In the year 2457, a group of hikers climbed a mountain in western North America and found a previously undiscovered log cabin. Venturing inside - and to little shock - they found it long abandoned. Inside the single room were a small bed, a cabinet filled with desecrated meat and local plants, and a wooden desk, its top clear save three things:
  1. A 20th century snub-nosed revolver with one chamber empty;
  2. The emaciated body of a man, long dead; and
  3. A weathered, leather-bound diary.

The following text is a word for word transcription of that diary. You are in no danger. The text, diary, and persons contained within, however, are all real. For those of weak constitution, reader’s discretion is advised.






July 22nd, 1914

I intend to set out for the forest this morning. I’ll bring nothing with me but my tools, a little food and this journal in a sturdy new rucksack. I bought them all today. They called the rucksack a back pack in the shop. Strange times.

I’ll be living in a nearby town for a little while as I build the cabin. It may take as much as a few weeks, depending on how fast I can work, but I’m hoping it won’t be long. I want to see the forest, and I want to live there, not in some town. I’m tired of people. That’s why I intend to do this thing, I expect you understand. I’m tired of people, and I’m sick of being tired without reason. I want to ache because I’ve earned it.

I expect to be living on my own eventually, after the cabin’s built. I pray to God there’s a town nearby, otherwise I’ll be walking a long way into the forest everyday. There’s a beautiful place I’ve heard of on the border between Washington and Oregon called the Columbia River Gorge. I saw it in a travel brochure a few weeks ago and made up my mind to go there on the spot. Seemed like the kind of place I’ve been waiting all my life to leave for. I hope there’s a town next to a big piece of wilderness where I could live unbothered. That would do it.

I’m not much of a writer. I’ve done my share of jobs but I’ve never been a writer. I’m a bricklayer at the moment, or was one. I quit today, not that I told anyone about it. They’ll never find me after I leave. Nor, I suppose, will they care. Fine by me. I hope the forest will inspire me to write better. Lots of work to do.

Plenty of ground to cover before I get to the gorge. Fantastic amount of traveling to be done. Anyway, I’ll be there long before winter. I estimate 700 miles from San Francisco to the Washington border, based on maps from the library. 700 miles. A first challenge, a test for what’s to come. If I cannot walk 700 miles in civilized land, how do I expect to live alone out in the forest?

I didn’t find anything of use in the Chronicle today. Didn’t expect much anyway. The Call was always better, before it turned into the Call & Post. It pains me to know these useless things, it truly does. Who has use for knowing the differences between newspapers? This is why I’m going north. Better to spend my time with the animals of the forest than to bleed it away with the animals of the city. But who am I to judge these people? It’s thoughts like these which make me certain I am on the right track. I’m better off away from the judgeable, for my sake and theirs. A doe heeds no judgment, does she? Same for the buck. I must be getting better as a writer, I’m sounding like some nature poet. Funny. I hope it lasts.

I’ll not write for a while, as my journey through Cascadia will be unnoteworthy, God willing. It will take me some time. 700 miles. I feel faint when I think about it, or about writing any more, so I’ll let this be the end for now. The next time I open this journal, I shall be writing about the forest. I hope. Maybe something exciting will happen on the road.