The Major

The non-winter-migrating Philadelphians resign themselves to hunkering down in the wet, miserable, bone-chilling cold that tortures them when January and February make them pay for their terrible crime of electing to live in the City of Brotherly Love. I am more than mildly uncomfortable trying to exist in any place where the water freezes in the streets and then turns into slush. The lower the temperature, the more acute is my distress.
    It wasn’t only the weather in Philadelphia that accounted for my foul mood at the law offices of Smythe, Hauser, Engals & Tauchen. I was fully expecting to receive a (collect) telephone call from Major Nathaniel Peabody (USA, ret.) demanding I deliver his monthly Spendthrift Trust remittance. I suspected he probably would be somewhere north of the Arctic Circle hunting musk ox—or whatever he and his shotgunning friends hunt in the far north of Canada at the time of year when the sun stays below the horizon, the mercury disappears in thermometer bulbs and he has another opportunity to torment me by insisting I personally deliver his check to some frigid, God-forsaken place.
    It was therefore a pleasant surprise when he called to inform me that: A) He was in a camp in the desert outside of Gila Bend, Arizona, awaiting delivery of his check; B) the quail hunting season was in full swing; C) I should bring three bags of ice cubes; and D) I should bring a box of Dominican Republic cigars.
    In a nanosecond my world was bright and full of promise. The prospect of a day basking in the warm Arizona sunshine immediately destroyed my dark mood, and I was catapulted into a pleasant world of smiles and gentle music. When Charlotte made my flight reservations, she multiplied my cheerful spirits by adding a full week to the usual three-day trip, pointing out that additional time was necessary because the Major might be hard to find in the warm and delightful Arizona desert.
    Charlotte is a smart secretary. By giving me extra time in Arizona, she ensured herself of a great annual performance review and a concomitant increase in salary. At the same time she got rid of me for 10 days. As I said, I had been in a particularly foul mood.
    An early morning flight brought me to Phoenix, where I rented a four-wheel-drive vehicle and drove to Gila Bend. An hour later, following Peabody’s directions, I came upon a camp consisting of a mobile home, a tiny pop-up tent and a kind of portable gazebo—four aluminum posts stuck into the ground with netting around the sides and topped by a plastic tarpaulin roof.
    The gazebo contained two large ice chests and two tables. One of them supported a number of paper cups and differently labeled bottles; the other was surrounded by fold-up chairs. Major Peabody was sitting in one of them. As I entered the gazebo, he asked if I had brought the cigars. I handed him the box.
    “Ice?” he asked. I returned to the 4WD and retrieved three large bags of cubes. I emptied them into the Styrofoam chests.
Then Peabody inquired of my health and well-being.
    My immediate chores completed, I sat in the shade of the gazebo, smiled, exhaled and began to take in the Arizona desert. What wonderfully austere scenery. What a peaceful place. How nice and warm.
    Wordlessly, Peabody offered me an H. Upmann No. 6, fully aware that I do not smoke. He lighted his cigar and, for a time, not a word was spoken. I was almost reluctant to break the silence, but I decided to announce my intention to spend the next week in the Major’s company enjoying the perfect climate of the desert.
    Peabody seemed to stiffen. At first I thought I recognized an anxious expression cross his face—an expression of surprise, of apprehension, of misgiving . . . perhaps of fear. It must have been my imagination, for it was gone in an instant.
    “I’m sure you will enjoy a vacation from Philadelphia,” he said flatly. The tone of that statement somehow left me with the impression that the Major was not enthusiastic about the prospect of me spending a week in camp. Of course I sensed that I might be imposing upon him and his fellow hunters.
    “Perhaps there’s not enough room for me,” I ventured.
    “Oh, no,” the Major immediately answered. “That pop-up tent is used to store supplies and extra gear. We can move everything around and make a nice cozy nest for you.”
    “I can sleep in my car,” I offered. “I can crack open a window and use the back seat.” The prospect of spending a week sleeping in the back seat of a four-wheel-drive automobile was not one that filled me with joy. You have no idea how much I hoped the Major would argue with me. Thankfully, he did.
    “No, you can’t,” Peabody quickly responded. “You’d be too uncomfortable. You’d never get a good night’s sleep. And I don’t think that car has been scorpion or tarantula proofed. Vehicles get hot in the daytime sun. At night when it gets cooler, scorpions and tarantulas like to crawl inside warmer places. No, it would be better if you zipped up the tent and slept there.”
     Tarantulas? Scorpions? Great Scot! My fear of tarantulas and scorpions is exceeded only by my fear of rattlesnakes.
    “I don’t suppose there’s enough room in the mobile home . . .” I began. The Major stopped me in mid-sentence.
    “My boy,” he said, “if it were up to me . . . .” He paused and slowly shook his head. Then he looked up at me and explained: “It’s Freddie’s mobile home, and he is a very particular cuss. He will allow only four people to stay in it. He wouldn’t even let one of my Arizona friends join the hunt. That poor fellow was afraid of gila monsters and rattlesnakes. He wanted to spend the nights inside the mobile home, but Freddie was adamant. ‘Four and no more,’ he said. Freddie’s funny that way.”
    Gila monsters? Rattlesnakes? My God, what am I doing here?
    “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay in the tent,” Peabody concluded. “With a few blankets, you’ll be warm and cozy.” Peabody thought for a moment and added, “Be sure you shake out the blankets before you get into bed. It’ll get rid of the insects—probably. And shake out your shoes before putting them on in the morning.”
    I spent the night squatting on top of the front seat of my rented automobile. I nearly went to sleep once. I was saved from that danger by a pack of coyotes. Their frightful howling shocked me into full consciousness. The yelping was followed by silence, and I am convinced that the bloodthirsty beasts spent the night around my vehicle, hoping I would emerge to relieve myself. When the sun finally appeared, I was ready to burst.
    I didn’t wait for breakfast. I delivered the Major’s check and immediately returned to the Phoenix airport. Facing     Philadelphia’s snow and ice and winter soot was, by far, the lesser of two evils.

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.