Imagine That

By Kim Carlson

Early 20's female experiences: adventure, travel, Thailand, Indonesia, Minnesota, San Francisco, New York, sex, drugs, photography adventures, Native American culture, gray wolf, culture in the USA, culture abroad.

• Language: English
• Publisher: KC
• Release date: Nov 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781386443384

Book preview

Chapter 1

Imagine That.

I jumped into my green convertible VW Rabbit and headed down our grassy driveway. The car went kurplunk as it flopped over the ridge at the end and fell down to meet the dirt road; not your usual driveway. Plowing the dirt road over and over had made it much deeper than the normal flat entrance to a driveway. The clock on the dashboard read 12:10 p.m. My grandma was expecting me in twenty minutes. As usual, I was going to be late, being on time and my personality are not a perfect pair. I’m the type of person that is easily distracted and it seems like there is always one more thing I have to do, making it impossible to leave on time. Every time I’m about to leave, I start thinking about something else I should have done and then I can’t remember if I did it or not. Did I pull the canoe up far enough onto the shore? Did I water the wildflowers in my mom’s garden? Did I leave a note for my dad telling him where I was going?

The reason I was in a rush to meet my grandma was I had called and told her I had made a monumental personal discovery and she said she would love to hear it as long as I made it there by 12:30. Her bridge game started at 1:30.

It would have to be a quick drive. I could make it. One of my habits was to time the drive to her house. The first eleven miles were on an eleven-mile curvy and hilly dirt road. The person that created this road must have done it out of amusement. It wasn’t a road, it was a maze and seeing how fast I could make it through the maze was a way to amuse myself out in the middle of nowhere where we live. Besides the hills and curves, there are other obstacles such as a deer hanging out on the side of the road ready to bolt out in front of my car. Or it could be a rabbit, a turtle, a skunk, or a raccoon. My biggest fear is hitting a skunk. I’d been told if a skunk sprays you, you have to take a bath in tomato juice and there was nowhere to buy that much tomato juice in this area.

Since it was in the early afternoon and the animals were not too active, there was a chance to make it on time. I glanced at the speedometer; I was ripping down the road at the whopping speed of 20 mph.

Why was I going to see my grandma? What was so important? It was important because I’d finally come up with a sort of plan for my life, or at least I hoped I had. The way my life had been lately made me think I better get some sort of plan in action. I’d spent the last six months thinking about it. Up until about six months ago, I thought I’d be content to hang out in Northern Minnesota for the rest of my life, but then I started to feel like something was missing. My classmates had gone off to college or moved, including my boyfriend, and everyone was asking me, Why do you want to stay there? My answer to everyone was the same, I like what I’m doing now. Most of the time, people would roll their eyes or look at me like I was either crazy or had no clue about life. To me, they all seemed obsessed with making me do something different with my life, then what I really liked to do. Of course, they were all thinking in terms of money, because at some point in life I’d have to support myself. It seemed hypocritical, as my friends going to college were not supporting themselves. They are living on campus off their parent’s money. So why couldn’t I just live at home off my parent’s money and keep doing what I liked to do until it becomes profitable? Isn’t that the whole point of college anyhow? You go, you finish, you get a job, you make money. I was not going to college and I was already doing what I wanted to do, and someday I’d make money off of it, I hoped. What else was there but hope? Who said everyone that finished college was going to get a dream job or even land a good job? What they would get for sure, if their parents were not paying, was a huge debt.

To many, I was chasing an empty dream. I guess dreaming and living in a material world do not match. I’m not the type of person that cares about being wealthy. I want to enjoy my life and be able to take care of myself, but not be surrounded by tons of things. I liked nature. You are very Zen as my friend Amy tells me. What is Zen, I’d always ask her. Look on the internet or read a book please, was always her reply. Amy likes anthropology and I like photo-ology. My life in the forest felt complete. I was comfortable with myself, where I was, what I was doing, but everyone kept bugging me, so then I started to think that I better have a back-up plan or at least escape for a while otherwise everyone would start to think I was crazy. I have always felt that one day I could support myself, but no one else seems to think so by their reactions when I declined college, especially my grandma, Ms. Esther Anderson, who was a teacher in Southern Minnesota way back in the day. She trudged through the snow for a mile to get to a tiny schoolhouse to teach kids in combined grades, because there were not that many students. She didn’t take education lightly. That’s why I was in a hurry to talk with her. She was my favorite person in the world and always listened to me. One of my goals in life was to make her proud of me. I was trying to figure out my uneasiness lately. All the comments about myself had made me start to feel like time was passing me by. At first I tried to get everyone’s comments out of my psyche and stick with my plan. It wasn’t like I was just sitting around. I had a goal in mind and I was making progress towards it. Then this morning, I had a revelation about my future and I couldn’t keep it to myself and the first person I was going to talk to about it was my grandma.

As I passed the eleven-mile mark, which is where the dirt road hits the paved road, I picked up the speed to 50 mph, but still had to keep a look out for suicidal animals, like the bears. It was a beautiful day and the green trees and fresh air surrounded me. Brown cottontails grew near the side of the road in front of the tarmacs, which would turn yellow in the winter, even though they look like Evergreens, they are tricky like that.

Riding in a convertible in the deep forest is amazing. Not one building or car in sight. I couldn’t understand why my classmates wanted to get off to a big city. I did understand some of them wanted to pursue a career that you needed to study in college, like a doctor or lawyer. But that was not me. I loved living in a forest with the expansive blue sky and the puffy white clouds, it made me feel alive and in touch with life.

After fifteen minutes, I drove into Nashwauk, a former iron-ore mining town. Just as you enter the town, there is a little lookout stand where you can climb up the few stairs and see a giant hole filled with brilliantly blue spring water. I always want to dive in during the summer. Unfortunately, almost all of the mine pits have no access. There are giant useless holes filled with clear water, unlike the lakes in the area, which are dark and weedy. I always wondered if there was a way to turn one into a public swimming hole or a snazzy spa where one could frolic in fancy spring water. Imagine a huge natural outdoor swimming pool in the summer with no weeds!

Nashwauk is connected to the highway that leads to my grandma’s home, here is where I could pick up the pace to 70 mph. Again, on my right, more mining leftovers - giant mounds of reddish soil piled up and abandoned and not for any spiritual reason, just because the mining companies didn’t think to do anything about fixing up the land before they took off to South America. On one hand, these mounds are a definite piece of the area’s history, but looking at them makes you feel sorry for the Earth – ouch, major boo boo, a big open sore. It’s like having a giant cut and never putting any medicine on it. This is the striking balance in this area. On one hand, you are surrounded by the most gorgeous nature and on the other hand, you are surrounded by one of the worst destroyers of nature- mining. This is the heart of the Iron Range.

Going along, passing by the huge cemetery filled with white tombstones for the soldiers in WW I and II. Judging from the size of the graveyard, there were a lot from the Iron Range. My mother’s grandfather immigrated to America from Italy and he was immediately enlisted into the Army. In those days, if you were male and wanted to be an American citizen, you were enlisted. Shortly after arriving to the U.S., they sent him back to Europe to fight in WW II. Afterwards, he was awarded his citizenship. My parent’s grandparents come from Europe on a ship with no money. They landed on Straten Island and were greeted by the Statue of Liberty. My mother’s Italian grandma came here because she grew up in a house with one room with six siblings. They didn’t have anything more than the clothes on their backs.

On the Iron Range, there are ethnic festivals, and as a kid, I would see all the different European countries traditional clothing, traditional dances and eat traditional foods. My favorite are the Greek dishes. It seems like things around me connect me to the world outside my little existence here and perhaps I’ve just been afraid to get out into the world. Driving down this highway past the cemetery and the mines always makes me think of how hard life used to be and how lucky we are now! Especially me! No cars and no traffic and yes, my family lives on a lake! It’s Northern Minnesota. It would be almost impossible not to live on a lake. I love it!

Hibbing, here I am, late, but here. Turning into the alley that leads to Grandma A’s home, I park on the lawn. She doesn’t have a driveway, so we park on the grass in the backyard next to her garage.

My grandma lives in a small white house next to the house where my father grew up. It’s kind of weird, because I’ve never been in that house. Don’t ask me why, I guess because the neighbors never asked me in, they have a daughter about my age, but we went to different schools. Sometimes I wonder what it looks like and what memories it holds for my father and his sisters. They never talk about it. My aunt and uncle live next store to my grandma. They have one son who is eight years older than I. Our families used to get together a lot when we were little, but now I rarely see my cousin. He moved to Arizona after graduate school. He’s a genius physics guy that designs missiles or something scary like that and he’s not allowed to talk about his work, top-secret stuff. I try not to drink with him as the conversations could end up freaking me out if he was drunk enough to tell me what he really did at work. I like this neighborhood. It has an interesting feel about it. Down the block from my grandma’s house is the childhood home of Bob Dylan. When the house went on the market, my grandma suggested to the city they buy it and turn it into a museum. They didn’t want to do it and my grandma was very angry. She said, The city needs something to pull in tourists. The economy is horrible after most of the mines closed down.

My parents used to travel a lot to foreign countries when they were younger and they told me when they met people, they would say, We are from Minnesota.

The reply would be, Where is that?

It’s where the Mississippi River begins. My parents would say hoping people knew about this river.

The big city is Minneapolis? Are you from there? Would always be the next question.

No, we are from Hibbing.

The reply was always, Where is that?

In the North, on the Iron Range.

They would only receive a blank stare. If you are from Minnesota, you assume that everyone knows, especially Europeans, because that is where a majority of the iron ore mining was done for World War I and II.

The reaction was always, Oh, never heard of it.

Then my parents would say, Bob Dylan grew up there.

Immediately the reaction was, Oh yeah, I read that once or something like that.

My grandma really thought it would be great for Hibbing. So many people love Bob Dylan, even my grandma. How can you not love a man that wrote Hurricane? There are so many people out there that worship Bob Dylan!

I stopped the timer as I pulled into her yard. There is a comfort in knowing that in less than a half hour, I can find the one person who always offers answers I need and understand. Her doorbell sits right under a small black metal mailbox attached to her cute little white home. I rang it and then pushed the door open. She was sitting near the window facing her backyard. She called out, "Goddag. Kom hit, in Swedish saying hello and welcoming me into the room. I don’t really understand Swedish, but know a few phrases. I flopped down on the floor. Hur står det tll?" she asked.

I'm fine Graham Cracker, I said using her affectionate nickname, ya know how we’ve been discussing about the future? Well, I realized that maybe I should put a little pressure on myself, I said.

And what is the pressure you want to apply? Nothing painful I hope.

I’ve been thinking about departing on a new period of my life.

That sounds intriguing.

Well, what do you think? I wondered hoping to get a little advice from her.

"Is this a trick question? Graham Cracker said putting down her book of poems she had been absorbed in before I arrived. 

No, it’s not a trick question. I’m just wondering if my personal timeline is on or off. Maybe you can compare it with your experiences.

Who said you should have a personal timeline? she asked refilling her teacup with green tea from a flowered porcelain teapot. 

Don’t you think people have set periods they live throughout their lifetime and after a certain amount of time is finished, they have to move on? I’m questioning if it’s time for me to move.

Exploration is man’s only choice, she said taking a sip of tea.

What does that mean? I asked grabbing a cookie and my cup of tea.

It means that you’re old enough to make the right decisions, but young enough to correct the wrong ones, if they occur, she explored.

Do you think I’ve done anything worthwhile yet? I asked hoping for a positive answer.

Yes you have! she said giving me a big smile. And don’t forget you’ve only been alive for less than a quarter of a century. That’s just a smidgen of time."

But if I was living a hundred years ago, half of my life would already be over. I’d probably already have kids, I said wondering if I’d ever have a kid.

Perhaps, she agreed, but in this splendid age of modern technology and medicine, life is just beginning to take a shot at you. You have the potential to live at least sixty more years and because you’re a woman, there is even a chance to live longer. All you have to do is look at me to find conclusive evidence in being able to live a long life. She said nodding her head.

What she said was true, but on the other hand, by the time she was my age she was already married and teaching elementary school. She was very independent. All these events had a big impact on her life. Mine seemed to pale in comparison.

You’ve had different timelines in your life. Do you feel they were intentional? I asked.

What do you mean?

How did you know it was the right time for you to become a teacher? Were you trying to make that happen or did it just stumble upon you?

Our neighbor, Mr. Gustafson, would let me read the letters he received from his sister who was working as a teacher in Wisconsin. She wasn’t married and loved the freedom that teaching gave her. She could earn nearly the same wages as a man, which at that time was rare. It inspired me.

Seems like it was good timing, was it difficult to get started on your career?

Sometimes what we think is difficult is very easy, she said and put her nose back into the poetry book.

I sat on the floor lost in thought.

What are you reading now? I asked standing up a few minutes later.

Gertrude Stein.

That might mean it’s time for me to leave.

So, what are you going to do?

I think I’m going to travel.

Where? Do you want to visit our family in Sweden? she said putting down her book.

Not really.

Why not?

It doesn’t seem exotic enough. What would be the difference? Everyone around here looks like they are from Sweden, I said pointing out the obvious.

Not everyone, she said smiling and I know she meant my mother.

I haven’t decided yet where I want to go, but someplace warm all the time, I said glancing at my watch, it was almost time for her to leave. I went over to the doorway, put on my thongs, and started out her sky-blue colored back door. She called after me, Please take a minute out of your life to water my marigolds, since you have so much time left to live and I am coming to the end of mine. I want to spend my time constructively, like reading this book, even though I’ve already read it so many times. These poems make me believe that rich people have too much time on their hands. Just like you! she said out the window.

I looked up at her open window and said, Cities rise and collapse in a century, especially if you live on a fault.

Is that your imitation of Stein? It’s not confusing enough. By the way, please tell your mother to bring her lasagna next time she comes over.

Sure, I said putting the hose back.

She winked at me through the window screen. If I’m not wrong, you have a lot of money put away, don’t you?

A lot is relative. I answered to her up in the window.

Well, is it more than ten dollars? You need at least that to catch a bus out of town, she said giving me her approval to head out of town.

Yes, I have ten dollars, I said turning off the hose.

"Tack," she called out in Swedish thanking me for watering the flowers.

"Var så god, I replied, Ciao Graham Cracker!" I climbed into my car and started back home.

I guess the problem about what to do with my life next had been solved. It had been hovering over me like a gigantic deerfly and I had finally smashed it. I just needed to hear my grandma’s approval.

When I arrived home, I went to find my mom in her office. Maybe she had felt the same way as me when she was my age. Could it be heredity?

Hey Mom, may I chew your ear for a minute?

She put down her patient’s chart and said, Well, what else am I hear for?

She pulled on her ears.

Did you ever feel nagged by repetitive thoughts when you were my age? I asked.

Sounds like you need a psychologist, not a doctor.

I’m very serious. I keep having the same thought over and over.

About what?

I can’t stop thinking that an important period of my life is approaching, but I don’t know when to begin it and if I don’t begin it soon, will wonder if I will miss it?

Well, I can honestly say that I never had that problem. When I was your age I was constantly thinking about what I had to do to get into medical school and then shortly afterwards I became pregnant and you popped out of my body.

Oh, I said remembering we didn’t have a lot in common, besides the fact that we loved each other a lot.

I assure you that you are having a wonderful life. I think somebody on this planet is jealous that you are living such a happy life in this beautiful place, she said.

I rolled my eyes. She always reverts to her Lost Eden Theory. My mom believes we live in the loveliest place on Earth. Her reason is that it’s enveloped in wilderness in Northern Minnesota, the mythical land of funny accents. I pronounce it Mi-ni-so-da to drive my parents crazy. This makes it the only state that sounds like a small soft drink, unless you are actually from Minnesota where a soda is not a soda, it’s a pop. My parents insist on the pronunciation as Mi-na-so-da. I learned from my father’s friend that this pronunciation means, everyone thinks so in Japanese.

Our home is next to George Washington State Forest, but I know George Washington never visited around here. He was probably afraid of Native Americans and this is Ojibwe territory. Living here is like being trapped in a zoo. At least twice a day I spot wild animals such as bear, fox, deer, raccoon, weasel, porcupine, rabbit, muskrat and beaver. There are even scary fish lurking in our lake. When my mother was sixteen, she and a friend were canoeing on King Lake and saw an object floating against the shore that appeared to be an oar. They paddled over and when they reached it, it was Moby Dick of the Lake; a gigantic muskellunge about four feet long. These fish are freshwater barracudas and have been known to attack small dogs and children. When I was twelve, I stuck my hand inside a northern pike’s mouth and my father had to slice open the side of its head to release me from the barbed-teeth. Since then, whenever I’m floating in the water, I imagine a long snaky muskellunge swallowing my foot and pulling me underwater or taking a chunk out of my butt.

I’d be a liar, like most people who fish, if I said I’d caught a northern like the one my mom saw at King Lake. Even if I had, it wouldn’t compare to some of the fish they film on the Discovery Channel. Every time I see one of those shows, I think, There’s another place I’ve never been. I’m sure people all around the world are in awe of the exotic areas where they don’t live. According to my mom’s belief, someone on this planet might be thinking that exotic place is Minnesota.

My mother’s answer did not help me. I was hoping to bring up that I wanted to take off and travel. I guess this wasn’t the time, so I left her office and went to my bedroom. I lay down on my bed and tried to figure out a way to approach my parents with my new plans. How long would I be gone for? Why was I doing it? Did I have a deadline for when I should make this departure into my new life?

I daydreamed about this new adventure. Was I set to become a neo-explorer seeking out mysterious places on Earth before they vanished to corporate giants? Would my face be placed in history books? Instead of millions of children in the United States memorizing this worn-out phrase In 1492 Christopher Columbus sailed the ocean blue, they would repeat a new phrase, always located under my photo of course, The world saw a new vision when Francesca abolished all countries divisions. Indeed, inside my soul, there was a desire to become a great discoverer. Could I surpass Columbus? I didn’t have any infectious diseases to spread and wasn’t interested in conquering anyone’s land. I would go in peace and tread lightly. The only thing I wanted from my explorations was to photograph and visually document cultures.

What about my background in traveling? It wasn’t in-depth. The one experience that I recall most vividly was when I was ten. It inspired my interest in photography. My parents took me to Kentucky to see Mammoth Cave; the world’s largest cave. My mother was fascinated with caves and she picked the destination. After spending a day on a spelunking tour, crawling through dark cold tunnels, we went to a campground. I was at the pool, enjoying the clear blue water where I knew there were no muskies, when two boys about my age approached me.

Where are you from? the taller one asked snapping his gum. The shorter one itching his head. They were both grimy from crawling around in a muddy cave or maybe they were just grimy.

Mi-ni-so-da, I said smiling.

Minnesota? they chimed in their childish voices.

Yah.

Their eyes grew wide and the short itchy boy said, Are you an isolationist?

A what? I said shrugging my eyebrows in confusion. This was a pretty big word for a ten-year-old.

A person that stays away from other people, he went on.

I’m here right now. I responded to their blank stares. Where are you two from?

New York City. THE best place in the world, the itchy boy said with enthusiasm.

I don’t think so.

What? the taller boy shouted. Get real, New York has everything, especially compared to where you live."

How do you know where I live?

We studied about all the states in school. Our teacher said the only interesting thing in Minnesota is the timber wolf, said the gum snapper.

Do you mean the gray wolf or the basketball team? I wondered.

The wolf.

Well, I bet where I live is better than where you live, I egged them on. 

Were you raised by a pack of wolves or what? the short muddy boy teased.

I took a deep breath, howled at them, and they retreated from the pool. I was excited to hear the wolf had reached a level of notoriety around the states. It was because of these animals that people could identify my state.

That trip had two effects on me. One was to go to New York City and the second was to find a big bad gray wolf. After returning from Kentucky, I went to the Hibbing public library and checked out two guidebooks about New York. I started planning an itinerary, which boiled down to three points. The first was to check out the cityscape from the top floor of the Empire State Building at night. The second was to see my favorite painting, The Heart of the Andes by Frederic E. Church at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I first saw it in my father’s art book and it’s amazingly beautiful. When I look at it, I want to go to South America and hike and get lost in the mountains and meet an ancient race of people. Thirdly, I would go to a gigantic bookstore and make my parents buy me books.

My mother found my itinerary and at dinner one night said, So I guess we are going to New York Francesca. Would you like to come? My mother went to medical school at Columbia University and felt it was time to share New York City with me. We went during Easter holiday. Being in the city was my first experience of seeing and hearing people from all around the world. The entire population of the city seemed to be tourists. The most unusual thing I saw, at least in my eyes, was a person carrying groceries on their bicycle. That did not happen where I lived, because the closest store is fifteen miles away. Where I live there are dirt roads and pretty empty highways, New York City streets are filled with strangers, taxis and tour buses.

After two days of sightseeing, I decided it would be impossible for me to live where the only place to find greenery is in a park with a lot of people and the only animals were dogs. This was a big decision for an eleven-year old. I mourned the fact that I would never live in a big city, but stepping out of my front door and into the forest was my ideal. I was happy to return home and get on to developing what was to become my wolf fetish. By the time I turned thirteen, when I should have been starting to chase boys, I became obsessed with tracking and photographing wolves. I received a Nikon camera for Christmas and set up a space in our garage with my computer. I spent all of my time taking photos passing up dating, drunken beer parties in pastures and other rural teenage events to hang out in my own private art space and concentrate on becoming a photographer.

My parents seemed relieved to have discovered a way to keep me preoccupied during my teenage years and supported me by arranging adventures with local scientists and state park naturalists studying animals. Most of them were my mother’s patients and they allowed me to go along with them while they tracked and tagged animals like bears and wolves.

My outdoor adventures have gone on like this for five years and I probably knew as much about the habits of wildlife as the scientists. I learned so much about the earth around me. If I had to survive in the forest on my own, I could do it. I had the all the tree’s names memorized, could find the right berries to eat, pick the nuts during the correct season and knew all the birds calls. In the forest, I felt I was never alone. I didn’t think it was a scary place. The forest was a beautiful place and peaceful. Murderers were in the city, not in the forest.

When the weather was warm, I would sleep with my window open and fall asleep to the rhythms of the night forest. One night, I heard something I’d never heard, it was a pack of wolves howling from just across the lake. The only wolf sound I’d ever heard was whimpering from a sedated one being tagged. I bolted out of bed and stared out the window into the pitch black. I lay awake all night wondering why they couldn’t have been on my side of the lake. They were so near my parent’s home! Were they just traveling through this area? I pictured them drinking from the lake and playing around in the sand. At daybreak I raced across the lake in my canoe to search for paw prints. As I came close to shore, I couldn’t believe my eyes. In front of me were four wolves in a large kennel. This had to have been built within the last few weeks, because two weeks ago I was fishing near this property and nothing was here. I snapped a few photos from the canoe, and then paddled home to see if my parents mentioned the howling at breakfast.

They didn’t say anything, which made it so obvious they were deliberately trying not to discuss it. Whatever the secrecy was all about, I didn’t care. This was a perfect opportunity for me. It also angered me, as it seemed they were not supporting my dream to photograph wolves. In the midst of their denial, for one week straight, I would leave the house with my drawing pad and pretend to canoe to the island in the middle of our lake, then I’d paddle around it and cut over to the property were the wolves were and hide my canoe. The only person that saw me was Mr. Barry and he’d wave at me as I went by. He was a kind old man that seemed on my side. All he wanted was a sunny day and a fish on his line and no bears breaking into his cabin.

All week I tried to camouflage myself behind the nearest skinny birch tree to the cage and photographed the wolves. The person in charge of the wolves was a woman. I watched her through my zoom lens as she talked with the wolves. She had long braided chestnut brown hair that reached the middle of her back. Immediately I was jealous of her. She had it all- four wolves, the perfect height, a shapely body and a pretty face.  I kept playing spy until the end of the week when she spotted me and started chasing me. I jumped into my canoe and paddled like crazy. I’m calling your parents! she yelled watching me escape. Quickly I paddled home wondering how could she know who my parents were? Then my jealousy of her turned to resentment. What a bitch! Why couldn't I take photos of the wolves? They barely noticed I was there. Only once one glanced at me and then ignored me.

My father was on the phone when I entered through the sliding glass door on our porch overlooking the lake. He pressed on the speakerphone and there was that woman’s voice from across the lake explaining how it was important that the animals didn’t come in contact with humans. They were to be returned to the wild after the study was completed in two years and had to remain wild.

After hanging up my dad turned to my mom and said, What does she think she is? She’s human too.

Yeah, and keeping them in a cage is going to keep them wild? Give me a break. Wolves don’t belong in cages. It’s sick! I said.

He turned to me and said, I’m going to punish you for making me listen to this mad scientist on the phone for the last ten minutes. You are not to use your car for a week. This was my father’s prime choice of punishment. He knew it would affect me in a roundabout way. The real effect was I would not be able to go into Grand Rapids to buy my number one snack, candy corn, which could only be bought at the store fifteen miles away. Photos and candy corn went hand-in-hand for me. He thought this was a way to stop me from taking photos of the wolves. He knew if he said that directly my mom would object. She knew that was my only pleasure in life.

I pleaded with my father. This is unfair. You knew those wolves were there and didn’t tell me. What else could I do if you were sneaking around like you didn’t know what was going on over there, then I had to sneak around too, right?

She’s right you know, my mom said.

Well, what was I to do? Everyone knows about your fascination with wolves and someone told Cory. She came here one day when you were at the store and asked us to keep you from going over to her property. I said I would, but how could I tell you that?

Who’s Cory?

That lady on the phone. The wildlife biologist.

Did she buy those wolves? I bet she didn’t. She just trapped them inside a cage. I have every right to go there. Her salary is coming from our taxes, right? She must be working for the state.

Yes, she does work for the state and we have to honor her request. There will be no trespassing or you could be thrown in jail.

Is there a jail around here? I asked. I had never seen one.

Well, that’s a good question. I guess they’d bring you to the nearest town. Maybe to Nashwauk.

I turned to my mom. Mom, please call her and see what you can do. There has to be a way to allow me to be over there. I mean made her Queen of the Wolves? I have to take my photos. Someday my photography will be important to society.

I think it’s crazy too. Those poor wolves, they need some company, besides they shouldn’t be locked in a cage. I’ll see what I can do, she said leaving the room.

She hated to see me punished. She is a doctor because her parents encouraged her to follow her dreams and she knew I was following my dream. The next day she phoned Cory and reached the agreement if I helped with the chores there would be visitation rights. There was always a long list of work, which differed depending on the season. It didn’t seem like she could ever keep up with it, since she was running the entire project by herself. I don’t know why she didn’t suggest it to my dad in the first place. Lucky for her, she had a free assistant. At least that is the way I saw it, since I still wasn’t making money off my photos.

Somedays I was raking leaves, gathering firewood, pulling weeds or shoveling snow. I usually went there four times a week in the spring, summer and autumn and only twice a week after the lake froze. This is because Cory insisted on not having the road to her cabin plowed, so I had to go by snowmobile and it was a long trek around the lake and many days much too cold. The only other way to reach her place was to cross-country ski across the lake and there was no way I was crossing a frozen lake. I’m paranoid about the ice breaking. I compare it to balancing on a tightrope two hundred feet in the air with no net below. Needless to say, I am not a fan of ice fishing.

Even though I should have felt fulfilled to have those wolves so close to observe, I was not. I wanted a solo encounter. I had been tracking wolves for almost six years and had only one encounter and of course I didn’t have my camera with me! It was about six months ago in the spring. I was driving home on an isolated dirt road around two a.m. from a friend’s place. In the beam of my headlights, a silvery object, shimmering like a ghost, seemed to float towards my car. As the space closed in between us, I saw it was a gray wolf much larger than the biggest one in Cory’s cage. I braked and watched it slowly approach my side window. It stopped and looked in at me. I could hear it’s breathing as we stared into each other’s eyes through the glass. After about ten seconds, it turned and strutted off into the forest. I was shaking with excitement and had the urge to chase after it. I reached for the door handle, grabbed it and then stopped. What was I thinking? I couldn’t go dashing off through the woods alone at night after a huge wolf, probably the leader of its pack. And, I didn’t have my camera. I started crying. It seemed I had missed the best shot of my life. The Ghost Wolf, photography by Franchesca.

This may seem like a flaky Little Red Riding Hood story, but it was after this experience with the glowing wolf that I couldn’t stop thinking about how my goal had been to track and photograph wolves in the wild and it wasn’t happening for me. My second thought was, what if I had met that wolf alone in the forest? It could have attacked me. Maybe I needed to focus my photography efforts on a different subject matter for a while. A change of pace. A new environment. 

I’d finally figured out why I felt ready to embark on a new period of my life. The time had come to find another challenge, in particular something that couldn’t eat me and now I was ready to go. I had my grandma’s approval and that was all I needed. 

Chapter 2

A Woman Who Paints in the Forest

After I made my decision to travel, all I had to do was acquire more money. It wouldn't be a problem, just take a little more time, hopefully before winter.

It was a gorgeous day and instead of spending it inside at my computer looking at photos, I decided to take a hike in Scenic State Park, about twenty miles from my home. It’s one of my favorite places to spend an afternoon and part of my life routine is devoted to hiking and cross-country skiing in this park. I find exercising outdoors in the summer more of a challenge than in the winter, because I have to avoid being attacked by deerflies and mosquitoes.

As I was running from a big bad-ass horsefly, I came across a young woman painting near the shore of Coon Lake. There she was sitting amongst the pines painting her life away and as I ventured closer, I noticed she was being mistaken for insect lunch. She kept hitting herself in different places and seemed to be performing a masochistic dance. When she heard me approaching, she looked up and then turned back to her painting. I knew she wasn’t from around here just by the fact that she was sitting inside the woods and painting. We locals only sit outdoors in a screened porch in the height of summer.

Hi, I said trotting up to her, pretty hot today isn’t it?

Ummm, she hummed back at me not surprised at all by a stranger approaching her in the forest.

I took a good look at her painting. It didn’t appear to be the lake, although it did have earthy tones like blue, green, and brown.

So, you’re an abstract painter? I guessed out loud.

Am I?

Just looking at your painting?

Uh huh, she answered.

Uh huh you are?

Uh huh, I see.

See what? I asked.

I see what you mean.

I asked if you were an abstract painter.

Right, she said still looking at her painting. I didn’t press the question any further since she wasn’t giving out any answers, so I said, I’ve never met anyone just sitting here in the forest painting.

Oh?

Most people can’t stand the insects. Aren’t you bothered by the swarm of mosquitoes sucking the blood out of every exposed part of your body? I said watching her dab at the canvas.

I guess she thought that was funny, because she finally looked at me and laughed.

I like it here. I didn’t think anyone would find me. I’ve traveled all the way from New York to be somewhere quiet, she said smiling.

You couldn’t stand green in segregation, right?

What do you mean? she asked.

New York has green, but it’s just in patches. I like the continuous green here.

I just wanted to be alone, she said. She didn’t sound like she was from New York. Her accent was foreign, perhaps British? I didn’t know. Judging from comments about wanting to be alone, I thought I should leave so she could become an isolationist just like us Mi-ni-so-dans.

Well, sorry to disturb you. Have fun in Mi-ni-so-da, I said starting to walk away.

"Did you say Mi-ni-so-da ? she said. 

Yes.

Is that the correct pronunciation?

Well, my parents say, Mi-na-so-da. It’s Minnesota as you probably already know. Don’t let our silly dialect bother you.

And you say it differently because?

Mi-ni-so-da makes it the only state with a name that sounds like a small soft drink. Unless you are actually from here, then a soda is not a soda, it’s a pop. Don’t forget that if you want to fit in.

Whatever you say mate, she said turning to add a little orange to the canvas. I looked around the lake for something orange. There was nothing in site.

I hike this trail all the time. Today I’m meeting a pack of wolves for lunch. We’re having raw meat. How about you, do you like raw meat?

I like sushi. Especially sea urchin, she replied.

Sea urchin looks a little crunchy to me. People actually eat that? I asked peering closer at her painting. She was definitely a beginner, probably with one of the recreational organizations that brings groups here every summer.

Yes, the inside you know.

Are you part of Outward Bound? I asked.

Out what? she said spreading around a bit of green paint.

Outward Bound. Are you on one of their trips? They bring people into the woods and leave them there. The participants survive by eating berries, I said swatting a horsefly off my arm. I found a group of them once and I had to show them which berries to eat. I think they were from Boston or someplace concrete bound like that.

Never heard of them. That sounds like shit anyway just eating berries. I’m not a rabbit for fucks sake.

Yeah, I prefer bugs to berries anyway. By the way, that’s a great painting. It’s a perfect representation of Coon Lake, I lied.

I wondered if this lake had a name, she looked me in the eyes. I have to find a loo. Would you mind watching my painting for a moment? Make sure no mossies stick to it. I’ll be right back, she said jumping up, slipping into her leather sandals and pouncing behind a big pine tree.

A mossie? Whatever that was. I looked back at the painting. It was truly horrible. I’d done better finger-painting in elementary school.

I could smell a skunk in the bush, she announced returning.

I knew she wasn’t from America, but surely she knew the difference between a tree and a bush.

What bush? Those are Norway Pines, our state tree.

Well mate, I don’t know what you call these trees, but where I come from anywhere that isn’t a city is the bush.

Where are you from? I asked.

I’m an Aussie, she answered proudly.

Come again?

I’m from Australia. she said checking out the painting from a standing point of view. I wondered if she saw what I saw. Couldn’t you tell where I was from my accent?

I didn’t think anything actually.

Really? she yelped at me.

"I’ve never met anyone from Australia or Britain or anywhere with your type of accent. What if I had guessed British? Would that have been better?

No worse. It’s better you said you didn’t know. I mean how would you like it if I called you Canadian?

I wouldn’t freak out. It’s only an hour away.

She went back to her work and added a speckle of blue to the canvas. I admired her for painting though. It takes determination to finish a canvas. I know because I’ve watched my mother struggle with finishing a painting. Perhaps she thought she was going to be the next Monet and here we were- Columbus meets Monet in the skunk-smelling pine forest.

If you’d like, you can join me on the hike. I can show you some other pretty spots, I offered.

No thank you. I’m going to stay here for now. Check back here when you finish, if I’m still around maybe you could tell me more about this area. I haven’t met anyone from around here. If I have more knowledge, maybe I can put more emotion into my painting, she said wiping the brush on a big leaf.

Sure, if I have time. I’m pretty busy. Catch you later, I said leaving her to continue destroying the canvas. I usually hiked alone, unless my father joined me, so I wasn’t disappointed that she refused my offer. When I hike alone, it’s quiet and it increases my chances of meeting with animals. This time I had my camera ready for that wolf that probably wasn’t going to appear. Besides, I thought she was kind of rude. If she was so interested in hearing about this area, so could come with me now. Still, I was intrigued about putting the conversation in her court and learning about Australia. Maybe that was a place I wanted to go on my trip. I decided to quicken my pace. I looked back to see her one more time as I turned the corner of the trail. There she sat painting, Ms. Insect Lunch from Australia.

Chapter 3

Wall Eyes

Pine Lake is one of the few lakes near my home that is actually a circle, whereas other lakes are shaped like amoebas. The average hiker could circumference Pine Lake in about two hours, but it takes me a bit longer because I have an uncontrollable spy eye. I’m always on the lookout for interesting tidbits like spiders, feathers, beaver tails or flowers and bugs, which, in my opinion, are the two greatest things on the planet. Whenever hiking, I concentrate intently on my surroundings and usually discover a new flower or insect.

My hike was going great as I rounded the final corner on the last stretch of trail and saw the painter painting in the same place and position.

I’m back, I