Sonja and I both got off work early for the Labour Day long weekend. Sonja's early getaway was arranged with her boss; mine was arranged by a mid-day illness which I cured with a couple cold beers during the drive home from the sawmill.
My foreman, who is quickly dying, like the rest of us, from the stress associated with working for a company going broke faster than a politician can dream up new lies, burst a few veins in his forehead when I told him I had to go home. "You aren't sick you dirty fucking cunt! Five guys already phoned in this morning! Fuck me! Do none of you cocksuckers give a shit? You better be in on Tuesday morning or I'll have you hauled up on the carpet!" I was not going to report for work on Tuesday morning either. Sonja and I had a cabin overlooking Little Dimples Lake booked with Hunky Z and Kitty for four nights. There are some things more important than working. Going fishing and getting bombed are two of them.
My appointment on the carpet with my company's human resources asshole will go something like this:
Human Resources Asshole - "Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah!"
Voice in Head of Unreliable Employee Who Likes To Drink a Lot of Beer - "You can give me all the motherfucking letters in the world you snivelling shit. We both know I'll be retired or this company will be long fucking gone before any of your written warnings will get me fired. So why don't you shut the fuck up and let me get back to work before I think up a new way to piss you off?"
When I arrived home from the mill Sonja and the Hammer were ready to hit the road. Sonja kissed me and said, "It's the weekend!" The Hammer licked me and wished she could have said, "I hope I get to eat some bear shit again!" I opened a beer, changed into my camping gear, drank the beer and joined them in our old car. The sawmill and rest of the world could fuck right off and die - we were headed to the mountains of Canada.
We stopped to eat along the way. We had drinks, cold beers and red wine. Sonja ate the sort of shit you see women order all the time - salad and more salad. It is no wonder women outlive men. I ate a homemade hamburger so big it would, once digested, later knock an outhouse off its foundation. Our waitress, a cute country girl who made sure I did not go beerless, was showing off the top three quarters off a baby blue thong. Thongs are a fetching article of clothing. She would later buy a bag of good weed with the tips the truckers and travellers left her that day.
The police used put a lot of men on highway patrol but now they have other priorities, mostly Prohibition-related, the results of which make it look like all they are doing is fuck-all, to concern themselves too much about people like me who learned how to drive with their drunk father in the instructor seat so I was able to get us to our weekend before dark.
Hunky and Kitty had already spent a night in the cabin and were barely coherent as they welcomed us to the country. Hunky was drinking Ironhorse and a half empty bottle of Glen Breton in the cabin window attracted my attention. Kitty successfully sold Sonja on the merits of drinking box Australian wine. "Those Aussie fuckers can't make a decent beer but they can sure make wine."
The weather turned out to be miserable for fishing (cold wind and rain) so we spent a lot of time playing cards, playing Scrabble and drinking. A woodstove warmed us and the food we ate. The resort's hand pumped water well was within sight of our front window. It was mainly the women in the surrounding campsites and cabins who collected the water. Hunky and I like watching them pump the water. The female form is best appreciated when the female is hard at work, pumping. "Here comes another one." "And she's got a really big water jug!" "I wish I had a water pump in my front yard at home."
Even though the weather was bad I still got out and explored the backwoods with my dog. She could smell Canada's still abundant wildlife but she never did get close to any. I saw a couple deer in the distance, they may well have been apparitions, in the swirling darkness before moonrise. The mountains are still leathery brown with beetle kill timber where they have not burned to the ground in this hottest of all western summers. The recent rains did provide the ingredients for a pot of camper's tea. Wood mushrooms were as common as pine cones once were. It was just a matter of time until I found what I was looking for. "Look at that Hammer!" The Devil's spotted red fruit rising from the forest floor.
Perhaps now would be a good time for my first and hopefully last citation of William Shakespeare. The First Murderer in MacBeth was right about the rain: Let it come down, motherfuckers.
On Sunday night I hit the Shitface Jackpot just like lots of other Canadians on the last long weekend before winter. Self-medication is a wonderful thing. I added the letters F-U-C-K to the word MOTHER for a triple word score. I still came last in the game. That will happen when you get too fucked up and concentrate harder on the women at the water pump than the game you are playing.
Anyhow, it is fall. Bring on Christmas!