Category: Creative Works

“Carl, you know I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Oh yeah? Why not, Otho?” my brother asked as I followed him into the cabin. 

“What’s goin’ on boys?” Pa sat at the kitchen table updating the farm register by the light of the oil lamp. “Why all the hollerin’?”

“Otho robbed me of a bear kill!” Carl exclaimed. “It must’ve weighed close to 600 pounds, too. We would’ve eaten well for some time off that bear!”

“What’s the meanin’ of this, Otho?” Pa turned to me.

“He’s not tellin’ you the whole story, Pa,” I said as Ma walked in from the clothesline, basket on her hip. “This bear had cubs.”

Ma dropped her basket to the floor. “What’s all this about a bear and her cubs?”

“Otho wouldn’t let me take the shot at a goodsized bear just because she had a few cubs with her,” Carl explained to her. 

“Well, were the cubs old enough to be on their own?” Ma questioned. Pa looked just as interested to get an answer.

“They looked old enough to me,” he replied, looking at me with a smug expression only fitting of a younger brother who thinks he’s getting away with something.

I sighed loudly, expressing my frustration with his behavior. “How could they have been old enough, Carl? They looked like they could’ve been carried off by a slight breeze.”

“You’re full of it,” Carl declared. “Just because you’re older than me-”

“Stop bickering,” Pa interrupted, raising his voice. “Carl, if you knew she had cubs, you never should’ve even considered takin’ a shot at her. I raised you better than that.”

“But-” Carl tried to argue, but Ma cut him off.

“How do you think Miss Flora Cook would feel about you willin’ to kill a mother bear with a fresh litter? I wouldn’t blame her if she called off the engagement,” she scolded.

At this, Carl hung his head. Ma always knew exactly how to make you regret what you’ve done. He was ashamed, but I know he would’ve been ten times as sorry if I’d let him kill that bear. 

*  *  *

Sitka spruce, red cedar, western hemlock… 

I counted off tree species in my head. Gettin’ lost in your thoughts can be deadly out here, and with everyone startin’ to wake up, I have no intention of pissin’ off a bull moose or wolf pack because I wasn’t payin’ attention to where I was goin’. 

I’m still gettin’ used to this new territory and my new job. When I got back from The Great War, I picked up my old job workin’ for the International Boundary Survey in Maine, but I wasn’t entirely happy. A few men in my battalion came from Alaska, Ketchikan and Fairbanks if I remember right, and I couldn’t get enough of the stories they told. I guess that’s just the mountain man my parents raised me to be. Anyway, about two months ago, I caught wind of an opening at the US Coast and Geodetic Survey that would take me to the Alaskan frontier and I jumped on the chance. For the past month, I’ve been makin’ trails north of Anchorage in that dense bush country.

I stopped and looked around for a minute. I may have been over 4,000 miles from Eustis, my hometown, but the terrain felt familiar. Different when it came to the native plants and animals, but the same steep hills and rocky rivers that my brothers and I used to traverse. I’ve been told by the other surveyors that the weather was warm for an Alaskan spring, but I still felt a chill in the air like late winter in Maine. Sitting down on a fallen tree, I checked my pocket watch. Oughta wait for ‘em to catch up. I had some food in my pack, but I wasn’t all that hungry. I took out my trail journal. 

*  *  *

May 12, 1922   1:37 pm   42°F

23 miles northeast of Anchorage

Left the pack train two hours ago, turning back soon. No signs of existing trails, had to make my own. Lots of underbrush and dead branches cleared out. Seeing early leaf buds and small animals. No sign of predators except occasional old droppings. Will update as necessary.

*  *  *

I closed my journal and slid it back into my pack. S’pose I should head back to the group, I thought. Don’t wanna get caught out here after dark with no supplies. I’d heard stories of green surveyors gettin’ lost in the Alaskan wilderness because they didn’t know when to turn back to base camp. Some would show back up after a few days with just a few scratches. Others were never seen again. In that regard, I wasn’t itchin’ to test my luck.

Walkin’ back the way I came, I noticed all the things I hadn’t been payin’ any attention to, like hawk screeches and tree branch creaks. I could hear rushin’ water up ahead and remembered the creek I’d have to cross. I welcomed the thought even though I knew my toes would be frozen by the time I got to the other side. But, after two and a half hours on the trails, my feet were achin’ to get out of these boots. I made my way to the rocky shore and was just about to kick off my boots when I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck. 

Somethin’ wasn’t right here. I scanned the water’s edge, my eyes blinded by the sun reflectin’ off the water. That’s when I saw the grizzly bear cubs. There were three of ‘em, none seemin’ to notice me standing less than 200 yards away. I looked around cautiously for mama bear, prayin’ that she had gone farther downstream to catch fish for her cubs. When I didn’t see any sign of her nearby, I let out a relieved sigh, thinkin’ I could slowly back off and make a quick getaway.

That’s when I heard the snarl.

Every day is the same. 

Wake up before the sun rises,  

but never to enjoy the moonlight  

or the stars arranged in constellations  

like a child leaves their playthings.  

Dress yourself, brace yourself  

for the ensuing day,  

never realizing that everything you do  

comes from a world you’ll never  

fully comprehend and may never  

truly experience. As days march on,  

the same solitude: the hard cabin  

of a car, the suffocating walls  

of a worn-out building 

and back again. Exhausted,  

we walk in silence, cutting ourselves off  

from our peers who also want the end  

of lonely days, the end  

of a life confined and void of joy.  

Even those who claim to be living  

their young lives to the fullest are wrong.  

A life of routine, even routine spontaneity  

is still routine, still static.  

There has to be more.  

Maybe in the warmth of the sun  

or the richness of soil,  

the cool breezes of spring on the horizon  

or the sterility of snow?  

We’ll go crazy without dynamism,  

without unpredictability,  

without the sharp pain of reality.  

Let’s bask in the sunlight like wildflowers  

in the meadows and forest clearings.  

Let’s immerse ourselves in the cold  

waves and flows of the river.  

Walk barefoot on damp earth,  

sod clumping between our toes. 

Breathe in new air, new life, 

and remember to be present. 

Going through the motions is not enough.  

Let yourself be overtaken by what can’t be controlled  

or be ready to fall victim to the day. 

What is paradise? For many of the people who live or vacation in the town I call home, the answer is simple: the beach. Our town is lucky enough to claim one of the few sandy beaches in Maine, which many residents and almost all visitors are quick to take advantage of. In the summer, swarms of people flock to the beaches like seagulls, dotting the coastline with oversized umbrellas and brightly colored loungers. Despite the fact that there is no escaping the crowds and noise that accompany such an exodus, the beach is continually praised for its relaxing atmosphere and the pure enjoyment it provides. 

I, unlike many members of my community, have never been fond of the beach. Maybe it’s because I grew up with forest all around me in one of the more rural parts of town, but I don’t feel the call of the ocean like my schoolmates did and I have no desire to bury my toes in the itchy sand or submerge my head below the sickeningly salty, Atlantic waves. There’s something about the woods, though, that is utterly magnetic, like a siren call that makes me want to walk far beyond the treeline and up steep cliffs with no regard to where I’m going or the potential danger I would put myself in. It tempts me to leave behind the traditional roof over my head and the walls that surround me for a more wild version, with tree canopies that shelter me from the elements and mountains that protect me on every side. 

I could stand for hours among the trees, so still that anyone who happened upon the scene might mistake me for one of them. Though I’m certainly no expert in tree classification, I could pick out some of the more distinct varieties. Shagbark hickory, paper birch, sugar maple. In spring and summer, after heavy rainstorms, their leaves become the most vibrant greens, making the forest a verdant wonderland. Then, when autumn turns their leaves flaxen and ocherous, sunlight streaming through the trees brings them to life for a final time before the cold chill of winter removes any trace of the brilliant colors that graced the branches. 

This is my paradise, a place many would call the middle of nowhere. I agree with their assessment to some extent. A random place in the woods could definitely be categorized as such, but it’s not because there is nothing to experience. Every time I look into the woods, no matter how often, I encounter new and nuanced things that indulge my senses and entreat me to return time and time again. So, when I say ‘the middle of nowhere,’ I’m referring to the nowhere you respond with when someone pries at your whereabouts. It’s the type of nowhere that is only known to you, that you keep sheltered from others so that you can keep this place all to yourself. Luckily for me, the forest has a way of keeping secrets.