Up ahead the trail turned. As I walked around the fallen tree I saw that the path I was following went directly through a swamp. The sun up above was bright and clear, frankly, the day was beautiful.

I pulled out my iPhone and checked Guthook. According to the GPS, there was supposed to be a freshwater spring nearby. Oh well, it had been a wet summer so far and I guess the spring was overproducing a bit, and the guidebook hadn’t been updated. I would have to wade and get wet.

The first few steps on the path weren’t wrong. I could see the rocks underfoot. But as I carefully stepped forward, the water got deeper, and the trail got muckier. Around me, the characteristic shrubbery of the northern Wisconsin forest was submerged, and marsh plants were beginning to take its place.

About 20 feet down the trail the water was up to my waist. I wasn’t short by any means. Less experienced and hight impaired hikers would definitely have trouble here, and the Trail Alliance that oversaw the upkeep of this federal hiking trail might want to consider building a bridge or rebuilding the route around this obstacle if this was new. When I got out — if Wisconsin swamp monsters didn’t swallow me whole. Note to self: find out if Wisconsin has swamp monsters, if not make up some Half-Musky/Half-Tic beast that prowls the forests looking for ducklings, turtles, cheeseheads, frogs, crayfish, and lost hikers — I would have to let the Association know about this new problem. This part of the trail didn’t see many visitors, and it was possible I was the first one here all summer.

Wearily and wetly I pushed on. Up ahead, to my left I could see the happy little spring, gushing mightily, and rolling down the hillside into the water. Somewhere to my right, I’d noticed that the local river had overflown its banks and probably added a lot more water than there should be. Maybe I’d also found an unexplored micro kettle, some previously undiscovered glacial feature that had been waiting over the eons to soak me.

But at least I could see the end. The water was up to my knees and cloudy from the kicked up, stomped up debris. Only a few feet more, and I pushed on, and on, and on, and…

Under the water was a submerged root that I’d had no way of seeing. I went tumbling down. Tripped up by nature. Curse you nature; I thought as I fell. My fancy Dyneema backpack, my trekking poles, my entire body submerged into the cold Wisconsin water. I quickly surfaced. More doing a push up onto my knees. My face had landed right into a skunk cabbage, that I spit out, along with a mouth full of muddy water.

“Fuck,” I yelled.

A Mallard landed in the pond about 20 feet from me and looked at me with its iridescent head. “Quack! Quack!” said the duck.

“And fuck you too, bird,” I said to the Mallard. “I hope the Half-Musky/Half-Tic that wanders the swamps of Wisconsin gets you instead of me.”

Thanking the fact that I’d expected lots of rain, and so was carrying my most waterproof hiking gear, I dragged my waterlogged carcass the last few feet out of the swamp and piled everything to dry out and let me get organized. It eventually took two more trips into the water to find everything I’d dropped, and by that time, I was tired and grumpy and completely soaked.

There was a hill up ahead — technically probably a moraine — and if I could see a good place to camp from the crest, I would finish for the night even though it was barely 3 pm and the day outside was still beautiful.

I was lucky. Though it took me nearly a half an hour to climb the geological form, the top of the hill had one of the best views I’d come across since I had started hiking 3 months ago. It was so good, that there was a bench with a little bronze plaque that read “This bench courtesy of the Trail Alliance and your Local Boy Scout Troop …” and a number had been chipped off.

Putting down my gear, I decided that this would be a great place to spend the night. There were some trees and bushes that would conveniently block my tent from sight if this was some Farmer’s property. You really couldn’t be too careful about that. About three weeks ago I’d been interrupted in the middle of the night by a Farmer carrying a shotgun who had come out to investigate the strange light (from my iPhone) on his property, and demanded I get off his land “Right Now! You Damned Trespasser!”

This place was perfect. From the top of the hill, you could see everything. And just a little ways away there was a sheltered space to keep out the wind and the prying eyes of angry landowners. There was even a source of fresh water if you counted the spring that had tried to drown me.

I quickly set up my tent, threw on my camp clothes — basically my rain gear and some sandals — and ran some rope between a few trees as an improvised clothesline so I could dry myself out for tomorrow. I still smelt like vomit — I hadn’t been into a town or near a laundry in 2 weeks, except for the occasional food resupply at a gas station — but at least I would be dry.

Then sitting down on the bench, my alcohol stove slowly heating some water for dinner, I began to unwind. It really was an incredible view. Might as well take a few pictures for Instagram.

I pulled out my camera and held it out to the sky. Choosing the most picturesque vista, I pressed “Shoot.”

And there was an overwhelming white-orange light that flooded out the blue of the sky way off in the distance. In my photograph, I could see a mushroom cloud where Madison used to be. Quickly I uploaded it to Instagram, with the caption “Da Fuck?”

Then there was another flash, and another flash, and another flash. It wasn’t just major cities, though who in their right mind would consider Madison Wisconsin a Major city, but small towns now. Everywhere I looked wherever it looked like there was a concentration of people, giant flashes of light and mushroom clouds would appear.

“This is insane.”

Then thinking about it some more, I said, “If this is some kind of Nuclear war, I guess I’m lucky I was out hiking…? Is this a Nuclear war? I guess I’m lucky I wasn’t in a city. This is insane. Now I’m talking to myself. Ugh!”

But the white light in the sky wasn’t dying down. Much smaller flashes started appearing. And the air was getting hotter and hotter, and the sky was filled with dirt and debris and ash.

Looking around, I saw that the spring that I had just crossed, was bubbling, swelling, and glowing red. Then it too flashed, and…