Young Writers Society

1

           I always enjoy gifting a fresh pile of steamy excrement to the world when I’m camping. I know many who have peed in the woods, but know far less who have ever pooped in the woods. I do most of my deep thinking squatting behind bushes. That’s how we are supposed to drop the old log. Taking a dump at a ninety degree angle reduces flow and strains muscles. I’m serious, look it up.

            It’s so nice to be alone on a backpacking trip for once. Without parents or siblings, I am free to defecate anywhere and behave as childishly as I wish. There are others on the trail though. Most I despise and have already stereotyped. For example, we have a group of humans who I like to call the “Asian Invasion”. They’re a rare breed. I have encountered only a couple of these types of backpackers in my career. Traveling in large packs is their preferred form of hiking. Their Hello Kitty packs are usually full of large cameras and electronic equipment. They’re quiet and courteous (when void of alcoholic beverages). When full of such beverages, most tend to reenact various scenes from The Last Samurai. If you forgot a cell phone on a trip, I’m sure they have plenty of Apple products to choose from.

           The hippie types are usually very laid back. They have long hair or dreads, baggy cargo shorts, and hundreds of braclets on each arm. Most say they are not religious, but spiritual. That’s like me saying “I’m not honest, but you’re really interesting.” They’re caught dabbling in the “spiritual” side of hiking and nature. They look for “unfiltered experience.” However, most just want to smoke weed until the squirrels are making them pancakes. Hippie hikers love to enthral people with stories of when they stayed at the remote village of Noonecares and lived with the locals for two months. Many pride themselves in making up new words or even sentences like “Brah, check out this honkin chunk a wilderness.” I tend to ignore these flaws because they tend to carry very good food. God knows I love frosted animal crackers. I don’t even care if the ingredient sorbitan monostearate gives me cancer, they will always have a place in my heart. The hippie types have a sub-category: the very emotional. Many participate in backpacking to “find themselves.” They are very confused and sensitive people. They can go to extremes, one second they are screaming “Yolo!” and the next they are attempting to make a noose out of poison ivy vines. The emotional variety can be accompanied by a slight twitch and a blood churning laugh that can only be compared to that of a dying hyena. It’s normal to feel as if they are possessed by demonic creatures. A short conversation with such people could certainly turn into a life and death situation. If an emotional hiker starts chanting a devilish chant such as “I am Satan, Son of darkness”, make a cross with your fingers and scream “Jesus loves you!.” This will purge them from sin and they will go back to crying over snapped twigs. It works for me.

           Next we have the Roughers. They’re the “What I need, nature will provide” characters. If asked about the contents of their pack, they stare you with their kooky eyes and give a routine response: “A sense of adventure.” Most catch large crickets in the expressed purpose of consumption only. Apparently, crickets have more protein than my dehydrated breakfast burrito. That’s B.S. Restraining from showers for the entirety of their trip is against their religion. Most people don’t take a shower while on a short backpacking trip, but Roughers use nature’s shower. Most bathe in forty degree river water because they receive “energy” from the flowing current. You can often find them trying to make friends with deer or other various wildlife. Most attempts are unsuccessful. The day I see a Rougher galloping on the back of a deer is the day I accept curling as an Olympic sport. They’re the ones that would say “I work at a tollbooth, and I don’t want to kill myself” with a voice laced with unprecedented enthusiasm. I encounter most curled up into a ball on the forest floor blowing chunks due to the consumption of unfiltered pond water. I guess pond water has bad energy.

           All of these pale in comparison to the Gap years. They are typically the ones who take a year off before college in hopes of one last final “adventure”. They are never seen without a layer of makeup and hairspray so thick that I can naturally only compare it to their own intelligence. They tend to pronounce every word to the point of not actually understanding what they are saying. You can spot them doing shots, then vomiting on their Ralph Lauren polo shirts. Their forays are all paid for by Daddy’s bank balance. No intellectual value can be gained in spending time with such hikers. Their mating calls can be heard from miles away, drunken screams and rants are especially heard at night. One may ask you to visit an Amish website or inquire about how to set up a tent. I find it’s best to smile and nod, but not actually help them. If you ever need a Pepto Bismol, feel free to ask them; I’m sure they have plenty. Speaking of plenty, they tend to have plenty of happyness. Some may say ignorance is bliss, but in America money can buy you happiness. Have you ever seen a sad person on a jet ski? Nope. Now that you are aware of the various backpacker stereotypes, I hope you will be able to more fully understand the characters I run into on the trail.

2

        A pillow once served as a sign of wealth; the more pillows one owned the more affluence he or she held. The Egyptians used pillows to ward off demons, but nowadays pillows just act as a reservoir for my various body fluids. A slightly less honorable role than keeping Hell’s residence from possessing me. Have you ever tried smelling sleep drool? I have for the past month because one day I think I’m going to smell something. I wish I could smell.

      My morning started off with the same soul crushing reality of being handicapped. Yes, not being able to smell is a very serious disability in my book. Do you think Obama will send me a check for that? I hopped out of bed and strolled across my room. My little toe glanced off the corner of the door frame and for a second I died. I performed the “I just stubbed my toe” dance that consist of two hops while holding the afflicted area and one small limp afterwards. After I was brought back to life, I walked cautiously with eyes wide open to the stairs. Carefully placing each foot on the wooden steps, I made my way downstairs. “Hey freak”, muttered my brother as he looked at me with his usual disappointment.

         “Do I have to come in there!” my mother screeched. We both yell back the usual answer. He’s in his University of Michigan pajamas and loafers. As usual, he’s sipping on a cup of coffee in one hand and has his phone in the other. My father comes through the kitchen scratching his midsection while stretching his back. He also has a cup of coffee. He asks why I’m up so early, but in mid sentence he remembers my plans to go backpacking this weekend and corrects himself. My mom calls him from the room over, but she screams it because she thinks he is on the other side of the house. Dad has the “why am I married?” expression on his face as he goes to talk to her. My brother begins counting down from ten with his fingers while staring at me with a smirk. He reaches one and I am summoned to the questioning room. They begin assaulting me with questions, but I am ready. I stayed up all night preparing for this very moment. It seems like they will take any chance to insult my intelligence. I fire back with my best responses. The flame of the unknown engulfs me, but I survive the twelve rounds and the conversation eventually drifts to how dry the chicken was last night. My mother becomes angry, but my father knows how to stifle such emotions. He threatens to take away her credit card. She stops mid sentences then looks away and mutters something about going to her mother’s house. It works every time.

          The ride to the national forest was a long and boring one. Just my father and I. Guys can go for hours without talking, It’s really nice. However, when my mother comes on long trips, she insist to turn on “Jesus Take The Wheel” or the K-Love station. She is the type of gal to tell people to leave room for the Holy Spirit when dancing with the opposite sex so they don’t get too close, God forbid my knee touches another girl’s knee. She can go for hours just talking to herself or others even though they may not be paying attention. She once took a conversation from a road sign to how to fully carry out a legal deposition. Thank God she is not on this trip (she would probably want me to thank God).

           My father and I arrived at the trailhead parking lot which was surprisingly full of cars. I spotted half a dozen trucks and a Lamborghini. That was the last thing I expected to see at the beginning of a hiking trail. Maybe someone is trying to build a strip mall. My father swooned over it for awhile and took many pictures. He even posed for a selfie… what is this world coming to? As I shamefully averted my eyes from my dad’s embarrassing act, I noticed the trail map and walked over to it. Pinned to the weathered wood was a twenty dollar bill and a note that read “Paying It Forward (I’m rich)”. Despite the arrogant note, twenty bucks went towards a lot more than a couple days on the trail. I was happy to take it. I filled out the tiny slip of paper, stuffed both the paper and the money in an envelope and inserted it into a small slot within the wood frame. I raised my voice to call my father over, but I was only met with the typical summer ring of the bugs. He had left. I guess I sort of appreciate it though. We both hate awkward goodbyes.

          I’m three minutes into the trail when I meet a real nut case and of course he has the most generic name in the history of all white people. Bob is dressed in jeans and a light hiking shirt which still has the tag on it. He has a thick southern accent which is slightly skewed due to an excessive amount of tobacco in his lower lip. As I come up hiking behind him I intentionally avoid eye contact and try to slither past him, but he latches on to me like a leach. He points out that my hiking pack is an off brand and begins spouting facts and numerous review information about the new backpack he has. I reply with lots of “Oh’s”, “yeah’s, and “I heard that too’s”. I hate people like Bob. People like him go to the “I’m right” website and consume various “facts” so later on they can throw it up onto other people and make their lives miserable because they are too stupid to form their own opinions. Yeah I said it.

         My friend wanted me to go scuba diving once and I was quite reluctant to go. I told him I did not wish to be that guy who gets eaten by a shark. He then started spouting off random statistics on how ninety percent of shark attacks occur in shallow water. WELL, OF COURSE, THAT’S WHERE ALL THE PEOPLE ARE! They are out frollicing on the beach; no one goes “Hey let’s go swim to Cuba.”

          The conversation slowly shifts from my poor choices in gear to high caliber weaponry. I always get that feeling of “I need a gun” when I enter a threatening place. I get that feeling every time I’m in Brown Deer. Well Bob has that feeling all the time. He is an Iraqi war vet who suffers from PTSD. He lifts up his shirt and reveals a loaded Colt 45 strapped to his thigh. He draws his sidearm and brandishes it, points it toward the sky and squeezes off a round. I jump ten feet into the air, hit the ground and run into a an undeserving tree. As I lie on the ground, I realize a bit of pee has just escaped my body. Bob laughs and tucks the handgun back into its holster, but doesn’t bother to help me up. I get up, brush the leaves and twigs off my butt and try to hide the small dollop of wetness on my shorts. I keep my distance as we continue hiking, but Bob brings up the awkwardness that is in the air. He tells me I have nothing to worry about and that he isn’t going to kill me. He lets out a small chuckle afterwards which just seemed to make things worse. Eventually Bob slows down so I could “catch up to him.” After a half mile of silence Bob finally breached the peace.

         “You know in real life you miss all the time. It ain’t like the movies where every shot hits. Jesus, you could stand there squeezing off rounds with a big stapler in your hand and do a better job of hitting something. If you’re ever looking to buy a firearm you’ve gotta buy a good shotgun.”

        Wow Bob, you really read my mind there. You’re right I am in the market for a new gun at the age of fifteen. He continues to list several reason why I should buy one. “They’ve got a real good spread, I mean REALLY good.” He is gesturing wildly with his hands while he speaks and pretends to wield a shotgun. “I mean they’re great! The further away you are the more things you hit. I’ve got a shotgun at home just in case someone breaks in. You might be picking pellets out of your drywall for a week, but that guy will be a misty cloud when you’re done with him.”

        The conversation takes a turn for the worse once he gets on the topic of gun control. “Those darn Liberals! That there Obama is the devil I guarantee it. We’ve got all these babies waving red flags when it comes to high powered rifles and extended magazines. Then when someone breaks into their house and they don’t have a gun they call someone with a gun to solve the problem. I MEAN IS THAT A LOAD OF CAMEL CRAP OR WHAT!?”

          Bob’s face gets very red and he starts stuttering and getting very loud. He lets out a very loud scream and tears off a tree limb. He bashes it against the trunk, spins around and throws it into the woods. It gets caught in a clutter of limbs a few feet away. Unhappy with the distance of his throw, Bob gets even angrier and head butts a poor tree with his bald head. Bob has just “snapped” as they say in the PTSD community. I keep my distance as he works through his little ordeal. Bob dives into the dirt and begins digging a foxhole with his hands. After he has dug a pitiful half inch deep foxhole, he rips his backpack off and pulls out a small hand crank radio. He starts cranking it as fast he can with his right arm. A popular FM radio station comes on and Bob screams a word that is not appropriate for a high school English paper. He begins screaming airstrike coordinates into the speaker. “THIS IS CALL 1 - 6 ROGER!. COORDINATES ARE AS FOLLOW: DELTA, ROMEO, JULIET, FOXTROT… OVER!?

        He starts playing the part of the airplane. “Skyline, skyline this is aircraft thirty seconds out, I repeat thirty seconds out. This is call one six, roger!”

         Bob screams back. “BOMBS AWAY! four seconds until impact!” he yells. His does his best to get into his foxhole. He howls profanity into the air. I’m guessing the bomb has just hit. I have no idea why Bob has decided to wage war on this particular oak tree, the tree must be a liberal. By the looks of it, Bob starts assembling a mortar which is actually his tent in tube form. He brings out his food packs and lines them up in a line. These are the mortar shells. He screams into his radio asking for target coordinates which is really quite unnecessary when the tree is right in front of his face. I’ve finally had enough and decide to scream his name. Although seeing Bob throw trail food at a tree would be an interesting sight, I am worried that his attention might shift to me. The mutilation of perfectly good trail food is not a noble pursuit. Michelle will start modifying trail food soon enough. He perks up and snaps out of it.

       By the time this whole thing is over I have fully wet my shorts and urine is dripping down my leg soaking my socks. I am crouched behind a tree in a position similar to that of the fetal position, when a VERY good looking woman comes running down the stretch of the trail ahead of us with the weirdest expression on her face. There I am, now standing with pee soaked into my shorts and Bob sitting in his hole holding his handgun with white knuckles and bloodshot eyes. It was fair to say that I had some explaining to do. I eventually get things sorted out. I still don’t think she believes me though. We hiked for about an hour and decided to make camp about a hundred yards from a small river. This is where we picked up another hiker named Emma. She’s ok, I guess.

3

         Bob reaches into his fanny pack or the “I’m single” pack and brings out two Dum Dum suckers and presents one to me for enduring the pain. I take it with a fake smile similar to the one you put on when you receive a gift meant for a six year old at Christmas from your grandma because she still thinks you’re a toddler. He offers the other two girls one, but they refuse. Things have returned back to normal. Bob is calmer now. The two girls names are Bethany and Emma. Turns out that Bethany is just about my age. Well… she’s eighteen. She tells us that she is a Victoria Secret Model in training and judging by the way she looks I don’t doubt it. The other gal Emma is slightly less appealing; she is twenty seven and looks like your typical cannabis smoking troll baby doll.. She is wearing a red flannel, Adidas sweatpants, and has a nose ring. She likes to think very highly of herself. While we talk over the campfire she frequently goes off on rants that I could hardly call philosophical. I commend her on thinking so deeply but a lot of her thinking is flawed, but I keep my mouth shut. Eventually, when she doesn’t get a response from us anymore, she goes digging through her backpack and retrieves a crumbled piece of paper. She unfolds it and begins to read very intensely. “I want to beat you to death with a blunt object. I want to grab one of those high end cappuccino machines and bash your rib cage in! I want to sharpen fifty pencils, bind them together with a rubber band, stick the lead in your mouth and punch the erasers! I want to strap you to a bed of nails then strap that to my car and run over speed bumps during an earthquake! I want you to survive a skydiving accident then die jumping off a swing set…”

        Thank you that poem is called “Dad” she whispers in a quiet voice as she stares into the flames of the fire.

        Bethany and I exchange glances across the fire. I signal with my head towards Bob. He is rocking back and forth in his miniature camping chair. He is staring intensely at the palm of his hand. Emma notices Bob and decides it’s bedtime for the both of them. She walks over to Bob and speaks to him very softly. They both get up and wander their way to their tents feeling emotionally drained. Bethany shakes and scratches her head and lets out a small smile. She invites me to her tent to play some cards, I oblige and stamp out the fire.

        Astonishingly, she knows the card game Rummy. We play for quite a while. She beats me almost everytime which deep down hurts. We exchange stories for a while and past life experiences or hobbies. It’s a nice little conversation. She tells me she was “discovered” at a Redskins game. A representative of a modeling agency apparently was sitting right next to her and asked for her credentials. The more she elaborated on being a Victoria Secret Model in training, the more I believed her. I try to pick her story apart as best I could, but she had a confident answer for everything. Either she is a pathological liar or she is actually trainee.

        I was getting very frustrated with the game and I tend to talk to myself when playing card games. “Maybe I should… wait no I can’t” I quietly said.

        Bethany then leaned over and whispered into my ear “Maybe I should make you a man…”

         I dropped my cards and looked up at her. She was completely serious. I giggled for a little then respectfully declined. I said It was nothing against her, but it had everything to do with my set of morals. I suggested we get married first, but I warned her that I didn’t have a lot of money. She got a good laugh out of that. I will be putting that on my resume. Matthew Stevenson: The Victoria Secret Model Seducer.

        In the morning, Bob and Emma decided that they were too emotionally vulnerable to continue the trail for another day. Bethany made the decision to go with them just in case either of the two decided to go postal. She hugged me goodbye and told me to find her on Facebook if I ever had a chance.

        Bob was going to the bathroom behind a tree a hundred yards away and yells in a mumbled mess of agreement. “Yeah, Matty boy. Look me up in if you’re ever in Tulsa, and get a shotgun… REALLY good spread!”.

         He finishes and starts walking towards the group. He mutters something about goldfish and his pee looking like Indian curry as he tiptoes his way through the brush. A rouge branch swings and swats him right in the eyeball. He stands there for a second, stares down the infant tree with one good eye, then attempts to rip the branch free from its trunk, but it doesn’t budge. If Bethany had not taken his sidearm, he probably would have unloaded a full clip into the trunk. He goes in for a second attack, but this time he simply breaks it in half. Bob: The Tree Killer makes his way towards the group feeling quite pleased with himself. We share a final goodbye and the trio starts hiking to the parking lot.

4

       Ten minutes into my alone time some guy rolls through my camp drunk out of his mind. He has a spear he fashioned out of a branch in one hand and a bottle of Jack Daniels in the other. He is sporting a white polo shirt, Lacoste shorts, and flip flops. This guy is prepared by the looks of his backpack. It looks like he’s planning to be backpacking for three weeks. Eventually he makes his way towards me, stumbling. “Hey kid, hey pal! You look like a fresh faced potato”.

       He takes off his backpack and sits down next to me. “I’m really tired of all this B.S! All these people making a big deal about rape; we have all these high school guys having relationships with their female teachers and then society, they make the same stupid joke of “oh I bet he’s popular now!” That’s disgusting! She’s a pedophile. She should be in jail for the rest of her life. I dated a teacher in high school.... yeah! it didn’t make me cooler, and a lot of you are like “yeah you were homeschooled”. Ok… ok!? valid point, but it doesn’t mean that I’m a bad person! It just means statistically I’m smarter than you are!” he screams at the top of his lungs. “And I’m tired of all these Canadians! Don’t even bother with Mexico, I want the show Border Wars: Canada Edition! Go iceskate up to your log cabin and enjoy that ten month dead period! Where you get to stay inside day after day and eventually you have to stab your wife to see some color! That’s my favorite season where your wife is dead on the floor! Those reds! Am I right? It looks like Michigan in the fall!” he yelps as his voice is straining. His rant turns more sullen and he begins speaks softly “I don’t think I could ever stab someone. I can’t even put a straw through a Capri sun. I hate me.”

       I haven’t spoken yet at this point. I am just observing at a safe distance that says “I’m here for you” but not so far that it says “I’m significantly scared of you”. I lean over and gently take the bottle and spear away from his hands. He doesn’t resist. A long period of awkward silence ensues and eventually I recommend to the red nosed Roland that he should take a little nap; he is sprawled out on the ground with his face in the dirt. Rudolf eventually crawls to my tent without saying a word, but instead of unzipping the opening to the tent, he crawls underneath it, until I can only see the soles of his shoes. I suppose that’s one way of doing it.

        Roland lets out a loud grunt and proceeds to wiggle his way out from his cacoon. He seems slightly less intoxicated. Roland sits down next to me on a log. I’m reading Robert Ludlum’s book The Bourne Identity. He strikes up a nervous conversation about the movies. By the looks of it he’s a bit distressed. After a short discussion about various movie scenes he asks me to fill in the gaps in his memory. He says he vaguely remembers walking into camp. I tell him by the looks of it that he was hiking towards the parking lot, and told him about the very funny discussion we had. He asks how far away the parking lot is, I tell him it’s about a day and a half walk. He seems quite pleased by that fact. I think he’s ready to go home. Roland gets up and starts digging through his backpack. He starts pulling out several wilderness luxuries and places them in the dirt. Eventually he gets down to his food supply and says hes only got a couple dehydrated meal packs left. I offer to hike back with him to the parking lot; he nods his head in agreement. It’s not that big of a deal. I can just call my parents and tell them I’m going to be coming home a day early. I’m sure they will understand.

         By now Roland is fully sober and his rich white kid personality is showing through. I’m glad we only have half a day left of hiking. Cross country has done me wonders and so has years of hard drinking. By hard drinking I mean that I pound gallons of orange juice daily. Roland is hundreds of feet behind me. Years of pounding jello shots has shriveled his liver and made his legs week. I appreciate it though; I don’t have to deal with his rich people problems. Like his rich person laugh. He’s always making small jokes followed by a mundane giggle. There’s a difference between rich people and wealthy people. Lebron James is rich, but the white guy writing his check is wealthy. I’m talking about the kind of wealthy where you own the color blue. Roland’s family owns the color blue I guarantee it.

5

         Finally the end is in sight. Roland and I can see the parking lot. We both pick up the pace. We pass a man sporting a Batman hat and short shorts. He glances at us with unassuming eyes. Like white people trying to get to a Coldplay concert, we gallop to the finish line. Done. Over. Roland takes off his pack and sits on a boulder. My Mother is in her green Ford Explorer. I presume she is studying her occupational therapy material because she has not come out of the car yet. Ok, it’s obvious, the Lamborghini is Roland’s. He pulls out his keys as he gets up; we say our final goodbyes and I start walking towards the car. Roland turns around and calls my name, hands me a check labeled Texas Field Co and tells me to pay for college. Like a man who had just pooped himself, I pooped myself and let out an odd noise accompanied by a facial expression similar to one of man who has been forced to listen to his wife. The bodily matter, similar to that of a Baby Ruth bar does not go further than my boxers however and I pretend as everything is normal. Roland doesn’t even bat an eye as I walk over to a wooden port-a-potty. I figured I would expose of the waste before my Mother sees a wet mess of human waste slither its way down my leg while on the way home. My boxers are not ruined, but heavily stained. I try my best to mop up the mess with a half roll of toilet paper that has been chewed by mice, but I image my mother will still be able to smell it. So naturally, I throw my boxers down the pit. Commando style! I have no problem running in such manner, in fact it will probably be better doing it while riding a car. I waltz out of the poo shack and walk up to my mother’s car. I hop in the front seat with a new feeling of freedom that only unrestricted male anatomy can offer and hand her the check. It’s a blank check too. Yeah, I deserved it.

         I walk out of the wild leaving behind the chance of having a child with a soon to be supermodel, new information of various semi-automatic and automatic weapons, my college paid for, and the knowledge that only stupid people are breeding nowadays. Go me! - Steve

Chapter One

What Actually Happened...

          I wake up at eight in the morning. I have no idea why I’m up this early, but I will have to live with it. I can’t fall back asleep now. Getting to the shower is the hard part. Being sleepy is like being heavily intoxicated… I think. That’s what the internet says, so that’s what I am going to go with. I walk across the banister rubbing my eyes, trying my best to keep my balance. It would be a shame if I fell over the banister and crushed my skull in, but I’m sure they wouldn’t mind. I reach the door and open it. The bathroom is damp and humid. The counter feels sticky to the touch and the mirror is dripping with condensation. My brother just took his shower I’m guessing. I don’t like being the last one in the shower. It’s life’s little idiosyncrasies that really get me bummed out. I take my usual thirty minute shower which consists of standing in place looking at the ground. I know what people think. Wow, Matt, that’s a really long shower, I know. I used to take very long showers as a kid. I only take long showers now if I’m really down in the dumps. I finish my shower and walk out of the bathroom. The air feels cold to my skin and I pick up the pace on the way to my room. I step into my bedroom and let the towel hit the carpeted floor. Opening the door to my closet is worse than opening the one in the bathroom. A wave of chilly air rushes over my body and I reluctantly step in. I quickly dress myself and fling my body from the ice cave and onto my bed where I bundle up in the blankets. Like a reptile I wait for my body to be warm again then I bounce downstairs and make myself a bowl of cereal. Cereal is my weekend ritual. I never eat cereal on weekdays. It’s a full blown sin in my book. It’s like drinking champagne when you eat at Mcdonalds. You just don’t do it.

           I get this feeling every couple months or so. It’s a feeling of anxiety or pressure. The feeling that I need to get away and sleep on the ground, I can’t explain it better than that. So that’s what I told my parents that morning. I’m going to hike thirty minutes west into our woods and spend the night. They are used to such occurrences I’ve been doing it for years. I start packing my black Condor pack with camping gear and little other odds and ends. I start with the big three: tent, sleeping bag, and food. Then comes the luxury items that include several pyrotechnics and very flammable material for fun. My parents are also used to this. Well at least my dad is. He keeps it on the down low. After all, he used to do this all the time when he was a kid. He tells me he used to bring a small cannon on backpacking trips. They used to load it with metal BB’s and set it off with gunpowder. My father even goes on sporadic camping trips on his own. He knows the feeling. That’s probably the only thing I have in common with my Dad. That and we both hate the Chicago Blackhawks.

          I eat a quick lunch and set out with a full pack. The grass is a bit dewy. As I walk through the undergrowth following the old train tracks, the cold dew rubs off onto me and collects into small droplets on my leg hair. Walking to the old bridge I avoid a plethora of thorn bushes and pluck wild raspberries off bushes. I toss one up in the air and catch it in my mouth. Acidic flavor fills my mouth, but only leaves me wanting more. After jumping over a series of holes my neighbor dug I reach the bridge, it consists of two huge metal tracks spanning a thirty foot gap. It’s not what it used to be, the metal is covered in a thick layer of rust, small colonies of moss has started to grow on them and overgrown vines have turned it into a tight ropes course. I place one foot on the metal track and then the other. I jump a little bit into the air making the bar wobble up and down. I’ve done it many times before, it’s not until you reach the middle when it starts to bend a lot. I carefully place each foot one by one with my hands out to the sides and begin to walk. I lose my balance for a split second, my heart races, I get that feeling you get right before you’re about to get hurt, but I correct myself and shift my body weight. After this minor slip up I walked the rest of the track without an incident. I could have walked down a small incline to the left of the train tracks and went around, but where’s the fun in that? The train tracks used to go through the old barn down the road and to the town of Flint which is about fifteen minutes away. I’m not too particularly proud to be from the area around Flint, but Terry Crews is holding the torch high for us! He grew up in Flint, he’s the scary one in the Allspice commercials. I get a little street credit for that right? I tell everyone I’m from Detroit here in Mequon. I love seeing them take a step back and gasp. They arrogantly think that Detroit is just a pile of rubble, but they’re wrong, its a burning pile of rubble.

        I’m still a bit angry. The Red Wings were kicked out of the playoffs. I hate Patrick Kane. That’s my job, it’s what’s expected of me as a Wings fan. I hate him and Sydney Crosby. Why am I talking about this right now? Lets get back to the hike. I am considerably deep into the woods now. Probably a half mile in; I pass the plastic piping left behind my neighbor’s misfit son; He tried to build a small paintball field in the woods. It serves as a sign that I am getting close to the river. I reach the field; it’s dotted with small flowers and the occasional bush. I had a nickname for it when I was a youngster, but my memory has begun to fade away over the years. It was a goofy Spanish one like La Paradise de Matt. I didn’t even know Spanish at the time. A deer is spooked and runs off into the woods on the opposite side of the field. He’s going where I am going. I continue to follow the tracks. At this point I have taken off my tennis shoes. It’s smooth sailing from here, no more gravel. The grass is very damp, I can feel the water seep through the gaps in between my toes leaving a small residue of dirt. My feet are leaving footprints like those of the bare footed nomadic hunters that used to roam this Earth. I feel connected to the woods. I never used to wear shoes when I was in Michigan. No matter where I was. On dirt roads or in Walmart, I was always without shoes. I got pretty used to it. My feet became very calloused as a kid (I feel your pain Mr. Gaebel). My friend’s parents would always ask me why I never wore shoes. I always told them that it just feels right. I was an odd child.

        I reach the small river, it’s only twenty feet across. Little dots of sunlight sneak through the tree cover and move as the leaves do in the wind. Minnows and small bluegill scatter as I dip my first foot in followed by the second. The river is moving slowly, my feet slip and slide on the algae covered rocks below. Small water spiders skim across the water’s rippling surface narrowly missing my shins as I step onto the opposite bank. There used to be an old bridge, but I’m guessing it fell down many years ago before my time; the concrete foundations are still present on either side of the river. I used to launch rocks into the rippling band of water on top of them as a kid. As I climb up the small slope to the tracks, the ground coats my wet feet in a thin layer of sand. I wiggle my toes and can feel the grains rubbing against of skin. I walked along it for a ways quietly observing the world around me until I reached the old splintered bridge. A relatively sandy patch in front of the bridge will be my campsite. The ground is riddled with weeds and tree bark, but is soft to the touch. Another mile further and I would have reached the old abandoned cabin. God knows I don’t even want to go near that thing. I put down my backpack and take out its contents. I set up my green Eureka tent and filled it with my sleeping back. I take out my dinner and cooking kit which consisted of two soda cans. One has a square cut into the side to build a small fire. The second’s top is cut off into a makeshift cup. This is a small inexpensive stove system that can be made in five minutes with just a small pocket knife. It’s quick and easy. My dinner is two sandwiches, a granola bar, and some carrots which I will boil with my stove.

         After my dinner I built a small Indian fire just to cast a bit of light. I grab the fireworks and lighter from my pack. This supplies an endless amount of fun. I fill the clear night sky with smoke for a good thirty minutes. I was smiling for the whole thing. There is a very primitive connection to fire. Anyone who has ever built and lit a fire alone knows the feeling. Especially when you start one using a bow drill. The first time I started a fire with a primitive method such as the bow drill it turned into a scene similar to that when Tom Hanks starts a fire in the movie Castaway. I still get a little bit of that feeling every time even after hundreds of times. The smoke has cleared and I decide to forgo the tent. It’s a beautiful clear night out. I can see all of the stars. I can see Orion’s belt and various other constellations. I often make up my own patterns in the stars while star gazing. I look at them and think that’s me, we are all simply stardust after all. As I count the satellites and shooting stars I contemplate the stars. In the morning I pack up and head back the same way I came. I roll into my house in the afternoon and devour the fridge.

         I had never really taken time to think in depth about the stars in all my nights of camping. I never went as deep as I did that night. I refuse to say that one single thing has changed my life, but rather an event has changed the way I think about past and future things that in turn change me. Thinking about the stars in depth changed the way I think about many other things which changed me. I realized that wave after wave I was slowly drifting away. I was drowning in the stream, but I saw the light on the horizon. I wish I could make it easy to understand. I sound like a hippie hiker now, but just try it for yourself. It just might change you, the smoke just might clear. - Matt