The armload of freshly chopped firewood, the fruits of my
labor, filled the rack by the kitchen stove. Mother was carefully arranging
pork-chops in her huge frying pan. The carefully arranged supper table was set
including a plate of freshly baked and sliced bread. I retreated toward the
entry porch to remove my winter coat cap and gloves when she continued the
conversation started before I went to chop firewood. “I do not understand. Why do you want to do
this thing? You seem to have some sort of driving force or bestial instinct
when there is a full moon”, she asked and answered in the same breath. Again, I
carefully explained; “Is not bestial to want to be in the woods when there is a
full moon?” I pleaded with her to ease her mind, “It is really a pretty thing to
see. It makes me feel good.” As any loving mother would, she retaliated with, “A
twelve your old boy is simply not safe in the woods at night. In fact, it is
not safe for anyone, and you know it. There are wolves and bears out there and
who know what else. What if you get hurt and we don’t know where you are?”
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This was not the first time I had wander out, perhaps for the
entire night as I had done the year before. Once again, the time seemed
opportune because of the full moon and the snowing ended while we were at
supper. The woods are a surreal, silent however, haunting world when viewed during
a clear cloud-free night with a full moon. That is true; however, there was
more to the driving force than the sight and sound, or lack of sound; being alone
in the woods at night gave me a deep feeling or sense of freedom and manhood—a
sense of being brave. This euphoric sense was very strong and real; however, I
was unable to describe it adequately only because I didn’t have command of the
words or even know the words. It would be an affirmation of maturity, which I was
struggling with but did not comprehend at that age. In retrospect, my father seemed
to express his understanding with his gruff, “Do what you want; it’s your
backsides.”
There was little danger of being lost. I could wander along any
one of several government-dug ditches, which formed straight essentially
unobstructed paths of frozen water draining surrounding but isolated patches of
farmland in our isolated world. In contrast, during the summer, the pile of
dirt alongside the ditch served as a path through the swampy bog; brush and
tree growth often impeded free passage. The ditches all had names and formed
references for deer hunters or anyone else, such as me, wandering around. Finally
at bedtime, I put on my hooded coat, scarves, and gloves. I picked up my rifle
from the cold porch, checked to be sure it was loaded, and opened the outside door;
Mother was suddenly standing there behind me, “Be careful. Don’t go to far. Be
careful. Come back early. You know I worry.”
The two-mile walk along the highway deserted of man and
beast in the off tourist season, which took only a few minutes before turning on
to an unused logging road the headed for the ditch line where I decided to head
into the never ending woods rather then toward the lake. The bright moon stood
almost directly overhead so there were only the shortest of tree shadows. The
new snow was deep enough to cover existing tracks but too fresh to be scarred anew
by creatures, if there had been creatures wandering about to do that. Fresh human
tracks unexpectedly appeared to be coming out of the woods and on to the frozen
ditch were evident going in the same direction I was; the track were headed deeper
into the woods. I knew there were no farms, roads, or anything else in that direction,
nothing but more woods.
At first, the tracks filled me with wonder; I knew everyone
in the area. No one was trapping in this area and to be hunting at night would
have been curious. No one followed the hunting or trapping season; everyone went
by the need for meat or the conditions of pelts, which was good but the closest
beaver pond was miles away. The tracks were of a large size and looked as if made
by well-worn boots. Wonder turn to fear, I didn’t understand. What had been a
wonder world of beauty moon light forest suddenly turned into a sinister world
of fear and apprehensions of finding something out of the distant past; after
hesitation, I instinctively gripped my rifle. Motivated by curiosity more then
good sense, I easily followed the tracks, which traced a path I had originally
intended for my self.
The voice was strong but steady and in the silence seemed
loud, “I see you.” There was no fear or threat in the voice; what was said, was
said without emotion. A few yards off to one side of the ditch, I could see the
black outline of a person setting in a hunched position on a log or something. He
hovered over a small can of burning pine resin. He had his back in my direction
suggesting he had heard and not seen me. Strange for the middle of the night, he
was melting a canteen of snow. To startled, to make my voice sound manly, furious,
or unafraid, I innocently asked in a childish voice, “Who are you?” He
deflected my question with a question of his own, “Do you have a cup?” Obviously,
he was willing to share his hot water but somehow expected I had the same independence
he had; why would someone be wandering in the woods at night in winter without
a cup. I looked at his blank face and saw nothing above all else, I saw nothing
to fear.
His clothing was obviously the ruminants of a kaki uniform
mixed with civilian clothing. The military clothing as well as the canteen suggested
a military background. Even at my young age, I knew I was looking a man who had
left his mind on some horrific battlefield, maybe a serious of difficult battle
fields as the media graphically portray daily on the radio for several years; kill
or be killed places sometime and somewhere during the recently ended world war.
Places far away from our solitary peaceful snow filled forest. Viably relaxed,
he slowly and cautiously sipped hot water from his canteen not offering to share
again. As I looked on, he silently smothered the fire in his can of resin, and
kicked it over in the snow to cool, picked it up and put it his backpack, stood
and walked back to the ditch line to continue on this way. He left no evidence of
having been there other than marks in the fresh snow—wandering from nowhere to nowhere.
Unlike the marks in the snow that will soon disappear, he left marks in my mind
that lasted for over seventy years and may never go away. I never told anyone
about this strange and in some ways sad encounter; however, if anyone were to
ask, have you seen war, I would feel compelled to answer, yes indeed, I had.
