During my Nature Boy period in the fifties, a local farmer gave us (the guys I ran with) permission to build a shack in his woods. It was great... for us. Scrounge and kludge were accurate descriptors. Still, It was functional. We spent night(s) on weekends, hunting – squirrels, rabbits, quail – fishing, swimming in the 102 river East of town.

While we weren't good hunters, tin cans were at high risk. The occasional squirrel or rabbit, subjected to our cooking, reinforced a resolve to bring provisions from home.

Communal living was the benefit. Four or five of us, hanging out– exchanging hopes, dreams, problems, girl thoughts – created a lasting memory.

The shack, built using four trees as corner posts, was heated with a small stove we borrowed(?), which served us through the Winter.

One morning, November as I recall, we arose to fresh snow and responded to the call, "Let's go swimming." Running to the river in our shorts and T's (what Nature Boy would dare wimp out), one brave soul, yelling, "GERONIMO!", as he jumped in, breaking through the thin ice, the rest followed.

We swam(?) briefly, then headed back to the shack for coffee, shivering and shaking, now realizing there was scant evidence to verify our Nature Boyness.