It has been quite a while now since we met, I hope you remember.
When we arrived at your place in the forest we had just started our longest trip yet. The lands we travelled through were spectacular, but your home at San Jo never left me. A drowsy bear crossed the long gravel road. The dripping woods, the soft green mossy grass, the branches of trees blocking the way.
We parked the car in an overgrown site with rotten plastic chairs. I walked around, puzzled. There were weather worn bases of a large, unfinished building. A broken car, a shed, and a cabin with smoke coming out of the chimney. Dark trees crept in on the open space - wall-like, suffocating.
From the steps that led up to the door of your cabin I saw the interior reflecting the haunted outside: an unmade bed in the corner, a wood stove, faded postcards on the beams that supported a sooty ceiling. The small desk at the dirty window was covered with papers and pictures of cougars and bears.
Then you stood behind me, your hands black with dirt, smiling. You seemed happy to have guests so late in the season. You showed us the dark lake that adjoined the campground, and a short cut along a muddy path to the beach, where we found sand dollars in the surf. How have you been? Did you get a chance to work on the hostel again? Or have you really given up that dream? Did you get through the winters all right?
When we left in the morning you made me promise to send you a postcard. I bought one as soon as we got home. It was only then that I found out I had lost your address. The card got buried in a drawer, but I never forgot about you or San Jo. Now it's time to track you down. But no matter what I try, your campground seems to have disappeared from the map. I'm sending this letter, along with the card and some pictures to the Holberg post office. I sure hope to find you this way. Because the forest calls. I long to breathe the damp air and learn to live in the wild.