The Major

I had to go to Upper Michigan to personally deliver Major Nathaniel Peabody’s monthly Spendthrift Trust remittance. I wasn’t looking forward to the trip. I’m accustomed to indoor plumbing. Cabins in the woods, at least, have outhouses. The Major’s grouse camp consisted of a few tents pitched on the banks of a remote stream. The site lacked both of the above-mentioned accommodations.

Though the hunters used paper plates and cups that could be burned in the campfire, I was told that they washed their pots and pans by letting the dogs lick them clean. Moreover, there were ticks. That meant Lyme disease and Rocky Mountain spotted fever. And there were mosquitoes. That meant malaria, yellow fever and West Nile virus.

I believed there were more deadly germs in that camp than there are in a hospital. I was convinced the sanitary condition of Peabody’s grouse camp compared (unfavorably) to the horse-dung-filled streets of London’s late 17th Century Gin Alley. I anticipated the Upper Michigan trip with fear and trembling.

Before I arrived at camp, I was told, the hunters had drawn straws. Peabody had drawn for me and picked the long straw—the winner. It was a contest I would have preferred to lose. The winner (me) was assigned the responsibility of tending the steaks cooking over the charcoal fire and performing bartender services while the Major and his friends sat around the campfire enjoying a libation or two—or so.

I knew the Major preferred a splash of water with his Scotch. To perform my bartending duties, I inquired about the location of the water supply. I was informed that one of the dogs had knocked over the plastic water cooler and dumped all of its contents on the ground. I suspected the “dog” was one of the hunters who may have over-imbibed during the previous evening’s frolic.

I went to the stream and began to fill a pail, intending to boil it on the charcoal fire and sterilize the water for the Major’s drinks. Because there may have been some truth in the dog-licking report, I planned to use some of the boiled water to re-wash the pots and pans. I hoped there would be enough left for my evening and morning wash-ups.

At the stream’s edge, the Major squatted beside me, dipped his paper cup into the water and headed for the table where the beverages were kept. I followed closely behind. “Major,” I warned, “You shouldn’t drink water directly from the stream. It could contain E. coli bacteria. It could kill you. I saw it on a television news program last week.”

Peabody effected an unmistakable look of disapproval. “I’ll bet you once bought a kit to measure the level of radon in your apartment,” he said as he poured some of the water into a second cup and added a generous dollop of single malt to each.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“I’m psychic,” Peabody answered and continued. “My sixth sense also tells me you gave up beef during the mad-cow-disease scare.”

“Who told you?” I asked. “Someone must have told you. Was it Stephanie?”

The Major ignored my question. “It is my considered opinion,” he said after tasting and approving the contents of his drink, “that the amazing ability of an uncritical public to delude itself is older than dirt. Throughout the ages, the genus Homo sapiens has maintained a marked predilection to believe the unbelievable.

“I can recall when bearded crackpots marched up and down the streets and proclaimed the gods had finally had enough of us. They carried sandwich-board signs that demanded we all repent in a timely fashion because the world was coming to an end. Thousands of people, previously suspected of being rational, believed them. Those folks were downright disappointed when the sun and moon stubbornly continued their celestial revolutions without missing a beat.

“All Madison Avenue hucksters have to do is clothe TV actors in white jumpers and hang stethoscopes around their necks. Once done, the products they are pushing are automatically presumed to be effective and necessary. If anyone with a ridiculous nostrum promises to make you lose weight or scares the hell out of you by reporting some largely imaginary impending infectious disease, he can sell you anything.”

I wasn’t convinced. “Medical science has transformed the world,” I argued. “When you started traveling in Latin America, I’ll bet you had to get vaccinations against smallpox, typhoid, typhus, yellow fever and malaria before you could get a visa to enter the countries there.” Peabody sipped and nodded. “In your lifetime modern science has reduced those hazards to the point where inoculations are seldom required in this hemisphere. The scientific community has a good track record. You should pay attention to its warnings.”

The Major pretended he didn’t hear me. “The most advanced scientific brains of the Dark Ages were convinced that they could turn baser metals into gold,” he said. “Most of them thought the sun orbited the earth.” Peabody paused, looked at me and asked: “What assurance can you give me that in another 75 years we will not look back at today’s scientific pronouncements and giggle at their stupidity?”

Inadvertently, I drank from the Scotch & stream water Peabody had prepared for me. When I recognized my error, Peabody saw my look of horror. “Don’t worry, counselor,” he said. “Single-malt Scotch will not only remove the disagreeable taste of water, it will also kill all bacteria, fungi and germs that might be present.” With that guarantee, I took another drink and the Major continued to present his thesis.

“To justify government-funded studies, college professors produce treatises claiming the universe will be sucked into a black hole in a billion years. Inexplicably, people with life expectancies of only 83 years become terribly disturbed by the prospect. Some of the experts foresee collisions with asteroids, whereas others announce the approaching inundation of New York City because of the melting ice cap. Still others threaten us with the probability of a volcanic eruption in Wyoming that will destroy all earthly life—with the possible exception of the cockroach.

“Then there are the nuts and screwballs who, abetted by the news media’s desperate attempt to increase circulation or viewer count, feel that they must periodically frighten the living be-Jaysus out of the simple-minded.” Peabody slowly shook his head and mumbled, “Killer bees from Brazil, equine encephalitis, Asian bird flu . . . .

“Can you remember whatever highly publicized and unavoidable cataclysm bothered you last year . . . or last month . . . or last week? Have the last few years’ forecasts of terrible hurricane seasons actually come to pass? Has the construction of the Alaska Pipeline destroyed the caribou migrations and caused the animals’ extinction? Have California earthquakes caused the West Coast to slide into the Pacific?

“If you take the alarmists seriously, you’ll spend your lifetime scared to death by whatever disaster-of-the-month fright is popular, and you’ll be surrounded by more pills than a Walgreens pharmacy. Remember this, young man: The quality of the ride is far more important than its length. Life should be enjoyed, not spent cowering before an unbroken succession of largely imaginary, fearful and calamitous scenarios. In my opinion, such an antiseptic life is not worth living. Think about it.”

As he turned to rejoin his hunting companions at the campfire, the Major made one final comment. “On the other hand, if you had paid more attention to global warming, the steaks you are supervising would not have been cooked beyond the ‘well done’ stage.”

Galen Winter’s favorite Major stories have been collected and anthologized in The Best of the Major, available for $25 (plus shipping) from 800-685-7962; www.shootingsportsman.com.