Lenny

Just how lonely does it get in the woods?

Originally published in the Rockford Writer’s Review Fall-Winter 2022

We hiked into the shelter just before dark. From a bend in the trail, through the tapering foliage, we could see another person there, his feet swinging over the edge of the shelter. Beside him, a titanium pot steamed over a Jetboil. His backpack was laid open, all of his belongings scattered over the shelter floor. Shirts, shorts, socks and underwear hung from the rafters. I guess you could say he’d gotten comfortable.

He ate from an apple on the end of a tactical knife. With his other hand, he took off his Peterbilt trucker hat and waved at us with it.

“Howdy!” he said.

We introduced ourselves and set our packs down at the opposite end of the shelter. While his hat was off, he ran a hand through his greasy shag of hair, then put it back on.

“I’d shake y’all’s hands but I knows how folks been real touchy with the whole Covid thing goin’ round lately. But boy, I sure am happy to see some people. Y’all staying here tonight? I don’t know ‘bout you, but I get real spooked at night listenin’ to all ’em rustlings in the dark. A little squirrel seems ten foot tall.”

Lenny was lean and lanky with poor posture. His shirt was torn at the armpits. His pants didn’t quite reach his ankles. He was always smiling, and he wore it all the way up to his nose and it made his face look twice as big.

“We’re staying here for the night,” Ravyn said, releasing her ponytail. I saw Lenny’s eyes wander toward her as she stretched her arms behind her head.

“Bears,” I said to him. “I just worry about the bears. I can’t sleep without thinking how one of them could be lurking about and nothing but a sheet of Cuben Fiber between us.”

Lenny took the apple off the end of the knife and bit it where the knife had been. Then he chucked the core down a small ravine. The apple snapped in his mouth as he spoke:

“Yep yep yep, I know exactly what you mean, brother. I mean, exactly what you mean. In fact, the craziest thing — here, y’all gotta check this out.”

He stretched awkwardly behind him to grab his bear canister and tilted it in our direction to reveal where teeth marks had penetrated the lid. Inside, wrappers were torn asunder and there were holes chewed through all of the bags.

“Ain’t that sumpin’? I turned my back to take a leak for not fifteen seconds when a little baby brown bear snuck up and swiped it from me. I followed the little bugger all the way down this slick wet hillside, a-slippin’ and a-stumblin’ the whole day down. Then I stood and hollered at him for a good five minutes, but he just peered up at me like it wasn’t none of my business and went right back to gnawing at that canister. Eventually he gave up, but, well, look at it now. The lid don’t even fasten no more.”

“Aren’t those supposed to be 100% bear-proof?” Ravyn asked.

“You would think,” Lenny said, chuckling.

“If the bear didn’t actually get inside, then what happened to the food?” I said.

“Well now, that’s the other half of it. You see, that night I put the bear canister in a bear box thinking it would be safe in there.”

“No!” Ravyn said. “Don’t tell me a bear got in!”

“Oh no, Bigfoot himself wasn’t breaking that box. But I’ll be a hound dog in a coonhole if some little critters didn’t march through a crack somewhere and right on into my busted canister.” Lenny shook his head. “Em lil buggers eaten better than I ate all week…”

Lenny had an easy-going Southern drawl that complemented his light-heartedness. Then, as if it were an antidote for his humiliation, he laughed at himself — big, whole-bodied, infectious laughter. I couldn’t help it. I started laughing, and then Ravyn started laughing too.

“You hiking solo, Lenny?” I asked him.

“Me? Yup. Sure am. My mother passed recently and I decided to take a couple weeks off work. Go kick some stones on the trail — why not? My ma and I — we was real close. I lived with her the last 8 years of her life. I guess I kind of became her, uh, whad’ya-call-it — ”

“Her caretaker?” Ravyn said.

“Her caretaker! Yes. Old people, they become real like — like children again. It’s an odd thing to see that happen to the person who raised you as a child.”

Lenny became pensive for a moment. He was really digging into the floor with his knife. “Anyway, that’s more or less how I ended up here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. About your mother,” Ravyn said.

“It’s nothin’,” Lenny said.

“Ya, I’m sorry about that,” I said.

“I reckon I’m about ready to get back to civilization anyway. I got things to do around the house — my house, now that I inherited it — plenty of work, now that I think about it.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. I was glad when Ravyn spoke up.

“John and I just bought a house,” Ravyn said. “This — this hike is really our last bit of fun before we’ve really got to put our heads down and get to work.”

“Get out of here!” Lenny said.

“I got a guy remodeling the bathroom as we speak,” I said.

“Well, well, well, congratulations kiddos — a house! Gosh!” Lenny said. Now he sighed. Now he poured a packet of seasoning into his ramen noodles.

“I really ought to get my buddy down the road — my good buddy from way back — my carpenter buddy, Frank, to help me with ’em shifty rafters in ma’s house. Hell, I ain’t spoke to Frank in years, but he still sends me a Christmas card every year. Ain’t many people do that no more. S’pose that counts for sumpin’, don’t it?”

“Sure,” I said.

“It’s certainly a dying tradition,” Ravyn said.

“I tell you what — Jeff — Ravyn — truth is I just don’t know if I can stand to go back into that house again. It’s really the only thing I got left now that ma’s gone, but a house just ain’t a home when you’re all alone. You fill it with TVs, tables, beds, pictures, plants — but all that junk don’t change the emptiness. It can be funny to talk to yourself — I do it often enough, I ought to know — but when you live alone it can only be sad. I been thinking about getting a dog. I’d name her Eileen — that’s my ma’s middle name. No, I’m definitely fixin’ to get a dog — ”

Later on I went down to the spring to fetch some water while Ravyn set up the tent. When I got back to camp, I could see Lenny’s lime green tent illuminated like a sick lantern. Lenny had that great big smile on his face again. His voice was almost concerned. He was asking if he could move his tent beside ours.

“I’m quiet, real quiet,” he promised. “I don’t make any noise or snore or nothing.”

“You’re fine,” Ravyn said. “Really, we don’t mind, do we Jeff?”

I didn’t say anything.

“I just — I been out in these woods so long now it just really comforts me to be near people — to hear their voices,” Lenny said. Then he said: “Last night I camped beside this father and his daughter and — in the morning, before the birds sang — I could hear them getting up and brushing their teeth. Ya know, nothing special — just gently speaking to each other — father and daughter. God, it was just the nicest thing you ever heard.”