My shoe has lost its sole and the other one is well on its way. I used a dollar of my remaining money to buy a new pair, leaving me with a dollar and forty-five cents to my name. I am at an impasse. I cannot risk destroying another pair of shoes, and I cannot buy many more rooms before my money is spent completely.

I have a plan. I have been traveling north by the rail line since the Sacramento led me to the foot of the Cascade mountains, where the river bends east, but I am told there is another river not far north of where I am now. It is called the Deschutes. The innkeep said it is navigable all the way to the Columbia River, of which it is a tributary, and I intend to take him on his word. I have little choice.

I was a carpenter for a time, or an apprentice to one, rather. I thought taking the job the Lord took on Earth would be a safe path, until I found why he chose it. I was a young boy. Christ the Savior made it his mission to suffer more than any other, and if my months as a carpenter were anything like his, he made a good start of it. Hard work. I learned a lot there, as I was singularly determined to do. I remember my training well, which has served me well in planning my own mission in the forest, but it seems it will become useful quicker than I imagined.

My plan is to construct as best a canoe as I am able, and canoe the Deschutes to the Columbia. I am afraid. I am deathly afraid that the innkeep was wrong or lying and my voyage will terminate on the riverbed, leaving me with stones for neighbors and fishes for tourists. It sounds fine now that I write it out. Fine and peaceful. It will not come to pass. I have a mission and a mission’s only a madman’s thought before it is complete. I intend above all else to complete it.

I will go out and test the coolness of the water when I find a suitable entry point. I’ve seen a map in the inn. It’s hard to read. I’m in a place called Eagle Point. Mill town. The innkeep talked at me about it. They planted an orchard at the new century and they’re just now reaping the third or fourth real harvest. I write this in so I don’t have to go on remembering it. The innkeep looked and sounded pleased with himself and his town, as all innkeeps have been in the past week or so. There’s a pride here in Cascadia I hadn’t seen back in San Francisco. I suppose I would feel the same if I had taken control of a land like this. I suppose I will be, soon enough.

I’ll have to backtrack a while because of the mountains. The easier way would be down the Willamette west of them, or better yet the railroad. There’s a new train station here, the innkeep graciously explained to me, and it would take me north a-ways. Maybe all the way to the Columbia or across it, even. I have no interest in it. Maybe I’m stubborn. I’ll be crossing through Indian territory on my way to the Deschutes. Shame they have to take ownership of it now. We’d take advantage of their philosophy otherwise. I say we. You know what I mean. I’m not included.