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|  | | Mike Murray | | in my own words |
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| | | | --by Mike Murray
Brad awoke to a glorious sensation. As he drank in the warmth of the morning Sun, he mused at the irony. Typically unappreciative of both bright light and above-tepid temperature, he now found himself basking in both. The golden glow of Sol's embrace soothed him as never before.
As he lay peacefully, he pondered the events of the past couple decades. His mind turned to the memory of the Brad who had first come to this place. It seemed eons ago that this country had drawn him so irresistibly.
Off in the distance, Brad could make out rising white plumes. The thick vertical stretches of water vapor and particulates were the only evidence of other human life. In this place, properties were expansive. In this place, one's view was blocked -- mercifully so, in many's reckoning -- of the homesteads of one's neighbors. The smoke from other men's fires was often the only evidence of their existence.
A majestic topography of mountainous terrain and deep forestation provided the separation that most in these parts craved. It was precisely that separation in fact, every bit as much as it was the desire to achieve closeness with the land, that drew folks to this territory.
Brad was no different. In coming here, he had been seeking something that the lower forty-eight did not offer. This place had it. This place had it in spades.
Still, the mystical appeal of this land was not enough to hold all who found it. Its pull was strong, to be sure. But yielding to its siren call was not without complication. In coming here -- more precisely, in staying here -- a price was paid. The land offered much to its inhabitants. But it required something of them, too.
It demanded that settlers accept the opposing side of the solitude they received: loneliness. There was no getting around it. No matter what degree to which new arrivals satisfied their cravings for communion with the natural world, their needs for human interaction were not completely displaced.
Those needs were deeply ingrained. Like many of their mammalian cousins, humans are basically social animals. No less so than canines or whales, people are predisposed to group into communities. Even lone wolves and hermits desire company now and then.
It was that stark reality, manifested in another, that had provided Brad his opportunity to use this cabin all these years. He had been hired, in a manner of speaking, to look after the place. The man who had arranged for him to sit the cabin had finally given in to his craving for closer human companionship.
The man ultimately left this place, as so many before him had. But though he reluctantly surrendered to his loneliness, he could not bear to completely sever his ties to this compelling land. And so he sought a newcomer to look after his property in his absence.
The arrangement called for Brad to maintain the structure inside and out, and to physically occupy the cabin, lest a stranger or critter claim it for shelter. And it called for him to keep the surrounding meadow clear of brush, lest Nature overgrow and reclaim it.
The man had figured that Brad would be the first of but many surrogate occupants. Though Brad had the benefit when he arrived of wife and dog, the man nevertheless believed that Brad would, as had he, eventually grow weary of the downside of remoteness and leave.
After all, other men had similarly come to this territory with the advantage of human and canine companionship and had still left. Sometimes it was mutual, man and woman both desiring to go. Sometimes it was ultimatum: this land or this wife. A few chose the land. Most left with their wives, preferring their company to any piece of property.
Fact is, many were grateful that their spouses had spoken up first; the romance and allure of this rough terrain having been more than offset by their own hankering for larger human communities.
And so the man reckoned he'd go through many cabin sitters, Brad being only the first in a long line of seekers. The man reckoned wrongly.
Though his wife and dog were no longer with him in the physical sense (both being buried out back), Brad stayed. He stayed through trial and tribulation, through good days and bad. He survived his initial ignorance. His lack of preparation for the harsh seasons had made them things to be tenuously endured. But endure them he had.
He had arrived a greenhorn, naive to the ways of this land. He had known little of what it takes to survive the weather, the terrain, the non-human natives who had long before man staked their claims.
A tenacious temperament and a deep belief that this was truly home kept Brad clinging to his commitment. His love of this land had been just enough during those rough early years to outweigh his doubts about the reasonableness of settling here.
Eventually, staying here became no effort at all. Once more savvy to the ways of this region, once more tuned to its rhythms -- and once having passed the critical point where glorious communion with the land exceeded attendant loneliness -- Brad could imagine living nowhere else.
The cabin itself was constructed of timber felled from the property. Logs had been shed of their bark and split into half-round sections, becoming the framing, siding, and interior walls of the structure. Chinking had been applied to seal the cracks at its assembly, and had been fortified every year since.
Indeed, applying the sealant had been one of Brad's agreed-to tasks all these years. (Though there was no need for contractual compulsion on that score; only a fool would stay the winter in this latitude in a dwelling improperly prepared for the elements.)
Indoor illumination came by way of oil lamps, their smoky residues slathering the ceiling in black slime. Heat was obtained from a wood-burning, potbelly stove. Chopping, splitting, and stacking high piles of firewood during summers were critical steps in providing the seasoned fuel needed months later.
Water came from both a fresh-water creek that ran a hundred yards from the cabin, and from a well. Indoor and outdoor hand pumps tapped the well and yielded unheated water. Baths, therefore, required a combination of "cold" drawn from the well, and "hot" warmed on the cooking stove.
An outhouse afforded opportunity for bowel and bladder relief. From time to time, a new pit was dug to replace the old. A fresh structure was built over it to afford privacy and some measure of shelter, a traditional, crescent-moon shape carved into its door. The unpleasantness of nighttime, cold-weather visits were among the least agreeable aspects of life up here. But Brad adjusted to this bit of difficulty as he had all others.
The place was not completely devoid of creature comforts. A well-stocked general store was only a few miles away, down a "road" that was really no more than a trail made passable by beaten-down vegetation. One needed only to traverse it often enough to keep it from growing over.
For all its harshness, this life suited Brad. For him, the good easily outweighed the bad. Besides, it really wasn't a matter of choice: this place had called to him. And he was grateful for the summons.
Brad's mind turned to the cabin's owner. Rusty, he called himself. A crusty sort, he looked the part of someone born to this land, rather than someone who had made a pilgrimage here. Unkempt hair and a scraggly beard dominated his weather-worn face. What little skin poked out was deeply creviced.
It was hard for Brad to discern Rusty's age. He had the look of man well past sixty; but the effects of Sun and cigarette could have made him appear older than his years. He was seldom without an unfiltered butt protruding from his mouth, there being no need for him to use his hands to draw his deep drags. He spoke with it wobbling between his lips. He squinted to keep the curling smoke out of his eyes.
Brad figured that Rusty had been drawn to this land for the same reasons as had he. What exactly drove the man to leave, he never said. But Brad figured that the downside of isolation had probably factored heavily into the decision.
Their agreement had called for Brad to surrender use of the primary area of the cabin when Rusty chose to return for brief stays. An attached room (added on for that purpose) would be where Brad, and anyone staying with him, were to bunk at such times.
But the occasion never arose. Rusty never came back. It was left to Brad to wonder for years the reason. Eventually he got word from one of Rusty's kin that the old salt had died. There was no discussion of when, where, or how. Just notice that he was gone.
Brad's arrangement with Rusty had been by way of a handshake. He wondered where the old man's death left things. As it happened, right where they had been all along. Rusty's cabin was worth little in monetary terms. Properties like his were a dime a dozen up here, simple shacks, really, jutting up from land cut off from services that most folks deemed essential.
Rusty had arranged for a sitter in order to preserve his access to the cabin. But he had also done so those many years ago because he had no one to whom to sell the place. Consequently, nothing changed with his death. Rusty's relatives informed Brad of his passing merely as a courtesy. They had no interest in making their way up north or in dealing with issues surrounding a humble dwelling, built in the middle of nowhere.
It sat well with Brad that he would be permitted to remain on the land, yet would be given no dominion over it. It had been that way all along. Why should anything change now? It would matter little in the long run, anyway. One day this land would return from whence it came. One day Nature would take back her own.
Brad's mind returned to the present. As he continued to soak up the warm rays, he looked around. From his place on the porch, he observed the paths surrounding the cabin. They seemed a tad overgrown to him, not quite so well-worn as in years past.
He lately realized that he was slowing down a bit. He was alone now, his wife having succumbed to illness some time ago, followed soon after by his canine companion. Another pooch had come and gone since then, a middle-aged mutt that a townsman had grown too old to care for.
And when that one "gave up the ghost," well, it seemed impractical to get another. Brad was getting on in years, and he worried about leaving a dog alone when his own time came. So he opted to forego even canine companionship these past couple of years.
Turning to examine the cabin's exterior, Brad observed that it was in mild disrepair. He chuckled that he was falling down on the job. He'd better make it a point to apply a fresh coat of stain to the log siding before the temperature plummeted. He'd better touch up the chinking, too, while he was at it.
Brad's Sun-warmed, drowsy state cleared a little as he began to recall the events of earlier that morning. He had been out to his trash site, disposing of garbage in traditional fashion: burying it deeply enough to avoid attracting the attention of animals whose senses of smell dwarfed his own.
As a tenderfoot to these parts, he had made many mistakes. Memories of them amused the now-experienced Brad. There had been so many lessons to learn. There had been so many prices to pay for his early failures to properly understand this land.
And here he had been this morning, mindlessly out of step with the ways of the North. It wasn't a matter of disrespect or disregard; he had merely let his guard down. He was simply careless for an instant. But this land is unforgiving. A moment is all it takes. Brad knew that.
Startled by the massive brown blur rushing into his peripheral vision, he too late realized his blunder. He had failed to inspect the area before unbundling his pungent trash; he had failed to take into account the direction of the wind, a breeze that had carried the inviting scent into the nearby woods.
Closing the gap between the tree line and Brad at a speed in excess of thirty miles per hour, the bear was on him before he could react. He stared wide-eyed into the upright creature's angry orbs. He shrank at its gaping jaws, its terrifying growl. He was helpless against the onslaught of the beast's massive paws, its claws tearing effortlessly into his flesh.
And then Brad remembered. He remembered that one should "play dead" at times such as these. He recalled that survival often depended on falling to the ground -- face down in the dirt -- and remaining as still as possible.
It was widely known that bears seldom find the odor of humans to their liking. They attack us when we encroach on their territories, when we come too close to their young, or when we get between them and food. Though there are a few bears who actually view us as prey -- who eat humans -- such rogues are rare. Once most perceive us to be dead, they lose interest in us.
And such was the case now. Lying quietly, Brad managed to survive the attack. After waiting long minutes for the bear to take its fill from his garbage sack and leave, Brad limped back to the cabin.
Once there, he crawled onto the porch and lost consciousness. The warmth of the rising Sun had revived him, and it had set him to thinking. He recalled the events that had brought him here; he recalled his wife, his dogs. And he chuckled at his foolishness, earlier that morning.
The ignorant Brad, the one who had long-ago come to this frontier, had survived all manner of danger. How odd that the seasoned version of himself had today fallen victim to a beginner's gaffe.
What would the old-timers in town make of his folly? They'd surely have a hearty laugh at his expense. By God, he'd join them in merriment when next they met. What a grand time they'd have then.
But for now, he decided it best to rest just a little while longer. He was warm and comfortable, and he was so very drowsy.
Brad allowed himself to drift off, into the most peaceful sleep he had ever known.
Copyright ©2005 Michael F. Murray -- All rights reserved.
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