Misperception.......

Still awake in the tent and listening to the Alaska rain drum down on the fly, I heard the big twins come rumbling in. Trying not to wake my wife and child, I rolled to the tent door, unzipped a little bit of flap, and looked out. The sun doesn’t set much in Alaska, and in the half-light I could easily see the three big Harleys and the hard-looking, patch-wearing men riding them. They picked a spot and parked the bikes not far from us, and then crawled off, open bottles of beer appearing in their hands like magic . Ugly fellows, all three of them... their stringy long hair plastered flat against their scalps, their beards scraggly, the rain coursing unheeded down their gaunt cheeks... big, mean looking men.

I sighed, and zipped the flap back up. Usually when riders like these appear, we break camp... we pack up, and move on down the road. Staying in proximity to them is just not worth the risk, especially when your pretty wife is on the pillion and your child in the sidecar -but we had just finished a five hundred mile day and I was very reluctant to wake them. I touched the cool metal of the loaded 870 Remington by my side, and decide it’s worth the minimal risk. We are close enough to the highway that the possibility of “social” trouble is probably remote. Besides, I’m very familiar with the pump gun... very familiar with it, and while I hope to never have to use it for self-defense, I would – in a heartbeat. “Turning the other cheek” only works in those societies that harbor a respect for the well-being of other people.

When I awake, the sun burns through the green tent fabric, and my wife still snores gently beside me, but my kid is gone -- his sleeping bag a limp, empty testament to his early rising. Hurriedly, I pull on jeans and boots. grap the gun by the barrel, and crawl from the tent. There in the bright northern sunlight, his uncombed hair spiky and his rubber boots on the wrong feet (again), my young son sat on a log in rapt conversation with three hard core bikers.

“Hi Dad,” he yells. “Look here, this man’s name is ’Pig!” Ha ha, Dad... a man named ‘Pig!’ Ha ha ha!’”

The three men looked at the shotgun at my hands and then at each other. Pig then grinned and said to me, “Josh here has been telling us about his life in a sidecar. Nice kid you got.......”

“Thanks,” I said, walking over and leaning the shotgun inside the sidecar well. I didn’t move far from it. “Hope he hasn’t been bothering ya....”

“Nope, he ain’t.........”

Josh stirred the muddy dirt at his feet with a stick, and turned to Pig. “So... tell me again, Pig, why dontcha take baths?”

Pig looked up at the sky. “Well, ya know.... I don’t go to school, got no pretty lady, and baths, well, baths just make me itch! All over!”

“Yeah, “ my six-year-old laughed. “Itchy all over! Me, too.”

“C’mon, son, “ I smiled. “Time to fix breakfast.”

While water heated on our camp stove, the three patch wearers broke their camp, striking their cheap discount store tent. Pig stuffed his old army sleeping bag into a black garbage bag, and then carried it and two similar bags to his shovelhead Harley and dropped all three of them on the muddy ground by his rear wheel. He grinned at Josh and me.

“Matched luggage!” He shouted.

Josh laughed and I grinned.

In moments, the three were ready to go. The sky had suddenly clouded over and the omnipresent rain had begun again, but the patch wearers paid absolutely no attention to it. Josh and I walked over and huddled under a small tarp I had stretched the night before. Pig hesitated, staring at his bike, and then walked over to us, rain streaking his forehead.....

“Well, good bye little bud!” He grinned at Josh. “Hope you get your own bike someday.... but you know, you gotta be thankful for your sidecar, now, you gotta be thankful that your mommy and daddy care enough about you to take you with ‘em. That ain’t no little thing!”

“Okay, Pig, “ Josh laughed. “ I will...See ya later! Keep your rubber down!”

Pig laughed and then turned to me. “And you take care, ol’ son, that that there pump gun don’t go rust in this rain.” His voice was soft, level, his eyes direct.

“Yup, “ I said. “And...well.... thanks... thanks for what you said to him.”

Pig bowed his head, just once, and then turned and walked to his machine. Within a few minutes, the Harleys had all been started, and the three men headed out onto the highway, going south, the thunder of the their exhausts rolling up against the roadside peaks. I put the gun deeper into the sidecar away from the rain, and, while Joshie played with his hot cocoa, I carried a cup of coffee to Red, still asleep – and still safe – in the tent.