Mozambique

Hunters built the deer-stand hoisted in the center of the trio of trees. A fine work of craftsmanship, sturdy and worn; a sign of hope from within an otherwise darkening forest. The raised stand provided minimal shelter, from the ground at least, ticks in the millions swam in the sea of waist-high ferns surrounding our floating vessel. Mosquitoes swarm in the air around our blood-filled bodies. Here is where we used the last of the bug spray. It was worthless anyway, intended for children; sugar-water may have worked better.

An early morning car ride, and a mid-afternoon arrival at our destination, Mozambique. A small patch of paradise surrounded by more paradise and the Delta Diner. An old dining car from the 1950's towed from somewhere and set down in nowhere. In reality, we arrived at a ten acre plot of land purchased by Sean's Dad located in northern Wisconsin, surrounded by Chequamegon National Forest. Sean and his Dad had been traveling here for several years now and I had been here a few times before, as for Greg this is his first time. We set up the tent first, just as the sun is beginning to fade behind the ancient pines.

Fire warms our stories as they pass around, followed by laughs or gasps. There is a large stack of wood at my side, so when the fire hungers for more, an arms reach is all it takes to pick up a log. I love tending to a fire, it keeps me and the people around warm and comfortable, but I don't hesitate to destroy my creation once I have brought it to life. Death comes quickly to a fire thirsty for water, and along with it darkness. We zip open our tent and sleep.

One by one, we awake to the crisp northern air, and the resurrection of Frankenstein's Monster who had drowned the night before; brought back to a full roar. Bacon followed by eggs and toast, fried on a well-seasoned cast-iron skillet too old to remember its own name. Powdered Tang supplies an ample amount of orange drink, rich with vitamins and minerals; the same mixture that quenches an astronaut's thirst.

With our tanks full, we set out to find a meadow we know of in the forest. Sean carries a bow, Greg holds an Ax and I wield a sword. Along with our weapons, our inventory includes, one half empty bottle of bug spray, and one pint-sized flask filled with water. We are told by Sean's Dad to take a compass, but I left it at the site thinking that we wouldn't need it.

The line where Mozambique ends and Chequamegon begins is clear -- years ago loggers cleared out all of the old growth right up to the edge of the forest -- Poplar and Birch dominate Mozambique, young and dense; Chequamegon is a sanctuary for The Ancients, centuries old each with its own history to be told. As each of us take our first few steps beyond the threshold between young and old, we transform into our weapons themselves: Sean the Bow, Greg the Ax, and I the Sword. Though we were no longer human, we still had our legs, and our blood to pump.

I am leading the way through the jungle. The ferns stretch as far as the eye can see and completely blocking the ground from sight. I had been to the meadow once before and remembered the way, but the forest has a life of its own, moving as it pleases and it is luring us in to feast. The hairs on my legs are tingling. When I reach down I pull off a tick. The ferns are the perfect roost for a anticipating tick. I warn the others about the ticks and suggested they search as well; ticks crawled out of their pant legs like thunderstorm rain.

A long time has passed, and still the meadow is nowhere in sight, as if in cahoots with the deceptive forest. The canopy is thick with mid-summer foliage and the sky is overcast, the sun is nowhere in sight.

In the distance the Bow notices a structure, not of forest origins. We approach with intrigue. The deer-stand is a profound sight. In an otherwise unruly environment this orderly structure stands 6 feet off the ground. We stop here to rest.

I think about where we are. I don't know! None of us know, we are three, alone, though we feel at home. The thought of it races through my head, what if we have to stay through the night? What are we going to do? The stand is a sign that others have been here before, civilization musn't be out of reach.

I lead us away from the site attempting to orient myself and get back to Mozambique, but I had no Idea which way was east or west. I just hoped and I was successful; I feel that this is my fault.

An ATV trail cuts through the growth like a scar on one's scalp where no hair can grow. Our hope is shattered, however, when the trail is devoured by the forest before our eyes. We about face. The trail lead us to yet another bit of forest trickery, an intersection.

We stop here for another rest and quench our thirst with the last of the water. The trail has to lead somewhere, otherwise it would have never come into existence. Together we decide to turn left, based on the conclusion that right would only take us deeper into the forest and continuing straight no farther out of the forest than we already are.

Not much farther down the trail we stumble upon a small community of houses --as our feet land on the black gravel we transform back into our regular selves -- but no one is home to tell us where we are or how far we have gone, however this did mean that we were out of the trailless forest and onto modern roadways. Here the ground is flat and even and also there is a greater chance of seeing other people.

Luck is with us. A mini-van rolls over the hill driving directly at us. We conceal our weapons and wave our arms; gently the van glides to a stop. The driver is a friendly woman who tells us where we are and that she could give us a ride if we needed. We didn't want to compromise the location of Mozambique so we instead ask how to get to the Delta Diner. Coincidentally she was going there herself. She seems nice enough and we have safety in numbers, so we decide to get in, knowing it will be easier and quicker.

Once there we get out and thank her for her kindness. Inside, chocolate milkshakes are the only meal satisfying enough for our emptied tanks. Once finished we will walk the half-mile or so back to Mozambique, and tell of our adventure sitting around another hungry fire.

Planetary Conclusions

We all wake up in the morning, go about our day in the afternoon, and fall asleep in the evening. Only none of us live on the same planet, so no two days are exactly the same length of time. Some people may live on planets with more than one sun, so it could be that as one star is about to set, another is on the rise. The planets also aren't all of the same mass, so each planet has a different gravitational pull. Some people live on massive planets, where it is a grueling task to walk to the store; where as, others may be able to travel to the store in a single bound, due to the minuscule mass of their planet. Everyone adjusts to their planet with age, one raised on a massive planet must build their muscles to equalize the effects of gravity; where as one raised on a smaller planet wouldn't have to build nearly as much, and in turn they might concentrate on different aspects of their world in comparison. Neither one is better than the other; each have their strengths and weaknesses and each will always have both strengths and weaknesses.
Why wonder if there is life on other planets? Why not find out by sending messages through space? If a message is returned, reply! Who knows what profound knowledge might be found on that other world. Don't just stop at one, send as many messages before the night is done. If interstellar travel is an option, visit those other worlds, but treat them as if they were your own, for you wouldn't want someone to treat yours with disrespect. If the planet you visit doesn't yet have the technology for interstellar travel, take the person there on an adventure and share your stories with them, as they will share theirs with you. Learn from each other and pass whatever was gained unto others.
Tomorrow will bring another dawn remarkably similar to the previous one, but different in subtle ways.

Electrical Holiday Traditions

I'd assume that the energy companies love the holiday season, at least the few individuals who reside at the highest levels of the inner workings. This is not only due to the images of superficial smiles on faces all around hearth fires, but also because its cold, really cold, so cold home furnaces aren't allowed a smoke break. Heating a house forces dollars to be handed to energy companies, or else the fuel is shut off and the pipes in the house freeze, expanding water forces fissures to form in the lines, resulting in flooding from the inside--that's no good. Internal heat is necessary and an extra expense when compared to other seasons in the year.

In addition to spending more money on heat, it is tradition to decorate the interior and exterior of houses with thousands of tiny twinkling little light bulbs of all different colors; to the extent that one neighbor might call the police on another neighbor claiming that their lighting display is a disturbance to the peace, and then there is the potential that the peace disruptor may be placed into custody and escorted into a jail cell for pushing a once joyful time honored tradition past the boundaries of what is and is not acceptable. Energy is swallowed by these little lights, like a can of beer being shotgunned. Gulp. Faster and faster the meter outside each home spins, dizzying to watch from that which is meant to dazzle. More and more money is forked over, like passing the gravy at the dinner table it is a voluntary action, but it is tradition.

Dive in. Cannon Balls are permitted.

Dumpster Dining is always a treat and often fruitful. It is easy to separate the good fruit from the bad fruit, simply by smell; if it smells like alcohol its bad, if its moldy its bad. Bread is usually individually wrapped in bags, just like when it is sitting on the shelf in Aisle Three, protection from the smelly dumpster juice.

There are different levels of dumpsters out there: those behind regular grocery stores usually have a wide selection of discarded food to pick through. Then, there are the dumpsters sitting behind the overpriced bourgeois grocery stores -- I would like to return to the Conquistadors' never ending search for El Dorado -- usually filled with less, but usually filled with flavors more delicate, like that of the shari of sushi.

Never did I think that I would rue the sound of eating sushi for breakfast, but it happened. Behind a certain Albertson's supermarket, my friend and I peered inside of a dumpster with at least $100 worth of sushi at the bottom, packaged in plastic and still ice-cold. We walked briskly back to his residence and put our bounty in the fridge.

Two days later, I was sick of sushi.