The last several months have been a hallowing and trying experience. I lost another toe this winter. Seven still remain, faithful friends as they are. This wilderness in which I’ve become accustom is unforgiving as my father; as cold as my mother.
I have been whittling a pinhole camera out of elk antlers, purposing to record my surroundings for those that come after me. Having forgone a dozen, dozen meals and resigning myself to a strict and exhausting diet of berries and insects, my work has finally been completed. My bones are weak and have begun to protrude from my body. My muscles are weak. My arms oft dangle, with no strength to lift them. Using trout skin as a film substitute I’ve managed to capture and record the raw wild in which I have been living these past nine years. May my pain bring you joy and wonderment, and may you enjoy the appendages you still possess, while you still possess them.
This is my friend Westin. No one knows me like he does. No one else has been there while I spent two days prying my leg from a bear trap, only to be attacked by a pack of grey wolves and lost much of the leg not a day later. No one else has tasted quite so good either.
It’s a new year. Again. I plan to celebrate with a small feast of fennel and snow lily stuffed hare covered in a pine nut glaze.
I’ve concocted an elaborate dance that is nearly foolproof in bringing about the change of seasons. By watching the elk migrations carefully, observing wolf and fox mating patterns, and meeting with the cold, pale ghost of a Native American medicine man, I’ve collected the knowledge required to dance the snow away.