The Woodsmen

De: Dell Sweet

Narrado por: Virtual Voice

The air in the chauffeured SUV hummed with a manufactured excitement, a brittle façade over the collective exhaustion of four men who navigated the concrete canyons of Manhattan. Mike, the architect of this urban sabbatical, surveyed his companions with a practiced eye, the same gaze he employed to close multi-million dollar deals. Beside him, Joey, perpetually wired and radiating an aggressive energy that served him well in the trading pits, fidgeted with the cuff of his bespoke suit. Behind them, Bobby, a lawyer whose sharp suits hid a nervous disposition, stared out at the receding skyline, his knuckles white on his brief case. And then there was Moon, the quietest of the quartet, an analyst whose sharp intellect was often masked by a reserved demeanor, his gaze fixed on some point beyond the tinted windows, an almost imperceptible unease already beginning to prickle at him.

Their lives were a relentless sprint: early mornings fueled by designer coffee, late nights drowning in spreadsheets and legal briefs, the constant thrum of ambition and the gnawing pressure to perform. The city, once a symbol of their success, had become a gilded cage, its relentless energy draining them, its superficial connections leaving them hollow. They craved an escape, not a vacation, but a
retreat. A deliberate shedding of the suits, the schmoozing, the manufactured identities, and a plunge into something more elemental, something real. The idea had been Mike's, a well-timed proposal during a particularly grueling quarterly review. “We’re losing it,” he’d declared, his voice cutting through the drone of economic forecasts. “We’re soft. This city… it’s made us soft. We need to remember what it means to be men, to rely on ourselves, not on algorithms and assistants.”

The consensus had been swift, almost too swift, as if each man had been waiting for the permission, the justification, to escape. The destination: the Southern Tier of Upstate New York, a region whispered about in hushed tones by those who sought true solitude, far from the manicured trails and well-trodden paths of more popular wilderness areas. Mike had painted a picture of untamed forests, pristine lakes, and a silence so profound it would be deafening after the ceaseless roar of the city. He’d spoken of challenging hikes, of wrestling with the elements, of building fires with their own hands, of sharing stories under a canopy of stars untainted by light pollution. It was a fantasy, a potent antidote to the sterile reality of their daily lives, a carefully curated illusion of primal masculinity.