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23
May
About
noon on 3 November, K and I trudged into East Point.
After spending 17 years in South Florida, then five years
high and dry in Colorado, I had forgotten how much I missed coastal
fishing towns. On the
outskirts, fish processing buildings were built out over the water,
and fishermen bustled, unloading trucks, and boats, and spraying
water everywhere. Klondike
doing her silly light-headed doggy dance, bobbing around on her
lead, as the smell of fish wafted across to us.
Sometimes,
the fishermen would stop to watch us as we passed.
It was as if time slowed down, like in a movie.
My husky and I silently moving slowly through their world;
they, looking back, wondering.
One fellow waving in slow motion, his buddy following and
another next to them giving a heart felt thumbs up and a wide grin.
"WHERE
YA HEADED?" one of them yelled.
"ALASKA!"
White
eyes blinked several times on deeply tanned faces.
Then from another, "YOU'RE CRAZY, YOU KNOW THAT?"
Followed by a bunch of cackles.
"YOU GOT BIGGER BALLS THEN WE DO!
GOOD LUCK!" Then
three more thumbs up.
And
for that moment in time, we all shared in something that was bigger
than all of us.
*
* *
Soon
we walked up to a rippy mart, and I took my pack off and leaned it
against the wall, near the pay phones. Klondike instantly laid down in the shade and fell asleep.
I ogled the shelves in the store through the windows.
There was cold water inside, and cold chocolate milk, and a
snack for K and I. I was done for the day.
The town wasn't that big, so a campground couldn't be that
far away. I could take
a break, not worry anymore about walking further.
I
went inside and bought a gallon of cold water and a few munchies,
the kind that make your tummy hurt if you eat to much — which was
what I was intending to do!
The
clerk didn't know about any campgrounds in East Point.
I blinked at him and swallowed hard.
This
wasn't looking good . . .
NEXT
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