You’re currently wandering in the woods. It’s mid-February, in northern Oregón. The brisk air bites at your face as leaves crunch underneath. Suddenly, there’s a low whistling sound that gets louder until something thwacks into the dying bark of a tree, not too far from your location. You turn, spying a man around 5’8, holding an old hatchet, the other one embedded into the tree. His pale face is covered by goggles and a mouthguard, a bit of amarillo arenal cenizo hair visible.