We drove to the campground. The entrance sign was riddled with bullet holes. We found a camp site ten feet from the creek and made camp as we drank cans of Rainier. We put the rest of the beer and pints in the creek. I paid the camping fee by stuffing cash into an envelope and sliding the envelop into a metal contraption.

It was getting hot. We toured the campground on foot and saw a few other sites occupied. We saw a trail that led around a wall of rocks and took it. The trail ended a hundred feet later at little clearing. Down below was a swimming hole off the creek’s main channel. The swimming hole was surrounded on three sides by large flat rocks.

The swimming hole was vacant. I saw a man fishing from a rock. A couple dozen empty beer cans lay strewn on the ground. I smelled vomit. I also noticed a rope tied to a trunk of a tree. The rope was long and extended into the channel of the creek, downstream of the swimming hole. I couldn’t see what the rope held but the line was taut. There had to be something big at the end.

We worked our way down to the swimming hole to check it out. We passed more empty beer cans. I saw a pile of vomit off to the side.

The fisherman hailed us with a warm greeting. He directed our attention downstream. An obese woman wearing a bikini was flat on her back in an inner tube. The inner tube lifted here and there, spun this and that way in the current. The rope was tied around her and the inner tube. She appeared dead.

The man informed us, smiling, that his wife was passed out drunk in the inner tube. He’d dragged her by the feet to the bank. She was too large for him to move ashore so he roped her off and would let her float until she sobered up enough to walk out. “Fat bitch on a rope,” he said laughing. We laughed, too.

We did not tarry at the swimming hole. We returned to our camp ground and started drinking more beer and cracked open one of the chilled pints blackberry brandy. Someone got a fire going and we prepped for hot dogs and chili. We sat around a picnic table and began recounting what had transpired so far on our camping trip. It was two hours old.

The first pint didn’t last long. We killed it washing down lunch. As we ate, we took turns mimicking Todd’s immortal Oregon introduction. We cracked open the other pint and the creek beckoned. A previous camper had left behind an inner tube. One of us picked it up and jumped into the creek. He climbed aboard and rode the current for a hundred yards and then came ashore.

We took turns repeating this recreational activity for the rest of the drunken afternoon. One of us floated down hoisting the pint. One of us crashed into a rock and emerged from the water with a watermelon-sized bruise on his chest. The inner tube was lost on that run and that ended the fun.

Dinner was another meal of hot dogs and chili. We fell asleep at dusk. The next morning our friend and his girlfriend showed up in his red VW Beetle. They found us slightly hungover and whipping up a breakfast of bacon and eggs over the fire.

They pitched their tent next to us and we decided to caravan up a logging road to visit a mountain lake. The Beetle led the way. My Valiant followed and occasionally scraped bottom on potholes.

It was a short drive. We saw a sign for the lake. It was riddled with bullet holes. We turned off the graveled logging road to another road, dirt and rutted. I wasn’t sure if the Valiant could handle it. We drove about 50 yards and came to a clearing. The lake was another 50 yards away.

There was a beat up travel trailer and an old pickup off to the side of the clearing. Scattered around the trailer were approximately 200 empty beer cans, most punctured by bullets. We parked near the pickup because there was no place else to park.

We exited our cars. A man emerged from the trailer. He was in his 40s, mustachioed, wearing a ball cap, and resembled a blob. He carried a revolver in his right hand. It pointed downward. He walked over to us and introduced himself as Henry. We forgot all about the lake.

In short order, we learned: Henry’s old lady had kicked him out. He towed his trailer here to drink and forget her. He’d been here for several days. He was out of beer and food but too drunk to drive into town.

As he talked, the revolver remained at his side. Then Henry raised the revolver and asked me to take it from him. He said he didn’t trust himself. I took the revolver. It was the first time I’d ever held a firearm.

Henry looked at our friend’s girlfriend and said, without any hint of humor or irony, “You sure have a purty mouth.”

She didn’t respond.

Henry asked for the revolver back. I briefly considered throwing it as far as I could. I reminded him that he didn’t trust himself. Henry said he’d changed his mind.

I handed him the revolver. Henry asked our friend if he could catch a ride up to the main road. He wanted to hitchhike into town. Our friend said no and directed his girlfriend toward the VW. They got in and puttered away, but not before Henry raised his revolver, aimed, and said with no hint of humor or irony, “I’ll put a bullet in it.”

He didn’t shoot. He lowered the revolver and turned to me and asked if I could give him a ride to the road. I said sure. He stashed the revolver in the trailer and then squeezed in the back seat. I thought there was no way in hell the Valiant would navigate the rutted dirt road with his added bulk.

Henry talked as I drove but I don’t remember a word he said. The Valiant somehow made it out and we dropped Henry off near the entrance to the campground. He thanked me for the lift and then stuck his thumb out and started walking toward Estacada.

Back at the campground, it was hamburgers, potato salad and cracklin’ cold Rainiers for lunch. All we could talk about was Henry. We did “purty mouth” impressions over and over. We agreed I should have tossed the revolver or shot him.

Dusk was approaching. Someone came up with an idea: let’s hike back to Henry’s camp site and see what the hell was going on! It would be a secret mission and we’d drink Rainier in the course of the mission. Someone mentioned the revolver. He was ignored. One of us speculated that Henry might have pulled a Papa Hemingway in Ketchum with the revolver.

We headed out. We were tipsy and playing like army scouts and issuing ridiculous orders. Fifteen minutes later we stood where Henry’s trailer used to rest. It was gone. The beer cans were not. How in the world he managed to make it to Estacada, get a ride back to his site, hitch up the trailer and tow it away was impossible for us to conceive. Where was he going?

That night around the campfire we told Henry stories and drank the last of the beer.

We roused to life just after first light. It was Sunday morning and time to return to Portland and get on with whatever we were doing.

Several of us took a last dip in the creek to wake up and wash out a hangover. We broke camp and took a final walk around the campground and were surprised to find it full. We hadn’t noticed all that many campers checking in Saturday, but then again, we weren’t paying attention.

We were loading the gear into the Valiant when a battered and sagging luxury sedan from the 70s pulled up alongside. It was Todd and gang! Todd jumped out of the passenger seat holding a beer and asked if we were leaving. We said yes and the campground was all theirs. Todd was overjoyed. A woman appearing anywhere between 40 and 70 years old in appearance was asleep in the back seat. A kid of eight or nine was there, as was the one-armed man. He exited the car holding a beer. He said to the kid, “Billy, get the fucking wood out of the trunk and get a fire going.”

Billy climbed out the sedan and headed toward its rear.

And with that, we got in the Valiant and drove away toward Estacada. Ten minutes later, the sedan blew by us on seven-degree downhill grade with all its windows open. Todd was driving. One-armed man was riding shotgun. The younger man was slumped in the back seat. All were drinking beer. Rock music blared from the vehicle. Todd was whooping and hollering, pounding the horn, and they all waved at us. One-armed man threw some cans out the window and then gave us a salute. I think they actually liked us.

We reached Estacada in 20 minutes. It was just past nine. Why not hit the Fir Grove for a final draft, maybe shoot some pool, and recount the inexplicable insanity we’d just experienced the last 48 hours?

There is nothing like telling a great story right after it happens!

We pulled up in front of the tavern. The sedan was there and we relished its appearance. We entered and the trio was drinking beer at the bar hosted by the same bartender.

Todd turned, stood up, and waved at us. I said, “I thought you guys were going camping?”

He smiled his toothless smile and said, “We’re camping right here!”

One-armed man said, “We left the bitch and kid back at the campground.”

We drank our drafts and sat with our backs to the walls, talking quietly. I strained to hear what the miscreants were jawboning about at the bar. The conversation was turning feisty and the bartender refilled their glasses and forked out some pickled grotesqueries for breakfast: tiny sausages and boiled eggs. He dipped a sausage in a beer and then smelled it like a fine cigar. Then he ate it whole.

How was that for a story?

It was the late 80s, a summer, and we were living dirt cheap in Portland, fueled on our hatred of Ronald Reagan and hero worship of Hunter S. Thompson. Our sole source of entertainment consisted of getting drunk in dive downtown bars and seeing a style of rock and roll that mainstream media was soon to label Grunge. We were of the city and had no knowledge or interest in what happened in the country. We knew nothing of Oregon. We all had college degrees and almost no association with people who didn’t.

Why and how we decided to go camping for a weekend is long lost to me now. I think we borrowed the necessary gear or bought it for a song at garage sales. Why we chose Fish Creek Campground in the Mt Hood National Forest is also long lost to me. We somehow procured a map of the area’s campgrounds and it revealed Fish Creek as primitive campground with about a dozen sites, first come, first serve, vault toilets, hand pump water, no power. Perhaps we chose it because it was a mere hour drive from Portland and cost two bucks a night! What is certain: none of us had ever seen it before and knew nothing of its typical campers.

We drove to the campground in my 1975 sky blue Plymouth Valiant with an “Impeach Bush” bumper sticker. A mix tape was playing on a cassette player. I still have the tape. It’s titled “Get Into the Valiant and Raise Hell.”

The idea was to shop for supplies in Estacada, drive 20 miles up the Clackamas River into the woods, find the campground, choose a site, make camp and then drink a lot of alcohol in nature, hang out by the creek, skip rocks, perhaps jump in, start a camp fire, roast hot dogs, heat up a can chili on the grill, and talk about whatever came up, probably something political or profane.

It was the four of us. Another camper and his girlfriend would join us a day later.

We left Portland around ten in the morning. The forecast called for sunshine and temperatures in the high 80s.

Traffic was non existent because there was no traffic anywhere in Portland then. We found a podunk grocery store in Estacada and bought supplies, including firewood, and multiple cases of Hamm’s and Rainier. We wanted to hit the liquor store but it didn’t open until noon. Thus, we had time to burn so why not have a beer in the Fir Grove Tavern across the street? It had been open since seven!

This was the first time any of us had ever entered a rural Oregon tavern. It was roughly triple the size of Thoreau’s cabin. It was built like a log cabin. A pool table dominated the room. There was a small wooden bar with several stools. A few chairs with their backs up against walls surrounded the pool table on three sides. The floor was sawdust. There was a jukebox in a corner. The tavern served no liquor, only draft beer. There were two beers on tap: Hamm’s and Budweiser. The tavern served no real food: only chips and large jars of pickled grotesqueries. A 12-ounce draft of Hamm’s cost 85 cents. Budweiser, $1.25. We weren’t carded.

No one paid any attention to us as we entered and walked up to the bar. We ordered three drafts of Hamm’s. I paid with a sawbuck and told the elderly bartender to keep the change. He didn’t say a word.

Two bearded men were playing pool and playing it loudly. They were anywhere from 40 to 70 years old in appearance. One had his right arm missing and was playing with his left. They were drinking two beers at a time. Another man, younger, clean shaven, sat at the bar. The bartender stood behind the bar and talked to him.

We founds chairs and took seats. The pool table was three feet away. There was no way not to watch the game because anyone sitting in a chair had to move on virtually every other shot so a player could execute a shot. It was also impossible not to engage in conversation with the pool players because of close proximity.

In short order, we learned: the two older men had been released from the county jail that very morning. We didn’t learn the reason for their incarceration. They were violating the terms of their release by drinking beer and visiting a tavern. The younger man had picked the duo up at the jail and driven them to Estacada. They, too, were waiting for the liquor store to open. They, too, were heading to the Fish Creek Campground. Their “bitch” and her kid were waiting in the car and would be camping with them as well.

One of the man frequently used the N-word, which I had never heard used in private or public before. The one-armed man said he’d “learnt” how to play one-armed, left-handed pool in jail. He once had been a decent two-handed pool player and well, he lost his right arm and had to start all over. We didn’t learn how he’d lost the arm. At one point, the man with two arms and no teeth introduced himself: “Hi, my name’s Todd, I was born in Todd Lake, Oregon, I love banging beaver and I live in Oregon City. It don’t get no more Oregon than that!” We agreed.

We sipped our drafts and watched the men play. We commented on their good shots and listened to their banter. The only thing I recall of it was how they both learned to play chess in jail.

The liquor store opened. We said goodbye and Todd remarked how we might see each other at the campground. In the liquor store we bought two pints of cheap blackberry brandy and I have no idea why we chose that brand.

From Henry David Thoreau’s journal, March 13, 1841:

I like better the surliness with which the woodchopper speaks of his woods, handling them as indifferently as his axe, than the mealy-mouthed enthusiasms of the lover of nature.

What is a short story? Why do writers write them? Why are some published in prestigious or obscure magazines and others rejected? Why are yarns and tales generally unpublished? Who actually reads short stories in magazines? I don’t because generally they’re opaque and boring.

Why isn’t a great story you’ve lived or heard and written up exactly as it unfolded and devoid of any conscious literary technique (craft) whatsoever worthy of publication? Isn’t a great story enough? They are in dive bars, around a campfire, or behind bars.

For example, what story would you rather read: one about the nuances of a dissolving marriage or alienated teenager or this one (which is also true):

We were sitting in a tiny tavern overlooking the Rogue River near Gold Beach. The tavern was full, meaning ten people, all drinking cheap beer. The subject of ospreys came up because several of us looked out a window and saw one fly past with a fish in its beak. Gary recalled a time when he was scouring the hull of his boat in his driveway and he heard a thunk and the boat rattled. He looked up and saw an osprey soaring overhead. He looked inside the boat and saw a black snapper on the deck. The osprey had dropped it. Gary cleaned the fish and fried it up for lunch.

Gary had another osprey story. He was dating some woman and she had invited a tree hugger friend over to Gary’s house. An osprey dropped a lamprey eel on the lawn. It was still alive! Gary wanted to grill it up right then and there but the tree hugger insisted he put the lamprey in a bucket of water and dump it back in the river. Gary complied.

Another man in the tavern then launched into a story about an osprey dropping an eel on someone’s deck not far from the tavern. They ate it for supper.

Tom the bartender interjected with his osprey-dropping-something-from-the-sky story. He said a woman living up the road was weeding in her garden when an osprey dropped a five-pound steelhead and hit the woman on the back of the head. “It plowed her into the fucking ground, knocked her out cold. She had to go to the hospital!”

He didn’t know if they barbecued the steelhead. They probably did. Why wouldn’t you?

How about I tell you a story in print here, a story with no plot, only characters, set in a quintessential Oregon setting, about multiple bizarre incidents that occurred some 35 years ago over a drunken weekend in a campground that no longer exists? This story has no metaphor or a larger theme waiting to be sluiced into golden revelation. It’s just a helluva story with Oregon miscreants at its terrifying and entertaining core.