It was late fall in the year of fifty three. Five of us drove an hour south, on Friday after school, to camp out in the Mountains.

At dusk we unfolded our army cots near the woods, in a rocky bluestem pasture, at the base of Mount Sheridan, a granite peak that rises sharply a thousand feet above Southwest Oklahoma plains.

We built a Texas class camp fire, and after drinking several beers four of us decided to climb Mount Sheridan, in the dark. George stayed in camp with most of the beer, however, we each packed a couple for the climb.

Mount Sheridan is a very steep stack of ancient rounded boulders, and as we neared the top we sent some of them crashing down to watch trails of sparks fly in the darkness below as granite struck granite. We made the climb up and down with only minor scrapes, bruises, cuts, sprains, concussions, etc.

As we returned toward camp, near midnight, across the rocky grassy field in the moonless night the dying camp fire cast a dull glow, and we could see that George was laying on his cot near the fire. We began to lob potato size rocks, like mortars, toward camp where George was sacked out. Stones hitting the camp fire showered the camp area, and George with hot embers.

He must have consumed a lot of beer, for he grabbed his 22 rifle, and straffed the darkened field in our direction, emptying his 20 shot automatic in about 10 seconds. We dropped flat with the first shot, and could hear the bullets cutting through the tall dead grass and zinging off the rocks.

We stayed down and very quiet, then the four of us cautiously brought our heads up above the grass. Had George reloaded? He appeared to be passed out on his cot. We crept cautiously into camp, carefully hid the gun, and silently went to bed. It was breaking dawn before I finally dozed off; I don't know about the others. None of us said a word about it, then, the next morning, or ever.

11/25/2001

Posted on 11/25/2001
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