Hanging Around

Words from the Axeman

We had all the gear. Decades of know-how. Books could be written about our experience in the woods. And there we were, hanging in hammocks like laundry bags forgotten on the line.

Karl set his about a foot off the ground. Said it was “practical.” Practical if you’re worried about altitude sickness, maybe. He looked like a kid waiting for someone to give him a push.

Al strung his so high I thought he was setting up a crow’s nest. Looked like he was waiting for ships to come in. He said it gave him “perspective.” Yeah. Perspective. I didn’t even think the guy had a phone, but there he was, stretched up toward the sky like he was chasing a signal. Thinks Wi-Fi is some sort of fish. The man still scratches notes into bark like he’s mailing trees to each other.

Then there’s Gramps.

He tied his crooked, one end higher than the other, swore it was “ergonomic.” Ergonomic for what, I have no idea. Looked like he was daring gravity to pick a side.

Whiskey was in play, I will admit that. But not in a way that seemed out of hand. Just regular, respectable whiskey. So really, the hammocks? That was all them. Experts, I suppose.

Karl kept rocking, talking about how hammocks beat tents every time. Al was giving a history lesson no one asked for, something about Viking hides and “the old ways.” Gramps muttered about raccoons stealing his boots, then went quiet. Turns out, he’d just passed out. Snored so loud it scared the crickets into overtime.

And me? I just lay there, listening. The fire settled into coals, the stars came out, and for a moment it was quiet. Three fools in trees, swaying in the dark.

But you know what? That’s the beauty of it. Hammocks look ridiculous until you’re in one. Then the ground doesn’t matter, the bugs don’t matter, even the crooked hang doesn’t matter. What matters is the sway, the laughter, the warmth of whiskey, and the company beside you.

Experts or not, that night we were just four men, sleeping like kids, strung between the trees. And it was perfect.

Between Two Trees: a night in hammocks with Karl, Al, and Papa Gramps