Entry 4: My Draft Missive To Mom

 



August 5, 1970



Dear Mom,


     I'm breaking the silence of my concealment because I need your help. Please don't tell Dad.

     Yesterday afternoon a red-bearded guy arrived at the campsite with his young child. The boy played in the swimming hole for an hour while the man threw out a fishing line, all the while smiling at his son's aquarian antics. When the sun dropped below the western rim of the gorge they started a fire and cooked up three little brookies. It was dark when they rinsed their plates in the creek and crawled into a little tent. 

     I watched from my rock ledge behind the rhododendrons until the flashlight went dark and their soft voices faded. Then I snuck down in the moonless night to see what they'd left at the firepit, my best source of supplies on this sojourn. I was squatting beside the smoldering ashes opposite their shelter when the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I turned to find wild eyes shifting from me to the tent and back. 

     I stumbled up and took off upstream without a glance back. After awhile, when I was sure the man wasn't chasing, I realized he must have silently slipped out of the tent to see the brilliant night sky while I was climbing down to investigate the fire pit. At the next ford in the stream I crossed over and made my way back to my hidden perch as quietly as I could. When I peeked out at dawn they were gone.

     Now I'm afraid my private gig is up out in this wilderness area. If the guy doesn't spill the beans to the Forest Service, he'll at least tell his friends who will then be on the look out for a hairy man at Blue Hole. My best bet to avoid imprisonment for draft dodging is to leave the country, and this is where you come in. 

     Remember our trip to Sapporo when you introduced me to a same-aged cousin who looked a lot like me? I'm wondering if you can call and ask to borrow his driver's license and passport. I would deliver them back to him in person as soon as I can get a flight to Hokkaido. 

     I know this is a long shot, but it would simultaneously save my life and return me to the Ainu family you sacrificed to follow Dad back to the states after the American occupation. If this plan is acceptable to you and your nephew does send those documents, please mail them care of the postmaster in Alvon, West Virginia. She's also opposed to the war and is willing to discreetly help.


                                                                             Your loving son,


                                                                              Dogface


p.s. That's what people are calling me out here after catching starlit glimpses of my hairiness. 


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