by John Jefferson
I’ve never met Brandon Butler – at least, not that I recall. But we’ve travelled some of the same trails, including Missouri’s Current River. We’re brothers in a bond that comes from treasuring the outdoors and the precious memories of time spent there with family and friends. Or alone.
Butler is a fellow outdoor writer with a wall full of awards. Or, at least HAD a wall full. He co-hosts a weekly podcast called “Driftwood Outdoors”. Check it out.
He started sending it to me recently. It’s primarily about the wonderful Missouri hills, woods, streams, and wildlife, but the spirit with which he writes is understood and appreciated by anyone who has – as Johnny Cash once wrote into a song—breathed “air that ain’t been breathed before.”
He bought a small, remote acreage and built a cabin. I imagine upon entering, it smelled like Roy Bedichek wrote of J. Frank Dobie’s cabin on Barton Creek –wonderfully reeking of woodsmoke from long-past fireplace fires.
One night, sitting on the porch, he and friends saw headlights in the pasture. Then heard gunshots. They investigated and gave law enforcement a license plate number. Some time later, his cabin was set afire. The sheriff ruled it arson. Butler saw it as revenge.
I’m reminded of a quote from a man who “carried”: “I don’t carry a weapon to do evil; I carry one because there is evil in the world.” The man who lit the match destroyed part of Brandon Butler’s life just as if he had stuck a knife in him. And it was evil.
The cabin contained memories of past hunts, of family, of good friends. In it were irreplaceable relics, –even the chair his father sat in to eat supper. Now, they’re gone.
Friends and strangers rallied and helped clean up the ashes. Many shared his grief. I did, too.
Like someone saying, “It was just a dog,” when a beloved pet passes, someone might have said, “it was just an old cabin; nobody got hurt.” That’s true. But Brandon was hurt. Still is. Probably always will be. Deeply.
I lived in a wonderful, decrepit old cabin on Lake Travis until I moved across the cove to better digs. One October night, I heard a crackling sound and looked across the lake. The old cabin was ablaze. Nothing of mine remained there… except a lot of memories. Yet it stung me deeply to see it in flames. At least the occupants got out safely.
Thinking back on countless hunting cabins I’ve stayed in, all were places where memories were made. It’s unthinkable that someone could do that to Brandon’s. Last Century, a Texas game warden’s house was torched in retaliation, and the “flamer” was convicted. I’m told the perpetrator that burned Brandon’s cabin has been arrested. From his 17-year rap sheet and previous time served, leniency may not be an option. At least, I hope not.
Regardless, he’ll someday be judged by a higher authority.
“Vengeance is mine,” saith the Lord.
JJ
