Out of the Woods

By Mike Osterhout

The light of day

There’s a big spread of venison marinated just so, fryed up rare and sliced thin, smoked trout and turkey, fresh salad and even a few squirrels broiled in garlic laid out on the kitchen table. The squirrels (who had been wrecking havoc with the bird feeder) received a last minute invitation via .22.

Everything looked perfect. I had toiled all day assembling this spread, so I took a moment to soak it in and check last minute details. I lit a cigar, leaned back in my chair and basked in the cornucopias display. The squash would need another 20 minutes in the oven, I reminded myself as I uncorked a sassy little red with just a hint of arrogance. The guests would be arriving soon.

I had recently returned from fly fishing for sword fish off the coast of Isle de Mujeres in Mexico. My shoulders ached from the action and I nursed a slight sunburn on my nose. Still, the memory of the past couple of weeks went far in helping me cope with the sub-zero temperature and two feet of snow I had waiting for me. Opening the front door I blew a cloud of smoke into the frigid night and listened. Two coyotes were carrying on a conversation of yips and howls across the river. I checked my Rolex. Where was everyone? Then I spotted headlights coming up the drive.

The first to arrive were my old friend and editor of Paper magazine, David, his wife Brigitte and their little girl Esther. They had abandoned their old Woodstock haunts for the more convenient and suddenly hipper climes of Sullivan County. They parked their big shiny SUV and came in from the cold. Kiss-kiss. The next to arrive was my new friend, Kate Moss, and a bevy of her waifish friends, who also disembarked from another big, shiny SUV. Kiss-kiss. Kiss-kiss. By the time my stogey was no more than a stub, most everyone had arrived and the party was in full wing. There was John and Mario, Sal, Larry, Butch and Colleen, Ray and Lillian, Bob and Rose, Mr. Jaffee, Jackie, Yoko, Bill and Hillary, my ex-wife, John Belushi ...wait a minute...what the?

I suddenly woke up in a cold sweat. The house was dark and freezing cold. It took a minute to get my bearings. I looked at the alarm clock. It was 5:30 a.m. The fire must have gone down during the night. The kitchen tiles were so cold my feet stuck as I headed for the stove. The thermometer read 27 degrees Fahrenheit—and that was inside. I went into the bathroom and realized that I had forgotten to bail the tub. (The drain had been frozen up for two weeks). It was frozen solid. A half eaten slice of pizza lay obscenely on the coffee table, frost forming on the edges of the triangle. I stirred the ashes in the wood stove, praying for a hot coal. A pile of pistachio shells and last week’s River Reporter coached the fire to life. By first light the house had begun to warm. A mouse slid across the dirty bath water in the tub.

The day dawned cloudy, the sky the color of the bath. A wind snapped the tarp half covering the wood pile, as if in warning against venturing any farther than that pile. My plan was to bundle up in snow cammo and go after a pack of coyotes that I knew were running on the back ridge above the river. As I nursed my coffee my mind wandered back to the luxuriously pleasing vacation from reality of my early morning vision. Maybe it was the pizza and pistachios or the half pint of Jack. Either way I wanted nothing more than to crawl back in bed and indulge my subconscious in fly fishing junkets and model parties. The wood pile tarp cracked like a rifle, forcing me to accept the light of day.

Slowly, deliberately, I gathered my gear—rabbit squealer calls, battery-powered speaker, walkman, 50-foot cable, an assortment of predator tapes (bleating fawn, dying turkey, feeding crows, etc.), .243 cal. rifle and shells, furry red fox decoy, and as many layers of clothing as I could drape on my skinny frame. Stuffing the wood stove with oak, I wrestled an old pair of white coveralls over my layers and waddled out the door. Freezing cold, up to my knees in snow, the wind whipping all around me, I could think only one thought: What was Kate Moss doing at this moment?