H alf a day's slow eastward ride took them well up into the foothills of the 
Cascades, where the clouds, flowing in eternally from the Pacific, were forced 
upward by the swelling terrain and unburdened themselves of their immense 
stores of moisture. The trees were giants, rising branchless to far above their 
heads, the trunks aglow with moss. The landscape was a checkerboard of 
old-growth forest alternating with patches that had been logged in the previous 
century; Hackworth tried to guide Kidnapper toward the latter, because the 
scarcity of undergrowth and deadfalls made for a smoother ride. They passed 
through the remains of an abandoned timber
town, half small clapboard buildings and half moss-covered and rust-streaked 
mobile homes. Through their dirty windows, faded signs were dimly visible, 
stenciled THIS HOUSEHOLD DEPENDS ON TIMBER MONEY. Ten-foot saplings grew up 
through cracks in the streets. Narrow hedges of blueberry shrubs and blackberry 
canes sprouted from the rain gutters of houses, and gigantic old cars, resting 
askew on flat and cracked tires, had become trellises for morning glories and 
vine maples. They also passed through an old mining encampment that had been 
abandoned even longer ago. For the most part, the signs of modern habitation 
were relatively subtle. The houses up here tended to be of the same unassuming 
style favored by the software khans closer to Seattle, and from place to place 
a number of them would cluster around a central square with playground 
equipment, café, stores, and other amenities. He and Fiona stopped at 
two such places to exchange ucus for coffee, sandwiches, and cinnamon 
rolls.