Crazy Joe, Stewball and a Gallon of Coleman Fuel

Damn, what a ride...hehe.



It is so hard to write about this trip at times because so much has taken place and so much has been forgotten. What do I write, what do I say...I know I have not said it all, but I hope that everytime I get on this blog someone takes the time to stop in and read. Little is worse than having your words go unoticed and forgotten. FMR...heheh.



No in all honesty I have a shit-load of stories to share with either myself or the select few that take the time to read my crap.



Tonight I think I'm going to tell the story of how Stewball and I almost burend down the Fuckin Doons!



This was one of the early trips, and I do believe it was the second trip of the tradition because it was the first one that the General came on. I say this because this was when I was drinking like a fish and on the third trip I did not drink in light of my few years of sobriety. I had a nasty night with a utility knife and my arm, but that is neither here or there.



It was our last night of camping because we were at the Doons, and back in those days the Doons were alwasy the last stop because they hold the absolute best camping site on the Bigfork, even if the hill to get there is a huge BITCH! But those that follow this blog know about the hill that posesses the campsite like a temptress that must be earned. That and by the time we reached the doons we were so low on the brew and the other necesities of life like food, that we had to get off.



On this particular trip I had been in a piss poor attitude because of the booze and other factors in my life that I care not to divulge. For some reason or another I was being a dick to the General because I would argue and insult him at every chance that made itself available. He could not get in a word or tell one of his raunchy jokes without me being a total ass and ripping him like he was my bitch. He would tell his famous midgit joke and I would rip him for having penis envy or some shit like that. No matter what was said it was a war of words and anamosity. I really think that had the General been drinking we would have had came to blows; of course my intlectual ass would have been handed to me I wouldn't have gone down without a fight. Nevertheless, I should make with the story...



It had been a bit of a rainy day and we had a lot of wet clothes hanging over the fire that evening. Well maybe not over the fire, but we did string, or rather the General had strung up some line for all of us to hang our dripping clothes up so the wind that was blowing though the valley dried what we had to offer. While most of the nice line (I say that because this was some expensive rope) was over regular land, part of it did go over the campfire; and this factor provided the fun for the night...hehe.



Well it was early in the morning and Stweball and I were still up sitting up around the fire because we had some vodka lefte in the half-gallow jug and a collection of beers left to swill before we passed out. Back in the day I was able to go like a motherfucker and still drive the chic home in the morning so she didn't get into trouble. But that was a night that I will never forget until they are ready to put me into the ground.

.

I know I have told a good portion of the story of when the General lit that field on fire, however for those of you that read and never take chance on the trip, his attempt at buring down the forest was the second attempt...and kind of pitaful compared to the first. Well that is a strech of the truth if there ever was one. While my attempt at a forest fire was good and harry, my fire didn't require a helecopter to come in a dip from the Bigfork to extinguish the flames. In hindesight, which most people know is 20/20, Stewball and I were luck as hell that the land was as saturated with rain as it was, or we would still be doing some time.



So there we were, Stewball and myself sitting around the fire talking about sex, drugs and rock-n-roll. I know that is cliche`, but that is the mother-loving-truth. I remember we got into an argument because Stewball was talking about Ducky being a lesbian. I know, pretty dumb, but nevertheless, we almost through fist-a-cuffs because of it. I mean I had stood up to defend my sister's honor and was ready to take Stuball down the hill and drown his ass in the river. He finally conceded into what I thought was a great agreement. He wouldn't say no more shit about Ducky and I wouldn't break the vodak jug over his mellon. I know it was a lot of the booze talking and us being stupid. So when that arguement was done with we needed something to do to pass the time. That is when I thought of it.

I noticed that the wash-line was over the fire and thought that it would be cool to get the flames high enough to melt the rope. The problem was that that the line was a good five feet from the flames and the firewood we had, while enough for the rest of tghe trip, still wouldn't be enough to get the flame to the desired hight. Stewball made the suggestion to add some would to the fire to build up the flames a little to see how close we could get. So we picked though the logs to select the ones that felt the driest and best to burn at a quick pace. Just like I suspected we still came up a good three feet short.

"What we need is some Boyscout Water," I slurred as I scanned the campsite.
"What the fuck is Boyscout Water?" Stewball look preplexed.
"Gas man," I said. "You know how when ya toss gas on a fire it goes whoosh. That would do it man. Flame to the heavens."
"How about the Coleman fuel?" Stewball pointed to an area next to the General's tent. An evil smile spread across my lips...
"Perfect," I said stumbling over the the can. I was very pleased to find that the can was almost full. Plenty of fuel to get the experiment to work.

Now I know what you might be thinking. We took a poored the fuel directly on the fire from the can...come on? How dumb do you think we were. We were good ol' boys from the north who learned to buld a fire by the time we hit second grade. We knew the danger that fire and fuel pose, so we did what any experienced fire-maker would do, we made tore the lid off the top of a beer can to use as a means to toss white gas onto the fire.

Stewball made the tossing can and I got the lid off the can. I clumsily poored some into the can and Stewball gave'er a toss.
"WHOOSH!! Flames shot up and licked at the rope and for a few seconds the entire campsite lit up like it was daytime. When the flames died down I examined the rope. It had turned it from a dirty white to completly black, but it did not look to have melted at all.

"Hit'er again!" I said grabbing the can for a refill. And so we repeated the process a few more times. Each time we got the same results: WHOOSH!! LIGHT!! BLACKENED ROPE BUT NO MELTY MELTY! After the fifth or sixth time I was pissed and it had gotten personal. I figured it was going to be little of a problem to melt a simple rope. I mean how fricking hard could it be. This is where we made the mistake. Stewball said we weren't putting enough fuel into the can. We had only been filling it about half-full, so he suggested to fill it to the top. What we didn't take into account was that it would take just a fraction of a second longer to empty the full can as it did the half-full can. No factor in the fact that we had also grown a little sloppy with the rules of fire safety, which were about to be chucked from the moving vehicle all together. In our hasted to try the new and imporved idea, I set the metal jug of white gas a wee bit too close to the fire.

I filled up our toss can to the gills, Stewball took a swirsh from his drink and picked up the can. Sloshing a little down the sides he starts to poor the dealdy fuel onto the fire. Things kind of slowed down for a bit here. Of course there was the obligator WHOOSH!! of flame and because Stewball was still dumping when it hit, he caught the can on fire. Well the first instinct for a person who's hand just became engulfed in flame is to chuck the whatever they are holding that is on fire. And chuck he did, right onto the top of the open can of white gas. A microsecond later he has a cooler open and his hand in the cooler. I on the other hand watch as the toss can, or rather what is in the toss can, explode all over the Coleman fuel and light IT on FIRE!!

This is one of those times I kind of wish someone else had been up and video taping this. I know we could have won some money on America's Funniest Videos or The World's Biggest Boneheads. There is no doubt in my mind my face held that famous "OH SHIT!" look. This is where I took a big old dump on fire safety. For some reason or another I got this bright idea to "toss the can into the river before it exploded and took out use and the Muldoon campsite. So in my druken stupor wisdom I covered up my had with my flannel, grabbed the Coleman fuel by it handle, wound up and chucked that sucker with all my might down the hill towards the river.

Stewball and I watched the can. We watched as this can did an ever so gracefull swirl in the air. Like some kind of cosmic spiral it spun through space, working its way down the hill. And the entire time it is doing this, it is pissing out a stream of lit fuel which is setting the hill on fire. About the time we realize exactly what the fuck is going on, the Coleman can hits a tree which inturupts its flight and sends it crashing to the edge of the river...while setting the tree on fire also, no biggy.

We turned and looked at each other. We shared an "We Are Fucked" moment and then jumped over the side of the hill towards the fire. Here is where our luck turned for the better. Remember I had said that this was one of the rainy years, so we got pretty lucky that the fire didn't last all that long on the hill. On the flip side though, the hill is really fucking steep, so when we jumped we tumbled and slid past some of the fire. The wet leaves were like tring to stop on grease. Luck for us there is also plenty of sapplings to break and slow falls. I got a little luckier than Stewball, while I stopped in the middle of the hill, he really didn't stop until he was close to the bottom. He went to work on the dying fire down there and I worked on the parts that were around me and above. Within five minutes we had the fire out and were clawing our way back to the top of the hill.

On the top again we took our seats around the fire, cracked another brew, and sat in silence for a few minutes. I guess we were in a little bit of shock. The beer tasted good and clamed the nerves. Then I spoke...

"How's the hand?"
"Hurts a bit." Stewball held up his right hand and it did look red, even in the dim light of the fire. "It's really going to hurt in the morning." He took a long drink from his beer.
"I think we are both going to hurt like hell in the morning." I slammed the rest of mine.
"Never did melt that fucking rope," he nodded towards the scortched line above the fire.
"Nope," and I just shook my head. I looked down at where the can had been sitting, and all the grass and leaves we burnt black. "Got lucky with the rain though."
"Yep," he said handing me another beer while he cracked a fresh one for himself.

We shot the shit for awhile longer as we demolished the rest of our booze. Recalling the fire event over and over. But the booze supply was low and we were beat. It didn't take long to polish off the rest and go to our tents to pass out for a couple of hours till it was time to rise and shine so we could get off the river.

Before I end this story I have to say the General was a little pissed about the Coleman fuel. When he asked what happened to the can, Stewball and I just laughed our asses off. I said it was sitting at the bottom of the hill. Of course he wanted to know how it got down there, so we took turns regailing the story. Brother John and Snakes laughed to beat the blazes. The General just kept muttering shit about respect and crap. He was right though. What we did was not very respectfull, not to mention dangerous as hell. We never did go down and see if the can was still there the next morning. The hill had already kicked our collective asses once, I wasn't about to give it seconds.

Every year we camp at the Doons this story comes out a least once. I'm sure this year will be no exception. We will also recount the time the General went ass-over-tea kettle down the hill. And no doubt the one where Dishman had to save my stumbling ass from going down it that other year. Good times. I can't wait...

Until next time I wil remain...Crazy Joe...