I have crossed into Oregon. In my short path north thus far, there has been nothing but town after town along a putrid rail line which cuts the landscape in half. Stubs of creeks, or their dry bones, rather, line the mound around the line, each knowingly amputated and killed for the sake of my fellow men.

How incredible this land must have been a mere hundred years ago, when the only people here were Indians, who respect the land and do not take ownership of it. How beautiful it must have been.

It’s the landscape which has caused this change of mind, I know, but I must admit I have not been truthful in my previous entries. I think it foolish to talk to a journal the same way one might talk with a friend or pastor, so I will not, for I would never speak to a friend or pastor this openly. This journal may serve, in a way, as my confession, if need be.

I am a writer of sorts. I am forced by my anxious soul to say at times that I am not truly a writer, but I am and have been all my life. As I’ve said, I will treat this now as a sinner might treat the confession box. For what purpose this will serve, I don’t yet know. Perhaps it will become evident by the end, when it comes. Maybe it will have something to do with the war. My plan to live in the forest may be destined to be taken from me once America joins. I don’t follow the news anymore (there is no need, as I have said before) but the people of southern Oregon tell me all I need to know. There is a second war. Strange times. A second war between Germany and others I cannot recall. The merchant man was right.

America will join soon. I know it as well as I know Americans. I may be enlisted. Please, if you will, take note of my use of the phrasing “may be enlisted,” and the absence of the alternate, “will enlist.” It is an important distinction.

I’d like to quickly explain my audience, the “you” to whom I speak. As this is a confession, I can think of one only who can serve as a proper audience. The Lord. For my sake, if anything, I’d like to establish it so.

While confession is on my mind, I must address my fear over a possible failing of the mission. I know full well its likelihood. I know this is an act of foolishness, by any measure, yet I must do it. I truly believe in what I have set out to do, and who am I to do anything but act upon it? I must be my own example. To myself and to no one else. In keeping with that idea, this journal is meant for no one but myself and the Lord, though deep within me there is a desire to be known by it, to be revered. I don’t know whether this desire is right or wrong, and whether I should pursue it. I think at the moment I shouldn’t. I don’t know why.

I reside in Ashland, Oregon now, which I know almost nothing about save the location. The forest is awe-inspiring here. The smell of this place is unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced. It brings me to a childhood here I didn’t have, and a local life I have never known. I haven’t gotten used to the smell, even after a week or more.

I forsook myself and asked the innkeep what it was. He told me it was the trees. He spoke at length of the grand firs here, which are grand, indeed; the biggest and most fantastic plant I’ve ever seen but for the redwoods outside San Francisco. He told me also of the few blue spruce they have here. He told me some traveler brought a handful of blue spruce saplings from Colorado in the 90s, simply because they were so beautiful. He took me back outside without my asking and showed me the one he owned. Never before have I felt what I felt while looking upon the blue spruce. I cannot describe to you its color; it was almost glowing among the greenery, but it was not blue, not like any blue I’ve ever seen. Maybe the needles of the blue spruce are the true blue of the world, and all other blues are but an imitation. I will contradict myself in saying that it was the single most fantastic living thing I’ve ever seen. I will keep it in my memory as long as I live.

I set out again tomorrow. The smell in the air is flooding through my open window, and that blue spruce lies just beneath me now. If nature has something even half as beautiful for me waiting in the Columbia River Gorge, this journey will have been well worth the trouble.