(From “Diaries...) Show Me the Money! April 29: The first flower blooms are pushing through the fresh, green carpets of grass. And a golden spring dawn is just breaking, as I roll into the driveway of the ramshackle cluster of shacks and dilapidated trailers. As I turn the engine off, a chorus instantly erupts from a dozen (not counting a brand new litter of puppies) wildly barking dogs. Some of them recognize me and I can see their tails wagging in anticipation of the treats I invariably carry. Their chorus will in time, I know, bring out their owner, a former poacher and now a friend. But just how soon will be governed by how much he has had to drink. For you see, Danny (pseudonym) is in an elite class of alcoholics, a genuine 30-pack (beer) a day guy when he puts his mind to it! So I begin unloading gear, pulling on waders and dragging my little boat down to the water. But now I’m ready to shove off and there’s still no Danny. Did the booze finally do him in? I reach for the door of the shack and see the broken latch, hinges ajar, and half-inch gaps where weather stripping used to be–all new damage since my last visit. “Danny, get your butt up,” I holler (i.e., not being brave enough to simply enter and risk finding the body) through the half-opened door. A second call finally brings a reply I am relieved to hear. “Hey, what’s going on?” he says, stirring from beneath a dirty pile of blankets and sleeping bags. Then I notice the rest of the damage. Sheetrock on the ceiling and walls is riddled with holes, some the size of basketballs. Daylight is streaming through. What on earth has gone on here, I wonder. Only a few weeks before, when Danny had the sheriff evict Billy (pseudonym), the other former poacher from the little cabin, it was modest, yes, but nevertheless a neat, clean and relatively airtight little abode. “What’s going on with the walls?” I enquire. “Sheetrock all has to be replaced.” is the answer. “Starting work on it now.” Despite the absurdity of the answer, I abandon the subject. It’s time to pick his brain of any steelhead observations he’s made since I was last here. And then I step into my little boat and glide slowly down river for the day’s survey. Late the next day, I am bound for home. As I round the curve and cross the bridge, Danny can be seen in the yard splitting wood, an open beer at the ready. I pull in so we can discuss my observations from the just-completed survey. Then I recall the damaged sheetrock from the day before. And the odd part finally hits me: This is exactly what happened at his former (prior to the eviction of Billy, which is a story of its own) house, just across the road. So we sit down for some straight talk over a chunk of freshgrilled wild pig meat chased down by cold beers. “What’s really going on, here, Danny?” I probe. He finally lets go. “I’m trying to find the god-dammed money!” is the unexpectedly blunt reply. “Grandma had a bundle. She lived in both houses and finally died over there (his earlier house). Nobody ever found it. But I know it’s buried somewhere in them (sic) walls; I gotta keep looking ‘til I find it.” Long after darkness has settled in, I finally head up the road. The drive home alone gives plenty of time to carefully consider the story. True, or the demons of alcoholism, I wonder? It’s got to be the demons, I finally conclude. I know what those bad-boys are capable of!