ALONE AND IMAGINING AT DRIGGERS NATURE PRESERVE by Garret Schuelke

Checking into the golf course motel, the clerk made sure to tell me about the fireworks display that was     going to occur over Walloon Lake later that night.
I cringed on the inside, but smiled and nodded.
I thanked her, and asked her how far it was to Driggers Nature Preserve.
It was basically around the corner.
I checked in, and prepared to park on the road, hoping I could at least pull up instead of enduring the     pains of parallel parking.

Oh, my Lord, the parking lot was completely empty!

I made sure that the preserve was even open, and made my way inside.
I took some deep breaths, and prepared to hear the inevitable sounds:

An elderly couple alternating between jogging and power walking.
Boomer couples with their dogs—most of the time leashed, occasionally not—who pass by you with a     sincere smile and greeting.
Teenagers and college kids, whose energy and excitement for being in such a place should fill me with     hope, but all it does is bring annoyance.
Bikers and ATV riders, who shouldn't be there in the first place, tearing up paths and wrecking shit,     filling me with anger.
The one other solo person in the area who, unlike me, looks creepy as fuck and, for all I know, is NOT     there to take in the surroundings.

But oh, my Gaia, there is no one else here!

No big transformation within myself occurred, but I did feel myself taking everything in easier than     normal: the breezes that were able to penetrate the trees and brush, the birds, squirrels, and chipmunks who seemingly exploded from one spot, and gently disappeared into another, and my own movements that echo throughout this section of creation.

I'm Goku, gathering energy for that Spirit Bomb, which will only work once in the series, and every     time in the movies

***

I make it up to what I suppose is the highest point in the preserve—a ridge that is absolutely desolate,     with an old fence indicating that the area beyond it is private property (I checked it out anyways —nothing to really write a poem about), and a small bench that is an ancient, perfect green/brown color combination, and doesn't look like it should be able to handle a guy my size.

I sit down like Thanos at the end of AVENGERS: INFINITY WAR, and breathe deeply.

***

My intrusive thoughts are almost always the same:

– I'm homeless, and I die.
– I'm poor, and I die.
– I'm old, and I die.
– I'm alone, and I die.

I've never had an intrusive thought that didn't involve me alone and dying, until I really started getting     into hiking this year.
Somehow, they now morphed into thoughts of me living in the woods, all alone, but not dying.

There, on that ridge in Charlevoix, I let my intrusive thoughts go wild.

– It's winter, and I'm huddled up in a shack on the ridge, next to a small fire, knees curled up, dozing.
– It's summer, and I emerge from a shack, swat away some mosquitoes, and scratch my ears as I reflect     on how it's not as insanely humid as I thought it would be.
– It's fall, and I'm walking out of the woods, and into the night. I'm neither ecstatic, nor comfortable, I     just am. This is life. I walk a while until I'm near downtown Charlevoix. I head to the nearby Little Caesars and, after making sure it's closed, start dumpster diving. It's a decent haul—three whole cheese pizzas, more than enough to last me two days at best. I put them into my trash bag, sling them over my shoulder, and head back home.

Yeah, I know, it's bullshit—just some life stylist, wannabe-primitivist, pseudo-cottagecore, delusional     Thoreau/Edward Abbey fantasies, but it's vastly better than the shit I've had swimming within my skull for the past decade and half now.

***

I take a picture of the ridge, and post it to my Facebook and Twitter with a Unabomber quote, and sign     it “T. Kaczynski”.
I wonder how many people will like it unironically, and how many will like it thinking it's a writer from the Reader's Digest, or something.
I walk down the ridge, and continue through the forest.
I emerge into a bright, golden field.

And right there in front of me is a bench, and the same excitement from a minute before returns.

GARRET SCHUELKE is a writer, podcaster, and musician that currently resides in Grand Rapids, Michigan. He is the author of the GODAN series (Bakunin Incorporated), Anamakee (Riot Forge Studios, 2016), Whup Jamboree: Stories (Elmblad Media Group, 2017), and three ebooks. He is also the host of The Garret Schuelke Podcast, The Cheeseburger Blues: An Exploration into Dad Blues Rock, and A Riot of my Own. He makes music under the moniker Neobeatglory.

To learn more, visit Garret Schuelke’s official website: garretschuelke.tumblr.com.