A Beer Python - Revisited

Some years ago, when the Hop hunter was merely a beer python and just starting to develop his hop legs (there were actually very few hops back then) he wrote a short story for an unnamed college newspaper describing one of his early beer related experiences. Having just recently found a copy of that story it became clear that perhaps a little look at that piece might be kinda fun and perhaps even shed some insight into the development of a full grown Hop Hunter. Beware...it's gonna be sloppy...in typical Hop hunter writing style... some things never change.



THE KERN RIVER BEER PYTHON - The Beaver Adventure (June 1984)


Once again I find myself cruising the Mighty Kern River in my quest for adventure and my search for beer. All that protrudes above the water are my eyes and forehead. I can move sly and slow picking off unguarded beer without rippling the water. Or I can boldly sweep in swift and fierce attacking cashes and be gone before a camper can mount any defensive action whatsoever. I am good at my task. I love my work. I am the #1 Kern River Beer Python.

This particular day was sunny, hot and dry; a perfect day for beer pilfering.As I headed down the trail from our camp to the Kern I told myself that this day would be different. Under my arm I carrier my black inner tube which I had named "Courage" years earlier. I often used courage to perform "soft reconnaissance" which consists of floating downriver a mile or two making mental notes on amounts, types and defense of beer. Up ahead the rapids loomed, once through I would start gathering information on the new crop of unsuspecting beer which year after year without fail was waiting for me cooling in the river. I did not want to disappoint them.
The rapids proved to be more than just an access to fortune. By the time I had finished battering my body on the rocks I was in no shape for even a look around. Courage was floating up ahead of me free from riders and glistening in the hot sun. The river was calm at this point so I swam over to my inner tube, corralled it, kicked up on top, then sat back to lick my wounds,
After studying the gash on my leg I noticed something floating in the little inlet that paralleled the shore and the rapids. It looked to me like a beaver. I paddled over near it and climbed onto a rock to get a better look. Sure enough it was a huge dead beaver. It was so puffed and flabulent it appeared to be without feet. At this time I had no idea how important this apparently useless beaver would turn out to be. I watched the beaver for a few moments before deciding it would be safe until I returned. The Kern River Beer Python was onto something big.
At camp I found both my good buddies doing mostly what I had expected them to be doing, nothing. I told them all about the beaver I found, and the plans I had for it. They remained mildly interested until I came to my intended plan, at which time they told me I was crazy as a loon. Beaver madness was shifting into first gear.
Although they thought I was crazed, they did indeed have every intention of helping me in this..my bicentennial salute. Never had a plan been conceived so quickly and completely by a Beer Python, or by mere humans for that matter. It would certainly be something to see.
We discussed the details at length and then unhesitatingly emptied our spare ice chest of its inhabitants. We carried the ice chest downstream until we came to the beaver which floated puffed and flabulent in the water, just where I had left it. We loaded the beaver into the ice chest and headed back to camp. There was great anticipation in the air and little talk. Everyone was occupied with his own ideas of what the reaction would be once the plan was carried out.
Night was approaching as we settle back into camp. The moon was glowing just above the trees. We did little more that evening aside from the initial actions that prelude a massive hangover.
The next morning we loaded the beaver laden ice chest into the back of our sputterford and headed towards the nearest large city. In this case it would be Bakersfield. Poor Bakersfield. Bakersfield, for those of you who might not realize, is a city of about a hundred thousand or so people located in the Southern part of California. Bakersfield is a typical hot desert town. Bakersfield is also a town soon to be invaded by crazed loons and a Beer Python with hideous bicentennial thought racing through their brains. In a year of bicentennial events no one would top the Beer Python and his buddies. We would see to that.
We arrived in Bakersfield at about 3:30 Pacific time and went looking for a Red Devil fireworks stand.
We found a fireworks stand on almost every other corner and had no trouble picking one that was just right for us. We bought up all the glitterers, exploders, gushers, geysers, flamers, smokers and whistlers that we could afford. We tied all of these onto one main fuse and stuffed them into the beaver.
If you can imagine what a three day old dead beaver smells like then you have some idea of what all of us smelled like. Another problem was starting to haunt us now. The beaver in all of its glory was becoming more puffed and flabulent and swollen than ever, due no doubt to the days high temperature. After loading the beaver back into the ice chest we went across the street to a service station to wash up. Obtaining the key from the attendant was a trial in itself. He gave me the key after some discussion and after that he muttered something about defecation, remaining all the while at a safe distance.
Driving down the street we were aided by a fifth of Black Velvet which was purchased by a fellow beaver explorer while the other two of us were washing the beaver germs off of us. He picked it up because of something he termed "Beaver Madness". From that point on the whiskey was know and referred to as 'serum'.
Soon we entered the parking lot that served a large department type store. We found a parking spot close to the entrance and got out to unload the beaver. We took the ice chest containing the beaver indoors getting only moderately inquisitive glances and no confrontations with store employees.
Upon reaching a suitable point near the middle of the store we hoisted the beaver out of the ice chest up onto a Desenex display stand that rose about seven feet above the floor. We lit the fuse.
Acting as inconspicuous as a python out of water I headed for the door with my cohorts right behind carrying the empty ice chest. By the time we reached the door the beaver had drawn a small gathering and was sputtering and oozing to some extent. We stood as the door majestically swaying back and forth singing the National anthem when all of a sudden the beaver exploded. Pieces of beaver flew all the way to the sporting goods section on the other side of the store. The crowd that had gathered around the beaver was dispersed, seeking cover wherever they might.
The whole store was ablaze with a fireworks display that would certainly have outdone even the LA Coliseum.
As we turned to go we saw what was left of the beaver stand up on it's side and explode. Finally sending it to that big dam in the sky, stopping off first in lady's lingerie. We left for the car at a trot, threw the ice chest into the back and headed straight out of town. By the time we reached our camp nightfall was approaching and drunkenness had been with us for some time. A Python requires water so I headed down to the mighty Kern to float, satisfied for awhile, and unaware of what lay ahead of me downstream in yet another unguarded inlet.