The distance from Coldfoot to Anchorage is the same as from Detroit to New York City. A long drive, but significantly less than the 4,000+ miles from Michigan to Alaska. I don't need a car for the winter, but I really want one for next summer. So my dad identified some promising wheels in Anchorage; I choked back the bile that accompanies purchases over $200 and commitments longer than six months, and drove a big chunk of the latitudinal distance of this big ol' state. (Thankfully, with a pause in the middle courtesy of my Fairbanks friend, whose cute cat and myriad assortment of tea did much to dispelled the town's dingy dreariness.)
I'm settled back in at Coldfoot, treading the (very) well-worn floors, dancing between the fryer and flattop and fridges, chanting to myself the components of breakfast plates and burger orders. And I'm hosting/serving, so awkwardly hunting and pecking around the computer screen for the button that adds chicken tenders to customers' salads and inventing the extra charge based on how amiable they are.
My two favorite truckers remembered me, which was nice. I'd put them both at about late 50s, though its hard to tell with weathered faces. One remarked on an uncharacteristically southern herd of caribou I'd seen on the drive up, noting it's been over twenty years since they'd chomped trough their favorite lichen all the way down to Livengood. Maybe on the next clear day I'll drive a bit to see if I can spot them again.
