The True Blue Scouts of Sugar Man Swamp Read Online Free PDF Page A

serious photographer knew that every shot was one of a kind because there was no negative. Each Polaroid was a unique print—it couldn’t be reprinted. So, the shooter took extremely good care of every photograph. As soon as they took the shot, they would pull the photo out of the back of the camera, gently tear it on the perforated lines in order to separate it from the camera, then wait for a full minute or two or three while the shot developed in its paper wrapper. Those were a long few minutes. When thewaiting was over, it was like opening a Christmas present. Would it be as wonderful as you thought it would be? The photographer never knew until he or she peeled the back of the film from the photo and, holding it between thumb and forefinger, waved it until it was dry. The last step was to cover it with a gooey tube of coating material and wave it again. The photo was “fixed” forever . . . so long as it was kept high and dry.
    That is why, if a photographer was smart, they’d place the photo in an air- and watertight container . . . such as a .30-caliber ammo can, which could be purchased at your local Army/Navy Surplus store. In addition to the photographs, campers could use these cans for storing things like matches and socks. They kept everything dry and safe.
    Audie Brayburn loved his Polaroid Land Camera. But he lost it. Along with his .30-caliber ammo can. Along with his DeSoto. Lost them all in the Sugar Man Swamp, which, even though it was a good place to hide, was not a good place to lose something.

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    I N THE MEANTIME, WE CAN ’ T forget our Scouts. When last we left them, J’miah was worrying at the foot of the longleaf pine tree, and his brother Bingo was perched at the very, very top of that same tree. J’miah squinted some more. But Bingo reveled in his discovery of Blinkle. In fact, he was having his own little jubilation moment, when . . .
    Rumble-rumble-rumble-rumble!
    The pine tree shimmied. Bingo tightened his grip.
    â€œBingo!” J’miah’s voice rose in pitch. The worry level was now at the scared level.
    Rumble-rumble-rumble-rumble.
    The tree shook. Bingo held on as tight as he could, but as he did, the top branch swayed left, then right, then left again. Bingo heard a ccrrreeeeaaakkk , followed by another rumble-rumble-rumble-rumble.
    Sway
    Rumble.
    Sway.
    Rumble.
    Sway.
    There are any number of things that can make the earth tremble enough to shake a large tree and simultaneously create waves in the Bayou Tourterelle. An earthquake. A stampeding herd of buffalo. A major explosion from, say, an oil refinery.
    But were any of those a factor in our story?
    We can say definitively that they were not.

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    I T WAS A TENSE MOMENT at the top of the longleaf pine. In fact, just about the only thing that Bingo could think about was the terrible fate of Great-Uncle Banjo and how the same winds of that fate seemed to be blowing in his direction. Bingo had to wonder: If climbing trees was part of his genetic makeup, was falling out of them part of the deal? As if to make the point, a breeze pushed against the pine and made it sway again.
    Left.
    Right.
    Left.
    Right.
    Bingo looked down at the bayou. Should he fall, its surface looked quite a bit friendlier than the ground. Then again, there was that whole alligator issue. He knew that if he fell into the water, he would likely live through the dive, but would he live through the jaws of the raccoon-eating alligators? It wasn’t a happy thought. Bingo gripped the treea little harder. He was clearly up a tree without a parachute.
    â€œBingo?” His brother’s voice again. The tree swayed, the long leaves rattled. It was a message from the universe: Go Bingo! And with that, our masked tree hugger quit hugging, and with his face pointed south, he may have set a record for making it to the ground.
    Once there, Bingo pulled on J’miah’s paw, and together they hit the