The Preacher, The Poker Players and The Poppy

When I close my eyes, I no longer have visions of deer picking their way through the trees, and the voices in my head have completely stopped, but every now and then I believe I can still catch the faint scent of a mesquite campfire off in the distance.

It's been a week now since I've been home, and I continue to be haunted by the memories of my time on a ranch in Sonora, Texas.



There are places in time, I believe, that can have a profound effect on our lives; the consequences not always understood at the time. To sift through the experiences takes time, like an old tin pan, hunting for gold. You must allow for the hours and days of time to wash over the memories so that only the substantial parts remain. These you must chip away at and polish until the true treasure is revealed.

--

"I pastor a small church down in Baton Rouge," said Doug.

We're on a shuttle bus at the Dallas- Fort Worth International Airport, waiting to be taxied over to our "Buddy Holly" plane, which will take us to San Angelo. We've been telling Doug about the evening before, basically trying to justify Jeff's hangover. Doug has been egging us on, asking us about our night, telling dirty jokes and recalling recent drunken escapades of his own. In the middle of one of his stories, one that involved a stripper, a bottle of Jack Daniels and a small farm animal, he turns and notices a gentleman sitting across from us who is sitting with what can only be his daughter. On his right hand he wears a sizeable ring. Doug nods his head at the man and asks, "What kind of ring is that? Where's it from?

"University of _______," the man answers.

"Oh, I thought I saw a cross," says Doug and then without skipping a beat and with no regard to the rather colorful story he's just been telling, adds, "I pastor a small church down in Baton Rouge."

I've only met Doug minutes before and the only thing I know about him is that he used to weigh close to four hundred pounds. Since the previous year when he came on the hunting trip he had his stomach stapled and in the words of Darrell is "at least half the man he used to be." Maybe he does pastor a small church down in Baton Rouge. What do I know?

The man nods and smiles weakly. What can you really say to that? Doug turns back to us and finishes his story with a straight face and absolutely no shame whatsoever.

--

Only in a camp of men could you build a campfire like this. If there were women involved, this would almost certainly be deemed excessive and we would be asked to stop. This is a fire that gets so hot it melts beer cans and glass bottles. Now that's what I call a fire.

It gets started the day we arrive and it doesn't go out until we leave. Needles to say, we go through a lot of mesquite; at least a cord by my calculations. Maybe more. And these are not little logs. Some of them are as large around as a full-grown man. It takes a lot to get a log that large to burn. But once they're burning...

--

"What beats Four-of-a-Kind?" I ask.

"A Straight Flush," answers Jeff, then adding, "Or a Royal Flush."

"No it doesn't," argues Roger. "Nothing beats Four-of-a-Kind."

"How about Five-of-a-Kind?" asks Pat.

"How the hell can you have five?" asks Jeff.

"I've got three threes and two wild cards," says Pat.

"You can't have Five-of-a-Kind," says Jeff. "There's no such thing, wild cards or otherwise."

"Well, there ought to be," says Pat throwing his cards into the pot.

"You can't make up a hand just because there's wild cards," says Jeff.

"So, what beats Four-of-a-Kind?" I ask again.

"Ask Chris," says Roger.

Whenever we have a question about cards, we ask Chris. We used to ask the Huntmaster but he doesn't get involved in poker anymore.

Now I don't know if Chris knows more about poker than anyone else, but he strikes everyone as honest and we are willing to trust whatever he says. He has an honest face, and a wholesome Texas look. He's the kind of person that is sure to say, "Yes, sir." He's a bit quiet, but not necessarily shy. There's nothing boastful about him. You get the feeling that he'd give you his honest opinion on about just about anything if you asked, but barring you asking, he's probably not telling. He even looks like he's from Texas, which of course, he is. And on top of it all he used to be a pilot in the US Air Force or some branch of the military. And he's tall to boot. If he isn't a quintessential Texan, I don't know what is.

"Well," I ask laying down my two Queens and two wild cards. Jeff has a straight flush showing.

"You win," says Chris to me. He carefully spits into a small paper cup and rearranges his chew. "Only thing beats Four-of-a-kind," he says quietly, "is a Royal Flush."

"That's what I'm talkin' about!" I say and grab the pile of chips. "And I'm not listening to you anymore," I say to Jeff.

Jeff smiles and shakes his head and throws his cards on the table. He's not going to argue too much. He already has everyone's money.

I am having a fantastic year at the poker table. Last year, I think I lost every hand I played. I considered the money my contribution to everyone else's fun. Winning wasn't really my chief concern - which I think was obvious to everyone - having a few laughs and hearing tall tales was. The reason I've had such a good year this year is that I'm about even. I haven't really won much, but I haven't lost much either. I'm very happy about this.

--

"So there we were, down in Key West," Jeff says. He pauses trying to remember something then turns and yells, "Dad, what was the name of that bar in Key West? You know, the one that was clothing optional!"

"The Bull," calls the Huntmaster.

"Right," says Jeff with a smile, "The Bull. Anyway, it's this big bar on several floors, but the top floor is clothing optional."
Several of us are sitting around the campfire in lawn chairs drinking beer. It's a mild evening. The sky is clear, the stars brilliant, and the fire warm. So we're drinking beer and telling stories.

"So we walk into the clothing optional bar and there's Robbie, drunk out of his mind, sitting and talking to some people," says Jeff. He's already beginning to laugh and he's the one telling the story.

This is maybe my favorite thing about being in Texas. It's my second year and for the five days a year that I'm here, I laugh harder and more often than the entire rest of the year combined. Maybe I just happened to be with funny guys, but I like to believe that it's a mix of factors that allow us to drop our guard, relax and shed months of stress.

"But here's the thing," Jeff is saying. "Robbie is sitting in a chair with his pants around his ankles, shoes still on, and his shirt pulled up to his armpits. He's so drunk that in his mind, he's naked. He just wanted to fit in with everyone else. As far as he was considered, he was naked."

Jeff has slid down in his chair imitating Robbie. He's rubbing his belly and sitting with his legs spread at the knees. We're all laughing hysterically including Jeff. I have to actually get up from my seat and walk away I'm laughing so hard. I can barely breathe and I have tears coming out of my eyes. It's not just the story, it's a combination of other stories I've heard about Robbie as well. I believe every word of it.

"He looked like he was sitting on the john taking a shit!" laughs Jeff. "We asked him, 'Robbie, what the hell are you doing?'
He just smiled and rubbed his belly."

"Jus sittin ere," he slurred.

--

It's a quarter to six on Tuesday night and I'm sitting in a ground blind, a mix of pine branches and cedar limbs bound together around existing trees with baling wire. One the ground is a piece of shag carpet, put down to muffle the noise. The smell of cedar is strong. I'm sitting on an old metal folding chair, the kind you'd expect to find in a Sunday school class - just a little too short. The last of the setting sun is casting a warm, yellow light across the plains, making the normally monochromatic colors dance feverishly.

Looking out through a makeshift window, I am a voyeur to a world unknown to me. A world that is both wild, in every sense of the word, and absolutely peaceful at the same time. Not seventy yards in front of me, whitetail doe, fawn and young bucks feed and play in the dying light. A gaggle of turkeys makes it's way through like a rowdy bunch of teenagers. They storm in, startling the deer, feed haphazardly and are gone again, leaving the deer feeling self-conscious and timid. Before long, first one, then another buck, comes slowly into view. They stop, sniff the air and proceed with caution. It's a means of survival where there is no chivalry for the women and children. The young and weak are there to be sacrificed for the good of the strong. They feed easily yet warily, snorting and stomping at the slightest change in environment. They rely on their acute senses to recognize danger, but out here, in the middle of seven thousand acres, where they have little experience with man, they are less suspicious of the unknown. They have few predators and are therefore less skittish than their brethren elsewhere. If you make even a small noise, they will all stand up, perfectly still, looking in the direction of the offending sound and testing the air for strange scents. Although they can most certainly smell me, I sit perfectly still, blending in with the landscape, and the deer go back to feeding.

--

"You want him?" The Huntmaster asks.

"Sure," I say.

We're driving back to camp from our morning hunt. The Huntmaster is driving and I'm sitting in the middle with Terry riding shotgun. Terry and I each have a rifle between our legs and I have the Huntmaster's rifle and shotgun on my left. I'm also bundled up, dressed for sitting still in a ground blind for four hours in freezing temperatures. I look like the little brother from "A Christmas Story" only I'm head to toe in camouflage.

The Huntmaster is already out of the cab and is leaning over the hood with his binoculars watching the game on the plains. He's spotted a small herd of antelope with a sizeable Black Buck. Beautiful animals. They were introduced many years back from Africa or South Asia, I can't remember which, and have thrived here ever since.

They're very skittish. You only ever see them out on the plains, never in near our blinds. They like to be where they can see a long way off. Presumably they're keeping a lookout for lions or something.

As I struggle to rearrange rifles and shotguns and wedge myself out the door, I'm trying to move quickly, but with a certain grace. I don't want to do anything that might spook the game. I must be quick, yet smooth. Get out of the truck. The Huntmaster is waiting. He is not a patient man. Get out of the truck. Once out, I must chamber a round, turn and rest my rifle on the hood of the car. Get out of the truck. Don't forget the safety. Get out of the truck. Everything moves in slow motion, like I'm moving under water.

"HHHHHHOOOOOOONNNNNNKKKKKKK!!!!!"

The Huntmaster lifts eight inches off the ground. Everything is still in slow motion and I actually watch him rise off the ground, then turn toward me in midair. There's a wild look in his eyes that appears to be a cross between utter fear and primal anger. His hat leaves his head and his white hair sticks out in all directions. His lips begin to move and while I can't hear him from inside the cab, I can clearly read his lips, "S-O-N-O-F-A-B-I-T-C-H."

I look down. In my effort to get myself out of the truck on the driver's side, I have just leaned on the horn with my elbow. Of course, The Huntmaster was leaning across the hood at the time, so he got the full effect.

I don't even look behind me to see the game. I look at the Huntmaster. There is fire in his eyes and with his hair doing this unnatural thing, for a second I'm afraid he might actually drag me out of the truck, put his boot on my neck and shoot me in the back of the head.

"I guess they're gone, huh?" I whisper.

The spell is broken. He just shakes his head and bends down to pick up his hat, which is lying in the dust.

"Yup, I'd say so," he replies and climbs back in the truck.

I have to say that the rest of the ride back to camp was pretty quiet.

--

I never knew that a deer's testicles were considered a delicacy until I met Smiley. I don't know his real name but we all called him Smiley. I asked once about his name and my request was translated into rough Spanish. They told me of course, but since it had no equivalent in English, I quickly forgot it. Smiley's background was equally unclear. He was most assuredly of Mexican decent, but of some indeterminate mix, and I don't think he really understood English, but he understood me well enough, and I him.

Whenever we would come in from hunting, whoever was driving the truck would pull around back near the shed and honk the horn. Manny, along with his son-in-law and another friend I never got the name of, would come out to dress the deer. Smiley always came along.

Somewhere along the way in dressing the deer, Manny would reach down, cut the buck's testicles off and toss them to Smiley who would snatch them clean out of the air with his teeth and run away on all fours. What do you expect from a dog?

--

There are those who believe, our wives and coworkers for instance, that we rough it while at the ranch. I think I can speak for the group when I say that we're all pretty much okay with that. But the truth is, most of us are happier than pigs in shit. Rarely do I sleep so soundly, eat so well, or laugh so hard.

--

My bags are packed. I'm ready to go. It seems like it took me all day yesterday. I started out as I always do for a long trip, laying out everything on the dining room table. Jane hates this, but it's the only way I can organize everything. Then I'd walk from room to room, collecting bits and pieces. Clothes from the laundry room, gear from the attic, a knife from my desk in the office, camera, boots, almost forgot extra batteries, hat, poncho, tripod, is that thing charged up, socks, gloves, check the weather - how cold is it going to be in the morning, more socks, long underwear, check the weather again, extra sweater, did it say it was going to be near 60¡ one day, short sleeve shirt just in case, camouflage jacket and pants, sunglasses, did I pack enough socks.

And that's how my day goes. Unlike business trips, which I do every week, I'm more deliberate here. Normally, I pack in about ten minutes. Somehow this takes me all day. First, I have to account for wild swings in the weather. When we get up before dawn, the temperature will be hovering around freezing, whereas during the middle of the day, we'll likely be sitting outside getting a tan. But I hate being cold.

Take this morning for instance. I just checked the weather and it now looks like it's never even going to get below freezing. I, on the other hand, have packed enough clothes to outfit me for a polar expedition. My biggest problem will probably be that I'm dressed too warm the entire time. But I leave for the airport in two hours and I'm not about to repack. It also now says that instead of possibly one day of rain, it might rain twice. Maybe even three times. I'm not as prepared for that. I have one poncho. Not raingear or anything. If it's a steady rain, I'll most likely just get wet.

But despite all the pre-game warmup, I can't wait to go. This is the third year in a row I've been asked to go, and I've found that it is the week I most look forward to all year. I travel all over the country, to beautiful places. I stay in exquisite hotels with downy beds, wonderful service and spectacular views. I eat at the finest restaurants and drink the finest wine. I fly first class. But once a year, the place I look forward to most is a small cabin in the middle of a 7,000 square mile ranch, 90 miles off the Texas border with Mexico. I sleep on a cot in a room with eight other men, burping and farting and laughing. We drink beer around a campfire, play poker till later than we should, survive on less sleep than I need, and don't shower all week.

It's true, this is not the Ritz Carlton. There is no wine list. There is no cheese plate. There is no down comforter. But I find I am relax here more than any resort I've ever been.

I laugh more in a week in Texas, than I do the rest of the year combined. And I'm not talking about a chuckle or two. I'm talking about tears-coming-out-of-your-eyes, can't-breath laughter. The kind of laughing you did as a kid at summer camp. And with it, you can almost feel twelve months of stress melt away.

Of course there are a few side effects. By the end of the week, when I close my eyes, I really do see deer walking through the brush. And I swear I can hear the voices of my fellow campers, even when I'm all alone. It's kind of freaky. This is what comes from spending close to eight hours a day staring off into the bush. Sitting so perfectly still that by the end of the week, your shoulders are so stiff, you have trouble moving your head around.

But it's all worth it. I come home refreshed, happy, and relaxed. I never know if I'll get invited back, there's a lot of people who want to come, and I'm not the Huntmaster's only client. But what I've learned is how much I enjoy being outside, of having simple comforts, of relaxing with the company of a few good men who have become friends.

I don't know if I'll be there next year. But if I'm not, I'm going to find a few friends, and convince them that a week outdoors is just the thing we need to set everything right with the world. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be just a little better at packing.