‘Wildling’

Photographer T. Ahzio

Wildling

The sun was angry. So was I.

Earth in 1959 was a screwy place. Fallout floated killer radiation, scaring the b’jezus of me. My ten-year-old dreams dribbled with rabid radioactive monsters like in Saturday matinee movies. The sun shot massive solar flares, shoving secret rays toward our terrified world. Mom swore that nuke bombs were wrecking the sun and frying earth. 

Responding to universal collapse, my family journeyed to Northern Ontario, Canada .... as good as any place to die my father dourly declared.

Arriving in Sudbury, Ontario, my parents’ birthplace, I imagined two weeks of joyous, city-bound frolicking with cousins. My imaginings were dashed.

Annually, my outdoorsman father wandered into the roadless Ontario wilderness with my Uncle Dave for fishing and escape. This tradition offered Dad freedom from tedious family obligations and quiet evening snorts of hootch in the bush. Remoteness dealt solace.

If the 1959 sun was disturbed, so were my father’s fishing plans. My uncle had fractured his leg: Dad’s expedition was threatened.

With plans jeopardized, Dad desperately dodged defeat. In a eureka moment he re-worked plans to include me, his morosely inclined son. Not seeking my assent, he quietly anointed me, Peter Evoy, his fishing companion. That I loathed nighttime terror of wilderness bears, bull mooses, bobcats, and other bush boogers escaped Dad. I fumed.

Without respect for my slumbering, Dad loaded me, along with his canoe, into our aging ’53 Pontiac Chieftain and headed west along King’s Highway 17. I pouted as my captor plowed his clunker toward the Mississauga River. Reaching Thessalon, Ontario, we paused at a grocery store/gas station/cafe the size of a large shed, and abandoned civilization.

Tackling dusty roads paved with gravel the size of softballs, the Pontiac shook and shimmied northward. After sunset Dad backed into a roadside piney grove. The tent assembled, I lunged for the security of my sleeping bag; however, hearing rumblings from nearby rapids, I envisioned our tent rolling into a whitewater abyss. Those fears, amplified by imagined wild beasts and my ongoing snit, fueled nighttime frets. 

Awakening to whiffs of perked coffee, I poked through the tent and spotted Dad over a smoke-bathed campfire. Reluctantly abandoning the warm bag, I popped outside and saw our tent precariously perched within ten feet of a torrent-filled gorge. Refusing to pee outside in the previous night’s darkness likely saved me from falling to death. Avoiding the ravine, I wandered toward the fire. Though not a coffee drinker, the aroma revived consoling memories of domestic pleasures absent in these wilds.

My dad hunkered down to his sooty fire, warming himself on this chilly August morning.

“Morning Sunshine,” he greeted. “Did you sleep well?”

“I guess so,” I offered in a sulk.

Crap, why he pitched a tent next to a canyon deeper than Niagara Falls was weird, but his decisions weren’t prone to debate. Dad was a moody guy, even more than me. He was quiet most of the time, except when angry … better to say little and keep the peace.

“Like some bacon and eggs, yes?” Dad asked, sporting a warm smile. A good cook Dad was not, but hunger steadied my tastebuds.

“Sure; that sounds good,” I fibbed.

“Have some bread - your grandma’s raspberry preserves, maybe?”

His knowing I relished raspberry jam surprised me, as did his smile. Dad’s endless fretting and his frequent frowning smothered the respect I should have had. Not an easy-going guy, his cheerfulness bugged me.

The eggs were greasy, but the bacon was crispy and double smoked. The jam’s sweetened tartness countered my lousy mood. Looking my way and smiling, Dad saw my enjoyment: pleasing him was new for me.

“We’re at Pigpen Chutes. Your uncle and I fished here previously: beautiful and peaceful, eh? Maybe someday you’ll understand how wild places help in figuring out who you are. The bush lets you to think without interruption, something missing in tamed towns.”

Not understanding, I thought only about lost weeks with Sudbury cousins. Empathy might take more time.

The Pontiac later rattled and rolled on that rocky road as we crisscrossed the Mississauga. By late afternoon we arrived at a turnoff overlooking a calm stretch of the river and a nearby filthy station wagon with West Virginian plates.

“How you folks doin’?” Dad asked the family gathered at a picnic table. “We’re hoping to spend a couple of nights here before going upriver for some walleye fishing. Been here awhile?”

“Damned right, bud: me and the wife just love it here; ain’t like those friggin’ potholes they call lakes back home. Jezus, if we’d known about this, wild places where you can shit in the open with nobody even smelling your stink … well, we’d have been here afore. Hell, a fellah can even fart without saying sorry. Jessop’s the name. The wife here’s Irene, and my young’uns here are Larry Laura. Who’s your boy there?”

“This is Peter, and I’m pretty proud of him, though probably don’t say so enough. Everyone calls me Gray. Nice to meet you all.”

I stood dumb-like because I’d never heard a grown-up use such cusswords like Larry’s dad. Mom wouldn’t tolerate words like pee or poop, words this guy would laugh at.

Larry spit words like damned this and shittin’ that … but cuss words aside, I really liked him. We spent a day exploring Aubrey Falls and even spotted a big black bear opposite the cascade. Thrilled by the wild animal, we knew its distance protected us. With Larry, my fear of the bush wasn’t as strong. As the sun set, we returned to camp and all ate together… having Larry’s family nearby made up for being alone in the woods.

“Dad, why do some people use bad words that Mom says we shouldn’t?” I asked later. “Why do grown-ups talk that way? Heck, even Larry cusses.”

“Well, you’ll discover that you can’t judge a person by the package he’s in. There’re bad folks who use good-sounding words, and good folks like these using words from their upbringing: it’s all they know. Sometimes you’ve got to look into their hearts and not their words, son.”

His answer made me want to think, but I was too tired and fell asleep.

In the morning Dad announced we were leaving. I moped. My adventure with Larry was too short, especially with Dad’s looming and lonely fishing trip. But we departed, the Pontiac bouncing within an enormous dust cloud.

“We’re off to Peshu Lake where we’ll camp on an island. Your Uncle and I were here years ago and loved the pike and walleye fishing.”

Whoopie! Dad acted like a little kid thinking on Santa Claus when talking about that lake. Reaching the lake’s edge, we parked the car and set the canoe in motion for a two-mile paddle.

The day was blessed with small, interspersed clouds enhancing otherwise clear skies. The August sun held a soothing warmth. Peshu Lake was ablaze with diamond-like sparkles, dancing about as waves reflected the sunshine. Easing my sulk, I watched the lake’s prancing light features with awe. With Dad’s powerful paddle strokes, I felt the canoe surge as waves vibrated the canoe’s hull. The metal craft gracefully glided toward a rock cropped island.

As afternoon’s brightness relaxed, Dad directed us toward a small island beachhead surrounded by slight granite outcrops. Thin strands of red pine presided over thickets of wild blueberry bushes nestled within rock fissures. My father picked a clearing blessed with a ready-made firepit with stacks of split firewood

Fishing that evening, Dad caught two medium walleyes, glowing in uncommon contentment. I struggled to lessen my pout.

After dark, Dad prepared a feast of freshly prepared walleye smothered in fried potatoes, carrots, and onions. Lulled by the savory smells, I developed a half-hearted appetite as I chowed on fish and steaming vegetables. After dinner I tendered a half-eaten candy bar, a reminder of civilization as the pines moaned in the ever-increasing breeze.

The night haunted me: the accelerating wind wailed endlessly while the island pines keened piercingly, making the tent sides pant with surging pressure changes. Through a sleep-deprived night, I envisioned banshees wailing, threatening the demise of lost souls. With bladder protesting, I risked peeing my pants than facing black-shaped demons assembled outside. My father’s snoring confirmed calm that I lacked.

Hearing raindrops, I awakened to an overcast dawn … my heart sank. Alone in the tent I sniffed the pungent odors of burning cedar wood. Sitting upright, my head splattered by condensation formed within the tent, my resentment soared. Looking from the tent into the turbulent and nippy environment, I shivered, wallowing in my disheartened funk. Dad spotted me.

“Get close to the fire and get that chill off you. Bet your sleep was rough, but did you stay warm? Are you hungry?”

I eyed a blackened pot of oatmeal, steam burping through the gooey paste: my appetite deadened. Scorning the gray and gelatinous paste, I slithered onto a nearby log, dreading the hefty portion I knew Dad would offer. He did. Smothered by a slick pat of cheap margarine, the swill nauseated me.

Despite the worsening weather, Dad eagerly launched a follow-up fishing jaunt. By mid-morning the white capped waves generated growing tumult, bullying the canoe’s metal sides with resonating racket. Incessant winds harassed every move, rendering fishing fruitless. Searching for calmer waters, we were soddened as the troubled skies unleashed a torrent of pelting rain. Watching me shiver, Dad dispensed his musty GI-issued poncho, sacrificing his protective gear on my behalf. His gesture deserved appreciation; however, my grudging silence displaced gratitude.

Returning to the tent, I burrowed into my dank sleeping bag, while Dad boldly attempted igniting wet firewood. Begrudging the wilderness and Dad’s good intent, I garnered a seed of pride as he transformed an inert stack of soggy firewood into a comforting heat source. Encouragingly, he crawled back into the tent and coaxed me forth with the promise of hot food.

“I made something to cheer you, son: I doctored up a cup of joe with sugar and condensed milk. This weather’s getting you down, I know.”

I sipped the steaming brew as my taste buds rejoiced with each slurp. My face reluctantly betrayed delight.

“Good, huh? Now let’s get ready for some grub.”

Viewing Dad putz about the campsite, a freshly formed perception of him arose: not the grumpy and overbearing parent he frequently was, but a fallible joe striving to share something he loved. My musings startled me. Maybe my behavior was painfully like his: grumpy, overbearing, and, well, downright fallible. But my epiphany faded as the storm worsened. I returned to the tent’s shelter.

Awakening to diminished afternoon light, I eyed the tent sides gasp with the robust winds heaving onto our island. Sporadic downpours assured continued dampness. Forsaking the tent during a lull, I spotted my father sitting aside a diminished fire, grimly surveying the unsettled lake as he puffed his pipe. He was as troubled as I was depressed with the ocean-like waves that blocked both fishing and island escape. Dad offered an approving nod, unaware that I now worried more for him than me … I wanted his protection. Despair invaded our souls … we sat in silence, watching a struggling fire fight wind and rain. We were muted captives to chance.

By morning, the storm strengthened. Onerous winds boxed the island’s pines as waves antagonized the shore. Rain snuffed the fire and drenched the remaining firewood. Dad’s efforts in rekindling the flames failed.

“Son, should we weather this storm or try to return?

To a miserable kid, his question was like offering a choice between rained-soaked misery or defeat in another forsaken bush location. Yet, surprisingly, he did ask.

“I don’t care.”

I lied.

Dad opted to test the canoe in the raucous lake: I shuddered in fear. With my paddle tensely gripped, we shoved into the churning waters. The canoe lurched fanatically, pummeled by intimidating breakers. Straining to forge ahead, we fought, first to gain forward movement and, eventually, to escape sinking. We paddled in panic; however, the battering blasts prevailed. We botched the test. Had I failed my father as well as myself?

Retreating to camp, I ran to my sleeping bag hideaway, tearfully suspecting I had smashed my father’s hopes. He later joined me in the murky tent.

“Sorry, son; I planned to show you why I loved the bush, but it seems I’ve failed at every turn.”

With this admission I was struck by our complex relationship: I relied on a person I resented, and he resented his failure. Maybe resentment, like the ongoing storm, should quit.

By late afternoon the rain and wind weakened as lessening light generated orange-cast hues. Hope-filled, I refired the campfire wood. I was startled by strange happiness caused by the sole reason that I was. Dad nodded approval.

“Peter, should we leave the island for a more sheltered fishing spot, or return to Sudbury?”

His asking pleased me, like my relighting the fire pleased him. We reached a truce. I coveted continued fishing as much as a dog might drool over spoiled sauerkraut; still, I understood Dad craved the wilds. Sauerkraut it was!

Daylight disappeared and, as Dad doused the fire, the lake began to shimmer like a mirage. Wisps of wind persevered as the evening skies melded into purpling hues. Confident of a receding breeze, Dad decided a lake crossing was doable. We packed and shoved off the island.

While paddling through night’s advent, we lost sight of the opposite shore … my trust in Dad dived. Was he, too, disoriented?

As the air stilled my father whispered while motionlessness overtook us, his voice paralyzed by the eerie silence encircling us. The stillness steadily negated our perceptions of forward movement as the boat appeared to halt in repose atop the lake’s plane of emptiness while the night’s blackness blanketed bearings. Though Dad reassured me that we were nudging forward, I was spooked by the trance-like state of our journeying. The dearth of light restricted our directional cues to fixed stars as the mirrored lake surface faithfully reflected constellations. What we beheld approached unparalleled spiritual dimensions.

The cosmic display discharged my identity, as nearly perfect celestial reflections created a spatially indeterminate zone below me: I imagined the canoe floating aimlessly within a dimensionless void. Up, down, forward, and backward ceased to exist as we sailed in positional irrelevance. But for the gentle splashings of my father’s paddle, we lost sense of motion and time. Had we progressed? Were we trapped? Feeling transfigured into a netherworld, we entered a boundless realm that defied worldly measures. My terror accelerated.

Within our suspension, Dad directed my attention toward a faint but clearly perceptible veil of pale blue light sweeping along the northeastern horizon, shimmering needles of blue-green light shifting to and fro the skies. Assuming the wavering light display would cease, Dad whispered like he might frighten away the ghostly glow. The glimmering specter energetically escalated as it waltzed above the horizon. The rhythmically swaying beams intensified, unmistakably announcing Aurora Borealis: Northern Lights. 

Before fully assessing the sight, we watched the cosmic exhibition swiftly shed initial shyness, bolstering into burlesque colors, hues, and intensities, like feathered show dancers. Rapid ripplings of radiant blues and greens consumed the sphere, above and within the lake’s reflection. The light increased furiously, with intensity that enveloped us in a celestial celebration of luminosity.

I shuddered, awestruck by the night’s mysticism and overwhelmed by nature’s magnificent festivity. Transported into a timeless and measureless world beyond my comprehension, I absorbed all with powerlessness and alarm, augmented by an overriding sense of insignificance. We took sacraments of a heavenly mass before us, savoring the spatial splendor within an atmospheric mystery as spiritually profound as heaven itself.

Curtains of blue and green startlingly and without warning entertained pale strands of yellow. Interjections of bold tints played haltingly until, at last, the blues and greens surrendered to increasingly intense banners of reds and orange, powerfully thrust profusions of crimson gashes like deep wounds. Waves of deep reds aggressively bantered the grand galaxial ocean, gliding us forth upon rollers of towering beacons. Aurora, a habitually timid goddess, boldly bantered about, invoking a three-dimensional lake of fire. I trembled. The inferno swathed me. Aurora transcended human understanding … I saw existence enslaved within a supernova of magnificence.

Muted like subdued sheep quietly surrendering to a shepherd, we floated without contest. The canoe, like a celestial ferry traveling along a galactic causeway, glided within a uniform haze of reddened ether. We were helplessly suspended, without dimension and out of time.

With little warning, the intense aerial wildfires slowly smothered as Aurora commanded returns of blue and green hues, unhurriedly quenching the solar fires of red and orange.

Still shaking as the lights leisurely receded, I spotted the opposite shore with thanksgiving. The bow soon emitted a grating sound as the metal underbelly meshed with sand. Upon land we gazed as Aurora withdrew into the initial bands of pale blue. We returned to land overwhelmed by the intensity of experience, like surviving soldiers unable to abandon the horrors of combat. Visions of light played and replayed within our memories.

I departed Peshu Lake forever.

My father chose a peaceful trout stream near the shores of the Georgian Bay, a choice I accepted without protest. Retaining the aurora’s mysterious sway, I wandered into days of cheer. As Dad contentedly fished, I accommodated his pleasure and dodged disappointment. While unenthralled, I abandoned resentment. I sufficed my contentment with his joy, holding remembrance of celestial wonders.

That I now stood outside the center of all things sluggishly crept into my being. My father’s wilderness had gathered and culled my domestic roots and cautiously bred a new and hybrid creature: a wildling.

Michael Isham is a later life writer residing in Georgia with his husband of twenty-plus years and three needy canines. Grateful for publication of several short fiction pieces, Michael is currently attending graduate school at Kennesaw State University, seeking a graduate certificate in creative writing. Michael serves as reader for Words Faire.

T. Anzio runs a multimedia blog entitled Moon-Cat.org, where he shares his writing, music, and art. He has a MA in Literature, spent a lifetime as a professional musician, and constructs art from photography.