Viking Cabin

July 25th

 

Waking to blue skies, the trumpeter swan family of five in one of the Twin Lakes, and both of us
having had fairly solid sleeps. I think the bike ride yesterday assisted me to slumber deeply. I
dreamt about my deceased mom's ECF staff taking liberties in changing her and other
residents' names, and asking family members what cutesy ones we wanted to dub our beloveds
with, e.g. Wonder Woman, Sweet Girl. In the dream, I was furious that they presumed they
could remove Mom's formal identity and pride of being Marion Choy Kim, and voiced my
contempt. Then, after self-calming and planning to ask one of her favorite Filipino nurse's aides
if she has a nickname for my mother. If Mom smiled with this potential endearment, giving her
pleasure in her dementia and post-stroke state, of course I'd be on-board with the change.  Once this was accepted, I woke up. Interesting one, with theme of flexibility and letting go.
Saturday is egg-day for me, and gracious Mark made pancakes and scrambled egg-beaters.

 

Yum! We packed-up camp, and drove six miles out of the park, to take a very short hike to the
Viking, a public cabin closed now due to witnessed bear activity this month. It was unlocked, so
we got to mosey inside. It is well-equipped with bunk beds, and a roomy sleeping loft, wood
stove and fuel, oil lamps, table and chairs. In the seventies, it was a homesteader's cabin, and
now available for sharing via the NPS.

On our way to The Top of the World Highway, stopping in Tok for gas, dump and water. Lunch
was at Fast Eddie's, with a super salad bar for me and beer-battered fish sandwich for the guy.
The tiny, yet well-used library in the visitors' center, provided wifi access again, as it did a month
ago, so emails and facebook were visited for a spell.

This highway certainly does feel as though one is on top of the world, at times, with wilderness
as far as can see, much like Denali. There was a vast fire in 2004, destroying thousands of
acres, so the drive is lined with even more spindly, charred black spruce, with green growth and
shrubs surrounding the ground in-between these Dr. Seuss-like trees. Fireweed has become
my favorite flower on these highway jaunts, and they are the first to blossom after fired grounds.
Beautiful, vibrant fields, side-lines of fuchsia.

The sky and clouds are also vast, big in this country. Rolling green hills in the distance that
silhouette one another forever, are our mountains today. No glaciers since leaving Wrangell-St.
Elias this morning. A different vista of beauty with nature's destruction and bloom. Our camp at
4 tonight is on a hill turn-out, with a panoramic vista of boreal fired forests and tundra foliage. It
has sprinkled, thundered and now a balmy breeze, sun and blue bless us. We will walk down
the nearby dirt road this evening.

 

About 5, a native man with a large space between his lower row of teeth, drove up to our hill, in
his green Subaru, with bicycle sprawled in the back, and asked me through the window where
Canada is, is there a ferry, how much is it? I was the messenger, with Mark supplying answers
and we pointed in the direction of the town of Chicken (a gold-rush town in the late 1800s, that
was supposed to be called Ptarmigan, after the Alaskan state bird, but no one could spell it, so
the bird's equivalent is our clucking mate), for more specific directions and information. He
seemed naive, disorganized, desperate about travel around these desolate parts, even though
his plates showed Alaskan residency, and we trust he will get to his source safe and soundly.

Dinner was on me, and it was fun making an omelet with spinach, swiss cheese, apple-chicken
sausage sauteed in onions, garlic, and a splash of barbecue sauce. Mark points out how I
moan and groan when I eat certain delectable meals. I also make sounds when I spit water and
toothpaste, unknown to me, since I assumed we all do.

Uno was our game of choice, which was trey fun, with lots of playful competition and raucous
laughter over our spastic dealing styles, with cards flying all over the place. We will continue on
with the tourney to 500 points for the next few days.

Tomorrow, Chicken for us, as well. It is where the book Tisha, took place, so I am eager to just
be present there, even though Mark preps me to lower expectations, since there is really no
town anymore. Tisha was there in 1927, post-gold rush, but, evidently, the schoolhouse where
she taught, is still standing, and a tour can be had through a private resident.

The wind is rocking "M" gently, which is soothing.