(Formerly Interstate 5; I-5)
The Main Vein is the backbone of the Willamette Valley—the last working artery of the world before the Fall. It runs straight through Oregon’s green basin, north to south, shadowing the Willamette River and linking what remains of the valley’s settlements. Once called Interstate 5, a paved promise of speed and connection, it now moves at the pace of hoofbeats and wagon wheels, yet it remains the surest path between what was and what still endures.
The Main Vein begins in the southern hills near the remnants of Cottage Grove, following the valley floor northward. It cuts past Sappho, built atop the ruins of old Springfield—an inland jewel of women and trade, raised where the McKenzie River meets the Willamette. From there the road skirts the edges of Eugene, where workshops and markets spill toward it like vines reclaiming broken asphalt.
North of Sappho, the Vein threads between abandoned farmsteads and half-collapsed bridges, through the open plains that were once Junction City and Harrisburg. It touches the rebuilt shells of Albany and Corvallis, then crosses the wide waters of the Willamette near Salem Crossing, where the bridges gleam with scavenged metal and glass. Beyond Salem, the surface grows rougher and more fragmented, fading into scattered northern outposts swallowed by forest.
In its entirety, the Vein stretches roughly one-hundred-and-fifty miles of cracked pavement and reclaimed earth. It never reaches the coast—that honor belongs to the Crosscurrent—but it remains the valley’s spine. Without it, no settlement could survive in isolation.
Every wagon, caravan, and pilgrim in the Willamette knows the Vein. It serves as both compass and lifeline. Scavengers and Sellers are its constant travelers—hauling salvage north, returning south with grain, wine, cloth, or tools. Their caravans, drawn by enchanted elk bred in Sappho, are a common sight: long chains of vardos and Conestoga wagons painted in bright colors, bells tied to harnesses to ward off raiders and spirits alike.
The road also bears envoys from other communes, healers moving between towns, and those who prefer exile to belonging. Farmers or wanderers follow it for part of their route before veering off to local tracks. Though the Vein remains the safest major corridor in the valley, it demands patience and caution. Sections crumble into the earth; others lie submerged each winter when the Willamette floods its banks. Fallen trees, broken overpasses, and remnants of old vehicles force constant detours. Yet despite its wounds, the road still flows—an unbroken line of connection from the southern ridges to the northern wilds.
No single group owns or governs the Main Vein. It survives through a patchwork of cooperation among the settlements that depend on it. Each community along its length maintains the portion nearest its borders, organizing work parties during dry months to clear brush, patch holes, and repair culverts. Tools and materials are scavenged from nearby ruins: cracked asphalt, rebar, tar—whatever can be repurposed.
Sappho tends the southern stretches nearest its gates, sending teams of Sweatworkers and Sustainers to keep the road clear for returning caravans. North of there, Albany and Corvallis each claim a few miles of upkeep, while Salem handles the critical bridge crossings. The result is imperfect but functioning—a communal artery stitched together by necessity, not decree.
When disputes arise over tolls or territory, they are settled openly along the roadside, usually under the eyes of passing caravans. Violence here is rare; no one risks the flow of trade that sustains them all.
Nearly every major community sits within a day’s journey of the Main Vein. Sappho, on the bones of old Springfield, forms its living heart—a crossroads where river, road, and leadership meet. Eugene remains a hub of craft and repair, its markets crowded with goods salvaged from the pre-Fall world. Corvallis and Albany, twin centers to the north, thrive as barter grounds for scavengers and traders.
At the far northern edge lies Salem Crossing, the largest surviving city and unofficial capital of the valley. Its river bridges, rebuilt with timber and salvaged steel, stand among the valley’s greatest engineering feats. Between these hubs lie countless smaller stops—market camps, rest stations, forgotten towns reclaimed by ivy. Each bend of the Vein holds echoes of other lives: gas stations turned to stables, overpasses converted to lookout towers, fragments of the old world serving the new.
The Vein is safer than the wilderness, but not gentle. Flooded sections force detours through dense woods or abandoned suburbs. Packs of wild dogs and worse things haunt its shoulders. Caravans travel in numbers and rarely move after dark.
Weather is the traveler’s truest adversary. In rainy months, mudslides swallow entire sections; in summer, heat cracks the road open again. Still, superstition keeps people faithful to it. Chalk triskelions mark mileposts for luck; roadside shrines built from scrap metal gleam in torchlight. Travelers say the Vein listens—that the hum of hooves and wheels stirs memories of engines long gone.
To the valley’s people, the Main Vein is more than a route—it’s a symbol. “Keeping the Vein” means maintaining connection between settlements, between people, between what was lost and what remains.
Songs about the Vein drift through taverns from Sappho to Salem. They praise the endless motion of caravans, the promise of return, and the road’s power to carry hope as easily as trade. For scavengers it’s survival; for the women of Sappho, it’s a reminder that every path outward eventually leads home.
Wildflowers bloom along its ditches, their seeds carried by passing wagons, painting the route in bands of color. At night, caravan fires flicker like constellations stretching across the land—a living reminder that the valley still pulses.
Today the Main Vein remains the axis of movement through the Willamette. Goods, messages, and travelers all rely on it. When a section collapses, neighboring towns join forces to reopen it quickly; if the Vein closes, trade dies.
For Sappho, its importance is existential. The commune’s caravans ride it to reach every corner of the valley. The Vein feeds Sappho’s markets, sustains its influence, and binds north and south through rhythm and reciprocity.
It endures not because it was built to last, but because the people who inherited it refused to let it vanish. The Main Vein is the valley’s lifeblood—a scar of the past turned sacred by use, carrying everything that still moves in a world learning to walk again.