Way North, a novel by Randy Evans

Chapters Sixteen-Eighteen

Chapter Sixteen

Fire Fight

In October, 1969, Captain Nick Randall, Army Ranger, was one month away from completing his second tour in Vietnam.  Captain of the C Company “Wolfhounds,” 2d Battalion, 27th Infantry Regiment, his mission was to capture American deserters. This particular day, his eight-man team continued their Long Range Patrol on two boats on a river deep in enemy territory, an area of operation near the border between North and South Vietnam.  Over the course of the war, about forty Americans deserted in Vietnam, and Nick’s unit was assigned to work with the Defense Intelligence Agency to track them down.  They only had solid information on about half of them.

The platoon beached the boats at the edge of the river in dense foliage.  They had intel that a VC Regiment was nearby.

In the dimming light of evening, Nick looked intensely through his Starlight Spotting Scope.   Nick observed a tall white man moving across a clearing in the hills above the river.  Several VC were walking with him.  The VC carried SKS, Soviet semi-automatic rifles, a predecessor to the AK-47.   The white-skinned man carried what looked like a slide-action shotgun.

 He couldn’t be certain three hundred yards out, but the man matched the intel report description of an American deserter nicknamed, “Salt.”  There had been numerous sitings of Salt with his side kick, another deserter with dark skin called “Pepper.”  The sitings were similar and consistent--the pair were operating with North Vietnamese forces fighting in the South Vietnamese Army’s I Corps Tactical Zone.

The pair were thought to be laboring as rice mules, but the NVA had also used the two in battles against the South Vietnamese Army. Rumors had it they had recently split up, since the last sighting of Salt was without Pepper at the mouth of a river near a ferry crossing.  He was stripped down to his fatigues and swimming out to a sampan.  Pepper had been separately observed hitching a ride on a truck in a nearby province.

Nick wanted to get in closer to make a positive ID.  Complicating their mission, Vietnam contained many types of non-Vietnamese, including French colonial troops left over from the French withdrawal in 1954, and third country advisors and observers.  He had already killed an armed American deserter who looked like he might shoot, so Nick wanted to be sure before capturing or killing anyone else.

He couldn’t get the deserter’s dying moments out of his mind:

“What’s happening to me?”

“You’re dying.”

“I’m afraid to die.”

“It’s just like going to sleep.”

“”Where am I going?”

“You’re going home.”

“Don’t tell my parents”

The young boy’s eyes glassed over, as he rushed into eternity.

Nick motioned his squad to expand their perimeter inland from the river, but almost immediately they encountered the sharp cracks of AK’s and grenade explosions.  A firefight ensued. Machine gun fire followed. He did manage to get a better look at Salt--he was about six foot with a medium build, brown hair, nothing distinctive.  He carried a shotgun with a bayonet-- looked like an old Winchester pump, carried by Marines early in the War, and now used mostly by guards.

 As the firefight sparked into the night, Nick ordered his men to dig foxholes about fifty yards in from the river, deep within the bamboo.  He set up around a smoldering dead tree.  One of his men’s arms was hanging limp and he was pale white, another had sucking chest wounds. Nick called in Cobra gunships, but the rockets couldn’t bust the VC loose, so jets came in and dumped napalm on the hill--it lit up the whole jungle.  A Medevac bird hovered over the river bank long enough to pick up the two wounded, but the six of them had to spend a sleepless night in the trees.  

At 0400 hours the next morning, a “hot extraction” was arranged.  The pilot said their bird only had 25-foot ropes, rather than the standard 120-footers.  He asked Nick to pop a smoke can so they would know they were going to the right place, then Cobra gunships would fire rockets into the hill above them.

Nick stared into the darkness until the light came.  He heard the rescue helicopter before it appeared over the horizon.  Because of the short ropes, the bird came down through the bamboo where they had set up their night defense with the rotor blades chopping the bamboo--a very dangerous thing.  The twenty-five foot ropes dropped down, and in the midst of crackling gunfire and the explosion of grenades, the chopper came out of hover, and dragged them through the trees to safety.  Everyone was badly beat up, but Nick was hurt the worst, and done with the war.

After Stretch’s comment about hearing “Salt and Pepper” used at the meth lab, he remembered the last Defense Intelligence Agency briefing a buddy sent him.  After reporting recent cases of Vietnam-era deserters turning up from time to time, the DIA concluded, “We cannot rule out others are still out there.”  

To survive the rocket attack and napalm on the hill that night would have been a miracle, so Salt was probably one of the dead, a deserter never scrubbed out of the MIA  list, one of the many unsolved mysteries of the Vietnam War.  Still, he couldn’t help wonder--what a coincidence that would be!  He had to find out.

Nick recovered from his physical injuries, but still suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, like so many other soldiers before and after him.  His night on the river, and days, weeks, months, and years in Vietnam had taken a deeper toll.  He thought about all the untold stories that vets carried around with them, and whether or not his son, had he lived, would have joined them in the one-thousand-yard stares of the battle-fatigued warriors.

Chapter Seventeen

The Shotgun

The methamphetamine lab had been operating deep in the woods near state land for about two years.  The local police were often unaware of the whereabouts of all the clandestine drug labs, even in the small geography of Northern Michigan.  The labs were in old farmhouses, motel and hotel rooms, apartments, house trailers, commercial buildings, cars, boats, sheds and pole barns.  “Around here sometimes law enforcement needs a little assistance,” Stretch had said. 

Stretch watched the lab, crouched deep in marsh grass about 500 yards away from the run-down outbuildings that made up the complex.  He noticed two men coming and going,  the white-skinned one he had seen before, and a dark-skinned one.   He recorded their movements and routines. Every night they left the property about nine o’clock and didn’t return until after eleven. Because of Stretch’s age, Nick would have to carry most of the weight of the operation, but Stretch did his part as an observer.  The two men practiced the arm-and-hand signals that Nick had used as an Army Ranger.

A week earlier, Nick called Pete, a buddy he had served with in Vietnam.  Recently retired, Pete had worked as an analyst in the tactical area of the Defense Intelligence Agency.

“Did you ever see the file on Salt and Pepper?” NIck said.

“Yes, I looked at it once, a big file.”

“Any mention of Salt having a shotgun?”

“Yes, I think a military version of a Winchester pump.”

“Can you call someone and get more details?”

“Sure, why?”

“ It’s a long shot, but I think Salt and Pepper may have surfaced.”

Less than twenty-four hours later, the DIA guy called him back.

“Salt had a Winchester Model 1200.  The military version... just about the same as the civilian, except it had a ventilated handguard, sling swivels and a bayonet lug.  It could hold five rounds with four in the tubular magazine.  The gun was introduced in 1964, and was a takedown type of shotgun--you could take it apart easily for transportation.  The Army wanted to use Springfields, but they couldn’t fit the huge surplus of World War I bayonets on hand, so Winchester started making this new model in 1964.  Salt’s gun serial number:  L246537, manufactured in 1967.  Wasn’t actually his gun.  He stole it from a prison guard when he escaped one of our brigs.  The guard had an M1917 bayonet on the gun.”

“How would someone like Salt get a weapon like that back to the States after the war?  I thought the military checked in all the weapons?”

“When the soldiers returned stateside, they carried their weapons with them.  Somebody with a clipboard in the arms room checked the weapons, but if they weren’t on their list, they were returned to the soldier.  Sometimes they were just marked lost or damaged to make the work easier.”

“So they just took them home.”

“Yes, they broke down the weapon, placed the parts in their duffel bags, and got on a bus for home.” 

“But how could a deserter get back into the States?”

“Easy, when the VC started taking the Central Highlands near the end of the war, a call went out to all Americans in Vietnam--about 350 unidentified people just came out of the woodwork.  They were processed at Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines, but in all the confusion, people slipped through the cracks.  Remember, Salt and Pepper were never positively ID’d.  One more thing....”

“What?”

“There was a missing section of the “Salt and Pepper File,” classified way beyond my pay grade and clearance.”

Chapter Eighteen

Night Fire

In late April, NIck and Stretch decided once and for all they were going to do this.

“We can’t kill or injure anyone, either accidentally or on purpose,” Nick had stated.  We need to get inside on the night we blow it up to make sure no one, not even a dog or cat, is inside.” 

 So on the designated night, Nick and Stretch waited in the dark until Salt and Pepper left in the pickup.  As Nick started his long crawl towards the compound, Stretch gave one of his dog commands,  “Hunt-em up.”  The ground was a mixture of rain-glazed snow and mud.

Nick’s plan to fast-rope down inside the lab from a hole in the roof changed once he climbed on top of the shack on an old ladder.  He looked down through the hole and saw a large pot cooking something foul on a stovetop.   The place seemed vacant.  He waited fifteen minutes to confirm the place was empty, then struck a wooden match and lit the torpedo-shaped cigar that he had been saving for afterwards, threw it down into the pot--instant ignition.

He was blown off the roof into some spruce trees, bruised and scraped like the night the lift helicopter dragged him out of the bamboo forest in Vietnam.   A few minutes later the night sky was lit. People could see the red glow from Harbor Springs, and the smoke could be seen on the south end of Beaver Island, over 30 miles away. Locals thought it sounded like a propane explosion, a common occurrence in the area.  Nick had some pain from corneal flash burns, some nausea from the chemical fumes, but otherwise he was lucky to be alive.  Stretch watched it all happen from a safe distance, and moved in to see if Nick needed help.  Once he knew Nick was okay, he said, “Whoopie!  You looked just like you was thrown off one mean bull!”

Nick’s cell phone went off in the grass about ten yards away.  He was a volunteer fireman, and he scrambled into town just in time to ride out to the scene of his own creation. By six in the morning, he and his fellow firefighters lay in the grass exhausted before the smoldering rubble of the meth lab.  Local people came to see, arriving on foot, in cars, bicycles, and ATV’s.  A local woman brought coffee and donuts from her bakery in town.   The scene was a bit festive, something you seldom see in big cities where small disasters are more common.  Stretch went home to take a nap.

Just as Nick was finishing his first coat of paint at midmorning, when the county sheriff arrived uniformed and armed in his squad car.  He started talking in an ominous tone:

“We can’t prove nothin’, but I think we know what happened...yep, my bet is you two boys took the law into your own hands. Our surveillance man saw Stretch stalking around out there. We had good reasons for keepin’ a watch on that operation without movin’ in--these were not locals... you’re lucky they didn’t kill you.  They still may, because we have no idea where they are now.  Do you hear what I’m sayin’ to you?”

 Nick nodded, said nothing at first, and then after a long pause replied, “Yep.”

The sheriff jumped in the squad car, but as his tires began to roll out the long two-track road from Nick’s cottage, he said, “We’re having a spaghetti dinner fund-raiser next Saturday night at Central Town Hall.  A good man needs a new kidney.  I expect you and Stretch to be there, and bring two big checks.”  

And so just like a priest assigning acts of penance to sinners, the sheriff told Nick how Stretch and he could absolve themselves of their transgression through charity.  It was as practical as taking rust off the fenders of an old pickup--the rust of sin polished away through an act of charity, not exactly perfect contrition, but good enough for local use.  

Nick had to admit that it had been a truly stupid thing to do, and he did feel a bit contrite.  While he was no slave to conforming behavior, he didn’t need to be running around acting like a lunatic.  On the other hand, the long days and weeks of seclusion required new material for Nick and Stretch to gab about, and he felt there was a missing piece in this jigsaw puzzle.

Nick’s theory about Salt and Pepper still tormented him, and blowing up the lab did nothing to lead his investigation further; in fact, this set things back, something he should have thought through ahead of time.  Where were they now?  What would they do next?  Were these guys the deserters he had been assigned to track down in Vietnam, or just a strange coincidence?  How could they not be truly evil, dealing in meth?  He could not let this be the end of the story. 

Way North, a novel by Randy Evans

Chapters Twelve and Thirteen

Victoria's Father and The Ice Shanty

Chapter Twelve

Victoria’s Father

A week before Victoria arrived, her father stood on his deck watching two swans float by in the current.  The cold spring had finally given way to warmer weather, and the steelhead run was mostly over.  The pike and bass were spawning in beds under the lilly pads, and yellow flowers sat on top blooming brightly in the morning sun.   As the familiar birds chirped their return from winter migration, everything looked fine and silky.  The air smelled keen and bracing, but warmed as the daylight lengthened.  Nick Randall was one of the few year-round residents on a stretch of the Crooked River where summer people kept old cottages.  His place was just east of one of the sharpest bends in the river called Devil’s Elbow.  From there, the river snaked its way to Burt Lake.

Many cottages, docks and boat houses lining the river showed visible signs of neglect-- unpainted siding, holes in the walls, fallen trees on roofs, broken drain pipes, missing dock planks blown out and swept away by the fast-moving currents. Once in a while, a “No Trespassing” sign warned boaters to stay on the river, usually outside the most dilapidated of the riverfront cabins, as if there were valuables on the other side of the weather-worn walls, or something people wanted to hide.

Nick was painting the outside trim on his little bungalow, a light pine green he chose to call, “the color of spring.”  The day was opening humid, a feeling that he had not experienced since the year before. Soon the rent-by-the-day pontoon boats would begin floating by along with occasional bow riders, canoes and kayaks.  The sanding was done, and now his paint brush swiped back and forth, making the cottage look brighter every minute.    Nick liked the smell of fresh paint, and the labor of painting--making something look new again, he thought.  His brushstrokes were as meticulous as if he were painting the Sistine Chapel Roof.

Nick was sixty-four.  A West Point graduate, he served nearly two tours in Vietnam as an Army Ranger.  Shot down once in a helicopter, he recovered, only to be re-injured in a “hot extraction” from a firefight near the end of his second tour.  Although he fully recovered a year later, his Army service was over.  He was awarded a Bronze Star, and two Purple Hearts. During his recovery year, he earned a graduate business degree on the GI Bill, and then embarked on what turned out to be a highly successful business career, first in customer service, then quality assurance up to  C-level positions reporting to a CEO or Chairman.

He worked first for an old-line manufacturing company in the Midwest, and then he moved on to get in on the beginnings of the high tech computer industry in what became known as Silicon Valley.  His stock options kept splitting, and he retired financially set just before the Dot Com Bust, and just before his wife, Victoria’s mother, died of breast cancer.  Born in Kalamazoo, he returned to West Michigan, to finish raising his family.  Victoria was the middle child of three children, and the only one who had stayed nearby.    She was a cautious child, never trouble.  She chose to go to work right after high school, and had done rather well in manufacturing quality control, following in the footsteps of her old man. 

 After his son, Victoria’s younger brother, died in Afghanistan, Nick decided to move north and live a reclusive existence on the river. He had great difficulty coping with the loss of his son, especially so soon after losing his wife.  Victoria’s older sister married a fourth-generation rancher in Montana several years before.  He loved to visit them once or twice a year, especially when he could help with calving or branding.  They were far away, however, and even though Victoria and he hadn’t seen each other much lately, he liked knowing she was just a few hundred miles away.

Nick loved the water. The river was clear and crystal, and the water so pure you could see the polished stones on the bottom over ten feet down. Living close to the water, he could dangle his feet in the river from his back deck.  He swam each morning before breakfast to stay fit.   Even though he had become a bit more thickish with age, his six-foot frame was solid.  Early in the year at ice out, he pulled on a wetsuit until the water warmed enough to go without it.  In the fall, he would wear it again, wary of getting too close to the duck and deer blinds that dotted the marshes by the river.  

Yesterday, an old West Point buddy had emailed some specs on the new Navy triple-hulled pirate chaser, “faster than any ship in the Navy.”  He tacked a photograph of the ship to the knotty pine paneling over his computer.  “Torpedoes, missiles, machine guns, and helicopters at sixty knots,” he mused, “enough to get me out of dry dock.”  The truth is, he and his friend and neighbor, Stretch, had been “out of dry dock” the night before, on a secret mission.

Chapter Thirteen

The Ice Shanty

Nick and Stretch had cooked up their plot in the ice shanty over the winter, like a couple of high school boys organizing a prank.  Whether they did what they did because hard water fishing was slow that year, or because Nick had special knowledge that none of the locals knew about, was difficult to know.  But for whatever reason, they did it, and they would have to live with the consequences.

Other than breakfast once a week at Nick’s, the ice shanty served as their hub for communication in the winter--two-way communication without the interference of the outside world.  The Frabill Predator Ice Shelter set up with telescoping aluminum poles, and could hold Nick and Stretch along with their gear.  Nick had purchased a sled to carry the swivel boat seats to equalize the pulling load, especially for his more elderly fishing partner who had an ATV,  but was hesitant to take it out on anything but ice thick enough to hold a truck.  Nick used a computer-aided design program to form a wooden fixture for the middle of the sled with cut-out holes for the bait bucket, and holes for their rods.  Stretch knocked the design out in his pole barn workshop.  They took great pride in their contraptions, but they did not pretend to be great fishermen--they fooled at fishing for something to do.  And sometimes dumb luck and ignorance could beat all the fishing brains in the world.

Stretch was also single, and lived a hermit-like existence just down the seasonal road from Nick.  Eighty--nine, Stretch was divorced with no children, a veteran of both World War II and Korea. A native of Central Texas, he attended Texas A&M, but never graduated.  He inherited a family cattle ranch, and rode bulls on the rodeo circuit until nearly every bone in his body had been broken at least once.  In San Angelo one year, he claimed number three in the world standings.  He still displayed his ropes, chaps, pads, spurs, straps, and gloves on a wall in the pole barn behind his cabin.

Stretch insisted on wearing his Justin cowboy boots in North Michigan, even though they were not especially suited to living in the woods. Nick always hassled him for this, and for other old habits, like cutting steaks in a restaurant with his pocket knife.  Stretch had arrived in North Michigan about the same time as Nick, seeking refuge from his disastrous marriage after selling the ranch.  He lived with his Black Labrador, Flash, a misnomer for an old dog, who when he got up good head of steam reached inertia, then peaked out at about five miles per hour.

Even though both men had polite conversational reasons for moving to North Michigan, neither fully fathomed why they had chosen to move Up North, and they argued incessantly about why they lived alone in the woods in a back corner of the country.  Sometimes they would exchange their reasons after long pauses, as they slowly passed the whiskey flask back and forth in the ice shanty:  

“I live alone, because I want to be alone.” 

Dead silence.

“I live alone, ‘cause I want left alone.” 

Dead silence.

“I live alone, because I’m poor company.” 

“I live alone, because I like my own company.”

“When I’m in your company, I’m glad I live alone.”

Dead silence.

“I live alone, because I’m spooky from the war.”

“Spooky?”

“Yeah, spooky.”

“You want to talk....”

“No.”

Dead silence.

“ I live alone, because I stink.”

“I live alone, because you stink.”

“ I live alone, because my wife is dead.”

“I live alone, because my wife is alive.”

This banter continued until one of their rod tips quivered with life, and a big walleye flopped through the ice at their feet, almost like an unwelcome interruption to their drinking and talking.  They looked down at the fish, as if a bear had just walked through the kitchen door, like “what do we do now?”

“Got him!”  Nick almost tipped over the bait bucket, as he stood up and grabbed the fish.  They looked at its olive and gold skin, and shining eyes.  

“Wow, that’s a keeper,” Stretch said, “looks over twenty inches, maybe about five pounds.”

Nick removed the jig from the fish’s mouth.

“I tell you, we need to get a ten-inch auger.  This one barely made it through the hole,” Nick said.

“ Oh you don’t say...If you ever catch a fish that won’t pull through an eight-inch hole, I’ll buy you a ten-inch auger.”

“Got to be a power auger.”

Long pause.

“Okay, a power auger.”

“And a cigar.”

“Okay, a ten-inch auger and a big cigar.”

“A big cigar and extra spark plugs for the auger.”

“Whoa, if you smoked a really big cigar, you’d suffocate yourself, and I’d have to use the spark plugs to get your ticker restarted.” 

Nick and Stretch spent a lot of time together, because they had time to spare.  Over time certain unspoken rules guided their conversations, boundaries necessary for being thrown so much together.

Rule Number 1:  No talk of politics and religion.

Their mutual experiences taught them the follies of debating politics among friends.  Stretch once said, “You know why politicians can be at home anywhere with anyone--because they’ve got no place to go.  If they had a real home, they’d stay home and not bother the rest of us.”  Nick had no idea what Stretch was talking about--all the more reason to leave politics alone.

  

Rule Number 2:  No war stories.

Both Nick and Stretch knew the horrors of war, and narratives of the battlefield were off limits.  They carried stories lack a sack of stones, the raw material for cold sweats,

 bad dreams, and an occasional jump under the bed.

Rule Number 3:  No advice.

This rule included responding to requests for advice from the other.  When one of them asked for advice, they resented receiving it, and refuted any suggestions no matter how wise or well-intentioned.  Both men were stubborn as saints, and almost tearfully happy about what others regarded as a character flaw.  They carried their stubbornness around like alter pieces.

Rule Number 4:  No harm telling the same story twice.

Both Nick and Stretch told cherished stories they would tell over and over without complaint by the other--a sign of true friendship.  They would narrate their stories as if for the first time, changing the details to suit the occasion or their mood.  They would never begin a story by saying, “maybe I already told you this, but one time....”  

Rule Number 5:  “Pot calling the kettle black” contradictions unchallenged.

Criticizing others for your own shortcomings was regarded as mentally healthy--just a step away from personal honesty and frankness, an impossible goal.  Stretch  particularly could not stand to see his own vices displayed in the behavior of others.  It made him mad.

Rule Number 6:  No harm breaking the rules. 

Sometimes, especially in the ice shanty, the rules could be broken, as if they never existed.  Both men’s admiration for “Boy Scout” virtues remained well-controlled, and unexpected and inconsistent behavior made life more interesting.

In the faint light of the shanty, the two continued:

“Wigglers workin’ better today than minnows on perch,” Stretch said.

“Yeah, the perch are just pushing the minnows around down there,” Nick replied.

“Why are all the fish going to your hole when mine is just three feet away?”

“Maybe they know somethin’ you don’t.”

“We should move.”

“You go ahead, I’m staying here...in the shanty.”

“We don’t move around enough,” Nick said.

“Too much, trouble,” Stretch replied.

“You wouldn’t say that if we had a power auger.”

“Leave it,” said Stretch.  Stretch watched his words like his money, and when the same commands that he used with his dog worked for humans,...well, it was just economical.

On a good weather day, they opened some flaps and smoked in the shanty, something you wouldn’t do in a deer blind.  Nick liked torpedo-shaped cigars, and Stretch smoked a briar pipe.  The benefits of cigar versus pipe smoking broke none of the rules, an acceptable area for continuing disagreement.

“You know, pipes are North American; cigars from south of the Rio Grande,”  said Stretch.

“How do you know that?”

“Because up here Native Americans had no year-round wrapping leaves for tobacco,” Stretch said

“Where did you hear...?”

“Well, it just makes sense, doesn’t it?  Ever try to wrap a cigar with a dead leaf?”

“Never wrapped a cigar.”

“Well, just wanted you to know when you smoke a cigar, you’re more like a South American than a North American...like one of them dictators down there.”

“You’re getting batty.”

“Just a little history lesson....”

“Not a popular subject these days.”

“Yeah, no public smoking anymore...people were smoking stone pipes two thousand years ago anywhere they wanted.”

“You can smoke in the casinos.”

“Let’s do that!  Let’s go smoke in a casino!”

“Don’t let pipe smokers in...takes too long to lose their money.”

Pause.

“One more thing...Indians smoked pipes to seal the deal in treaties...said it was better than writing.  They smoked to be at one with nature, too, spiritual-like,” Stretch said.

“Spiritual?  Now you’re saying my way of smoking is somehow inferior to your way of smoking?”

“Suppose so... besides pipe smoking is mighty refined... fashionable.”

“Whoa!  Fashionable?--along with your Carhartt’s and cowboy boots?”

“Do you think suckin’ on a cigar is attractive?”

“Who are you trying to attract?”

“You think I’m too old to attract anyone?”

“I’m only saying a pipe is just a pipe.”

“I’ll reflect on that,” Stretch said, puffing away.  

The ice shanty conversation turned to the changing ideas of what society deemed acceptable.  Both Nick and Stretch agreed hard drugs were a greater threat to society than smoking tobacco.  If they had their facts straight they would know smoking causes more deaths each year than drug and alcohol abuse, car accidents, suicides, and murders combined.  But once Nick and Stretch agreed on something, facts were not that important.  

 “I heard today more people die each year from overdoses, than car accidents,” Stretch said, “looks like illegal drugs are out of control in this country, even in this county.  Law enforcement doesn’t seem to work.  In the Old West, vigilantes solved problems like this.  Horse thieves and cattle rustlers knew if the law didn’t get them, one of their neighbors might.”

“Said like a true Texan,” Nick said.

At this very point, the trouble began.  Both Nick and Stretch were impulsive.  Each appreciated this mutual trait.  One day after breakfast, they would take Flash in the pickup and go fishing in Ontario for a week.  Once in while, they would go to lunch at the Key Hole Bar in Mackinaw City, and get drunk in the middle of the day, something  rarely done outside the ice shanty.   This winter, they went over to Topinabee, and jumped in a hole in the ice outside Hoppies Tavern.  Their impulsive natures mixed with stubbornness, and an unhealthy dose of competitiveness could tripwire disaster.

 As long as they squabbled with a tolerable amount of friction, the disagreements left their daily lives unchanged, a rough equilibrium of equal and opposite forces.  But when they agreed on something, action often followed--all obstacles removed, all objections tabled, all potential problems and risks minimized, all good sense suspended.  They were about to take precipitous action with unforeseen secondary consequences. Nick and Stretch were, as they say, about to go around the bend in the river.