Hunting to Farming

FROM HUNTING TO FARMING

NOTE: This is a work of fiction entirely imagined by the author. Although the name of some of the places referenced in this story is real, the companies, people and events are pure fiction.

Special thanks to a volunteer in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editors program, neuroparenthetical, for his great editing work on this story, patience, and professional advice.

There are certainly some mistakes that may still pop up. Those, without a doubt, are my responsibility.

© Copyright 2023 WhiteBeard50 - All rights reserved

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Chapter 1

Montréal, Friday, September 15

The week, and particularly today, was an endless succession of problems caused by useless internal bureaucratic procedures. After a long ride, I'm finally out of the crowded metro station. Outside, I'm greeted by one of Nature's most beautiful displays: the sun changing to its stunning setting colours. The yellows, oranges, and reds of the maple trees in the park across the street seem to vibrate even more under the reddish-orange light. It's a welcome, soothing view after a miserable day inside a dark building.

I get home, and, as usual, I strip naked as I walk into my bedroom, leaving a trail of clothing along the way. I'll pick them up later and put them in the laundry basket. My priority right now is to shower. I'm walking into my bedroom when my cell beeps. I pick it up from the nightstand just to see who's calling. I don't ever take work calls after working hours, nor do I answer emails. Private number appears on the screen. Curious, I answer the call.

"Hey, BJ! How are you? This is Bob. You remember me, don't you?"

He was my supervisor at a previous job, where we became friends.

"Of course I remember you, old friend. How are you?"

I'm surprised, but happy to hear from him. He's a good man. I cut ties with him a few years ago because of his wife's antagonism towards me. I did not want to risk breaking my friend's marriage because his wife hated my guts. His three kids were young at the time; you don't mess with that.

"Say, BJ, would you like to come hunting--you know, same place, Moose Lake?"

"I still hunt with cameras, Bob." I hear him laugh, and so do I.

"The same old trapper's cabin is available for three nights in a couple of weeks. What say you?"

I hesitate. I'm not sure. A bit of time off would certainly do me a lot of good. Ah, why not?

"Okay, Bob. Count me in. Let me know the exact dates so I can book my time off. I look forward to it."

"That's great, BJ. I'll text you the details later tonight or tomorrow. I look forward to seeing you again, my friend. Bye for now."

I avoided the subject of his wife. I figured he was doing the same thing. In any event, a bit of vacation should be fun. Shower, here I come. I want to wash away today's platitudes. The phone rings again, but this time I ignore it. If it's important, they'll leave a message.

***

Two weeks later. Thursday, September 28.

A little before four a.m., I pick up Bob at his place. Needless to say, I don't go inside his apartment. I called him a few minutes ahead of my arrival. He's ready with all his equipment outside in the back of the building--just like in the old days. We load his stuff into the car and leave. Fort-Coulonge is a four-hour drive northwest of Montréal. This early in the morning, the drive is quiet with no traffic, not even when going through Ottawa. We reminisce about the past for a little while, and then Bob goes to sleep. The sun rises around a quarter to seven, painting the eastern horizon in layers of red, orange, yellow, and pale blue. It's a superb morning for driving, with perfect blue skies and no wind to speak of. The flight from Fort-Coulonge to the hunting camp, promises to be spectacular: a top-down view of a boundless forest, where maple, birches, and large patches of evergreens come together like patches of paint on a canvas. The view is breathtaking.

As we enter the village of Fort-Coulonge, we stop at the old trapper's house, located on the first side street to the right. Bob pays the old guy in cash for the rental of the cabin. A few minutes later, we're parked near the office of the charter plane service on the Ottawa River's shore. A man comes out of the office, which is part of a large, semi-circular steel structure that houses his Beaver plane and a smaller Cessna. This morning, both are anchored at the wooden dock on the river. The Beaver floats by the dock with its doors open, ready to receive our luggage. Bill's widely known as the best pilot in this part of the province. I trust him completely. I've flown with him on three or four occasions already. Safety is his first priority. He never takes any chances.

Bill welcomes us; he looks a little closer, squinting, and suddenly remembers who Bob is.

"Hey, Bob!" he says with a big smile, offering his hand. "Three more to come, right?"

Bob shakes Bill's hand, answering, "Yup. They're not far behind." Then he introduces me. We shake hands. He doesn't remember me. It's been four years since my last hunting trip. Back then, I must say that I was rather unremarkable.

While we're shaking hands, a big, black SUV enters the lakeport parking lot. The driver, a younger man, parks next to the small, red SUV I rented for this trip. Bob walks towards the people getting out of the car. Like we did, they stretch and yawn as they unfold themselves. The trunk lid lifts by itself, and the younger man starts getting all their stuff out of the car while Bob shakes hands with the other two fellows--older and bigger.

A tall man walks towards me as I'm walking back from the dock, where I brought our luggage for Bill to put inside the plane. He extends his large hand. I don't immediately recognize him, but he seems to know me.

"Hi, BJ. How are you?" He says it in a soft bass voice. His dark brown eyes drill mine. I remember that look.

"Maurice. Nice to see you again. It's been a while. How are you?"

"Yes, it's been a long time," Maurice replies in his warm, low voice while we shake hands.

He smiles. That's unusual for him, if memory serves me right. I remember his poker-face physiognomy. He always seemed to be avoiding me. I'm puzzled. What caused that change of attitude? Or has it even changed?

Pointing in the direction of their car, Maurice says, "You remember Rick, my son, and this other guy here is my older brother, Steve."

I've never met Steve before. He's a big guy, too--six-foot-five at least. The large, smiling man extends his hand. It's a true smile--the kind that reaches the eyes.

"Good morning, young man. You're BJ, of course. Bob said you were coming. It's nice to meet you."

He looks at me with a slight, almost imperceptible frown. His shake is firm without trying to crunch my hand. He nods at me and leaves to help Rick bring all their stuff to the plane. It seems to me that they have a lot of baggage compared to what I brought.

Bill does the loading himself. He makes sure to distribute the weight as evenly as possible. It's a bush plane with two seats--one for the pilot and one for the co-pilot. Maurice and Steve are sitting on their sleeping bags, and Rick and I are sitting on the floor against the luggage that's packed against the back wall. Bob, the eldest, is playing co-pilot.

I can appreciate Maurice's broad shoulders and the strength of his back--a solid man. Unfortunately, his ass is buried in the sleeping bag. Up ahead, Bob and Bill talk about flight stuff while the pilot goes through his pre-takeoff routine. The river is calm on the surface anyway.

The takeoff is smooth, and the plane loudly climbs to its cruising altitude and speed. It takes approximately forty minutes to fly to our destination, Moose Lake, which is located a few kilometres south of La Vérendrye Park. It's isolated. There are no roads and no access by trail of any kind. Fortunately, the big and powerful forest-eaters--the lumber companies--have yet to ruin this corner of the province. A rare piece of land where one can find total peace surrounded by wild, undisturbed nature--an ephemeral dreamland.

Before landing, the pilot circles the lake a couple of times, checks the water level, looks out for rocks, and makes sure there's a safe path to the dock--the only one on the lake--which lies in front of the trapper's cabin, where the only island on the lake is located. The landing on the mirror-like lake is as smooth as the takeoff was.

The day is very young yet. It's only 9:30 a.m. when we dock. Lots of work is awaiting us, though. The old trapper added a basic indoor bathroom comprised of a toilet and a sink. He also installed a gasoline water pump equipped with a decent-sized pressurized reservoir. Deep in this lost corner of the wilderness, these amenities translate into supreme luxury for city people like us. The last time I was here, there was an outhouse built of small logs. It was drafty; you could see anyone using it through the walls. We also carried water from the lake in a grey plastic pail.

I get in and put my backpack and my small duffle bag on the first bed by the window, on the left as you enter the one-room cabin. Maurice takes the bed next to mine, and Rick takes the next one. There are only three beds aligned on this wall because of the space required to access the new bathroom in the back corner.

Three other beds are lined up on the back wall of the cabin between the bathroom and the opposite wall from my bed, where the wood-burning cook stove is installed. There is a smaller potbelly stove in the middle of the cabin. Sometimes, it gets cold at the end of September this far out and north of the big city. The cabin, made of softwood logs, is one large, open room. The floor is basic plywood and damn cold in the morning. On the right, as you enter the cabin, there's a small counter made of plywood that's braced to the wall, with a kitchen sink below the window. A simple, rustic accommodation that is not fancy, but it is much more comfortable than tents and safer too, in this bear and moose country. A hungry bear will tear tents to shreds, and an angry mouse will trample a camp to smithereens.

While Bob and Steve, the two older fellows, set everything in place and put the food in the pantry where it'll be safe from the hungry, nasty little mice running around at night, I go outside with the axe, left by the owner, to split some wood for the stoves. I'm happy to see that the edge of the axe is razor-sharp. Meanwhile, Maurice takes care of the gasoline water pump and makes sure there are no water leaks. Rick cleans the small counter, the sink, and the table and its benches, and sets to broom the floor. The cabin hasn't been used in a while, it seems. It's not dirty, though--just dusty.

The front door to the cabin is open, so I can see Maurice, Bob, and Rick sitting at the table, enjoying a hot mug of coffee prepared by Steve using an old-fashioned percolator. At one point, Steve puts a water pitcher and a big glass on the table. He puts a towel next to it, looks at Maurice, and nods towards me, outside working out quite a sweat. No words are exchanged, just eyes talking.

Freshly cut cookstove-size dry logs are piling up beside the old stump I use for chopping. Maurice joins me with a glass of water and a towel. The temperature has warmed up considerably, so I remove my soaked T-shirt and take the glass of water he offers me. It feels good to stop for a moment. He hands me the towel and watches me dry myself.

Looking me up and down, he says, "You got bigger, BJ, since the last time I saw you."

"Yup!" I reply matter of factly. I gained twenty pounds or so. I was only around 120 pounds three years ago."

"I watched you swing that axe. You've got that technique under control, all right. You maintained a good rhythm. Impressive, young man. You'd be very useful on my farm. A change of career, perhaps?" He looks at me with smiling eyes. That surprised me.

"We had a country house in the Laurentians when I was younger," I tell him. "My dad showed me how to use axes and tools of all kinds. He was a carpenter and cabinetmaker. I'm a brainy nerd, I know, but I like physical work. Always did."

"Let me hack away at it. Get some rest. Lunch should be ready soon." Maurice picks up the axe and starts chopping. It seems so effortless to him. He's got the size, the strength, and the technique.

After a few minutes, he removes his shirt, showing a strong, well-built upper body covered by thick, long, black fur. Now I can see that perfect ass when he turns around and bends down, putting his shirt on a little stump behind him. Watching those muscles at work is quite a sight. I hate standing and doing nothing, so I look for something to do; I need the distraction. The sight of him excites me more than I care to admit.

It's hard to start a fire without kindling, so I start chopping up some dry, dead branches and some small cedar logs I found under the cabin. The smaller kindling axe is as sharp as the chopping one. I see that the old trapper made sure that everything was good and ready for us, not to mention the other hunters that will surely come after us. We'll do our part for the next group before we leave.

Maurice stops splitting the logs, goes inside, and brings back a couple of towels. He hands me one and starts to dry himself. I look at that gorgeous, hairy body of his, and my dick is raging in my jeans, wanting to expand as much as possible. Blushing, I turn around and go to the lake. I walk in up to my knees and splash cold water on my face and naked chest. To my relief, the hard-on softens, but I'm sure he saw it. I go sit at the end of the grey wooden dock, taking in the sun.

A little while later, a big, rough, and warm hand rests on my shoulder. I look up at Maurice, who is looking down at me.

"Lunch is ready, BJ," he says, smiling. His groin is in my face! Damn, my cock is raging again. It wants to play with the one hiding right there in front of my nose. He grabs my arm just under the elbow; I do the same, and he easily helps me up. He hands me the towel. I dry myself as we silently walk back to the cabin.

I'm a few steps behind his massive body, in perfect position to try and discreetly rearrange my dick to hide the bulge as best I can. I understand my physical attraction. I'm permanently horny. His friendly behaviour, on the other hand, is a mystery to me. Perhaps there was something that eluded me way back then, on our previous hunting trips. Then again, I have a damn good memory, and I cannot recall any occasion where we interacted in a friendly way. Before today, he'd never spoken more than three words to me at a time.

Lunch is great. The food is excellent and abundant. Bob and Steve talk nonstop. The rest of us nod, shrug, and laugh. When the table is cleared, I tell them that I'll wash the dishes. Maurice and Rick lend a hand, and it goes pretty fast. The stove has a boiler, like a small tank, attached to it next to the fire pit. You fill it with water, which warms up nicely this close to the fire, and you can use it for washing dishes or for oneself. We'll make sure to keep it full all the time.

Maurice goes out and gets the T-shirts we left by the chopping stump. He brings them inside, leaves mine on my bed, and puts his in a plastic bag. He puts on a long-sleeve flannel shirt and rolls up the sleeves.

After washing up and brushing my teeth, I dress in clean jeans, a T-shirt, and a grey wool sweater. I grab two cameras from my duffle bag: a state-of-the-art electronic one, entirely automatic, and my preferred high-performance SLR Canon, completely manual, loaded with old-fashioned 35 mm colour film. I bring several rolls of film, one of which is black and white.

The boys are going down to the other lake to get a feel for the place. It's a good hunting spot. There are plenty of water lilies in the shallow waters at the bottom of the bay. It's secluded and very quiet, with plenty of places to hide for the hunters. "We'll be back by four," one of them tells me.

I tell Bob that I will be going up to the lookout, away from the rifles. We always tell others where we go--a simple safety precaution.

I walk along the narrow, zigzagging trail between the trees, sometimes through dense bushes, and other times through sunny clearings. I take lots of pictures, as I always do. The only sounds are those from the birds chirping, the Canadian geese flying south, and the subtle rustle of the leaves in the light, warm breeze. I eventually get to the top of the hill where the lookout is. It's a large clearing on the west. I can see a large part of the lake from there, but the cabin hides behind the hills to the southeast.

The lake is calm. Nothing disturbs its clear surface, which reflects the soft, blue sky. In the distance, a light-blueish veil paints the mountains' curvy line, giving the impression that they merge with the azure expanse above. Magnificent. My Canon whirs and whirs with delight and satisfaction. I sit under a large, bright-yellow maple with my back to it and just admire all that beauty, and feel the healing peace radiating from it.

Back at the cabin, I ensure the boiler is full of water and rekindle the wood stove. That way it'll be nice and ready for the cooks, Steve and Bob. It's almost a quarter to five when the boys return from their expedition--Fortunately, from my point of view, empty-handed. I refrain from teasing them.

Bob is pleased to see that the stove is ready. The boys are hungry. They put away their stuff, do their business, and prepare for supper. I walk to the dock and sit at the end. I love the proximity to the water--the amazingly clear water--the small, rocky island ahead with its single, skinny black spruce tree, the long grass, plus a few shrubs, all with the colourful surrounding mountains as a background. How many years of this natural beauty do we have left?

The boys left the door of the cabin open, and I can see that Bob and Steve are having what seems to be a serious conversation. Then Rick walks in, and the conversation forks towards the bear tracks. I can hear everything that's being discussed: the ideal spots to hunker down, the lack of mouse tracks, and, again, the big bear tracks. There's an argument about how fresh they were. Obviously, they're having fun arguing just for the fun of it.

Then, a nice, deep bass voice grabs my attention. "How was your photo hunting, BJ?"

Maurice squats down next to me; I never saw him or heard him approaching. A strange but nice feeling runs through me.

"I took a hundred or so photos. Different exposures, speeds, and angles. I sat for a long time just admiring nature. From up there, the view is fantastic, and the weather is exceptional for this time of year. I saw lots of wild geese flying south. There must be thousands around Ottawa's farmland now." I'm blabbing away.

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself," he says amused. "No moose up there, huh?" he says amused.

"Nah. They're hiding in cool places in the woods, I presume."

As he gets up, he says, "You're probably right. Well, young man, supper is almost ready."

I get up and follow him.

During supper time, Rick says it's too bad there's no canoe or rowboat to cross the lake at the end of the trail.

"Well," I interject, "there used to be an aluminium boat on the right-hand side as you go onto the beach. It was hidden in the brushes the last time I was there."

They all look at me, surprised.

"I've been there many times, and I snooped around. The boat is upside down, and the oars are tucked inside. Have a look tomorrow."

"We will." Bob says., and then he shakes his head. "Thanks, BJ. Christ, I've been down there many times in the past years and never saw it. Huh!"