Counting Salmon - Part 2, The Cabin

The one-room cabin, about sixteen feet square, with bunk beds built into three walls, sufficed as our home. The “kitchen counter” ran along the front wall to the right of the door. A two-burner Coleman sat on the countertop next to the canned food, and a curtain covered the cookware on the lower shelf. A small kerosene stove sat in the corner next to the counter. A tea kettle sitting on top served as our water heater.

The cabin was not insulated so the interior temperature seldom rose much above that outside. When we were both in the cabin one of us sat huddled over the stove, while the other lay in his sleeping bag - each with his nose in a book. A small window in each wall lighted the cabin‘s interior, and a couple Coleman lanterns added heat and more light for reading.

There are those who might describe me as somewhat reserved, not much inclined for talk, but compared to George Carnes I was a motor-mouth. This taciturn man, a recent veteran of Vietnam, had almost nothing to say. He was friendly, and we got along, but he seldom communicated, and we parted, two months later, as near strangers. It might have been that he was still coming to terms with his war experience. I don’t know. We never discussed that. Most exchanges that summer were to the point, usually dealing with the business at hand, and except for the Fourth of July we never got into any deep philosophical discussions.

Arnold (Arnie) Shawl, our supervisor, asked what sort of libation we preferred for the Independence Day celebration. We each selected a fifth of booze though I no longer recall the types - maybe whiskey and rum. Both of us consumed our fifth that day, and proceeded to fill the Fourth with gravid conversations of profound meaning. The exchange lasted till the wee hours of morning, but the specific nature of our discourse managed to escape me by the time I roused from blurry eyed slumber the next day.
GO TO: Part 3, The Set-up