“I had no idea until my uncle was around last year. He told me that my great grandfather, along with a ton of other farmers, wanted to put a stake in for this land.”
“Like in claiming the land?” Luta said while spying the tall grass on both sides of the water.
Trapper twisted around in his seat to soak in the view. They passed beneath the shade of a towering cottonwood tree. It was cool relief from the sun. “It’s so damn nice out here,” he said to himself.
“Why swamp land though?”
“Cause they were farmers. Look around, Luta. Look down into the riverbed. All of this soil is going to be full of nutrients that’ll yield massive crops. The soil’s hydrated and been pretty much dormant for thousands of years.”
“Deer!” Luta said quietly, yet sharply while pointing with his paddle.
Trapper looked starboard and there it was fifty yards away, grazing amongst some long grass. It was an eight-point buck.
“Sure wish it were hunting season,” Luta said while patting his rifle.
“Three more months. And eyes ahead.”
“I’m lookin, I’m lookin,” Luta waved away Trapper.
“At least we know the deer are surviving gaters this far out, or maybe gaters haven’t gotten this close to the welcoming center yet.”
“What I don’t get is how the gaters even survive the winters up here?” Luta wondered aloud.
“I think maybe my dad brought it up when we used to come out here when I was kid. There’s some sort of geothermal vents through the swamp than keep the water from freezing as much. The alligators crowd up in those spots.”
Their general conversation continued for the next three hours when they landed at their traditional first night camping sight. If you followed basic directions give as far as a general route, you’d come up to a ninety-degree bend in the river with a hill and two large oak trees only a few feet from each other. If you looked through the branches you could spot a hunter’s box and a platform.
“There’s the Ol’ Tree House,” Luta said cheerfully. “Trees’re still intact.”
They both reached into the bottom of the canoe rear their respective ends and pulled out waders. They scanned the bank and everything seemed safe to approach. Luta hopped out the front once the water was only two feet deep. His waders were so thick he couldn’t even feel the temperature of the water. He pulled the canoe forward until the front was only a few inches from the sandy bottom. “Your turn.”
Trapper hopped out. He pulled the canoe backwards about a foot. “Ready?”
“Go!”
The two friends pushed and pulled the canoe up onto shore as far as they could.
“Since you loaded us up, I’ll unload if you wanna check the top shed.”
“Sure, but let’s check the grounds first before we get too invested.”
It took roughly thirty minutes to scout the shoreline. It was roughly a quarter mile to the southern shore, a quarter to the western, and more than half a mile to the northern shore. There were no marks of animals being drug from the shores into the depths. For Luta it was only mildly comforting. It was only one of his fears dissuaded. While Trapper headed to unload their craft, Luta climbed up the boards nailed to the tree in the shape of a makeshift ladder and popped the hatch to access the raised platform. He stood as far back as he could when he opened the small box-shaped shed up there. He stepped behind the door then open and closed it several times hoping to blow out cobwebs or other creepy-crawly hazards that might have nested since they locked it nearly a year ago.
Luta closed the door and positioned himself to be able to enter the shed next he opened it. He pulled it open and took a step back to look into the darkness. Nothing emerged. Most of the shed was filled with rolled-up, orange plastic fencing. He’d rather be hauling gear up the shore at that moment. Last year when Trapper grabbed the orange fencing, some nesting birds flew out at him. He’d almost fallen off the platform while covering his face.
Luta checked Trapper’s position. He wasn’t near the base of the tree. “Just do it,” he said. He stepped up and grabbed a portion of orange fencing and yanked it hard. He continued his pulling motion and tossed as much of the fencing as he could over the side of the platform. The metal rods used to hold the fencing up passed by him one after another until the whole fencing down to its tail was over the edge.
He pulled his flashlight off the holster on his belt and shined it into the dark shed. It was covered with the remaining threads of cobwebs that’d been torn when the fencing was removed. Didn’t look like any animals had made a home in his absence. A fulfilling relief filled him. He spotted a one-handed hatchet, two-handed ax and a sledgehammer. He grabbed them, checked Trapper’s position again and tossed the tools down next to the fence.
Trapper watched Luta from the shoreline thirty feet away. Luta carefully climbed down the tree and began pulling the fence apart. It was all twisted over itself from the fall. Luta knew he should’ve grabbed it while it was rolled up and tossed it all at once. Trapper was sure Luta was scared something had nested in it. Fear is pesky like that.