Rejected

Setting Up

The next morning, wet and tired, Milo crawled out of his sleeping bag and then the tent to look around. In the morning light, his chosen site appeared different. Maybe it was the leaves in the morning sun, glistening from the rain. Maybe it was that the pond was a few feet larger and closing in on the tent. Maybe it was the sound of the birds chirping, the water dripping. Or perhaps it was the smell, heavy with oxygen fresh from the plants and the decay of wet leaves. Finally, he decided that what really set the view apart was the large moose drinking from the pond.

Milo stood still and stared at the moose. The moose lifted its head, its rack of antlers knocking on low branches, and stared right back. The two of them regarded each other for a full minute before the moose snorted, turned and wandered casually back into the woods. Milo did not snort. He fully exhaled, having held his breath for far longer than he was aware he could. He shook himself then walked around the pond to where the moose had stood, trying to track it farther into the forest. But despite its size it had already disappeared.

"Good morning, neighbor," Milo said after the moose. The words startled him. He had not realized that he had been silent since paying his breakfast bill the day before. Not a swear word as he had stumbled around the woods the night before. Not a thought expressed out loud. There had been no one to talk to. No one to text or message or email. He was well and truly alone. The moose had been the first creature he had seen since leaving the surface roads. And it had walked away.

Again, Milo shook himself then got on with his breakfast. He unearthed his camp stove and his kettle. After the previous night, he needed coffee. He filled the kettle with water from the pond before setting it on the lit stove. He had learned enough from his on-line video binge on camping that he was not going to drink the pond water straight without boiling it. He did not have much coffee and would need to ration it, but this morning, his first in the wild, seemed worthy of a little caffeine. With the kettle heating, he poked through the grocery bags, rummaging through his supplies and looking for something appetizing to eat. The sports bars and power drink of the previous night had not been satisfying, merely expedient. Now, to start this day and his new life, he wanted something more.

He finally unearthed a bag of freeze dried scrambled eggs with ham. Milo's practice sessions back in civilization had not extended to outdoor cooking, so he turned the package over and read through the directions: heat water (already started), mix powdered eggs with water in pot, heat a bit more. Eat. That seemed simple enough. He turned to the kettle and waited for the water to boil. And waited. And waited. He checked the stove: it was lit, though he could barely see the flame in the light. He checked the stove valve: it was on high. He lifted the kettle lid and looked at the water: a few small bubbles clung to the bottom and sides. He dipped his pinky in, carefully: the water was hot, but not scalding. He put the lid back on and waited.

After a few minutes, Milo realized that instead of watching the kettle, he could be working on something productive, so he started in on the tent's rain fly again. In the morning light, everything seemed much easier and he was able to clip it on in ten minutes. He then rolled the sides up and tied them in place hoping that the sun filtering through the trees would dry out some of the damp from the night before.

Most of his belongings were wet: his sleeping bag, his packs and his grocery bags. Fortunately, most of them were also made from waterproof materials of one kind or another. The outer layer of the sleeping bag was damp, but the water had never made it inside. The grocery bags had soaked through, but the food inside was all in plastic packaging or aluminum cans which kept them safe. Then his eye fell on the packs. They were also made of good, water-shedding materials and had protected everything inside of them. It was the things that was not inside of them that suffered: his notes. All of the pages were damp and soggy, swelled up with water. When he pulled them out of the small pack's outside pocket, they left a trail of ink smeared against the side of the pack. Milo unrolled the pages and laid them out. The top page which had been in the middle of the roll was in decent shape, only the edges had damage. But as he peeled each page away, getting deeper into the notes, the damage got worse. A third of the way through and the water had smeared the ink enough to make everything illegible. Half way down the stack and the paper would no longer peel apart without tearing. He stopped and took the pages he had been able to separate out of the tent, laying them along the fallen tree that dammed the pond and weighing them down with rocks. He hoped that he had not lost too much information but knew, deep inside, that they were ruined for good.