VI. To Nature and Back Again
It was probably owing to the fact that my place of lodgment in New York overlooked the waving trees of Central Park that I was consumed, all the summer through, with a great longing for the woods. To me, as a lover of Nature, the waving of a tree conveys thoughts which are never conveyed to me except by seeing a tree wave.
This longing grew upon me. I became restless with it. In the daytime I dreamed over my work. At night my sleep was broken and restless. At times I would even wander forth, at night into the park, and there, deep in the night shadow of the trees, imagine myself alone in the recesses of the dark woods remote from the toil and fret of our distracted civilization.
This increasing feeling culminated in the resolve which becomes the
subject of this narrative. The thought came to me suddenly one night. I
woke from my sleep with a plan fully matured in my mind. It was this:
I would, for one month, cast off all the travail and cares of civilized
life and become again the wild man of the woods that Nature made me. M
woods, somewhere in New England, divest myself of my clothes—except
only my union suit—crawl into the woods, stay there a month and then
crawl out again. To a trained woodsman and crawler like myself the thing
was simplicity itself. For food I knew that I could rely on berries,
roots, shoots, mosses, mushrooms, fungi, bungi—in fact the whole of
Nature’s ample storehouse; for my drink, the running brook and the quiet
pool; and for my companions the twittering chipmunk, the chickadee,
the chocktaw, the choo-choo, the chow-chow, and the hundred and one
inhabitants of the forgotten glade and the tangled thicket.
Fortunately for me, my resolve came to me upon the last day in August. The month of September was my vacation. My time was my own. I was free to go.
On my rising in the morning my preparations were soon made; or, rather, there were practically no preparations to make. I had but to supply myself with a camera, my one necessity in the woods, and to say good-bye to my friends. Even this last ordeal I wished to make as brief as possible. I had no wish to arouse their anxiety over the dangerous, perhaps foolhardy, project that I had in mind. I wished, as far as possible, to say good-bye in such a way as to allay the very natural fears which my undertaking would excite in the minds of my friends.
From myself, although trained in the craft of the woods, I could not conceal the danger that I incurred. Yet the danger was almost forgotten in the extraordinary and novel interest that attached to the experiment. Would it prove possible for a man, unaided by our civilized arts and industries, to maintain himself naked—except for his union suit—in the heart of the woods? Could he do it, or could he not? And if he couldn’t what then?
But this last thought I put from me. Time alone could answer the question.
As in duty bound, I went first to the place of business where I am employed, to shake hands and say good-bye to my employer.
“I am going,” I said, “to spend a month naked alone in the woods.”