Chapter 21
I had a long hike to get back to my car. There probably was not enough daylight left to get me there. And while I had my GPS, stumbling in the dark in unfamiliar territory was not the wisest choice. Yet it seemed there wasn’t another good option.
“Well, it’s getting late, Jake, so I better get out of here.”
“Better come with me so you won’t get lost. I don’t like night.”
He started walking, in a direction perpendicular to the way I should be going to find my car. But I followed. If he had survived out here for years on his own, he probably knew better than me what he was doing.
He didn’t seem to want to talk. Maybe all the conversation we just had was his limit for the day. If he’d been out here for years alone, all the conversation today might have used up his annual quota. So we walked in silence with just our footfalls as background sound. Finally, he broke the silence.
“The draft got me into Nam.” He said this without the hint of craziness that much of our previous conversation had contained.
It didn’t surprise me. I had guessed he was at least 60, the right age to have been swept up in the draft for that horrible conflict.
“Were you in combat?”
“Not with a gun. I was a bad shot. I’m better now, with a gun and with a bow,” he said proudly. “So I was a corpsman. I patched up wounded guys while the Communists shot at me.”
It was difficult to picture this dirty confused old man as a corpsman. But then, in the heat of battle, cleanliness was probably not the primary concern in treating the wounded. Stopping the bleeding, administering painkiller, getting the patient to safety. Those would be the priorities.
“Did you get wounded?”
“Oh, yeah.” Now the craziness was back in his voice. “Many times.”
“And now you live out here alone?”
“Oh, yeah. No one is shooting at me here.”
I understood the desire to be alone, the desire for solitude, though being that way for years seemed over the top. I needed more contact than that with the human race.
Little light now penetrated to the forest floor. We finally arrived at his cabin, which was nestled on a high piece of ground in the center of a thick growth of trees. If he had not been leading the way, I probably would have walked right on past without noticing it in the low light. Even in the middle of the day, it would be tough to spot.
This cabin had no amenities. There were no electric or phone lines into it. The roof sagged and probably leaked in a rainstorm or when the snow started to melt. A nearby well suggested the lack of water lines into the place. Maybe he built the cabin himself, or maybe he just found it vacant and moved in. I didn’t bother to ask since it really didn’t matter. Regardless of how he chose this hovel, for him it was home.
Parked beside it was a very old rusty pick up truck. Affixed to the bumper was a bent and stained license plate, with a sticker that read 03-96. March of 1996. So he may have been in these woods for 13 years or more, not bothering to get the tags renewed. If he spent any time at all on official roadways, surely he would have been pulled over for expired tags. He just hid out here, living off the land, living off the grid, trying to stay under the radar of the military that he was so convinced still pursued him.
He tossed the dead bird and his gloves in the bed of the truck, stowed the rifle in the gun rack in the back window, and hopped into the driver’s side. I took that as my invitation to get in as a passenger, though I questioned if the thing was even functional.
“We’ll go to your car,” he offered.
“Thanks.”
Getting in, I noticed his hands. They had been obscured by the gloves until now. They were spotlessly clean. Unlike the grime covering the rest of him, his hands were immaculate. Maybe he really had been a corpsman, and clean hands went with the territory. Or maybe not. What did I know about being a corpsman? Nothing.
He turned the key, and the engine emitted a low muffled rumble from under the hood. He pumped the accelerator and gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white with the effort, willing the truck to start. It finally sputtered to life, spewing a thick cloud of gray smoke out the tail pipe. He flicked on the headlights, but all I saw was the dim glow from one still functioning bulb. We lurched and chugged through the woods, meandering around trees and through their low hanging branches until finally reaching a clearer path several hundreds yards along. It wasn’t what I would call a road, but it served the purpose. Eventually we did come out of the woods and onto a partly overgrown gravel road.
I marveled that somehow he managed to keep this old heap running. It clearly would not pass any motor vehicle inspection. And I wondered what he did for money to buy gas, bullets for his rifle, and basic supplies. Maybe he had a post office box in town to receive pension or Social Security checks, though that seemed unlikely since then there would be a way for the dreaded military to track him. Perhaps he was like me. Sold all his stuff, drifted out here, living off his cash, which must be running low after all this time. I wanted to ask, but held back since it really was none of my business. I dug into my shirt pocket and removed the change from my dinner at the diner last night. I stuffed it between my thigh and the seat cushion. I thought it was better to just leave some cash, rather than offer an outright tip, when we reached my car.
Jake was once more comfortable with silence, so silently was how we traveled. It was dark when we arrived at the trailhead parking area. He dropped me at my car, and I thanked him again.
“Nice to have your company,” he said out his window as he turned and drove away quickly, as if to indicate it was also nice when company left, leaving him alone again.