The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

The Beer Hunters are getting long in the tooth. This Hunt is our 40th and when we took our first, we were young bucks, mostly in our 30’s, men who could thin the herds of ales and IPA’s at night in local watering holes up in the mountains, then hike the hills for miles and miles the next day without complaint or hangover. Not so much in these later years, not after a couple of us have had heart attacks, broken backs in skiing accidents, multiple injuries after passing out and driving off the road, knee replacements, eye cancer, sepsis and other assorted ailments and health issues.

One of us is in his 80’s, most are in their mid to late 70’s. Two are morbidly obese, one is blind in one eye. Another lost his spouse this year and came down with a clot in his leg today. The Hunters have definitely seen better days. Nevertheless, the Hunt is ON again this year and my brother and I are on route to meet up with the boyz at a cabin on Hood Canal in the shadow of the Olympics where we’ll do our hiking and hunting. The tradition endures.

The Hunters met in law school back in the mid ‘80’s. Some went into private practice, one became a judge, another a prosecuting attorney and myself, none of the above. Only one of the lawyers still practices law, the rest have retired. And me, I’m not sure what I am these days. Other than older….

Some years others have joined our core group. Usually only for one Hunt. Many are called but few, as they say, are chosen. A drunk driving charge on a Hunt in Arizona finished Curly. Roy, an army buddy of Mike’s, went into rehab and AA after his first and only weekend with us. Dave’s son and a friend came once — they held up to the drinking but withered on the hikes. Jim lasted one Hunt and never returned. Doug, Tom’s fishing buddy, a right winger, hated all us card carrying commies, left the Hunt and moved to Tennessee where like-minded Trump loyalists run the state, good riddance.

Today we rendezvous once again, our rag tag geezer gang, compare ailments, reminisce about Hunts of yesteryear, hike the Olympics, drink less and continue the tradition. Wish us good hunting ….

Back when I first got off the Mayflower south of Utsalady, I hitched my fortune to an unlikely looking piece of bottomland which had a shack, a large shed (or small barn depending on your agricultural perspective), a chicken coop, doghouse and a pen for some rabbits. Better than raw land, I figured. But not by much ….

Those early years I mostly hunkered down and tried to stay warm. Some folks would just look at this and shake their heads. Can’t say I blame them, but looking back now 35 years, I’m glad I bit it off. Occasionally I’d get friends coming up to see the estate. We were all pretty much layabouts from our days driving school buses in the Big City, not big dreamers, just slackers getting high on getting by, or so the song goes…. We were an aimless bunch, lacking in ambition and drive, plenty short on cash, but optimistic the future would play out all right for us. Why? I couldn’t say, just that a good positive attitude might, in the end, carry the day. I guess we drank the Kool-Aid —- or if we hadn’t, we were more than willing.

Some of those weekends, come nightfall, we’d load up the VW bus and motor into town, figuring to catch some Stanwoodopolis night life. Rudy the Banjo King played every Saturday night at the Hotel, but once was plenty and so we went to the other side of town to see what the Sportsman and the Sundance and the East Side had to offer a half dozen of us thirsty revelers. First tavern up, the Sportsman, we ordered schooners of tap beer. A minute later every barstool was empty and we were alone with the scowling bartender. Couple of beers, some pool, we moved next door. Our absentee barstool pals were all there, waiting, I guess, for us to bring the party.

We bellied up to the bar, ordered pitchers and watched our fellow revelers finish their beers and head for the door, about half a dozen fellas exiting. Was it something we said? The bartender took our money, but offered no clues. An hour later we were at the East Side, little shotgun of a place, shuffle board half its width. The locals kindly gave us their stools, tipped their hats and left. Once again.

Some places the drinking establishments are lively, a democratic conviviality. Alcohol has its negatives, but for loosening up inhibitions, it’s tried and true. I’ve lived here now 40 years. I’ve been to every drinking establishment that’s come and gone, lived and died. The mizzus says you can’t judge a town by its saloons … and she’s a historian … but I say you can. I could live here longer than Methuselah on scotch and soda and I tell you what, it’s way more fun to drink alone. Which is what we got in spades down here on the bibulous South End.