and some of Dale’s fondest childhood memories were spent crouching in the bush with his dad and grandfather, enjoying the solitude of the Nova Scotian wild. Things had changed to a degree over the years. The hunts were a little more regulated, his grandfather had long since passed away, his dad no longer accompanied him, and Dale had a daughter who was more interested in apps and boy bands than trudging over woodland seeking wild game. Not that any of that bothered him. The yearly hunt had become an excursion for the boys anyway, a weekend retreat from their various jobs. An escape to the country cabin where they drank and played poker until passing out before dawn, only to rise a few scant hours later, bleary-eyed and hungover, to track down deer.
Dale’s cabin was not so distant, at least not anymore. Claymore Lake was located about three klicks from the coastline, off a dirt road branching away from the 104. When he was a kid, the area was untouched by townspeople. Unspoiled. His father had the foresight to buy whatever crown land he could afford, but he didn’t anticipate the full magnitude of the property boom around Claymore Lake. Over the years, more and more cabins went up around the shoreline. Traditional one-story bunkers, two-story homes away from homes, and the not-so-odd but coveted A-frames that rose majestically above all others and somehow heralded the end of an age. The area had become a familiar, not-so-quiet getaway for several families. Loud parties were the norm on summer weekends. Speedboats cut waves across the lake’s broad surface. Fresh air and other earthy scents had been replaced by wafting barbeques––not that Dale had a problem with barbecuing, but it did sadden him at times when he remembered hiking around the lake with his father, over hills and through bush that had since been cleared and developed.
There were perks, however, as Dale remembered the sight of four women jogging along the main dirt road. Four young ladies dressed in tight exercise suits and everything just a’ bouncing. Trade-offs. Dale didn’t mind trade-offs. The good Lord tooketh the reclusive feel of the lake, but he gaveth weekend boobs. No sir, Dale didn’t mind trades like that at all. And his father had managed to buy up several acres of crown land. A thick, undeveloped barrier of timberland hid and protected the family cabin, acting as a natural defense to hikers from the back roads, and still half a kilometer away from party central situated along the eastern part of the lake. A system of old trails led west, away from the cabin, into deep forest. The land there was crown land but nowhere near a lake, thus undesirable to people looking to build more weekend retreats. Two kilometers into backcountry, the place was filled with wild game.
Even though the game had retreated from the growing human presence around the lake, Dale could still access it by all-terrain quads. His cabin was his base camp, a bastion of mountain men holding out against the recent rise in development, and a gateway to some prime hunting.
For a while, anyway, as Dale suspected the nine acres his father had managed to snap up had grown considerably in value, perhaps even surpassing two or three million dollars. When the advancement of cabins, marked by festive patio lanterns and fire pits, stopped on his property line, Dale intended to call in a real estate professional and sell the land off in huge bountiful chunks.
Tonight, however, Dale decided to forget it all and have some fun with his friends.
Well past a quarter to shit-faced, they sat around the old family table that Dale’s grandfather and father had fashioned from oak. Five friends ringed a table covered in discarded playing cards, individual bastions of beer bottles, and snacks of gut-widening goodness. Nachos, cheese dip, chili dip, sour cream, salsa, cured beef strips, and potato chips. As the night wore on, the remaining friends would decide to play cribbage. They played
Dale’s cabin was not so distant, at least not anymore. Claymore Lake was located about three klicks from the coastline, off a dirt road branching away from the 104. When he was a kid, the area was untouched by townspeople. Unspoiled. His father had the foresight to buy whatever crown land he could afford, but he didn’t anticipate the full magnitude of the property boom around Claymore Lake. Over the years, more and more cabins went up around the shoreline. Traditional one-story bunkers, two-story homes away from homes, and the not-so-odd but coveted A-frames that rose majestically above all others and somehow heralded the end of an age. The area had become a familiar, not-so-quiet getaway for several families. Loud parties were the norm on summer weekends. Speedboats cut waves across the lake’s broad surface. Fresh air and other earthy scents had been replaced by wafting barbeques––not that Dale had a problem with barbecuing, but it did sadden him at times when he remembered hiking around the lake with his father, over hills and through bush that had since been cleared and developed.
There were perks, however, as Dale remembered the sight of four women jogging along the main dirt road. Four young ladies dressed in tight exercise suits and everything just a’ bouncing. Trade-offs. Dale didn’t mind trade-offs. The good Lord tooketh the reclusive feel of the lake, but he gaveth weekend boobs. No sir, Dale didn’t mind trades like that at all. And his father had managed to buy up several acres of crown land. A thick, undeveloped barrier of timberland hid and protected the family cabin, acting as a natural defense to hikers from the back roads, and still half a kilometer away from party central situated along the eastern part of the lake. A system of old trails led west, away from the cabin, into deep forest. The land there was crown land but nowhere near a lake, thus undesirable to people looking to build more weekend retreats. Two kilometers into backcountry, the place was filled with wild game.
Even though the game had retreated from the growing human presence around the lake, Dale could still access it by all-terrain quads. His cabin was his base camp, a bastion of mountain men holding out against the recent rise in development, and a gateway to some prime hunting.
For a while, anyway, as Dale suspected the nine acres his father had managed to snap up had grown considerably in value, perhaps even surpassing two or three million dollars. When the advancement of cabins, marked by festive patio lanterns and fire pits, stopped on his property line, Dale intended to call in a real estate professional and sell the land off in huge bountiful chunks.
Tonight, however, Dale decided to forget it all and have some fun with his friends.
Well past a quarter to shit-faced, they sat around the old family table that Dale’s grandfather and father had fashioned from oak. Five friends ringed a table covered in discarded playing cards, individual bastions of beer bottles, and snacks of gut-widening goodness. Nachos, cheese dip, chili dip, sour cream, salsa, cured beef strips, and potato chips. As the night wore on, the remaining friends would decide to play cribbage. They played