Like all of us, my three friends had a common destination. Like some of us, they would travel there as outdoorsmen. For them, the rendezvous was to be a respite on the way to the end.

I suggested the trip because we were getting older, with few painless days left for the rivers and woods. I had fished or hunted with each and enjoyed their company. We had never been anywhere together, all of us. This outing was to be the first among many, but I worried, as my friends were so different.

Randy is a forester in Michigan who speaks infrequently and shows little emotion, as years of frigid winters had stifled his speech and frozen his passion. He is a Midwesterner, stoically content in joy or suffering, not tormented by questions or answers. He has two daughters, and one married a son of mine. Beyond these kids, we hunted and fished together for years. During those trips, I learned that Randy silently absorbed, then summed life up in a humorous sentence, and began absorbing again. For those around him, the long pauses between his words were worth the wait.

Richard is a college math professor in Georgia. I can barely carry on a conversation with him, my arithmetic speech to his logarithmic patterns. Each time we fished or talked about fishing, that changed. He became a small boy, in pure joy learning a new hobby. His passion for fishing is proudly worn on his sleeve, a Boy Scout patch. Although he had done little hunting, he was eager for his next badge.

Gooch is my irascible friend who tolerates civilization only long enough to earn his next trip into water or woods. He lives in Florida, but has never shed his Mississippi upbringing. Howling dogs, old boats, rusty jeeps, and gaming gear keep him alive. He drinks foul liquids, like cold Louisiana coffee the consistency and muddy tint of sludge. I taught him to trout fish in Western North Carolina, and he taught me to hunt wild quail in North Florida.

Like all hunters and fishermen, my friends and I seek secret places—Columbus and crew looking for the New World. We navigate unknown territory to find a covert full of grouse or a stream teeming with wild brook trout. Ignoring the other six billion on the planet, we study charts and maps, hoping to find that place where no one but God has walked. Born into a caste system of liars, we trust the best liars, hoping to discern truth that exalts us to a superior outdoor life.

And so, I began to seek our rendezvous destination. Field & Stream and Sports Afield were no help, because the authors had forsaken their closet places for money and publication. Websites offered little more, as the faraway destinations were not affordable, and the places had been buffalo trampled by now. The trail led to word-of-mouth, as some liars occasionally slip on truth, particularly when alcohol loosens. There might be some luck there, but at our age, only a handful of liars were still around. Hopefully, a repentant one might confess a confidential spot.

I knew one of these old liars – Herman T. Scrubs. I visited him occasionally to see if he was still breathing and to pry outdoor secrets from him. Although raised in the Blue Ridge Mountains, Herman’s Navy days had taken him to the wilds of Newfoundland. I went by his cabin with the usual motive but more urgency, as the rendezvous was planned but had no destination.

“Herman, tell me about being stationed in Newfoundland.”

“Not much to tell; can’t remember nothin.”

“Well, you hunted and fished there, didn’t you?”

“Sure did.”

“Tell me about those big brook trout and ptarmigan birds.”

“Lots of both.”

“Exactly where were you?”

Herman looked at me for a long, long time, his head cocked sideways, with bloodshot eyes squinting from behind a red, bulbous nose.

“That’s a secret,” he snapped. “Promised my Navy buddies I’d never tell.”

“Well, could you ask them if it would be O.K. to tell?”

“Nope,” Herman said. “They’s all dead.”

“What difference does it make, then?”

“Would mean an ass whippin for me, first thing when I get to heaven.”

I was about to go when Herman asked if I had a pint of liquor.

“In the truck,” I said.

“Get it,” he said.

I did, and halfway into the bottle, Herman’s courage surfaced like a bobber, as he decided he could whip his dead Navy buddies. I got the location and scooted.

In the next few days, I handled the arrangements—flights, motels, SUV, and guides. The rendezvous was set. Just days before we were to leave, a friend’s death kept me from going. I would only hear about the trip and see the pictures.

Randy, Richard, and Gooch left separately for Newfoundland. Randy arrived first, then Richard, and finally Gooch. They found each other and the guides and were off to a covert location unknown to anyone except us, the guides, Herman T. Scrubs, his dead Navy buddies, and half the population of the province.

They drove for hours through seductive land that nudged tundra, full of spongy mosses, scant trees, outdoor scents, and blue-green streams and rivers. There was no small talk. As the SUV crossed bridges, they peered into the water, glimpsing refracted shadows of large brook trout. They saw several coveys of white and mottled ptarmigan explode from the brush, flying low, short bursts along the ground like military drones. Midday turned to dusk, dusk to dark, dark to black night, and they finally arrived. The cabin was curled up in a field, a quarter mile from timber to the north, and a hundred yards from a small stream bordering on the south.

Smoke plumes danced with sparks that pirouetted from the chimney.

“Who lit the fire?” Gooch asked.

“Had it done,” answered the guides.

Inside, the fireplace warmth battled a cold October wind that was invading Newfoundland. One corner of the cabin contained a nicely stocked kitchen and a table large enough to seat the friends and the two guides. It was covered by a freshly laundered, ironed red and white tablecloth. The fireplace was surrounded by easy chairs and old rockers that had etched designs into the pine flooring. Down a hallway, there were four bedrooms, each different but containing a queen-sized bed, under down comforters and pillows. Each bedroom had a separate bath. Everything was neat, well-organized, and clean. The cabin was a hiding place for outdoor dreamers.

“Where are you going to sleep?” Richard asked the guides.

“Out there,” they said, pointing beyond the front door. Before leaving, they opened an old pine cupboard containing a dozen new bottles of liquor. The younger guide showed the friends crystal glasses and a freezer full of ice.

“Who brought the liquor?” Gooch quizzed.

“We had it done,” the guides said. Then they left, rummaged briefly through an old truck, and disappeared into the blackest night. Randy stood on the porch smoking a cigarette, peering into that darkness that concealed the guides.

When the cigarette grew too short, he entered the cabin to see Gooch slurping bourbon, while Richard inspected each bottle. Gooch knew what he wanted while Richard was making a methodical choice.

Gooch asked, “Wonder when the pretty girls will show?”

“They are on their way. The guides had it done,” Randy replied.

The friends laughed as Randy was summing up the first day before returning to silence. Richard feared that three girls would slither through the cabin door. He didn’t want a badge for that. After two drinks, everyone relaxed into tired and went to bed.

Early the next morning, Gooch awoke when the blacks of night had not yet surrendered to the grays of dawn. He dressed quickly, found his fly rod, made some foul sludge coffee, and eased quietly out the cabin door. The door hinges did not squeak. He paced to the small river below the cabin and rigged up. He made some false casts, ending in a real one and the splat of a Woolly Bugger streamer slicing the current. He bent over to put his sludge on the bank, and wham! The rod bent towards his knees. Big fish on. It burrowed down, heading east. Just then, he heard a loud splash to his left. Randy was waist deep in water a hundred yards upstream, fighting another big fish. The friends landed their fish, whooping and hollering like teenage boys who were exploding coke bottles off the side of a speeding freight train.

After releasing two five-pound brook trout, they gathered to compare flies. Randy was fishing a girdle bug, nothing like the streamer Gooch used. Five fish each, and an hour later, the friends were hungry. They returned to the cabin smiling, just as purple sunlight shanks pierced the pink horizon.

Bacon smell invaded the wilderness. Once in the cabin, they saw a set table, a mound of cooked bacon, toast ready, butter and jam, and a plate of hot scrambled eggs. The coffee’s aroma blended with bacon scent. It was good to have a cook along, and they silently saluted Richard’s role. Just then, he appeared from his room, nose up and sleepwalking.

“Who cooked breakfast?” Gooch demanded.

“Not me,” Richard shrugged.

“The guides had it done,” Randy quipped as he unloaded himself from his waders. Everyone chuckled nervously and ate.

The friends didn’t clean the dishes or remove them from the table. It was eight a.m. and time cleaning cheated fishing time. They reached the stream and spread out, a hundred yards apart. After rigging their fly rods, each made a cast. Randy’s disease was at low ebb that day, so his casts were pure and straight. Gooch’s bone cancer was in remission, and he felt strong. Richard had no serious illness, only the worry of dishonoring his badge. First casts were abruptly halted by jarring tugs from strong brook trout. Three fish on! Ten minutes later, the stream was seventeen pounds lighter, as the friends removed two six-pound fish and a five-pound one. A photo would prove they were not lying when they later told stories of the released fish.

By noon, each had quit counting numbers of fish, only shapes and color variations. Aching arms drove them out of the stream and into the cabin, where fresh sandwiches, chips, and cold beer waited. The breakfast dishes had been cleaned and had disappeared into a cabinet. There was no other sign of the guides.

That afternoon, the three took shotguns and walked away from the cabin. Gooch had noticed a gently sloping field covered in golden brush and blue-green tundra sponge, running west to east. He and Randy walked comfortably with their twenty-gauges, shouldered naturally from years of experience. New to hunting, Richard held his borrowed twelve-gauge stiffly-straight out from his body, like it was a dangerous dog on an uncertain leash. The hunters looked at each other, then at Richard, and began an elementary shotgun drill. Don’t point the gun at others, keep the safety on until firing, know where your partners are, and when in doubt, don’t shoot. Satisfied that Richard’s timid nature was their best protection, Randy and Gooch continued walking. Ten yards later, a dozen ptarmigan broke cover and flew at Richard’s head. He ducked, paused, turned, and fired at the escaping birds, knocking one out of the air. He was earning his next badge and easily found the dead bird. Another photograph was taken, with Richard’s face surrounding an embarrassing smile seen only when a new outdoorsman outshines old ones.

Soon, a covey of twenty birds scattered in front of the friends. Six shots and four birds fell, with Randy getting a double. The afternoon repeated this pattern, with large coveys rising every forty to fifty yards. By dusk, the hunters had walked up fourteen coveys and taken twelve birds, satisfying them for the day.

On their arrival, the cabin housed a warm fire, a newly set table, Brunswick stew on the stove, and freshly made beds with new linens. No one questioned it, as this unfamiliar comfort had become routine. Warmth came from hot showers and scotch.

After dinner, the friends cleared the table and sat in front of the fire, sloshing new drinks poured for everyone. My absence was briefly regretted before they began recounting the day. Each friend took a turn reveling in a fish landed or a bird missed by the others. Laughter and tears flowed as embellishments erased actual events. Different tears followed from knowing they had forged a friendship. Their time had not been wasted in charades that are played outside the woods to disguise pain and doubt.

Richard interrupted the laughter, asking Gooch why he hunted and fished. Gooch peered into his bourbon. Randy stared at his shoes. Richard squirmed in the silence, formulating unsolvable math problems as his punishment for asking.

Gooch finally cleared his throat. “My wilderness is beyond the woods. I’ve wandered there a long time and I’m now lost. Out there, I follow my own shadow, making my way. Inside the woods, I wrestle through waist-deep grass waiting for feral birds to flush, or lean against knee-deep water ready for wild fish to strike. The weight of the wild gives me consequence. Days in the woods are stored, hidden retreats, places to go in gray, dreary days outside the forest.”

Randy said, “Wilderness sustains friends while the developed world creates strangers.”

Richard nodded, shifting the spoken words into a math equation.

Just then, the door to the cabin swung inward, and the guides passed through. “Everything to your likin’?” the older asked.

“Fine,” the three friends reported.

“Need anythin?”

“Nope.”

“Well then, goodnight,” the guides chimed, exiting the cabin like whiffs of fireplace smoke.

The three friends fished and hunted every day. They talked about their failures, joys, fears, and disappointments, as boyish laughter disguised occasional tears. They discovered grouse two miles upstream from the cabin, where the woods swirled near the stream. Further east of the grouse coverts, a small feeder stream escaped a valley, with watery S-curves forging endless cut-banks. The creek held brown trout, from twelve to twenty inches. The friends fed themselves trout and birds some days, relying on the guides for meals on others.

The guides provided all that was needed and nothing that wasn’t. The rendezvous had become the destination of new friendships and memories that relieved the friends of gray days. It had been more than a respite, a place on the way home. It had become home.

Post Script

The rendezvous was intended for October 2011. Before then, Randy died of Multiple Atrophy Syndrome. He had ice cream and a scotch the day he died. Days later, on a dark night, a motorcycle accidentally hit Richard while he was crossing the street His family celebrated the badges he had earned and those he had been given. On the following Monday, Gooch succumbed to bone cancer. His final wish was that those at his wake would eat tenderloin and deviled eggs and drink plenty of liquor chased with foul Louisiana coffee. We did. I was at Gooch’s wake when he, Richard, and Randy were on the rendezvous.

I can only imagine the rendezvous location. My three friends were there. They fished and hunted in a place like Newfoundland; you just won’t find it here on Earth. It is where the waters above the sky are separated from those below it.