North of Nelson: Stories of Michigan's Upper Peninsula - Volume 2

By Hilton Everett Moore

...five compelling short stories from North of Nelson, Volume II, will captivate even the most jaded reader with frankness and audacity. Moore holds nothing back, no subject is out of bounds, no apologies are given, as he exposes stories of incest and lust, love, and hate.
In the short story Cell Tower, Milly is beset with guilt over her incestuous relationship with her mentally deranged younger brother Edward. The story ends tragically, as a deputy sheriff pursues Edward to his remote cabin in the wilderness of the Upper Peninsula where all three characters lives are entangled in a disturbing conclusion.
In the following story, Ditch Dog, the ignoble uncle of a sensitive nephew, Brian, engage in a strained explosive bond, between the pair, that ends in a heart-rending death of Ellie, Brian's loyal dog.
In Ode to a Lone Wolf, Randy, a farmer struggles with a perennial problem of wolf predation of his cattle and his love for the local female DNR officer. Like life itself there is no easy answer as he finds himself at odds with his ex-wife and behind bars.
The rest of the stories, from North of Nelson, Volume II, carry on from the previous volume and leave the reader wishing Moore would publish another set of gripping tales from the rugged Upper Peninsula of Michigan.
"North of Nelson should be read slowly, savoring the quirky characters, the poetry of the words, the odd, fierce stories. Hilton Everett Moore is far more than a regional writer. His words and stories place him in high literary circles indeed. So many of his phrases or sentences elicited a bit of envy, as in 'I wish I would have written that!' Beautifully illustrated throughout! A treat for the eyes, the mind, the imagination."
-- Sue Harrison, author of The Midwife's Touch
"Hilton Moore writes in southern Baraga County and has done all the things right to capture narrative seriousness about the region. His themes and styles are reader-friendly and are finding acclaim. Mainly he works at storytelling about the UP and the first volume was listed as a U.P. Notable Book. Let us hope that this second volume of Nelson stories remains among the UP Notable Books. I think it has the polish and the seriousness to do just that."
-- Donald M. Hassler, Emeritus Professor of English and contributor to UP Book Review
"Hilton Everett Moore's writings provide an intimate glimpse into the lives of North of Nelson residents. They reveal the physical and emotional struggles of living in the rugged wilderness of Michigan's Upper Peninsula. In the final short story Moore's character states, 'Tonight I was witness to the undressing of a human soul...' The author beautifully and lovingly exposes an individual's conflicts in searching for meaning in their lives. As with Volume I, North of Nelson II is a great read."
-- Jean Treacy, MA in Reading, former instructor at Western Michigan University
From Silver Mountain Press

• Language: English
• Publisher: Modern History Press
• Release date: Aug 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781615997701

Book preview

Reviews of North of Nelson Volume II

North of Nelson should be read slowly, savoring the quirky characters, the poetry of the words, the odd, fierce stories. Hilton Everett Moore is far more than a regional writer. His words and stories place him in high literary circles indeed. So many of his phrases or sentences elicited a bit of envy, as in I wish I would have written that! Beautifully illustrated throughout! A treat for the eyes, the mind, the imagination.

Sue Harrison, Author

Goodreads.com

Hilton Moore writes in southern Baraga County and has done all the things right to capture narrative seriousness about the region. He landed a major review by the president of UPPAA for his first volume, and his themes and styles are reader-friendly. Mainly he works at story-telling about the UP and the first volume was listed as a Notable Book. Let us hope that this second volume of Nelson stories remains among the UP Notable Books. I think it has the polish and the seriousness to do just that.

Donald M. Hassler

Emeritus Professor of English and UP Reviewer

Another noteworthy compilation of short stories by Hilton Everett Moore. Well done.

Shane Haywood

North of Nelson, Volume II illustrates the author’s ability to convey a sense of time and place, weaving the characters through imaginative plots. The characters and style are a must read. Four stars!

M.C. Rajala

Retired - L.A.S.

Hilton Moore’s ability to introduce characters who become instantly recognizable is a gift I became aware of in North of Nelson and became more complex in North of Nelson II.

Bringing to light the small-town mindset and throw in the difficulties of living in a snowbound wilderness, the inevitable instabilities of our sanity surface in delightful prose.

Thank you for letting me inside the process, I enjoyed the read.

Mark Kroll

I would like to congratulate you on your new Volume II. I have just finished all the stories and was thoroughly entertained and very impressed with your wonderful level of storytelling craftsmanship.

Al Frost

Hilton Everett Moore’s writings provide an intimate glimpse into the lives of North of Nelson residents. They reveal the physical and emotional struggles of living in the rugged wilderness of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. In the final short story Moore’s character states, Tonight I was witness to the undressing of a human soul… The author beautifully and lovingly exposes individual’s conflicts in searching for meaning in their lives. As with Volume I, North of Nelson II is a great read.

Jean Treacy, MA in Reading

Former Instructor at

Western Michigan University

Received via email, 12/15/2022

North of Nelson

Volume II

The Cell Tower

The Ditch Dog

Ode to a Lone Wolf

A Beast Called Fate

Lust and Lightning

by Hilton Everett Moore

North of Nelson

Volume II

by Hilton Everett Moore

Copyright 2023

Hilton Everett Moore

all rights reserved

Published by Silver Mountain Press

Covington, MI 49919

Printed by

Silver Mountain Press

Covington, MI 49919

ISBN 978-1-7367449-1-8 paperback

ISBN 978-1-7367449-3-2 hardcover

www.writerinthewilderness.com

www.silvermountainpress.com

Cover & illustration by Andreea Chele

No portion of this publication may be reproduced, reprinted, or otherwise copied for distribution purposes without the express written permission of the author and publisher. For information address Silver Mountain Press, P.O. Box 63, Covington, MI 49919

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events, locales and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales is purely coincidental.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Timeline

The Cell Tower

The Ditch Dog

Ode to a Lone Wolf

A Beast Called Fate

Lust and Lightning

Valiant; to be courageous while still shaking in your boots.

Acknowledgements

Dedicated to all Visionaries wherever they may be.

Victor Volkman - My grateful appreciation for his trust and professionalism.

A special thanks to Tina Vance for meritorious efforts above and beyond the call of duty.

Timeline

The log cabin lay hidden like a wary buck in a tangled cedar swamp.

I

The Cell Tower

It was nearly pitch black, a sliver of a crescent moon, and if it wasn’t for his cheap flashlight, he wouldn’t have been able to accomplish a necessary act. Using duct tape, he fastened the flickering flashlight to the barrel of the deer rifle so he could look sharply down the iron sight. He racked a shell into the old 30/30 rifle and pointed it at the offending red light on the cell tower. His first shot echoed in the still of that momentous evening, missing its mark, but the crack of the weapon a second time exploded the light and sent shards of glass like winter’s jagged ice crystals raining down around him onto the frozen ground. The cell tower had two red lights, and he was prepared to take the second one out just like the first—and he did. The two white lights were never on after dusk, so he would have to get those tomorrow, or someday soon when they were illuminated.

Edward picked up two of the three spent cartridges and stowed them away in his plaid hunting coat. He couldn’t find the third. He searched the ground with the flat beam of the dim flashlight but finally decided it probably didn’t matter anyway. He trudged back in heavy snow, staying on his previous track through the woods to his isolated cabin several miles away.

The log cabin lay hidden like a wary buck in a tangled cedar swamp. Ed shed the Iverson snowshoes beside the woodstove to dry out. From the cabin, on a remote site in the Huron Mountains, he could see the tower on the nearby prominence of Mt. Arvon. The tower had been erected the previous summer; immediately, Edward loathed it, a heinous, metal interloper in his life.

His camp was north of Nelson, in the western part of the Hurons. Edward Martin guessed correctly that anyone sent to repair the tower’s lights would assume that they had been shot out by a young vandal and wouldn’t suspect that a man of Edward’s age, going on thirty-two, would be so inclined. The fucking metal intrusion, kept him up at night; at least that’s what he would eventually tell Milcah. But for now, he would just savor the results in silence. One for me and one less for the fucking National Security Agency, he muttered to himself. The secret organization was often called upon by presidents and Congress alike to spy on the gullible populace. He should know. At one time he had worked as a government contractor, collecting and analyzing data for the NSA, till he was abruptly fired. Edward laughed out loud, almost a cackle, enjoying the notion that he had gotten one over on the bastards. That night, he’d gone straight to bed, sleeping soundly for the first time in weeks.

Milcah, nicknamed Millie, pulled out of the convenience store in her pickup and headed for Edward’s cabin. A month-old copy of the local newspaper lay on the passenger seat beside her. She glanced nervously at it, having reread the front-page article for at least the third time this past month. She had her suspicions but had held her tongue until she could talk to her brother. According to the paper, the FAA was working with Sheriff Morley, trying to pin down the actor or actors involved in shooting out the cell tower’s lights. The locals had just recently received cell service, though it remained spotty at best. But according to this article, disabling cell tower lights was a serious federal offense, as this crime endangered aviation traffic. The headline seemed to target her like a silent accusation: NEW CELL TOWER DISABLED BY GUNMAN. The paper was dated October 21, a solid month ago. She had purposely delayed a visit to Edward, partially out of concern and partially out of dread for the serious feelings she had for him.

She’d put on lipstick and tied her hair back, as Edward always wanted her to be made up. She’d also slipped on a pair of pastel pink thong panties. Why she went to this bother was still a question she asked herself, but never found the appropriate answer. Consulting the rearview mirror, she noticed that her long hair, though naturally blonde, was mixed prematurely with substantial grey. She didn’t think she looked too bad for an old broad of thirty-six, four years older than her brother.

Her ten-year-old rusty hulk, a much used and abused three-quarter-ton Ford pickup, jolted down the overgrown logging trail until she again found the narrow, twisting path that led back to Edward’s camp. She had pushed through some four inches or so of wet, sloppy snow, but the elevated frame and good four-wheel drivetrain were adequate for the task. She checked the rearview mirror as Edward always insisted, looking for the telltale signs of unwanted hunters or the damn Department of Natural Resources officers creeping through this lonely stretch of woods. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, Milcah parked on the two-track; there was no shoulder on this desolate road.

Edward had dug a pit nearby, where she could drop off supplies, the opening carefully camouflaged with pine branches and boughs scattered haphazardly over the pit’s trapdoor. Milcah first had to shovel snow and ice off the door before she loaded his supplies, mainly canned goods, into the hole as he had often directed her to do. Of course, his twenty-pound bag of flour couldn’t be left in the dirt-floor pit, as it would be ruined by the moisture, so she stashed it in her backpack, shouldered the load, and headed for Ed’s camp, thankful Edward carried the bulk of his supplies by himself.

She hiked the rough, root-twisted winding path, roughly a mile and a half from the long-abandoned road. The sun had turned the recent snow into slush, and made the tree roots that she occasionally tripped over treacherous. By the time she reached the cabin, Milcah was bushed and sat heavily in Ed’s only chair, a piece of junk salvaged from the dump. Edward was gone—hunting, she supposed. Venison was his staple, even out of season. She put another chunk of firewood in his cheap sheet-metal stove, as it was down to smoldering ashes, and cold air was seeping into the drafty cabin. The frigid chill slithered around her body like a garter snake engulfs a dying mouse. She shivered but was prepared to wait.

She opened a bottle of brandy she had brought along, then rolled a joint of Edward’s homegrown that he’d stashed behind a rock on the fieldstone hearth he’d made. Shortly Milcah was drunk and disoriented, caring less for her personal dilemmas and enjoying her high. Asleep, she barely stirred when Edward finally trudged into the cabin carrying a fresh venison hindquarter over his shoulder and found her dozing in the chair. He aroused her just sufficiently to undress her willing form and move her gently to the makeshift bed. They made love as the venison backstrap sizzled with onions in a cast iron skillet.

In the morning she could hear Edward’s gentle breath as he lay beside her on the rough-cut bed he’d made from lumber scraps. He’d fitted the ill-made affair with a lumpy mattress he had bought at a garage sale. Milcah sat up in the dim morning light and studied him. She felt a rush run through her body for her brother, a rush that she had harbored for decades, though she knew that she was poisoning herself.

She flinched from guilt, replaying the bout of sex they’d had the night before, which always filled her with equal parts of erotic sensations and shame. She tried in her head to reconcile her illicit relationship but admitted to herself that she was