850 | GAWD's WIL

850 | Evan and His Dad Discuss the Backpacking Trip and the Wise Instruction List

Chapter 1: Evan and His Dad Discuss the General Administrative Wise Director

As Evan and his dad discuss the General Administrative Wise Director, they begin to unpack the strange choices made during the recent backpacking trip. Evan sits at the kitchen table, still smelling faintly of smoke and pine. His backpack slumps against the chair like it has survived a war. His dad leans on the counter, mug in hand, studying his son’s tired face.

“Alright,” Dad says. “How was your school backpacking trip?”

Evan exhales slowly. The memories come back like flashes of lightning over a dark ridge.

“It’s…interesting,” Evan says. “Very interesting.”

Dad raises an eyebrow. “That bad?”

Evan shakes his head. “More like…that revealing. Our adult leader—the guy running the whole trip—he calls himself the ‘General Administrative Wise Director.’” Evan makes little air quotes. “Or ‘GAWD’ for short.”

Dad snorts into his coffee. “Of course he does.”

“He makes this ‘wise instruction list’ of stuff we’re all advised to bring,” Evan continues. “Like, everything you actually need to survive in the mountains—warm sleeping bag, real rain gear, flashlight, food, first aid kit, hiking boots, the works. So people start calling it ‘GAWD’s WIL.’”

He pauses, watching the steam curl up from Dad’s mug.

“Let me guess,” Dad says. “Everyone follows GAWD’s WIL, and it’s the safest, most boring trip ever?”

Evan huffs out a laugh. “Not even close. Most of the students hate being told what to do. So instead of GAWD’s WIL, they make their own lists. Their ‘not-so-wise lists.’”

“They must be experienced campers,” Dad says, deadpan.

“Not at all,” Evan says. “They turn to Google like it’s their personal prophet. Type in a few words, read whatever pops up first, and boom—instant truth.”

He looks away, remembering the way everyone scrolls, convinced that an algorithm cares about them.

Dad tilts his head. “So what does the great and powerful Internet say?”

Evan taps his fingers on the table. “The ‘science’ blogs they find say there’s no need to carry warm sleeping bags because of, you know, ‘extensive global warming.’ So a bunch of them decide extra insulation is for climate-denying boomers.”

Dad winces. “Oh boy.”

“A big group decides there will be plenty of bugs to eat,” Evan says. “So they don’t bring food. They say it’s more ‘sustainable.’ Another group decides a nylon tent will ‘ruin the immersion-in-nature experience,’ so they go full raw nature mode.”

Dad stares at him. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“They also start identifying as ‘combo humans,’” Evan says, half amused, half exhausted. “Like, part human, part animal. They say it gives them ‘trans-species advantages.’”

“Such as?” Dad asks carefully.

Evan ticks them off on his fingers. “Trans-cats for night vision. Trans-elephants for carrying heavy loads. Trans-fish to handle streams and constant rain. They’re serious about it. They say labels are limiting, so they pick whatever animal energy they feel aligned with that day.”

He remembers the way some of them say it, like they’re trying to claim a superpower to cover up how scared and unprepared they really are.

“So,” Dad says. “Does GAWD force them to follow his WIL? The wise instruction list?”

Evan shakes his head. “He doesn’t force anyone. As we’re boarding the bus, he stands at the front with a clipboard, checking each of us. He doesn’t ask, ‘Are you obeying?’ He asks if we’ve received and understood GAWD’s WIL. He keeps repeating that it’s ‘optional but highly recommended.’”

Evan leans back, remembering the tension on the bus—the eye rolls, the smirks, the bravado.

“Some of the students push back,” Evan says quietly. “They tell him, ‘We’re exercising our right to use our creative free will. We’re going to learn from our own experiences.’ They say it like a slogan they’ve heard a thousand times.”

Dad studies his son’s face. “And you?” he asks.

Evan hesitates. His fingers tighten on the edge of the table. “I take the list,” he says. “I don’t love being told what to do either. But something in me doesn’t trust the noise. GAWD feels…different. Like he’s carrying stories he isn’t saying yet.”

Evan doesn’t say out loud that when GAWD looks at him, it feels like standing under a clear sky: uncomfortable, honest, and strangely safe.

Chapter 2: Evan, Rain, and Rev Argue About Rain Gear and Waterproof Skin

When Evan, Rain, and Rev argue about rain gear and waterproof skin, the group's chaotic energy begins to clash with basic survival preparation. The bus windshields blur with drizzle by the time they reach the trailhead. The air is thin, wet, and full of pine.

GAWD climbs down first, scanning the tree line, then the teens streaming out behind him. Evan shoulders his heavy pack, every item checked against GAWD’s WIL.

The sky presses low, a gray lid.

Rain, one of the students, laughs too loudly as she hops to the ground, arms wide. “I hope it pours,” she says. “I want the full baptism experience.”

Later, as the first drops fall more steadily, Evan feels a prickle of nervous energy run along his skin. He checks the clouds again.

“Does everyone have rain gear?” he calls out. “It’s supposed to rain tonight.”

The reaction is instant.

A group of students whirl around and close in on him, eyes blazing like he has insulted their ancestors.

“Who are you,” one demands, “to criticize natural rain?”

Another student shakes her head, offended. “Rain gives water to plants, trees, animals—everything. It’s life. Rain has a right to fall whenever and wherever it wants.”

A boy with a messy bun and layered bead necklaces folds his arms. “Our bodies have waterproof skin,” he says, like he’s quoting a YouTube lecture. “We evolved that way. You should be defending rain’s rights, not hiding from it.”

Evan feels their anger roll toward him like charged air, buzzing and crackling. He wants to say, "I’m not attacking the rain." I’m just saying…we’re fragile. We’re not as tough as we pretend.

Instead, he closes his mouth. The energy around the group flashes bright—self-righteous, hot, and unstable.

Rev, the same guy with the necklaces, steps forward with a wild grin. “I’m planning to dance naked in the rain,” he says. “I want to feel the chi energy from the lightning.”

The others laugh, half-mocking, half-admiring the performance.

Evan watches him. Part of him wants to roll his eyes. Another part recognizes something desperate underneath—the need to feel something bigger than himself, to know he matters in the storm.

Back at the table, Dad’s eyes widen. “I’m not sure I’m ready to hear the rest of this adventure,” he says.

Evan gives a small, tired smile. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I think too. But it all keeps unfolding.”

Chapter 3: Rev Experiences Earthing and Blames GAWD for His Bleeding Soles

As Rev experiences earthing and blames GAWD for his bleeding soles, the physical consequences of ignoring practical trail advice become undeniable. On the trail, the earth is slick and uneven. Wet roots twist underfoot, and sharp rocks jut from the ground like teeth.

Rev strides ahead barefoot, his shoes left on the bus in some proud, impulsive gesture. He posts a story about it before they even hit the tree line.

For some reason, the Internet doesn’t warn him that it takes years to toughen feet for mountain trails.

Rev believes his feet are already strong.

Fifteen minutes in, he is limping.

“My feet hurt,” Rev groans. “My bare feet hurt. My poor soul is being unfairly picked on and pierced by the rocks and branches.”

He stops in the middle of the path and points down at his reddened, bleeding soles like he’s displaying evidence to a jury.

“The evil sticks and stones are attacking my soul,” he insists. “They’re only doing it because I’m trans-species. I had my toes cut off and replaced with metal claws so I could look more like a cat.”

His words are half exaggeration, half confession of what he wishes he could do to himself—anything to match the image in his head.

“I can’t wear regular shoes anymore,” he says. “So my soul is not properly protected. I’m still waiting for my fur to get thicker.”

The group shifts awkwardly. Some are amused. Some are uncomfortable with how closely his metaphors approach real pain.

GAWD watches quietly before speaking.

“So,” GAWD says evenly, “how is your self-guided natural experience working out?”

Rev glares at him, eyes shining with frustration. “Well, if you’re so wise, why didn’t you bring my other shoe for me—since you knew what would happen? You’re supposed to be my guardian protector.” His voice sharpens with accusation. “You’re just anti–trans–species.”

The words hang between them like a threat.

GAWD’s eyes stay steady. “I have ‘hiking boots’ on the instruction list,” he says softly. “I tell you how to protect your soul. You choose to ignore me.”

Back in the kitchen, Dad shakes his head. “Sounds more like identifying as a jackass fool to me. Why doesn’t he bring hiking boots?”

Evan looks down at his own feet, remembering how heavy his boots feel and how safe they feel.

“Rev’s research tells him that going barefoot is the best way to ‘ground’ his negative feelings and emotions,” Evan explains. “This ‘earthing’ thing. Direct contact with the earth is supposed to heal everything. Except on that trail, it just means he generates more negative energy. He bleeds, he blames, he lashes out. All because he ignores GAWD’s WIL.”

Later, on the mountain, Rev rips his favorite hoodie—its front printed with layered woke slogans—and wraps the torn fabric around his feet in makeshift shoes.

Evan feels the weight of his own pack dig into his shoulders. His boots grip the earth.

“I follow GAWD’s WIL,” Evan thinks. “So my soles are protected. My soul feels fragile sometimes, but at least my feet can handle the ground.”

Rev keeps complaining about his bleeding sole and keeps blaming GAWD for not providing him with a protective shoe.

“GAWD is supposed to be in charge of everything,” Rev declares. “It’s his responsibility to give me whatever I need when I ask for it. Now my soul is suffering because he won’t help me by giving me his shoes.”

Evan’s mind swirls. Part of him wants to yell that GAWD literally gave them the list. Another part understands the temptation to find someone bigger to blame.

He remembers what it feels like to wish someone would carry him.

“I have to admit,” Evan tells Dad later, “GAWD’s WIL is really comprehensive. When I follow it, my pack is heavy. There’s a moment where I’m so tempted to ditch stuff, to ignore the list and float like the others. I even think about asking GAWD to carry my burden for me.”

He looks at his hands.

“But I realize,” he says slowly, “if he carries everything, I don’t grow. I don’t build any strength. I don’t learn discipline. I stay a spectator in my own life.”

Dad nods. “It’s impossible to walk a difficult path without proper sole protection,” he says.

Evan hears the double meaning and feels something steady in him.

Chapter 4: Diesel Brings a Computer Screen and Abandons It

When Diesel brings a computer screen and abandons it on the mountain, the reality of backcountry limitations crushes his digital escapism. On the second day, the trail curves along a steep slope where the pines thin out and the sky opens into a bright, cruel blue. The air is colder here.

One student, Diesel, identifies as part-elephant. He shows up at the trailhead dragging a full desktop computer in a duffel and cradling a big-screen monitor like it’s a sacred relic.

His pack doesn’t have a tent. Or a sleeping bag.

“I’m taking this chance to stay up all night,” Diesel boasts, eyes gleaming. “I’m going to play all my favorite games without my parents hovering, without anyone telling me to stop.”

He kicks at his empty tent slot. “Why would I bring a tent or a sleeping bag? I brought some pills to keep me awake while I overindulge in my fantasy killing games.”

Evan watches him, feeling a mix of pity and fascination.

“Where are you going to get electricity from?” Evan asks.

Diesel snorts. “That’s a stupid question. I’ll plug into an outlet. I brought a hundred-foot extension cord.” He lifts the coil like proof. “Outlets are everywhere. Don’t you know that?”

Evan considers reminding him that this is the backcountry, not a gaming café.

“Are you actually open to advice?” Evan asks instead. “Like…based on actual backpacking experience?”

Diesel doesn’t even hesitate. “No. I’m not interested,” he says. “I have creative free will, and I plan to use it to serve my selfish desires.”

The words land heavily in the thin air. His voice vibrates with defiance and something more fragile underneath—fear of boundaries, fear of limits, fear of not being in control.

About an hour later, Evan finds Diesel’s duffel abandoned beside the trail. The big-screen monitor lies tipped over on the dirt, the extension cord coiled next to it like a shed snake skin.

Diesel walks ahead with a smaller, hastily repacked bag and a hard, tight jaw.

Evan doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

Chapter 5: Students Wear Masks and Ignore GAWD About Oxygen

As students wear masks and ignore GAWD about oxygen, their rebellious choices quickly restrict their ability to breathe at high altitudes. By mid-afternoon, the air thins further. Everyone’s breath comes out in little white bursts.

Some students pull out masks and strap them tight over their faces—even while hiking uphill under heavy packs.

They wheeze almost immediately.

A few others compromise by pulling their masks down under their chins, as if that counts.

“It helps just as much,” one girl says, shrugging. “Symbolically, you know?”

Evan bites his tongue.

GAWD gathers them at a clearing.

Some students shout toward him. “There are kids not wearing their masks properly!”

Their eyes flick to Evan even though his mask hangs unused from a pocket. He feels the energy of accusation swing toward him like a spotlight.

GAWD listens and then speaks, voice calm.

“My wise instruction list does not recommend wearing masks while backpacking,” he says. “They restrict oxygen flow. You need every breath at this altitude.”

He holds up a small pouch of vitamins and herbal supplements.

“I include a list of vitamins and supplements to boost your natural immune system,” he continues. “Most of you choose masks instead.”

His gaze moves slowly over the group.

“Your free will works best when it aligns with wise instructions,” he says quietly, “not when it fights them.”

The words ripple through the teens. Some roll their eyes. Others look away, as if something inside them aches at the idea that their rebellion might be shallow, not heroic.

Evan feels a pulse of energy move through the group—defensive, confused, unwilling to fully land.

He keeps walking.

Chapter 6: Evan Sets Up Camp and Discusses GAWD Not Forcing Obedience

While Evan sets up camp and discusses GAWD not forcing obedience, he reflects on the crucial difference between given advice and mandated control. By evening, the forest opens into a small clearing near a stone wall. The light thins, turning metallic and cold.

Evan feels a twist of dread in his gut. Something in the air hums wrong: too much tension, too much bravado built on nothing.

He chooses a spot about sixty feet away from where the others are clustering. He doesn’t have a logical explanation. He feels the future pressing in and wants space from the chaos he senses coming.

He sets up his small tent with quick, practiced motions and fluffs out his down sleeping bag inside. Goose feathers bloom under his fingers, light and warm. The temperature drops fast as the sun slides behind the ridge.

Back in the kitchen, Dad frowns. “Why does GAWD let the students ignore his wise instruction list and use their creative free will when he can see it will lead to discomfort?”

Evan looks at his father, eyes tired but bright. “GAWD gives us a good plan,” he says. “But he doesn’t have the authority to force us. Not in this setup. Not on this trip.”

Dad leans back. “Why doesn’t the General Administrative Wise Director have the power to make them do what’s best? He knows more than they do.”

Evan thinks about GAWD watching them wrestle with choices.

In his mind, he sees GAWD standing still in the clearing, hands behind his back, eyes reading futures he never speaks.

“Evan realizes,” the story in his head says, though no narrator speaks it, “that if GAWD forces everyone to obey, then GAWD becomes responsible for every outcome.”

Out loud, Evan says, “If he forces us to do exactly what he wants, then when we’re unhappy, he’s to blame. But when we choose—and we mess up—we have a chance to own it. To grow.”

He remembers how obeying GAWD’s instructions doesn’t spare him from pain. His shoulders still ache from the weight of his pack. His feet still throb.

“But obeying GAWD’s WIL lets me be prepared,” Evan adds. “I get to take responsibility for my choices. So when I hurt, I don’t blame him. I trust his experience. I trust that carrying my own burden matters.”

Dad nods slowly. “Forcing people to be obedient slaves isn’t what a wise director should do,” he says.

Evan thinks of the other students, their loyalty to their own ideas, their faith in strangers online.

“The other students trust their false beliefs more than they trust GAWD,” Evan says quietly.

He doesn’t say that sometimes he understands why. Fake certainty is easier to swallow than slow, humbling wisdom.

Chapter 7: Students Eat Bugs in the Dark While Evan Uses a Stove and Flashlight

Because students eat bugs in the dark while Evan uses a stove and flashlight, the divide between naturalistic fantasy and prepared reality becomes glaringly obvious. Darkness drops fast.

Most of Evan’s classmates are scattered through the trees, hunched over the ground with phone flashlights dimmed or off to “protect the night sky.” They scramble for insects: beetles, worms, spiders—anything that moves.

They’re hungry.

Evan hears them bumping into each other, arguing over who claimed which patch of dirt first. The chaos echoes weirdly in the trees.

“What’s wrong with a flashlight?” Dad asks about going back home.

Evan shrugs. “The Internet warns about ‘light pollution’ ruining the night sky,” he says. “They say flashlights prevent our eyes from adjusting naturally to darkness. Some of them say they have ‘cat blood’ in them and should be able to see in the dark.”

Dad closes his eyes briefly. “How’s that working out for them?”

Evan smiles wryly. “I can’t see much,” he says. “But I can hear them. Lots of bumping into trees, tripping, yelling, and the sound of bug containers scattering.”

“Why don’t you lend them your flashlight?” Dad asks.

“In my tent,” Evan says, “I’m afraid of getting labeled ‘anti–night vision’ or ‘night-phobic.’ They say it takes up to three hours for the cat’s eyes to fully open. Any artificial light breaks the cycle, and they have to start over.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to be the guy who ruins their ‘evolutionary process.’ So I zip my tent closed, hide from the light-phobic, and use my tiny butane stove to cook dinner.”

Inside his tent, Evan’s little stove glows blue and steady. He boils water, cooks real food, and lets the warmth spread through his body.

He follows GAWD’s WIL and brings double portions for all his meals, anticipating extra hunger from the hike. He eats until his core radiates heat.

Outside, he hears retching.

“Students are vomiting,” Evan tells his dad. “They eat raw bugs because they think stoves using gas are evil and illegal. Someone says, ‘If raw natural vegetables are healthy, then eating natural insects raw must be even better.’”

Dad’s face twists. “Why eat disgusting bugs?” he asks. “They can fish. Or hunt rabbits.”

Evan nods. “They’re convinced worms, beetles, grasshoppers—they’re the future. ‘Abundant, renewable food sources.’ They believe they’re heroes for the planet, aligning with the unwise instructions of something they call the Not-Wise-Order. NWO.”

He remembers the students repeating NWO rhetoric about unity, control, and comfort dressed as sacrifice.

“They say the NWO is going to unite the world under elite General Administrative Directors,” Evan continues. “These Directors enslave people, forcing them to follow a fake, unwise instruction list.”

He looks down at his hands.

“Most of my classmates pledge allegiance to NWO’s list,” he says. “Even if it means they end up enslaved and can’t do what they want anymore.”

Dad shivers slightly. “That sounds scary and dangerous—for parents, teachers, law enforcement.”

Evan remembers lying down in his tent that night, wrapped in his sleeping bag. The feathers form a cocoon around him, clean and warm.

He imagines the geese that die so he can have this comfort, and gratitude thuds in his chest like a heartbeat.

His heart feels open; his mind, for once, is clear of the constant scrolling noise: no signal, no notifications, no feed.

Only breath.

Only wind.

Chapter 8: Students Build Leaf Shelters and Refuse to Sleep Close Together

As students build leaf shelters and refuse to sleep close together, their reliance on theoretical survival tactics leaves them entirely exposed to the elements. Earlier that evening, some of the “smarter” students gave up on eating bugs and started building shelters.

According to their internet research, they pile leaves, grass, and dirt into low mounds and crawl under them.

They pat the ground proudly.

They congratulate themselves on saving the planet by sacrificing tents made from oil‑based fabric.

They don’t spend long wondering about the tiny creatures living in those leaves.

From a distance, Evan watches them. He imagines those insects later crawling under their clothes, biting them in their sleep.

The answer appears the next morning as red welts scattered across arms, legs, and faces.

Dad asks, “Do they at least work together—build one big shelter and sleep close, the way some cultures do for warmth?”

Evan shakes his head. “No way. Each shelter is for one person only and has to be at least six feet away from any other shelter.”

Dad lifts his eyebrows. “Problems with snoring?”

“NWO warns about many new strains of contagious viruses,” Evan says. “They’re terrified of being too close.”

Dad sighs. “And you? Sleep okay?”

“I’m exhausted,” Evan says. “I sleep straight through a massive storm.”

There’s a pause.

Dad hesitates. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” he says. “How do the others do?”

Rain answers.

Chapter 9: The Storm Destroys Shelters, and Students Ask GAWD for a Bus

After the storm destroys shelters and students ask GAWD for a bus, the consequence of ignoring the packing list finally brings the group to a breaking point. Around midnight, the sky splits.

Rain slams down with a fury that feels personal. Water hammers leaves, dirt shelters, and the unprotected bodies underneath.

Waterproof rain gear sits untouched on GAWD’s original list.

Most students decide that garments separating them from rain feel discriminatory, exclusive and “anti‑nature.” They want total immersion.

They get it.

As the storm deepens, their leaf shelters fail. The piles soak through instantly. Grass mats turn into sponges. Their “roofs” drip all night.

By morning, tent‑less students are tired, cold, hungry, and soaked to the bone. Their breath steams in the air as they shiver in oversized hoodies and saturated “earth‑friendly” fabrics.

They no longer defend Rain’s right to fall whenever and wherever she wants.

Now rain is the enemy.

So are the bugs.

So is the weak sun that refuses to warm them.

They glare at the sky, the ground, and finally—inevitably—at GAWD.

“Of course it’s his fault,” one girl snaps. “He’s the General Administrative Wise Director. He knows everything ahead of time. He could have stopped this.”

In the kitchen, Dad says quietly, “They don’t act like GAWD is in charge when they ignore his list. Either you follow your leader, or you go off on your own. Whatever happens after you reject the WIL—that’s not on the Director.”

Evan nods. “I get that,” he says. “But they’re too miserable to hear it.”

When GAWD announces it’s time to pack up and hike back toward the bus, the students break.

“Mercy!” they shout. “We’re sorry. We beg for mercy.”

Pale faces, trembling lips. They huddle in wet clusters.

“We admit GAWD’s WIL is wise,” they say. “We should have listened. We’re sorry. Forgive us. Don’t punish us. Get the bus and drive back to pick us up. Or rent a helicopter. This is your fault. You knew. Fix it.”

GAWD stands firm. The energy around him is clear, flame‑bright but controlled.

“I forgive you,” he says. “I don’t hold your foolish fantasies against you. I don’t intend to punish you. You made rebellious choices. Now you’re unhappy with the consequences.”

He gestures toward the ruined shelters.

“My instructions tell you to bring a compact tent and a warm sleeping bag,” he says. “You ignore them. You reject my WIL and choose the NWO’s unwise list instead.”

Students cheer, twisting his words into what they want.

“Yeah!” they shout. “GAWD forgives us and won’t punish us. He’s going to go get the bus and save us.”

GAWD, let's let them celebrate for a moment.

Then he says, “I’ll be happy to drive the bus here—as soon as you finish building a road for me to drive on.”

The cheer dies.

They look at the steep, rocky trail.

Reality drops on them like a wet stone.

Chapter 10: Evan and GAWD Cook Food While Rev and Students Destroy the Fires

Because Evan and GAWD cook food while Rev and students destroy the fires, the contrast between self-sufficiency and destructive rage takes center stage at the campsite. Before dawn, Evan wakes up warm.

While others groan and peel soaked clothes from clammy skin, he pulls on dry socks, zips his jacket, and heads for the stream.

He kneels by the icy water, using his tiny fishing kit—another item from GAWD’s list—the line trembles in his fingers.

He catches fish.

Meanwhile, GAWD checks simple traps and returns with a couple of rabbits.

They meet near an indented stone wall that reflects heat. Together, they build several small bonfires, feeding them with dry wood Evan finds under overhangs and low branches.

The flames grow and dance, sending up sparks like tiny stars. Heat rolls out, wrapping them both in a warm, living aura.

Evan feels energy surge through him—hunger, relief, a deep sense of earned safety.

They cook.

The smell of fish and rabbit thickens the air.

Rev wakes up first.

“I smell smoke,” he snarls. “Who dares pollute our fragile atmosphere with carbon emissions?”

Hunger and rage twist his voice.

“You’re contributing to global warming,” he says. “You’ll be responsible for a dying planet.”

Other students stagger into the clearing.

“I see burning dead fish and rabbits,” one gasps. “Who dares kill defenseless animals? Humans are animals too. We’re all equal in the eyes of nature.”

Evan tries to explain. “We’re careful,” he says. “We just—”

They don’t want explanations. Their anger boils over. They shout about cruelty, ignorance and lack of ‘woke’ understanding.

The energy around them explodes—red, jagged, unstable.

In a sudden rush, they grab water and hurl it onto the flames. Someone stomps on the cooked fish. Others smash the rabbits into the mud.

The food is ruined.

Back in the kitchen, Dad sighs. “It’s a shame you don’t get to eat breakfast after all that work.”

Evan gives a thin smile. “Not so,” he says. “GAWD and I eat first. We finish before anyone else gets there.”

By the time the mob arrives, only leftovers remain for them to destroy.

“GAWD, we’re hungry,” the students whine. “What’s for breakfast? Our clothes are wet. We need a dryer. We’re cold. We need an electric furnace to heat the whole campsite.”

They circle him with demands.

“GAWD is our loving sponsor,” they insist. “He has to meet our needs and desires.”

GAWD takes a breath. His patience holds, but Evan senses the strain around the edges like heat shimmer.

“Although I’m tempted to get angry and punish you,” GAWD says carefully, “I’ll calmly remind you: this is your fault, not mine.”

He points at their torn shelters, scattered bugs, and mud‑smeared food.

“I provide you with wise instructions,” he says. “You ignore them. I provide you with warming fires and cooked food.” He glances at the ashes. “You choose to destroy them.”

He looks from one shivering face to another.

“When will you wake up,” he asks softly, “and take accountability for your foolish fantasies and false beliefs?”

He gestures to the fading coals.

“When used wisely,” he says, “a campfire provides light and warmth. It doesn’t destroy the planet. It’s not the fire that threatens your world. It’s your attachment to endless indulgence.”

The words land on Evan, too. He thinks about his own temptations—to escape discomfort, to hand his pack to someone else, to disappear into distraction instead of growth.

Chapter 11: GAWD Explains to Evan the Importance of Carrying Your Own Load

As GAWD explains to Evan the importance of carrying your own load, the deeper philosophical truth behind the backpacking struggles comes into sharp focus. Later, on the hike back, Evan falls into step beside GAWD.

Step. Breath. Step.

For a while, no one says anything. Shame and exhaustion cling to the group like fog.

“Backpacking is about choosing the right burden,” GAWD says eventually. “You take what you truly need—not everything you want for your body, your ego, your emotions.”

Evan nods.

“Most of the students reject the chance to walk a path of mastery,” GAWD continues. “They rebel against carrying their own burdens.”

“Why don’t you just carry everything for them?” Evan asks, even though he already knows the shape of the answer.

GAWD smiles faintly. “There’s a back road,” he says. “I could have driven the backpacks, computers, and music boxes to the campsite beforehand. Could have driven all of you as well.”

He glances at the struggling line of teenagers.

“You could stay home,” he says, “and watch a virtual‑reality simulation of a backpacking trip. I could give you a certificate of fantasized participation.”

Evan snorts softly, then shakes his head.

He understands now.

The power isn’t in arriving.

It’s in moving. Straining. Sweating and choosing, step by step, not to quit.

Chapter 12: Abby Leaves Her Tent Open for Mice, and Trans-Species Cats Eat Them

When Abby leaves her tent open for mice, and trans-species cats eat them, Evan witnesses the painful reality of applying utopian ideals to untamed nature. On the last night out, Evan meets Abby.

She’s one of the few who brings a tent—a small mint‑green dome that looks almost cheerful against the dark trees.

Abby believes deeply in the NWO “open‑door” policy.

“I leave my tent door open,” she explains proudly. “In case some homeless mice need a place to stay. Everybody deserves shelter.”

She hangs a handwritten sign by the flap.

The sign lists rules: no eating her trail snacks, no pooping inside except in the designated “mouse latrine” corner, no chewing holes in the tent.

“I don’t think mice can read English,” Evan says carefully.

Abby frowns. “I also draw pictures,” she says. “And I talk to them. I tell them they can wander around my tent as long as they follow the rules.”

Evan stares, trying to tell if she’s joking.

“Do they listen?” he asks.

“At first, there are just a few,” Abby says. “But by the middle of the night, there are six. They eat my candy bar, crawl into my sleeping bag, and poop everywhere.”

Her voice cracks between outrage and disbelief.

“They ignore all my rules,” she says.

Evan shrugs gently. “That’s the natural way for mice,” he says. “Do you…kill them?”

Abby gasps. “No! I gather them and make a nice warm mouse home. I give them more food.” She sighs, clinging to her hope. “I make new signs, explain the rules again: no eating my snacks, only poop in the latrine.”

“That’s very kind,” Evan says. “I’m sure they’re super grateful and totally follow your rules this time.”

“I expect that,” Abby says. “But instead, some run off and tell their friends. Pretty soon, there’s a caravan of mice heading toward my tent. All are expecting free food and shelter.”

“What do you do?” Evan asks.

Abby looks miserable. “I wake up the students who identify as trans‑species cats,” she says. “They come out…and have a midnight snack.”

Evan swallows, disturbed.

“Then you finally close the border into your tent?” he asks softly.

“I can’t,” Abby says. “They chew through the walls. I hardly sleep, and everything smells like mouse poop.”

Evan looks at her and feels something shift inside.

He recognizes her hunger to be good, to be kind, to save everything. He recognizes how easily that hunger can be twisted and used.

Chapter 13: Evan and His Dad Discuss Invisible Human Laws and Natural Laws

While Evan and his dad discuss invisible human laws and natural laws, they examine how societal consequences differ from the unwavering rules of the wilderness. On the walk back and then around the kitchen table, Evan’s thoughts drift beyond the forest.

“Evolvers,” he says slowly, “are people trying to learn wisdom, virtues, even mystic powers—to become creative, free‑willed co‑creators, now and later.”

Saying it out loud feels strange, but something about the trip cracks him open.

“That focus—on self‑mastery—changes what matters,” he adds.

He thinks of lawbreakers online, in the news, in school hallways.

“Why does it look like so many brazen lawbreakers go unpunished?” he asks.

Dad leans back. “Why do you assume law enforcement is responsible for enforcing every law?”

“Isn’t that their job?” Evan asks. “If breaking the law has no consequences, why would anyone obey?”

“Laws change all the time,” Dad says. “Once it was illegal to smoke marijuana; now it’s legal in many states. Someone can walk across an invisible state line while smoking and suddenly become a criminal in the next state.”

Evan thinks about that—about invisible lines that still change everything.

He senses there are deeper laws underneath the human ones—the kind the mountains always obey.

Chapter 14: Jee Leads Four Students on a New Hike and Offers a Prophecy Map

After Jee leads four students on a new hike and offers a prophecy map, the dynamics of wilderness survival shift to a focus on foresight and spiritual discipline; some time after the original trip, news spreads at school.

The General Administrative Wise Director—GAWD—has a son.

His name is Jee.

GAWD trains Jee to always follow the Wise Instruction List. Jee doesn’t just memorize it; he lives it until it lives in him.

Four students sign up for a shorter backpacking trip with him.

At the trailhead, Jee gathers them.

“I’m the son of GAWD,” Jee says simply. “My father entrusts me to lead you to the promised camp‑land.”

A couple of them smirk at the phrase. Others lean in.

“We’re taking a five‑mile hike through the woods to reach our campsite,” Jee continues. “I suggest you follow GAWD’s WIL. But you’re free to do what you want.”

He hands out copies of the list and something else: a “prophecy map” of the trail system.

Later, Evan explains to Dad that school rules keep Jee from forcing anyone to read or obey. All he can do is offer.

But what he offers is different.

He teaches them gifts and skills: wisdom, knowledge, faith, healing, mapping and discernment.

He treats each like a tool they can sharpen—not magic, not mood, but disciplined power.

Chapter 15: Abby Leaves Her Backpack, and Evan Tells Her She Must Carry Her Own Load

When Abby leaves her backpack, and Evan tells her she must carry her own load, the stark contrast between blind reliance and individual responsibility surfaces again. On the morning of the hike, Abby shows up again.

Her backpack sits abandoned near the parking lot.

“Hey,” Evan calls. “You left your pack by the cars.”

Abby waves him off.

“I believe Jee will always carry my load for me,” she says. “I’m not worthy or capable of following in his footsteps. He’s the only one fully trained, all‑seeing, all‑knowing. I can’t do what he does. But I trust my feelings. I believe I’ll arrive at the same place as him anyway.”

Her eyes shine with stubborn hope.

“I surrender to my human desires,” she adds. “I’m made to be weak. It’s who I am.”

Evan swallows. “You know you’ll eventually have to go back and get your backpack, right?” he says. “You’ll still have to carry it to the promised place. No one can carry your life for you.”

Abby shrugs. “I don’t need to think,” she says. “I just believe I’ll be a happy camper eventually. I imagine everything I need will be provided by GAWD’s only son.”

“Did he say he’ll do that?” Evan asks.

Abby stiffens. “How should I know? I don’t care. Someone told me belief is the magic key. My belief makes it true. Jee has to carry my load and provide for me. The majority voted for him to be our Savior. He lost the vote—but I believe anyway.”

They start hiking.

After a short distance, Jee calls a break.

“Let’s rest here,” he says. “Abby needs to return and get her backpack. We’ll enjoy the view while she learns to carry her burden. Abby, move quickly. If you don’t, we leave without you.”

“That’s not fair,” Abby protests. “I believe my Savior should carry my load for me.”

Evan looks at her gently. “That’s a false belief,” he says. “Jee can inspire and guide us. But we have to carry our own load and follow in his footsteps.”

Electric truth buzzes through his chest.

No one can live his life for him.

Chapter 16: Jee Explains the Prophecy Map While Abby Wanders Off and Falls in a Stream

While Jee explains the prophecy map and Abby wanders off and falls in a stream, the importance of paying attention to the terrain proves vital. Under a tall pine, Jee spreads a large map over a flat rock.

He traces the lines with his finger: solid trails, faint paths, cliffs, streams, danger zones.

“Does everyone have a prophecy trail map?” he asks.

They hold up their copies.

“Map reading is ‘pre‑seeing’ your trail options,” Jee says. “A map gives you a preview of your possible futures. It doesn’t force you—but it shows you. That preview is the key to your safety, success, and sanity.”

Abby squints at hers.

“Why ruin the surprise?” she asks. “I don’t want spoilers. I believe everything will turn out wonderful anyway.”

Her sandals flash in the sunlight.

“Those are cute,” Evan says. “But after looking at the trail map, I can basically predict your future.”

She laughs. “Okay, Prophet Evan. What do you see?”

“I see bruised, sore feet,” he says. “Scratches all over your legs. Bug bites. Sunburn.”

“Wow,” Abby says. “Evan the Prophet can see my future from a map. But I don’t believe you.”

Diesel leans over the map with a frown. “I don’t see the point,” he mutters. “There are no right or wrong paths. Trails are just lines. They all go somewhere. The future is random. I’ll pick whatever looks most fun.”

Rev folds his arms. “What good is knowing the future?” he says. “It’s already planned out by what we’ve done in the past. Over time, we’ll walk every path and experience everything anyway. Humans have to learn from mistakes and pain. Taking shortcuts, avoiding dangerous routes—that’s cheating.”

Jee’s eyes stay calm.

“Prophecy maps help you make correct decisions at forks,” he says. “Wisdom is the ability to interpret a truthful map of treacherous trails. Without wisdom, a map is just paper.”

Diesel shrugs. “Who cares? Happiness is all that matters. My animal brain can always find a path. And if I don’t like one, I’ll make my own.”

Abby sighs dreamily. “I don’t need wisdom,” she says. “I imagine Jee has enough for all of us. I can’t imagine being alone in the woods. I’d be hopelessly lost. But I trust Jee will never abandon me.”

Then a patch of wildflowers catches her eye.

“Oh—look! Pretty flowers.”

She steps off the trail.

“You guys go ahead,” she calls. “I’ll just get closer for a second.”

She wanders farther from the path than she means to. She follows a narrow stream, thinking water always leads somewhere safe.

The bank crumbles.

She slips and falls in.

By the time the others find her, she’s covered in mud, scratched, and eaten alive by mosquitoes.

Her future looks exactly like the map predicts.

Chapter 17: Jee Warns About Cliff Edges, and Abby Gets Lost in the Dark Without a Flashlight

As Jee warns about cliff edges and Abby gets lost in the dark without a flashlight, the group realizes that relying on rescue rather than preparation is a dangerous game. Later that day, Jee stops them near a cliff.

The ground drops into a deep ravine, sharp and silent.

“Stay away from ledges,” he says. “Don’t walk along the edges of cliffs. Know where true ground ends. Maps show you where the dangerous ledges are. Knowledge keeps you from stepping into the air.”

He looks at each of them.

“Wisdom depends on knowing where the ledges are,” he says. “The key is trusting a truthful map instead of believing lies.”

Diesel shakes his head. “Ledges are for walking on,” he insists. “Sure, sometimes we fall in. But we can always crawl out when our desire gets strong enough.”

Abby smiles weakly. “I believe Jee will always be there to save me,” she says. “I’ll say, ‘I’m sorry!’ and he has to pull me out of the depths. I’m so grateful he saved me after I left the path to look for flowers.”

Evan looks at her. “Don’t assume,” he says quietly. “Jee can show us the way. But we have to actually live it. Happy campers happen because of truthful thoughts, feelings, and actions—not because we appoint someone else to be our rescuer.”

He gestures back along the path. “We spent an hour searching for you,” he says. “Now we all have to walk faster and work harder to reach camp before dark. I hope you at least bring a flashlight this time.”

“I depend on the eternal light of my Savior,” Abby says softly.

That night, needing to pee, she leaves camp without a flashlight.

On her way back, she trips and falls repeatedly. Roots grab her ankles. Rocks snag her toes. The darkness presses in, thick and absolute.

She can see the campfire glowing faintly ahead, guiding her back.

But she can’t see the ground beneath her feet.

“The fire guides me,” she realizes, “but it doesn’t light my exact steps.”

By the time she returns to camp, she’s scraped, shaking, and quiet.

Chapter 18: Jee Explains Natural Laws to Diesel and Abby While Evan Realizes He is on the Right Path

When Jee explains natural laws to Diesel and Abby while Evan realizes he is on the right path, the ultimate lesson of the wilderness solidifies for the young backpacker. The next morning, Jee gathers them again.

“You must develop faith in the prophecy map and GAWD’s WIL,” he says. “Faith is the confidence to move into unexplored territory. But it doesn’t replace wisdom or knowledge. It builds on them.”

He looks at Diesel and Abby.

“Faith isn’t fantasy,” Jee says. “It’s not blind make‑believe. It’s what lets you act when you don’t have an ironclad guarantee—but only after you’ve listened to wisdom and knowledge first.”

He taps his chest.

“Faith is fiery energy,” he says. “It overrides paralyzing fear, not natural law.”

Diesel shrugs. “I can do whatever I want. My desires are enough motivation.”

Jee’s gaze is steady. “Foolish craziness can masquerade as faith,” he says. “Strong desire doesn’t cancel gravity, cliffs, hypothermia, or hunger. Natural laws don’t bend for fantasies.”

Abby clings to her belief. “I depend on my blind beliefs,” she says. “I believe there will be no negative consequences for my wrong actions.”

Diesel lifts his chin. “I’m my own person. I don’t need to copy Jee. I have instincts. I can figure life out myself.”

Abby stares into the trees.

“There’s too much to do,” she says. “I’ll never have time in this one life to become a master camper. Jee’s already done hundreds of hikes. He’s an expert. That’s why we elected him our caretaker. He’s special, unique.”

Her eyes soften.

“I believe in his superpowers,” she says. “He’ll bail us out when we mess up or ignore GAWD’s WIL. That’s his only job. I believe he’ll mercifully keep rescuing us.”

Jee shakes his head gently.

“Every soul has a chance to develop their own superpowers,” he says. “You keep the powers you earn—what you actually practice and live. Your soul won’t be magically gifted with strengths you never develop.”

He looks up at the trees.

“In dreams,” he says, “laws are turned off. Anything can happen. Fantasy can do whatever it wants. But I depend on the constancy of natural laws to act consistently in the waking world.”

He studies them each in turn.

“Your fantasy beliefs,” he says, “won’t redraw the real map of these woods.”

Evan feels the truth in those words move through him like a current—steady, bright, undeniable.

He looks down at his boots, his pack, his hands.

He realizes the mystery isn’t about knowing everything.

It’s about walking anyway.

About listening when a wise voice hands you a map.

About choosing, again and again, to carry your own load and step where the ground is real.

He doesn’t have all the answers.

But for the first time, he feels like he’s actually on the path.

Chapter Synopsis: Evan reflects on wilderness survival lessons following a chaotic backpacking trip led by the General Administrative Wise Director (GAWD) and his son, Jee. Throughout the journey, classmates like Rev, Diesel, and Abby reject practical preparation, safety equipment, and map-reading in favor of internet trends, "trans-species" animal identities, raw bugs, and blind faith that a savior will automatically rescue them. Through the consequences of severe weather, bug bites, and wilderness injuries, Evan learns that natural laws cannot be overridden by fantasies, and that spiritual growth requires individuals to carry their own loads, master real wisdom, and follow reliable instruction lists rather than outsourcing accountability.

Core Themes & Laws:

• Natural laws—such as altitude oxygen limits, terrain hazards, and gravity—do not bend for wishful thinking, false identities, or blind beliefs.

• True growth and mastery require carrying one's own burdens, preparing with wise instructions, and using prophecy maps (foresight), rather than expecting a leader to act as an unearned rescuer.

• Rejection of discipline and reliance on magical thinking lead directly to physical, emotional, and spiritual hazards in both the wilderness and everyday life.

Key Entities Featured in this Document:

• Evan: A young backpacker who learns to value preparation, personal responsibility, and the wisdom of following the instruction list.

• General Administrative Wise Director (GAWD): The adult wilderness leader who provides the Wise Instruction List (WIL) without forcing compliance.

• Jee: GAWD's son who guides a smaller group with prophecy maps, training, and the principles of true spiritual discipline.

• Rev: A classmate who attempts "earthing" by going barefoot, rejects gear, and blames GAWD for his bleeding feet.

• Diesel: A rebellious student who drags a heavy desktop computer into the backcountry and insists on walking along dangerous cliff edges.

• Abby: A well-meaning student who leaves her tent open for mice, refuses to carry her pack, and wanders off the trail to pick flowers.