"I've stood on fog and I've stood on fire." I can't remember who said that. Maybe I made it up.
I look back into the wilderness and see where I've been. How far I've come. I swear I am going to make it all the way through the swamp this time. Again running out of land. The water gets deep and the islands become few. Again I have to give up and move sideways over to the trail by the power lines. I look for a way back into the swamp further up the trail. Never finding one. I'll try again next week. Start off to the south where the deer run into the woods. Maybe they have a trail I can follow. For today I'll just follow the power lines to the train tracks.
I used to wonder how people could find animals thought to be extinct, till I moved here. There are hundreds of acres of space in this swamp. Space that maybe no human has ever walked. There is nothing in here for humans. No light, no land. No animals to speak of. Insects, yes, by the thousands. Maybe at night there are animals here, but I see no sign of them. Under the water there must live things fierce and ugly and nasty. Fisherman friends tell me to wear big rubber hip boots so I can walk through the water, but I'm too scared of stepping on something that could jump up and swallow me whole. Overhead there is life. Up in the canopy of trees. Squirrels and chipmunks travel for miles on the intertwining little branches. I tried once to follow them up there, but the branches wouldn't hold me. I'm too fat and the branches too small. I read a book about a Baron who lived his life in the trees, but never believed it. I guess I'm not supposed to.
So here by the wires again I have to strip off my flannel shirt. Bright sun meets humid swamp to make one instant sweaty fat guy. I wish I could take my tee shirt off and look all rugged like Andy did when he came with me on this trip. My skin is too round and too pale to look good naked. I keep imagining that some day I'm going to look like Andy. I'm going to get in shape. Not really like Andy though, my frame is wider than his. More like a scaled-down version of the body builders we used to make fun of at the gym down past the train station. "Can't wipe your own butt," we would yell then run away actually believing the fairy tale that muscle men couldn't run fast because their muscles were too big. Paul proved us all wrong when they caught him and beat the crap out of him. I could always run fast, even though I'm heavy. I walk a lot. My legs are strong. Paul never got any exercise. Just sat in his room reading romance novels. We were young. Never knew what gay was till Paul explained it to me just before his family moved away after our first year in High School. He wanted to kiss me goodbye, but I wouldn't let him.
That was a weird year. I had the hots for Joanie the head cheerleader. She had the hots for Paul. Paul, as it turns out, had the hots for me. Both Paul and Joanie moved away the summer after. Too bad, because I think with a little beer and a little compromise we all could have gotten what we wanted.
I haven't thought of Joanie in months. It was the second day of High School in Mr. Raimie's English class. I was in the front row and Joanie was at the blackboard, diagramming sentences or something, in her brand new cheerleader outfit. Orange and black short short skirt. Joanie had great legs, not skinny like the other cheerleaders. She was an athlete with strong legs. Then she dropped her chalk. What a sight. Her muscled ass barely covered by shiny black material. I wasn't able to think about anything else for weeks. My parents thought my drop in grades was caused spending too much time playing basketball, so they made me quit the team. I was a pretty good guard for my size.
Whoever said that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line never walked along these power lines. Even without trying to cut through the swamp it takes over an hour to get from the road by my family's house to the train tracks by the power plant. If you walk along the road that goes around the swamp to the power plant it only takes forty minutes. The power lines should be quicker, but no matter how fast I walk, or run, it always takes longer. I only do it because I hate walking along the road. The cars always slowing down to stare at you because they think you've escaped from the mental hospital. My father worked all my life for the Mental Health Department. I grew up around institutions and hospitals and schools. The names change to fit the mood of correctness. We always lived in nice homes on the grounds, but I never got used to the stares.
Somewhere along here is where my brothers and I supposedly found a hanged man. I don't remember it, but my family swears I was there. I remember a nightmare about a man hanging at the top of the stairs in our house. I'm not sure anymore which is real.
So finally at the train tracks. Now what? I can follow the tracks back to the road around the swamp to home. Or I can wait and hop the train going north like I've been daring myself to do for years. Or I can head up the hill past the power plant to the pond where my brother used to catch bullfrogs. I hate the middle of Sunday afternoons. I always feel like there is something that I should be getting done. All this walking and I never get anywhere.