Out of the Woods

By Mike Osterhout

Cabin fever

The ash in the woodstove contains more of my words than any file, shelf, drawer, box or local paper that gets them for 20 bucks a week, three times a month. Stories, mostly true, of hunts gone wrong, love affairs in all their lurid detail, poems and songs that fail to hit the mark, and the odd letter to the editor that never made it to the post office, goose hot embers to flame. These very words may warm me later in the day. We’ll see.

At the mouth of the new millennium, a self-deprecating disclaimer as to the limitations of my ability can be seen as merely a device to lure you in, lowering your expectations to the point I can slip in ground-round and call it veal. Let me assure you I have no such desire to deceive. My intent is merely to point out two facts—I throw out way more than I keep, and my house is cold. I may suck as a writer, but I’ll never admit it.

So here I sit. It’s March, and goddamned if this winter will let up enough to even anticipate the trees budding or the river ice busting. I’ve seen worse, but solace in colder memories offers no respite when a quarter-inch of ice covers the car, and more is coming. A skunk blew off under the house and the place smells like burnt plastic. I set a trap with a piece of anchovy pizza but, as of this morning, no luck. This “sign of spring” I can do without.

My cat disappeared around New Year’s. Last week, another one showed up. I named him Monkey Balls and let him in the house. We’re still in the trial stage of the relationship. After all, we hardly know one another. I, for one, am not much of a cat person. My previous cat, Kali, was never even let in the house. I guess I’m getting soft in my old age. M.B. has made himself right at home. I’m sure he thinks it’s gonna work out.

I continue to commute to the city to earn money pounding nails, but the glamour quotient is rather low these days. No movie stars or ex-football players are on the horizon. My skills are being wasted on the rich who need their sash locks tightened or trusses knifed. I will admit I suck as a carpenter but no one seems to care. Today I just couldn’t face it. I stayed under the covers until the cat attacked my head for the third time. I made an excuse to the boss and handcuffed myself to the typewriter. The only thing worse than working is not working. (I don’t consider writing work. Work, you get paid for.) I have to stop myself from tossing this in the stove.

By mid-afternoon, I have a half page written. It’s mostly bitching over my sorry plight. Gone are the glib anecdotes of past adventures or insightful tips for the novice. I’m stewing in my own juices. Self-doubt and pity hang like smoke in the air. Wait a minute…that is smoke. The stovepipe has caught fire and rancid smoke is filling the house. I shut down the flue and open the doors. Someday I’ll buy a furnace and put in some heat. My shrink thinks that I think that I’m not worthy. I think that I think I’m just broke. I tell her that if I didn’t pay her, I could afford a heating system. Sanity or heat? Heat or sanity? I put on another sweater and wonder how much I was spanked as a child. I gotta blame somebody.

When the smoke clears, I get back to it. Trout season opens April first. Turkey season opens May first. Now that I’ve got that out of the way, let me tell you what it’s like to be me: a slightly unhinged artist, theologian, hunting guide and outdoor writer who couldn’t publish his way out of a paperback. (For you first-time readers, I suggest picking up a couple of back—or future—issues of The River Reporter to understand just who you’re dealing with here.) The rest of you, lean in a little closer. I’m a fake, a fraud, a faux-folksy figment of my own imagination. Hell, I should be out fishing through the ice or tracking critter right now. Instead, I’m smoking cigarettes, quaffing a cold one and banging out this bullshit on the Selectric. I don’t deserve you readers. You should stop right here and read Clem Fullerton. I’m sure he goes fishing and seems relatively stable.

The truth is... Forget the truth. I can’t handle the truth. The way I see it, I have no right to be writing a column in this lovely small town newspaper, staffed by caring professionals who are dedicated to bringing you a quality product. I light another smoke and look at Monkey Balls for some clue as to what he’s thinking. He nods in agreement. He knows I’m not worthy. Leave it to a cat to be honest.

So that’s it. Spring may be coming, but don’t count on it. I’m burnt out. The neighbor’s llamas (both males) are humping each other, and the anchovy pizza awaits Mr. Skunk. If I was worth my salt I’d have found any number of sheds, have a couple of coyote pelts hanging and May would be booked with clients who wanted to turkey hunt. But you know better. Maybe I can review movies? Oh my gawd! What’s that smell?