Michigan

He rubbed tired eyes, first the left and then the other, opened his window periodically, and shook his head often, to maintain a decent level of vigilance. A nagging, circuitous array of pros and cons; his bundled thoughts seemed naught more than insoluble swirls of confusion.

So disorganized and shallow they were; Mike could not decide. Would a one eighty and a turn toward home, stop the torment? An idea he negated and followed too many times that evening; he grew tired of repeatedly transiting the same terrain, given his whimsical changes of mind. It seemed that each segment of several miles, or period of fifteen to twenty minutes, fostered a recurrent urge to stop. He would think about it, and then reverse course, north to their cabin, or back south—the easy way out—to their home, where he began the trip at the end of a tiring workday. Mike Gladdock resisted the latter urge as it strongly conflicted with a deeper and more compelling desire.

I simply must continue, his internal voice finally concluded, and at the least, try to enjoy this badly needed five-day break from work. I'd be freed, too, of the nauseating—though well meant—sympathies from bereaved relatives and friends.

Mike Gladdock's thoughts turned audible as if she listened. "How can I possibly savor this otherwise lonesome, nighttime drive, as I did in our past, without the cheerful company, our lively conversations, and her happy chatter of the river? Should I bite the bullet and press forward, despite the pain from her absence?" He shuddered with the notion that he could be so indecisive.

Michigan's open spaces soared by, though in a seemingly dismal and definitely disappointing blur. Stubborn snow patches, on the upswing as the miles rolled north, offered assurance that the toasty days and balmy nights of an early summer, while they loomed with possibility, might take their time to ignite.

Deciduous trees along the line where forest darkness began, glared in his headlights like weathered barber poles; they stood defiant, and still refused to dance in their brilliant yellow-green, spring clothes. Something far more severe birthed Mike's apathy; not just the weather-borne dither of bursting buds, or the lazy recession of winter white's every trace.

Meg died the week before. His loving wife joined the great beyond.

The emptiness that gripped so tenaciously, and that alone, forced the deviations from his usual wild-eyed anticipation during the commute to their place in Oscoda County. "So much sullen brown everywhere," he muttered aloud, "and all those bland grays that crowd the evergreens—outside thermometer too close to the thirties—a faster jump to more pleasant conditions looks awfully doubtful."

For the first time, Mike felt the physical pain that he would face again and again, until denial could be supplanted by the stark reality of her passing. Entirely different from the norm, it was his only venture in many a year without Meg, to their erstwhile cozy, second home. While they stayed there over the occasional winter weekend, they better used their pride and joy for longer breaks, during the other seasons. While there, the couple passed countless days on and about their beloved Au Sable River.

Farther back than his memory stretched, Meg was with him, cuddled alongside. Head on his shoulder at times, she kept him awake with stimulating colloquy, slept lightly, or she hummed to music he played at high volume, to keep alert in the abject darkness of the smaller byways. Mike leaned forward, tried to nudge aside painful reflections, hugged the wheel with both arms, and peered cautiously through the low blanket of mist that clouded his visibility.

Moisture droplets collected, slid to the side, and distorted his view of the road ahead, as fast as the sweep of wipers erased them. An incessant cadence, the hypnotizing flip flapping hindered concentration more than he liked, and to his greater disdain, encouraged drowsiness. He squinted and blinked more often than normal, while his mind worked hard to expunge itself of so many unpleasant distractions. No matter, he could not disconnect.

She took that turn for the worst, just up and died ... so fast ... she did. Why the deuce did I think I could do it alone, so soon after her demise? I might have avoided wallowing in this huge muddle, this stack of unsettled feelings, if I delayed departure a bit longer. Weekend warriors—hunters and anglers by the droves—soon to crowd highways and byways, would have reduced the woeful solitude and worked to dispel the unpleasant sense of impending despair that engulfed his thoughts.

* * *

Six foot-three, bare heels on the floor, to many he seemed a virtual tower. That included the loss of nearly an inch of his younger height to a congenital spinal curvature that just began to take its toll. The past year or so, Mike's body frame bent some from back pain, after cutting firewood or mowing. Broad chest and rock-solid arms, however, almost masked the ailing spine, and his abdominal musculature still rippled. Beneath his comparatively youthful physique, Mike's sixty-two years stayed fairly well concealed. Almost wrinkle-free, though pasty from the paucity of sunshine through the long winter; his complexion looked healthy and ever rosy-cheeked. Curly, brown and receding some, Mike's hair was long enough that it ruffled from beneath the red baseball cap that stayed glued to his head while in Oscoda County. His personal flag, the Detroit Tigers fixture topped off normal weekend attire: faded Levis™, a plaid, long-sleeved woolen or cotton shirt—depending on the season—and laced woodsman's boots. Adorned with ever-present lenses, Mike's face seemed somewhat hollowed from its younger fullness, but his grin was genuine, broad, and natural, and he used it often, along with his magnetic laugh. Soft of voice and compassionate to a fault, he lived to hunt and fish for the myriad bounties offered by the region in which he was born, raised and, surely, would die. Deer, game birds, trout from river fly fishing, and salmon caught deep water trolling in nearby Lake Huron, kept his freezers and those of friends and relatives, well stocked with meats of the seasons.

Who would succeed in his footsteps? Mike wondered, as he massaged his right temple with stubby fingertips. He did that to stay attentive while driving at night, when he often ruminated over the son who never came along, to whom he might have passed the lore of his native woods. He hoped for a boy after the first daughter, and suffered only slight disappointment with the arrival of Jennifer, his younger girl. Just twenty-seven, a graduate of Michigan State, she moved west not long before, to teach high school French in Northern California. He sorely missed her, for she did enjoy her fishing when a youngster. Judith, his eldest, lived close by, with husband and two kids, but never shared Mike's passions for the outdoors.

While proud of and devoted to his two girls, Mike's thoughts drifted to further speculation about the son he never had. He glanced in the darkened rearview mirror. His wrought and saddened expression, a window to his troubled soul, likely brought on the continued musings.

Brilliant, just like Jennifer, Mike Junior—we'd have called him—tallest in his class; would have played ball as I did. Certainly, he would have been a fine fly...