Mount Hood had always seemed welcoming.

Nate and I had visited before. Mount Hood had always seemed welcoming.

Nate and I had visited before, short day trips mostly, a quick drive from Eugene when we needed

a change of scenery, but we'd never ventured into its deeper reaches, the isolated corners

away from tourists and marked trails.

When we found a posting online advertising a rustic

secluded cabin, off-grid, miles from the nearest neighbor, it sounded like the ideal escape.

The ad was sparse, the price affordable, and we didn't ask too many questions. The owner,

whoever he was, assured us via email that we'd find everything we needed inside.

His last message warned that cell signals died out past rhododendron, which sounded like

paradise at the time. No buzzing phones, no endless notifications, just the quiet solitude

we'd been craving. We drove past government camp, turned onto a dirt road marked only by a faded wooden sign,

and followed the overgrown path as branches brushed against our windows.

After nearly an hour, the road became too narrow, and Nate parked the car by a stand of old growth trees. From there, we had

to carry our bags the last 50 yards on foot. When we first saw the cabin, my stomach tightened a bit.

It was small and sturdy, but rougher than I'd imagined. Heavy pine logs formed the walls,

moss creeping up from the damp earth.

A rusted manual water pump stood in front, and the windows were filmed with years of grime.

Nate flashed me a reassuring grin, squeezed my shoulder gently, and stepped up onto the porch,

keys jingling in his hand.

The air inside smelled earthy and musty, but the place was solid enough.

Wooden furniture, heavy blankets, an old wood-burning stove. It felt like stepping back into another era.

...