The Smoog – Fort Deitrich, Part 1.1

So, I decided to make this record. I’m not sure exactly *why*, but I figured if nothing else, it’d be good for me.

I’ll start at the beginning. My name is Alex, I’m 34 years old, and I live in a small city called Burkittsville in Northern California with my best friend, a husky called Buddy. I’m independantly wealthy (not Bill Gates rich, but there’re enough bucks in the bank, along with various investments, for me to not have to worry about working for the rest of my life).

“But Alex, how did you get all this money?” I hear you asking. It’s nothing particularly exciting, but it *is* kind of cool. My folks died when I was just a kid (not so cool) and grandma and gramps brought me up in their little out-of-town until they both passed on within a few weeks of each other when I was just 22. Little did I know, back dawn of time they’d invested a considerable portion of their life savings with a broker who, as fate would have it, turned out to be *extremely* adventurous with his clients’ money. This fellow (God bless his soul) sank a lot – and I mean a *lot* – into a small technology start-up who, in a very few years, became highly successful, and my grandparents were in on it from the beginning. The all-American dream. Being the kind of frugal people they were, they simply sat on this nest egg and, when they died, the shares and accumulated cash transferred to me, the sole scion of my illustrious bloodline.

I’d always wondered why my grandparents had pushed me to try and enrol in the best universities in the country, but eventually just put it down to them wanting the best for me, and not realising the financial cost of such things. However, as I had little interest in further education, I spent my post-senior year bumming around doing the kind of jobs typical of any American teenager: I bussed tables for a while, delivered pizza for a few months, and even did a short stint as security for one of the less-reputable clubs in my hometown (although they swiftly handed me my pink slip when they discovered how well developed my sense of self-preservation is). To my grandparents credit, and my eternal gratitude, they supported me in this as well.

So, imagine my surprise when, at the attorneys office shortly before grandma’s funeral, I was gifted my inheritance. I quickly ascertained that through the simple act of holding on to their (by now extensive) investments, and not just blowing a bunch of money on a custom hot rod, big house and loose women, I could comfortably live out my days without having to go through the daily grind experienced by countless billions across the globe. As I don’t have any major vices, nor any expensive tastes to speak of, this has so far proven pretty easy.

Not having much in the way of friends (as continuing to read this journal will likely make clear, I’m pretty happy with my own company), I spent a lot of time indulging my favourite pastime: off-trail exploring. I’ve always been a big fan of the outdoors, loving to play in the woods which my grandparent’s property backed on to as a kid, and as an adult, I took this to the extreme, hiking into wildernesses all across the country and in the process becoming something of an expert in the art of camping (I even spent six months on the Appalachian Trail back when I was 25, a time of my life I’ll never forget).

Some of the things I saw out in the backwoods you probably wouldn’t believe, but the very strangest thing of all happened not two years ago right in those woods I used to play in as a kid.

One balmy Fall evening, I got the urge – as I quite often do, especially when watching a show set outside the boundaries of civilisation, like *Man vs Wild* or *Lost* -to lose myself in nature. Gathering my camping gear, I loaded up my SUV (a brand-new Jeep Wrangler, one of the few luxuries I’ve allowed myself since becoming a monied man) only to find that I was nearly out of gas. This being rush hour, I was unwilling to brave the traffic to get a refill, and so reluctantly settled on a walk through those old childhood stomping grounds.

Now, don’t get me wrong, these woods aren’t your average kid-friendly, trees-spaced-evenly-apart, picnic destinations. They might *seem* like that, but the deeper you go, the wilder they become. They’re big, and if you go far enough in, there are some places I’m willing to bet are just like they were a thousand years ago.

So there I was, walking through my old haunt and enjoying myself much more than I thought I would- seeing the wreck of the hut I was so proud of when I was 11, and what was left of my abortive tree house gave me a feeling of pleasant nostalgia. So, slightly drunk on pleasant memories, I wandered further than I really should have at that time of night, being unprepared for a night in the forest.

By the time I figured that I should probably be heading back, the sun was already near the horizon, I was a fair distance into the woods and it was getting pretty dark under the canopy. Although not worried about finding my way home during the day, doing so by flashlight only is a very different prospect, and I about turned, intending to head back to the house with all due speed.

That’s when I spotted him. Staring at me from beneath one of the nearby thickets was one of the biggest dogs I’ve ever seen. My heart skipped a beat (a few, if truth be told). At first I thought he was a wolf. Having seen Jurassic Park more than once, I quickly scanned the undergrowth on both sides, but could see no evidence of his friends, and he seemed to be just staring at me; his stance wasn’t aggressive, and he didn’t look like an animal that was out for a meal. Backing away slowly, I took out my pocket flashlight – never leave home without one, guys! – thinking that if he started to look hungry, I could blind him with it before making a run for the nearest tree with low branches.

However, he didn’t seem at all interested in anything other than making friends, and he padded towards me, his muzzle sniffing the air as he got closer. Afraid to run when he was this close, I stopped moving and let him come closer. Now, this might sound strange, but by this point I was absolutely, utterly convinced that this beast wasn’t a threat unless I made him one. Don’t ask me how, I just knew. He came right up to me, nuzzled my jacket, and started pawing at the bottom. With a start, I remembered the half-eaten Hershey bar lodged deep within one of the many pockets. Taking it out, I offered the semi-melted remnants to him. He gently took the morsel from my hands before greedily tearing off the packaging and licking up every last piece. “Enjoy, buddy,” I said under my breath.

Using this distraction, I resumed my slow retreat, but as soon as he had finished with the wrapper, he turned his head to me again, looking more quizzical than anything else. I continued to back off, but then he ran towards me at full speed. I’ll be honest, I was more scared than I had ever been at that point in my life, and I turned to bolt. Nearly one hundred pounds of Husky hit me square in the back, and I went down like a ton of bricks. Screaming like a madman, I somehow managed to flip myself over, and was instantly drenched in chocolate-flavoured drool, as the monstrous beast proceeded to lick my face as if it was made of ice cream.

Well, to cut a long story short, Buddy followed me home (as near-hysterical as I was), and spent the next few nights staring forlornly at me through my back fence until I calmed down sufficiently to let him come in. Since that day, the two of us have been best of friends, even though I have to sometimes keep him hidden (he’s not registered, after all). He’s an unusual dog though, and sometimes I think that he was actually waiting for me on the night we met. He seems to know my moods, and while I’m sure that this is true of all dogs to some degree, Buddy seems to know exactly the way to fix them, as if there’s something more there than a master and pet relationship.

Well, that’s enough about me and Buddy for now. Next time, I’ll tell you all about the Letters, the abandoned Fort, and what we do most evenings.