A Benevolent Wilderness

By Gene Palmisano

Tom is a wayward city boy who does the inconceivable when he embarks on a solo canoe adventure in the Boundary Waters wilderness. He makes some nefarious acquaintances along the way. They lead him astray and endanger his life, but eventually he preservers to explore the wilderness, discovering it’s everything he’s dreamed of and more; incredible scenery, wildlife, and world-class fishing.
Alone, surrounded by natures order, he confronts his turbulent childhood and the self-destructive forces that shape his decadent lifestyle. He’s desperately seeking to change, but uncertainty and doubt command his life.
He befriends a family of strangers, and shares the camaraderie of fathers, sons, brothers and friends, discovering the quintessential family bonds he’s never known. Driven by a power larger than the sum of his life, he sets his sights for home, but a wicked storm blocks his retreat until he’s forced to strike out against insurmountable odds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gene Palmisano
• Release date: Dec 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466158030

Gene Palmisano

Gene Palmisano is the author of Thank God I’m Frank. He has published numerous biographies and short stories in newspapers and national magazines. He writes books and blogs from his ranch in the wilds of Colorado, where he lives of grid with his wife Robin.

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A Benevolent Wilderness

Gene Palmisano

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Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Gene Palmisano

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Table of Contents:

1: The Get Away

2: Up North

3: Trashed in Oblivion

4: Penetrating the Interior

5: Strangers in Paradise

6: Alone In the Dark

7: The Rendezvous

8: The Fish Hunters

9: Uninvited Guest

10: Best Laid Plans

11: Home Coming

About the Author

1

The Get Away

Tom sped his truck down Oliver Avenue towards Dale’s house. He swerved hard into the parking lane, and the right front tire bounced off the curb. Dale was standing out in the yard, smoking a joint with a couple of regulars; they hardly noticed Tom’s arrival.

Let’s go fishing! Tom hollered from the street where he walked around his truck, securing the tie downs on the canoe he had strapped into the bed. Finished with his task, he strode over to where the boys were congregated.

Are you ready to go ‘bro? Tom asked.

Not really, Dale said, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke.

Don’t tell me you’re not packed yet?

No ... I’m not going.

Not going! Tom was floored; he never saw it coming. We’ve only been planning this trip for the past year, and now ... all of a sudden you’re not going.

Come to think of it, Dale had been aloof these past several days; he didn’t act like a guy who was going on a two week fishing adventure in the wilderness.

How can you not be going? Tom asked. This is the Boundary Waters we’re talking about here, the Minnesota fishing opener ... remember?

I’m not going.

Dude, my truck is packed. I have all the food, the gear, everything; all you need to do is grab your fishing pole, and let’s go.

I can’t go, Dale said. Turning his back on Tom, he walked into the house with his entourage in tow.

Tom brought up the rear as they all flopped into furniture about the living room. These guys were old high school buddies who were famous for partying like wild men. Although they had graduated in 1976, not much had changed. Three years later and here they were, doing the same old thing: gambling, drinking, and smoking dope. Dale’s place was like a second home for these guys. He always had plenty of weed, and getting high was the order of the day. Beyond that there wasn’t much happening.

How could Dale pretend to be going all this time and then back out at the last minute? Tom squirmed in his chair. That son of a bitch must have been planning this betrayal all along. Tom wanted to stroll over and blast Dale in the nose with a straight right hand and wipe that shit eating grin off his face, but he knew these guys would all jump in and throw down on him. Instead, he sat there contemplating his next move.

It was too late to invite someone else; he was packed and ready to travel. Dale owed him an explanation. Why was he crapping out at the last minute?

So what happened? I thought we were going fishing.

I scored a pound of weed last night, and I need to stay in town to sell it. I need the cash.

Tom shook his head in disbelief. You would rather stay here and sell pot than go pound walleyes and northerns for two weeks in the Boundary Waters?

Look ... don’t you get it? I don’t want to go!

Well, I wish you would have told me sooner instead of waiting until the last minute. I could have offered it to someone else.

Dale fired up another joint, took a deep drag and passed it down the line. He had given Tom his final answer. When the joint came Tom’s way, he waved it off; he was in no mood to smoke.

Tom sat staring out the window at his truck. What to do? He had been to the Boundary Waters a number of times before, but never alone. He had all the gear, and he knew how to navigate with a compass and map. Screw this; he didn’t need Dale or any of these losers. He was going fishing.

See ya, Tom said, bolting for the door.

Where you goin’ Anderson? Dale asked.

I’m going canoeing in the Boundary Waters, Dipshit! Fishing for two weeks over the opener by myself, he said, letting the screen door slam behind him.

Everyone in the room looked at one another in disbelief; they were so codependent they couldn’t conceive of doing anything alone, especially a camping trip of this magnitude.

Do you really think he’s going? someone asked.

No, he’s bluffing, Dale said. You’ll see him hanging out at the bar tonight.

Tom jumped in his truck wondering why he had ever asked Dale to go in the first place. He’s an idiot. He has no idea what he’s missing. Tom wasn’t going to let anyone stop him now; besides, he could never live with himself knowing he let a looser like Dale torpedo his dream. Tom revved his truck and dumped the clutch.

Fuck’em, he said, squealing away from the curb, filling the air with burning rubber and smoke.

This trip meant every thing to Tom. He had worked for the power company all winter, trimming trees in the freezing cold and snow, stashing away what money he could to pay his bills in advance, so he could quit his job and go fishing the whole month of May

He dug under the mound of clothing on the seat next to him, looking for a semi cold can of Dr Pepper. It felt good not having any commitments; he could take his time now, be spontaneous, and return home when he was damn good and ready. He couldn’t ride his Harley for another month yet anyway; might as well stay up north. Besides his bike was safe at the clubhouse; Lance promised to keep an eye on it for him.

It wasn’t long before he hit the cross-town exchange and banked the truck onto 35W north. His timing was perfect; rush hour was over and traffic was light. This stretch of interstate would carry him out of the city and clear up to Duluth. Come tomorrow, he would be standing at the trail head. He could launch his canoe and paddle wherever his heart desired, the border lakes and rivers, Canada. Hundreds of miles of relentless wilderness all belonged to him; it was all waiting 300 miles to the north. All he had to do was get there.

He was riveted now. Excited about what lay ahead, he sat on the edge of the seat clutching the steering wheel with both hands. The prospect of being in the open spaces again made him speed. He was anxious to see the countryside and drink in as much of it as he could before nightfall.

Tom pulled into the left lane and stayed there. It was a straight shot up north and out of town. He looked up to see the city evaporating in his rear view mirror. Soon he would be free of it, with all its hang-ups and bullshit, free of his alcoholic father and brother, not to mention those so-called friends of his. He felt emancipated again, only this time it wasn’t by tragedy; he wasn’t that thirteen-year-old castaway from a broken home any longer. This time it was his choice. This time he was twenty years old, strong and at the top of his game. This time he commanded his own future. The world belonged to him; he owned it.

He entertained the thought of staying up north indefinitely, fishing for a living or cutting trees for a lumber outfit. He was a damn good tree trimmer and knew how to handle a chainsaw. He could get a job at the ski resort in the winter making snow or lift operating, maybe even ski patrol. Hell, he could write his own ticket, fishing in the summer and ski bumming in the winter.

As the truck surged forward, the rural countryside unfolded before him. He began to relax and let the open road consume him. He passed mile after mile of jet black, fallow fields ready for spring planting. Traditional farms with big red barns and familiar grain silos cropped up everywhere.

He tried to take it all in as it rushed by at 60 miles per hour. He counted: 2, 6, 8, Black Angus cows in a hollow, before noticing a ring-neck pheasant glide into a stand of old corn stalks on the other side of the highway. Mallards, Wood Ducks and Coots dotted the surface of every little pond, and road kill began to litter the highway.

He cracked the window and pushed open the wing until the cool evening air blasted into his face. He drank it into his body, sweet fresh spring air rushed into his lungs. He let it pour over him like a cleansing tonic, washing away the filthy city. It was like a drug he couldn’t get enough of. He rolled the window all the way down, climbed half way out and let the exhilarating air rush over his head. He opened his mouth, and his cheeks billowed and flapped with sweet country air. It tasted like home, a home he had never known, but desperately longed for.

God how he loved to travel! He had been introduced to it at an early age by his grandmother who took him camping every summer.

You boys pitch that tent, and Granny will get dinner started, she would say every evening when they’d pull into camp for the night.

Where do you want it? Tom would ask.

In the flattest spot you can find. This was their daily camping ritual, one she knew so well, one he was so eager to learn. Back in the sixties they’d load up Granny’s old Buick Skylark with gear and head for a National Park, Yellowstone, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon. They saw them all back in those days, back when they were still pristine places, back when you could drive right in, and plop down a tent without making a reservation. Back when your neighbors wouldn’t even consider playing loud music and partying all night. Tom was more than grateful for what his grandmother had done for him. She was the only one who protected him from his brother’s wrath.

You leave that boy alone! she would yell, fending off Tom’s older brother with her shoe, smacking him over the head with the heel when he’d try to pry Tom away form behind her skirt.

I mean it! You’re so damn mean to that boy, when he gets older he’s not going to have anything to do with you! Little did Tom know then, those words were to become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Now that he was older, he had little use for his sociopath brother.

He fought back the tears. Damn, why does it always have to end like this every time he thought about Granny? If only he hadn’t missed his chance to hold her, comfort her and tell her how much he loved her before the cancer swept her away? It wasn’t his fault; he was too young, too naive to realize what was happening. He could taste salty tears on his lips, signaling the time had come to tuck her back into the safety of a fond memory, like he’d done so many times before.

He crested a small hill and saw another dead coon. That makes nine so far. It reminded him of an old joke: Why did the chicken cross the road? To prove to the raccoon it could be done. He was having the time of his life; it was a party and he was the guest of honor.

He was discovering the unique, the special, all hiding in plain sight: a feral cat mousing amongst a broken down combine, a sway back barn preparing to collapse under the next strong wind, a crippled farm dog limping down a lane on three legs—small things really, things that people look at everyday but seldom see. Observation was a gift he never stopped to consider. It was a skill that would soon define him.

Before long he was squinting, peering through the windshield trying to make out the road. He had become so engrossed with his immediate environment that he didn’t notice the sun had gone down and it was time for headlights.

Better watch close for deer; it’s the golden hour, the twilight after sunset when most critters get smashed on the road. Hitting a deer would end this adventure real quick. He scouted the shoulders of the highway, ever on the lookout for a kamikaze deer ready to jump in front of his headlights.

Pine City 21 Miles, the sign read. Pine City was like an imaginary line where the first traces of the North woods became evident. Miles of farm country would now be replaced by birch, alder, aspen, and fir. Once you hit Pine City you knew you were on the fringe of the great North Woods.

It was dark by the time he passed the Pine City exit. He yawned deeply and stretched. It was the first time in two days he actually felt tired. He had tossed and turned all last night with visions of waterfalls and big fish dancing in his head. It was always that way with him, so eager to travel, that he could never sleep the night before an adventure. But now slumber had found him, and he contemplated finding a spot to