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1600 Taylor St., San Francisco, June 8, 1885. My dear Mr. Muir, I want some help from you. I have been terribly ill for
four months, severe malarial poisoning contracted in Los Angeles. The doctors say that in six weeks I may be strong enough
to be laid on a bed in a wagon and drawn about. I know, with the certainty of instinct, that nothing except three months out
of doors night and day will get this poison out of my veins. I want to get where it is cool, and moist, and among trees. I
cannot endure heat. I cannot bear a high altitude -- nothing over 4000 feet. The best I can hear of is to be taken by train
to the Sierra foothills, say the Dutchman's Flat region, and work up towards Truckee. Can you suggest anything better? or
more? I want to keep moving. I cannot go away from Wells Fargo posts. I must have even more than comfortable fare. I have
the fortune to know an old guide and camper who will conduct my train and has made estimates for me. I must have eight horses,
four vehicles -- an ambulance for me in bed, two camp wagons for tents, and a comfortable phaeton buggy -- four servants,
myself, maid, and doctor. Now do you know any good itinerary for such a cumbrous caravan as this? How you would scorn such
lumbering methods I am too ill to wish any other. I shall do this as a gamester throws his last card I have always hoped
I should see you. I believe I know every word you have written. I never wished myself a man but once -- that was when I read
how it seemed, to be rocked in the top of a pine tree in a gale. Yours truly, Helen Jackson.