Who stole my wine or a story about chilling booze.
Occasionally I take a break from non-fiction and serious topics and instead write fun short stories about my escapades. The adventures of Emma the Nomad: Nomad in Residence.
I’m not sure why I put both cans of Underwood Pinot Noir into the river to cool. I really wasn’t drinking much these days. A glass of wine here or there and a beer on the occasion.
I have loved the transition our society was making to wine in a can. No more wasted bottles half drunk. It was awesome. And so when I had decided to escape the pandemic and go camping I thought no further than a couple of cans of wine for my days in the woods. And while it was red wine so I didn’t have to actually chill it, by the time I arrived at my campground they had been sitting in the warm car for the 5-hour drive.
A simple solution when camped next to a stream or creek, pop those babies in for 10 mins and voila chilled booze.
I placed them in the edge of the stream, creek, river. I mean I am sure there is some scientific and specific difference to those terms but rest assured it was water in a downward motion at a steady but not uncrossable stream.
Get my tent out. Golden evening. Perfect campsite. Singing to myself, even a shimmy or two. Long drive here today.
Maybe you should have a cup of tea.
No, I don’t want a cup of tea.
Find the bar snacks — wasabi peas and sweet and spicy nut mix and go to grab my can of wine.
Not there.
Look left look right. Who has taken my wine. Now keep in mind I am in the middle of nowhere. Not only is there a pandemic but it is a Tuesday night. Most people can’t be out camping. So, it’s gotta be the wildlife. Who took my wine? I look around the area where it disappeared. No sign of life and no sign of my wine.
Hello? I say. Anyone there?
I study the spot I had placed the wine cans and it occurs to me. The current is still kinda strong in that spot. Could they have been swept? Nah. I secured them by pushing them down into the sand on the edge of the streams. Yes, I had moved them into deeper water to ensure that they were chilled sooner rather than later. But I was certain they were secure.
Investigate. Hunt.
I walked down along the road alongside the creek. I can’t really get to the edge of the river, there is too much shrubbery between me and it. But there are spots — open spots. So I descend. Investigate and analyze the twists and turns of the stream. Maybe the rascal who stole my wine cans wanted to also chill them but just moved them to keep them away from me.
Investigate. Hunt. Explore. Analyze. Further down the creek, I go until I hit what was essentially a dam of sorts. Maybe this is the spot. I crouched down. Or more accurately I squat — strong power pose. I wait. Patient. Quietly as not to scare off the culprit as they make their way downstream. Nothing. The minutes pass. Nothing. I start to become disheartened. Discouraged. I can’t believe someone or something had the gall to take my wine. And both cans. I mean you could have left me one. I return up the road alongside the creek with my head down, defeated by the wildlife of California.
Always the optimist, I keep looking down into the creek through the shrubbery to get a glimpse of the thief or thieves — I mean maybe there was more than one which is why they took both cans. I mean — one drink is enough for the evening yes?
And wouldn’t you know, a shimmer. The sun still shines — although fading rapidly — so maybe just a shimmer of sunlight. I investigate. Lean over. Squint. It’s hard to see through the bushes. So many bushes. It doesn’t seem to be moving or transforming- it must be where the thief thought he’d stash the goods for a while before what? Getting back up? Or maybe finding a better hideout? Regardless, I’ve got him/her/they — who knows. I’ve found their hiding spot!
Now, how the heck am I going to get there.
Down the side of the road slopes and treacherous. I had assessed that the best route to the stash was to get across the river to the other side and attack from there.
To the edge of the creek. Shoes and socks off. Barefoot. Wasn’t there snow back there? Toes in? Foot in? And across we go. I was not going to let this guy get away with stealing from me. I was determined.
This was my treasure, my trophy. Barefoot along the other side of the stream. Look out for snakes, and spiders, and what else? Tiptoe. Ow. Ouch. To the water’s edge. How the heck am I going to get into that nook. Ooo, that scoundrel, he/she/they sure found a good hiding spot. But I’m cleverer I shall triumph. Duck, weave, ow, crunch through the bushes. Watch where you are stepping, into the creek, don’t step on anything soft or mushy. Find the rocks. Don’t slip.
There’s a pandemic and no signal and no one knows exactly where you are.
Don’t fuck it up.
Push that branch aside. I get to the edge of the creek on the opposite side of the treasure. The treasure I’ve decided is now life or death to retrieve. Leave it, you are probably saying. It’s not worth the risk you say. Don’t be foolish Emma. Oh ya, I hear you. But I’m so close now.
Pants rolled up my calves. Feet freezing and red and sore. I crunch down, balance on my toes, hold onto a branch with my right hand, and slowly and very methodically I lean. Slowly. Lean, reach. Do not fall into the water. Do not hurt yourself. Wouldn’t that be a stupid story? How did she die? She was reaching for a stolen wine can in the creek in the middle of nowhere and wasn’t found for days. Sad. Focus. Stop overthinking it. Reach.
And as I drank those sips of watered-down wine I thought — what are you doing with your life.
