There was a bundle of papers wadded in a deep pocket of the backpack, but I didn't notice

until after I got at home.

I went back to the house where the estate sale was held and a young woman answered the door.

She couldn't say who the backpack belonged to and had no interest in the papers.

Her grandmother was the one who died of old age, natural causes.

Apparently she was a bit of a hoarder so I don't know if I'll ever be able to track down the source.

The handwriting is tiny and the pages are damaged. I'll transcribe as faithfully as I can.

September 5th, the man on the trail is dead and will need to be moved.

It is a more difficult task than I would have guessed, and nearly impossible for a five-four woman

with no help and no gurney.

I tried to drag him toward camp right after I found him this morning, but

only succeeded in pivoting him and twisting his legs around each other horribly.

Bodies look so wrong once they stop feeling pain.

I never thought I would have so much experience with death, but I haven't cried over the

loss of someone since the Lighthouse. This man shit his pants before he died and moving

him make the smell worse. It will bring the animals in. Still no signs of Ira or Bill.

September 6th.

I used Ira's foam sleeping mat like a sled to move the dead man.

It still took me an hour to drag him 30 yards, and now the mat is so torn up that I'm questioning

whether it was worth the effort. Gary Law, his driver's license is in his

wallet. He's from Utah. I took the sight of him as a good sign at first. Another human on the trail

might have meant we were close to civilization. But now I'm not sure what he was doing out here or what it means.

...