Oregon: A laugh in error at burly blokes

My mistake, but I laughed when the guy with forearms like torpedoes told me what he had come down country to shoot.

When he eyeballed me I realised he was serious.

It was late on a Friday afternoon in a roadside cafe in Oregon, cattle country, and Ray was with some equally large friends down from Portland. I was the only other person there so we got talking.

They were in high spirits and looking forward to a weekend shooting. They'd been invited down by some local farmers to work on their spreads and would drive back home on Sunday night.

They were interesting guys. Phil, who could barely hear and had to cup his hand over one ear, had done two tours of duty in Vietnam based in Danang. I had been there so we had a bit to talk about.

His brother told me his son was just back from Iraq but had signed on for another tour.

"He'll be done in 2007," he said and we all went quiet for a bit.

One of the other guys just sat silent looking into his cup.

"He's all right," said Ray. "But don't give him no trouble."

I deliberately avoided eye contact. Later, when I offered to pay for the coffees, he looked at me, said nothing for a while, then muttered, "I think I'll pay for my own, if it's all right with you."

I didn't take that personally.

But Ray was in a chatty mood and told me he worked in a factory on the Columbia River. I guessed it to be one of those hellfire places belching fumes I had seen a few days before.

We talked about politics for a bit - you can guess their view on Iraq - and about how beautiful the country was around here.

That's when I asked what they were doing in town.

"We're down here for a weekend shooting; come down for a couple of weekends a year round this time and work south of the river."

I said it was a good time to be out of the city and that it looked like the weather was going to be kind to them; the forecast was for clear skies the next few days.

He agreed and said this was just a hobby; they did it for a few dollars and beer, and stayed on the farms where they were pretty well looked after.

So I had to ask, and that's when I made the mistake of laughing. You would have too: very big men with guns and camouflage jackets; a Vietnam vet, a steel worker, and a menacingly silent man.

I expected they were after something they could sling across the bonnet; so huge its antlers dragged on the road as they drove down to the local bar and spent the night bragging.

But no. The conversation was a little forced after that and I was glad when they declined a second coffee and took their leave.

Ray quietly explained that in cattle country their prey were pests, and I nodded knowingly.

I waved goodbye, and wished them luck on the squirrel shoot.