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It's a Male Thing

It's a Male Thing

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Published by Siggy Buckley
It reminded me too much of my farm experience, or even worse....Yet the men ah a ball.No pun intended.
It reminded me too much of my farm experience, or even worse....Yet the men ah a ball.No pun intended.

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Published by: Siggy Buckley on Jun 15, 2010
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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It’s a Male ThingThey converge on the log cabin in the Cascade Mountains from differentdirections. For Chuck and Sam who live in Seattle and Vancouver respectively, it’s a shorter trek than for my husband, Dave, who hauled infrom Florida. Long-standing mates from college days, their convention inthe hills of Washington, ca.150 miles east of Seattle, has become a ritualover the last two decades.For the last 20 miles, the country road that meandered into the mountainsbecomes a mere dirt track, grated sporadically by National Forest workers.“I knew it would be a good idea to rent an SUV,” Dave says as our car isbobbing along. “This time of year you never know what state the path is in.”My back appreciates it.Occasional glimpses through cloud high fir trees on either side of the roadreveal a steep berm on the left, the driver’s side. In winter when the snoweasily reaches 12 feet, in can only be reached by snowmobile.At the entrance of Cascadia a bridge built of old wooden railway trackscrosses a river several feet wide. “Chuck and Sam must be here already,”Dave explains. “Normally the gate is chained.”After a manly embrace, accompanied by some backslapping and "Howhave you been’s" three grown-up, Ivy League educated boys plunge intoeach other’s comfortable company in a former mining camp that onceproduced ore and copper. Dave’s friends jointly bought the hideaway manyyears ago and named it Cascadia.For a few days, the men indulge in every boy’s dream of the Wild West. I,the new wife invited for the first time, lack the true pioneer’s spirit. Insteadof being overwhelmed by the sheer breathtaking scenery of the site, myfemale sensitivity foremost registers mousetraps by the door, dead bugs onthe floor, cobwebs, and damp cold permeating the rooms. For me it’sindoor camping. Bedrooms are Spartan, with either bunk beds or DIY jobsmade of roughly hewn timber planks with sleeping bags lacking any charm.A film of dust is sitting on every surface; the kitchen table shows traces of mouse droppings.Within minutes Chuck, Sam, and Dave, equipped with beer cans and asmoke, settle on the porch overlooking the creek and the valley beyond.Their individual corporate American identities have been left behind incivilization at the foot of the mountains.The old timber lodge becomes alive again. A propane BBQ grill, idle for toolong, welcomes T-bone steaks the size of trash can lids and corn on thecob. Night falls and the air is filled with smoke and unknown sounds.Mosquitoes start to visit and also critters on four legs, judging from the

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