Chapter Three
Field Day

June 21st, 2019 radiated with warm sunlight and perfect temperatures, starting at 57 degrees and reaching a high of 78 degrees. There was a light breeze blowing gently through the trees. It felt like that perfect day that you had been waiting patiently for through the frozen winter and the rainy spring.
It was another Saturday of hiking, taking pictures, and resting quietly at the cabin. Gene got up early and packed a peanut butter sandwich, banana, and a bottle of water for lunch, and then proceeded to pack two bags. The first was his laptop and flash drives, and the second was his camera bag.
He had a Nikon D7000 16.2 mega pixel digital SLR camera and two very nice lenses. One was a Nikkor 70-300 mm AF.S f/4.5-5.6 G YR, and the other was a Nikkor 16-85 mm f/3.5-5.6 ED VR. He also carried several new SD cards, which he could download to his computer and store on flash drives. He put on his khakis and hiking boots, a green cotton shirt, and a tan safari jacket with plenty of pockets.
He put the bags over his shoulder and went out the back door of his townhouse. Old, white-haired Mrs. McGilvery was sitting out on her back steps.
“Good morning Gene,” she said. “Are you off to take pictures again?”
“Yes,” Gene said. “Just wait a minute until I unload these bags, and I will get your trash for you.”
Gene went down to the garage and put everything into his ugly gray Ford Taurus company car, and went back to help Mrs. McGilvery.
“Let me take that for you,” he said. Mrs. McGilvery slowly stood up and gave him a hug.
“Thank you Gene,” she said.”Have a good day son.” She lost her boy in Vietnam and Gene didn’t mind if she called him “son.”
On this trip, Gene decided to explore the landscape at Coshohock Mountain Park which was a few miles from the cabin. He was hoping to find some inspiring new subject matter, perhaps hidden falls, unique rock formations, or bent over trees with gnarled grappling roots. When he got there, he parked in the main visitor’s lot, took out his camera bag and started up the marked ridge trail. He followed the little acorn signs with arrows deeper and deeper into the woods until it dead ended at a tall rushing waterfall, which was a pleasant surprise. There were rustic log benches to sit on, and a sign that said: “End of Trail, Cliff Risk Area. Do Not Go Further.”
Some of Gene’s best pictures were taken in risky places where he balanced on jagged rocks or tree branches, or stood on slippery rocks in fast moving streams. For Gene, this sign was an invitation to explore further, and so he did.
He climbed up the rocky side of the waterfall, all the way to the top, and then veered off toward the other side of the mountain where he found a six-foot fence with a “private property, no trespassing” sign on it. A large boulder had dislodged from the mountain side a long time ago, and rolled down into the fence, bending it and leaving a gap at the bottom. He pried the fence open just a little more with a long tree branch, and slipped through with his camera bag. He left no traces behind him. He took branches found on the ground to scrub away footprints and any impressions in the ground. He sprinkled twigs and leaves over it too.
After he climbed through the fence, Gene hiked in a straight line up the mountain for about 300 yards, and then turned left to cautiously circle around the top, almost as if he was casing an enemy position that was a camouflaged fortress. Vietnam was always there in his mind with every footstep he took, every broken twig under his boots, and the feel and the scent of the wind between the shrubs and the trees. He moved like damp fog around the trees, so smoothly and silently that he could hear himself breathing.
A sound that didn’t seem to belong in the woods began to interrupt that rare sweet silence that he enjoyed. Gene began to focus his attention toward the direction that it was coming from, and he followed it around the mountain. It became louder and louder, drowning out the soft forest sounds with a rhythmic techno drone and grind that could permeate every cell of your mind and body, leaving you in a trance with its mesmerizing spell. He moved closer and closer in the shadows to get a glimpse of the source of this mysterious, repetitive, undulating music. He inched his way around the trees and bushes until he was about 50 yards away from what appeared to be a wild party at a cabin.
He took out his expensive telephoto lens and mounted it on the camera. He covered the camera with his jacket to muffle the noise of the bayonet mount as it clicked into place, and to block any reflections off of the glass. In the jungle in Vietnam, a click like that or a reflection could give away your position and get you killed.
With the lens secured, he carefully aimed the camera toward the party, keeping himself and the camera nestled behind the bushes. He rested the camera on a broken tree branch about 30 inches above the ground. It served as a natural tripod, and when combined with the built in stabilization technology in the camera, he would be sure to capture some quality shots.
He slowly focused the lens and began a journey into a den of iniquity that was beyond comprehension and decency. Unleashed hedonism filled his eyes and took his breath away.