The Remington James Box Set

by Michael Lister

  Deep in the cold woods of the Apalachicola River Basin, Remington James slowly makes his way beneath a canopy of pine and oak and cypress trees along a forest floor of fallen pine straw, wishing he’d worn a better jacket, his Chippewa snake boots slipping occasionally, unable to find footing on the slick surface.

  Above him, a brisk breeze whistles through the branches, swaying the treetops in an ancient dance, raining down dead leaves and pine needles.

  It’s his favorite time of day in his favorite time of year, his family’s hunting lease his favorite place to hide from the claustrophobia of small-town life increasingly closing in on him.

  Screams.

  He hears what sounds like human screams from a great distance away, but can’t imagine anyone else is out here and decides it must be an animal or the type of aural illusion that occurs so often when he’s alone this deep in the disorienting woods.

  Still, it unnerves him. Especially when . . . There it is again.

  Doesn’t sound like any animal he’s ever heard, and he finds it far more disquieting than any sound he’s ever encountered out here.

  It’s not a person, he tells himself. It’s not. Can’t be. But even if it were, you’d never be able to find anyone out here.

  The sound stops . . . and he continues.

  Use your senses. All of them.

  See. Really see. Imagine.

  See not what is, but what might be.

  Attempting to brush aside all thoughts of someone screaming in pain, he wills himself to focus his full attention on the reason he’s here.

  New camera still carefully stowed away in the Tamrac sling pack strapped to his back, he has no thought of withdrawing it until he can see the images he wants to capture in his mind. Photography, at least the kind he’s attempting to practice, is not about snapping a lot of pictures, but what he’s able to visualize before he ever picks up his camera.

  Recently returning to this art form, he’s been slow to adopt digital technology, and the temptation is to click away in the name of testing his new equipment, but he’s determined to be disciplined. Anyone can press a button and snap a picture. His ambition is to be an artist.

  In his youth, he had experimented with a variety of art forms— at differing times, he was going to be Kerouac, Hemingway, Goddard, Picasso—but was continually drawn back to the immediacy of photography.

  Wildlife photographer, photojournalist, war correspondent, paparazzi, even portraitist, but life laughs at the plans we make, and the dreams and ambitions of youth quickly morph into the embarrassing memories of adulthood.

  Realistic. Practical.

  College. Career. Commitments. Marriage. Mortgage.

  It wasn’t until his father died and he had to rush home to run the small-town gun and pawn and care for his mother, that he picked up a camera again—a dust-covered, ancient, fully-automatic Nikon hocked years earlier, languishing on the shelf as power tools and small appliances had come and gone.

  Rekindled. Renewed.

  The small, abused camera felt like Heather in his hands, and an old dream crept out of his consciousness and into corporal reality once again.

  One good shot.

  Even closing the shop early—something his dad never did, particularly during hunting season—he has only the narrowest of margins, like the small strip of light from a slightly open door, in which there will be enough illumination for exposure.

  The drive out to the edge of his family’s land; the ATV ride into the river swamp; the walk through acres of browning, but still thick, foliage—all close the door even more, but all he wants is to check his camera traps and get one good shot with his new camera.

  He’ll trudge as far as he can, search as long as he can—capturing the image at the last possible moment, stumbling back in full dark if he has to. Given the circumstances of his current condition and the lack of choices he has, there’s nothing he’d rather be doing, no way he’d rather spend his few short evening hours than in pursuit of the perfect picture.

  Loss.

  Emptiness. Numbness.

  His dad dying so young has filled the facade of Remington’s life with tiny fissures, a fine spider’s web of hairline fractures threatening collapse and crumble.

  Facade or foundation? Maybe it’s not just the surface of his life, but the core that’s cracking. He isn’t sure and he doesn’t want to think about it, though part of him believes he comes alone to the woods so he’ll be forced to do just that.

  He’s wanted to be an adventure photographer for over a decade, but pulling the trigger now, making the investment, obsessively spending every free moment in its pursuit, in the wake of his dad’s death, the wake that still rocks the little lifeboat of his existence, is a fearful man’s frenzied attempt at mitigating mortality—and he knows it. He just doesn’t know what else to do.

  Heather could tell him.

  Heather.

  Like longing for home while being lost in the woods, all his thoughts these days lead back to her.

  She had called when he was driving the ATV off the trailer, preparing to venture farther in the forest than his dad’s truck could take him. Like the truck and trailer and the life he’s now living, the ATV belongs to his father. Had belonged. Now it’s his.

  He was surprised by the vibrating of the phone in his pocket, certain he was too far in for signal. Another few feet, another moment later, and he would’ve been.

  When he sees her name displayed on the small screen—Heather—he feels, as he always does lately, the conflicting emotions of joy and dread.

  —Hello.

  Light, photography’s most essential element, is bleeding out; the day will soon be dead. Time is light, and he has little of either to spare. Still, he has no thought of not answering the phone.

  —You okay?

  —Yeah. Why?

  —For some reason, I just started worrying about you.

  With those few words, the day grows colder, the forest darker. Heather gets feelings—the kind that in an earlier age would get her staked to the ground and set afire—and they’re almost always right.

  —You there? she asks.

  —I’m here.

  In his mind, she is wearing lavender, and it highlights her delicate features in the way it rests on the soft petals of the flower she’s named after. She smells of flowers, too, and it’s intoxicating—even within the confines of his imagination.

  —Where are you? I can barely hear you.

  —Woods. We’re hanging by a single small bar of signal, he says, thinking it an apt metaphor for their tenuous connection.

  He pictures her in the small gallery just down from the Rollins College campus in Winter Park, the sounds of the Amtrak train clacking down the track in the background, the desultory sounds of lazy evening traffic easing by her open door, and it reminds him just how far away she is.

  —I’m sure you think that’s some kind of metaphor.

  —You don’t?

  —I don’t think like you. Never have.

  —Never said you should.

  —You’re okay?

  —I’m fine. Just here to check my traps and try out my new camera.

  —Well, be careful.

  —Always am.

  —Good.

  —Got one of your feelings?

  —I’m not sure.

  —Either you do or you don’t.

  —Not always. Sometimes they have to . . . how can I put this . . . develop.

  —Funny.

  —Just trying to speak a language you understand.

  He needs to go, but doesn’t want to.

  —Be extra careful, she says, and I’ll call you if anything develops.

  —I won’t have signal.

  —’Til when?

  —’Til I get back. Hour or so after dark.

  —Maybe you shouldn’t go.

  —You tell me. I don’t have a feeling one way or the other.

  —I’m so glad you’re lensing again. Don’t want to
stop you.

  She had always been encouraging of his photography, including letting him take nudes of her starting when they met in college and continuing into their lives together. Even when he wasn’t taking pictures of anything else, he was taking pictures of her.

  They are silent a moment, and he misses her so much, the day grows even colder, the vast expanse of river swamp lonelier.

  —We gonna make it? she asks, her voice small, airy, tentative.

  —You don’t have a feeling about that?

  —I’m not ready to let go. I can’t.

  —Then don’t.

  —But . . .

  —What?

  —I don’t know. We’re not gonna figure it out right now, and you’re losing light. Call me when you get home.

  As is her custom, she hangs up without saying goodbye.

  He smiles. Glad. Grateful. Goodbye is something he never wants to hear from her. Back when they first started dating, he’d asked her why she never said it. Because, she’d explained, we’re in the midst of one long, ongoing conversation. I don’t want that to end.

  She didn’t say amen after her prayers either.

  More screams.

  Or what sounds like screams. Surely they’re not. Surely they’re just—

  Unbidden, unwelcome, he hears Heather screaming in his mind. Screaming in pain. Screaming for him. It’s something he never wants to hear, something he didn’t think he could bear.

  Is there anything worse in the world than hearing the woman you love screaming in pain and being unable to do anything about it?

  Closing the shutter on such thoughts, he refocuses his attention on his surroundings, on the task at hand.

  Moving.

  The forest grows thicker—tiny, barren branches buffeting his upper body, scratching his hands and face, as dead leaves, limbs, fallen trees, and bushes hinder him from below.

  The temperature is sinking with the sun. A wet North Florida cold is coming, the kind that creeps into a man’s marrow—especially when he’s alone, unable to contact the outside world, uncertain about exactly where he is.

  The cold air carries on its currents the faint smell of smoke, as if a great distance away an enormous forest fire is raging, running, consuming.

  Home.

  He wouldn’t have chosen to come back to this place, but it feels right to be here—here in the real Florida, not the manufactured or imported, not the tacky or touristy, not the Art Deco or amusement park, but the great green northwest, Florida’s millions of acres of bald- cypress swamps, dense hardwood hammocks, and longleaf and slash pine forests.

  Here, in addition to taking care of his mother and keeping his family from ruin, he can hone his craft, practice his art, lens the rare and the beautiful, film Florida’s most exotic and elusive wildlife.

  Suddenly, startlingly, the thick forest opens up, giving way to a pine flatwood prairie. Several acres in circumference, surrounded by thick hardwood forests and cypress swamps, the small area is comprised of scattered longleaf pines, saw palmetto, cutthroat grass, gallberry, fetterbush, and fall flowering ixia.

  Thankful for the temporary respite from the abrasive, nearly impenetrable hardwood forest, he moves more quickly through the thick but low-lying foliage on the soggy soil.

  Lifting his feet high, in part to avoid the palmettos, in part out of his phobia of snakes, he lopes across the small flat plain within a few minutes, wondering why in all his previous trips out here he’s never seen this particular one before.

  —You lost?

  The voice startles him, and he jumps. Turning, he sees a gaunt old man with grizzly gray stubble, holding a large woodgrain shotgun, having just emerged from the cypress swamp Remington is about to enter.

  Taking a moment before answering, Remington gathers himself.

  —Only in the most existential sense, he says.

  —Weren’t meanin’ to frighten you.

  —It’s okay. I just didn’t expect to see anybody this far in.

  —Me neither.

  The man, younger than he first appears, is wearing grimy green work pants, scarred boots, a red flannel shirt, and a soiled baseball cap with a local logging company logo on it. His swimy, slightly crossed eyes seem to float about, impossible to read.

  —You a grower?

  —A what? Remington asks, but then realizes he means pot.

  —You ain’t huntin’. What’s in the bag?

  —My camera.

  —Camera? You with Fish and Game?

  Remington shakes his head.

  —Some sort of cop?

  —No, sir.

  He wants to say he’s a photographer, but can’t quite get it out.

  —You hear someone scream a few minutes ago? Remington asks.

  —Scream? The hell you talkin’ about? Ain’t no one out here but us.

  —Probably an animal. I heard something.

  —Ain’t from around here, are you?

  Remington starts to shake his head, but stops.

  —Used to be. Am again, I guess.

  —People what own this land don’t take much of a shine to tres- passers. Best go back the way you come in.

  —This is my family’s land. My dad is—was Cole James. Remington realizes that the land he’s standing on now belongs to him.

  —I’s sorry to hear about his passin’.

  —Thanks.

  —What’re you doin’ out this far?

  —Taking pictures.

  —Of what?

  —Animals, mostly. Some trees.

  —What kind of animals?

  —Deer, gator, fox, bear, boar, and the Florida panther.

  —Ain’t no panther this far north.

  —So everyone keeps telling me, but I’ve seen it.

  —The hell you say.

  —I have. When I was younger. And I’ve seen its tracks since I’ve been back.

  —Well, you best be gettin’ back. Be dark soon. Easy to get lost out here.

  —Thanks, I will. I’m almost done.

  —Wouldn’t wait, I’s you. Want me to, I’ll take you in.

  —Thanks, but I’ve got a compass.

  The man cackles at that.

  —Suit yourself. I jest hope the panther don’t git ya.

  He then turns and continues walking in the direction Remington has just come from.

  Remington stands and watches the man until he crosses the small pine flatwoods plain and disappears into the hardwoods on the other side.

  Unsettled by the encounter, he tries to determine why. Would he feel the same way had Heather not called and told him about her undeveloped feeling?

  I would, he thinks. Though he can’t quite identify what, there was something menacing about the man. Threatening. He’s up to something illegal—and not just trespassing. It could be poaching or over-the-limit hunting, but it’s far more likely that he’s the grower.

  Remington’s great-grandfather, Henry Clay Cole, a turpentiner who moved his family over from Mississippi, buying thousands of acres for less than a dollar each, had to contend with moonshiners—ridge runners as he often referred to them. Over eighty years had passed, and his family was dealing with the same issues. Different contraband. Same situation.

  He considers walking out of the woods right now, but is determined not to be scared off his own land. Besides, he’s on a mission, and knows how depressed he’ll be tonight if he goes in without accomplishing it.

  Looking up, examining the quality and quantity of daylight left, he decides all he really has time to do now is check his traps, which is at least something. Something he can live with. But as he turns to enter the hardwoods, an indentation in the ground catches his eye, and he stops.

  There in the soggy, sandy soil, as if in plaster, is a perfect paw print. And a little ways farther another. And then another. And another.

  He’s fairly certain the tracks are those of an adult Florida black bear, but searches the nearby trees for confirmation. He smiles as he sees the terri
torial scratch marks that Florida black bears make in the tree trunks. His smile broadens when he realizes that the marks are nearly seven feet high.

  Bounding. Loping. Barreling.

  Black as the void.

  Buckskin muzzle bursting out of a forest of fur, chest ablaze. Shy eyes.

  The Florida black bear, the smallest of all North American bears, has been endangered for over three decades, its population having dwindled down from twelve thousand to fifteen hundred.

  Rarely seen in the wild, the solitary bear hides in areas of verdant vegetation, avoiding interaction with other animals—especially humans.

  Convinced there’s no better weapon to combat the threats facing the Florida black bear than artistic images of the magnificent creature in its natural habitat, Remington has wanted to capture such photographs since the moment he picked up a camera again.

  Stillness.

  The hardwood hammock he’s entering is serene and motionless, the only sounds the swish and crackle of the dead leaves he’s trudging through, the damp, brown coverage so thick he can’t see his boots.

  Somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker taps out his mating morse code on the resonant bole of a hollow tree, and when a gentle breeze sways the tops of oaks, cypresses, magnolias, and gums, the falling leaves around him sound like the start of a soft rainfall.

  The blanket of downed leaves is so thick, he can’t believe there are any left on the trees, but the ancient timbers are far from barren. In fact, the area has yet to experience a hard freeze this year, which has not only left leaves on trees, but petals on flowers, blooms on branches, pastel highlights among the dominant rusts, reds, golds, and browns.

  With ranges up to eleven square miles for females and sixty-six square miles for males, the chances of actually finding a bear are slight, but the tracks are fresh and his excitement makes him hopeful. This is the closest he’s ever come.

  Pressing past palmettos, hanging vines, fallen trees, and jagged limbs, Remington adventures into untouched undergrowth, unspoiled woodlands.

  He doesn’t have to go far.

  Climbing a low ridge with the help of hanging vines, he makes his way down a short slope to a narrow slough. The small body of water is green-black, covered with floating plants and algae, and still—except for the tiny ripples emanating from the light brown snout of a huge black bear taking a leisurely drink.