It was a warm, early autumn day when John Barkley stopped his car next to the dirt road at the footpath that led to the cabin on the hill. The land, wooded on both sides of the road, belonged to the hunting club where he was a member. But the thirty-four-year-old single man was not a hunter. He didn’t even own a gun, except for the fifty-caliber black powder pistol that he fired off for July Fourth or New Year’s. Instead, he was a member for the dark country skies that it afforded him and his telescope. The other members, all hunters, had at first been dubious of his intentions, but John’s habit of going the extra mile in performing the chores of the hunting club gained their favor and eventually he was accepted by nearly all of them. Many of them had even gone on a “star safari” with him during the cool fall nights. They were always welcome.

      John went to the trunk of his car and retrieved his axe. His chore for this week was splitting the firewood for the cabin’s fireplace. Although there was a maul in the cabin, John found that the light blade and contour handle of his own axe allowed him a faster swing. This was preferable to him and he could usually make each log fly apart on only one chop.

      Next to where his axe had been lying was his Thermos jug of iced tea and next to that was a large, coffee-table book about airships. He grabbed them both and shut the trunk, putting the keys into the pocket of his denim shorts. Then he turned and started up the path.

      His plan was to chop firewood for an hour or so, and then relax under the tree at the top of the hill, reading his book and drinking his tea. The book represented a recurring interest of his. Unlike astronomy, which could be indulged in by star parties, astrophotography, and direct observation, the only satisfaction that he could glean out of his interest in airships was through reading books on the subject. He had already built several models and had even tried his hand at building a flying one, but nothing could even come close to satisfying his real desire. This was, of course, to fly on a real airship, a zeppelin. Usually something would happen to trigger his interest, a blimp sighting, perhaps, or a movie on T.V. Then he would dig out all of his books and read voraciously. He would try to visualize the Graf Zeppelin’s round-the-world flight, or the L59's trip to Africa during World War I. He tried to imagine floating serenely over the Atlantic in the Hindenburg, the most fabulous of all airships, and the most tragic. He would read, build a model or two, watch a documentary, then after a few months the “zeppelin fever” would die down. His interest would remain dormant for a few years, until the next trigger would bring it to the fore again. His interest in astronomy was constant, but his zeal for airships, intermittent as it was, far surpassed it.

      He walked the fifty yards up the rutted path to where the woods opened to a clearing. Most of the other club members owned pick up trucks and would drive up to the cabin, but his low-slung car would not make it. The cabin was in the center of the clearing and behind it was the crest of the low hill where a lone oak tree stood next to an old stump.

      John’s mind was on airships as he walked. “You know, Lord,” he said aloud, “I was wondering why someone couldn’t use zeppelins to re-supply missionaries in the field. It seems like they could carry a lot of cargo to some very remote areas, places inaccessible by car or boat.” He thought for a moment. “I bet it would be beautiful, flying gracefully over the jungles of Africa or South America, performing a vital task.” He turned the idea over in his head, letting the spell of it excite him.

      “Another thing you could do was to go to some remote area and fly around a bit, attracting a lot of attention, then land and set up a tent. When the people came you could preach the Gospel to them and set up a church right there. People could stay behind to get the church going and the zeppelin could come back periodically, dropping off supplies and generating new interest.” 

      John smiled at the thought. “Wouldn’t that be cool, Jesus? I mean, they’ve got Mercy ships, why not Zeppelins of Hope? They could even help out in times of crisis!”

      He reached the top of the hill and put the book and jug down next to the tree. He chopped the axe down into the stump and looked around. From this vantage point he could see over the trees to the horizon. It was a perfect day. There was not a cloud in the sky. The brightness of the sun was the only thing that stood out from the vivid blue.

      “My God, what a beautiful day.” said John aloud. “I wish I wasn’t on the mid-shift this week. This would be a perfect night to bring the telescope.” He looked slowly around in all directions. “Thank you, Lord, for this sight.” he said. Then he took the axe and bent to his work.

      The logs were about 18 inches long and came in a variety of diameters. The smaller ones he would split into twos and the larger ones he would split into fours. For a very large one, he would chop pieces from the outside edge until it was small enough to split. After about 45 minutes of steady work his aim began to waver due to fatigue. But as he was almost finished with the amount he had set out to do, he decided to push on.

      Occasionally he would pick one up with the end cut on a slight angle. Usually a chip of wood was all that was necessary to stand it up straight for the customary one-chop split. But the last one he picked up didn’t seem to be able to stand up no matter where or how many chips he put under it. John turned it over but the other side was just as bad. He finally got the log to stand up straight, but as he swung it wavered and he only succeeded in chopping off a piece of bark. He tossed the axe abruptly onto the grass and, more determined than ever, placed the log back on the stump. He turned it a few times and tried different combinations of wood chips. As his attitude bordered on exasperation, he placed his left foot on the stump to steady the log. Carefully he crouched down with his right leg and grabbed the axe. He set his grip, reared back and chopped down at the log.

      The combination of his awkward stance and fatigued arms threw off his aim. The head of the axe struck the edge closest to him. This caused the log to topple over in his direction. The blade of the axe, deflected from its arc but still traveling at full speed, bounced off of the tumbling log and bit deeply into the right side of his knee.

      John went backwards and sat down hard with a thud that jarred his teeth. In his surprise, he looked at the gash across the side of his knee and for a quick moment saw the white of the bone before a torrent of blood began to flow. He reached over with both hands and tried to put pressure on the wound, but the blood coursed unabated through his fingers. Fear mingled with nausea began to rise and swell from out of his stomach.