Ethan Tremblay was hungry.

He’d been awake practically all night reading a romcom novel and had barely rolled out of bed in time for a bowl of Crunchy Oats and Almonds before he caught the 8am train to work. Four hours later he was sitting at his ticket desk in the Twin Firs Depot a few minutes before the 12:53 local arrived and he was starving.

Crunchy oats were not enough to sustain his 5’11” frame. No matter how ‘diet’ conscious he wanted to be, he had no intention of starving through the summer tourist season. It’s not that he was overweight, it was just a little dough above the belt. He didn’t exactly think he looked bad in the mirror; he just didn’t look fashionably gay.

It probably explained why he’d been single the past eight years even though his chestnut pornstache grabbed strangers’ attention for casual hookups. There had been plenty of anonymous quickies – especially in the frst few years – but he didn’t connect with anyone intellectually. Even when he thought he might have something in common with a guy, he was ghosted when Ethan sent texts to meet again.

Ethan believed he was looking for love, not just sex, though he wasn’t sure it existed as he wanted.

After his last serious relationship ended in a drunken fight, he ran away to work at the Cascadian Western Resort, a private gay club that spread through a huge Douglas Fir forest in the volcanic mountain range east of Portland Oregon. The resort was built along an old logging railroad which had been rebuilt to shuttle guests between make-believe towns that specialized in home cooking restaurants, live entertainment theaters and endless opportunities to hookup with strangers. One of the many charms that attracted tourists to the hedonistic paradise was the isolation; the only way in or out was by train and the sheer mountain bluffs surrounding the valley made the Cascadian Western Resort feel like a world unto itself. Snow-capped Mt Hood towered majestically to the west. Ethan thought the volcano looked like the Matterhorn, not the real one in the Alps but the concrete rollercoaster shell at Disneyland. During the summer he could see more volcanos covered in glaciers to the north and south. In the dark winters Ethan only saw the clouds shrouding the mountains which made his escapist retreat feel even more secluded.

Ethan’s isolation at the resort was more than geography. He lost contact with friends he had when he lived on the East Coast and only made a few friends who worked at the resort. He even kept his mother at a distance despite her decision to accept a management job at the resort so she would be closer to him.

He was in conflict with himself. He wanted a partner and friends who understood him. However, after he got to know someone, he started finding faults with them despite his earnest effort to get along. This is why he felt he got along so well with animals and why he had become a veterinarian years ago.

Somehow, he wound up in the Pacific Northwest at an expansive gay resort working as a train station agent and part-time train conductor. Twenty years ago he never would have guessed this is where he would be.

Guests from around the globe flocked to this resort in the woods to ‘be themselves,’ which Ethan had learned usually meant to impress others. He didn’t ft in. He wore his station master’s hat tight to hide his somewhat disheveled light brown hair. It didn’t hide his long sideburns which signaled Ethan’s yearning to live in the late 19th century.

None of the resort guests commented on his sideburns. None offered to marry him either.

Ethan opened the Twin Firs Depot door and stepped onto the rickety wooden platform. Te forest fre smoke had cleared out of the valley the previous night with the west wind. Te skies were clear. It was a perfect day to be alone with his paperback novel at this remote train stop in the Cascade forest. One more train to meet and then he could close for lunch.

High in the trees across the tracks from the station a pair of western gray squirrels chased each other around, knocked loose a seedcone, and chittered to each other until Ethan called out to them. “Sylvia! Sylvester!”

Sylvia ran to the end of a lower branch and squeaked at Ethan. She had been Ethan’s companion at the Twin Firs depot for several years, though her mate had frequently changed.

He gazed up at the tree. “What?” A slew of squirrel chirps followed.

“I know it’s hot. I’ll put a bowl of water out for both of you after the train.”

Sylvia perched still as a statue contemplating Ethan’s ofer. Sylvester skirted around the tree trunk to look Ethan in the eye.

“Maybe tomorrow I’ll bring you my box of Crunchy Oats and Almonds.” Neither squirrel responded. From his earlier career as a veterinarian Ethan knew cereal was not the proper diet for squirrels; he also knew it wouldn’t kill them. Whereas his greasy lunch probably wouldn’t be suitable. Ethan lectured Sylvia. “Don’t expect me to feed you pizza every day.”

She had no idea what he was saying and continued staring, hoping someday he’d learn to speak her language.