Two Centuries Later, a Forsaken Rousseau Finding Vindication in Kafka

Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau, along with a slew of other 19th century transcendentalists that formed the face of the movement, were influenced by a Revolution-era Frenchman named Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who aside from being a namesake of a character on Lost, was also the author of one of the most influential political science documents in history, On the Social Contract. But eight years before Rousseau's social contract was written, he published a slightly less known pamphlet, Discourse on the Origin of Inequality. 'Discourse' was what the set the stage for the transcendentalist and humanist movements in 19th century American philosophy, becoming a crucial inspiration for Immanuel Kant, Karl Marx, Leo Tolstoy, and eventually even the French Revolution and the Romantic movement as a whole.

But none of those figures lived out, nor did that movement or that revolution create, a world in which ideals of 'Discourse' were carried out - even to the slightest degree.

Yes, it is true that some people take communism from Rousseau. He was, after all, the first person to say that society "wrongly injects into the savage man's concern for self preservation the need to satisfy a multitude of passions which are the product of society and which have made laws neccessary." It was these new, unnatural passions, Rousseau argued, that led to crime, suffering, and inequality. In the natural state - the state which writers like Thomas Hobbes believed was one of immorality and anarchy - these passions did not exist. Rousseau used the famous example of the 'noble savage' and claimed that "Nature, in giving men tears, bears witness that she gave the human race the softest hearts." From such worldviews, Marx took various critiques of capitalism, applied them to economic theory and the tremendous suffering of the masses at the time, and came up with communism. Years later, a butchered and severely skewered version of this theory came to be the calling card of the Soviet Union, and ever since, a loosely educated Western world has come to identify communism with evil - an opinion which 99 times out of 100 takes little consideration of the history of thought, and much consideration of popular, albeit ignorant, persuasions.

Yet still, it was Marx who designed communism, not Rousseau. Rousseau put forth his own political ideas in the social contract, ideas such as rule by the general will of the populace, and the separation of the government from the sovereign (which could be the people at large), but he never created anything so intricate as Marx, and moreover, his governmental suggestions were suggested in response to the already regrettable status of human civilization as a developed consumerist society, in which habits of jealousy and greed were developed, thereby making war, crime, and other horrors effectively inevitable. The social contract is far from Rousseau's true utopia; that was implied eight years earlier with the release of 'Discourse' and the implication that the first step down the dark path, away from our naturally ideal state, was the reasoning man.

"Reason is what engenders egocentrism, and reflection strengthens it. Reason is what turns man in upon himself. Reason is what separates him from all that troubles and afflicts him. Philosophy is what isolates him and what moves him to say in secret, at the sight of a suffering man, 'Perish if you will; I am safe and sound.' No longer can anything but danger to the entire society trouble the tranquil slumber of the philosopher and yank him fro his bed. His fellow man can be killed with impunity underneath his window. He has merely to place his hands over his ears and argue with himself a little in order to prevent nature, which rebels within him, from identifying him with the man being assassinated."

This crucial, underlining aspect of Rousseau's philosophy is either ignored entirely, or only given lip-service towards in later romantic literature and general thought said to be influenced by the famous Frenchman. It is, after all, a bit more than inconvenient to believe that reasoning, philosophizing human beings are the source of all the world's suffering, and that therefore an ideal world is not only one in which ideas of property rights and owernship and consumerism are absent, but one in which humans are closer to animals, than they are to any kind of supreme being. Instead of idealizing the merits of human accomplishment and achievement, Rousseau views the price of progress to be far too steep.

Even perhaps the most ingenious man in the history of the world, Albert Einstein, questioned the consequences of progress. "I made one great mistake in my life," he says in his biography, "When I signed the letter to President Roosevelt recommending that atom bombs be made." Though it is unfair to lump all scientific development into the basket of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the symbolism of Rousseau's original point remains: the thinking human mind, separated from its savage state, is capable of horrors which animals can only gape at. Kurt Vonnegut takes a satirical spin on this idea in Cat's Cradle, when he uses the fictional Dr. Hoenikker to represent a sort of alternative universe Einstein - well-intentioned, but the tool of uncontrollable societal predetermined fate which was set in motion long ago. His son Newt says:

"There are lots of good anecdotes about the bomb and Father ... For instance, do you know the story about Father on the day they first tested a bomb out at Alamagordo? After the things went off, after it was a sure thing that America could wipe out a city with just one bomb, a scientist turned to Father and said, 'Science has now known sin.' And do you know what Father said? He said, 'What is sin?'"

Though Hoenikker's existential questioning 'what is sin?' seems to be more of a reflection of the blank nihilism and meaninglessness which envelopes many of the enlightened characters in Vonnegut's fiction (often critically seen as a direct response to the Candide-like optimism which infects the masses in the wake of tragedy), it also highlights the apathy - in this case seen as helplessly inevitable - which progressive science bears towards morality.

I say 'helplessly inevitable', because what is the reality of Rousseau's vision being realized? "The first person who, having enclosed a plot of land, took it into his head to say this is mine and found people simple enough to believe him, was the true founder of civil society. What crimes, wars, murders, what miseries and horrors would the human race have been spared, had someone pulled up the stakes or filled in the ditch and cried out to his fellow men: 'Do not listen to this impostor. You are lost if you forget that the fruits of the earth belong to all and the earth to no one!'" The damage has effectively been done, and there is little hope for a return to the time before that first man who said 'this is mine.' This is primarily true, however, because of how much the world has changed in the time that has passed since this writing - the industrial revolution and the advent of metropolises have assured that human life will never be so simple on a global scale ever again, barring some kind of massive holocaust. Yet in 1755, it was not too late. But the next generation of philosophers and thinkers supposedly inspired by Rousseau did not carry on the extremism of his legacy.

Emerson and the transcendentalists ignored this bit of Rousseau, I think, not for practical concerns (Thoreau can be seen as a possible exception, as he lived on his own in a tiny cabin for two years - he essentially lived what everyone else could only write about), but rather for theological ones. Emerson especially, and most transcendentalists, were still steeped in a strongly Christian - albeit antinomial - tradition. Emerson was a reverend, even if he was rogue-ish. But the justification for his proposal that humans were naturally good came not from biological or ecological roots like Rousseau, but from a faith in the divinity with which each of God's creatures were created. Yes, both agreed society planted false needs within man, and led him away from himself, but the power of the individual unfettered which both sought to idealize was grounded in opposing scientific and religious ideologies. Rousseau even speaks to this very contrast:

"Instead of the sublime maxim of reasoned justice, Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, pity inspires all men with another maxim of natural goodness, much less perfect but perhaps more useful than preceding one: Do what is good for you with as little harm as possible to others." This, to Rousseau, was the natural state of man - in the wild, a savage would hunt and kill a deer to feed himself and his family, but he would very rarely kill it for pleasure. He would fight to protect himself and his family, but would very rarely incite violence as a natural impulse. That instinct would have been more than sated by the rigors of life in a world where every day was not a luxury, and each breath was an accomplishment.

Emerson, like Tolstoy and others, still did not see outside the specter and worldview of Christian religion, regardless of how independently he thought, and regardless of how comparatively free he was from the strictly nomian structure which has dominated religious practice in the Western world for centuries. In a twisted way - in a way which defines the difference between the pure romanticism of Rousseau and the transcendentalist take on self-reliance as the contrast between those two maxims above, the contrast between the noble savage in the wild and self-reliance in the world - in that respect, it was the institution of religion which prevented Emerson from agreeing with Rousseau, that rational, thinking man was the downfall of mankind's good nature. A fact that is of course ironic, both because Emerson was strongly against instutions like the established church, which wrongly influenced the human mind, and because even as he argued this, a bit of that institution had become a part of his own thought process.

This brings us back to the original point of the post: how Franz Kafka's 1922 short story 'A Hunger Artist' serves to vindicate the extremism of the Rousseauian philosophy that was overlooked by even hardened 19th century transcendentalists like Ralphie the W. The story involves a man who makes his living by starving himself for 40 days at a time, placing himself as an exhibit for the public to see.

"I couldn't find a food which I enjoyed," he says, by way of explanation.

Food, in this case, bespeaks the general human appetite for life in society, life in the world. Food, here, is synonymous with unfaithfulness to self. If 'A Hunger Artist' is about fundamental solitude as a part of the human condition, it is about the solitude that is crucial to maintaining an individual identity in the midst of a world which will strip such tendencies away like paint-remover - reckoning of course Emersonian nostalgia for 'Self-Reliance': "A great man is he who can maintain within the midst of a crowd the indepedence and perfect sweetness of solitude."

When the hunger artist explains why his chosen profession - being locked in a display cage for 40 days at a time without food - is the only thing he can do, when he says that he simply could not find a food which he was able to eat, he is effectively saying that there was no part of the outside world which he found acceptable. The man realizes he must suffer immensely to protect himself from this world - to avoid 'eating', or partaking in social, civil living, he must 'starve' himself. So he in turn uses his suffering to create something beautiful, redirecting his pain and agony into an artistic creation which reflects an altruistic ideal - an ideal which almost transcends his own wretched condition.

No one appreciates the hunger artist's work. He quickly falls from popularity and is seen as a joke. Even his admirers seek to limit him, restrain him to 40 days fasting, which they do not realize is an affrontal to his sensibilities. 'Eating' to him is the equivalent of canniabalism to the average person - vile, taboo, unpure. The scene where he is forced to eat is described in stark, revolting detail. The process of eating food, is akin, as an allegory, to selling out - it is an almost Satanical temptation, where the forbidden fruit is actually raw human flesh.

What Kafka seems to suggest is the extreme difficulty, the near impossibility, of maintaining "the perfect sweetness and independence of solitude" - and in the process he sees a darker vision of what the individual must do to avoid the loss of that nearly divine ideal. At the same time, he romanticizes the struggle through portraying it as an art form, making even the sickeningly casual death of the hunger artist at the end seem idyllic. The death is even reminiscent of the death of Aslan in The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe - a noble sacrifice followed by a anathematic display of disrespect.

As the hunger artist finally dies in pursuit of the perfection of his art of starvation, he is replaced in his cage by an eager jaguar (he had come to be a part of a circus show at the end of his life). The jaguar is shown in sharp contrast to the dying hunger artist. The hunger artist, aware of his condition as a reasoning human being, was cursed by his understanding of philosophy and life, in the way that the secular man is doomed to a life of assuming that there is no afterlife. His self-inflicted suffering came about as a result of his understanding that the world was a vile place. The jaguar, conversely, is ignorant. He welcomes the cage. It is well fed, and that is enough. "It enjoyed the taste and never seemed to miss its freedom," Kafka writes of it.

Rousseau writes: "The people, already accustomed to dependence, tranquility, and the conveniences of life, and already incapable of breaking their chains, consented to let their servitude increase in order to secure their tranquility." He may as well be speaking of the 'jaguar', who is clearly representative of the sated society man, who is well-fed, reassured with lies, and accustomed to the comforts of living out the days of his short life in a cage. Rousseau also describes the hunger artist, who alternatively represents the "barbarous man who does not bow his head for the yoke that civilized man wears without a murmur, as he prefers the most stormy liberty to tranquil subjection."

That his intentions were misunderstood and his art seen as a failure during his lifetime only further cements this reading of Kafka's text. "To be great is to be misunderstood," Emerson famously said in 'Self-Reliance.' Thus, the hunger artist is the epitome of the man who had the strength of spirit to take to heart the extremism of Rousseau, and attempt to live it out in a sincere and genuine manner. And the fact that Kafka had his protagonist brutally starve himself to death to achieve this ideal is far from coincidental.


Song of the Day: None other than the greatest song of all time, 'The Sounds of Silence' by Simon and Garfunkel. Though there have been mixed interpretations as to the direct influence for the song, the most popular belief is that the murder of Kitty Genovese inspired the haunting melody and lyrics. Seeing as the apathy regarding her murder is a key point relating to the nature of human nature, and the squashing of natural pity by society as discussed above, the song seems fitting.

Simon & Garfunkel - The Sound of Silence
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Top 10 Greatest Sports Songs of All Time
An analysis of the top ten greatest sports songs ever written, focusing on the artistic merits of the music, rather than their fame, their fortune, and everything that goes with it.
http://www.associatedcontent.comarticle/2112057/top_10_greatest_sports_songs_of_all.html

U.S. Distance Runners Closing the Gap on East Africans
Last week's World Track Championships revealed that USA distance running is taking the next step up to compete with the world's best-namely, the East Africans that have been dominating the championships ranks for three decades.
http://www.associatedcontent.comarticle/2101847/us_distance_runners_closing_the_gap.html

What Human Fitness Means in the 21st Century

Running is never something you'll do with any consistency if you allow dread and cultural stereotypes to anticipate your workouts. And that’s a fairly easy thing to do. Step one: grow up in a household with multiple game consoles and more than one television. Step two: allow popular opinions to permeate your daily thoughts. Step three: listen to what a doctor has to say regarding the specifics of your athletic career. After that, it’s just a matter of buying an unnecessarily cushioned, overpriced pair of sweatshop-produced, sparkly white running shoes to stare at behind a mound of Power Bars and you’ll be well on your way to never taking a step out the door.

Staying in shape gets a bad rap, infested as the world is with Neo-healthnazis, organic grocers, and 24 hour fitness plans. That’s certainly understandable. Infomercials showcasing abdominal belts that “do the work for you,” en-route to “giving you the body you only dreamed of” should never be considered anything less than nauseating. In these commercials, in advertisements for the whole spectrum of liquid vegetables and proteins in pill form, the end goal always seems to be the same: improve your image. Make others jealous. Change your self-respect. Always they focus on the negative; always there is the underlying assumption that you are disturbed by your own image, that you harbor jealousy towards your peers, that you no longer care for yourself. They rarely take aim at the hot core of the issue, and thus they have not succeeded in lowering America’s world leading ratio of a 64% overweight populace.

The time has come to look these health schemes in the eye and tell them, on no uncertain terms, that they have failed.

They have failed, and they have failed in the worst way: by continuing to fail again and again, and reeling in easily duped customers, again and again. Always the world continues to do things the same way and yet still expects different results. Einstein said that was basic definition of insanity, and I don’t think it’s wise at this point not to trust old Al.

The first mistake of these advertisers and health planners and Neo-healthnazis is their general attitude. Always they start things on the lie that has predicated billions in annual revenue: “it’s as easy as…” The thing is, no, it’s not as easy as…nor will it ever be. And no one should endeavor to spend time or money on something that is based on a lie. The truth of the matter is, taking a body accustomed to all of the luxuries of 21^st century mechanical wonders, and transforming it into the rippling, powerful collection of flesh that it should be, will never be an easy thing. It could be the hardest thing you ever do - but that does not mean it won’t be enjoyable. One of the popular opinions that permeates the daily thoughts of the masses runs something along the lines of: “working out is so hard, and I’m really gonna hate it.” Well, if you had any chance of taking something positive from one of the most riveting emotions we as humans can experience – taking our bodies to the limit – you probably just blew it.

The best things in life are always hard to attain. Try and imagine the last thing you truly enjoyed that you didn’t really earn. It’s a cliché, but we still overlook the message it entails. Everyone can convince themselves that they have gained much from doing little, if for a short period of time. But living an entire life based on such shallow experiences? Diving into an icy cool river on a summer afternoon loses its appeal if you spend the day on your laptop within the air-conditioned confines of your office or home.

It is not just our population that is unfit – and we should not blame our individuals. It is our society which is unfit, in every way. We not only encourage a love of idleness and a hatred of physical effort, we have built a world which thrives on it. Popular conceptions of athletes are as jocks, while serious academic pursuit, or serious anything out there in the skyscraper world, has come to be viewed as directly opposed to sport. Everyone says, and it is generally agreed, that “it’s only a game” – but that statement never took into account the human motives behind and beyond the game.

I used to think, a very long time ago, that I was strange for enjoying running so much. I suspected some mystery behind my enjoyment, something beyond the fanfare of simply winning an arbitrary race. It had always been more than just athletic glory. I cared about winning races, but I cared more about something I couldn’t define as a 10 year old. I cared about the instinctual urge to explode through the wilderness, to chase down some phantom of my or my teammates’ imagination, to rip through the wild heart of the woods with a ferocity which no amount of fame or trophies could ever inspire within me.

To exercise is who we are instinctually are as human beings – and to run long distances is the best equivalent of that in 2009 America. John L. Parker says in the cult classic Once a Runner that the deepest hidden yearning of the runner is to “fly naked through the primal forest, run through the jungle.” Quenton Cassidy winning an Olympic silver medal may have been a key part of the story, but the climax of that book is when he runs sixty quarter-miles in training, taking his body to a place that allowed him to discover something about himself that few people ever have the privilege to know. It was what allowed him to complete the transformation from the comfortably jogging product of the healthnazis, a “pussycat stretching lazily on the carpet” to a “puma prowling the jungle for fresh red meat.”

The puma is the Plutonic ideal of cat – in the same way that the fit man is the complete version of humankind. It is not a statement meant to insult or intimidate; everyone has the capacity to be fit, barring serious health issues. We need to start by recognizing athletics as something more than athletics, and not “just a game.” Sports reflect our more primal past – a past that has been largely lost, at least in the popular sense, to the advents of modern technology and a social attitude which prizes ease over all else.

Always, the “reward” of work is leisure. Yet more and more often we are finding that what we call work – a pastime that, in Native cultures, had once been healthy for the growth of both man and culture – has become something like slave-labor. We have earned our leisure only in name. And that is the fault of a world which has become a collection of pussycats, run like robots, by our institutions. Our society of healthnazis, which will try to guilt you into exercising for the sake of their products, for the sake of easy leisure, has helped to sacrifice the individual. We never willingly parted with our healthy, primal, puma-natures. They were stripped away when it became more convenient to step away from that ideal of man – referred to by Ralph Waldo Emerson as “Man Thinking” – and become nothing more than the “parrot of other men’s thinking.” When we start to lose our original, independent thought, we lose everything that is best about us as human beings. And these days, it is almost impossible to preserve the beauty and innocence of original thought, seen occasionally in children who haven’t been taught “better” yet, and seen elsewhere like lightning, powerful but rare, in the remainder of our sadly content society.

Becoming physically fit is a shortcut past all of these problems. The process alone – aside from being the most emotional and riveting thing a person can ever do, if they only allow themselves the opportunity – will help our population reconnect with their inner spirit, with their more human natures. I want a revolution - but this time, it’s not for the sake of the evils of capitalism, or the goods of socialism, or the merits or downfalls of any world political system. It is simply for you. You as a human being. You as a living breathing thing that is not taking full advantage of life.

Academics, scholars, politicians, businessmen, may think they are excused or somehow exempt on the pretext that they already live meaningful lives. They may spend countless hours a year working a job that provides for their family and that may just contribute positively to society. But as Emerson said in his American Scholar address, “character is higher than intellect.” What we do when we live trumps what we do when we think. “Thinking is the function,” he said. “Living is the functionary.” It is the ultimate clarion call for fitness: for work over leisure, for hard over easy, for willingly throwing yourself into a fiery hell of aching legs and burning chests and spasming joints – because in no institutionally constructed, leisure-based replacement for life will you ever even catch a glimpse of that glittering orb inside you which we often think to call our true selves.

Song of the Day: 'Two Weeks" by Grizzly Bear. Part Pink Floyd, part Revolver-era Beatles, part entirely unique 21st century indie rock, Grizzly Bear's new album is a landmark achievement of modern music. Veckatimest is a collection of anthems that have undoubtedly contributed to the face of a new generation of sound. The opening "Southern Point", a psychedelic-experimental cross of rhythms, sets the theme of an almost pre-apocalyptic alienation from the established world. "Our haven on/The southern point/Is calling us", reflects a draw to nature, yet the song at the same time bemoans a lost love - "You'll never find me now." Early on there is a cultural split established: one side has human touch, but also everything they seem to want to escape from, while the other side is the necessary step to safety they must take for the sake of this "haven." The remainder of the album follows in this vein, telling the story of a group on the brink of departing for the 'southern point', encouraging a final remembrance of a life past; a life that will soon fade away into the slipstream of time, into the echoing, mournful moans and powerful reverberations speaking of nostalgia for a passing world. Highlights include "Two Weeks" and "All We Ask" - but the album does not truly have a weak point, and makes a serious artistic effort from start to finish.

The version here, from the Jools Holland show, is an absolutely flawless live performance, and I think indicates that 'Grizzly Bear' will only continue to improve as they age.

A Jaunt Through Dixie and The Gut of America

I just returned from my inaugural jaunt through Dixie and the ‘real’ South. It is in every way the gut of America. Not gut as in fat or dirty or even nasty or anything like that. But just real, in a way things around here don’t feel very real anymore. Dixie is uniquely American in a way that nothing I’ve ever seen is American. By that I mean there are places in New Jersey and California and Florida and Maine that are not all that dissimilar from things on the other side of the globe. There is no Dixie in Turkey.

I came across the phrase ‘gut of America’ during my first run from Jesse Stuart Lodge at Greenbo Lake in Kentucky. I was on the Michael Tygart trail, ostensibly a 7.8 mile loop which circled the lake and the park boundary (park-folk down there measure trail lengths with a ruler on a map, not taking into account mileage accumulated by switchbacks and winding turns). At the entrance to The Tygart, as I came to call it so that I could try to convince myself it was some kind of Amazonian tribal path – such self-inflicted delusions are part of what makes running exciting – there was a large sign with detailed rattlesnake warnings, and an extensive description of how to tell a nonpoisonous snake from a poisonous one. Kentucky is rattlesnake capital of the continent. Even Jesse Stuart, the writer for whom the lodge was named, dealt extensively with the way his county had a rattlesnake culture, human and lizard affected equally by the other.

Immediately below the description read: “Treat the fauna of the park with respect. Do not approach any wild animal. If it has to change its behavior because of you, then you have already caused damage to the balance of Greenbo ecosystem.” Which got me to thinking, then why the hell do you go through the trouble of examining the difference? Because yes, when I am bit by a rattlesnake, the first thing I’m going to do is bend my face down closer to its likely-neurotoxic fangs to examine whether or not the slit in its eyes is vertical or horizontal. Not to mention the paradoxical side effects of claiming nature is only natural when humans are absent from it (see William Cronon).

The first run through a new and strange wilderness is always intimidating. Last summer, running up the steep, sandy path at John Muir Beach outside San Francisco, there was a sign with an even more dire warning: “Marin County is home to a variety of wildlife. Bobcats, coyotes, and rattlesnakes are all frequent occurrences within the Marin Headlands. Please use caution at all times.” They never tell you the statistical odds of even sighting dangerous wildlife are miniscule – that’s not important. Rather, they do what America has always done best – scare you – except this time it’s actually something you have cause to be scared about. Not to mention the more people which that sign turns around, the less there are wandering the wilderness, which is always a good thing.

At Muir, when you crested the summit of the coastal cliff after a mile and a half of winding trail, you came to a flat mesa and a view of the Pacific Ocean that made you no longer care about your chances of stepping on a rattler’s rattle or being mauled in the face by a mountain lion. When you see something like the biggest ocean on the planet from a thousand feet above, your perspective starts to change. Not only are little things no longer important. But even big things are no longer important. For a few seconds I seriously did not care if I was killed by wildlife during the run to Pirate’s Canyon, the cove a few miles down the coastline that was my ultimate destination.

Back to the Tygart. I stopped stepping with caution at Muir because the natural spectacle was literally overwhelming and life-changing. In the American South, such views may exist in well established, accessible-by-car, crowded-with-day-tripping-family parks like Shenandoah, or along Skyline Drive and the infamous Blue Ridge Parkway. But that is not the gut of America. The gut is down in the heavy and thickened green woods, where there isn’t a sightline for miles, where you always seem to be going up or down without end, where the deerflies swarm your every movement, where a cloud of humidity makes the air heavy to breathe in your lungs and sweat covers you like an extra blanket.

At the Marin Headlands, you may feel in the presence of God – even for the hardened atheist, it is difficult to not marvel like a child. But in Dixie, in Americana, you are human. Unadulterated human. You feel real again. Every feeling is magnified, everything good, everything bad, every pain and pleasure is magnified to the realer proportions which Northern civilization has forgotten in the midst of their cities and technologies. There is nothing to rescue you down here. The Tygart trail borders farmland which stretches green and undulating and spotted with hayseed for miles – so many miles that if I were bitten by a rattlesnake I would not know where to find the farmhouse.

But the fear I felt first stepping on to the Tygart slowly slipped away as I ran, and there was no scenic view. Running in any new place is a matter of becoming, of accepting. Of the new land accepting you as a part of it and of you accepting the new land as part of you. You almost feel, once this transformation is complete, that now you are untouchable, invulnerable. You are a cemented-in part of the landscape, and no longer a stranger. Once you have assured the woods that you are nonthreatening, there no longer looms the danger of a Timber rattler beneath every clump of rocks. Maybe the feeling comes from nothing more than a few good miles without seeing a snake, of establishing a familiarity, with feeling nothing but the buzz of the flies drowning in the sweat by your ear. The danger you sense upon entering is a warning, a test of merit, a cautionary measure. For both place and person.

Everyone undergoes a similar test the first time they encounter new surroundings, even if it be a city or a town. Something in the mystery is not exactly unfriendly, but somehow cold in its unfamiliarity. Multiply that several times over and you have Dixie.

To get out of Dixie is not easy by foot. I see at as a valley, a huge gap running in and amongst the larger foothills and mountains of Appalachia. To escape you must go up – straight up for as long as you can, avoiding all downhills if you can – and eventually the landscape starts to change. The forest which was once impenetrably thick begins to open, the sky is suddenly a reality beyond the foggy canopy of misty branches covering the wood, the earth is open and clear and there is no place for black bears or even rattlers to hide. In Kentucky itself there are few such places. It wasn’t until I penetrated further south to the Roan Highlands in Tennessee that I saw real mountains, and a way out of this new and harsher world.

Southerners live in the wilderness, but in the forested hills, not the mountains. As you go up you see why. The terrain is very difficult. Original settlers, after displacing many of the local Cherokee tribe (white folk have graciously split the Roan Highlands into Tennessee’s “Cherokee National Forest” and North Carolina’s “Pisgah National Forest”, as Carver’s Gap, near the peak of Roan itself, actually straddles the two states), did not desire to move farther west for fear of the Appalachians. They are not mountains as you would imagine a mountain would exist in the eastern United States. I of course did not believe this. Part of me was bitter that I was running up an Eastern mountain, because of course nothing could compare to the Rockies or the landscape in the American West.

My first morning in the Roan I woke up to the 8:30 shining sun, with the moon still shining palely, almost phosphorescent in the blue sky. I was being very arrogant about the whole deal. I had planned my route out the night before and did not bring a map with me even though I had never been to these woods before, nevermind Dixie itself. I’d gone at least 12 miles when I came to the foot of the Chestnut Ridge trail, the one which billed itself as the most difficult in the Highlands and which warned that only experienced hikers should continue forth. Even though at that point I should have known better, I made the sharp turn up the hill.

I consider myself a mountain goat (while running – otherwise it is of course mountain ‘monkey’) but I was soon having trouble staying on my feet. The trail began on a winding mile long climb over jagged granite, mossy scree and rich, black Dixie mud. What I was doing was a poor excuse for running and I was humiliated into stopping on a few occasions (stopping on a run for me is like if you were in a foul shooting competition and made twenty in a row and then started intentionally missing shots – that’s the best metaphor I can imagine up) and literally crawling. Then the trail began to head downhill, sharply downhill, which was discouraging as I knew I would have run back up the downhill on the return journey. At no point could I see the summit I was running towards. Halfway up the Chestnut I was hoping for rattlesnake bite, because then I truly would not be able to run.

I had been very foolish but I did not yet realize just how foolish I had been. I forced myself to the top, still feeling arrogant and thinking thoughts like ‘I can run as far as feel like, it does not matter how tired I get, there are no more college races to save my body for’ – and the sheen of invincibility that had been wearing thin was reengaged. When I did reach the top, dripping and gasping and my body pulsing and numbed by the effort, I knew instantly that I had for the first time truly escaped Dixie. The view of the Highlands was incredible, the air was cooler, the humidity vanished with the winds blowing off the top of the bald earth. Far below was the gut of America, below in the heavy air and the thickening green that contains the most thoroughly diverse ecosystem on the North American continent.

Running across the summit I soon realized that I literally had no energy left. The run up had been rewarding, but it was very draining to try to leave Dixie. I had not had good respect for just how draining it would be. I had underestimated the mountains very much. I do not know how long I was able to run for after that. I managed to stumble down the mountain and with a great effort make it back over most of the Forest Road Trail that returned to the highway. I tried to take a shortcut on the roads and immediately found myself in a trailer park, swaddled by Seventh Day Adventist and Southern Baptist congregations, both fully in session.

I had to walk then. Maybe something about seeing all the earnest church folk made me lose my faith in myself. But my head was swimming now and I thought of the boy who was going to run for William and Mary and was running a workout in the middle of the summer before along a country road and collapsed in the bushes from heat exhaustion. He wasn’t found until he was dead. I saw a picture once and he looked exactly like me.

My return journey was a long, lonesome, shameful walk through the heart of Dixie. Above me the peak of Strawberry was invisible and I was surrounded on all sides by a cavernous thicket of ancient pines and sweetgums. I had run twenty-five miles, thirteen more than I intended to, but some part of me realized, soon after I had water again an hour later at the tent, that near death experiences are what make up a good life. I’ve never felt more completely evaporated of every scrap of energy, never been so ravaged by an attack on a landscape which backfired so spectacularly. And I've (almost) never been so happy with myself lying down to sleep at night.

I knew that it had not been only a near death experience. Like Tyler Durden might say, it had been a near life experience as well. Things like that are hard to come by around here. Stay in Dixie a week and the gut of America is bound to show you something you won’t forget.



Song of the Day: Although the Fleet Foxes do provide an endless soundtrack that will never leave your mind on a long sojourn in the wilds of Dixie, for the sake of diversity I must go with First Aid Kit's cover of Fleet Foxes' "Tiger Mountain Peasant Song." This First Aid Kit is not to be confused with the earlier version - this one is founded by two Swedish teenage sisters influenced by Johnny Cash, the Beach Boys, Conor Oberst, and the more recent phenomona of bands like Fleet Foxes and Bon Iver. Like Fleet Foxes, they have a sound that seems to come from the earth, and their narrative lyrics echo themes both timeless and natural. To cap it all off, they even sing in the woods outside of their home near Stockholm. They have a number of excellent original songs, which is highlighted by "Jagadamba You Might", a cross of many of their influencing sounds that comes out as an original achievement. It is almost unthinkable that they are only 19 and 16. For a comparison, look at what present 19 and 16 year old American singers deem important.

The song itself, penned by Robin Pecknold of FF, follows a main character, a 'Tiger Mountain Peasant' who has lost someone dear to him and is searching in the forest for remnants of the deceased's spirit. Throughout the song his wanderings seem to be his way of coping with the loss. The peasant feels his loss as closely tied to nature, as the tall grass and the birds "do not know you anymore" implying that they once were a part of him. The peasant seems to ponder the meaning of death, feeling himself becoming a kind of "demon" as he confronts that harsh realities of this other, colder, more overlooked side of nature.

At the top of Strawberry Mountain in Tennessee, the terminating point of the ruthless and brutal Chestnut Ridge Trail, there is a cemetery in the tall and waving grass that makes up part of the "bald" peak. The graves are unmarked and fenced in by small, shin-level wood posts. When I reached the little mountaintop prarie, free from the embrace of the trees for the first time in weeks, I was dizzy and weak with sweat and exhaustion. This song was still running through my mind. As if it was coming straight from the graves. As if the people that were now a part of the earth were singing their mournful, searching death-knell to the wanderer passing in the morning light. I may have been staggering through premonitions of my death, but Dixie is no place to die. Not for a born and bred Northerner. Ice-fields and glaciers in the Arctic and Alaska may have called my name in that moment. I like to think so. If nothing else it gave me a moment's coolness to dry the sweat on my forehead before heading back down the dark green path - thinking, wondering oh dear shadow alive and well, how can the body die? - and scared now that I might've seen a glimpse of the answer.

Mountain Monkey's Top 10 Films of 2008

Only recently have I finished watching every movie that I think deserves to be on this list. Trust me, it was not an easy task. Aside from the obvious dangers and difficulties of obtaining copies of films that aren't in theatres any longer, but still haven't been released for DVD, a number of the movies I saw were not very easy to finish. Many of them were films I really thought had a shot at cracking the top ten list which I kept constantly updated as I went on.

An example: I gritted through Rachel Getting Married until Anne Hathaway's infamous wedding dinner speech scene. I'm a big fan of Anne Hathaway, and to her credit, in the forty or so minutes that I watched of the movie, she acted very well (originally I wrote "performed brilliantly", but then I remembered how much I dislike it when people write that). But a good acting performance definitely does not equate to a good movie. You have to give screenwriter Jenny Lumet credit for creating something unique - everything from the camera work and the slow transitions were a welcome change - but in this case it simply did not work. I was cringing the entire time I watched the movie, it was so awkwardly uncomfortable. Anne Hathaway plays a woman emerging from rehab, returning home to her not so welcoming family for her sister's wedding. Her character is tremendously unlikeable, embarassingly open about exposing her issues, shamelessly attempting to divert the attention from her sister to herself. And as the film progresses, you realize that the rest of the main cast, for the most part, is also tremendously unlikeable. Watching was a thoroughly unenjoyable experience, regardless of how I might have appreciated the film's unique artistic efforts. In a similar vein, Darron Aronofsky used his trademark style and tactics to wrestle the viewer through The Wrestler, but at no point does the film draw you in. You are never interested in Mickey Rourke's character, only depressed as you watch. And if you're not depressed, it's because you've probably been put to sleep.

Still, in terms of time, the task of seeing all of the possible nominees for a top 10 2008 spot really was not that difficult. Certainly not as difficult as it was to create the movies - even the ones which I shamelessly lambast.

10. Vicky Cristina Barcelona
Directed and Written by Woody Allen, Starring Javier Bardem, Scarlett Johansson, Rebecca Hall, and Penelope Cruz
Major Formal Awards Won: Oscar and BAFTA, Best Supporting Actress (Penelope Cruz)
IMDB's Kitsch Rating: 7.4
Metacritic's Avant-Garde Rating: 70 ("generally favorable reviews")
Role I'd Most Like to See Transplanted: Javier Bardem's character Anton Chirugh from 2005's No Country for Old Men suddenly replaces Juan Antonio - we're going to have to guess Juan gets the upper hand in the domestic dispute with Marie Elena.

Clearly Woody Allen's best effort since 2005's Match Point, the film involves the title characters (two best friends) and their year spent in Spain, where they both fall in love with the bad guy from No Country For Old Men (no, he does not flip a coin to choose between them). This movie has its obvious downsides - a somewhat predictable plot, somewhat cliche dialogue moments - what makes the movie is the aura of art and artists, and human beings searching deeper for something to move them beyond the scope of what traditional society has to offer.


The film is unashamedly anti-capitalist, and almost effortlessly captures the transcendent spirit and soul of a different mindset, a different way of life. The soundtrack helps to better evoke the city of Barcelona itself, and is expertly utilized. While it at times the startlingly plain voice of the narrator (don't expect something along the lines of Annie Hall - it's not) seems to trivialize an already trivial romance, it also avoids any typical Hollywood fill-in scene. In terms of making major mistakes, the movie is clean, and is a testament to Allen's talents as a director. It is at its best when romantic intrigue involving Anton Chigurgh is not present, and instead focuses on the liberation of Cristina and the entrapment of Vicky in her loveless, empty marriage. Although Penelope Cruz deserved her Oscar win, the return of her character in the second half of the film did little to prevent cliches of sexually liberal Europeans, and the movie would have done better focusing on some other drama to help avoid the plain, anti-climactic conclusion - which was, alas, assisted by the ever present voice-over.

Despite these downfalls, it is far better done than the majority of 2008 films, and though it may fall into the trap of cultural stereotypes, it is well aware of, and strays far from, Hollywood stereotypes...while still being an enjoyable watch.

(The link below is to one of the best movie reviews I've ever read - absolutely read it, especially if you have seen the film - it is short and hilarious, even if it is sarcastic just for the sake of being sarcastic).
http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2009/jun/24/vicky-cristina-barcelona-woody-allen

9. Doubt
Directed and Written by John Patrick Shanley, Starring Meryl Streep, Amy Adams, Phillip Seymour Hoffmann, Viola Davis
Major Formal Awards Won: Nominated for 5 Oscars, 5 Golden Globes, and 3 BAFTA's (Best Supporting Actor and Actress (Hoffmann, Davis, and Adams), Best Leading Actress (Streep), and Best Adapted Screenplay
IMDB's Kitsch Rating: 7.8
Metacritic's Avant-Garde Rating: 68 ("generally favorable reviews")
Role I'd Most Like to See Transplanted: Phillip Seymour Hoffmann, instead of a guilty priest, becomes internationally reknown brutal terrorist Owen Davian from Mission Impossible 3. Upside for him: in all likelihood he's not going to be taking any crap from Meryl Streep or Amy Adams. Downside for him: probably will be officially dismissed from the priesthood.

Doubt uses the story of a young boy who may have been sexually assaulted by a priest to reveal the spiritual questions and deeper character of two devoted nuns. In the wake of the horrors they think they percieve, all which they believe in is suddenly thrown into question: everything from the authority of the male figurehead, Father Flynn, to that larger ruling power which would allow such a heinous transgression to occur.

Although at times the quick dialogue is a bit too quick, and it becomes obvious that Shanley's screenplay was first a play for the stage, the tension built up more than makes up for it. Few movies in recent memory manage to convey so much through nothing but conversation. You don't need to care for church-related drama to be taken in by, and become utterly involved with, this story.

The acting in this movie is incredible - all of the main characters earned Academy Award nominations - and for a film that takes place within a very short period of time, with a very small setting, and without any kind of real action, it is as good as it can be.




8. The Dark Knight

Directed by Christopher Nolan, Written by Christopher Nolan and Jonathan Nolan, Starring Heath Ledger, Christian Bale, Morgan Freeman, Gary Oldman, Michael Caine, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Aaron Eckhart
Major Formal Awards Won: Oscar win in Sound Editing (Richard King), and Oscar, BAFTA, and Golden Globe Win for Best Supporting Actor (Heath Ledger)
IMDB's Kitsch Rating: 8.9
Metacritic's Avant-Garde Rating: 82 ("universal acclaim")
Role I'd Most Like to See Transplanted: Heath Ledger's Joker is substituted by Bob Dylan in his 'rebellious actor' stage from 2007's I'm Not There. Dylan reassures Gotham: "It's alright, ma..."

Wildly popular upon its release, The Dark Knight will become legendary not just because it is part of the best comic-book to film adaptation franchise in the business, but also due to Heath Ledger's iconic final performance. The plotline is incredibly complex for an action film, and heightens the genre standard to a new level. The role of the hero is thoroughly analyzed, and the film somehow manages to make one of the oldest super-altruistic characters unique and original, even in a day and age of dozens of lesser spinoffs. Action sequences are expertly done and the film's numerous other Academy Award nominations were well-earned. The more powerful the villain, the better the film - and that is why both Batman Begins and The Dark Knight have succeeded: they are not afraid to be dark and unforgiving, and they refuse to pander cheap happiness to an audience in the form of welcoming victories, universal popularity, and easy romances. Where other films sugar-coat for the sake of the audience, these films sacrifice nothing for the story - almost to a fault. The inclusion of Two-Face feels rushed, and the movie is too long - it would be better without him. Moreover, though the actions scenes were well done, they became dizzying in their length and relentlessness, and in this category at least the film is not neccesarily an improvement on its predecessor.



7. Forgetting Sarah Marshall

Directed by Nicholas Stoller, Written by Jason Segel, Starring Jason Segel, Kristen Bell, Mila Kunis, Russell Brand
Major Formal Awards Won: None
IMDB's Kitsch Rating: 7.5
Metacritic's Avant-Garde Rating: 67 ("generally favorable reviews")
Role I'd Most Like to See Transplanted: Kristen Bell's Sarah Marshall becomes Elle Bishop from 'Heroes' - I'm guessing Mila Kunis never gets to leave Hawaii.

By far the best of its kind in years, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, despite what the misleading title may indicate, is a far cry from both typical romantic and comedic films. It sidesteps all mushiness by Jason Segel's hilarious and original dialogue, and avoids shallowness by creating intriguing, immensely likable characters that keep you thoroughly entertained, through humor that is at turns subtle and graphic, from start to end.

Peter Bretter is a music composer stuck composing "dark and ominous" background sounds for the TV Show 'Crime Scene' in which his girlfriend (played by Kristen Bell) is the main character. His relentless ripping of 'Crime Scene' is undoubtedly based on Segel's own time on CSI and his mockery of the poor plotlines is spot-on. The main premise involves his flight to Hawaii for a grief vacation after his girlfriend cheats on him and breaks up with him. In Hawaii he finds her already there, vacationing with her new boyfriend, the hilariously terrible singer Aldous Snow. The humor is better not just because it is smarter, but because it is original. While similar to other very likeable films involving similar producers and actors, such as 40-Year Old Virgin and Knocked Up, it is a step beyond - smarter, better acted, better directed. Supporting appearances by Jonah Hill and Paul Rudd are great additions to one of the wittiest, and most critically underrated, movies of the year.




6. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Directed by David Fincher, Written by Eric Roth based on the F. Scott Fitzgerald short story, Starring Brad Pitt, Cate Blanchett,
Major Formal Awards Won: Oscars and BAFTAs in Art Direction, Makeup, Visual Effects
IMDB's Kitsch Rating: 8.1
Metacritic's Avant-Garde Rating: 70 ("generally favorable reviews")
Role I'd Most Like to See Transplanted: Benjamin Button does not grow older, but rather stronger as time goes on and soon completes the transformation into Achilles from Troy. Not good for the German navy when Brad Pitt is called to war.

An interesting David Fincher adaptation of the F. Scott Fitzgerald short story. The story was never seen by critics as one of Fitzgerald's masterpieces, but rather a just an original, creative story probably written for money, with only hints of the razor-sharp social criticism that defined his novels. The movie, however, takes an entirely different route with the story, focusing instead on the actual fantastic premise of Fitzgerald's story, rather than the reactions of the local society.

Though it does wind up dragging on for a while, the film has moments that really delve into the heart of mortality. Perhaps there is something about the main character growing younger, instead of growing older, that makes the viewer think more profoundly about the aging process and about the precious amount of time which we truly have on Earth. But Fincher also does an excellent job with imagery: the use of the old World War I clock which bookends the story, ticking in reverse, symbolizing Benjamin's life, coupled with poignant and evocative scenes of love and loss, make this as a movie that you don't stop thinking about once it is finished.

Immediately after Benjamin realizes he is growing too young to be a good father and he leaves Daisy, he travels to India to more fully experience life. During this brief sequence, Brad Pitt's melancholic voiceover does not feel like an intrusion (like voiceovers often do), and it really drives home the point of how pointless it is to waste the small window of time you've been given with pursuits that don't thrill and engage you. The movie is in every way an improvement over the short story, with Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett both turning in career-performances.



5. Milk
Directed by Gus Van Sant, Written by Dustin Lance Black, Starring Sean Penn, Emile Hirsch, Allison Pill, Josh Brolin
Major Formal Awards Won: Oscars for Best Actor (Sean Penn) and Best Original Screenplay (Dustin Lance Black), nominated for five BAFTA's and a Golden Globe
IMDB's Kitsch Rating: 8.0
Metacritic's Avant-Garde Rating: 84 ("universal acclaim")
Role I'd Most Like to See Transplanted: It actually turns out that George W. Bush shot Harvey Milk, not Dan White.

A story about the most important man you may never have heard of. It is not just Sean Penn that makes the movie great, it is the reality of the story. It's shocking to think that in the 1970's, the American population was still bigoted enough at large that laws could still be passed to prevent equal rights for minorities like homosexuals. Having not known the complete story of Harvey Milk before, this is a great historical lesson for the average American who may be sympathetic, yet still ignorant, of an underground struggle to preserve human rights in the "land of the free" just thirty-one years ago.

It is great to give credit to Josh Brolin too, who has now helped portray infamous crusading cowboy right-of-center politicos twice in one year.



4. Burn After Reading
Directed and Written by Joel and Ethan Coen, Starring George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Frances McDormand, Richard Jenkins, John Malkovitch
Major Formal Awards Won: Nominated for two Golden Globes
IMDB's Kitsch Rating: 7.4
Metacritic's Avant-Garde Rating: 63 ("generally favorable reviews")
Role I'd Most Like to See Transplanted: Brad Pitt uncovers even more complex government secrecies as the insane man from 12 Monkeys.

By far the most underrated movie of the year, Burn After Reading is the best dark comedy since maybe Dr. Strangelove. Few other films in recent memory capture the absurdity of the misinformation age with such hilarious accuracy. The movie deeply critical of our postmodern state, brutally mocking both the average American who presume to know too much, and the political system of VIP's who usually have even less of a clue as to what's going on. The ridiculous turn of events may not be exactly realistic, but it is sympotmatic of a chaotic capitalist culture that has too many people trying to do too many things for increasingly shallow reasons. One of the Coen brothers' bests of all time.




3. Gran Torino
Directed by Clint Eastwood, Written by Nick, Starring Clint Eastwood, Christopher Carley, Bee Vang
Major Formal Awards Won: Nominated for Golden Globe, Best Original Song
IMDB's Kitsch Rating: 8.4
Metacritic's Avant-Garde Rating: 72 ("generally favorable reviews")
Role I'd Most Like to See Transplanted: Clint Eastwood doesn't exactly play a wide spectrum of characters. Rest of the cast is relatively new.

Incredible performance both on and off the screen by Clint Eastwood, in his portrayal of a racist Korean War veteran who is forced to defend his innocent Asian neighbors from a local gang war. The first thirty minutes of the film is hysterical and perfectly done. A few moments later in the film, particularly between "Toad" and Eastwood, feel forced, as if their acting never found a rhythm. Otherwise, this is one of the best made movies of the year, and there is no excuse for its being snubbed at the Oscars. The obvious explanation for this is the extensive, and even glorified, usage of guns by private citizens, something which the Academy is probably opposed to. I don't like it either - but it doesn't change the fact that Gran Torino was an excellent movie and a very poignant way for Eastwood to end his acting career (he has mentioned he may want this to be his last on-screen appearance).



2. Let the Right One In (Låt den rätte komma in)
Directed by Tomas Alfredson, Written by John Ajvide Lindqvist, Starring Kare Hedebrandt, Lina Leandersson
Major Formal Awards Won: None, but nominated for 51 smaller awards with 11 wins
IMDB's Kitsch Rating: 8.2
Metacritic's Avant-Garde Rating: 82 ("universal acclaim")


1. Slumdog Millionaire
Directed by Danny Boyle, Written by Simon Beaufoy, Starring
Major Formal Awards Won: Oscars for Best Picture, Best Adapted Screenplay, Best Director and 5 other categories
IMDB's Kitsch Rating: 8.5
Metacritic's Avant-Garde Rating: 86 ("universal acclaim")


Best Performances of 2008

Best Actor
Sean Penn – Milk
Clint Eastwood – Gran Torino
Brad Pitt – The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

Best Supporting Actor
Heath Ledger – The Dark Knight
Michael Sheen – Frost/Nixon
Russell Brand – Forgetting Sarah Marshall

Best Actress
Cate Blanchett – The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Meryl Streep - Doubt
Rebecca Hall – Vicky Cristina Barcelona

Best Supporting Actress
Amy Adams - Doubt
Taraji P. Henson – The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Frances McDormand – Burn After Reading

Best Song
Gran Torino – Gran Torino
O. Saya – Slumdog Millionaire
Dracula’s Lament – Forgetting Sarah Marshall

Best Screenplay (Original)
Dustin Lance Black - Milk
The Coen Brothers - Burn After Reading
Jason Segel - Forgetting Sarah Marshall


Best Screenplay (Adapted)
Simon Beaufoy - Slumdog Millionaire
John Adjvide Lindqvist - Let the Right One In
John Patrick Shanley - Doubt

Best Director
Danny Boyle - Slumdog Millionaire
Clint Eastwood - Gran Torino
Tomas Alfredson - Let the Right One In

SHORT FICTION: What the Forest May Whisper

I

There were rays of sunlight coming across the early morning lake. Even in late spring there was a chill to the air while the sun came up and the day settled itself over the shore. With the cool air the pollen was less and the boy could take deep breaths without sneezing.

Ahead his father was making his way through the thickened brush along the banks, the thorn bushes reaching out to snag his cap. He beat them away and with a flick of his wrist cast out the yellow jigger at the end of his line. The dark water rippled away where the jigger had landed. The boy watched him reel it in very slowly with only a little bounce to the tip of the rod. Even when the jigger drew very close he still did not bring the jig up but slowed his reeling further.

When the fish struck the rod bent very suddenly and the water near the shore churned and broiled. The reel creaked with the pressure and the boy’s father maneuvered the fish into the shallows where he let it fight until it grew tired.

“It is only a small bluegill!” the boy said when it had been landed.

“He is one of the good fighters,” his father said.

He showed the boy the sharp spikes on the dorsal fins and how to gently collapse them with your hand.

“We toss them back,” his father said. He was removing the jig from deep in the mouth of the fish with the pliers. “We are good to them.”

The bluegill dunked back in the water with a wet swallowing noise.

“We are good to them,” the boy agreed. “They are nice.”

***

The man stepped off the train into the dying halflight and heaved his pack over his shoulders before setting off down the faded wet boardwalk to the little town lying beyond. The sun was setting over the mountains looming on the horizon through the parting dark gray clouds above. He could taste the sulfur in the air and also felt its heaviness and knew he had just missed the afternoon showers.

In the town a few of the shop-owners were just starting to come out into the streets with wary and weary greyheads to see the sky above. The wet street glistened rainwater and was empty.

Inside the corner deli the air was clear and cold. He ordered three sandwiches from the pale blueeyed girl at the counter and she brought him a courtesy extra basket of tomatoes.

“Where are you going?” she asked him, packing the sandwiches under the cloth of the basket.

“Oh,” he said. “I don’t know.”

“Oh,” she said. “I hear that’s great this time of year.”

He left. Outside was hot and humid under the dull-lit sunset. The white moon hung vaporlike, fizzing in the water of the bluing sky. Near the outskirt of town he found a public fountain and filled his plastic gallon bottle with the lukewarm water. He slung it through the loop in his pack and picked up the basket with the sandwiches and headed down the dusty road leading out of town and towards the foothills ahead.

*

The forest was in the mosaic of its latesummer bloom. Leaves trickled down off the edges of the trees with gusts of the light wind and crunched underfoot. He picked up a trickling streambed not very far into the wood and followed it down its sandy banks as it rolled over the pebbly shallows and collected in bubbling pools beneath tiny waterfalls. He used the larger rocks lining the banks to keep his trek dry and to avoid trampling through the thick beds of hepatica and wildflower covering the immediate shore. Through the bushes ahead he caught a fleeting glimpse of a red fox turning away from the noise of his shoes pushing off the mossy wet rocks to disappear into the bushes beyond.

The stream soon emptied into the riverlike creek, twenty feet across, the clear shadows deepening and darkening into the rapids at the center of the creek.

From the main creekside path he could see up the high rock cliffs overlooking the gorge. He followed the path down until he could see the edges of the campground and then continued until they were invisible again around the bend of the gentler rapids. A shorter trail ran off the side of the creekside path and up along the steep wall of the rock cliffs. The trail soon vanished and he blazed his way up the steep embankment, digging his fingers into the grass, pulling himself up using uncovered roots and sticks as leverage, his feet scrambling for a foothold.

At the top he hiked through the woods until he reached a small clearing overlooking the creek that was good. It would be a good place for the tent. He looked out once more to be sure that the campground could not be seen, before taking out his fishing rod and jogging back down the steep wall. He would have to hurry if he meant to catch the last light of the day.

*

The next morning he woke to the angry chirping of morning birds nestled in the yew of the trees above his tent. He crawled out to the dewy grass and walked gingerly down the path he had beaten the night before to the rocks where he had left his shoes. Above the sky was purpling as the morning light struggled to make its way through the dark clouds of the starless night.

By the muddy bed of the creekbank he ran, along the little handcarved path between the celery stick wheatgrass, through the campground and the parking lots and over the little red covered bridge which crossed the stream and led up the road towards the ranger’s office. The incline was gradual and he ran smooth, comfortable, watching himself, thinking about the heat, brushing a palm at the moistness over his forehead. He felt itchy, not quite ready to sweat, feeling the cool edge to the air that the rising sun had not quite had enough time to take away yet.

He looked back down the incline to the creek as it began to vanish behind the trees. The glens cut icy clear through the muddy banks, running in swirls and eddies over the mossrocks and dark sandstone floors. From above he could see the rock bass and assorted panfish collecting in the clearer waters farther from the falls near the bridge, the torsion of their fins moving against the current and their keeping. Slowly they grew less distinct and finally the creek disappeared.

The morning was very quiet. The lights were out in the ranger station when he ran by, the RV parked beside it as silent as the rest of the campground.

Away from the ranger station the road turned and steepened and he started breathing. He took the first promising trail he found, a narrow redclay hillside which shot up straight into a tunnel of towering oak trees made of hairy and fraying brown bark. He tried easing into it, keeping his effort even and controlled, checking himself, but felt another rhythm coming from without, gently pressing on him to let go, to cede his control. He found himself fighting it until he could no longer feel it, and he was alone again.

On the trail there was the feeling of all the bad left behind: the bad feeling, the bad headaches, and it did not hurt to think anymore.

After he crested the hill the path ran at a downward slope for a stretch and then down into a gully over which crossed a small bubbling stream. He hopped softly on the slickened rocks across and pushed off the bank on the other side. Ahead there was a sign by the side of the brush marking the start of the equestrian trail. It would be too early for the horses, he knew.

The equestrian trail was rocky and uneven and still muddy from the night rains. His shoes sunk into the mud with a sucking squishing noise and then ripped out, his high backkick splattering mud on his shorts and lower back. When he concentrated on the mud he could not see very much else through the trees so he was glad when the ground hardened on the other side of a small rise. The path was always climbing even though the land dipped down and up into little gullies and divots in the earth.

Still there were no other noises in the forest save for the twitter of the morning birds and the constant background of the bullfrogs croaking by the sidestreams that trickled through the hills and down to the creekbed far below. The other sounds, the sounds of the highway and the sounds of the railroad were gone. They were still there at his tent even now but here up in the hills they were gone.

Out off the top of the delta which offered the first clear view of the river valley he slowed slightly, half jogging for a moment to see, blood rushing back to his body and the thick soreness pleasantly evaporating from his chest. He felt slightly exhilarated and did not wait long, dashing down the other side of the escarpment, grinning in a manic sort of way and thinking greedily to what remained uncovered ahead. The greenery dashed by him in a blur of pastels as he ran, trees bending in the soft morning light with the newfallen leaves and hints of creatures unknown scampering through the bushes. He coughed every so often to break the silence, to give fair forewarning to the animals ahead, to hear the impact of sound on the flat-silent birdchirping forest.

The trail soon morphed into switchbacks which split and forked at almost every turn and he took the ones that hinted at some kind of depth. Twice he turned back and looped into a trail which the other hidden part of him had told him was the right one. He always followed the grade of the land when he could, as if obeying some instinct to move upwards, to reach some inevitable endpoint on the far off horizon where there would exist some kind of reward or award for championing alone the remote enforested climb.

Very soon the horse hoofprints in the dirt vanished. They vanished much sooner than he had thought they would.

II

The fence was rusted and overgrown with weeds and tangled plants. At the top the boy paused and looked back down to the others watching him on the field. Then he let go and landed amidst the bushes.

"What do you see?” they asked.

The boy could only just see the others through the fence. He stood up carefully and picked his way through the trees and plants. The ball had jumped off his bat when he hit it and he’d turned on it. The problem was it had been a line drive and it could have rolled another hundred feet after sailing over the tip of the fence.

Away from the field and the pool everything was very quiet. The twigs snapped underfoot and his feet sunk into the leaves and the brush past his ankles. He scratched at his legs.

The ball rested at the base of an old oak tree. It was colored a sandy yellow from the many games that it had seen played. He picked it up and fired it over the trees and back onto the field in the distance. There were muffled shouts of joy which only just reached his ears.

He scampered back through the forest, excited about the game and his home run. He was just feet away from the fence when he caught the edge of a stump and went lurching forward, landing facefirst in a thick green patch of plants. He rubbed his eyes and his face to clear the dirt away. When he looked up one of the other boys was just staring at him through the fence.

“What?” he asked him.

“Do you know…do you know what you’re lying in right now?”

He looked down at the forest floor and did not respond.

“That’s poison oak, man!”

The boy sat there for another moment, looked at him, felt the mark on his face where he’d rubbed his hands. Then he stood up and leapt over the fence and jogged back into the game.

***

The forest was growing stranger. The sun was fully risen now and the man could feel the heat of it against the back of his neck. He had not been running long enough to feel it in the other places that would slow him down more but he knew it was still early and that the sun still had much time to do its work.

The trail began to climb again but this time there was no break in the incline with any of the divots or the valleys but only the many turns which twisted around the thinning vegetation and disappeared through the spare green pines. Slowly he felt the burn rising as he made his way through the pines. The burn was very strong in his gut especially and also in his legs. Each time he thought the hill was over and told his legs the hill was over there would be another turn and something slightly more inclining to the next bend. He heaved deep gasps of air and thought of nothing except for the one or two seconds which would come when he had completed the rise because they would be very good.

He thought of many things while he ran. He thought of the little tentsite he had made against the clearing a hundred yards up the hill from the lake. He thought of the pale blueeyed girl behind the counter at the deli in town who had given him extra tomatoes with his sandwiches. And he thought of how he did not need to think of anything beyond that because all that really mattered very much here were the things that you decided mattered.

Several times he glanced at his watch as he ran but the slowly changing numbers offered him no advice. The watch was there to help, he knew, but it could not run for him. Sometimes he convinced himself that it could. Both the watch and his shoes too.

He began looking ahead to the next turn with increasing desperation and an increasing feeling of the endlessness of it all. As he climbed the trees became thinner but he did not take very close note of the wider land opened up before him.

When he looked up he saw on the trail ahead a squirrel, balanced precariously on the edge of an uncovered root. It watched him approach, eyes miffed and frozen, tail jutted high and haughty behind him, acorn or nut held in its paws stopped halfway on the journey to its bared fangs. Time seemed to slow and he was no longer concerned with the end of the hill but only the brief uncoverable stretch of redclay hillside trail lying before the motionless squirrel. Uncaring now he ran straight for him until half an agonizing step away when the squirrel darted off the trail to follow some unknowable instinct-path through the brush.

The man felt tingles in his fingers and he could feel his legs freezing when he made one final ascent and the land flattened truly for as far as he could see. He felt the little shiver run through his chest and he stumbled slightly as the life came back to his legs and his chest trembled with relief. His foot caught a rock, sending him lurching forward. His wrist smashed against the corner of a jutting boulder and he landed flat on his face in the sweaty and dusty dirt.

He spat out the dust and ran a hand along the side of his face. His hand came away bloody and without thinking about it very much he found himself back on his feet and limping slightly along the sandy rockridden flat, taking only a brief glance back down the wandering-winding trail descending behind him.

The tingles ran all over his body. It had been a good fall.

When the burning began to leave him he turned over his wrist to check his watch. Dirt and sweat and blood covered his wrist and the watchface and he cleared it off with his fingertips.

It was blank. Down the center of the screen was a single jagged crack.

III

The morning was warm and wet in the woods by Oak Valley Pond. The boy picked his way carefully through the underbrush with his fishing rod. The thorns yanked at his shirt and his skin. He was not sure of where he was. In the branch of a tree ahead a yellow warbler let out a sudden exclamation and it startled the boy so thoroughly that he nearly jumped.

Before him lay a strange greenish mossy patch which ran along the side of the water and cut to the other side of the lake without having to pass through the thorns. He took a step forward and his feet gave way and he plunged straight into water. When he splashed his way back to the bank his hands were shaking and his rod slipped out of his fingers and hit the ground.

***

The hoofprints from the horses had long since disappeared and it had been miles since he had seen a marker for a trail. All of the maps he had looked at did not deal very specifically with this section of the Vondergreen.

Unlike the open road or the flat plain or the gently undulating forest path, the switchbacks of the foothills offered no sightlines. There was no looking back. He could look out through the trees at the crest of the rises and see the next stage of the route laid out before him. But each step backwards had to be covered in legs, in carefully measured out portions, nothing could be seen of a mile back until a three-quarter mile stretch was covered. Against him too was the sameness of the greenery rushing by him, there was little distinct in the oaks and pines and the shrubberies crowding their foundation here from where he had first entered upon the trail. How was he to tell where he had come in, which path would lead him back? It had not seemed so important before, when he was ascending, when the wind rushed cool by his face and the early morning sun was rising with his stride, that there were so many little offshoots and sidepaths, and that he had only taken one route, and that there was only one route that would take him back to food and shelter and everything that came with it. Those words were beginning to have a meaning now after many miles through the Vondergreen.

The yellowing sky filtered brilliant through the trees and reflected sharply off the dewsoaked branches which rustled like rain and soaked him with cold water when he brushed against them. The cold felt good against his hot and sweating limbs which burned from the sun. The trail was still angling uphill but it was not very steep anymore.

Feeling the greenery rush by him he caught an edge of the stronger fatigue that was now lurking, brought by both time and the sun. The start of each run set off an invisible timer that counted down the time for which his body would be able to continue running. The starting numbers on that timer were different every morning. Sometimes it was the weather and sometimes it was something he had eaten but most of the time it was just the will of some force that he could not quite name that would decide just how much energy to give him on that day. Of course there were other variables like sleep and diet that he could control, but nothing weighed so presciently in his mind as the little prayers and rituals of bartering with the running gods that would come even when he tried to stop them from coming. For now he staved off the urge to trade for anything and only ran.

Above the canopy of trees had thinned extensively and a hint of the skyblue sky was visible through the shining yellow light of the sun. The trail was winding up again, steeper but not as steep as before. As the treeline cleared he made out a dark gray cloudcover moving closer in the distance.

The peak was barren of vegetation, covered in bumpy whitewashed sandstone that offered scant opportunities for safe footing. There was no post or sign indicating that he had reached any kind of summit, but there was no higher ground in sight. Around him for miles the Vondergreen stretched green and open and undulating, the whitewater of Beaver Creek visible at points down in one of the bottomlands far below. There were no sounds or sights of telephone wires or cell phone towers or train tracks or highways. He let out a brief yell which was caught by the wind and echoed briefly before being carried away down over the tips of the trees and into the depths of the forest beyond.

The man allowed himself the brief respite of jogging around the flattened capstone of the foothills. His breathing settled and he could feel his legs tightening already even as he moved about the perimeter. He liked to be able to just look straight up to the sky and see nothing but the pureblue of the morning sky glistening yellow with a few gulls flying white and throaty and glinting as white specks against the background and imagining that truly nothing else existed and that he was floating free suspended in the midair blue over nothingness. From the corner of his eye the dark gray clouds were inching closer.

When he turned back to reenter the trailhead, he found that he did not know where to go. The path was unfamiliar and he knew very quickly that he was on the wrong trail. He returned to the summit and circled around the washed sandstone again. In corners and crevices he examined every path and unthinking ran down them all partway before returning to the summit in a breathless fear. Above him the clouds had finished darkening and it began to rain.

IV

Swanson came by in the R.V. to pick them up for the trip. They packed only what they could carry in their backpacks plus food. Swanson and the others had outfitted the recreational vehicle heavily: a full refrigerator, two made-up kingsized beds, a television, a bathroom, a kitchen with a dishwasher, a set of iPod speakers.

“Swanson,” the boy said. “There’s a shower in this thing?”

“Not just a shower,” Swanson said. “It’s a bathtub.”

***

With sweatsoaked, mudlogged shoes he bounded down the path, glancing about into the forest in a concealed desperation. He remembered to be calm. He could feel the deepseated fatigue buttoning its way across him like a warning. He cursed silently. Usually it was the stitches in the stomach which did him in. His legs were strong and did not cramp and he trusted them to keep him moving forward. But this was a different kind of fatigue. He had been running hard for two hours at least, he guessed from the time he had broken his watch. Around nineteen miles was the start of the shutdown phase in a marathon. He’d gone farther before, gutted through worse discomfort, but always with a definite end point in mind, always when he knew exactly how much was left and exactly where he was going. Moreover there was the safety net of civilization, the people who would find his body should he faint. He imagined a hiker or a biker, some long lost neverknown cousin of his finding his body on an expedition weeks, maybe months later. What would they think, he wondered. He felt a passing sorrow for the helmeted biker with power gels taped to his arms and a water bottle belt strapped around his waist who would have to dirty his advertisement-suit to uncover his body from the pile of leaves which the wind would use to bury him on the mountainside. Poor bastard, he thought, and almost laughed without quite knowing why.

The drizzle was harder and now the morning sun was vanished, slipping behind the dull blanket grayness creeping across the sky. Underfoot the path became slippery and unsure and he took the turns so wide and careful that he ran off the trail into the poison ivy and thorn bushes just to stay on his feet. His right leg was covered in blood but he did not feel anything aside from the throb of his muscle tiring. All of the pain went to the tightening spreading up his chest and closing on his lungs and forcing his breaths deeper and deeper. The trail was leveling now, and had turned a dusky orange and he knew that it was not the right way. As the path swung back to the left and down a muddy incline he tried to survey the country ahead. Through the thick trees he could make out very little. The summit lay behind him, the valley to the east, the trails he had taken up the Vondergreen far beyond. In the foothills far beyond. He wiped a hand at his soaking hair to push the strands out of his eyes and felt his fingers pruning from the moisture.

He found himself near sprinting and he forced himself to steady. The fear was in control now and he fought it down. It was bad to let the fear take over. He made himself calm and said in his head that there was nothing to do but trust the trail he was on, so he did.

He trusted it but still he was wary. Perhaps he did not trust it very much, truly. He knew that he could not turn around again. He had lost his concentration and rushed down the hillside from the summit and had quickly lost himself in the fear. It had been such a stupid thing to do, to not pay more attention. Now look where you are, he thought to himself. Now look what your sentimentalism has done for you.

He tried not to be sentimental but it was hard as his body began to weaken under the strain of trail and time. He became very good at counting the things he had lost: the way, the girl, himself, the watch. He counted them again and again. Mostly he counted the watch because it had been a good watch that had always worked well for him and rose with him each morning for many years to run through the streets of the city where he had lived before the Vondergreen.

But it is gone now, he thought. It has left you alone. You are carrying a carcass strapped to your hand. A rotting carcass. It should start to decompose and rot soon. It will reek.

The man shook his head firmly. He was worried by his thoughts and how sentimental they were becoming. He knew he was very thirsty and the heat with all of the fatigue was not letting him think right. He would have to fight it if he hoped to find his way back. He would have to have a clear head.

The rain beat steady and hard and made gentle insistent slaps on the leaves of the trees and the scattered flowers and twigs over the soil of the forest floor. As he ran he kicked up mud and rainwater with his tired backkick and felt his lower back and shorts growing thick with the collected sediment. The trail was wet, the forest somehow more silent than before the rain, the other noises muffled now by the collective cover of the sky’s downpour.

There was a sudden rustle in the bushes off to the side of the trail, breaking the silence of the land. A pack of white-tailed deer began hopping manically across the wood, backs arched and proper, snouts nervous and stiff, eyes furtive and watching for a further break in the stillness of their forest. The air was instantly filled with the stench of wet dogs as the deer disappeared between the hemlock and mountain laurel lining the path.

The path bent and The man wondered when he had become too tired to be surprised. His senses were blurred now. You should probably stop and walk for a little ways, he thought. You probably should look for water. But he did not.

Around a turn the sandy trail opened into a small clearing where a fallen tree obstructed the path. The man hurdled the tree, ducked under the stillgreen branches obscuring the way, and found himself face to face with another of the deer.

He slammed on the breaks. The white-tailed was stiff and frozen, ears perked and attentive, covering most of the trail. The woods to the side of the trail were nearly impassable, thick with black birch and Canadian yew twinned together by thorn bushes and thistle. He knew he could not turn back, there was no place to go but miles and miles back up to the sandstone hillcrest where he had first lost the way.

He took a slow step back and paused for another moment so that both he and the deer were completely still. Then he feigned a sudden lurch forward and let out a bellowing shout that carried down the wet path and lost itself in the heavy rainsoaked pines in the distance. The white-tailed vanished in a flash, hopping lightning quick through the thorn tangled yews and dashing into the blurred misty cover of the forest.

Sluggishly The man began to run down the trail again, hitting by instinct the ‘start’ button on his broken watch. His fingers came away bloody.

The pause gave him recovery, but his legs tightened further and although the heat of the sun was obscured the rain made the slippery rock and muddy path even more treacherous and tiring to navigate. This is no hiking trail, he thought. The soil was lightcolored, loose and soaking muddy like a wet baseball infield, some of the rocks covered by puddles so that his ankles twisted on progressing steps and soon became elastic. He trusted chance that they would not crack or be twisted very badly because there was no other thing to trust, and because was concentrated hard upon assuring that the trail continued through its switchbacks to the east and the direction of the bottomlands ultimately leading to the gorge and the river valley beyond.

V

The boy had known when they were lost for several miles now but he didn’t say anything to the others. They assumed he knew where they were and they followed him through the cornfields singlefile down the narrow paths. They came around a bend in the field and the row ended, blocked off by thick stalks. The runners bunched together in the tight space.

“Alright,” Mike said. “Where are we going?”

“Through the cornfields, and we’ll get to the shrine eventually.”

“Even if we do get to the shrine. We’ll be miles from the road. We’re going to wind up running fifteen miles if we’re not careful. Coach sent us out for eight.”

The wind blew cold over the tips of the stalks, tunneling down the rows and billowing amidst the thinly clad runners. They are cold, tired, and miles away from home, the boy thought.

“We’ve been talking about this for weeks,” the boy said. “Don’t you want to see where this leads? Do you really want to just go home a take a shower? Don’t worry about getting back, for once. Don’t look at your watch.”

The others fidgeted while they stood there watching the two argue. The boy began to jog. “Let’s go,” he urged them, moving slowly down the path.

“We have no idea where we are,” Mike said.

The others were beginning to reluctantly follow.

“That’s the point,” the boy said, running.

***

The green of the forest blurred with his sweat so that the pastels melted and he could not see very much of anything. Ahead he caught sight of a horse jogging on the path ahead, brown and wet in the rain, hooves punching the muddy terrain. He lurched after it.

The other faculties were failing him now. The Vondergreen had stolen the grace he had run with before. Now he hunched halfway over to stay the insistent stitch that worked at the corner of his stomach. His breaths came in careful gasps, his feet covered ground cautiously, awkwardly. The air sat heavy in his lungs which were burning from nothing to drink.

The rain was steadying now and he tried to not think of the cruelty that there was so much water around him but none of it for drinking. He did not know how long he had been running but he guessed it had been for far longer than he ever had been before. There had been once long ago when he had run for just over two hours. But two hours had come and gone many miles back and he could not bring himself to feel any happiness for the new record. Vaguely he wondered exactly what he had been thinking dashing up and down the foothills blindly, secretly hoping to be lost. He had known nothing of this pain then.

The horse reappeared and vanished from his vision with such frequency that he began to wonder if it were even real.

The trail curved sharply around a slick and muddy bend and his feet gave way from beneath him. He crashed down the hill in the mud and came to rest in the shallow waters of a small pebbly stream, flowing slowly along a flat bed of soil in the divot between two embankments.

Mudsplattered, bruised, he stood and squatted in the shallows of the stream and splashed the water up his arms and chest to clear the dirt away from the open cuts. The rain was a drizzle now, making tiny marks in the stream as it came down. The humidity began to resettle in the air as the rain slowed. He felt dizzy and cupped his hands in the water again.

He knew he was breaking a golden rule of human-wilderness interaction, but perhaps he was not so very human, after all.

The water rolled gently into his palms and he waited until it was completely full before he raised it to his lips and poured it into his mouth. Once he had a taste he did not hold back and had several more mouthfuls. When he was no longer panting he thought how it would be nice to also have a bit of chocolate or oatmeal raisin bar there because they always brought the feeling back to him after a run. But there was no chocolate, there were only the tiny lavabugs hiding under the log off the side of the path amidst the jewelweed.

His legs quivering, he stood straight and began to run again. He did not click the start button on the watch.

*

For a moment he imagined himself at his own funeral: closed casket, to be sure. The birds would have gotten to his caracass by the time bikeman found him.

He thought of being buried: some poor bastard amening and crossing and crucifixing over him.

He thought of what the nothing of being dead would be like: would it hurt, for there to be nothing? No, it could not hurt very much. It could not be so very different from living in the city. That was just a different version of the same thing.

He crouched in the mud when he came to a clearing and drew great big arrows towards each of the three trails that split off. One of them had to be the way back home. Not home, but the tent.

The first trail was one of the old equine trails again and the rocks were only meant for hooves to navigate. The path curved up and east, back towards the whitefaced hill summit. He knew it was wrong too when the bugs began to swarm the sweaty mass heaving in their midst and the path became so thickly overgrown that he was crashing through the underbrush.

With the remnants of his energy he tore back to the clearing to escape the bugs. At one point he chanced a glance behind him and saw a small black cloud in pursuit. He swung his palms through the cloud viciously and they scattered and regrouped and swarmed his head and his face where the sweat and the heat were.

Back at the clearing he wiped away the arrow and ran down the middle trail. The path was steep and downhill, free of rocks and slick from the rain.

For a time, he did not think of anything of at all.

Don’t you get sentimental, he thought, but there was a finality to it all that he did not quite understand but rusted. Even if there were more water to be found he doubted he could make the return journey to the clearing again. It would be too late for that.

There were more of the white-tailed deer in the trees and he tried to watch them closely. They did not scatter when he made a noise as before. Rustlings in the bushes did not follow him as he ran. The Vondergreen was not moving away from him, instead it was moving to catch him when he fell, to lay him down on the trail and let him become a part of the woods. He did not like the look in the eye of the deer, the look of bravery – where would that come from? What gave a deer strength of spirit? In answer to himself he slowed even more.

The deer know, he thought. They know what is to happen.

Still, he told himself, you will fight it to the end, if that is how things are to go. The forest will have to catch you when you collapse lifeless because you will not walk or stop or rest for not even one moment.

And don’t you pray, either, came the same voice. Don’t even think about it.

But it was too late for that.

"Please God,” he may have said, or thought it so loud that a sound came out.

Around the bend, there was the river. The rapids flowed by cool and gentle. In the distance the sun reflected off the windshields of the cars in the parking lot of the sheriff’s station. The glare caught his eye and there was nothing but whiteness.

*

That night he sat down on the grass outside of his tent with his sweatshirt spread out over the dew and he ate the sandwiches that the he had bought from the deli back in town. When he was done he ate the extra tomatoes that the girl had packed too. They were very good tomatoes, the more he really thought about it. Such tomatoes he had never had in his entire life. He might even go back and ask the girl only for the tomatoes and not even any sandwich at all. He might just do that.

When he was done eating he limped down the trail away from the tent and followed the darkened path to an overlooking vista of the river near the rocks where he had left his shoes to dry. The river chugged smoothly by, deft and deathly silent and held in the night embrace of its banks. The moon hung over the river full and white, a pearly ominous glow shining over the darkened water to the farther shore. The air was cool, fresh like a stream of clear and cold water.

With his hands he dug a small hole in the cold black soil and pulled from his pocket the broken remnants of the watch. Quietly he buried it and patted the disturbed soil together with his hands. From his knees he looked around for a sign of a gravemarker and scavenged a few rocks to form a circle upon the dirt. He rubbed his bare wrist.

By the delicate wildflowers there was a twisted and bent cross-like stick. He heaved it up and launched it down into the murky depths below.

He stood up to leave and checked his shoes once more before returning to the tent. It seemed as though they would be dry by morning.

THE END.

Song of the Day: To fit in with the nature theme, it was impossible to not go with 'White Winter Hymnal' by Fleet Foxes. This incredibly simple song somehow effortlessly captures the sticky heat of summer and the frozen tundras of winter through a expertly done choral repetition. Although the below version, a live video put together by the good people at La Blogotheque, is not quite a capella, the song largely relies on how closely the band can sing in unison. Aside from the beauty of the melody, the lyrics' attention to detail is almost literary: "I was following the pack, all swallowed in their coats, scarves of red tied 'round their throats." The simple and terse language is evocative of a Hemingway style - one he used very effectively in stories like Big Two-Hearted River, and one which I tried, and failed (butchered, some might say) in What the Forest May Whisper.



Soirée à emporter #2 Fleet Foxes
by lablogotheque