Jan 23 2009
A Phony Woodsman
Yesterday was chock full of electronic frustrations. I began the day in the rat maze that Bowker calls a web site, managing those ISBNs sacred to every book publisher, and finished with a phone call to my tech savvy stepson, Matt, regarding coming changes to my email account. Plenty of other frustrations between those two: altered passwords, new online fees, and assorted glitches. By mid-morning, I was ready to toss my computer in a snow bank and go live in a cabin in the woods, completely off grid. By mid-afternoon, I was slogging through calf-deep snow in nearby woods, trying to sweat out my frustrations. That helped a little.
The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that I’m a phony woodsman. Most of my troubles stem from the fact that I have a foot in two entirely different worlds. On one foot, I’m a writer and small-scale publisher, deeply engaged in high civilization. On the other I’m a woods wanderer, tramping around roadless areas like a wild animal. In other words, I keep a line of communication open to society therefore I’m a phony. If I were a real woodsman, I’d step into the forest and never be heard from again.
I often catch myself fantasizing about disappearing. My greatest reservation is that I’d lose my wife in the process, along with cherished ties to family and friends. Then there’s the whole matter of where and how to live, along with the money necessary to set myself up, so the fantasy doesn’t last long. Making a complete break with society isn’t easy. Even mountain men had to trap beaver and sell pelts to traders in order to supply themselves with essentials. Truth is, any retreat into the forest is only a half measure, unless one is utterly misanthropic and independently wealthy.
“No one lives in the woods,” the rather caustic French philosopher Alain once wrote, “Life in the woods is a fiction; the man of the woods is a fugitive.” When I first read this, I wanted to sling his book across the room. “Bullshit!” was my gut response. Then I thought it through and tempered my judgment. When I’m deep in a wilderness for days on end, I am very much a man of the woods. In such circumstances, the wild defines me. But I start missing my family and friends. Eventually, time and food run out. Then I return to the world of words, dollars and other abstractions. Yeah, I’m a phony. Alain called it.
Yet nothing Alain or any other cafe philosopher says can change what I feel in my heart. My connection to the wild is profound. I can’t imagine going too long without a good dose of it. If ever the day comes when dropping off the grid isn’t possible, then woods wanderers like me will no longer exist. Yeah, I may be a phony when I call myself a woodsman, but I still must have my regular infusion of the wild, if only for a day or two here and there. This utterly electronic world can’t sustain me.
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