"Doesn't he have a whole stack of firewood? What does he need more wood for?" she asks.
I just shrug my shoulders. I've learned that moms tend to ask baffling questions when a simple "yes" or "no" will do.
"When is he going?" my mom asks.
"He said tomorrow before the sun comes up." I reply.
My dad is sitting on the couch watching T.V. He has heard the entire conversation and has a funny smirk on his face. I can tell he's holding back laughter, but doesn't want my mom to notice.
"Um, sure" she says. "You'll need your old clothes and some gloves."
"Grandpa said I didn't need gloves, but be sure to bring...." I begin. In the background dad is waving me off like I'm a fighter pilot trying to land on a carrier, but heading way too far off course to land safely.
"What?" mom asks.
"Um, nothing" I say. Dad gives me the "O.K." sign to let me know I did the right thing.
The next morning dad comes in a wakes me up. My dad was a logger back then, and he was routinely up long before the sun came up. I look over at my Micky Mouse alarm clock and the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the five. I have no idea what that means. Digital alarm clocks are still several years away in the future, and I'm only six years old.
"Grandpa's waiting for you. You need to dress warm." he says.
The weather has been getting steadily warmer and spring is on the way. The last couple of days got up to a whopping 50 degrees -- almost swimming weather in Eastern Oregon. This particular morning is a little brisk with frost on the ground, but the sky is clear and it will warm up soon.
"Hi, grandpa!" I say as my dad lifts me into the passenger seat of grandpa's truck.
He has the heater going full blast to ward of the crisp air.
"Are your ready to get some firewood today?" he asks. I was young, but I didn't miss the wink he gives my dad.
As dad closes the door and starts to walk away, he glances into the pickup bed and then laughs and shakes his head as he walks away.
Now, you should know that the nearest town to where we lived was six miles away. A creek (pronounced "crick") ran past our house, and on more than one occasion, we found bear tracks near the house. It was definitely a wilderness area.
For several miles we stay on the highway, but then grandpa slowed down and we pulled onto a dirt road. Let me rephrase that. A dirt road has the connotation that the road is somewhat maintained and driveable in almost any vehicle. What we were driving on was called a "skid trail". Once upon a time, another vehicle bumped some stumps out of the way and lefts some tracks in the ground. That's what we were driving on.
"Hold on" said grandpa as he down-shifted into low gear. I loved when we drove on those back roads. Grandpa's truck had one of those bench seats that had actual springs. We would hit a bump and it would launch me in the air. When I came back down, I would bounce off the seat like a super ball (this was also before seat belts became popular). It was way better than most carnival rides.
After several minutes of driving, grandpa parked the truck and got out and stretched. Coming around to my door, he opened it and lifted me down from the seat.
We were in a little clearing surrounded by pine trees. The same creek that ran past our house also ran past the clearing.
Grandpa opened the tailgate of the pickup and lifted me into the bed.
"You stay here. I'm going to go drop that big dead tree over there, and you need to stay in the pickup."
Being the son of a logger, I have had similar instructions hundreds of times
Reaching under a tarp, grandpa pulled out his chainsaw. I couldn't help but notice that he also had his tackle box and two fishing poles under the tarp.
In a matter of moments, grandpa had dropped the tree and had cut the butt of the large tree into several large segments.
Whistling, he returned back to the truck and lifted me down. Still whistling, he reached under the tarp and grabbed the fishing gear.
"Well, David. The wood cutting is done. Let's get some fish." he said.
The fishing was spectacular! We were pulling in fish left and right! During the summer when I normally fished, an 8 inch fish was considered a keeper. Today, if it wasn't over 12 inches, we would throw it back.
I noticed that grandpa was particularly alert. He kept scanning the surrounding area.
"What are you looking for, grandpa?" I asked.
"Bears" was his reply.
After awhile, we had caught a whole lot of fish. We decided to pack up and head out. After loading our fishing gear under the tarp, grandpa drove the truck over to the tree. Grabbing several of the largest segments, he threw them into the truck bed and arranged them on top of and around the tarp. You could hardly tell that there was a tarp there at all.
Driving back home, we happened to pass a policeman going the opposite direction.
"Just keep going Mr. Policeman" grandpa muttered. He kept a careful look in the rear view mirror until the policeman was out of sight.
Then grandpa began to whistle.
I started school that year. I remember telling my best friend about the great luck we had fishing that day.
And that's when I learned of that thing called a "fishing season".
