INTO THE WOODS TO DIE

INTO THE WOODS TO DIE

by David Drury

Current Word Count: 7,000

I am dying.

Recognizing that took a while. Many doctors visits. Conversations with my family. A few nights arguing with God or myself or the pillow.

But eventually when my oncologist just put the time span on the table I got it. Got that I am dying. One to six months.

Most of my life I've seen six months as a long time. When I was a teenager it would have seemed like eternity. In college I went away for school and left my high-school sweetheart behind in my hometown. I wouldn't see her for almost six months. It felt like an eternity for us. I called as much as I could afford, and we wrote letters like crazy. I've never written so much in my life. I haven't written a letter in nearly a decade. Of course, that's when my high school sweetheart died. Ten years ago Joan "passed before me" as I wished she would. I wouldn't want her to be alone. I’m paying for that wish now.

But my older years have been useful years. I used to think that anyone over 65 wasted their lives away and they were just pathetically biding their time till they died. Of course I didn’t think that once I turned 66 a decade ago.

I used to think that old people didn't have much to tell young people. I used to think that being married was harder than being single. I used to think a lot of things.

I used to think dying would come quick like a spring thunderstorm. Not slow and ominous like the first cold day of winter. Death seems to enjoy its task too often. I fear the permanent winter.

But at least I know it's coming now. I'm over the denying dying deal. What's the use of that? It's coming. Not much I can do. My life is no longer in my hands. It first went into the hands of doctors and nurses. Then into the hands of machines and medicines. Now my life is in the hands of no-one. No one holds my life.

So I think I'll take it back.

It's my life, buddy. I'm sick of everyone's hands-off attitude to my life now. They know as much as I do that it's over. They don’t want to put my life in their hands. I will.

But I'm not going to kill myself. That would be the easy way out. Joan would nag me for a billion years in heaven for doing that. Or worse yet, she'd nag me across the Chasm while I burn like the first meal I tried to make myself after she died.

I'm supposed to move into a nursing home next week. It's the right call. My son and daughters had to make it. They all live out of state... and none of them would be home enough to take care of me in the last months. I'm to move into Providence Care Community on Westshore Drive south of town. HAH! Providence! The nerve.

I've been a free will Baptist since I was 14 and now I'm going to really show it. Not moving in there. My destiny will eventually be out of my hands. But at least for a time it's in mine. Providence eventually. Free will for now. I'm thinking three months, just to be safe.

The best dog I ever had was Rowdy. Most dogs are just dogs. They eat and sleep and poop and pee. We love them because they don't do much else. But Rowdy was an above-average dog. And he was a wolf—basically—half-husky half-grey wolf. He had that bristly kind of brush-hair that would itch you if you hugged him. And the tufts of longer hair on his belly would store mud for a week. He was an outdoor dog. Some dogs are indoor dogs. Small dogs mostly. The kind of dogs small enough to sleep in bed with you. The kind of dogs you don't need to take for a walk for them to do their duty. You can just hold them out the window with one hand while reading the paper with the other hand.

Rowdy liked being an outdoor dog. He wouldn't let us keep him indoors. If inside too long he would look out the window and dream of chasing ducks and tracking squirrels. He would stand by the door and sigh. His dog-shoulders would droop.

He wasn't made to be cooped up—he was an outdoor dog.

I think I'm an outdoor dog too.

When Rowdy was old in dog-years he would start to spend less time on our porch. He started to hang out down by the barn out back. We had to feed him back there and he always looked sad and wouldn’t look you in the eye anymore. He didn't run at first and then he even started to limp. If I came around the side of the barn and caught him limping he would lie down right away, put his jowls on his paws and look away from me. He actually looked ashamed.

Five year earlier if my Dad would say to Rowdy, "Let's go for a ride in the truck!" he would make like a lightning bolt to that red Chevy and before we'd even put down the tail gate he would leap in one astounding motion over the side of the truck without even scraping his nails on the side. He'd land in the middle then run to the front of the bed and look forward. He'd then glance out of the corner of his eye at us as if to say, "What are you guys waiting for?"

But this wasn't the same Rowdy. He couldn't even climb steps anymore, much less jump. Something wasn't right. He was dying.

And then he was gone. One of us caught a glimpse of him limping into the forest behind our land one day; head held high for another adventure in the wilderness. Then we never saw him again. He took his destiny into his own hands if only for a time.

I'm an old outdoor dog. My buddies are dying off. My dame has already left me. It's time for another adventure. I don't think I can survive the old folks home thing. I guess that's the point of them, actually. A place to die.

I had to put Joan in one for the last 9 months of her life. We moved in together to an intermediate care place first. Then she needed nurses around 24/7. The last place she lived in was horrible. The people that worked there were fine—tried their hardest. But I remember walking through the hall one time and catching a whiff of something that just made my eyes swirl and stomach turn a different color. I covered my nose with my sleeve and breathed out of my mouth but I couldn’t make it. I could taste it.

I would feel like a caged dog in there. And the “dog” feeling is appropriate. Yes, they would still love me in there, just like they’d love a dog. I’d eat and sleep and poop and pee. They’d love me even though I wouldn’t do much else.

But it had to be with Joan. No other option, really. Just like me now.

Well. Not anymore I guess. I'm about to touch down in an airplane in the Yukon Territories instead. I'm creating another option. There's a forest here that I've always wanted to go into and explore. No one knows. I sent a letter from the airport back home before I left.

Dear Ron,

You are the executor of my estate. Thank you for being willing to take on this difficult role as I leave behind some things left undone and unpaid. However, the pockets of savings and investments that your mother and I stored up should cover all that. Please go see my lawyer, Al Shewmaker, at his office downtown. I’m sending a copy of this letter to him as well. He’ll give you all the documents.

I’ve given you power of attorney in my absence already, so you can access the estate to arrange my affairs. I am not killing myself. I’m just going into the woods. However, I’m not coming back. I’m an old man with a terminal disease and no doubt after a year any judge in the country would pronounce me a goner even without the “proof.” So instead of waiting six months to do all this you may have to wait 12 months. Of course now the estate won’t go into meltdown with the nursing home bill so something will still be there for you to work with.

My golf clubs are in the garage behind the shovels. I know you love those clubs. Go get them today and play a round in honor of me. I won’t need them any more. They’re yours.

Don’t send anyone looking for me. No one knows the woods I’m going to. I haven’t told a soul and I won’t be found. That’s my choice. At my last birthday party the whole family and all the grandkids and even Jodi’s newborn granddaughter was there—making me a great-grandfather. I’ve had a long and good life. I’m ready to see Joan again. And the fates have ordained that it will be soon, one way or another.

Here’s to “another”, son. Take care of the family. You’re the oldest now.

Best wishes,

Dad

*Notarized and dated here by Samantha Gretel of Watuska County

Here is my Adventure Journal. If this is found on the person of a dead old man in the wilderness of the Yukon please return to Ron Steward at the address written in the back cover. My remains may be respectfully left where they are found.

Day 25

Well, I’m starting this journal now and I’m kind of kicking myself for not starting on Day 1. But that’s my way, I suppose. Joan would always complain that I hated writing letters or notes. She used to write a card to my mother on mother’s day and remind me to sign it. But now that I’ve been out here for three weeks it seems stupid for me not to record all that’s happened. Here’s the speedy recap—I only have one pencil and a Motel 6 pen with me so I don’t want to use up all the lead and ink before I’m “done”.

After sending my letter at the airport back home and flying up north I bought an old pickup truck at a used car lot for just $1,000. It’s a piece of junk for sure. I always wanted a piece of junk pickup truck. It’s one of those things Joan never understood. But I just needed a one way trip up to the River anyway. On the way up I stopped at “Big Josiah’s” which had the following words beneath the sign: Bait, Tackle, Gas, Grocery, Subs, Convenience Items. I stocked up on the kind of supplies I thought I’d need. I bought way too much stuff. I guess going on your last shopping trip makes you buy a heck of a lot more. Here’s a brief list of some of the random things I bought from Josiah’s:

ü Pair of aluminum snowshoes ü 4 large canisters of campstove fuel (for my little backpacking stove – I didn’t plan to starve myself to death – I could have done that at home) ü Large plastic water bladder ü 6 packs of Double A batteries ü Four huge packages of seasoned beef jerky ü 25 assorted blocks of American, Colby, and cheddar cheese ü 1 bottle of Juice-Joy fruit drink ü 48 Lipton boil and eat meals (I took every one on the shelf—even the “broccoli and cheese” ones. I hate broccoli!). ü 14 lighters ü a package of 8 cigars ü a Coleman lantern ü an extra down jacket ü an extra pair of work gloves ü a map of the river and woodlands to the north ü a map of the national park to the south ü two large boxes of trash bags ü and about 35 other items I’ve forgotten I bought now because I don’t even have them with me anymore.

Josiah looked at me like I was a bank robber the entire time I was gathering together this stuff in a pile by the register. He triple-checked his math as he counted up the price of the pile with his blue eyes growing to the size of plums. As I pulled out a huge rubber-band wrapped roll of hundreds he said, “Well, fella, you’ve got some trip planned, and I think I might take the rest of the week off to go fishing after you pay this bill. I won’t need to sell nothin’ for three days after this.”

I paused a moment as I looked into Josiah’s plums. He was too right about that. I paid him with a curl of bills that he put right into his pocket, then he strolled over to the door to flip the “open” sign. He then kindly helped me load up the truck. I then pulled out another two hundred in green curls and handed them to Josiah.

“I not running from anything but a man as old as me likes to be left alone sometimes.” Josiah’s man-smirk told me he understood. A true fisherman. His plums returned as I handed him the cash. “If anyone ever asks about an old guy stopping through here you can tell them all you want about what I bought and what I did but for this: tell them I bought the map to the national park to the south but not the map to the north. And don’t tell them about this extra two hundred bucks or this conversation.”

Josiah understood completely. He asked if I wanted to follow him north—he knew the area quite well he claimed. I said no, and that my compass knew north and that’s all I needed.

Josiah patted my shoulder through the window as I started her up. He’s the last person I saw.

Day 26

I was an idiot and bought the wrong size batteries. My headlamp uses Triple A size, and so does my GPS. So the Double A’s are paper-weights now. Thinking of throwing them in the river for fun. I’m not even using the huge gas lantern now anyway. Seems like the day is long enough with light that once it’s dark I just sleep anyway.

Day 27

I’ve been reflecting on how I haven’t died yet. It was nice to think back to that first day that I drove up here to where the concrete roads became blacktop then became gravel then dirt then two-tracks and eventually no road at all and just some footpaths. I parked the truck there under a the only true American Chestnut tree I’ve seen since I was a boy. I followed the river since then on foot—much of the stuff I brought is still back in the truck or stashed here and there under a fallen tree between here and there.

But I haven’t died yet. I thought the cold and the hiking and the loneliness would kill me fair quick. But it didn’t. In fact I feel great. My ankles hurt bad for sure. But it’s a good kind of hurt. Kinda like at the end of 18 holes when I’m 10 under my handicap. Hurts a bit but a new accomplishment still.

Not sure if any White-man has seen this part of the wilderness. Feels good to think that I might be where only Eskimos have been. Oh, I guess some might have kayaked the river and looked at the shore from there, but I doubt any hiked through where I’ve been. There aren’t even any footpaths anymore.

And at my age and dying I’m doing this. Man. Joan would think I’m crazy. But she’d also be a bit turned on by this too. I’m a real man out here. I bet my beard looks great by now. Should have brought that mirror I left in the pickup.

Day 29

I’ve decided to stay in this spot a bit. There’s nothing like the perfect campsite. I can see the approach of the river from the south (the rivers run north way up here—like I’m getting close to the edge of the world). There’s a cave-like rock outcropping I’ve pitched my tent in and stowed all the gear I now consider “extra” (GPS, flashlight, lantern, all 6 packs of unused Double A batteries, the playing cards, the extra bags, the extra pair of jeans, etc).

No more trees now. I knew you could get “above” the timber-line on a mountain but I forgot that you could get “north” of the timber line too. It’s like another world here. So empty and vast. The beef jerky ran out yesterday. I’m brooding today about how I’ll find meat—or if I even need it. I’m already getting sick of sucking cheese. One day it’s frozen from the night before. The next day it’s wet and oily from getting too warm. I’m starting to eat the “blue parts” however. Used to toss them. Only 6 blocks left.

Day 42

Can’t believe I waited twelve days to journal again. You’d think I’d have nothing better to do. But since the meat and cheese ran out all I do is think about finding my next meal. I don’t miss the cheese. Turned me so hard inside I didn’t have a good constitution from day 27 to day 34. Once it ran out I got back to regular though. Funny thing, I thought I’d only eat and sleep and poop and pee in that nursing home. Now that’s not only all I do, but when I don’t do one of them it becomes my entire obsession.

I’m eating enough to stay alive though. Figured out how to set a marmot trap. The dried noodles in the lipton packs have some kind of spice on them that drives them batty with human-food-lust. And they’d walk into a cougar’s mouth for some of that dried broccoli! Good thing I saved those for last. I’ve exchanged one pack of dried Lipton broccoli nastiness for fresh but tought marmot 4 days now. But I’ve rationed out the remaining packs of the dried noodles. One a week on Sunday (or what I think is Sunday… I keep loosing track of the days now. It’s definitely Tuesday or Wednesday today, not Monday or Thursday. I think).

Day 51 or 52

Trying keep on the tasks that are keeping me alive now. I know I decided not to die by starvation so in a way just keeping that promise to myself keeps my days a bit busy. I’m in pretty darn good shape now. Lean as a marmot myself I’d say. But I can see my own beard without a mirror—so I doubt I look good anymore. No longer a scruffy woodsman for Joan. Now I’m just a crazy Wildman in the wilderness. If someone saw me now they’d think I’d lived here for 20 years. Used up the pen ink during this paragraph as you can see. Just the pencil now. Man that hotel pen lasted nearly as long as I did. Go figure. Things last longer than you’d expect. Or at least the things you don’t notice till you have to.

Day 59 or 60

Tomorrow is kinda like a birthday for me (or it might be today, depending on what day it is today). I gave myself three months just to be safe. So now I’ll sorta be living on borrowed time. Everything from here on out is bonus. I cut apart my huge backpack and re-fashioned a smaller one without the frame for me to take day-hikes with. My “home” here is getting a bit stale to me. I’ve taken a few over-night hikes heading north. I really should consider striking camp and heading farther north. That’s why I came here—to explore and have an adventure… not to camp out like a vagrant philosopher.

Day 61 or 62

Not much happened yesterday. I know its yesterday, even though I don’t know which day it is exactly in relative time to the civilized world, I do know yesterday, today, and tomorrow. In fact, I wonder if those are the only 3 days that really matter once you don’t have a watch and a calendar and a schedule. You live with the effects of yesterday out here—a heavy rain, freezing temperatures, twisting an ankle. Then you do today what must be done today—trap for food, refill water, dry off or unfreeze your stuff. Then as you fall asleep you start to think about tomorrow—maybe I’ll strike camp and head north, or maybe an adventurer will float down the river in a purple kayak and spend the night telling me stories of the world, or maybe Josiah will show up pushing through the forest in search of my dead body and the rest of that huge roll of hundreds he saw me put back in my pocket.

Nothing much happened yesterday. Today I wrote this before going to bed. Going to dream now of what’s beyond that mountain I found on my last overnight trip. I wonder if there’s a town up there? Maybe a village of Eskimos or something.

The Next Day

I woke up to the sound of something rustling through my things up in the outcropping where I stored my extra stuff. Marmots sometimes smelled the scent of meat in that junk and went there to bite through the trashbags and lick off the beef-jerky wrappers. I cursed a little under my breath the way Joan used to get on me for in the mornings and went up there to throw batteries at them. I’d gotten pretty good at tossing those Double A’s. I had been wondering if I could stop trapping and just get good enough to knock a marmot out with one throw.

As I came around the corner of the big boulder I froze like the water from the night before. A wolf looked up at me with steel eyes and for a split second we both thought through the fate of the old man in the woods. He was wondering if he could take me alone without the pack. I was wondering if he could climb trees as good as me and whether the 20 feet between us was enough space for me to find a low limb.

The next moment the wolf cocked his head a bit to the right, as if he had just come to a conclusion in his though. My right calf started to quake with a bit of fear until I also cocked my head but to the left to mirror the wolf. Then it dawned on me. This wolf looked exactly like Rowdy. It was uncanny. For a moment I wonder if it actually was Rowdy. I also wondered if I was going insane and I wondered if insane people think about going insane right before they go insane or perhaps right before they are eaten by a wolf instead of running to find a climbable tree.

Before I finished that thought the wolf ran deeper into the outcropping and was gone. I tiptoed into the cave and peered around the slab and saw the broom-bristle tail racing around the corner and heading due north. I scared him as much as he scared me.

But as I write this before going back to my typical spot I’m thinking about Rowdy again. I never really saw him die, when I think of it. But it couldn’t be my dog because that was some 60 years ago or more. That would be more than 420 dog-years old. I am going insane for sure. Maybe going nuts is a good way to go. Sort of like brain anesthesia. The bad part about dying is knowing you’re going to die, I bet. I guess I don’t know yet. And those that do are dead and haven’t fessed up the truth.

Day 63 or 64

I left my quiet campsite this morning. The more I’ve thought of it that wolf was likely not a 420-in-dog-years-old Rowdy. But, I do think it was a sign that I should go north. I’ve been sitting here way to long thinking about yesterday, today and tomorrow. It’s time to think about dying again. I’ve wondered if the oncologist was wrong and I had more like a year to live. Or maybe something about the wilderness is making me last longer. Maybe Marmot Liver postpones death from my kind of cancer and I just stumbled upon it. Who knows?

But it’s time for a real adventure. So north it is. My day-hike pack was already ready for me. I just stuffed my tent and bag into it, strapped on the snowshoes and a few other items that were more essential and took off. I have that sneaking suspicion that I might have forgotten something—like I used to have when taking off for a family vacation all those years ago. But what can you do? I’ve figured out how to survive out here and as long as I’ve got water, my knife, and my down jacket and bag I think I can pretty much live till I’m 80. Of course I won’t. It’ll take me before then. That’s the point.

About a week ago I had this thought: you know, Cancer is a lot like God. It kinda does what it wants. That’s what makes God, God, right? He does what He wants. Same with Cancer. You don’t use the pink packets to sweeten your tea, you try not to live under power line like they told me when I was a kid, and you don’t smoke cigarettes because they kill your lungs. I didn’t do all those things but Cancer still came for me. So, today I started smoking. My first cigar ever. Smoking it right now as I write with my knife-sharpened pencil. I coughed a lot at first. But I’m feeling pretty good about it. Kinda nice but dangerous feeling. A man smoking has that “I don’t care what people think” look. That’s definitely me.

I’m okay with the Cancer now. It can do what it wants. Whether I like it or not. Like God in that way. I’m okay with God too. Not sure which came first. I wonder if I needed to realize that Cancer can do what it wants to realize that God can do what He wants.

Maybe God is Cancer? All I know is I’m okay with whatever. I really am I think. I think I said that right away as a cover. But now I think it’s really true in my bones. It can do what it wants. He can do what He wants.

But I’m heading north either way.

Day 68 or 69

I’m near the top of the mountain now. It was a 4 day trek up this baby. Wow. Left the river a long time ago. I can still see it’s silvery streak bending taut around the left side of “Rowdy’s Mountain” as I’m calling it. I left the maps back in the cave and never checked to see what it’s really called. Knew I forgot something. Half of the mountains up here don’t have names anyway, so I’m going to name this one now that I’m summiting it. A man has an urge to name things you know. Like Adam.

Reaching the summit most likely by mid-day tomorrow.

Day 69 or 70

Just reached the summit of Rowdy’s Mountain. As I came over the last of the false summits and looked out toward the northern expanse I was ready to see most anything. If I crested this baby and saw a Wal-Mart down in the opposite valley I wouldn’t be that surprised. “That figures” I figured I’d say. Nothing much surprises me anymore. I was expecting the unexpected. I was hoping for it. Maybe it’ll be an abandoned Eskimo ice-castle or a huge lake full of fish or anything in-between. I’ve been venturing north and looking for a final adventure—so bring it on, baby.

When I reached the top I was still surprised. It was the end of the earth. I saw the ocean. Sure, it was off in the distance, maybe a week’s hike or more. But I saw the blue meet the blue. Amazing. I felt like I could throw a Double A battery into the Arctic Ocean. Now that’s something I could see on my tombstone. “Here lies me…” I’ll write on a flat stone and put at my head when I die. “…I threw a Double A battery into the Arctic Ocean. Then God-Cancer took me up from the earth like Enoch. I had done what no one in the Steward family had done before.”

Reaching into my pocket and feeling the 3 batteries I had left I smirked my man-smirk through my crazy wild-man beard, adjusted my pack and started down the other side. It’s time.

Day 77 or 78

Should reach the “shore” today. It’s hard to tell the edge of the water up here. There’s ice-bergs everywhere and in some places the land rises up to a huge cliff where ice-bergs come from when they fall off, I’m guessing. Other places there are long sheets of snow-ice that lay like white deserts stretching out into the water. Many of these are broken off and floating out. So I’m not sure if a days hike behind me it has broken off and now I’m technically “in the ocean” today or if it’s still ahead of me. I’ve decided to go till I can’t go anymore, then toss it into the ocean. Then what? Not sure. Not sure if I’ll make it that far. I’m so very cold.

Wishing I had brought that extra pair of workgloves now. The temperature must have dropped 20 or 30 since the worst I had on the other side of the mountain. And there it still froze over every night. I’m walking slow like those guys that climb Everest. One step, then a breath, two steps then two breaths. Three steps then a full rest. Then one step again.

No Marmots up here and the campstove fuel is nearly gone. I’ve got two treasured Broccoli and Cheese Lipton Packs saved in the bottom of my pack. Had one last Sunday or Saturday.

I’m ready to go. Not sure if I’ll even eat those. I may reach the Arctic before. And what’s the point then. I’d certainly not make it back to my campsite.

Day 78 or 79

I walked slowly all night last night. Wasn’t anymore tired at dawn than I was the day before when I slept all night. It must be turning toward summer here because whereas the nights used to be 10 hours long when I left the pickup they are now barely more than 4. So “night” is a relative idea just like “Day 78 or 79.” Besides, the moon gave enough light off this white sheet that I could almost write in the journal after sundown.

I see the water now. That’s why I kept walking. On the mountain it looked blue like the sky. Like two blue pieces of cloth sewn together at the horizon, just a shade different color. But last night it looked black. The water was darker than the sky. But it kinda glowed a bit. Must be the glacier run-off, or maybe the moon off the water. Or maybe the moon sunk into the Arctic and it glows inside it like a frozen lightning bug. The moon’s sister I mean because the one I know was still in the sky.

Yep. Going nuts.

Day 79 or 80

Well, “objects may be farther than they appear” out here in the wilderness. Still haven’t reached the water. But I still see it. Can’t tell if it’s my super-slow pace or some mirage-like desert thing that’s happening. I know I see the water in the distance. But it doesn’t seem to get much closer. Will keep updating daily.

Day 80 or 81

I’m here. The Artic. After seeing it for so long and wondering if it was a mirage I nearly stepped into it on one of my “two steps-two breaths” in the afternoon. I looked right down into the black water and saw my face. The only water so far has been the river, which is rushing to the north and moving to fast to see. But this water was disarmingly still for being the ocean. Maybe it’s just some huge lake or bay and not the real ocean. I saw this:

My beard is so foreign-looking. Even though I haven’t had a comb for it a roundness has naturally developed because of the wind and the natural flow of the hair. I look a bit like an homeless Santa Claus. My face is severely windburned around the eyes and the sun has begun to burn even my eyelids. I’m weathered like drift wood and nearly as white in the lips. I’m one strange looking fella. If Josiah could see me now, much less Ron.

I reached into my pocket and felt the two batteries. I threw one at the last marmot I saw on Rowdy’s mountain—and knocked him out cold. That’s when I knew I’d be ready for this.

I grabbed one of the batteries and examined it in my hand with my index finger on the “+” side and my thumb on the “–“ side. I took two steps back to gain a good footing and did my best fastball throw at a 45 degree angle into the air.

The battery went so far I was proud of myself. I almost thought I had lost it in the sky until I caught it falling faster toward the sea. It “plopped” into the black expanse so fast I was disappointed. The wind whirred. I felt the second battery in my pocket. My last. Might as well throw that one in too. I laughed out loud at the idea of a crazy man tossing useless batteries into the ocean and wondered what the folks at NASA thought while they were looking through their satellites examining the polar ice caps melting and seeing me instead.

I threw this one at a near 80 degree angle, nearly straight up. It plopped into the ocean just the same as the first one, only closer this time so I could see that it sunk fast into the ocean beneath… how far down only the seals and whales know.

I wondered if Cancer-God does this kind of things with people like me and people like Joan. Tosses them off into the blackness to their end. Just like Double A’s I’m useless to it-Him. I wonder if there’s the same lack of satisfaction as each of us “plops” into the ocean of death.

I sat down at the edge of the earth and rustled around in the bottom to cook my second to last Lipton Broccoli and Cheese. Seemed like as good a place as any. Not sure where to go from here. Maybe I’ll just “walk off” tomorrow?

As I felt in my bag and smirked as my hand brushed up against the Juice-Joy fruit drink. With a growl in my stomach I moved on to cooking dinner.

Day 81 or 82

All is the same this AM but for a creepy mist that rose off the ocean last night. I got back from the water—worried I’d just melt off into the ocean in my sleep and drown in my dreams. Seemed a little strange for me to sink to the ocean floor in a sleeping bag and tent, thrashing around for the zippers of both when I go.

Naked. That’s how I should step off if I do. As I came in the world. Then I’d likely freeze to death before drowning. How’s that for a way to go! And boy what a sight for the NASA satellite people. They’d think they were going crazy!

Packed up my bag. Don’t know why. No where to go but back. And going forward doesn’t require packing. I guess I’m just tidy.

Touched the bottle of Juice-Joy again and decided to pull it out. Joan loved Juice-Joy. Don’t know why. She always bought one in the gas-stations when I’d stop to fill up the car on vacation. I’d get coffee. She’s get Juice-Joy. Grape mostly. I’ve had this one since Josiah’s place. Never opened. Carried it everywhere. Reminds me. I smiled a full smile this time and started to laugh.

Yes. Time to drink it. Opened the plastic cap and caught a whiff of the fermented stuff. I wonder what it’s shelf life had been. Maybe Josiah had it out for a few years already. I was surprised it wasn’t still fresh. Whatever.

I drank it down, nearly gagging at one point, but forced it all down. The purplish streams eventually ran down the corners of my mouth and made two rivers down my Santa beard. I bet that would look funny in the ocean mirror.

It had definitely “turned” but of course wasn’t going to get me drunk. I kinda wanted to be drunk—even though I never drank—if I was going to step off. That takes some serious guts and at this point I was pretty sure I didn’t have them.

So I smoked the last cigar. Not much of a feeling but maybe a little buzz from that would help. Smoked it quick. I’d had one a night for a while but saved this last one since then. I guess it was hard to develop a habit on 7 cigars when that’s the only 7 I had ever tried.

Number 8 was grand. I puffed my first smoke ring into the wind. It passed behind me and I turned and that’s when I saw it. The wolf was 30 paces behind me on the ice shelf.

Day 90 or 91

Here’s what the wolf told me, whether it was the fermented Juice Joy talking or the final cigar or my crazy mind faced with the daunting task of walking off the end of the earth to throw myself in like a useless Double A—I don’t know. The more I think about it the more I believe God was talking to me through that wolf. So here’s what I heard. Or felt:

I never got over Rowdy dying because I didn’t see him truly die. I didn't comfort him or bury him. I didn’t ease his pain or say the things I wanted to. And he was just a dog.

As I looked across that ice-sheet at the 420-year-old Rowdy or his spitting image relative I thought he still seemed sad. I think he was sad that he was selfish and didn't end life with those who loved him most.

He told me that I was making the same mistake. Rowdy told me I was being selfish too. Joan was reminding me, as she always did, to do unto others as I would want them to do to me. God spoke. I didn’t say anything back. I didn’t pray. I didn’t kneel. I didn’t confess. I just knew what to do. So I did it.

I walked right past the wolf, who ran off as I got lateral to him, and started back. I’m almost to the top of the mountain and my pencil is down to a tiny nub of yellow and lead and wood with no eraser. This will be my last entry if someone finds this on me. If I’m dead at least know that I was coming back. I don’t want it to end for you that way—now.

If I’m found know that I wrote the letter that follows to send off with this journal when I get back to Josiah’s and that last mail pickup.

Dear Ron,

So sorry for what I’ve put you all through. I deserve to die in some ways for this. But I think I needed to do it. I needed it even more than I thought when I left. I needed to really grieve your mother. I needed to stare off the end of the earth at myself leaving it. But I was too focused on what I needed. And now I know what you guys likely need. Not even sure if you know you need it. But I think you guys need to see me die.

I’m guessing I still have several months to live. I’ve been doing well up here in the middle of nowhere in the Yukon. I’m on my way back. If you’re receiving this letter and this Journal go ahead and read it and know that I’ve reached a friend of mine named Josiah who is going to take me to the airport and I’ll be home soon.

By the way, Son. I love you and I want you to tell your sisters that I love them too. I’ll tell them all myself when I get there. That’s one of the last things I need to tell you. There’s other things too. Some I’ve learned “out here.” I think I’ll have just enough time to tell you them.

In a weird way I’m looking forward to dying now. Dying around you guys. I know you need it. But I have the strange sense that I need it to. I need you—and I hate to admit that I need anything or anyone. That was part of the problem. My pencil is nearly out now, so I need to leave off much of what I’d like to write. But I’m sure I’ll make it back after all I’ve done up here. The rest of the walk is a piece of cake and I have gear and food stashed in a cave before I get to my truck where I have all kinds of stuff and can just drive to Josiah’s.

I’m a little nuts these days so I don’t know if this is making any sense. I’m starting to see things I think. Hearing thing too. But I think the things I’m hearing are real even if the things I’m seeing aren’t. See you soon.

From the great white north,

Dad

OBITUARY

On June 27^th Will Steward passed away among family and friends. He was father to Ron Steward, Jill Bonart, Jodi Yarmouth, and Jamie Steward. He was also a grandfather and new great-grandfather. He follows his wife Joan who preceded his passing by 10 years. Before his death Will walked alone to the northern tip of the Yukon, threw two Double A batteries into the Arctic Ocean and made it back to tell the tale to his family.

Into the Woods to Die

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