We are all DIYers in some form or fashion. This urge at self expression has surfaced in my life in the form of a purchase of 115 acres of primitive land in Oklahoma. We have started to use ,occupy, and try to improve the land enough to make it a visitable camp and eventually habitable location where we can go be in the wild and rest from the Dallas civilization that is always at least as stressful as it is convenient.

For you empty-nesters and others with similar urges I offer the following true story as an encouragement to go ahead and dive in… adventure waits!

TERROR AT HIDDEN ROCKS

I stood there at the country store listening to the “regulars”, a city boy hiding in my rumpled hat and sweaty clothes and 3’rd day neck beard, obvious to all that I was “not-from-around-here.” The ‘regulars’ were talking about recent sightings of bears and mountain lions near our property in Hughes County. My heart pumped. As soon as the topic shifted I put on my best important-things-to-do face and took my $4.50 worth of rapidly disintegrating ice and started the 7mile zigzag route back to camp at ‘Our Place’, so named because the family property naming contest is hopelessly stalemated.
“Our Place” is 115 acres of hills and rocks, densely blanketed with post oaks and hickory…There is no pasture and there are no fields. Any country businessman would call this purchase a mistake – no hay – no farm soil – no mineral rights – no utilities – and no water. The original attempt by the previous owner at damming up the dry creek washed out the first time a good rain sent 250 acres of runoff around, then over, then through the undersized structure. Six months after we purchased our piece of wilderness that particular problem was solved. In the midst of the dry creek valley that absorbs so much run-off we emptied our pockets to build a 23 thousand cubic yard earthen dam designed by the Natural Resource Conservation Service. This is a “big-mother-of-a-dam”, backing up 7+ acres of water up to 50 ft deep… a virtual wildlife magnet for all creatures breathing. As a fisherman my dream is that someday we will have a getaway fishing paradise in an inspiringly wild setting. The lake is shaped like a left rubber glove seen on edge with the thumb viewed from the top and fingers joined with only the index finger visible. The glove points North by North-East and my camp site is on the Western bluff by the first knuckle at the base of the index finger.
My camp is simple: a 12x20 tarp suspended between trees for a roof, a reclining lawn-chair for a sleeping platform, a propane stove, an ice-chest and a Rubbermaid raccoon-proof container about the size of a foot-locker for provisions. I also have a really cool jungle hammock sent to me by my friend in Kansas who has collaborated with me during the whole process. Tonight, having been forewarned, I decide to sleep above the trouble in the hammock. Though quite narrow, it is cleverly engineered for bugs with its own string suspended mosquito-net room sewn to the edges of the hammock. It creates that zipped-in they-cant-get-me feeling so helpful for sleeping in the woods next to a lake. After dark the frog and cricket noises bring comfort and drowsiness but the hair-raising screams of the coyotes pierce the soothing chorus and bring me to instant full alertness time after time. They are too many. They are too close. Now, closer … I steel myself, searching in the folds for my flashlight and pocket knife. There they are…I am prepared …I am safe. And so it goes till dawn when blessed light vanquishes the last demons and I find myself alive, not afraid , a conqueror. God knows this is heaven for a 59 year old little boy.

It is this kind of uniquely gratifying brush with the wildness of God’s creation that draws me to the woods to play, to work, to be. Every dawn is church. Every bird, lizard and spider is a beacon to the glory of The Creator. It’s all too much. I am on the edge of weeping but unable to utter a single word. Paul had it right when he said that God is proved by the things that have been made (Rom 1).

These convictions in hand, it was with great satisfaction that I recently heard my daughter’s 23 year old boyfriend declare one night that he intended to shun the safety of the newly completed barn to solo sleep in the jungle hammock on the point. I understood. At 10 pm, on July 4th, Brent Meeks walked out through the barn door, a rabbit hole joining civilization and the unknowns of the night. By midnight, I couldn’t stand it. I had to go join him in his adventure. Head-lamp in place on this moonless night, I trekked the hundred yards to the bluff above the lake, noted Brent’s suspended location, and moved 30 yards further down the ridge to sleep in the lawn chair, nicely protected by a mosquito net tent enclosure. A simple “it’s just me” was all I said as I passed Brent, fully aware that he was on red alert listening to my noisy footfalls. I settled in to my reclining position, carefully tucking dangling sheet under my body to prevent any scorpoin from climbing up to join me. All was quiet until about 2am when it happened… I heard a ROARING HUMAN SCREAM so loud, so primal, it lifted me off the chair and threw me into utter confused clumsiness. There was a knee-pumping arms flailing thrashing noise along with the screaming that ran my blood cold. NO! NO! NO! came the man-scream. Before I could get there I heard the loud thump of heavy flesh hitting the ground. In total panic I finally found the adult-proof headlight switch and flipped on the light. “Over Here!” a voice cried out. Brent was now standing next to the twisted remains of the now inverted hammock, his face grim and white. “I don’t know what it is but it’s still in there”, he puffed. I carefully surveyed the partially suspended tangle of ropes and fabric with the light. Nothing moved. After slowly unzipping the netting,we pulled each piece of bedding out one at a time …nothing… Brent replayed the experience as having been startled awake with a creature literally standing on his chest moving toward his face, some how INSIDE THE NETTING. Fighting for his very life, he had screamed, flailed and kicked the creature to the foot of the hammock only to have the creature pounce back onto his chest…absolutely terrifying! Then, slowly, the only logical explanation began to dawn and I started to quite literally quake with laughter. Why the mistaken terror of a friend would strike me as such a funny event I don’t know…but I laughed till I cried. It was Murphy! The night-wandering family cat making his “ARE YOU O.K.” rounds between the barn dwellers and the campers. Unable to get normal access to the hammock because of the netting, he had run up the tree and launched himself onto the nylon roof of the hammock. A quick flashlight scan of the ground around us confirmed the theory. There… 20 feet away, was Murphy, crouched down in the ready position wearing a “Should I be running?!” look on his face.

Hell hath no fury like a man frightened out of his wits!