East Denali Highway

June 21st

Fathers' Day. I find myself longing for one, missing my dad, who died in 1985. This aging thing is a wavering subjective rolller-coaster of perceiving myself as sometimes younger than I am, feeling and thinking the same as in my twenties, thirties, and then the next ache, photo, mirror's gaze shows someone who looks much like Marion Kim, senior, and whose bod is processing through what I dub "the used car syndrome." Periodically now for years, I think how wonderful it would be to have a mother to care for me, to whom I can just rattle on, knowing I can, because there is that core acceptance (even though Mom worried much, too, a mother's perogative). Being an orphan is not restricted to the young.

Today, I acknowledged some of my father friends, and celebrated Mark throughout the day with pleasantries, restaurant breakfast of his fave eggs benedict in Glennellen (the young waitress was swamped, due to her hostess and co-waitress calling in sick, but we were acknowledging and supportive, in no hurry), made him lunch in "M," salmon din-din (which he can only BBQ the most tender and moist steak), a Da Ku Cultural Center red t-shirt and card. All his kids and grand-babes called him before we got out of cell range, which was sweet. I wished Doug a good day, and was glad he and Chuck were going kayaking in BC, this morning. Hopefully, Max and Lucy will call later.

 

Leaving camp, we made it to the Denali Hwy. early afternoon. This narrow, paved (for 21 miles, then gravel for over 100) road feels and looks different already, with no black spruce forests (only very sparse groves occasionally), and vast, low tundra brush carpeting on rolling hills, ringed by the Alaskan, Wrangell and Chugash mountain ranges. It is very hazey in the north, with smoke from fires, from the Wrangell area and south of Denali, potentially. We check-in with folks, consistently, to assess where fires are, and are safe. Mark also said there would road postings about closures, as well.

 

 

There was a female moose standing knee-deep in one of the kettle lakes (glaciers underground melted, forming these waters throughout this roadway), foraging for vegetation, submerging her head and neck, and with her ears flattened like a wet dog when she arises and then shakes her ears straight up. We watched her for several minutes, and she didn't flinch, until two other rigs came up, and Mark got out to photograph her. She then trotted out and across the highway into the tundra, where she disappeared (I was surprised how tall the brush is) immediately.

We visited with the Tangle Lake camp host, Denny, with nipple-length white beard, ruddy complexion, and pleasant disposition. He's been doing this for 4 years, and Mark remembered him from his last two stays. The government built him a small shed, where he sits on a camp chair, if raining, and stores his belongings; otherwise, his small black, angular trailer houses a small bed and probably some form of cooking equipment. He winters in Michigan, caring for his mother, giving respite rotation to his several local siblings. It's free rent, he said, after sharing frustration that he is expected to stay with the parent more months than them, and he's the oldest, he rationalizes. There are 45 sites in this campground, and Denny may consider moving to one with fewer sites, eventually. He is pleasant, engaging, and seemed to enjoy talking with Mark about RVs, engines, techy stuff.

The south side of this pleasant campground is fairly clear, so "M" faces out over the Tangle river and hills in the background. We'll christen Mark's early b'day gift to me, of a spinning rod, either in the river or one of the Tangle Lakes, via kayak or shore. His shoulder will not stand for paddling, so he may go a bit out, and I may also tow him coming back out from exploring further. We'll see. So many other delights to choose from, if this doesn't work---no worries (this was the consistent reassurance phrase echoed by most young Canadians).