Max and I began a weird existence of waking to ice, dressing in our mummy bags, and escaping to the beach. In the woods, though gorgeously Klimt like with peeling birch trees, narrow pines, and ice blue mountains in the distance, I felt closed away and darker. We’d follow a path out to the beach and it was like the music turned back on. I don’t know: maybe the sun on such a cold morning, maybe the bone white driftwood sculptures, or maybe it was just too fucking magnificent to keep me away, but this was where I breathed. Max began to take pictures (yes, TOTally, silently I swelled), and taught me amateur macro photography. We found some fun in catching crazy detail in the already fantastic, natural surroundings, and he accidentally started to like taking pictures. He has some sweet shots to upload upon our return, and lending him my older camera, I think he will likely keep with it. We’ve been shooting manually, so we both are toying with the idea of reverting (progressing?) to film again. Funun.
Our days grew more solemn every afternoon at 3p, when a cloud of promised rain or snow would roll in. We began eating dinner at 5p and preparing for bed clothes at 6p. This was hilarious to us, and we donned old voices to narrate our ridiculous new daily routine. By day three of sleeping on roots, and going to bed by 7:30-8p, I started wanting for our next thing to do.
Max loves to settle, loved our cabin (so did I) and loved the predictability of our lake. The notion that we might leave was irritating to him and fueled many debates. Many. Eventually I put my mom pants on, and decided to head to Hatcher Pass. Surrounded by mountains, this state park was a few miles north and had some old gold mines and cool trails. The pass itself promised shocking views, but it is also a snow hike that may not be safe enough for travel. I booked a cabin thanks to the pay phone at the park entrance, and we hopped a cab to Palmer.
