near our campsite
the high road to Seward
fireweed showing off
It feels kind of cliche, but I guess I’m going to write about some of my feelings in conjunction with Lost Lake. Because sometimes the universe is trying to tell you something, and the universe is not always subtle.
As I grope along this odd path I think I’m on, through the physical and psychological wilderness, from time to time I’ll spot a nice sunny meadow in the distance. My step quickens, my eyes lock onto that destination, and my muscles and willpower set to.
What is it like to reach Lost Lake? It’s an idyllic respite hidden in the mountains—you’ve happened upon a spot “lost” from the modern world, from spoilation, from lazy and prying and jaded eyes. One could disappear up into the snowy peaks surrounding it, or beneath its cool blue waters. You could cast your memories and hopes, like so many skipping stones, turning them over in your hand before releasing them, irretrievably, into its depths. Lost Lake conjures the idea of the long swim that makes up each life, crawling and pulling, breath after breath, mile after mile, day after day, ever tiring yet hesitant to reach that other shore.
Ahem. So I hiked to Lost Lake with some lovely friends who made sure I didn’t get lost. We camped on a sunny meadow, overlooking the lake. We suffered scores of pestering flies and mosquitoes to make maybe the best ever macaroni and cheese, and then piled into one tent to joke and fart and laugh, and then nod off to the soothing narration of yours truly reading from a book of Alaskan natural history
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