The Man In The Lake

Since I was a child, I’ve feared him deeply, though I’ve never laid eyes upon his elusive person. I can remember vividly, walking along the narrow trail that surrounded Lake Victory during the ides of October. The water, dormant and as reflective as glass, was enraged by the fiery reds of the perishing leaves that clung desperately to the Maples surrounding it. If you glanced from a distance, you’d think it was a pit of lava, scorching through the center of the Earth. From the leaves that already pirouetted to the ground, a magnificent blanket of gold and orange stretched invitingly along at your feet; consequently, as the trees became more barren, the seasonal breeze squeezed between the branches, knocking together their nimble limbs—with its powerful grasp, the whooshing breath of Mother Nature would envelope all sounds within an ear’s distance of man. This type of silence was cathartic: if you closed your eyes, you could become coalesced with its gentle movement, as a spider web would become accessorized against the unbeknownst skin. The random assortment of sounds, stemming from birds, the splashing of fish, an acorn falling from the tree, the ominous sounds of swaying, narrow trees like a rusted seesaw, or the mercurial patter of rain, echoing against the wilted leaves, producing a light bass that was rhythmically harmonious to the ear.

My Grandfather always mentioned this man was always present, but you had to search persistently without fear or a cluttered mind. There was always talk of a dock, though the far side of the Lake was unrecognizable from the conception, with its bends and curves to and from sight. He always said not many find This Man In Lake Victory—that it takes a special kind of person to gain his trust. The man was full of wisdom, distinguished, and had the ultimate answer to life’s enigmas he claimed—that he had experienced the greatest challenges man can face. I used to circle this Lake frequently as a child: climbing trees for a better view, skipping rocks to alert him of my presence, and whatever other racket I could concoct to make myself evident as far as I could muster the courage to. Of course, this came to no avail. In my mind, the imagery of This Man had always changed: some days he would be terrifyingly tall, his limbs slender, and his eyes were always hidden underneath a low-positioned, straw hat; other days, he would have a becoming face, accentuated by a tinge of red from physical exertion. I pictured him growing corn in small patches, picking berries from wild bushes, and fishing regularly from his forsaken dock; a fire would be ablaze during his nights, where he would sit complacently, listening to the crickets and the sounds of night.

As I went through High School and College, the distraction and monotony of life had guided me far away from Lake Victory, in search of material things—to chase a dream enriched by hollow rapacity. My Family's vacation home had become a distant memory; I no longer needed to acquaint this man during The Fall, because he no longer could fill the void inside of my heart as he would in my youth, or so I thought. I figured that new quest, with all the goals I had set for myself to accomplish, would provide far more solace than The Man In The Lake. I riddled myself with distraction, so much so I was afraid to be alone with my own thoughts, praying my responsibilities and egocentric monsters that loomed behind would never catch up to my incessant steps and thoughts. However, when things that provide no internal peace reach an expulsion point, there comes the burnout...

It wasn't until I was thirty-seven that for the first time in my life I began to feel the weight of time bearing down upon my slouched and exhausted shoulders. It was quite amazing when I returned: how the Lake had never lost its luster; however, it is also true that not many know of this Lake’s whereabouts; furthermore, it would be bizarre to even encounter another bystander in your journeys around its trail. It wasn’t long before I started to realize that the wonderful colors that encapsulate nature never truly lose its vigor—only the man-made things in life itself begin to fade as your optimism and naivety of being young dissipates as you embrace the harsh realities of existence. The future remembers history in black and white; though, those who lived it, always can revisit the palette that painted their peaks, whether the ravishing color of their wives eyes when they first met, the color of their first vehicle sitting, sparkling in the driveway, or his Father's blue flannel shirt, always rolled up to the elbow, as he returned home from work.

I remember spotting the rays of the sun streaming through the naked branches, placing my hand within its warm consultation like I did as a child. My pallid flesh began to glow as an orb would, the light bending around and through my stretched fingers as I tried to ball it up and capture it within my selfish fist. The trees, though still gallant and strong, were showing signs of age then: their bark had become brittle and fissured; the base of some of these trees had become cavernous, offering safe haven for the smaller critters. I reflected on my own appearance, with the subtle lines beginning to formulate below and beside the eyes; the random sprouts of grey hair poking through my sideburns; and the pouch of flesh that had grown dormant around my waist… I too was succumbing to life’s greatest guarantee, and I reflected upon my mortality as I rested my hand against the withering bark in passing. The Man In The Lake must be growing old. 

It was then that again I was enlivened by The Man himself as I began to intake the fresh air. Surely in my adulthood I could find this man, who must be very old himself and not as evasive as he was many, many years before. Those creaks and snapping of branches under the light prancing of the deer would set my heart ablaze, gawking maniacally and frozen still, hoping to finally catch a glimpse of this folklore. The ground was still forgiving to my steps, still fecund from the week’s rain, and my soles glided effortlessly across the discarded tapestry of leaves as they did when I was young. And through certain partitions between the blinding trees, you could catch a swooping heron—the elongated neck, saintly patience, and aloof demeanor—awaiting the perfect moment to spear its beak into unsuspecting prey, just as they had in early summers. 

I remember the trail was as under-utilized as ever at thirty-seven, stumbling atop exposed roots and stubbing my toe against jagged rock. I had been swimming through the thickets, gently whipped by the returning force, though I continued to push further than I’d ever had as a child. It wasn't long then before that allure and optimism that guided my clairvoyance towards The Man In The Lake previously was becoming shrouded by the enclosing nature surrounding my steps; briefly, I remembered pausing within a small pocket of land, like an atrium within the center of the forest, and weighed my options going forward. I concluded that maybe my Grandfather made up This Man In The Lake; that maybe I knew this all along, and held onto this anecdote like one holds onto an old shirt from his past, attached to the memories it harnessed. It was then I turned towards the trail where I had come from, then I craned my neck towards the hazardous continuance just ahead. Something within was battling—opposing forces destined for different destinies—though I allowed my city-wrought mind to win the battle once again: I turned back towards my vehicle, leaving The Man behind once again.

Now, I am seventy-nine: I’ve raised children, paid off my mortgage, made all the money one can make to live a satisfied life; however, something was gnawing in the confines of my mind… The Man In The Lake. Here I was again… The trail was non-existent now, but I allowed what was left of my memory to guide me towards my former footsteps upon weakened limbs. Some of the trees now had fallen and Lake Victory was as exposed as it ever had been as I gingerly stepped around the detriments of my journey. In brief increments, the past would flash before My eyes, and through my childhood eyes I was allotted the opportunity to see Lake Victory in all of its former glory. My breathing was heavy, my hands calloused as I tightly grasped my walking stick, my calves were aching tremendously, though my heart thumped with the excitement and fervency of a teen. I knew this was my last opportunity.

The Fall always seemed to leave me speechless. How could it be? Something that I’ve witnessed dozens of times still enraged my love for this very Earth just as it had the first time. It was the essence of beauty—natural, pure in all of its forms—and I was appreciative that it only climaxed for a few weeks. Things of such enchantment are usually ephemeral, undeserving of the burden of obsolescence: the woman you meet in a foreign land, gone before you awake in the morning; the feeling on a motorcycle, with your hair in the wind, barely avoiding death and the war cry that follows with your heart nearly shattering your rib cage. It was superior to all, because it was effortless—it was the cycle of life itself.

The atrium was still present, though it had shrunken to barely enough room for an elderly man, such as myself. This time, I trudged through the webbing of branches and shrubbery, my face becoming sliced, and my hands bloodied by their sharp teeth. I could see the sun breaking through, about twenty-feet ahead: this must’ve been where The Man lived. I broke through the remaining brush, out into an open field; the purple and yellow flowers arched from their nesting spots, swallowed by the remaining green of October that survived by a water source. I looked upwards, glad to see the sun, receptive to its blanketing of my worn flesh; then, I looked towards the water once again, and there it was, the aforementioned dock. However, I was now forlorn, spotting no cabin in the woods, nor anywhere that a man could survive in such circumstances. I did not see his corn, nor his burn pit where he spent his nights. I’ve spent my whole life in retrospect, always comparing myself to The Man In The Lake: his humble attitude, his love for nature, his ability to acquire happiness without material things. His lore kept me grounded to reality, and now I was faced with the harsh truth that his existence was never crafted by veracity, nor was this apotheosis one in which I dreamed many times before. I harped upon why my Grandfather would speak so greatly of him, as if a friend? Why allow me to go on these wild-goose chases, hoping to encounter some begrimed being, steeped in desolation?

I approached the dock apprehensively, acknowledging its worn and derelict bones, the way it slouched towards the right side, and how the algae grew rampantly across its damp surface. I took a careful step and stopped, now hearing the lapping water gently clapping against the embankment, taking along with it the atrophied leaves as a Viking would be sent off during his death. I took another step, stopping once again, surprised by the stability with a poke of my stick, and then decided upon shuffling towards the very edge. Here I stood, looking out over the Lake that had held such a prized position within my heart. I looked down towards the surface of my hands, with all of the wrinkles and liver spots that come regretfully with age; then I looked around the Lake, witnessing its vitality once again. I understood that though some of the trees would tumble; that this very dock itself will eventually surrender to entropy; that The Man In The Lake may have been a farce; that ultimately, I was eternally grateful for everything it had provided me in my life. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath, feeling the brisk air searching through my lungs. As I exhaled greatly, there was a surge of enlightenment that had imbued a deep revelation just as I had opened my eyes, and it was at this moment I knew I had found The Man In The Lake. As I looked down, just ahead of the last portion of the dock, I saw my reflection within the still water: the white hair that whisked away with the gentlest of breezes; the thick, clouded glasses that stretched across my eyes; my hunched disposition, barely holding up underneath my trembling legs. This fascinating search for a character that had lived deep within all of our souls, one stripped bare of the repressed angst and uncertainty that haunted us all outside of this mystical place; with all of its simplicity and understanding of life that one tends to convolute upon their odyssey towards enlightenment. This was the ultimate lesson, and it took a lifetime to understand: I was The Man In The Lake, just as my Grandpa had once been, and maybe one day you will be too.