To Not Tell A Story
by B.J. Stolbov
In my distant misty past, I took a solo hike for seven days with only my camping equipment, a gallon of water (which I would refill), and seven Pippin apples. That was all. I was in lean muscular hiking shape from weeks in the southwest deserts of the U.S., but I had never been away for more than a day or two from people and civilization.
Only one friend knew where I was going to go and for how long, so in case I did not return, someone would eventually come looking for me, or whatever was left of me. This was before cellphones and GPS. I was to be entirely alone and independent, except for being dependent on everything around me.
I wasn’t afraid. I knew that there was going to be a water source at the bottom of the first canyon and that, except for rattlesnakes sunbathing on rocks, there were few things that could hurt me, except my own impatience or a momentary lack of attention. It was mid-summer and wonderfully hot, so I did not have to take along much clothing, and, since I would be by myself, there was no need for me to change clothes. I could be gloriously and unapologetically stinky!
As for the seven apples, all Pippins, large, green, juicy apples – a full meal in themselves, good in the morning for a whole day. This is why I named this as my famous but, except for me,unknown, “Seven Apples Adventure.”
I recall that on the second day, I fasted, staying well away from anyone, secluded and naked, beside a slow-moving stream. After that, my stomach shrunken, and my gallon jug full, hiking into the wilderness was gentle and easy. I had nowhere to go, I was in no hurry to get there, it was just me, my hat and my hiking boots, and splendid silence.
No one to this day knows where I was. I’m not exactly sure where I was. I just went wherever my feet and the ground told me to go. I was entirely by myself. All the chattering in my head and the trying to store details for writing a story disappeared in the sun and breeze and the stream and the ground.
Some stories are private, like a locket with a picture inside. Some stories are better written and kept a secret, like a note unsent. Some stories are best remembered and treasured, but not revealed, cherished with the savor of a life well lived.
Recently I was reminded of my long ago adventure by seeing an old favorite movie, “The Bridges of Madison County.” In case you haven’t seen the movie, or read the book from which it is based, it is the story of a 60-something-year-old traveling photographer’s unexpected affair with a 40-something year old Iowa housewife and mother of two teenage children, and their 4-day erotic and once-in-lifetime affair. Most interesting to me is that the story wasn’t told, and never had been told, by either of the participants. The story of this long ago affair is discovered by the woman’s grown children after she has died when they are going through her possessions and find her private journals. They also find that the photographer’s possessions and some rare old photographs of her had been sent to her after his death. The beauty of the story to me is not just their brief timeless affair, but that she and he had kept it secret, private, and forever precious between them for the rest of their lives.
I have never told anyone about this adventure and I have never written a story about it, until now. As for those seven Pippin apples, I returned with one uneaten apple, which I gave to a woman beginning her hike.
But I will never tell the whole story nor will I attempt to tell the whole story. What happened changed my life forever and will forever remain my secret.
Some stories are better left untold.
B.J. Stolbov lives somewhere in Northern Luzon in the Philippines where he has a farm, and grows fruit and nut trees,and raises dogs, and goes on long walks with only water and fruits.
