You have found a little paper that isn’t printed, a flyer that doesn’t fly, and a timetable for a train that may or may not arrive. Around here the creek is called a crick, the map is a rumor, and the only headline that matters is whether the river is up. This is a logbook for the observant—part ranger station bulletin, part rail-yard scrawl—filed by a fellow who answers to many names and none at all.