The Urge to Surge when the Verge is Splurged

The Urge to Surge when the Verge is Splurged

August 30, 2024

I own the lake and the vast area consisting of its perimeter. As an investment, it began paying dividends almost immediately. Fed by a small stream, stocked with some of the finest trout and bass in the state, and located remotely from any road or trail, the lake was nothing short of divine.

That is until last Thursday.

I heard its rotors disturb my morning coffee. I noticed its shadow move slowly. It was a drone mapping the contents of nature’s masterpiece. It never noticed me or my Springfield as I was sighting in the harbinger of doom before I scored with the perfect shot. The drone fell among the retaining stones on the north side, crashing into pieces. Using a net, wearing a mask, I retrieved the remnants and cast them into the fire barrel for a proper disposal. In doing so, I bought myself nearly a day before its owner either sent a second drone to recon the area (most likely) or brave the arduous hike required to verify its demise.

This would be a battle I could lose in a war I had to win.

My “NO TRESPASSING” were affixed in various conspicuous places. My entry gates were locked and camouflaged preventing detection. I turned off my generator so as to discourage intruders using a mechanical excuse to parlay a rendezvous. I sat in solitude awaiting the inevitable.

I did not have to wait as long as I thought I would wait.

First, I heard the whistle. Let me rephrase that. I heard her whistle. The tune was “Jimmy crack corn and I don’t care.” Then I saw her as she whistled. She was marching (somewhat) to her pace, most likely, as a measuring metric to estimate the distance she was walking. Her backpack was packed for two (perhaps) three days sans a tent. She carried a fishing pole and a compass.

I had to watch what she would do next.

Once at my lake’s edge, she dropped her pack and removed a notebook and a charcoal pencil. For the next two hours, she began to sketch the glory of my property in all of its midday presence. She was meticulous and thorough, detailing the pussy willows and the waterfowl contained within. No camera on this one. No radio or phone in use. She was a throwback to a quieter time, a more patient time, reminiscent of why I sojourned here in the first place.

By 3 pm, she had discovered my favorite spot for a campfire. Already stocked with kindling, she took it upon herself to help herself and begin her own fire. Out from her backpack came a small cup, a bottle of water, what seemed to be coffee, and the cheeriest greeting toward my location asking me to stop hiding and partake in a delicious french roast she ground herself.

No sense in continuing covert operations. I walked into the clearing and greeted her.

“You owe me for a drone.”

“You are trespassing on my property.”

She smiled at the conclusion of our brief penultimate exchange before initiating another.

“Hello, my name is Eve. What is yours?”

I almost laughed, but remained stoic instead and played along.

“Madam, I’m Adam.”

The Parson said it would take nearly a week for him to find us and complete the ceremony’s paperwork.