Turf War in the Pine Barrens

TURF WAR IN THE PINE BARRENS

By Jack Rawlins

”Oh holy crappola, Ziggy…” Charlie sighed. “We’ve got company.”

Two meanies with jiggling beer bellies, long red beards and pony tails, fractured our peaceful afternoon with the loud pocketa-pocketa of their motorcycles as they idled into camp. Their black tank tops blended with the gaudy purple tattoos on their flabby arms. Shiny, spiked Kaiser Wilhelm helmets completed the cartoon.


“Hey, guys, “one rasped as they dismounted and swaggered over to exchange their idea of pleasantries,“We’re the Dobermen twins. I’m Knuckles and this here’s Cyclone. They call him Cyclone ‘cause he’s a little twisted. Hee hee.”

“And they call him Knuckles,” said Cyclone “Because he likes to hit people with his brass knuckles. Haw haw.”

“Just by way of introduction,” said Knuckles, “we are meaner than junk yard dogs and tougher than anybody you ever met; ain’t afraid of nothing or nobody; always ready to rumble or party. We’re from Camden… been in three gang wars ---our gang always wins---survived two drive-by shootings and took part in three riots where we assisted the looters and picked up a few things for ourselves. And, we’ve done time for a lot of things which we don’t consider crimes.

“So now that you got our credentials we want you fellows to know if you behave and treat us with the respect we deserve you can stay here. But just remember we don’t take nothing from nobody--- unless it’s something we steal. Hee hee.”

"Haw haw,” added Cyclone.

“And now, who are you guys?” demanded Cyclone.

“I’m Charlie, and this is Ziggy. And we are nicer than stay-at-home pussy cats and puppies. And the only thing we ever take is shit from guys big enough to back it up.You can bet we’ll give you all the respect you deserve.”

“You making fun, sonny?” sneered Cyclone.

“Hell, no, Mr. Clone, “said Charlie.

“You are, too.” Growled Cyclone.” I know what a clone is.”

“Obviously,” said Charlie, then added: “I’m sorry, Cy.”

“Damn it all, I’m Cyclone! Not, Cy---Clone!”

I was afraid Charlie would push his point and ask the name of their tailor. Instead he said softly, “You guys can’t just come in here and run us off.”

“Wanna bet?” snarled Knuckles. “You guys remember the movie Deliverance? It’s our all- time favorite.”

Yes, we remembered. Who could forget that canoeist bent over a log while he got a fingerless proctology exam from a hillbilly?

“Look, “I said as I gave Charlie a sideways kick, “we’re good sports. There’s plenty of room for all. “

“That’s right hospitable and sensible, Ziggy, “Knuckles said pleasantly. “We’re gonna be here all week. On Friday we meet the gang at Penny Pot Tavern to show them the way back here for a big-ass weekend party.”

“Sounds like fun,” Charlie said with a dangerous hint of sarcasm, “How many of your friends will be joining you?”

“Probably fifty… sixty guys with their ladies,” Cyclone boasted with enthusiasm. “They’re all good people. You’re gonna love them---if you’re still here to meet them.”

“How did you find this spot?” I asked.

Knuckles answered, “We used to poach deer here years ago with our daddy before he was sent away.”

When they waddled off to set up camp, Charlie and I sat by our fire and brooded.

This was a special trip for us--- maybe our last for a long time. Next month I would begin undergraduate work in zoology and marine biology at Bangor University in the UK, and Charlie would be getting his head shaved at the US Military Academy at West Point.

That morning we had canoed down Egg Harbor River from Folsom and stopped here to spend the week fishing, hiking, swimming and enjoying life in the Pine Barrens. Next Monday we would move down river and finish our trip at Weymouth Forge.

We had made this trip many times; this was our special place. It was approachable only from the river or one abandoned logging road and we usually had the entire site to ourselves.

Charlie and I have been best buds and outdoor sportsmen since we were little kids. He’s ornery as cat shit, great company… a good scout who is: trustworthy, loyal, helpful, brave clean, and irreverent about the same scared cows that I detest.. He recycles old jokes and clichés at every opportunity. A lot of people say he’s a smart ass. Those people are right. But he’s still my friend.

Travels with Charlie were often hazardous. He has a 29 inch waist and a 39 inch mouth. Despite his small waist he has a lot of guts. His guts and mouth have often got us into trouble. For example, once at a school dance when he tired of some jock’s boasting, he told the offender, “If bullshit was electricity, you’d be a nuclear power plant.” That old joke cost him a black eye and, when I tried to help him, got us kicked out of the gym.

On another occasion when a ranger warned us “You can’t run Weymouth Forge Rapids at flood stage,” Charlie convinced me we could. We proved our advisor was right. We wrecked our canoe and took a long scary swim.

But that’s history.

While we brooded and watched, the Dobermans coaxed a smoky fire from soggy pitch pine limbs and struggled to erect a raggedy pop-up tent that looked as though it came out of a dumpster. As they fumbled about they played mind-numbing rap on a boom box. What’s more, they played it with such excruciating volume it shook pine cones and acorns from the trees and sent squirrels and chipmunks scurrying off in terror.

While the twins worked they guzzled one beer after another and tossed crushed empty cans in every direction like pieces of shrapnel.

As we watched, our amusement changed to despair. “Charlie.” I said, "It’s only Monday. Can you imagine having these guys for neighbors for a whole week? And just think what this place is going to look like after their little social? The place will be littered with beer cans, butts, trash, and piles of human crap. And I’ll bet the skins they leave in the bushes won’t be animal pelts. This place will be trashed.”

“Why, Ziggy, “jabbed Charlie, “ I think you’re prejudiced against bikers.”

"No way, man. Some of my best friends are bikers. But we might as well pack up tomorrow and move on down river.”

“Come on, Ziggy,” objected Charlie."This is our place. This is a turf war. We can’t let them run us off.”

“Sure, “I said,” we could beat the crap out of them with a club, but they’d come back with their whole gang and stomp us into mulch .If we’re gonna stay ,we need a plan. You’re the future general--- give us a plan.”
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Charlie closed his eyes, leaned back for a minute, then jerked alert into combat mode:

“Ziggy, here’s the situation: This is war. We know the territory. Our enemy doesn’t. They have street smarts, but no wood smarts. They have a big army in reserve.. We don’t. So this calls for a covert operation.“

“What do you mean, covert?”

“That’s military talk for sneaky.”

“Okay, general. What’s our first move?”

“We marshal the firepower of Mother Nature. Use her arsenal to make those clowns so miserable they won’t be able to wait to get back to the ghetto.

“Remember the first year we camped here and we got into that mine field of chiggers in the grass over by that clearing?” he said pointing to fifty by fifty foot patch of chigger habitat.

Oh did I remember! We had cut tall grass and put it down as a mat before we pitched out tent. The next day we were scratching so badly we bled. Two days later we had to abort our trip to get home for medical attention.

Chiggers are tiny red mites that crawl on your carcass, inject an enzyme into your skin, feast on you, and then drop off. Scratch their former dinner table and it only gets worse. They thrive late in summer, in dry tall grasses and other thick, non-shaded vegetation

“Sure, I remember,” I said. But how do we get them in that grass?”

“Look, they pitched their tent under that widow-maker,” he said pointing to a dead sixty foot tall pitch pine. We can hope it falls on them, or use it as a reason to move to a safer spot--- and direct them through the chigger patch. Let’s go visit.”

“What do you guys want?” Knuckles greeted when we walked over to their site.

“We come to pay our respect,” said Charlie.

“And, maybe to save your lives,” I added quickly. ” That big old dead pine is ready to pull up its roots with the first good puff of wind, fall on your tent and crush your skulls like the comedian Gallagher smashes water melons."


“There’s a nice clear shady spot right over there. It’s a lot safer,” Charlie said pointing over the chigger patch. “You can take a short cut through the grass and later move your bikes around to the other side which is nice and open.”

The guys, who weren’t afraid of anything, pulled up the anchor pegs, picked up their tent and frame as a unit, and like a mine sweeper dragged it with them to the new location. And just like that, they had set the table for the hungry multitude of chiggers.

When they went back to move their bikes, they picked up another supply of chiggers.

The new spot was a cozy cul de sac about thirty yards from our camp. It was open on our side and framed by the chigger patch, and a slope covered with laurel bushes, oak, and pine trees.

While they set up and moved their bikes, Charlie said, “Remember what else we learned about that spot? The poison ivy around all those windfalls on that slope?”

“Oh I sure do remember. The year after the chigger attack, we stayed out of the grass, but when we gathered firewood we both got a dose of poison ivy. But how do we get them in the patch?”

‘Let’s go pay our respects again,” said Charlie, so we strolled over to where the twins were building another smoky fire with water-logged logs.

“What do you guys want now?’ Cyclone mumbled as he tried to avoid the smoke which seemed to track his movements around the fire.

“We come to pay our respects again,” Charlie needled.

“And to offer a couple of tips to make your stay as pleasant as possible, “I quickly added like an obsequious desk clerk.

“We don’t need no tips,” coughed Knuckles, trying to dodge the smoke.

“Just trying to be helpful,” cooed Charlie. “But if you go up that slope a few yards you’ll fine lots of squaw wood. It’s dry hardwood that’s easy to snap off and gather from windfalls, and burns with less smoke.”

“Be sure to wear you boots, though,” I added. There are timber rattlers in these woods; they usually hunt after dark, though. Be careful at night if you go out to pee.”

The guys who weren’t afraid of anything were now paying attention. “You got any more tips?” asked Cyclone.

“Well, be sure to take your boots in at night. There are ticks in these woods that cause Lyme disease and Rocky Mountain spotted fever. I know you’re not afraid of a little old tick, but Lyme disease is pretty nasty. It will stay with you for a long time ---if you survive. And Rocky Mountain spotted fever is ….Well, just be careful.”


“Yeah, those ticks are really hard to see on dark clothing,” Charlie added with relish as he stared at their black pants and tank tops.

"One other thing," I added.” Don’t leave any food around. Bears have been spotted over in Egg Harbor less than twenty miles from here. They have a range of about sixty square miles, so we’ve got a neighbor who could stop by for a visit any time. Brass knuckles and knives might not help you very much.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Knuckles with a tone that indicated my information didn’t really please him.

When we left, the twins were headed up the slope to gather squaw wood--- and catch poison ivy.

Urushiol, the bad stuff in poison ivy, begins to penetrate the skin in minutes; the rash usually takes time to appear. Approximately 12 to 36 hours after exposure an itchy rash with blisters develops, and you are on your way to a lot of suffering.

******

The next day before noon, on our way down to the river we saw them examining one another for ticks and comparing body damage. What’s more they were already scratching places Momma said you never scratch in public. We didn’t know who to thank: the chiggers or the poison ivy.

We stopped by to pay our respects. “If you’ve got some bug bites, you’ll probably get relief if you go in the water. But be careful where you step. There’s a giant snapping turtle that lives in the cove. He can take off a toe with one snap.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Cyclone.

But they had other priorities than itches and cleanliness. At one o’clock, they revved up their bikes, rode by our camp and yelled, “Watch our stuff; we’ve got to make a beer run.”

It was nice and peaceful once they left, but we were anxious to expedite their permanent departure.

“I think now’s a good time to ask Long John Slither for some help,” Charlie said with a nasty laugh.

We had known Long John Slither for five years. Mr. Slither is a seven foot northern pine snake that lives in a burrow in a sand hill about two hundred yards from our camp. He took possession of the burrow after eating the owner and its family. It’s easy for a seven foot snake to establish the right of eminent domain.

His size alone is enough to scare you, but he’s also a loud hisser, vibrates his tail like a rattle snake and strikes vigorously. He’s non-poisonous, but will give you a nasty bite if you provoke him. We don’t provoke him.


While they made their beer run, we prodded Long John out of his burrow, while I focused his attention by rolling and egg with a stick, Charlie pinned him with a forked stick.

Charlie is good with snakes. I let him grab Long John behind the head. I held John’s body. Actually he wrapped his body around mine while we carried him to the Dobermen’s camp.

It was easy to poke Long John’s head through a hole in the tent and he slithered right in to make himself comfortable on somebody’s sleeping bag while he rested from all the excitement.

When the twins got back they both entered the tent. And then the guys who weren’t afraid of nothing or nobody let the world know they were afraid of Long John Slither. Screaming, they both tried to squeeze their fat asses through the narrow door at the same time and the tent collapsed on them.

They tumbled over one another, popped up and down and from side to side to side trying to find the exit. The tent looked like a magic carpet trying to take off. Meanwhile, Long John Slither found an exit before they did and disappeared through the grass.

Cyclone and Knuckles each made a new door on opposite sides of the tent. Once free they each grabbed the biggest log they could handle and beat the hell out of the empty tent. When sure there was no movement, they stopped for a beer.

Twenty minutes later they had abandoned their campsite and tattered tent, cranked up their bikes, and left forever--- without even saying good bye. It turned out to be a lovely day

As the pocketa-pocketa sound of their bikes faded away, Charlie and I high-fived.
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“Hee hee, “said Charlie.

Haw haw,” Said I.

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