Rather than feeling on the outskirts, the edge of habitation, Coldfoot has the sense of being at the center. Of course, yes, it is a hub, the only coffee around for 250 miles in any direction, but it's also in almost a bowl, surrounded by mountains, the sun revolving around it in a low arc. And in the camp is a den of repurposed construction trailers, and in that den is my room, and in my room is a pile of clothes semi-successfully insulating a human.
It's actually pretty nice out (10-20F), often sunny and rarely even a breath of wind. That stillness adds to the centrality of interiority: my snow-crunching steps generate the only sound, and that sound radiates out. I mean, there's the occasional bird flitting past, a stream burbling nearby, the weary farting of a truck engine braking along the highway -- but you don't have to go far into the woods for triangulation points to melt away and a little sphere of "you are here" to reorient where the median is.
This all sounds pretty ego-centric; rather, I mean it in the way of my old pal Emerson and his transparent-eyeball theory (you'll have to google it, hyperlinks are beyond my ability on the phone). I'm certainly not the center of the universe, nor is Coldfoot. But here is accessible a sense of the center, the interior of the interior.
And evidently this generates in me a strong desire for tuna melts. With an entire diner menu at my disposal (they're feeding me while I quarantine for a week), that is the sustenance my soul yearns for.
