jermalism: Abandonment Issues: The Hunting Lodge

Hunting Lodge in the middle of Nowhere,
Ontario.

The hunting lodge is prepped and ready for visitors. Linens have been folded and placed into pillow cases, and are resting on the laundry machines. The fridge is propped open, the water pump is off, as is the power. All of the windows and doors are locked. There is remarkably little dust, everything seemingly in its place. The maps are drawn and the European porn is stacked high on an end table. A blonde woman reaches into her panties and pauses, for an endless amount of time. To her right, a brunette lady raises her exposed bare hind quarters and stares up at me seductively. I look up. I move on. Radio, flashlight, batteries, check, check, check. 3 kettles rest atop the stove. The kitchen is fully equipped: Sunlight, spices, napkins, dish rack, towels, pots and pans, cutlery, dishes, garbage bags, etc.

The lodge is prepped and stocked so well, its as if a herd of hunters is about to come barrelling through the door half in the bag, ready to start killing shit. And here I am, Houdini with a camera and an escalating heart rate. Nine chairs surround the table like a swarming posse. The lump in my throat broadens, the creeks, they give me the creeps, my stomach muscles tighten up.

From outside, the place appears long abandoned. Wooden slats had been painted red only on the front side of the house and the green roof has rusted into a camo-pattern. To my immense displeasure, the long grass provides adequate shade for seven hundred thousand or so mosquitoes. I must look like one of the Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm-Flailing Tube Men swinging at the mosquitoes as they bleed me drier than a Rockwood Insane Asylum patient in the mid-1800s. The shed out back has partially collapsed and I am smack dab in the middle of Nowhere, Ontario. It must be abandoned, I argue with a few of the voices in my head.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs, alone, the sinking feeling just keeps sinking, feeling like I'm not alone. A rack full of aged clothing and a dated vacuum disappear behind me as I creep silently up the stairs. All of the doors are closed, and the brightest of white lights angelically glows from beneath them. I tiptoe from room to room, sneaking open each door until the floor is cleared, ready for anything. My back story is sound, the character I'm playing is a regular and I know him well. As I open each door, I ponder the possibilities of what I might come across - A sleeping woman, an old man, an aggressive dog, a dead body, a pack of nine pissed off hunters? Once the floor is cleared, my camera takes lead and I follow it like a sheep to its Shepard, heart still racing. I find myself pondering the possibilities of way back when, only for a brief moment, before the fight or flight instinct pulls me back outside. Score another round to the mosquitoes; pesky fuckers.

How long has it been since they have used this Hunting Lodge? Who are they? And when, or even will they be back? I still don't have any answers, but I have a handful of photographs.

IX chairs