Man in the woods

A car parked by the side of the road. No one around. The snowing has stopped a few hours ago. Heavy clouds passing by with great speed. The trees, heavy with snow, stir in the wind like giant snowmen. The road is gravel, far from the main track, no other tire tracks than his. His footsteps deep in the white powder, leading into the woods.

A shadow a few hundred meters away, walking slowly, purposely inward. The car keys are on the ignition, the windows shut but the doors aren’t locked. he doesn’t see his car now, he left it behind. Better to walk. His backpack on, the rifle in his right hand. It’s November 23rd, 6am, Wisconsin, USA. The man is alone in the wilderness, he left behind his friends and family for a week. Hunting, camping, living in the wild for a while was all he came out here looking for.

Thoreau had seen it coming: men belong into the woods, with nature all around them, wildlife, plants, the weather to cope with, the world to understand and meditate upon. The man takes a small shovel from his backpack and starts digging into the ground. It isn’t frozen yet and after half an hour he’s got a square space without snow where to set up his tent for a couple of days. The river is not too far, he can hear birds chirping and knocking on the tree trunks, the wind blowing and the huge pine trees creaking above him.

The smile on his face, no one is here to see it.