Forest Stew?

He swatted at his leg. At this rate in the forest state, he was going to get eaten alive. "Pesky bugs," he grumbled to himself, "trying to mess up my work."

Dense thickets surrounded him, and sturdy trees stretched above. The man crouched at the ground, examining branches and leaves and grumbling when what he found dissatisfied him. He only had the most special and premium ingredients in mind for his gourmet, super fancy dinner. The forest was peaceful, save for the chirping of birds, rustling of leaves, and, of course, swatting of flies. Thick canopies of leaves filtered bright sunlight, but he had no worries of weather troubles thanks to his trusty hiker hat and sack.

He preferred carrying most of his items with him in the sack. Not so far away from where he currently was, he had set up camp, which was a simple tent and firepit. It was easier living by himself. He did whatever he wanted, fished whenever he wanted, slept wherever he wished. Nice, peaceful, solitude.

There's was no one really but him. Him and him alone, well occasionally he'd meet fellow campers and wanders, other people who sought escape in the wilderness away from civilization. There was a nice lake in the forest where sometimes people would kayak down, but he mostly avoided anyone. He didn't want any confrontation or any need to explain himself.

He walked up a bumpy dirt trail, straining his muscles a little with the trek uphill. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead--yep, he was really cut out for this woodland lifestyle.

As organized and great at planning as he was, he knew exactly what he had in mind, exactly what to cook. He certainly wasn't making it up as he was going; there was no way.

He stopped along the hike, picking berries and leaves then tossing them into his sack. He tried brushing off most of the dirt, but it was okay, he would wash them in the stream later. He found mushrooms on the way, tried discerning if they were safe or not by taste. Then he thought better of it and brought out an incredibly faithful hiker's guide to compare the pictures of mushrooms. Either way, into the sack it went.

He gathered everything he could possibly find, and eat, in the forest. Just imagining all those foresty ingredients boiled together tasty and mushy was almost making his mouth water. It would be perfect: hearty, warming, and vegan. He'll be full, content, and happy, hopefully. That was the goal anyway: the most filling and satisfactory forest stew with the ability to transport one to one's happiest, most nostalgic memories. Side effects may include sadness at one's reality, but that wasn't important.

When the sack began to grow a little heavy, heavier than it usually was, he decided that he had everything, all the right materials he needed to construct his greatest invention. The sun began to set slowly behind all the hills and he made his way back. He felt a little tired; it had been a long day after all. A delicious meal and a good night's rest would hit the spot just fine. He really just wanted to sleep.

He started a fire with a match, a blazing flame penetrating the almost dark. So much power, the fire glittered in his eye. The power I hold, he thought and then had to stop himself from the urge to laugh maniacally. With a handy, portable kitchenette set, he chopped, peeled, diced, chopped, pinched with his fingers, ripped, and sprinkled his forest gatherings into a large pot that would soon hang over the fire. He poured in some stream water, purified!, to finish it all off. Cradling it in his arms, he sat on a log to catch a break.

Before he set the pot over the fire, however, he began to think. He thought of many things and most of the time tried not to think, but he found himself thinking without him really knowing that he was thinking. What am I doing with my life? He started to think. He thought about how he hadn't seen any of his friends, if he still had friends, in a long time. Seeing his parents was kind of out of question.

Maybe his midlife crisis had come a little earlier; he dropped everything to adventure in the wild. He thought time to himself in the fresh air of nature would help. It would be stress-free and liberation. He was half right: no responsibilities and the idyllic healing qualities of the forest. Though, after a while, he realized that he still hadn't "discovered" himself. Did he know any more about himself than he did before? Was he happier? He couldn't tell and that was stressing him out.

Was this a good idea coming out? Is this a good idea staying here? I'm going to have to return someday. Oh, help, what do I do? He didn't and didn't want to go back, but he couldn't rough it out in the woods forever. Just thinking about all his old high school buddies with their stable jobs and happy families filled him a little with dread. Why couldn't he know what to do? Why couldn't he get his life together?

Before he could stop himself, tears began dripping down his face. He hugged his pot near him as he let his eyes water. It was cleansing, and sobbing was somehow calming. No one was around, so he could really indulge in those feelings. Sometimes, people just needed to cry. Alone.

Then he got up; his face was dry. He settled the pot over the fire that was still burning, the dancing flames mesmerizing. He sat back down on his log. He was okay. He would be okay. And it was okay that he didn't know. He reminded these statements to himself repeatedly like some inner pep talk. You got this!

Watching water boil was kind of exciting after all. Soon enough, the air was filled with a savory, rich smell. Steam blew from the pot, and he quickly ladled some soup into a bowl. He couldn't wait to spoon it all down his throat, but images of scathing hot liquid burning his tongue cautioned him. He blew hastily onto his spoon before gulping down the first mouthful. It still burned a little but by satisfying warming his throat. Wow! He had created a true delicacy. He mentally patted his back and gave himself a standing ovation. The stew was perfectly salty.