[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

This is Behind the Cut with Christopher Gronlund. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and often contains spoilers from the most recent story. You’ve been warned…

* * *

As a child, I had a favorite kind of story: tall tales!

There was something about the larger-than-life characters doing things defying reality that appealed to me. Of the many tall tales I loved, the Story of John Henry was—and still is—my fave. I love the story and the song.

On the subject of songs, my sister and I had some Pete Seeger albums for kids. Of those, his version of Abiyoyo was a thing I could listen to on repeat.

I loved the ridiculousness of Pecos ‘Friggin’ Bill using a dang snake to lasso—and ride—a tornado!

And, of course, I loved stories about the lumberjack of all lumberjacks: Paul Bunyan and his blue ox, Babe.

* * *

I’ve always wanted to write a tall tale, but only until recently, actually have. I’ve definitely leaned into ridiculous things with not about lumberjacks: stories about people visiting fantastic worlds on the other sides of portals, a couple stories involving time travel, and even a story that starts out 100% true and morphs into a tale that ends up with a demon singing “Happy Birthday” to the guy who convinced me to start the Not About Lumberjacks Patreon!

With the most recent story—“The Legend of Mighty Missy Stewart”—I finally have a tall tale to add to my writing collection.

Of course, a BIG story needs a BIG voice…

* * *

I’m terrible about asking for things. I’m terrible about accepting things as well. Once, a great-aunt who owned an art gallery in New York City offered to move me up from Texas, put me in an apartment she still had near Central Park (she and her sisters all lived on a farm in New Jersey after she shut down the gallery), and give me a free school ride.

When I told her, “I’m on academic probation,” she said, “Well, I’ve donated quite a bit to several schools on the coast…I’m sure if you promised to do well that they’d make an exception in your case…”

It was a huge, life-changing offer, to which I said, “Thank you, Aunt Catherine…but I can’t accept that…”

(And later, when people said I was nuts to turn down such an offer and to ask if it still stood, I didn’t ask. Because asking for things is my kryptonite, a thing I have a hard time doing, even though I’ll do anything for friends asking me for help where I can.)

So…”The Legend of Mighty Missy Stewart” almost didn’t have the incredible narration of Dave Pettitt behind it.

* * *

You’ve likely heard Dave Pettitt’s voice. He’s narrated several unscripted reality series for Discovery—and voiced commercials for car companies, professional sports, and so many other things. (Example: my wife knew his voice from an episode of My Little Pony.)

Dave is a friend of a good friend. When “The Legend of Mighty Missy Stewart” was taking shape, I heard his voice in my head. I even thought, “Hmm…I wonder if I can somehow afford Dave’s voice for this one,” told myself I couldn’t, and just kept writing…

* * *

There are two events in my life that make me a little better at asking for things: one is a decades-long friend and I chatting at lunch about how I have a hard time asking for help. This friend has a pile of the biggest art awards in his industries…it’s likely, if you’re into sci-fi or fantasy, that you’ve seen his work on book covers.

During our chat, he asked why I never asked him for any help. I said something to the effect of, “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m your friend only because you might help me.”

He laughed and said something along the lines of, “If that’s been your goal all along, you are terrible at playing the long game!” (We’ve been friends for over 30 years.)

The other event involved a person I knew through one of those corporate post-layoff, “Here’s a workshop to help you get through it,” things.

She wanted to do consulting work for her company where I was employed at the time, so she asked if I had some time to meet up and chat. She made it clear what she hoped would come of the conversation.

When our business was settled, we started chatting about other things. In the conversation, my seeming inability to ask for things came up.

She said: “When I asked you for help, what did you do?”

Me: “Helped you…”

Her: “Yes. And why did you help me?”

“Because you’re a cool person and I wanted to…”

Then she said, “Right. You—and so many others—are happy to help. And closer friends, even moreso! In fact, when you don’t ask for help, you’re actually denying others the chance to do something that feels good when they’re able to be the person helping another. You shouldn’t do that.”

And so: I asked a good friend if he knew how much Dave charged.

* * *

My friend had no idea, but said, “Hell, now I’m curious!Only one way to find out…”

I won’t disclose the rate we agreed on, but I’m glad I set aside Patreon money and that I finally asked.

I cannot imagine this story narrated by anyone but Dave!

* * *

Knowing all I know, I’m still terrible at asking for things.

It’s likely—were I more assertive—that more people would know my writing. (I have a fair amount of friends who are published writers whom I’ll likely never ask for help!)

So, in an effort at getting better at asking for help, I’m asking you: if you like Not About Lumberjacks, please share a favorite story or two this holiday season. It’s a great listen while traveling, cooking a big meal, or just getting away from crowds and relaxing.

Whatever your plans are over the next month or so, I hope they all go smoothly and leave you with fond memories…

As I always say at the end of these commentaries…

* * *

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

Also, for as little as a dollar a month—and actually even free—you can have access to a bigger behind-the-scenes look at Not About Lumberjacks on Patreon. Check out patreon.com/cgronlund if that sounds like your kinda thing.

Next up is the annual Christmas episode! This time around, you get:

• A story about a summer school friendship set in 1985…
• A tale about the first human Mars landing and…the surprising thing the crew discovers…
• A story about two people attending the strange funeral of a coworker no one knew much about…
• And it all wraps up with a Christmas tale about three famous ghosts who change the way they do their annual Christmas hauntings…

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.

It’s one of my favorite times of the year…time for the November anniversary episode of Not About Lumberjacks. And this year is extra special as the show enters its 10^th year! This time, it’s a tall tale about a girl raised on the frontier and coming of age in a time of lumberjacks. There might even be a legendary cameo in this one.

A couple things to get to before the story. First up: the usual content advisory…

Were “The Legend of Mighty Missy Stewart” a movie, it would be rated PG. There’s some good-natured teasing and a non-descriptive death. What might put it into the PG realm instead of General Audiences is the mention of some woodland monsters. But this one’s a really light-hearted and fun tale.

The other thing before we begin is a bit about our narrator this time around.

Dave Pettitt not only has a ridiculously wonderful voice, but he has a voice you’ve likely heard. He’s done a wide range of commercial work, including the National Hockey League and the National Football League. Cartoons and video games? Yep, Dave’s done both. But he’s best known for the unscripted reality series, Discovery’s Highway Thru Hell—and somewhere near the other end of the spectrum – GPS audio tours for an app called Guide Along.

Dave splits his time between his home on Vancouver Island and Puerto Vallarta, Mexico – where he and his wife, Mindi, not only enjoy warmer weather, but also dedicate time to rescuing dogs.

They’re dang-good people!

You can check out this episode’s show notes to learn more about Dave and what he’s up to.

All right, let’s get to work!

* * *

The Legend of Mighty Missy Stewart

No one knows how Mighty Missy Stewart came to exist in the world, only that one day she was there. Some say she sprung fully formed from a magical acorn, while others claimed she was found in the center of the greatest tree in the Northwoods, freed from a long slumber in its heart on the day it was felled. Others say she was brought down by the glaciers forming the Great Lakes, deposited like a seed that grew strong and tall when they retreated. And one other tale insisted she crawled out of a bear den stretching all the way to the center of the earth, where she was forged in its metal core. The only thing for certain is somewhere in her infancy, she ended up in the company of Emma and Benjamin Stewart.

* * *

When the Stewarts headed west in search of a better life, they found what they were looking for in the Northwoods of Wisconsin: a wild, quiet place where they could build a cabin and raise a family. The cabin went up in a green grove beside a bright brook, but starting a family proved to be a greater challenge than settling the land. When home remedies didn’t work, Emma and Benjamin turned to prayer. When prayer didn’t work, they accepted a large family was simply not meant to be. Their love for each other would have to be enough, even though both knew it would never fill the hole in their hearts.

Then came the day that changed everything…

* * *

On his final hunting trip before winter’s full arrival—hoping to top off reserves in his smokehouse—Benjamin Stewart heard a sound that piqued his curiosity, but also chilled him to his bones: the giggling of an infant.

It was deeper in tone than it should have been—and what was a newborn doing out this deep in the timber anyway? Their nearest neighbor was a five-mile trek through dense woods and over frigid streams, and their children were long past infancy. He crept over the frosty bed of crisp leaves on the forest floor for a better look, eventually finding a spot behind the cover of a juniper bush. There, in a small grove, was a newborn babe the size of a toddler, dancing and cooing to an equally content badger the size of a black bear.

Benjamin wondered if it was a trick of the light or a matter of strange perspective. No infant could be so large, let alone already walking and hopping about as though they’d been ambulatory for years. She wore not a stitch of fabric or a bit of fur; nothing on her feet or atop her head. All morning, Benjamin had struggled to warm up, despite his many layers, and here was a baby jumping about as though it were summer. He stepped out from behind the juniper bush and said, “Hello…”

The giant infant and badger stopped their merry waltz and faced him. The sun broke through the canopy, illuminating the girl’s face. Something about her eyes told Benjamin she’d been there longer than him.

She giggled and approached.

The badger followed.

“Where are your parents?” he said.

The giant baby cooed again.

“Hello?!” Benjamin called, but no one answered. “Is anybody here?”

He took off his coat and draped it over the child’s wide shoulders.

“We need to get you somewhere warm. Do you want to come home with me?”

She nodded.

“Okay, then…”

Benjamin Stewart turned toward home, hoping the food he had in storage would be enough for Emma, him, and a new, hungry mouth. As he walked along with the child and her badger buddy, she reached up, took his hand in hers, and said, “Papa…”

* * *

Emma Stewart welcomed the child into their home with an open heart but was not as keen on the badger that arrived with her.

“Benjamin, we can’t allow a wild animal live in the cabin with us!”

“It’s not hurting anything,” he said, “and she seems attached to it.”

To Emma’s delight, the badger didn’t seem thrilled about sharing the tiny space with three humans. It dug a den beneath a tamarack tree at the side of the cabin in what seemed like a fair compromise to both the furry creature and the cabin’s main keeper.

* * *

Before long, the child’s curiosity and mobility became a curse. Her ability to climb was remarkable. She was often found perched on the ridge of the rooftop, or even higher up in the tallest of trees, where she would sway in the breeze, much to her parents’ horror.

When she wasn’t running about, swimming in rivers, or wrestling with Tamarack the badger, everything in the Stewart’s home was a source of interest.

“Me see! Me see!” she’d say any time Benjamin or Emma picked something up. “Me see! Me see!” and they would call out what it was that attracted her attention: “Spoon…Plate…Candle.”

“Me see! Me see!” all day long’ so frequently that they finally decided on a name for her: Missy.

It didn’t take long for Missy to leap from a constant barrage of “Me sees!” to speaking in full sentences. By the time she was five, she was already taller than her adoptive parents.

And oh, what an appetite she had, eating stacks of flapjacks and dozens of eggs for breakfast, and never slowing throughout the day.

“Benjamin,” Emma said, “I can’t keep up with her!”

“Nor I,” he said. “My days are spent just making sure she’s fed.”

* * *

As more people settled in the area, it was not uncommon for someone to appear at the door, stating they knew Missy meant no harm, but hurt their children while playing. Those who didn’t know her often mistook her for an adult—and Tamarack for a grizzly bear!

Between the efforts to keep her fed and the damage she seemed to cause to people and home, the 12-year-old left a letter for her parents one morning before they woke up.

Dear Mama and Papa,

I know I am a problem, and I am sorry for the harm I have caused. Just as you came to the Northwoods to find your own way, I must leave to find mine.

Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I love you both.

Missy

P.S. This is not goodbye.

* * *

Not even Missy knew how long she’d been around, no matter how hard she tried remembering. She believed it was the Stewart’s love that helped her grow and give her awareness, like a dandelion seed floating until finding a place to settle and sprout.

She and Tamarack traveled far and wide, hoping to find something triggering a memory of, “This is it! This is where I began!”

But years of wandering left her with more questions than answers.

Some evenings, she and Tamarack spent the night on the edges of new settlements, where Missy eavesdropped on elders sharing ancient stories around fires. In time, a new story found its footing: a tale about a wild woman of the woods and her pet bear. It was not until hearing another settlement share the story—with a giant badger instead of a bear as the woman’s companion—that she realized the stories were about her and Tamarack.

None of the things shared in the tales had happened: they never fought off monsters or had even seen one. Heck, Missy didn’t even know what a monster was until hearing about them in stories. It took several evenings for Tamarack to ease her nerves about that. And she definitely wielded no magic. Tamarack couldn’t shape-shift into other creatures like he did in stories. Why would they share such lies?

Missy came to understand that was how people warned each other to be cautious. “Do be careful, young ones,” would not suffice. “Go where you do not belong, or you are likely to be eaten by a luferlang,” carried more weight.

It tickled Missy to think that she and Tamarack were legends in their own time, more mysterious than genuinely threatening in the eyes of settlers.

* * *

As Missy neared adulthood, the biggest change yet came to the Northwoods: lumberjacks! Hearty men risking life and limb to stake a claim in the forests. Where they roamed, timbers fell; where they slept, trouble often followed. Brutish and brash, Missy’s encounters with them often left her stomach soured.

“I was taught to see the best in people, Tamarack, but these men thrive on fighting and harassment. I do wish there was something I could do to set them straight.”

She found what she was looking for one summer afternoon outside a new settlement. The sign read:

LUMBERJACK CONTEST
“WHO WILL WIN THE GOLDEN AXE?”
MIRROR LAKE CAMP
SATURDAY
SUN UP TO SUN DOWN

* * *

Missy and Tamarack followed the scent of campfire coffee to the lumber camp before sunrise on the day of the event. Competitors and spectators huddled around the cook tent, finishing towering plates of flapjacks, sausages, and eggs—and washing it all down with swigs of the bitter bean. As she made her way toward the group, the previous year’s Golden Axe winner—Big Bill Bagley—said, “What can we help you with, miss?”

“I’m here to sign up for the competition.”

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have a woman’s contest,” the big man said.

“I’m not looking to compete against other women,” Missy said. “I’m here to win the Golden Axe.”

The other competitors laughed, and Big Bill said, “How about that, fellas. She thinks she can keep up with us! Should we let her have a go?”

“Aww, what’s the harm?” a lithe, but sinewy jack said. “She’ll give up before finishing the first event!”

They all stopped laughing after Missy defeated them in the underhand cut.

Next, the seasoned lumbermen paired up for the sawing event. Missy’s only ally was Tamarack, and he would be no help on the other side of a crosscut saw.

“Looks like you’re out, miss,” Big Bill Bagley said.

“No, I’ll just have to do it on my own.”

The goal was simple: be the fastest team to cut two rounds out of a 4-foot white pine.

Big Bill sawed so rapidly that his partner, Emmett Sanders, could barely keep up. Down fell the first round, and when the Golden Axe legend looked up after racing through the second, he reveled in the applause. His excitement deflated when he realized the crowd was actually cheering for Missy, who’d cut four rounds on her own in the time it took the best team in the Northwoods to cut two.

Next up was the most dangerous contest: tree climbing. Surely, she stood no chance of topping a tree, but up she went—without as much as a rope or spurs. When she reached the 100-foot mark, she undid her belt, threw it around the trunk, and held onto both ends with her left hand. Her right hand was a blur as she cut loose the top of the tree and slid back down just as the others began chopping.

Finally came the settlers’ favorite event: the log-rolling competition. Missy and Big Bill Bagley breezed through the ranks with only the soles of their boots getting wet. Bill’s sure-footed skills were known all the way to Maine on one end of the country and out to the Pacific Northwest on the other. Even Canadians knew his name.

After Missy and Big Bill conquered all challengers, it was time to face off. They stepped onto the log and slowly walked it out.

“ONE…TWO…THREE, ROLL!” cried the camp foreman—and they were off.

Big Bill Bagley rolled this way and that, hoping to get a jump on Missy, who was as sure-footed as a mountain goat. He kicked water in her face and rocked her end up and down, but her balance was unshaken. Big Bill worked himself into a frenzy, doing every trick he knew…even coming up with some in the moment. He looked ready to cry foul when Missy began hopping on one foot and smiling. No matter what he tried, he could not break her.

When Big Bill neared exhaustion, Missy said, “How do you want to end this? Keep going until you can stand no more, or shall I show you mercy and put you in the drink?”

His anger became a second wind. He tried everything he’d already tried, but faster. When his face grew redder than his flannel and he could barely hold a breath, Big Bill Bagley stood on the far end of the log and smiled. He spread his arms wide and fell back into the cool waters of Mirror Lake, admitting defeat.

Missy did a backflip off the log, shook Big Bill Bagley’s hand, and helped the exhausted lumberjack to the shore.

“This ain’t easy for me,” he said before the amazed crowd. “Nobody’s ever bested me at one task, let alone them all. You have my respect, ma’am.”

He stepped to the stump holding the Golden Axe, pulled it free, and handed it to Missy.

“You take care of that, now, ‘cause I plan to reclaim it next year…”

* * *

In the years that followed, the Northwoods remained a wild and mysterious place—but as more settlements sprang up, nature and man frequently clashed. As more timber was cut, animals that once fled deeper into the timber could hide no more. Where paths crossed, injuries—and even deaths—occurred. And when men took more, they unearthed creatures of legend.

Lumberjacks went missing, the victims of hidebehinds and river serpents. Some said woodland spirits drove a lumber camp so mad that when the spring thaw came and trade resumed, there was nothing left but bones. Something needed to be done, and Missy and Tamarack took it upon themselves to help the region find common ground.

She went to the heads of lumber companies and mills, explaining the problems would worsen if they didn’t cut and harvest with care. If Missy was waved off, she knew how to play to those in charge.

“You have more than enough already,” she’d say. “Can you not set aside some of your land to remain protected? Do that, and your name will live on forever. But cut it all down, and you will be forgotten—or hated. Think about your name associated with parks people will come from coasts to see…”

Tamarack did his part, too, speaking the common language all forest creatures share. Letting his furry, feathered, and even scaled brethren know Missy was doing all she could to convince the intruders to care more for their homes.

Their efforts paid off, and where they did not, they let nature have her final say through violent storms, extreme temperatures, and raging fires.

* * *

On what Missy estimated to be her eighteenth birthday, she finally returned home. While she still frolicked and wrestled with Tamarack to keep her strength up, she had shed the clumsiness of her youth as she grew into her full eight feet of height. She could be poised and proper when the need arose, but always preferred a more rough and tumble way of living.

She barely recognized the area she left six years prior—the tiny grove had become a full settlement. She smiled when she saw the sign where the Big Bates River split off into the Little Bates River:

STEWARTSVILLE
POPULATION: 378
(AND GROWING)

Emma Stewart saw her daughter first. Her mouth opened wide in surprise. Without looking away, she reached back and tugged on her husband’s shirt.

“Missy…” he whispered.

The Stewarts crossed the distance between them faster than Missy, who scooped them both up in a grand hug.

“I told you it wasn’t goodbye…”

* * *

Missy shared six years of adventures with Emma and Benjamin, and they shared how the settlement grew until needing a name. Stewartsville was the unanimous winner, with Benjamin their reluctant leader.

In the years that followed, Missy and Tamarack continued being ambassadors of the Northwoods—and helping the township grow responsibly. It was nice being a fixture in one place again, with a loving family and plenty of friends.

All was well in the Northwoods, until that fateful day…

* * *

The residents of Stewartsville gathered on the north side of the village with picnic lunches to watch the spring log run. It was quite the spectacle, watching men racing down the Big Bates River on cut and cleaned timber, making their way south to the mills below the Northwoods. Such a grand time, until a run of logs broke free from the control of the seasoned lumbermen, toppling the temporary dam on the Little Bates River used to divert additional flow its bigger brother’s way.

When the Little Bates River couldn’t carry the load of timber rushing down, a log jam formed south of Stewartsville and quickly backed up. Despite the best efforts of the skilled river pigs running the logs, the area where the rivers split was overrun. As water diverted to the sides of the jam, more logs came rushing down. By early evening, Stewartsville was surrounded by a growing pile of logs—and ever-deepening waters too dangerous to cross.

Missy’s best efforts with the old heave-ho bore no results—there were just too many logs. Not even dynamite could break things free. As the jam grew wider, Benjamin predicted they had a week before the snow melt up north brought even more and they’d all be taken by flood waters or crushed among the shifting logs.

That’s when Missy had an idea…

* * *

The legend of Paul Bunyan was known coast to coast—a man so colossal that his reputation spanned oceans. Some said he was seven feet tall with a seven-foot stride, while others claimed he was a bona fide giant, with a chest rising high above the canopy of the tallest trees in the Northwoods. Missy speculated the truth lied somewhere in between. She also believed, if anyone could help clear the log jam, it was Mr. Bunyan and his mighty blue ox, Babe.

She told her parents the plan.

“Do be careful,” Emma Stewart said. “I worry about you.”

Missy bent down and hugged her mother. Benjamin was more practical.

“You should find him if you go straight on to Duluth and hang a right.”

“I will, Papa,” she said while kissing him on his forehead. “This is not goodbye.”

She hopped onto Tamarack’s back and held tight. The badger’s claws found purchase on the teetering timbers, and they raced off into the dark.

* * *

Between running alongside Tamarack—and sometimes riding on his back when she needed rest—they made it to Duluth in two days. It took another day to reach Paul Bunyan.

She saw him from a distance, standing on a bluff overlooking Lake Superior where the Big Onion River emptied into a body of water that may as well have been an ocean. Standing at his side, his massive blue ox, Babe. Missy tried guessing his height as she and Tamarack approached, eventually catching his attention as they climbed a hill on the backside of the bluff.

“Good eve to thee, friend! And…badger.”

“Hello!” Missy said. By the time she reached him, she guessed Paul Bunyan was 20-feet tall, with Babe standing at his shoulders.

“What can I do for you, ma’am?” the giant man said.

Missy shared the tale of Stewartsville’s troubles.

“I see.” Paul Bunyan looked across the lake below them and said, “Sounds like some got greedy and have cut more than they should. So, yes: I will help you. We’ll leave at first light.”

* * *

Cheers went up in Stewartsville when Bunyan’s head rose above the pile of logs and rising waters threatening to consume the settlement in a day’s time. Bunyan’s and Babe’s thundering footsteps echoed through the Northwoods. When he reached the log jam, Bunyan crossed as though it were level terrain. Tamarack skittered across timbers behind him, carrying Missy home. Not as sure-footed as the legendary giant or the massive badger, Babe waited on solid ground.

“You’re right—this is a fine mess,” Paul Bunyan said to Missy when they reached the settlement.

He filled his lungs and stretched to his full height.

“Good people of Stewartsville, your friend traveled far and put herself at great risk to find me. First, I must apologize for the eagerness of my fellow loggers. We should never cut more than we can manage. What’s been done cannot be changed, but I believe in my big heart that we can make things right again. Missy told me what happened, and we had plenty of time on our journey to come up with a plan.

“I’ll need the strongest among you to help Missy build a wedge of timbers north of town. When this all breaks, it’s going to be a monumental force you’ll remember for all your days. The wedge will keep Stewartsville safe. I’ll need a crew to dig a slope along the eastern edge of this island to make sure the water flows down the Big Bates River. And I’ll need the bravest among you to loosen the jam where the Big Bates splits. There will be plenty of time to manually remove what’s backed up on the little side, but to save the town, we need to drive the flow south. Babe will pull on the jam downstream and I will push from the north.”

Crews jumped to work, and by late afternoon, it was time to see how the plan worked out.

Bunyan’s mighty voice echoed through the Northwoods as he gave a hearty, “Push…pull! Push…pull!”

It sounded like a forest being dropped from the heavens when the log jam budged and finally broke loose from its own tangle. Water rushed south like a raging waterfall. Over the roar and cheering, Bunyan’s calls and Babe’s bellows echoed in Missy’s chest. The plan had worked!

Too well…

The entire jam broke free all at once, rather than in stages as planned. It ricocheted off the wedge Missy and others built on the north end of Stewartsville with such ferocity that it began to give.

“Hurry!” Missy shouted. The strongest of the lumbermen raced to the wall to help her hold the river’s fury back, but it was too much. They sought shelter with others on the south end of town.

With each surge of water and wood, Missy pushed back with equal force…until she could no longer hold back the barrage. Her legs trembled and her arms and shoulders burned. With her final effort, she gave all she had left, saving Stewartsville in the process. But the wedge—and Missy—tumbled into the Big Bates River. She tried leaping timber to timber but lost her footing. It didn’t matter how strong a swimmer she was against such an onslaught—it was a losing battle.

Just before being pulled under by the tail-end of the log jam, she looked to her parents on the shore and shouted, “This is not goodbye!”

She was never seen again…

* * *

No one knows for certain what happened to Mighty Missy Stewart following that fateful afternoon. Some say she was placed here by divine hands to save the people she loved and then called home. Others say her spirit roams the Northwoods, protecting all beasts, plants, and people. And still, others say she crawled back into the bear den from which she arrived, returning to the earth’s core to slumber until needed again.

The timbers from the Little Bates River still heat homes a century later—and will likely continue for centuries more. And late at night, on the coldest nights of winter, the old ones share stories about Mighty Missy Stewart, Tamarack, and their adventures by the glow of those fires.

One thing is for certain: as long as there are storytellers and willing ears, this is not goodbye…

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time was by Sandra Marteleur, Horna Spelmän, and traditional tunes, all licensed through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. And this time around, I even used some woody sounds from Bluezone Corporation, who make some great noises when I don’t have time to do so myself. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. Also, for as little as a dollar a month (or even free), you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.

In December, it’s the annual Christmas episode. Santa’s bringing you four stories this year:

The first takes us back to summer school in the 1980s. After that, we go to Mars and attend a very strange funeral. And it’s all anchored by a Christmas tale featuring three famous ghosts who have grown tougher—and meaner—over the years.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

This is Behind the Cut with Christopher Gronlund. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and often contains spoilers from the most recent story. You’ve been warned…

* * *

“Overwinter” was the right story at the right time for me…and, it seems, others as well.

I’ve been dealing with a health issue, and I just didn’t feel up to working on a story requiring a lot more thought and sound design. But I also didn’t want to skip two stories in a row. (I’m skipping September’s story this year to focus on health. [And, just so you know, the health thing is looking better than expected, so that’s great!]) I decided on a quiet story I knew I could finish during all I’ve been dealing with.

“Overwinter” has been a story I’ve thought about for some time. Initially, it was about a lighthouse keeper, but then I saw a 14-minute video about Alexandra de Steiguer, the winter keeper of The Oceanic Hotel on Star Island off the New Hampshire coast. It touched on the story I saw in my head.

So, the switch from a lighthouse to a hotel was inspired by her. What was going to be a celebration of solitude in a lighthouse changed to a bigger celebration of solitude on a larger island and bigger space.

(I also follow a firewatch who goes by FollowMyLeap on YouTube, and he often talks about the joy of being isolated and alone as well.)

* * *

I expected “Overwinter” to be between three and four thousand words, but once I had a timeline and started writing, focusing on each month meant it would be a longer story. None of it was particularly planned. I had some notes jotted down about an artist in a lighthouse, but much of this tale was created in the moment.

It’s no secret that I like solitude, but it would be a big mistake to take all of Daniel’s feelings about being alone as mine. Still, many of my feelings about social interactions (for example: going quiet around four or more people)—that’s totally me. Also: I did write much of this story with specific people in mind.

First, my wife Cynthia…who prefers not being social because of all the expectations and stresses that come with it. My wife is an introvert’s introvert, someone who doesn’t have the social battery most introverts seem to have, where they do go out, but only have so much to give. Even that’s too much for her.

There are also thoughts about art—again, written for my wife, our friend Julia Lundman, and soooooooo many artists who are expected to perform for attention, made worse by things like Internet trolls, AI images, and other struggles that come with creating art in such a connected world.

My friends Deacon and Erin are in this one as well, people who are content pondering things more than always just being on the go. And there’s a part about the “ghost” of an old boxer, totally written for my friend John. John just comes up with the greatest creative tangents on social media, sometimes creating personas and thoughts on the fly that seem so real. So that’s a nod to him.

But mostly, I wanted a story in which the introverts had their silent say—something for people who find even the company of other introverts absolutely exhausting.

* * *

There are also a lot of things I didn’t do with “Overwinter.” I still wanted that lighthouse—I even considered, “Well, maybe there’s a lighthouse in Daniel’s view, and he can paddle out to it in a kayak found on the property. Would he find someone there? Or…would he end up stranded for days, caught in a storm without proper preparations and realize he was lucky to survive?”

I even thought about someone coming out to the hotel and being surprised by Daniel’s presence—and Daniel by theirs. What would happen with such an encounter? Would they occupy the space together, or would Daniel send them off?”

And, of course, I thought about making it creepy. Maybe something otherworldly was out there, something always on the outside of Daniel’s senses that left him constantly on edge. Or just some straight up horror he had to overcome to survive.

There was even a scene I started, but quickly dropped: a bit in March in which Daniel went to the small cemetery on the island—on the anniversary of his twin brother’s death when they were in their late teens/early 20s—and talked to an unmarked stone.

That’s what I liked most about writing this story: while I usually do just write what comes to mind, most of my stories develop more of a plot than simply existing on an island for five months. I might begin with little idea where I’m going, but plotting and structure usually becomes clear and demands attention pretty early in the process.

With “Overwinter,” there was nothing I had to do, other than to get Daniel on and off an island in the Atlantic Ocean.

* * *

I see “Overwinter” as a bit of a companion piece to another Not About Lumberjacks story: “Revisions.” In that one, a woman struggles to write her second novel while also trying to finish construction on her dead mother’s house that was not completed before her passing.

I love quiet stories, things where structure doesn’t dictate progress. My favorite book is Robert Olmstead’s A Trail of Heart’s Blood Wherever We Go, and I tell most people, “You probably won’t like it,” if they say they plan to read it. Things do happen in the book, but it’s largely about a small town in New Hampshire and a friendship between two very different people. No hitting expected beats—just damn good writing and a strange coziness to me.

Nothing big needed to happen in “Overwinter,” and that’s what I love about the story.

* * *

I like stories that don’t follow typical formulas or always conform to expected beats and shapes.

In his 2021 Book, Craft in the Real World, Matthew Salesses makes a great argument about the Western literary canon shunning so many great works that don’t meet certain expectations.

He says: “We still talk about plot the way Aristotle wrote about it over two thousand years ago, when he argued that plot should be driven by character.”

But in Japan, stories deemed “plotless” by some are not uncommon, tales in which a person exists in a moment of time, just going through life with no huge goals or revelations. In other parts of Asia, a 4-act structure is more typical than the Western 3 or 5 act so-called “rules.” And African literature has often been criticized as not having well-rounded characters because sometimes the focus deviates from the protagonist’s journey, which is usually centered in Western literature: one man against the world!

Not everything needs to conform to expected standards—especially when those standards are often created by those with far more agency than others.

* * *

The world is a noisy place, and I’d argue we’d all do well to embrace slower stories. It’s clear we crave a slower pace, with people talking about getting out and touching grass or just stopping to catch their breath; the need for self-care or cozy time inside instead of social obligations.

The expectation to always be connected and on the go is reflected in much of our entertainment. People apologize for writing long posts on social media, even though “long” to them is a short paragraph instead of one of two quick lines. It’s people seeking “quick reads,” and fast content. People half-reading short articles and then rushing off to have a quick say.

At the same time, there’s a huge market for slow video games, things far more soothing than thrilling. A return to curating a play list or even buying vinyl albums again and losing oneself in music for the sake of music. And even the occasional bigger, slower novel pulling people in.

* * *

Right now, I needed to write a story like “Overwinter.”

I needed something slow and quiet in my life.

And from the feedback I’ve received from others, it seems I was not alone…

* * *

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

Also, for as little as a dollar a month—and actually even free—you can have access to a bigger behind-the-scenes look at Not About Lumberjacks on Patreon. Check out patreon.com/cgronlund if that sounds like your kinda thing.

In November, the show enters its 10^th season with the most not Not About Lumberjacks story of the year!

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.

This time, it’s a story about an overwinter watch alone in a hotel on a small island off the Maine coast. That might sound like a familiar horror story, but it’s actually a quiet celebration of solitude. I’ll mention why my plans changed in a moment, but first, onto the usual content advisory…

“Overwinter” deals with a job change, longing, solitude vs. loneliness, and does contain a couple words you’ve probably heard on TV or at work this week. There are also a couple scenes with moderate consumption of alcohol.

So, why the change from the planned story that was scheduled for July?

Right now, I’m dealing with a little health issue. It’s not too serious (at least there’s no indication it’s really serious), but I’m dealing with tests, resting, and other stuff as we figure things out. It’s something that’s likely been happening for decades but gotten worse.

Working on a very involved story with detailed sound design was quite an undertaking right now—and I don’t want the story to suffer, just to get it out.

My plan right now is to skip September’s story and focus on my health, November’s anniversary story, and this calendar year’s Christmas story. I already have a couple of the shorter short stories ready for the Christmas episode (and one of them, I love soooooooo much!), and November’s anniversary tale is shaping up to be a lot of fun.

All right—enough of that! Let’s get to work!

OVERWINTER

NOVEMBER

I wake with the sun and fall to sleep shortly after dark, lulled by the hammering of waves against ancient stones. The flickering of a coal-burning stove turns from an orange to red glow against the wall in the room where I sleep. I’m usually deep into dreams by the time it all goes dark.

It was a well-timed proposition from my friend, David: “Do you want five months alone to focus on art?”

Recently laid off from a 15-year run at a video game company designing characters and environments for games you’ve likely played (or seen your kids or nieces or nephews play), I planned to leave soon anyway. It was a good job, but not the art I most wanted to create. So, David—the overwinter caretaker of Valmorne Hotel and Conference Center off the Maine coast—recommended me as the ideal replacement for him as he stepped away to care for his ailing father.

“What would I do?” I said.

“They drop you off on November first and pick you up on April Fool’s Day. There’s some maintenance checklists and other little tasks, but it’s nothing major. You’re basically out there making sure no one messes with the property—not that someone’s likely to head out in winter seas to vandalize the place.”

“Is it safe?”

“Safer than the mainland. No one’s gonna be distracted by a text message while driving and plow into you with their SUV. No crime or all the other ways to get hurt, here. Granted, if something happens, you’re probably screwed if you can’t send an alert. But I feel far safer out there than here.”

I always thought about what I’d do with nothing but time, all the drawing and painting I could get to and finish. A life where I woke up each day with one simple goal: make the things I most want to make. What it would be like to step away from the constant rush of days and slow down. This was the chance to give it a try with an end date if it turned out to not be all I imagined and hoped.

“Sure, I’ll do it,” I said.

* * *

Thirteen-Mile Island sounds like the title of a horror movie—some Shining knockoff, but in the Atlantic Ocean. That’s where I was going for five months, 36 acres of rocky land 13 miles out from the Maine coastline.

I arrived at the dock early, looking for the lobster boat that would take me to the island. The captain, a sea-weathered man in his 60s named Einar, waved and called to me: “Daniel! Here!”

I wondered how he knew it was me, but I was the only one struggling to drag a folding hand cart full of clothing, art supplies, and other items I felt I needed to get through the next five months with any semblance of sanity. Food was provided, but I still packed a box full of camping meals, jerky, and other compact, shelf-stable foods—just in case. When I reached the boat, I shook Einar’s coarse hand and waited to be invited aboard. He helped me with my gear and said, “Ready?”

“As much as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”

“Eh, if Davy can make it out here, you can, too.”

I thought about how much David hated being called Davy, but Einar was big enough that I’d let “Danny” slide if that’s what he decided to call me. I stood on the closed side of the cabin in the small boat, watching the Maine coast fade away behind us. Several miles out, we turned southeast. I expected lighthouses and summer mansions on small islands, but it was one rugged chunk of rock after another until reaching open water. It settled in how alone I would be. With no reliable cell service, a radio and emergency satellite beacon would be my only line to others. I struck up a conversation with Einar, just to enjoy my last hours of companionship.

“Have you ever spent much time on the island?” I said.

“Naw. My sister runs the hotel and conference center. I just take people back and forth. Got a 65-foot ferry that holds 149 passengers. My summers are all about sightseeing tours and shuttling people around the islands. I started out fishing, though. I kept this old boat ‘cause I love it.”

“Do you still fish?”

“A bit in late summer and into fall. Mostly just for me and friends. Not so easy to make a living that way today.”

I kept asking questions, and Einar continued answering them until an island came into view.

“There you are,” he said.

I waited for it to get bigger. Surely, that wasn’t all there was? For some reason, I thought 36 acres would be more sizable. But that was it: a classic, sprawling New England hotel taking up most of the rocky island, overlooking the ocean from the edge of a high cliff. I was relieved to see more land behind the building as we circled around. The eastern side had been eroded to sea level over millennia, where Einar moored his lobster boat to the dock and helped me drag my gear up the walkway to the back of the regal building.

He gave me a crash course in the island’s solar panels, diesel generator, coal-burning stoves, water systems, personal emergency beacon, and the radio.

“You’ve got books you’ll need to read so you can learn more about everything, but that’s the gist of it all.”

Among the books was a checklist of tasks: daily chores, weekly maintenance, and monthly schedules.

And then Einar said it: “If you need me or have to call for help, you’ve got the radio and beacon. I’ll see you at the end of the month with a resupply.”

I walked him to his lobster boat and ran along the edges of the island as he headed back toward the mainland, being careful not to trip and fall as the west side of the island climbed higher. At the edge of the cliff, I watched the boat get smaller as it neared the horizon. When it disappeared, I realized just how alone I was.

* * *

I settled into a routine quickly, my schedule dictated by nature and not the clock. Time was morning, afternoon, evening, and night. Now, as I near the end of my third week, I’ve come to appreciate the solitude that, at first, I found unsettling. Every noise had me calling, “Hello?” expecting to see a person hiding in the building, or some creature summoned by my imagination. Had David somehow come to the island to mess with me? But I quickly came to know all the creaking, popping, and shifting of the old keeper’s house. How wind pushing against the hotel as I made my rounds ricocheted through empty hallways, sounding like a small group of intruders. I’ve come to find this life in shadows soothing, the way gray light from outside gets in, but not deep enough to fully illuminate rooms and show me everything inside.

That’s become my favorite aspect of the job, no longer fearing those things just beyond my senses. It’s like standing on the rocks as the sea rolls in, watching roiling waters receding into the fog and mist 50 yards out. Beyond that dreary veil, anything can be happening, but I know whatever it brings comes with no malice or threat to me.

Other days, the gray cannot contain the sunlight above, breaking through clouds like fingers trying to scoop up the ocean. Grey and foamy water turns a brilliant blue where the beams of light hit; seagulls flit about like papers on a breeze. I love the way the low sun, blocked by rocks in the late afternoon, breaks above stone walls and illuminates the old white buildings up high. The ever-present sound of the Atlantic Ocean slamming like a heartbeat against ancient stones.

I understand why David chose me of all his friends to fill in. Even when the winds blow hard and bang against windows and shutters like a venerable god demanding entry, I’ve found a sense of solace. And there, in that stillness, I spend my days.

* * *

I wasted no time setting up a makeshift art studio in a north-facing conference room in the hotel. Tall windows let in diffused light, even on the murkiest of days. On sunny days, a consistent glow fills the space, but it’s never too bright. David didn’t lie: despite my daily tasks, time is mostly mine. I spend my days sketching and taking reference photos of the island, thankful for digital cameras. Were I to do this again, though, I’d set up a space to develop film and leave the island not only with full sketchbooks and finished paintings, but a portfolio packed with black and white photos capturing this monochrome realm.

This has been the dream for as long as I can remember: time in my hands, dedicated to the art I most want to do. It’s not that I hated designing characters and environments for video games, but as the industry grew, so did the weight of deadlines. Rough sketches were handed to the next artist on what became an assembly line. I watched younger people coming in, their eyes wide, having finally attained their dream, only to discover an industry had stripped it of joy and made it a stressful job like any other.

On the island, I bring old sketches to life on canvases and panel board. I find scrap lumber, savoring the time and effort to sand, seal, and prime it for painting. There’s something about painting views of 13-Mile Island on pieces of wood that have been here longer than I’ve been alive. The canvases I brought with me are reserved for the bigger ideas I’ve carried with me for years, but never had time to get to. Already, I’m thinking about how I can convince David he’s done tending to the island and these old buildings—or wondering which other island properties are in need an overwinter caretaker.

* * *

It’s Thanksgiving today—almost one full month on the island. I’ve never been the biggest fan of holidays, with their many expectations often growing more stressful than enjoyable. No relaxing time away from work, just hurried schedules and so many people to see, some of whom you’d rather avoid. All made worse if you have to travel. I’ve never needed others around me to be happy. I find crowds aggravating. The rush of November through the new year is an utterly exhausting time.

Here, there’s no bevy of dinner sides to be arranged, no giant bird to be cooked all day. No lengthy cleanup or racist uncles all-but-shitting on the table as they force politics into the discussion, despite everyone agreeing to get along and keep those topics to themselves. Not even the occasional courteous acceptance to friends inviting me to their feasts, where if I’m not the first to bow out, I’m quick to react and follow when another loner announces their departure. This Thanksgiving, it’s a turkey chili camping dinner, eaten directly from the package while looking out the kitchen window at the murky Atlantic.

It’s the best holiday I’ve ever celebrated.

* * *

Einar arrives on the last day of the month, right on schedule. I expected to overwhelm him with chatter—the first person I’d seen in a month—but we say little during our exchange. I give him finished paintings he promises to keep safe, and he gives me more supplies. He helps me bring food and other essentials into the keeper’s house. Before he leaves, I take a photo of him in the standing cabin of his lobster boat. He asks why, and I tell him he’ll see during the next resupply.

This time, when he leaves, I don’t run to the cliffs and watch his boat disappear. This time, I stand on the rocks and watch the waves advance and retreat against old stones.

DECEMBER

In the first week of December, the kind of storm David warned me about arrives. November was not without its gales, but this storm is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Even with windows shuttered, I can feel air rushing across the cold floor. It sounds like the winds got a running start in Europe and gained speed with each westward mile. Oddly, I’m not as frightened as I thought I’d be.

These old buildings were here before I existed, and they’ll be here long after I’m gone. I spend the night amazed by how safe I feel on the island, instead of considering how dangerous the storm outside might be. There’s nothing to fear out here—no ghosts or other imaginary things. No archaic horrors rising from deep waters to wrap me in tentacles, no shape-shifting creatures or ghouls that only come out at night. The only thing to fear is an accident of my own devising: getting too close to the edge of a cliff and falling or being foolish enough to leap into strong waters and be carried away.

In the days following the storm, I spend my time boarding up broken windows. I log them in my book of tasks for the spring maintenance crew to fix when they arrive in April. I mop up water to ensure nothing turns to mold on my watch. I have survived the worst nature is likely to throw at the island during my stay. As long as I have food, water, and warmth, I am protected and safe.

* * *

The next big storm brings with it snow. As a child, I struggled to stay awake in anticipation of the first flakes of the season. I still do that today. I turn the radio up, hoping its volume and reports about the storm’s progress keeps me awake, but I’m lulled to sleep by a growing wind. When I awake, the island is a different place.

The ever-sound of the ocean is a thing I can never escape, here—even when I’ve ventured into the hotel’s cellars. This morning, I realize just how much this rocky chunk of land amplifies every sound thrown against it. Usually, bird calls echo off stone; winds whirl in crevices, sounding like demons climbing up from hell. Now, these sounds are muted. The island glows white against the gloom of the gray skies. I bundle up, grab my camera and sketchbook, and head out.

It’s a wet snow, the kind that sticks to everything. Gulls and Canada geese huddle among their flocks on the leeward side of drifts, seemingly immune to the cold wind. It’s like walking through a black and white movie. Here, the beauty is lasting, immune from the mainland’s unsightly turn where a pristine layer of snow becomes hard and blackened by car exhaust and the dirt of society. It remains pristine for weeks.

Back inside, I drag my space heater to my make-shift studio in the hotel, standing in a bubble of warmth as I look out the window and spend the day working on a painting of the island’s first snow of the season.

* * *

I thought the hardest thing about being the overwinter caretaker of this property would be not having reliable cell service or an Internet connection. It was a difficult habit to break that first week, instinctively grabbing my phone and opening apps that did nothing. When I would get the rare single bar on my phone, checking social media or email took so long—and often dropped before the connection faded—that it wasn’t worth my time. It struck me how sad that initial desperation was, like huddling beside a burning piece of paper to get warm. How quickly it was out, and I was left cold.

While I had friends as a child, I spent more time playing alone. My parents let me do what I wanted, content to not have to spend their energy on me after days at work or during restful weekends. As long as they knew where I was, I could stay out as late as I wanted. Perhaps that’s why this job doesn’t bother me—I’ve been wiring myself for this all my life. I enjoy my time among friends, but I’m often overwhelmed by the energy of it all once a crowd grows beyond a couple people. More than four others, and I become an observer—content to be among people I’ve chosen to love, but not taking an active part in conversations and actions.

Here on the island, my phone serves as a tiny library full of books I’ve meant to read, but never made time for. Gone is my urge to jump online and see what friends are eating and doing. There are no people posting opposing news articles on social media like chess pieces in efforts to prove their points to people unlikely to listen. And I definitely don’t miss the desperation of sharing my art online and being ignored.

David once said right now is the best time in history to be creative, but the worst time to be seen. So much competition—and each year, it gets worse. Today, it’s not enough to stand out among other great artists, but also those who are loud and know how to pull attention their way. It’s days and weeks put into my paintings against people typing a couple sentences into an AI application and letting it churn out images based on the art of others. Today, some media savvy person with no actual skills or talent can generate fake images of their “studio,” churn out images they didn’t really create, and come up with a persona that gets more attention than me and my best efforts.

Everything today seems to be fabricated for show and views. People share sketchbooks online that are anything but—conceptualized works full of completed paintings with not a sketch among the pages. Perfect, clean workspaces where paint has never been splattered or spilled. Canvas reveals on mountaintops or in meadows during the golden hour, with a daylight-balanced spotlight on the art so it stands out like a sunbeam. It’s not enough to be good at what you do; you have to be a one-person marketing team more focused on attention than craft. I understand those who quit or step away from it all to do art only for themselves.

On 13-Mile Island, none of that matters. Out here, it’s just me, nature, time—and what I do with it all.

* * *

Another impressive snow arrives on Christmas Eve; this time, covering the island in powdery mounds I wasn’t sure the moisture of the ocean would allow. On Christmas morning, I cook a large breakfast and think about how peaceful the holidays have been: a Thanksgiving with no air travel, noise, or hours of cleanup. No Christmas gifts I don’t need or have room for. No rush of shopping and all that waste.

How did we get from a time when receiving something as simple as an orange in the dead of winter seemed like a miracle to where we are now? An explosion of oils as you peel away the skin and savor a taste of sweet sunlight as the season turns to ice. Instead, we show our love to others by overspending and overeating.

In the evening, after finishing leftovers from breakfast, I pull a packaged Christmas pudding I brought along from a cabinet. I unwrap it and flip it over, onto a plate. In a small saucepan, I combine a little butter with a splash of brandy from a small bottle I’ve left unopened in anticipation of this night. I drizzle it over the dessert and cut a slice, savoring candied fruit and citrus mixed with spices. I understand why some people don’t enjoy fruitcakes and puddings, but when prepared well, they are sublime.

This gift to myself will last for days.

* * *

On New Year’s Eve day, Einar arrives with my resupply. After helping me get everything inside, he hands me a wrapped box.

“A belated Christmas gift,” he says.

I peel away the paper, revealing a bottle of scotch—Ardbeg 10 year.

“It’s a good drink for life out here,” Einar says. “You may hate it. Hell, I don’t even know if you drink.”

“Not a lot,”I say, “but I brought some brandy with me for Christmas. I’ve never had this, though, so thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You’ll either love it or hate it.”

I laugh and say, “I have something for you as well.”

“I don’t need anything,” he says.

“I know. But I think you’ll like it.”

I retreat to the bedroom and come back to the kitchen of the keeper’s house with a flat gift wrapped in butcher paper from the hotel kitchen. Einar shakes it in jest and says, “Sounds like a painting.”

He unwraps it and sets it on a chair, stepping back for a better look. I expected a solemn, “Well how ‘bout that?” but he stares at the canvas and says nothing. I wonder if I’ve offended him, until his eyes get glassy as he looks at a painting of himself in the cabin of his lobster boat.

He smiles and nods. “I have a photo from the year I bought that boat. I’m a young man, with no idea about all before me: a career on the water, a wife who’s stood by me for decades. Two children, a daughter and a son. Some days when the fishing is bad and I’m alone on the water, I wonder about other lives I might have lived. Some mornings, I stand before the mirror and see an old man with a face as craggy as these rocky islands.

“My wife blew up the old photo of me and my boat for our 40th anniversary. I have a little room in the house now that the kids are on their own, a place where I can scheme and read. The photo hangs in that room. And now, directly across from it, I’ll hang this painting so I can always remember that the life I’ve chosen is the right one for me.”

Einar gives me a hug and says, “I can’t thank you enough, my friend.”

* * *

On New Year’s Eve, I open the bottle of scotch Einar gave me. I see what he meant by, “It’s a good drink for life out here.” It smells like the island, briny and pungent. Then comes a smell of smoke over its seaweedy aroma. Just as I begin considering this is a drink best taken on a dare, a sweet scent that’s almost bread-like fills the room. Buttery. I pour the oily liquid into a coffee mug and swirl it around. It’s not as overbearing as my initial whiff, although the first sip makes itself known all the way down to my toes. I give it a moment and take another…and then another. Einar was also right about this being a drink you either love or hate. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever tasted, and I love it.

I’ve never been much of a drinker and, because of that, it doesn’t take much for me to feel the results. My cheeks and ears get warm, knowing if I looked at myself in a mirror, they’d be pink. I consider for a moment how dangerous it is to be out here not at my full faculties, but then I remember how concerned I was at first—and how those fears were unfounded. I’ll be fine.

As the scotch takes a bigger hold, I step outside to let the cold wind cool down my ears and face. I go the hotel and wander the hallways.

I don’t believe in ghosts, but I talk to them out here. I created names and stories for all the people in photos and paintings on the walls in the hotel, a way to not feel so lonely shortly after I arrived. Bartholomew Wainwright is a man with a cookie-duster mustache who crushed his competition in business, before realizing how hollow his life was. He turned to writing after a retreat on the island, publishing a handful of novels before eventually becoming a literary agent. Victoria Robinson did everything her family and society asked of her, only to find out her husband had a mistress, and her children grew into wicked adults. She turned to painting and found her own love in the form of James Morgan, a younger bohemian from Greenwich Village also retreating to the island one summer. Ernie Mitchell was a washed-up boxer. In his photo, his hands look like knotted clubs at the end of his massive arms. But here on 13-Mile-Island, he found a use for them: casting and painting delicate porcelain. Anyone who laughed at the giant of a man pursuing his passion was given one warning. After that, they found themselves on the floor.

I look at my watch, following the minute hand on its final loop of the year. When all hands point to midnight, I sing “Auld Lang Syne” for those who came before me—and then make my way back to the keeper’s house where I fall asleep almost as soon as my head rests on my pillow.

JANUARY

David warned me January and February would be rough. Not so much the storms, but the frequency. Sprays of water turn to ice, coating everything slick and cold. I was told I’d hate these two months, but the novelty of tending to this island and its buildings hasn’t waned.

The bitterness and sting of ocean squalls does keep me inside more than usual, but I don’t mind. It’s an even more reflective time, a life stripped down to essentials. To survive each day is a gift of plenty. I move from the keeper’s house to my studio in the hotel, avoiding too much time in the elements. But when I do bundle up and explore, it’s like waking up to a new island each day. The wind shapes ice and snow into natural works of art, things I circle and ponder as though wandering a museum. There are moments I try capturing in photos and paintings that leave me stifled. To most, they become wonderful works, but I know I missed the connection of what I saw and felt and what existed for a short time before nature shaped it into something else.

It’s also shaped me into a different thing as well.

I always told myself, “If only I had the time…the things I would do.”

Some people get what they believe they want and do nothing with those days. These moments are what I want more than anything, and I will make sure they matter.

FEBRUARY

On the last day of January, and again on the first day of February, Einar calls me on the radio. The harbor’s locked in ice and he cannot get out. Three months ago, I would have panicked, even with enough camping meals to keep me going for weeks. I’m disappointed that it only takes four days before Einar arrives. He apologizes profusely, as though it was his job to turn back the ice pack at the mainland.

The rest of February is a repeat of January: storms and ice and sheltering inside where it’s warm. When it becomes too monotonous, I change my routine. The grand ballroom of the hotel becomes a bocce ball court, where I play for hours and never get bored. Character designs in old sketchbooks are given personalities, and I begin something I’ve always said I’d do if I ever had the time: work on a graphic novel. When the weather is bleaker than usual, I paint scenes from the island as I imagine them at the height of summer.

February is my reminder that there’s power in boredom—as long as you don’t give in to distraction. When the normal routine leaves you feeling flat, and there’s nothing else to do, new ideas bubble up from places left dormant for years. One afternoon, just because I feel like doing so, I strip down to the suit I wore when I came into the world and I run naked from one end of the hotel to the other. I zip up stairways and race along its upper floors, laughing at the freedom in such a strange act. After exposing myself to all the Valmorne Hotel has to offer, I charge out into the cold, doing a frigid lap of the 36-acre rock.

I understand there’s a time and a place to be reserved. Social mores exist for good reason. But somewhere along the way from childhood to adulthood, most of us shove a stick up our backsides and—only at the waning days of our lives—wish we’d removed it years before. Why do so many of us rob ourselves of things we want to do, for no other reason than we deemed them worthy or to satisfy our curiosity?

I’m not saying I’m going to run naked through the streets of town when I’m back on the mainland, but I’m sure as hell not going to be so uptight about what others think of me and the things I do.

MARCH

I wake up on March 1st already missing this place. It’s my last month out here, and for the first time since the beginning of November, a mainland feeling creeps in: there is so much I need to do. There really isn’t, but time these past four months has been dictated by nature—the seasons and the sun rising and setting—not clocks and calendars. But today I’m very aware that my time on 13-Mile Island is coming to an end. While there’s nothing I need to do outside my normal tasks for most of the month, I feel a strange urge to make the most of this last bit of time out here.

I think about all the paintings I planned to do, but never worked on. I should have made more progress in the evenings on the graphic novel. Sketching and even writing. So many things left undone. But then I stop and breathe, thinking about all the things I did do that were not planned. Things I’d never have done on the mainland. And I think about how I’ve felt these past several months. I feel great because I wasn’t viewing creative efforts as just another item on a checklist. I allowed myself times to be productive and times to be still. Time outside enjoying changes of scenery, or inside with the warmth and glow of a coal stove on the coldest of nights. I’ve seen storms and warm days—animals coming and going. I’ve come to know the island better than any place I’ve ever been because I have time to consider any curiosity crossing my mind. When I pull myself back to what I’ve known since November, the tension falls from my shoulders.

I don’t need to make the most of my time out here, at least in the productive sense most of us think about. Life here isn’t to be optimized. And that’s when it hits me like a rogue wave slamming into the side of the island and covering me in spray: I don’t have to live like that when I return to the mainland.

March will be a good month like the others on 13-Mile Island. And May and all the months that follow will be good, too…if I just slow down and remember these lessons.

* * *

I make a cross with two dowels and lash them together with butcher’s string. I run more string through the notches cut at each end, and then carefully stretch and tape butcher paper over the frame. I attach a tail, and I have a kite.

When I was twelve, my brother and I learned how to make kites from an old newspaper article our dad saved from when he was young. My kite was terrible, but Trevor’s was light and strong. Where mine bounced along on the ground like an injured albatross trying to gain lift, his soared like a falcon. I gave up on my kite and helped him keep his creation aloft.

Two times on its maiden flight, I ran back into the house for more string, tying it to what was already airborne. The kite climbed until it was just a spec in the sky. When there was no more string to be had, my brother let go!

I was appalled; how could he release such a perfect thing? Trevor waited a couple minutes before smiling and saying, “Let’s go find it.”

The adventure took us through fields and trees we’d never fully explored. Along a creek we knew existed, but never wandered because we had others closer to home. We passed outside our familiar territory and into the unknown, all with a simple goal: to find that kite.

“There it is!” Trevor said.

At the top of the highest tree in a small cluster ahead, it fluttered in the breeze like a gigantic butterfly wing.

As we made our way through the small forest, I thought about how we’d get it down. The trees were all tall oaks, not made for easy climbing. I searched for rocks, but they were all too large to throw into the canopy. Besides, I didn’t want to risk ruining such a wonderful creation. When we reached the tree where Trevor’s kite landed, we were in luck—at the top was an old tree house. The wooden boards hammered into the tree as a ladder had seen better days but supported our climb without falling. Trevor  crawled through one of the cut-out windows and shimmied up a branch to grab his kite.

That old tree house became our secret. It was there I came to appreciate solitude. When my brother began spending more time with his friends instead of me, it was a place I visited regularly on my own. Much like being here, I could scan the horizons in all directions from the tree house and feel for a moment like I was the only person on Earth. I still love that feeling.

I look at the kite above me, wondering what 13-Mile looks like from its perspective. I’ve only seen it on maps, even though I’ve been over the rocks and know this terrain so well. At its height, I wonder if other islands can be seen—or if it’s still like that old tree house: up above it all with no signs of life for miles.

* * *

The final week of the month is busier—not from rushing to squeeze the last bit of solitude out of my stay, but from doing my final checks of all the buildings before maintenance comes to prepare the hotel and conference center for summer months. I check and clean buildings that have mostly sat ignored for my stay. I never felt the need to spend time in every space, even though I investigated them all. For all my initial wondering about if I’d be afraid on the island, my only genuine startle comes when I check the maintenance barn and a barred owl shoots out from its secure space, almost knocking me to the ground in shock. I feel bad for disturbing it, like if someone stumbled upon the island not knowing about its overwinter keeper and startled me where I sleep during their exploration.

I do more cleaning than what’s expected of me, my way of thanking these old buildings for being accommodating shelters. Is it weird to like a cluster of buildings more than many people you’ve met? It’s a comfortable relationship.

When all my tasks are complete, and I can do no more additional work, I double and triple check all my gear. I still have a few camping meals left. My brushes are all bundled and stowed, my oils and acrylics and watercolors carefully packed away. I try remembering how many paintings I’ve given to Einar to hold, wondering if they will all fit in my car when retrieved.

I once read that chronic loneliness is more harmful than smoking cigarettes. Of course, I looked it up—and it wasn’t nearly as bad as the headline made it sound. For most, though, it’s still not good. I feel for genuinely lonely people, but I’d argue—at least for me—that the kind of life I’ve lived these past five months is my key to longevity. I am not one who needs other people to keep me busy or entertained. I don’t put my self-worth into a busy social schedule, and I definitely prefer not being on the go all the time. Loneliness is damaging for some, but so is keeping yourself busy all the time because you’re afraid of being alone. But it’s an extrovert’s world, full of many things to see and do so you never have to be alone with your thoughts.

My time on 13-Mile Island is coming to an end. I’m not nervous about returning to the mainland, and it’s not like there aren’t people I look forward to seeing. But I do prefer being alone and still.

I need to figure out how to get more of that when I get back to shore.

* * *

The old buildings seem different today, like they know their silent keeper will be gone in two days. Soon, they’ll rise from their overwinter slumber and shine for summer visitors. Were they alive, I like to imagine they’d want this quiet way of life to go on as much as I do—maybe even become the way things always are. I don’t want this to end.

It’s amazing how well you can come to know a 36-acre cluster of rock standing as one against the ocean. The nooks and shelter and life provided in an otherwise inhospitable place. When I wander these stones and think about how long they’ve been here, I can’t help but feel insignificant. But there are worse things in life than knowing your place among this island and the ocean—the sky above going on forever. All we do to nature, and how it laughs at our folly.

I’ve heard people say, “Live each day as though it were your last!” I understand the meaning, but it’s still a concept I find odd. Why would I go to a day job if it were my last day? Why would I take care of any of life’s tedious demands, like paying bills, if it were all about to end? Some believe if we’re not sucking the marrow out of our lives—every second of every day—that we’ve somehow failed ourselves and our purpose.

“Buy the ticket, take the ride.”

I understand the intent, but they don’t seem to know the rest of that saying is, “Tune in, freak out, get beaten.”

For me, calm hours like most I’ve spent on 13-Mile Island are how I’d choose to close out my time. A perfect day before giving myself to these rocks and the eons they’ve witnessed.

APRIL

On the first day of April, I expect Einar to not show up. I wait for the radio call that his boat’s broken down in a terrible way and he has no idea how long it will take to fix things. Then, when he hears the apprehension in my voice, he shouts, “April Fools!” and says he’s on his way. Instead, he arrives right on time.

I wish his boat had broken down and that I’d get a few more days of early spring on 13-Mile Island. In the days leading up to now, I’d begun missing the place right beneath my feet. The anticipation of leaving has twisted my stomach into knots even more than they were in late October, as I considered what I was about to do. Einar must sense all this.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Just gonna miss this.”

“I understand.”

He lets me stay quiet as we load up all my gear on the boat and make our way back toward the mainland. I watch the island shrink behind me and disappear beneath the horizon.

In the harbor, Einar helps me load my car.

“Thanks for keeping it over the winter,” I say.

“You’re welcome. I drove it, here and there, to keep it running. Did a little work on it yesterday before Annie and I brought it out here for ya. Should be good to go for some time.”

I want to give him a hug, like the bear hug he gave me when he saw the painting I did of him on his boat. I’m not sure what more I can do to thank him for all he’s done. He holds up a finger and says, “One sec.”

He trots to his old truck and comes back with a bottle of scotch: a 10-year-old Laphroaig.

“I think you’re ready for this one, now.”

I take it and give him that hug. He returns it and says, “I hope to see you again, Daniel.”

* * *

Portsmouth, New Hampshire is not a bustling place, but it feels like New York City after months mostly alone in the Atlantic. I moved here after leaving North Carolina on David’s recommendation.

“Come on up. It’s not as busy as Raleigh, but there’s enough going on that you won’t be bored. Take a break, do some art, and figure things out.”

Now, it seems so loud and crowded.

Being an overwinter keeper didn’t pay much, but I have enough money to last several months without financial worry while figuring out what to do next. I don’t want to ever see the inside of a corporate office again, and I don’t know enough about coding to make my own video games. I’m not sure I ever want to be a part of that industry again, but it’s the thing I know best that’s also paid the bills. There are always new ways, though.

That’s the best thing about my months on 13-Mile Island, how you can just do something new with your life. We put so much into what we do for a living and not who we are. Jobs are our identity—and that’s fine if it’s what one wants to do. But most of us are only working the jobs we have to survive. Maybe that’s what changed on the island: I survived in a much different way.

Living on the coast, I thought I knew rough storms, but you don’t know how strong nature can be until you face it alone with no backup. You reach a point that you view existence differently. Out there, it’s not about making enough to pay bills and keeping up with others. Out there, it’s discovering you’ve always had more in you than you ever knew—because on the mainland, there’ s rarely any reason to go deeper and find out what was always inside.

I don’t believe this feeling will wear off. Something changed out on that rock: I’m through being something others and society demand. I’m not sure what I’ll do next, but I know I can never go back to who I was and what I did before.

* * *

I meet up with David over a $12 beer in a trendy gastropub designed to lure in people like pre-island me. He tells me that his father isn’t doing better or worse, that he plans to change his life around to care for him on a long-term basis. I tell him I don’t know what I want to do with my life anymore.

“That’s bullshit,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“How’d you like 13-Mile Island?”

“I loved it.”

“Get a lot of stuff you always talked about doing done out there? The stuff you said you never had time for?”

“Yeah.”

“Exactly. I figured you’d come off that rock with a plan…or at least some ideas.”

“That’s what I loved about it,” I say. “I didn’t plan anything.”

“Maybe. But now you have a pile of art and a bit of time. The pressure of a world full of expensive beer and places like this leaning on you. Some comfort, but not enough to become complacent. That’s the motivation to decide what you really want to do.”

“It changes you, doesn’t it?”

“Huh?”

“Being out there. Did it change you?”

“Yeah,” David says, “but not like you. I was running from things. I knew my dad was slipping. It was more a way to avoid the reality of that for a couple years. I can always head into the woods for a long weekend when I need to get away, but I don’t do things requiring that kind of solitude. It kind of drove me nuts if I’m being honest—at least January and February. I hated those months.”

“I loved them,” I say.

“Of course you did. What changed for you?”

“Everything,” I say—and I mean it. Looking around the pub, at all the pretty people, it’s not for me. This place is someone’s dream, and that’s great. As for the others? There are worse things than living on the New Hampshire coast with maybe a job in advertising or design. A gig that lets your cover your body in hip tattoos and find others like yourself and feed off that energy. Sometimes I wish I were wired like that, but I do better making things on my own. I once craved that camaraderie, but I ended up talked over by more ambitious people. This pub is full of ambitious people in their 30s who will eventually have places of their own in the country in their 40s and 50s. They’ll look back on their carefree years as their children and grandchildren charge across fields on working farms turned to pick-your-own orchards and creative retreats. It’s not a bad life, but it’s not the life for me.

I look up from my expensive beer and say, “Yeah, everything changed for me out there. Now, I just need to figure out what to do.”

* * *

I often think about the cost of dreams: those who went all-out early in their pursuits, believing if they worked harder and smarter than most that they’d be rewarded with what they hoped for. And why would they think otherwise? It’s the American mantra, even though it’s often not reality. It’s possible to do everything right (and more) and still not find success. In my case, I walked the other path: feeling like a sellout because I found—at the right place and time—my artistic abilities could make me money fast. Born a bit sooner or later, and I’d not have fallen into the job I had for years. My plan was to work in game design to pay the bills and then having time to do the art I wanted to do, the stuff I knew might not be enough to earn a living. It was a good plan, except work took over in the form of deadlines requiring long hours. The art I wanted to do more than anything always sat behind other work.

I’m not sure which plan is better. We don’t like talking about the role luck plays in success—we like making it sound like it’s one person against the odds, doing more than all others combined, even though that’s rarely the case. I suppose what matters is doing something—making that choice, even if it doesn’t work out the way you hoped. The world is still full of people who find a dream realized later in life, no matter the choices they made earlier in youth.

With David tending to his father, the overwinter watch on 13-Mile island is mine for as long as I want. It’s a good balance: roughly half the year alone, and some time around others if I want that. Mainland months to plan and scheme, pitching ideas while hoping for the best, but not needing them to pay off in big ways. Then, time back on that rock in the Atlantic. No planning, just letting the island decide for me.

* * *

NEXT NOVEMBER

I arrive at the dock early, looking for Einar’s lobster boat that will take me to 13-Mile Island for another 5-month overwinter stay. He waves and calls to me: “Daniel! Here!”

After he helps me get my clothing, supplies, and backup food aboard, I hand him a gift.

“What’s this?” he says, knowing it’s a bottle of scotch. His eyes go wide when he sees it’s a 16-year-old Lagavulin.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” I say. “But I wanted to. You introduced me to Islay malts, and that’s my way of saying thank you.”

“Well, hell—I need to figure out what else I like to introduce you to, then.” Einar laughs at his own joke and asks me if I’m ready to head out.

“Yep!”

I take my place at the closed side of the boat’s cabin and watch the Maine coast fade away behind us. I don’t feel the urge to talk with Einar to fill the time before I’m alone again, and I think he knows that. Last year, he let me ask questions because he knew how nervous I was. This year, I’m excited. And calm.

I don’t worry about what the next five months hold for me—that’s for the days to decide. I have a couple things I’d like to finish, but it’s not vital if I don’t. There are no last days to live, tickets to buy, or marrow to extract from my life. Instead, I turn to the front of Einar’s lobster boat and wait for 13-Mile Island—and another overwinter stay—to come into view.

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time was licensed through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music. Also, for as little as a dollar a month (or even free), you can support the show at patreon.com/cgronlund.

In November, it’s the show’s anniversary episode, which always features the most not Not About Lumberjacks story of the year!

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of an axe chopping.]

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!