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This day, we planned to attack a tiny little island that rested where two creeks on the property met, but we were going to have to take a special route there due to a very real enemy that hovered in the woods between the island and the fort – Colt Gaskin.Ī skinny seventh grader with a jet black bowl cut and a mean streak, Colt was Toby’s neighbor through the forest and a menacing figure who rode his dirt bike through the woods that served as our imaginary battlefield. Just like any other day, Toby and I started in the fort, mapping out our plan of attack on a custom map of the woods around the house that Toby’s dad made for us. You climbed up into the thing, lifted up a heavy wooden door (to keep out coyotes and other animals) and climbed down a ladder into the darkness hole of the fort where a lantern to illuminate the dirt walls of the thing waited. Toby’s dad said he couldn’t stay in the thing for more than a few minutes or he would get flashbacks and that was good news for Toby and all of his friends as it allowed for him to stash the Playboys we had all accumulated to be stored there in relative safety.Ībout 25 yards from the end of Toby’s yard and the start of the woods was the rotten stump Toby’s dad had hollowed out to turn into the entrance to the fort. The envy of every boy at Browning Elementary School, Toby’s dad built the underground fort based on one he had encountered in the jungles of Vietnam. Once into the near-darkness of the Washington evergreens, Toby and I would head straight to a place that seemed almost too good to be true for an 11-year-old rural boy – an underground fort. The afternoon started just like every other one where my mom dropped me off to play Army and stay the night at Toby’s house – we loaded our packs with hard-ass military essentials like Fruit Roll Ups, Gushers, nuclear green Gatorade, and Nerf guns spray-painted black and we stomped out into the woods. On top of that, Toby’s dad was a Vietnam vet who had authentic military gear that helped us truly feel like we were battling some kind of foreign threat that had made its way to the moist, mossy forests of Western Washington. I loved playing Army at Toby’s house most of all because his family’s multiple-acre property was loaded with forts, treehouses, little creeks, and sheds that made it seem like it was some kind of backlot set from an old war movie.
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I would count down the hours, minutes, and seconds until Saturday afternoon almost every week until I would hop in my mom’s Suburban and traverse the windy roads of the foothills of the North Cascades that led up to where Toby’s family lived on a small rustic raspberry farm at the end of a gravel road. My favorite thing to do when I was 11-years-old was playing “Army” at my friend Toby’s house. I need to push the darkness of the one horrifying day of my childhood off of my chest like a bench press or the weight of it is going to eventually slip down and choke me to death. I have never told anyone about this… but it’s time to get something off my chest.