, all of which were miraculously from the tree. Three logs of approximately equal length lay side by side, looking rather pleasingly like a raft, albeit a narrow, crooked one. It looked enough like a raft for us to want to take it for a test drive. Even as knuckle-headed as we were, we knew that it would be too heavy to lift once it was together, so we maneuvered the logs to the landing area down by the swamp.
Attaching the logs together was no trouble at all. I had in my possession a giant metal trash can filled with natural clay that Chip, Sean and I had hauled with great difficulty from a stream-bed some months ago, and when the stuff dried it was hard as cement. We tied the logs together with bailing twine, then worked wet clay into the cracks. Confident in our genius, we sat back triumphantly to watch the sun dry it from a soggy dark mess into a sturdy raft of unprecedented awesomeness.
It didn't take long to dry, maybe an hour or two, and we wasted no time once it had. We pushed it into the swamp. The wood was wet and heavy, and with the added weight of the clay the raft barely floated; the tops of the logs hovered about a quarter of an inch above the surface. That was enough to satisfy me, and I promptly volunteered to climb aboard for the maiden voyage. I was confident. I didn't even take off my shoes.
When I stepped on the raft it immediately sank to the bottom of the swamp, leaving me standing up to my waist in water. An army of recently hatched tadpoles scattered like a handful of marbles that had been dropped on a tile floor. The clay, which had in no way been treated, fired, cured or even given a second thought, rapidly dissolved into a cloud of gray that spread as if trying to escape from me, leaving only a few bits of bailing twine holding the logs together.
I tried to retain my balance, which amounted to waving my arms and shuffling my feet like a lunatic as my foothold became increasingly tenuous. The log in the middle, where both of my feet rested, stayed in the mud on the bottom of the swamp. The two on the sides broke free of the clay, but not the twine. They tried to float, but held down as they were, they came together and clamped around my legs like the claws of some giant fresh-water lobster from the Jurassic period. I was completely unable to move my feet, which caused me to pitch unceremoniously face-first into the water.
Much thrashing around and underwater gymnastics were required before I came up, sputtering and covered in clay-saturated, slimy, gray water. I felt like a booger covered in pigeon poop, and probably looked about as lovely.
Chips look of concern was almost indistinguishable behind his maniacal laughter.
We pulled the three logs, which had until so recently been a raft, from the bosom of the swamp and surveyed the scene. Not so much as a scrap of clay had stayed stuck to the logs, it was as if we had only brought them swamp-side to wash them. I, on the other hand, had wads of clay in my pockets and was slimy from bowl-cut to toe.
The clay, as we discovered, reeked like rotten fish and cucumber-farts when it became saturated with swamp water, and had seen fit to pass that smell along to me. I showed up on the porch stinking like a car trunk full of catfish on a hot day. My mother spotted me through the window and made it clear that I was not to enter the house on pain of death. Instead I stood on the lawn while she hosed me off at full water pressure from a safe distance. She threw me a pair of shorts with instructions to go find something constructive to do until I was dry.
I knew exactly what to do. There was a ten or twenty year old junk pile next to the swamp that was absolutely riddled with rusty nails. Somewhere in the depths of that pile was the carcass of an old television, with wires and circuit boards and all sorts of good stuff poking out of it. Chip and I had eyed it hungrily on several occasions.
If ever there was a time to go investigate, this was it.
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Part I
