Seventh Lake in the Fulton Chain of lakes, Central Adirondacks, NY.
The lakes are dotted with tiny islands. There is something about their rocky shores and dense stands of pines that makes me want to swim out and become a hermit. I would live on fish and turtles, Queen Anne’s Lace and pine needle tea. I’d fend off canoers and explorers by simply being there, with my wild eyes and clothes made of bark, loon feathers and muskrat pelts.
Eventually no one would be sure if the stories about the Wild Man of the Island were true. It would become a story told at the camps, an entry in “Strange Tales of the Adirondacks.”
Thrill seekers, bigfoot hunters and paranormalists would become interested. They’d seek out the island - which island is no longer certain. At first, i would invent elaborate ruses to ward them off or misdirect them, point away from my island.
I’d pose as an real estate appraiser and say to them, “no, sorry no Wild Man on this island. A Russian financier is buying it, wants to trap beaver. Try the island in Fifth Lake.”
I’d try to hide, build my home up in the trees, or dig a pit and live like a mole. But the paranormalists, thed have equipment for that. They’d have infrared and ultraviolet glasses, heat detecting cameras and spirit counters.
I would lose my patience, my resolve. I’d confront the interlopers and ask why they don’t just leave me alone, I only wanted to be left alone. The only answer would be the fake shutter sound of digital cameras and mutters behind video, “omg, he’s standing right in front of me. Can’t be more than 20 yards.”
There would be a brief period of unwanted fame after the video shows on Spike TV. I would have to barricade myself in my weekly rate room at the Inlet Rest M tel & Apts. I’d be thought unstable and supported by the generosity of an older couple of long-time residents in town.
When the attention dies, I’d quietly stay inside my room at the Rest, going outside only to walk alone in the woods and cook on my small charcoal grill by the door.
Occasionally a young couple in short denim cut-offs and thick rimmed glasses would stop and take a quick photo of my motel door before hopping back in their Subaru Volkswagen and driving away.
It would be five days before they would break down the door to find me, choked on a morell foraged from the glen only that five days ago morning.