by Adam J. LaVigne
In a part of New York that still feels relatively free lies the largest protected area in the United States. At 6 million acres, the Adirondack Park is larger than Yellowstone, Yosemite, Grand Canyon, and Glacier National Park combined—a place I once wanted to leave but now crave whenever I’m gone.
This particular weekend was for the men: my dad and me, my uncle and my cousin, and their friend Dennis with his twin boys. We took only what we needed, no distractions: coolers loaded with meat and beer, truck beds piled high with firewood and an assortment of firearms. As the paved road disappeared behind us, rocks began pelting the bottom of the truck, and a blur of green raced past the truck windows when we hit the dirt road. I knew this wouldn’t be like the camping trips we took with my mother and sister, complete with a camper, running water, fancy playgrounds, and ice cream stands. No, at 10 years old, this was my first taste of “roughing it.”
Once settled in, we raced to the rust-colored water of the Raquette River, dove in, and caught my first leech behind my knee. My uncle noticed the little sucker before I did and burned it off with the bright red-orange cherry of his cigarette. Dried and surveyed for bloodsuckers, the four of us youngsters loaded our Daisies and headed for the woods. The BBs rattled around in the stocks as we traversed the rugged terrain. The smell of pine and cigarette smoke assaulted my nose as I trailed behind my cousin, who was chiefing a cigarette he stole from his father. We huddled in a clearing on top of a hill.
“What do you say, boys? A little one-pump free-for-all,” said my cousin, a cigarette seesawing in his mouth as he spoke.
I said nothing. I thought about what it would be like to be shot by a one-pump BB gun. I figured it couldn’t hurt any more than a paintball. I’ve been shot by a paintball gun before, but we at least wore masks while playing paintball. We had no masks for this new gauntlet I was about to be placed in. I looked at Dennis’ twin boys, and they seemed to weigh the pros and cons of bitching out on this proposal. I turned back to my cousin. The cigarette end glowed brightly, the ash growing longer as the paper covering scorched away. He cocked his lever-action Daisy and, with a thud, put a BB into one of the twins’ boots.
“See,” my cousin said, smoke rolling from the smile on his face, “nothing to worry about.”
We somehow all agreed to this challenge and took off separately. I went down the hill and waited for a signal to start, but it didn’t come. I knew it was time when I began hearing the thuds of other BB guns. I slowly skirted around the midway point of the hill. I knew going back to the clearing at the top would provide no cover, and going to the bottom of the hill would provide less advantage. The frequency of the thuds increased, and I was close enough to hear the rustling of branches as my opponents moved through the woods. Looking down my barrel, I saw my cousin engaging with one of the twins. I checked my six and ensured no one was stalking me. Turning back to set my sights on my cousin, I heard, “FUCK!” I released my finger from the trigger but didn’t take my muzzle off of him. My cousin pulled sly shit before to draw me in during paintball. The twin he was engaging and I walked to him and noticed he was grabbing the area between his neck and shoulder. I knew he wasn’t playing games when I saw his gun on the ground. The twin reached him before I did, and my cousin went after him, swinging.
“I said one pump, you motherfucker,” screamed my cousin as I ran to break up the fight. I noticed the blood coming from my cousin’s neck area as I approached him. At least it wasn’t his eye. Once I shoved the two apart, he and I returned to the campsite while the twin took off to find his brother. On our way back, my cousin kept playing with his left shoulder. Finally, he said, “The BB is still in my fucking shoulder.” I felt his shoulder and could feel the small lump where the BB had found its resting place.
When we got back to the site, we noticed that while we were out trying to kill each other, our dads were killing beers. They were in no condition to drive to a hospital 30 minutes away. This was also a time before cell phones. It quickly became apparent that no help was coming, and no professional medical attention would be seen that evening. Someone at least had hydrogen peroxide to pour on it. Several attempts were made to try and work the BB back out of the hole it came in, but they failed. My uncle suggested cutting it out with his Leatherman, which we voted against. Ultimately, we slapped a Band-Aid over the entry wound, and that was it.
The twins found their way back just in time for supper. We sat around listening to trapping stories from my uncle until he didn’t even know what he was saying. The dads crawled into their tents as the boys stayed awake, launching flaming marshmallows into the night sky until we grew tired, but none of us went into our tents. We fell asleep next to the fire in our chairs until a rumble tipped me backward, startling everyone around the fire. On my back, still trying to make sense of it, all I heard was, “It’s the Russians; we’re under attack,” as my uncle emerged from his tent in his underwear with a lever-action .22 in hand. A rare earthquake rattled us awake that morning—not the Russians.
As far as I know, my cousin still has the BB lodged in his shoulder. I don’t have a souvenir like him from that camping trip, but the memory will be with me forever.
