Day after Thanksgiving. Northern Wisconsin. The middle of nowhere. Heading to my father-in-law’s hunting cabin at sunset, I’m watching for deer. For a few reasons, my odds of hitting a deer with my car by accident outweigh my odds of shooting one on purpose. But this is not a fish-out-of-water story, nor is this about discovering that the camaraderie of the hunt is more important than shooting a deer. Those stories have already been told.

I’m a little behind schedule – I wanted to make it before dark – but I’ve been a little behind schedule my whole life. It’s just me, brown farmland, and woods. I didn’t bring my map, but I’ve never liked maps. I can find my way through these twists and turns by memory and landmarks. Unfortunately, the sun is setting on my landmarks, but I get an adrenaline rush from not being prepared. My wife finds this stressful, but I’m alone – with the tunes cranked accordingly.

When Conrad reaches for the gas pump, his jacket spreads to reveal a Green Bay Packer sweatshirt. The emblem is bigger than a watermelon. Above it, in lightning font, are these words: You Gotta Believe.

At an upcoming curve, I see an ice patch. I brake and turn the wheel. The car goes straight through the ice. When the ice ends, the turned tires catch asphalt. Sounds like I’m crushing a pile of bumpers, and my car finally stops. I get out. I look. Nothing wrong. I get back in, put the car in drive, and step on the gas. The car won’t move. It’s cold outside and getting darker.

I’m an hour and a half from home – too far for someone to pick me up. There’s no cell phone reception at the cabin. Figuring I’m 10 miles away, I won’t attempt that walk. I may be in the middle of nowhere, but this is also Wisconsin… so naturally there is a bar across the road. I have no choice but to go look for a ride in a place built for drinkers. Before going in, I call my wife. I want to make final contact in case this goes badly – something for the news to say, “Szymanski was last heard from near a roadside bar …”

This is one of those bars that used to be someone’s living room. There are two patrons. I talk to the bartender. She says, “Conrad, you wanna give this guy a ride?” Conrad looks like a disheveled, jack-pine-savage version of Captain Kangaroo. I don’t know how long he’s been sitting at the bar, but I have to go with the bartender’s good judgment – even though we just met.

Conrad agrees, and I’m both grateful and apprehensive as we head to his mini-van. He takes some time clearing off the passenger seat. I remember the name of the road I need to get to – I’m 90% sure anyway – though my landmarks are cloaked in darkness. But Conrad is from around these parts, and he says he knows where he’s going. I have to believe him.

As he drives, Conrad drifts onto the shoulder of the road from time to time, and then jerks back on track. I think he’s tired. I start making extra loud small talk. Speaking in a bizarre accent that I can’t place, Conrad mentions that he doesn’t have much gas left, but it should be enough. I check the gas gauge; he’s not kidding. We’re at least a 20 minute drive from the nearest gas station. If we run out of gas, this guy is stuck roadside with just me and my guilt. Matters are worse. From what I can see in the dark, nothing looks familiar. I think Conrad has taken a wrong turn or missed a turn. I figure as long as we’re heading north, we have to hit one of my roads … though they’re country roads that end and restart without reason or explanation.

Conrad is confident. I am not. I suggest we stop and ask for directions. Rarely do we see a house; most of them are dark. One is not. The man at the door hasn’t heard of the road I’m looking for, and his dogs bark angrily and incessantly. He suggests going the other way, though, because there is absolutely nothing the way we are heading. Meanwhile, the van runs on what can only be fumes.

We eventually see another bar. We pull in and step inside. The bartender hasn’t heard of our road. He asks customers over the blaring jukebox. They haven’t heard of our road. They ask who owns the cabin. I give names. They shake their heads. “Never heard of ‘em!”

We drive on. And on. And on. We’re two blindfolded, stuffy-nosed mice, in a maze looking for cheese.

Long after all seems lost, we reach a familiar intersection – and two turns later, the cabin. We pull in, and I tell Conrad to wait. My father-in-law agrees to follow Conrad and me to the gas station. With backup, our ride to the gas station is less nerve-racking. Conrad tells me his life story: grew up in Sweden, spent his youth traveling Europe as an athlete, migrated to Wisconsin to try farming, and raised successful kids. But this isn’t a don’t-judge-a-book-by-its-cover story. By this time, it feels more like a Twilight Zone story. After 15 minutes and one more wrong turn, we sputter into a gas station.

I hand Conrad a $20 bill. “That’s too much!” he says. But I insist it’s more than just the gas and his time. But this is not a pay-it-forward Good Samaritan story. It is, however, a story with a message. When Conrad reaches for the gas pump, his jacket spreads open to reveal a Green Bay Packer sweatshirt. The Packer emblem is bigger than a watermelon. Above it, in lightning font, are these words: You Gotta Believe.

Turned out Conrad and his sweatshirt foretold the Packer’s patchwork, makeshift season ahead: the mistakes, wrong turns, lost hope, the team – and fan base – running on empty.

The Year the Packers Brought Home the Super Bowl Trophy: It’s a story that’s only been told three times – and only once since the 1960s. Finally, we have the chance to tell it again.

But first, you gotta believe.