Beatrice Hamblett Photography

Edgar Skene

2 min read

Edgar Skene has ice blue eyes and an ample white beard cascading down from the heights of craggy cheekbones. He lives in a tiny house wedged between rushing Holly River and busy State Route 20.

 Edgar may look like winter but nothing about his demeanor is chilly. He invites me in and then, like a young boy, eagerly shows me eccentric treasures and weaponry that fill every corner of his dark living room. Edgar pulls out a hefty stick from behind the TV. It’s topped with a huge knot that could knock the sense out of any intruder. The mantel holds hatchets, knives, and bayonets. Now with a look of mischief, Edgar flips up the sofa cushion to expose a menacing pistol at the ready. He kicks his foot beneath an armchair  and another pistol reveals itself. Even Edgar’s surname, Skene, meaning dagger or knife suggests an in-born skill with daggers and knife throwing. His ancestry, he claims, dates back to the medieval Skene Castle near Aberdeenshire, Scotland.

Edgar is a genuine mountaineer. He doesn’t keep a still (or so he says) instead preferring his Jack Daniels. In every other way he is a man of the woods, collecting unique pieces of driftwood and odd-shaped goblin-like roots found on the forest floor or washed up by the river. He spends his days fishing for trout, shooting deer and grouse and hunting for Chantelle and Coral mushrooms when they come into season. 

Loving his home and everything in it, Edgar doesn’t seem like the wandering type, but he promises me:

“Ya won’t find me here once my parent’s estate is settled. I’m gonna buy me a Harley and go on the road,” he says pulling out a box spilling over with leather chaps, vests, and lined leather jackets, well used from another chapter in his life. Behind him, sits a shrine honoring all things Harley Davidson—Harley scarves and cigarette lighters, “Easy Rider”magazines with bikini-clad women, spiked heeled astride a giant Harley Davidson motorcycle.

“You like deer jerky?” he asks holding up a plastic bag full of black twisted stuff. 

“Starts out mild but gets real warm once it sets there on your tongue.”



Edgar Skene

2 min read

Edgar Skene has ice blue eyes and an ample white beard cascading down from the heights of craggy cheekbones. He lives in a tiny house wedged between rushing Holly River and busy State Route 20.

 Edgar may look like winter but nothing about his demeanor is chilly. He invites me in and then, like a young boy, eagerly shows me eccentric treasures and weaponry that fill every corner of his dark living room. Edgar pulls out a hefty stick from behind the TV. It’s topped with a huge knot that could knock the sense out of any intruder. The mantel holds hatchets, knives, and bayonets. Now with a look of mischief, Edgar flips up the sofa cushion to expose a menacing pistol at the ready. He kicks his foot beneath an armchair  and another pistol reveals itself. Even Edgar’s surname, Skene, meaning dagger or knife suggests an in-born skill with daggers and knife throwing. His ancestry, he claims, dates back to the medieval Skene Castle near Aberdeenshire, Scotland.

Edgar is a genuine mountaineer. He doesn’t keep a still (or so he says) instead preferring his Jack Daniels. In every other way he is a man of the woods, collecting unique pieces of driftwood and odd-shaped goblin-like roots found on the forest floor or washed up by the river. He spends his days fishing for trout, shooting deer and grouse and hunting for Chantelle and Coral mushrooms when they come into season. 

Loving his home and everything in it, Edgar doesn’t seem like the wandering type, but he promises me:

“Ya won’t find me here once my parent’s estate is settled. I’m gonna buy me a Harley and go on the road,” he says pulling out a box spilling over with leather chaps, vests, and lined leather jackets, well used from another chapter in his life. Behind him, sits a shrine honoring all things Harley Davidson—Harley scarves and cigarette lighters, “Easy Rider”magazines with bikini-clad women, spiked heeled astride a giant Harley Davidson motorcycle.

“You like deer jerky?” he asks holding up a plastic bag full of black twisted stuff. 

“Starts out mild but gets real warm once it sets there on your tongue.”



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Categories: You Don't Know Me