"I live," is how she answered my question, leaving me momentarily perplexed. She wasn't smiling, but her eager tone and the sparkle in her blue eyes were signs that she was teasing me—no doubt for trying to categorize people by their jobs.

I had been so surprised to encounter another person eleven miles from a road that I introduced myself and began telling her all about myself hoping she’d want to join me. I hadn’t let myself think of feeling lonely till we met, but now I did not want her to leave. Her full pack made it apparent she was planning at least one night in the woods, yet I had no way of knowing if she was alone or just ahead of her group.

I gave her my own job history, which took a little longer than for most people since I spent twenty years as a navy carpenter, then went to college and taught high school wood shop sixteen more. So I’d had two careers, besides working in construction and restoring antique furniture. After I had put myself into all those categories, it seemed natural to ask what she did for a living.

I smiled at her response and said, "I take that to mean you enjoy your life, you don’t just survive."

"Precisely," she replied, and I was pretty sure she and I were going to hit it off. "I always try to live each day as if it were my last," she went on. "That way I’ll never have any regrets. I hope that doesn’t sound too morbid."

"No," I say, "not at all."

I’d known her, that is, had been speaking with her—speaking at her—for all of ten minutes, but I was certain she wasn't morbid. My freshmen should have so much vitality!

"Good. What I meant was, every morning I remind myself that nothing lasts forever, then I decide what to do. Today I recalled hiking to Spruce Lake one summer twenty years ago and promising myself to see it in the autumn. So here I am."

From the lean-to where we had begun lunching on cheese and crackers, we looked around at the lake, a slice of clear cold water a mile long and a quarter mile wide. It was rimmed by rocks white on top and mossy green on their undersides, and pocketed within a ring of evergreen- and hardwood-forested hills. Spruces and hemlocks jutted skyward like monuments to eternity; birches with trunks too broad for my arms to span; leaves every hue from red to gold; all brushed by still-summer-green ferns resplendent in filtered noonday sunlight.

Her presence explained, she asked, "What brings you here?"

"I’ve been coming up to the Adirondacks every Columbus Day weekend for years because the extra day makes the long trip worthwhile," I answered. "It is always such a gorgeous time to drive up the Thruway. The leaves are just starting to turn at the Jersey shore where I live, but they’re at their peak in the Catskills, and already falling this far north.

She nodded—anticipating more, I hoped, so I continued. "But I never got away from the roads. My wife and I would drive from village to village searching for antiques for her shop." My voice caught on those words, and I had to stop and swallow, even after nine months. "I sold the business after she died and decided to see how a wilderness looks from inside."

"I’m sorry for your loss, Albert" she said. "By the way, I’m Charlotte Meridian."

We shook hands, an act that I was still not good at after twenty years of saluting, because I never knew how hard to squeeze. Men often try to cover their embarrassment at touching by being too firm. But in Charlotte Meridian’s hand, I felt a warmth that dispelled the sharp chill in the air. The moment I realized the time to let go had passed, she added, "I imagine the adjustment to being alone must be difficult."

"Thank you, it is. We were married thirty-five years, but in some ways it seemed a lot less. The first fifteen I was at sea much of the time. Helen hated Navy housing and wouldn’t stay at a base. By the time I retired, the kids were 13 and 14. I wasn’t even finished with college myself when they started. Then before I knew it they were out on their own and we were just beginning a normal married life—you know, sitting down to dinner together every evening. We were like newlyweds in a way, except that we were well into our 40’s."

Slowly, Charlotte swept her eyes across the lake to the hills beyond and the sky above, and said, "It’s lovely here, isn’t it, Albert. I hope you like the wilderness from inside. I’m glad I made the effort, although," she added with a wry smile, "it was easier when I was twenty years younger."

I tried to imagine her twenty years younger. She would no doubt have been leaner all around, though never thin; too, well, hefty for that. She probably would have had the same sweet round face and eyes and her hair been light and maybe longer. She was attractive then, I guess, but I could see that she was lovely now—even in baggy green pants, green and black plaid shirt, and gray hair tied under a bandanna. She looked competent and comfortable in this environment, and I felt a stirring inside that I had not felt in more years than I cared to remember.

Had she come here twenty years ago with a husband and children, I wondered. Or with a lover, perhaps? Is she married now? I found myself hoping she was unattached. I had told her I was a widower; why didn't she tell me about herself?

"It’s good that you get out and do things," Charlotte declared. "Too many men our age—and women, too—spend their time sitting in front of the television. ‘Couch potatoes,’ we call them around here."

"And elsewhere, I think. You don’t sound like you’re from around here, Charlotte. Not that I’m very good with accents, but I would have guessed you were from Boston, maybe—someplace in New England."

"Really?" she said, taking a final swig of water from a green canteen before placing it in a side pocket of her pack. "Well, I was born in England—old England, that is—grew up in New York and California, and settled in Lake Placid in 1952. So I’m not a native."

"You’ve been around."

"I had just graduated from CCNY," she continued, "and took the first job that came along. Later I bought a little cottage on a quiet street and never felt the need to move on."

I could imagine Charlotte Meridian tending a garden in front of a little cottage on a quiet street in Lake Placid, but I couldn't complete the picture. I didn’t know if anyone should be with her. "It must be an interesting place to have kept you so many years," I said.

"Oh, yes, I enjoy my work, though you might find it dull after all you’ve done."

I couldn't imagine her doing anything that was dull. She could bring excitement to any job. I’d enjoy housecleaning if I could do it with her. So I protested, "If you enjoy it, then it can’t be dull."

She looked at me, as though trying to decide whether I was worth the effort of explanation. Apparently, I passed the test. "Like you, Albert," she began," I’ve had two careers. In college I majored in home economics, which led to a position as a hospital dietician. That was what women did in those days if they didn’t want to go into teaching or nursing. My mother was an actress, always traveling. She was American but got her first break on the London stage. Then it was Broadway and then to Hollywood for a series of bit parts in movies, then back to New York. Believe me, at 18 I had spent enough of my life on the road that something called ‘home economics’ sounded appealing. It seemed to suggest staying in one place—and I have." "

Are you still a dietician?"

"I hope this doesn't sound pretentious to you, but I think of myself as an artist," she said. "You see, when I first moved to the area, I immediately fell in love with these mountains. So much so, that I wanted to make them mine—not in a way that would deny them to others, but in a way that would enable me to share their beauty. I began taking long hikes on weekends and drawing the scenes hereabouts—for Christmas cards at first. Later, I took up painting. In 1980, I had an exhibit at the Visitor Center for the Winter Olympics. That was my break. I sold enough pieces to enable me to retire early from the hospital. Now I paint whenever I want to. I’ll never be famous or wealthy, but I sell enough to support myself. I have no regrets about the life I chose. This may seem like a cliché, but I’m married to my work. I love it with a passion that has not yet stopped growing."

So now I had it, she'd spelled everything out for me—pushing 60, educated, independent—and single. I couldn't imagine why she was single; she was so lovely and pleasant to be with. I sat staring at the water, wondering if this could be happening to me. I earned a decent salary plus a maximum military pension and I would be eligible for a teacher’s pension in four more years. But at times I was so lonely; I so wanted to have someone to do for and to share with, that I cried. There was a divorced history teacher at the school who had been after me for a while, but I avoided her. She was all right to chat with at lunch, and was healthy and decent-looking, barely past forty. She had dropped some pretty strong hints about marriage, but I couldn't imagine sharing a bed with her, much less a life. This Charlotte Meridian, on the other hand—I had the feeling she would be as passionate a lover as she was an artist. I wondered if she knew that?

"You paint mostly landscapes?" I asked, wanting to know more.

"Yes, and wildlife. Of course, birds and animals won’t stay still long enough to have their portraits done, so I capture the little dears on film, then paint them in my studio at home. I was hoping for some good photo opportunities in the morning. The quality of light and the behavior of the wildlife both depend on the weather, which is unpredictable. Every day is so different up here."

Some clouds had moved in front of the sun and I zipped my vest up higher to ward off the cold. "I’ve heard it said that if you don’t like Adirondack weather, stick around an hour. It’ll change."

Charlotte smiled but made no response. I hoped I didn't sound inane to her. Then a discordant shrieking from out on the lake shattered the silence and made me jump. "Why, it’s a loon," Charlotte said. "Rather late in the season," she added, as though I’d be sure to agree.

"What a strange sound. It’s a bit startling. Do they do that often?"

"Much more in the summer. But the forest is never dead quiet, even in winter." She perked up her ears, perhaps expecting a response from a mate. I wondered if she was planning camera angles. The abstractions of light and color had always evaded me.

After a while she seemed to remember my presence and asked, "Tell me, do you do much backpacking?"

I laughed, proud to have driven three hundred miles yesterday and hiked five more; cooked a decent dinner, slept soundly and warmly in spite of the sub-freezing temperature under a nylon tarp strung between two trees and staked to the ground at the corners; prouder to have risen this morning, joint-stiff but capable of movement, and hiked another six miles, mostly uphill, to a remote spot that few people of any age had ever had the privilege or joy of seeing. "This is my first time. The gear"—I pointed to a red pack leaning against a tree—"belongs to my son. He got it when he was in Boy Scouts. I doubt if it’s been used in twenty years." "

You don’t appear any the worse for wear," she said.

"Oh, I’m no stranger to the woods. I do a lot of hunting, so my legs are in good shape and my boots are broken in." I glanced at Charlotte’s boots. They looked well worn—and well made, too, and her pack must have been older than mine.

The muscles around her eyes tightened and I sensed she was offended. She'd lost that glad-to-be-alive expression she'd had before. Maybe I'd turned her off with the part about hunting. I smiled and tried to kid my way back into her graces. "I’m afraid I don’t know many bird species besides grouse, pheasant, and turkey—and ducks and geese, of course. To me there are two kinds of flying creatures—the kind that you eat and the other kind. I hope that doesn’t sound too cruel."

Charlotte offered no comment so we both pretended to listen for the loon until a nearby woodpecker started tapping away its afternoon shift. As we wrapped up the lunch leftovers and tidied the area, I was glad to be moving about again, for the sun’s rays were all blocked now. I wondered if Charlotte was planning to walk on. According to the trail guide, there was another lean-to at the north end of the lake a half mile from here.

She probably wanted privacy, not company. Breaking the silence that had wedged itself between us, I asked, "Are you upset by the idea of hunting, Charlotte? I could understand that."

She sat down on a sawed-off log in front of the stone fireplace and shook her head. "No, Albert. I object to some individual hunters, but it’s obvious you have respect for nature. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t."

"When I’m in the woods, I feel glad to be a living part of something I can connect to. Of course, what we have in Jersey can’t compare to this splendor." I waved my hands around and added, "These miles and miles of forests and all the lakes and rivers and mountains and valleys—I can see why you fell in love."

"That’s beautiful, Albert."

"Twenty years at sea gave me time to think. Seeing nothing but water and sky for weeks at a time is scary, especially in a storm when you realize how helpless you are. But watching the stars come out after dark was worse in a way because it showed the utter vastness of the universe. You take for granted what you see every day, like the constellations sailors have relied on for navigation for so many centuries. But some of what we see through telescopes came into existence and died millions of years ago, and the light is just now reaching us. It was all too mind-boggling for me. That’s why every so often I’ve needed to get out by myself into the woods. Things seem more understandable, more explainable."

"An ecological system is certainly easier to grasp than the universe." Now Charlotte seemed the teacher and I the pupil reciting.

"Anyway, that’s probably why I hunt. Not for the power of killing, or even to put meat on the table because it’s cheaper at the butcher’s. Hunting gives me a chance to see how nature works on a level I can comprehend. Birds kill insects and worms to eat, and I kill birds. I hope I’m not making you dislike me."

"Why, Albert, you’re the most interesting person I’ve met in many years.

Tell me, are you planning to spend the night here and hike out tomorrow?"

Quickly, I calculated the time involved—seven hours walking followed by six driving. If I stopped for dinner along the way, I could still be home before midnight. "It’s so beautiful here that I hate to leave. What about you?"

"I don’t have as far to drive as you do—only fifty miles. And I don’t have to punch in on Tuesday, so I’d be happy to walk to the next lean-to tonight. It’s not far."

I pretended to weigh alternatives while instead I tried to think of another. This can’t end, I thought.

Soon a cold wetness touched my forehead and I looked up to see large white flakes of snow dropping silently out of the sky. "Look," I said, "winter’s starting."

"Yes," Charlotte answered, "if it keeps up all night, the leaves will be gone by morning."

And hiking will be tougher tomorrow. I’d be smart to leave now as I’d planned and try to get half way out before dark," I said.

"May I ask how old you are, Albert?"

"Fifty-eight."

"Will they fire you if you don’t make it back by Tuesday?"

"No, but I’ve never missed a class after a holiday."

"Have you ever hiked through eleven miles of fresh snow carrying a pack?"

"No to that, also."

"Then I think it would be prudent for us to stay together tomorrow, even if it takes all day," she said. "We shouldn’t hike alone."

"Charlotte, have you ever spent a night by a wilderness lake listening to the snow fall?"

"Yes, I have."

"Would you like to share the experience with me? There’s plenty of room here for two."

"Why, thank you, Albert. It’s going to get much colder tonight, and a lean-to seems warmer with two people sharing it."

END

Copyright 1991
by Ken Sieben

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