Five Men in a Cabin

Men do a lot of things for women we would never do otherwise. I’m not talking about the chivalrous stuff like opening a car door or throwing a jacket over a mud puddle (yeah, like THAT’S ever really happened). I’m talking the basics; things like bathing, using deodorant, shaving.

Most men I know would do none of those things if it weren’t for women. If you think I’m wrong, try spending a week alone in a hunting cabin with four other guys. By the time the week is up, even the skunks will have vacated the forest.

I’ve only been hunting once in my life, and I’m lousy at it. But a few years ago some friends and I decided to take a little holiday at a hunting cabin owned by one of the guys’ parents. It was a nice little cabin running water, electricity, all the niceties of civilization.

We weren’t planning to do any hunting. We were just going to play some cards, drink a few beers, hike through the woods, maybe go for a swim or do some fishing. You know. Guy stuff.

When we first drove down the twisting two-track to the cabin, we looked like your typical suburban office rats trying to get back to nature: new plaid L.L. Bean shirts, crisply-pressed Dockers, unscuffed Vibram-soled hiking boots. By the time we left a week later we resembled the backwoods extras from the cast of “Deliverance.”

I’m not sure how it happened, but it wouldn’t have, had there been women present.
To the best of my recollection, our de-evolution into the basic male archetype went a little like this:

Day One - We arrive at the cabin, the Explorer’s 4-wheel-drive engaged for the first time ever. We unpack the truck, fill the cupboards with food (beef jerky, Lipton Cup-a-Soup, pickled sausages, beer - man food), and throw our sleeping bags onto the bunks. The cabin’s a little musty from being closed up all winter, so we open a window to let the breeze in.

Day Two - We’ve all slept in our clothes. We hadn’t intended to, but after a dinner of beer and pickled sausages, it seemed like a good idea. Or rather, undressing for bed seemed like too much bother.

Day Three - The cabin has running water, but so far, nobody’s used it to bathe. Faces are scruffy. The L.L. Bean shirts remain untucked. It’s a nice day, so we spend it fishing. That night we sit on the front porch and gut and fillet about a dozen beautiful walleye and a pail full of bluegill. We then fry ‘em and eat ‘em. We also eat more pickled sausages and drink more beer.

Day Four - It turns out that a diet of fish, pickled sausages and beer can lead to excessive amounts of - ahem - flatulence, a fact nobody is bothering to hide. We sound like a tuba section warming up. The lingering scent of fish guts on the front porch is almost a relief compared to what’s going on inside the cabin.

Day Five - The smell inside the cabin no longer bothers us. At this point our olfactory nerves have shut down entirely, a strictly defensive move on their part.

Day Six - We’re all cheating at cards. We were honest, reasonably moral guys six days ago, but all that’s changed. If we had guns with us, things would be getting dangerous. We’ve almost run out of jerky and pickled sausages, but there’s still plenty of beer and Lipton Cup-a-Soup. Nobody’s eating the Cup-a-Soup, though, because it involves boiling water, which is too much like cooking. Some of the guys are starting to lose their grasp of the English language; we communicate through a series of grunts and hand gestures. None of the hand gestures are polite.

Day Seven - The beer is gone, so we know it’s time to head home. When we stop at a store in town, other customers give us a wide berth. The store’s owner is in a hurry to get us checked out and on our way. As we leave, he reaches for a can of Lysol.

Back home, my wife greets me at the front door. Not with a hug and kiss, but with a plastic garbage bag for my L.L. Bean shirt and Dockers. She seals the bag tightly before heading to the laundry room.

Upstairs I see myself in the bathroom mirror. It ain’t pretty. The backwoods extras from “Deliverance” looked better.

The water from the shower feels strange and unfamiliar. My pores open up, gratefully accepting the chance to dislodge some of the dirt, oil and God knows what else that has accumulated there.
When I come downstairs, I am again a civilized suburbanite, smelling of Old Spice and shampoo.
But I know I will always carry with me the memory of my descent into savagery, of my week in the woods with nothing but guys for company. And I can’t help wondering...what would have happened had the pickled sausages run out before the week was over? What if we hadn’t been able to catch any fish?

Cannibalism is such an ugly word.
So let’s hear it for women! I don’t know what we’d do without them. And I’m not anxious to find out.