On an August morn in twenty-eighteen,
Vladimir stepped where few had been.
A taxi left him on a road so bare,
The Alaskan wild—no soul lived there.
With phone and charger, oatmeal too,
A backpack stuffed with clothes he knew.
The driver asked, “Are you sure, my friend?”
Vlad only smiled, “God will defend.”
His family begged, “Don’t take this quest,
Bring spray or guns, for your own best.”
But Vladimir, devout and strong,
Said, “Faith in God will lead me along.”
A monk-like life in Washington State,
Praying and fasting, he trusted fate.
Yet still he yearned for purpose untold,
A spark of meaning, a truth to hold.
His friend Dmitri, with cabin spare,
Said, “Go retreat, find solace there.”
Fourteen miles through forest deep,
A cabin of food, a place to keep.
For weeks he wrote with joyful tone,
Of prayer, of berries, of squirrel alone.
But six weeks passed—then silence fell,
No word, no text, no tale to tell.
Dmitri flew his plane one day,
And saw the cabin through trees that sway.
Smoke from chimney, Vlad stepped out,
He waved with cheer, removed all doubt.
Supplies were dropped, the bond was clear,
Dmitri thought, “He’s safe, no fear.”
But months rolled on, no message came,
No texts, no calls, still all the same.
By December snow, the skies were gray,
An earthquake struck the land that way.
Dmitri searched, but found no sign,
The chimney snowed, no fire to shine.
Troopers said, “He may have gone,
Perhaps he left, he might move on.”
But Dmitri knew something was wrong,
And chartered help to search along.
The cabin stood in silent white,
Snow at the door, no smoke, no light.
Boarded shut from the outside in,
Yet inside neat, no sign of sin.
Firewood labeled in curious hand,
“Frankincense aroma, do not brand.”
Odd inscriptions but nothing more,
No clue of where he’d wandered for.
Did he walk into the endless wild?
Did faith mislead this God-touched child?
Or is he living somewhere still,
Hidden by fate, by God’s own will?
The last we know is a fleeting wave,
A man of faith, devout and brave.
Beyond that porch, his trail is gone,
A mystery vast as the Arctic dawn.