The White House

09/08/2004

This bit all unfolded around the time that jackass Bush was making his big push for the White House. Me, I was contemplating another kind of run to the White House—only my White House was an outhouse at Echo Hollow Lodge.

Sitting snugly along a native trout stream in a small hollow in the Appalachians of Central Pennsylvania, this hunting cabin harkened back to a long-gone era. Well, obviously, the plumbing was just a tad primitive. Also, electricity was just unfeasible to pipe into these parts, so everything—lights, stove, and refrigerator—were powered by propane. This place was a throwback in one other way; it was a place for grown men to misbehave secluded by miles of oaks, maples, hemlock, and rock. The camp’s tagline said it all: “Echo Hollow Lodge, where the boys become men and the men become boys.” Guys these days chose to make an arse out of themselves in public. Like the aforementioned jackass yearning to be accepted into his White House of choice. Too bad his didn’t accept him. My White House certainly did.

Well over a decade ago, I had been one of the most regular of regulars. I was one of the boys who were forged into men inside of those very walls. I watched many of these men and gained utmost respect of who they are. They are the type of men’s men that make Eastwood and his macho movies seem like petty posturing. But here they were, hooting, hollering, and, above all, having an absolutely riotous time. Well, except when two drunkards, near the end of a long day and night of drinking cheap beer (the kind that would send each one of these guys into the White House the next morning) would argue about the two things that should never be discussed in a setting such as this: religion or politics.

Well, this camp, as the locals referred to dwellings of this sort, didn’t need electricity; the nights of cards, beer, food, fights, and raucous humor are what powered this testosterone-ruled oasis. I had often been a witness to the “men becoming boys part of the camp’s motto,” and I found myself overjoyed to be given the fine opportunity to roll back to boyhood. Well, almost boyhood, after all this day-into-night beer sloshing lasted at least 15 hours, which is certain not to happen in the care-free days of life.

All of the men out here now had all of the responsibilities in the world. There were a few exceptions—like ole Doc, who was retired, and my old man, whose load lightened the day he successfully released my younger brother into his own world. But there was Dave, for whom this day was conceived; it was the 24 year old’s bachelor party. Then there was Thomas, an even younger kid whose teenage girlfriend had a bun in the hearth; he was also set to leave for a tour of duty in a war that shouldn’t have ever happened. But you know how those political shits like to sling innocent kids who are trying to merely figure out how to get by in the battle of life into a much more dangerous war in some part of the world these kids have no business being anywhere near.

And Thomas’s dad, Donny, not only had a grandchild on the way, a son going to a sandblasted hell, and a newly arrived unexpected child at home with his new bride, he was also trying to find a decent job within a few hour radius. The international corporation that owned the paper mill that had provided for him for the past two decades decided to close up his plant.

He had this in common with about a third of the local men. About five years previous, the parent company had poured tons of money into the plant by installing machinery capable of producing recycled paper from start to finish. It thought it was the wave of the future. Tough luck there. The company was unable to conjure up enough of a demand for the recycled stuff to even repay its investment in machinery and training.

Funny thing about people, they can squawk and squawk about how something should be done without putting their wallet where their mouth is. Reduce, recycle, reuse is an easy enough catchphrase to babble mindlessly, but how many people act?

One guy in particular was one of these type of folks. The talkers. The people whose mouth spews transparent attempts at being something, anything other than a shit. In his drunken state Otis challenged four different, larger and more athletic, guys to a wrestling match on the lawn. A few of the more level-headed (and sober) guys at camp squelched this sad display when he challenged the wrong guy—Bobby was three years removed from his run as state wrestling champion in the 135 lb. weight class. When this happened, Otis started screaming and whiningly inquiring as to where his wallet and keys were. I’d say most everyone who bore witness would have gladly watched this drunken dolt go about anywhere than there.

Man, Otis reeked of grass stains and moist, naturally fertilized, soil. I could smell it sitting across the card table from him. Poor guy doesn’t even realize what a shit he is. But camp is an embracing place. Even the losers and outcasts were at least tolerated. Hell, they can’t help who they are, and they still do need to blow off some steam once in a while.

One thing can be said of virtually anyone out at camp that day. They worked hard, often having to commute hours and hours just to make ends meet. Others, like me, had long-ago decided to get the fuck out of dodge. For me, and others, it was not an ideal place to live, but, damn, it sure is a fantastic place to visit. The hustle and hassle of the everyday life of those who moved to more prosperous areas were few and far between at Echo Lodge. TV? Nope. Traffic? Yeah, right. Telephones? Sure Pal—and don’t even mention a cell phone. They stop working about 45 minutes away from here. And it’s awfully tough to access the information superhighway when the nearest paved road is miles away. Your old lady? Try again, buster, this is a boys club 95 percent of the time. Besides, how many women would like to spend a night in a cabin whose walls are covered with deer antlers, that is filled with dank couches, hand-me-down easy chairs and card tables—and smelly drunk men involved in all sorts of vice.

But, the wives and girlfriends of this lot of characters are most accepting of this ritual. These guys work hard for their money in one of the most economically repressed areas above the Mason-Dixon Line. They also need to play hard. After all, that is what men in America do. And, I have got to say it, this is a facet of the real America. These men are what give America its spine, character, and soul.

In Fear in Loathing in Las Vegas, Hunter S. Thompson went out to that land of flash and pizzazz in search of the American Dream. Maybe the adrenal glands or the ether got them entirely too fucked up, but they went searching in the wrong place. While Vegas may embody a lot of the things that people worldwide hold against this country, it is very far away from the everyday lives of most who live here.

The American Dream is alive and well along this small trout stream. After all, many of our forefathers came here to be freed from the big-brother attitude that was rampant in many homelands across the world. They were individualists and that very spirit is alive at camp as anywhere else in the land. And even though there are many things going down that were initiated by the current administration that aim to cut into this dream, it would take a lot of shit hitting the fan to curb camp time and all that it entails.

Don’t even get me started about the politicians. Any politicians. I might lean democrat in my views (mostly due to a lack of choice), but I know deep down they’re all full of sour, runny feces. In all of my travels across this country, I have never seen even an inkling of the America of campaign speeches and rhetoric volcanoes.

The politicians don’t see it. And neither did Hunter Thompson, who, as a fledgling reporter, lived about an hour away from Echo Lodge. Maybe they are all too fucked up. Hell, who am I to talk? I may be too fucked up myself. And I’m scared everyday that this country is becoming too fucked up with all of the recent acts that have been conducted in the name of patriotism and fighting the good fight.

But for all of my fear, I also have a renewed hope. I know that while all of that shit is going down all over the globe and in our own country that the real America will live on no matter what. The just-told story goes to show that the most important things in life aren’t affected by how much you rake in per year, the score of the latest professional football game, or what asshole is in the White House.

The guys at camp that day, or any other day like the one that was sort of unfolded before, that’s where the real America is at. It’s good to know that shit is going to have to get way more fucked up all around to affect this cast of true characters and this scene.

At least I hope so.