It was always difficult to see Portland from the Cascades. The heavy canopy of pines and oaks circling the ranges, coupled with the fog banks that rolled in from the sea, usually made it a hazard for all but the most reckless of hiker who wanted to take photos of the modern city of light and amusement. It was over seventy miles to the city center, but if one were to bravely grapple his or her way up one of the towering pines, one could eventually see the city center with a good enough set of glass. 

A particular man was doing just that. He did it every time there was a power outage. Not so much over fear of the unknown, but of general interest in seeing when the power might come back on. If the entire grid that Portland and the surrounding rural areas relied upon was out, it would take [i]weeks[/i] for cherry picker trucks to come by his remote road to turn the power back on. There was always more interest in making sure that Portland was running. They had to keep the unloading ships at the harbor and the hipsters busy somehow. 

What this man saw was troubling to him. He had seen Portland basked in darkness time and time again, but never to this extent. True, the city could be dark, but it could never be absent light. Power or no power, cars always made rings around the city as people made their way to and from work. Hospitals would still be burning diesel in generators to keep their facilities running. The bearded fellow peered through an old collapsing telescope high up in one of the pine trees. Nothing. The little hamsters in his head were starting to turn their wheels at an increased speed, though he brushed it off. The reasonable man in him looked down at the telescope, turning it around in his hands. 

[i]“Vanhaa lasia. Siinä kaikki,” [/i]he reassured himself. The glass was old, so it very well might not pick up the light of the cars anymore. He would need to buy a new one when he could. 

It took him some time to clamber down from the tree. It was slow going in the dark, though the absence of city light only intensified the light from the skies. It was past eight o’clock in the evening, and the Milky Way and full moon were impressive above him. It would have been a photographer’s wet dream. Boots finding grip on branches underneath him, he figured he might as well buy a camera, too. It wasn't like he was suffering from a lack of funds. The State of Oregon and the Government of Finland had seen to that. 

He made his way to ground level, taking a moment to look around him. Grizzly bear had grown more common in the area the past few years. It was his job to count their numbers, at least the ones that had not already been electronically tagged by the state. The Finn had a knack of telling the others apart. The state compensated him handsomely for the lonesome job, but he did not mind. He enjoyed sitting in a quiet field, watching grizzly cubs play with their mother. It was peaceful.

That was not to say that he was another Timothy Treadwell, relying upon the good nature of some of the largest land predators in the world. He leaned down, picking a rifle up off the ground. It was always good to have some option when a bear came charging, other than bear spray. His was perhaps a bit orthodoxical, but it was a rifle he trusted. Unlike modern rifles of plastic and space-aged metals, this one was made of brass and iron. It was hand-made in Kentucky, with flowing lines and perfect woodwork. Based off of a 1770s-era Jaeger Rifle, it was a rifled musket. Short for rifles of the age, with two independent triggers for the single barrel – one to lighten the pull of the second, for more accurate shots. The .54 caliber ball it fired was more than enough to make the largest of grizzlies think twice.

He hiked his way back to his cabin. He had left a hurricane lamp on outside the front using a tinderbox. The shielded lamp burned bright, giving him a beacon to find his way back through the underbrush. He stopped every few feet to listen around him, before continuing onward. He walked into the halo of light, looking like some sort of lumberjack. The Finn was large, with a barrel chest and full beard. A black and white flannel shirt hung taught to his chest, with the sleeves rolled to expose thick flesh. These were not the muscles of a man who spent hours in a gym perfecting them. They were the ones earned through manual labor and good food. 

He wished the radio worked. He wanted to know what was going on.