By John A. Hallock

Did I ever tell you the story of how me and my wife Buncher first came to the backwoods of Timber Ridge? How after years of nagging, pleading, and big puppy dog tears my hysterical tactics finally paid off and she gave in; she agreed to leave the city and move to the wilderness to buy an honest to goodness general store. We’d scraped together a down payment by hook, and crook, and mostly by garage sales. Truth to tell, the entire process was as scary as the spookiest campfire story.

I’ll never forget that first day. Buncher and I drove all night and finally stood on the store’s large front porch in the predawn darkness. We were alone and looking over our shoulders, for what I wasn’t sure. The unknown can be pretty scary, add an adjustable rate mortgage and we had the makings for a real horror story. Buncher began fumbling with a large ring of keys. This was it. Our hearts were filled with anticipation and our bank account was lower than the echo in a dry well. But we had finally arrived to the woods. It was a dream come true, so why did I feel like I wanted to throw up?

We tried to peer in through the frosted oval window in a beautiful oak door. When the door lock “clicked’ open we froze, not sure what to do. We were too scared to go into the darkness inside and way too scared to turn and go out into the blackness of the wilderness.

“Go ahead,” I said, “Go on in.”
“Me?” Buncher said. “I don’t want to go in first. It’s dark in there.”
“Well it’s plenty dark out here, too,” I said trying to act brave while I nudged her toward the door. “Why you’re, you’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” Buncher said, though the quiver in her voice said otherwise. “But back in the city you always went in first.”
“Well sure I did,” I said trying to hide the squeak in my voice. “But, but, that’s different. Back home, that’s city darkness. This, this is backwoods dark. There’s a difference ... I read about it, oxidations from the pine trees, or something, it affects the darkness, it’s ... thicker!”
“Thicker?” Buncher giggled. “Do you mean like ketchup is thicker, or your head is thicker?”
“No, what I mean is, well, like,” I was scrambling for an answer. “I mean, because, just because ... “
Even in the darkness I knew she was smirking.
“Because?” she repeated my answer. She was enjoying this. “It’s uncanny, but you sound the same when you’re afraid of the dark as when you’re asking me for sex.”
“Well, that’s understandable,” I said. “I’m terrified then, too.”She huffed and turned away.
“Okay then, you big baby,” she said. “I’m going in, but you better be right behind me.”
“See, it is the same,” I said.

Buncher turned the door knob and, ever so slowly, pushed the heavy door halfway open. A tiny bell hooked to the top of the door tinkled softly as she stepped over the threshold. She stopped short. I was, indeed, right behind her, clinging to her shoulder and looking over mine. It was so dark. I was scared out of my city living wits. Oh, for a flickering Taco Bell sign, or a honking cab I thought. But I was still out on the porch. In fact, I didn’t hear the little bell on the door.

“What was that?” Buncher asked when the bell rang.
Now I was really scared.
“What was what?” I demanded as I shifted my head from side to side. I’ve always suffered from an easily triggered panic system. “What was what?”
“A sound. I heard a sound,” she said. “It was a tinkling sound.”I looked down at the front of my pants.
“You could hear that?” I asked.

Buncher ignored me and pushed the door all the way open. In we went.

“See, it’s darker than a rainy night in here,” I said. “Way darker than it is in the city.”
“Never mind the dark,” Buncher said. “What’s that smell?”
“Smell?” I said still nervous, still expecting some kind of Boogie Man to come out of the darkness and get us.
“Yeah it smells smoky,” she said. “But it smells, rich and sweet too, like coffee and leather, and there’s something else I smell. It’s, it’s ... dead.”
“Dead?” I repeated.
“Yes Sir,” Buncher said. “Something smoky, something sweet, and something ... dead!”

I don’t mind saying, my knees were shaking and my heart was racing. This whole business of buying our own business and moving to a simpler life in the woods had just caught up to me. I guess I never expected to smell dead stuff in the dark at my new place of business. It bothered me ... I’m funny that way.

“First thing,” Buncher said. “You need to calm down and stop fretting. Nothing is going get you, especially not anything that is already dead. Frankly, I’m a little surprised at your scaredy-cat demeanor. To think there was a time I thought of you as macho. You were my hero.”
Well, scared or not, I don’t have to take that.
“Oh, yeah,” I said evoking the all purpose tough guy comeback.
“Well, there was a time when I was able to sell that hero stuff. But we were never standing in the middle of a dark wilderness a couple of links down the food chain.”
That said, I found the light switch, flipped it on, and regained my composer.
“And don’t worry about that dead smell,” I said when I remembered I had smelled the same thing weeks before when I bought the place from Shorty. “You’ll get used it.
“It comes from the bait and tackle department,” I explained.
“It’s called the smell of ... success.”

Author John A. Hallock lives in a log house in the backwoods of northwest Wisconsin with his wife Lori, his daughters Kate and Maggie, a pack of dogs, two cats, and never a dull moment. He is a hunter, fisherman, and woodsman. You can find many more of his adventure and humor stories on his website The Woodsman Magazine.




Return from The Smell Of Success to the The Woodsman Magazine page.