Photo courtesy Flickr user brewbooks
In the early Sixties a friend and I hiked Olympic National Park’s wilderness beach. When it was time to find a ride north back to his truck, my companion instructed me to thumb at the roadside while he hid in the ditch with our packs. A gallant young logger pulled over in his Morris Minor and proved a good sport when Sam jumped out of the tules. The driver mentioned to my hearty buddy that the outfit he worked for was looking for choker setters.
I’m barely qualified to make this comment, but my understanding is that setting chokers is a good job to have if you’d rather not bother with a 401K. Sam was in employment crisis, having been offered responsible positions with both sides of a hotly contested issue in his home state. He was willing, and incidentally able, to contemplate spending the summer leaping around in the brush trying to slip a gyrating loop of chain onto a large piece of wood. Sam followed our host to an interview in the tented mess hall that fed a hundred or so members of the crew. Fifteen minutes later, he emerged white as the proverbial sheet.
Before the driver got back to the car, Sam turned and gasped over his shoulder, “There’s a cougar in the tent. It’s steak night. The cat is so wild no one has the nerve to chase it out.” No doubt the tribesman who introduced him got a few chuckles out of the moment.