Dear Ben,

Local booze. It makes the whores poetical.
I cut my way to here. Thick bush and no
hurry. My track grown in behind, a pale
green pencil strike across the older, darker
woods. The aerial picture also shows no
blindness in the still, no bitter in
the whores, neat shanties, a long shed for
the timber co-op, one big H at the rescue base
outside of town: two Russian helos
in good nick and an airship I'll steal
to get out. This place has no view
of the moon. I need to get up in the mountains.
I'm writing this on the bar. I'll send it
down the river. Keep coming. With those long legs
you'll catch me in the hills. Keep coming.

The name of this place is