The pans hanging between the bunk and the hutch were sometimes the home of garter snakes. One morning, while his father and Ron cooked corned beef hash and eggs, a certain large snake had been stretched along the pans, its silvery belly slung and bowed between the nails. His father had walked over to the snake, grabbed its tail, and ushered it out the shack into the tall grass.

Under the lowest bunk was a clay pigeon launcher and a box of crumbling clay pigeons. Shooting clay pigeons from the leaning post was a popular past time. Watching the yellow discs spin at warp speeds into the U.P. sky, only to be obliterated into a thousand pieces was something everyone got into. The sessions often involved beer sipping, smoking, and shirtless white guys getting bad sun burns. There hadn’t been any shooting contests the last year. His father was gone and Ron seemed to lose his enthusiasm for the place after he died. Matt didn’t own a shotgun and there wasn’t one in the shack. Besides, he just wasn’t a gun guy. Even if he was, the shack wasn’t a place you wanted to leave valuable items. Thieves could rob the place and be in Arkansas (or further) by the time anyone found out. The closest neighbor was Bob Sanders, four miles away over in Silver River country. Matt rarely saw Sanders except for the occasional fishing trip to the Silver. Sanders also had a place back in town, an hour southwest of the shack. Matt wondered why he had a house in town and then another an hour away. But hey, who was he to judge?

Soon Matt would head over to the Silver River for a chance at the elusive coho salmon. A challenge is always a good thing. Keeps the mind sharp. The Silver was twice the size of the Black and contained many more pools. He’d be walking past Sanders’ place to access the Silver since his property bordered one of the choice pools. It was either that or bog walking. Yeah, tough choice.

Matt stood, placed his empty Sprite can on the cherrywood table, and headed to the door. His hiking boots thudded against the musty floor, which gave way as he stepped down.

The bolt on the door was a gigantic iron contraption designed to keep out curious black bears. Matt lifted the iron beam and pushed the door open, letting sunlight wash onto his face. The sound of chittering birds and rustling grass greeted him.

The Traveler

THE TRAVELER

The coyote left behind the narrow strip of suburban broadleaf forest. She trotted across Hemson Road, dodging a rusting Ford Taurus, then through thickets along muddy Worthington River. She followed the bank for miles, careful to move under cover of darkness. Humans had trouble spotting her in the brush, and she knew this.