I was out in the wilderness of Boulder, Colorado. Aspen trees whistled as they waved in the wind. Chickadees sang their sweet sonata. All this and more set me at ease as I traipsed through the natural world.
    I was out here for a single reason. I desired to improve my orienteering skills, navigating by map & compass, with a generous portion of wit as well. I had pulled my car to the side of a lonely road deep in the mountains, left a reassuring note to any passerby, and walked into the forest, eager to boost my navigational knowledge. If my studies and perseverance paid off, all would be fine. As hours passed like an overhead plane, My skills continued to sharpen. A river here, and a hill there. Groves of trees to my left, and a valley to my right. Getting lost wasn’t even a concern anymore. I decided to celebrate with a well-deserved lunch break. I referenced my map and compass, identifying a small valley clearing, ideal for resting. I soldiered forth, my mouth watering with the desire for the savory sausage biscuit I brought, still warm from the foil. As the clearing came into view, I noticed something else. An undoubtedly peculiar sight.
    Before me stood a rectangular building. Nothing of notable size, but perhaps 30  to 40 feet wide, and 10 feet tall. It was painted a clean white hue on a cold, industrial steel, but age and weathering left some parts brittle and cracked. Upon this strange structure sat a large circular platform, adorned with shattered floodlights and piles of brittle leaves blown from the lush canopy nearby. A massive antenna crowned it all, a glistening white tower pillaring 40+ feet into the blue sky like a skyscraper. The building’s door was labeled with an unemotional “NO TRESPASSING” sign. However, slightly concealing this label plastered another, which read “DECOMMISSIONED BY FEDERAL AVIATION ADMINISTRATION.”
    A VOR station. I had read about these in a navigational class. The F.A.A. built hundreds of these stations all over the United States. They were co-pilots, informing aircraft of their current position, and nearby airports and airfields. The VOR stations were never tired, functioning 24/7 for whoever needed assistance. However, technology improved, and their service became obsolete, thus leading to widespread decommissioning.
    Curiosity overcame me. I’ve always desired to see the interior of one of these restricted buildings. Nobody knew that I was out here, anyway.
    I approached the station ever so cautiously. It boldly sat in silence, but its beacon loomed ever so tall as I drew near. Despite its decommission, I still felt a foreboding sense of fear wracking my nerves. I was at the door. Cold steel faded and worn from the periods of direct sunlight over decades of service. Cold steel that prevented criminals from entering the station and sabotaging the systems. Cold steel that might still prevent entry to myself. I grabbed the knob firmly in my palm. It felt cold and rusty in my sweaty, shaking hands. I turned the knob, prepared for disappointment, but to my surprise, the knob clicked open, and the door was now dislodged. I slowly pushed the door inwards. It creaked an eerie squeal, ringing my cautious ears, perhaps warning me to turn back. Fighting the fear that something dreadful might be inside, perhaps savage wildlife or unsettling graffiti, I hastily swung the door open.
    I didn’t expect this. I couldn’t have expected this. I never would’ve expected this. A grimy walnut chair stood around a dusty card table. Cardboard boxes were scattered with disorder throughout the interior. A pile of stained blankets and a pillow forlornly sat in the far corner. A bucket near the door contained rotting fish bones and rotten berries (it smelled of it, too.) The interior’s centerpiece, containing abandoned computers rising to the ceiling where the beacon stood, was adorned with papers and drawings taped over its casing. Among these documents, however, displayed a photograph.
    A couple. A man and a woman, sitting on a park bench and smiling. Laughing. Someone was here. Someone might still be here. Someone lives here. I ran outside, worried that I was being watched. I scanned the horizon on all sides of the station, but no one was in sight. I ran back inside. I needed to know more. There had to be more to this.
    I commenced opening the boxes scattered around the room, hoping for clues. One box contained clothes, another contained a box of bandaids and some painkillers. A third box contained medical bills. I glanced near the blankets and spotted a small, battery-operated, personal television. I pushed the power button. It felt sticky and riddled with dirt. The television clicked to life, tickling my ears with a high-frequency buzz, typical of such aged sets. It displayed the last channel it broadcasted, the weather. This station’s occupant must’ve checked up on the weather daily, living out here miles away from civilization. I wasn’t interested in rain. I demanded facts.
    Shuffling through the papers on the beacon’s servers, I only found more medical bills. Mental institutes, psychological therapy, prescription receipts plagued the computer’s casing. It was an exoskeleton of debt and dread. I glanced at the card table, my eye catching sight of a handwritten letter. I rubbed my finger against the canary-yellow stationery. Upon the letter, was the date 7/13/2016. That was a week ago. This composition was recent, whoever wrote it. I picked up the paper, and began reading.

Anna Foley
Colorado Mental Health Institute
3520 West Oxford Avenue
Denver, Colorado 80236
   
My dearest Anna,

It’s been a few months now. I hope the doctors are continuing to take good care of you. I do recall how you liked that one doctor with the beard and ponytail! I hope that you are happy with your current living conditions, and that you are getting the attention that you deserve and need.

I am writing to tell you that I will no longer come to visit you. Your illness has hurt my life and happiness in many ways. It breaks my heart to learn that my beautiful wife cannot remember his charming husband. I could never sleep at night, knowing that our fond memories with each other are lost and misguided within your brain, if they still exist at all. My life has come to a crushing standstill. I don’t have the money to continue your treatment. The funding has been placed the hands of your family.

As for me, do not bother to respond. Do not bother to find me. Do not bother to try and remember me. I have found a place that has made me happy again, far away from anything that can hurt me further. As much as it pains me to say this, but there’s no reason to try and cure the incurable. Our relationship is a trainwreck, and you don’t even remember it at all.

I’m starting a new life. A life that will hopefully have a happier ending. Love you, baby.

Your husband,

Matthew

    My hands were trembling. My eyes were filled with uneasy tears. I was in utter disbelief. I shivered in bewilderment as I dropped the letter back in its former place. The one living here was the husband of this couple. Matthew. Matthew Foley.
    I couldn’t stay here. I needed to leave the VOR. The reason he was out here in the wilderness was to get away from all of humanity. I panicked, ensuring that everything looked just like it was before I intruded. No footsteps, no fingerprints, and no other trace of me whatsoever. I slammed the steel door of the station behind me, choking back any sympathetic tears. If I was caught by the man living here, imagine the pain I could unintentionally inflict. Miles away from the nearest country road, and he still can’t escape from humanity. I sprinted and sprinted, never turning back until I was confident that the VOR station was no longer in sight.
    I never returned to that area. I never mentioned this encounter to anyone. I don’t want word to get out and ruin that man’s life once more. Whenever I see another VOR station, I’m reminded about Matthew and his letter. It reminds me to continue keeping his secret. OUR secret. To this day, Matthew still might reside in that VOR station, enjoying life and nature out in the wilderness of Boulder, Colorado.