THE OREGONIAN FAMILY ROBINSON; or, FORT FREEDOMLAND: MARRIAGE OF NOT SO OPPOSITES

it was with trepidation that they headed southwest on the 199 toward the turnoff for takilma happy camp and the shooting spot...well, he was trepidatious as he was being driven, but she, the experienced shot, was probably just driving...although both caroline and christopher were proud to have announced the marriage of irony and barbeque sauce a short while earlier as they passed the restaurant advertising sushi, bbq and family fun. (although they had also passed.) and after he'd killed a can from...the fifties?...with a rifle from 1911 (and then sniped that elusive bottle on a fluke with the first of three test shots from the nazi gun they'd borrowed from ephysema tom), they found another can in the shrubs while they were picking up their spent rounds, alive and unopened but recalescent from the indian summer sun, and they stopped at the kerby mart before going back to the picnic table at the fort so that they could toast the marriage of hamm's and hot coors. the marriage of toplessness and hard labor, which had been scheduled for earlier in the day had been not so unceremoniously delayed because of the shooting expedition (and then further because of all the toasting), but caroline and christopher were proud to announce that it was tentatively rescheduled for the following morning. you want some? get some at got somes. what they didn't have was that coveted small town signature sweatshirt, because caroline must have thrifted all of cave junction fresh out. not at get somes, but christopher did manage a las vegas rodeo tee from one of the other stores, and in the light of the lantern, the saddle in the middle of the print didn't look too different from a diagram of the female reproductive system. in gold. and they laughed as they finished the next round of hamm's (recalling the thirty from canada and the thirty-six in the photograph from spain), proud to announce the marriage of outdoor urination and home cooking. it might not have seemed possible after those first two nights and days, but the spirit of camaraderie that floated with the smoke in the lantern light that third night was even more intoxicating than it had been when caroline and christopher had proudly announced the marriage of cat tattoos and illegal fire pits. when the shirt came off for the wood chopping on the morning of day number four, however, his tattoo had been, in the meantime, rubbed off or faded; but it was nonetheless with pride that caroline and christopher (she still in her shirt) announced the marriage of precious moments and filthy hands (but not of the filthy hands to the precious moments figures that they stole from aunt judy's junk store in morristown, tennessee all those years ago). everyone in attendance smiled and wished the couple well, and the light of their benefactions shone all the way down from the army tent on the slope at the back of the freedomlands to the reception offices in the airstream at the entrance to the fort at the bottom of the hill.

when anything with sirens tears past the kerby mart and through cave junction southwest down the 199, everyone within earshot looks up and goose necks. and the brotarians who hold their daily afternoon meeting on the patio of dos gringos are anything but the exception. the sheriff's building in cave junction is empty, and when it isn't raining, the cruiser in grants pass is usually sitting under a layer of dust. the residents of josephine county don't want to pay the gas. the situation might be different on the other side of the ridge in jackson county, in applegate where the mountain homos have their man camp, in the hot springs around ashland, but for the length of the 199 to the california border, the law is just the mountain man itself. or that's how they'd like it. and they like you. the law of the mountain man is inclusive. it passes the nazi sniper rifle, and it doesn't give a second thought to caroline leaving the truck to walk in the opposite direction of get somes and buy ammunition at the store on the other side of the parking lot. the mountain homos from the man camp on the other side of the ridge are welcome too. (it's a shame that we hadn't more closely watched the weather so that we could have organized a river swim.) and there i was in the middle of it, an esteemed friend of fort freedomland, lost in a place called america, where i could be a mountain man too. so i ventured a joke. the biker walks into the place with an alligator under his arm. he walks up to the bar and plops his dick out on it. then he sets the alligator down, and it bites down hard on his dick. after about twenty seconds, the biker pokes the alligator in the eye, it opens its mouth, and he puts it back under his arm. then he asks the bar if there's any one there man enough to give that a try. and i say that i will, i told them, just so long as he doesn't poke me in the eye. then i proceed, without a trace of trepidation.