Relax.

This is the crawdad catching creek. Note the front half of a bicycle suspended on the old bridge cable. It’s been hanging there for nearly thirty years, since my son and his friends put it up and used it as a launch for swimming in the muddy creek.

Settin’ Hen
My brothers told me this story many years ago. They claim now that they don’t remember the incident, so I’m sure they’ll be grateful that I do:

Joe’s telephone rang. “Hello.”

“Hey, Joe. I need you to drive up to Spirit Lake and get the tractor this morning.”

“What happened, Elmer? I thought you were bringing the tractor home last night.”

“I was, but a chicken attacked me and took a chunk out of my finger. I wound up in emergency getting it sewed up.

“A chicken?” Joe choked on his coffee.

“You’ll see for yourself when you get there. Be careful now – she’s settin’ a nest up there someplace.”

Joe could hear the grin in Elmer’s voice as he hung up.

The remote logging job at Spirit Lake, Idaho had kept them vigilant for cougar and bear all summer. There was a log house about a mile from the job, but Joe didn’t remember seeing a chicken coop there.

The job site looked peaceful when he arrived an hour later at five A.M. Temporary dirt roads and slash piles stood testament to the job that had been done. Early morning light cast shadows among the trees that remained, and birdsong echoed up the mountainside. Joe smirked as he hooked the trailer to his truck. Attack chicken? Bullshit. Still, he was wary since he and Elmer had a long history of reciprocating practical jokes.

The diesel tractor would need to warm up, so after starting the engine, Joe scouted the area. All quiet. He took leather gloves from the jockey box and pulled them on, feeling foolish.

Climbing up into the seat, he put the tractor in gear and began to lurch forward when a shrill screech erupted behind him. Slamming the gears into neutral, he twisted around. In the open wooden tool box behind the seat a hard-eyed Rhode Island Red slowly raised a talon while telescoping her neck until the feathers stood apart. Her leathery, red waddle jiggled furiously from the aftershock. Fired by adrenalin and aggravation, Joe stood and threw the hen from the tractor. She flew a short distance, then began high-stepping the perimeter of the clearing, growling like a dog. Joe gathered the eggs from the tool box and placed them in his cap, jumped down and ran to the nearest brush pile to lay the improvised nest in place. Heart pounding, he loaded the tractor and escaped, his bare head prickling with imagined wounds from the bear claw-like beak.

He’d calmed down by the time he met up with his brother. In fact, he had to admire Elmer for setting him up with the truth. Inflecting a measure of sarcasm into his tone, Joe said “That was real nice of you, Elmer, letting me know where she had that nest.”

Elmer took the bandages from his finger to show Joe the gash the chicken had made. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me, Joe, unless you saw it for yourself. I didn’t want you to miss out on the storytelling when the rest of the crew gets in for lunch.”