Byron? Bryan? I don't remember your name, lake, but you're pretty.
A freighter beyond some old pilings at Whitefish Point.
The Antarctica => Alaska seasonal migration has embedded itself in my inner ear, or magnetic compass, or biological clock—whatever it is that innately compels our peregrinations, be they routine or otherwise.
Alaska was deeply into autumn as Sam and I wrapped up our travels. Up by Denali even the lower mountains were dusted with snow, and I opted to sleep in the rental car rather than wake up in a frosted tent. (Actually, it rained pretty hard, and poor Sam was rather damp.) An evening at the charmingly down-at-heel Chena Hot Springs was pretty nice, though.
And now a couple weeks in Michigan somehow melt by. I met my brand-spankin'-new-three-day-old niece! My friend Jen brought me along for a north woods cabin weekend, in a spot incredibly rich in placenames and literary references ("by the shores of gitche gumee" and "rushing Tahquamenaw," on the "Big Two-Hearted River," near Paradise). We spent a few days exploring Lake Superior beaches, cooking everything with bacon, and gossiping/psychoanalyzing by the wood stove fire.
Back in TC, I've crossed off almost all the items on my to-do list (exchange lifetime guaranteed socks; try better earplugs; get fancy hiking backpack with hip-belt heat-molded to my waist; procure several pounds of dried cherries to buoy my spirits when the food gets rough at McMurdo). Long-put-off projects like cleaning up old emails and figuring out how exactly to move music from my aging laptop to my ancient iPod have filled several afternoons. (This is what I get for hating technology. If we'd all just stuck with Walkmans I'd be fine.)
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