"Kokajo" Speeding, hot tarmac beneath, we blazing past like a mother lion racing towards her prey. Filled with pride, she races towards the top of the hill, jumping, killing and bringing back her fresh catch to the den. Large, blue sky engulfs the green-filled ground, horizon slowly falling and jumping away far into the distance, created from a far-off green bulge on the Earth's surface. At the climax we fall downward rapidly, still over the sun-baked road, hurtling into a luscious valley, green and brown and now covered with large, blue basins-- the givers of life. For over ten hours we repeated the chase-- up the hill and down, each climactic point revealing an equally beautiful picture as the last. Vacationing in Maine was a new and wonderful experience for me, and despite their number of visits, equally pleasurable for my friend and his father with whom I was with. Brain's father had moved to Bath from Lancaster two years before. Often Brian would go North to visit and vacation; this time I ventured along with him, simply hoping to relax and explore the peace of the country more intimately. What awaited me in the North was more than I expected. The places we visited and the sights I saw left no previous encounter with nature to be compared. Brain's father was the perfect tour guide. This particular weekend we were going on a camping expedition, far north into the state and hours away from the most remote resemblance of civilization. The place we visited was named Kokajo. Local poor fishermen had said the name was a badly butchered derivative of an old legend about a man named Cock-eyed Joe, though the legend now slyly escapes my memory. Arriving finally at this three-house town became a soothing relief after a ten hour ride in an old, beige, Chevy van. While turning from one dusty road onto another, an old, white, distant sign's black letters could be decerned: "Kokajo: Population 12." We had to laugh. The small arm of a lake ended nearby. It was mid-summer then, and when deep into the heart of Maine, mid-summer was the time when your most intimate living mate was an enormous, blood-thirsty mosquito. Beyond that hideous beast, everywhere your eyes could see they would encounter large, beautiful, green trees. There were no cement roads, tall, industrialized buildings, trains, buses, or mobs of people. There was an out-of-place high-winged pontoon plane sitting peacefully in the nearby water and an old-fashioned log-built store, never touched by the harsh sting of modernization, resting 300 feet down the road, past the wooden bridge. Across from the store were two large houses, looking unsurprisingly uninhabited. This simple scene, along with the small camping ground where we stayed made up the town of Kokajo. It took us little time to assemble the tent and settle ourselves down. After a relaxing gathering around the campfire, we crawled into our small, green, nylon houses, slipped into our black and red plaid sleeping bags, and rested our eyes, listening only to the sounds of the wild night, making it's territory known to all whom were near. The battle with the mosquitoes was a futile one, and sleep that night proved to be difficult. The next morning we awoke in a large, bright green, nylon furnace. We cooked an eggs-and-bacon breakfast on the gas stove and eagerly launched the boat for an early morning fishing trip. Though it being far away from the civilization we have created, I wondered how this land survived the conquest of modernization: a race for improvement turned bitter by the greed and envy of the human race. Out in the middle of that beautiful, serene lake I finally realized where I was. This was a land where moose, bear, and mosquito reign supreme over the intimidated, respecting humans. This was a land where the air was always fresh, the people were always friendly, and the lifestyle was focused on enjoying life. This was a land where "countries", "wars", "religions", and "prejudices" were all unfamiliar words. This was the land we all neglected, running away from to what we have today. Out in the middle of that lake we found ourselves accompanied by nature, which crowded around us, trapping us inside a large fence of Douglas Fir, Dogwood, Pine, Spruce and Maple. It became clear that in this land, nature had claimed superiority. Perhaps this land saw what was to come, prepared itself for the battle, and amazingly won the fight to stay alive. After a couple unsuccessful hours of fishing, we returned to our camp site and prepared lunch. I sat myself down on a large, wooden picnic table after we finished tying the boat down. The table had been well-used, generously marked with names of past visitors it hosted. Vaguely carved, though standing up to the scorn of time, were the words: "Love nature." After lunch, we journeyed to the old country store, over the bridge twenty feet away-- deep into the center of the city. Upon entrance, I inhaled a fresh, woodsy smell, making me think of a warm fire burning in a colonial house, keeping the small gathering of people inside warm from the outside's frigid weather. I looked around and saw fresh bread, jam and maple syrup. My spine tingled with a new chill and I was taken back to a time when the local country store reigned supreme-- to a time when the air was still virgin clean, not yet touched by large, food-production machinery. The lonely, little country store stood still with an old man at the counter who liked to talk about his life when his age was equal to my own. The man's skin was wrinkled as a rotting fruit lonely isolated in the Garden of Eden, and his abundant facial hair contained all the remorseful shades of gray. He lay on the plush layer of grass thinking of the alternate universe where his species was not the cause of Eve's demise, instead being an alloy of her faith. His teeth were old and neglected, but his eyes were bright and dancing like a young school boy's out on a first date with that cute girl he had always admired. His eyes told a whole new story of their own, and by peering in, I suddenly knew and understood this old man, whom I'd never met before. One quick glance may have only revealed the trivial fact that they were a bluish hue, but when I stared into the man's eyes, an entire history came into my memory. The history went back to the beginning of the century and included this peaceful town of Kokajo. The town was no different then, besides the fact that people were actually catching the fish. Suddenly, all the fish stopped biting. The hunters no longer could shoot new food; the lumberjacks were unable to cut down trees, and the trappers never caught another forest creature. The land had developed a defense against the foreboding actions of its inhabitants. I shook my head and made a note to stop daydreaming. The dusty path back to our campsite seemed to grow familiar now-- everything suddenly became like a home to me. Despite the differences in the trees, paths, and water all around me, they all felt familiar now. Through that old man in the country store, this small, insignificant village of Kokajo took a special place in my heart. Deciding the only alternate activity we had was to return fishing, we went out for a hike on the old trails. They proved to be primitive and overgrown after the first few minutes into our hike. We, being the slightly adventurous type, decided to push onward until further travel was no longer possible. Through the dark, leaf-covered tunnels we struggled for another fifteen minutes. Eventually we accepted that humans were no longer welcomed in this area. The plant growth closed the path, forbidding the passage of the creatures who betrayed them. Having failed at hiking, we decided to again test our luck with fishing. We took the small boat a short way off shore and tossed in our lines. We waited.. waited.. waited.. no bites. We occasionally would move the boat's position slightly, hoping that by changing our attack some luck would befall us. Still no luck. Perhaps the old man's eyes told the truth and there was still a protective curse over this land. It made sure that certain things could not exported and others could not be imported. This land had become a decisive industry, modeled after those formed by its attackers. At the moment I began to doubt this thought, the sun was making its descent below the green horizons, and the many shades of red, orange, purple and yellow seemed to create a dome over our heads and over this sequestered land where we stayed. A thought on faith entered my mind. It was a beautiful night setting in, and we stayed out over the water, just a hundred feet from our tent, until the moonlight alone illuminated our location. We took the boat back to shore and called it an early night, realizing that tomorrow would be another long traveling day. Again my sleep was broken by the heat of the large, green furnace. We awoke early in the morning and began to pack for the return trip home. Kokajo was a difficult friend to say "good-bye" to, though my surface may have shown no attachment. I think every person deep inside longs for that place that still has a touch of our unpolluted past to it. Kokajo is one of those great places, and to me it's a homeland, a heaven, a place where I can find myself and find the world. Despite our far reaches into technology, our spirits will always be lonely without the fresh smell of air, the close company of animal life, the nearby protection of the trees. All that we are, all that we know, and all that we love is nature. Any person is incomplete without a piece of nature connected to their soul. -woodstock [rancid] SAUCE00Kokajo woodstock Rancid 19950127'P