I knew things would be different in the country, but I hadn't thought about how we would handle garbage. When we decided to buy the property, I asked the realtor, "So, when's the garbage pick-up?" "Anytime you like," he said with a smile. "What do you mean, like I just call somebody?" "Ha-ha, that's rich. No, you haul it yourself. To the dump." "Ah, the dump," I said, visualizing a vast, undulating wasteland populated by rats as big as Hondas. "Yup," he continued, a big grin plastered on his face. "It's three miles northwest of here. You can't miss it." Especially on burning day, I'm sure he wanted to add, but didn't want to lose the sale. There's no scent more evocative than the fragrance of a mountain of Michelins in full flame. It's breathtaking. On our first trip to the dump, my wife, Jackie, was terribly excited. "I bet we'll find all sorts of treasures there," she said, as we hauled what felt like a tonne of garbage jammed into the back of the old Suburban. It was July. I'd let the pile sit for a month in the garage. And it was ripe. "Dad, this stuff is disgusting!" my 11-year-old gasped. "Almost there, Karl," I managed to choke out as the rancid vapours worked on the membranes of my eyes. "WINDOWS DOWN - STAT!" We all cranked madly until we hit the stops. Jackie's nostrils were doing a funny little dance. "Mark, I'm not riding with the garbage again unless it's outside the vehicle!" She pulled out a tissue and pressed it to her face. "Don't worry, honey, I think I've got a line on a garbage wagon." I was lying. I had to find something, and fast. We pulled into the dump none too soon. Karl was making gagging noises. Blair, the Dump Warden, greeted us at the gate. Looking in, he quipped, "You're brave!" (He meant 'stupid.') "Just take it up the hill and dump it," he said, grinning broadly. Pulling away, I checked the rear-view mirror. Blair had removed his ball cap and was wiping tears from his eyes. We piled out of the Suburban. While Jackie and Karl headed off in search of buried "treasure," I ran around back, opened the double doors and held my breath. Tossing out the last of the fetid bags, I quickly exhaled, then tilted my head up to get some fresh air. The sky was filled with shrieking gulls. Something wet whizzed by my ear and exploded on my shoulder. I snapped my mouth shut and made a mental note: Do not look up while at the dump. Meanwhile, Jackie and Karl had made a U-turn and were scrambling back to the truck. Dodging boxes, cans and broken glass with all the aplomb of football players at a practice drill, they reached the Suburban, albeit under heavy fire. We dived in and yanked the doors shut. Gull bombs peppered the hood. "Contact!" I cranked the engine, dropped in gear and peeled past a waving Blair. A quick look around revealed we'd each been tagged by the bird patrol. "Eeeyewwww!" That was five summers ago. In due course, I found a beat-up garbage wagon, and Jackie found her "treasure." Even now, as I tug on its little chain before going to bed, a vague, telltale aroma of mouldy cheese and burnt tires reminds me that out here, you can never escape the call of the dump. - MARK BEHREND