A journalist observes life in the far north.
After cramming our lives into an action packer and three totes, we set up camp about 10 miles up the Salcha River for the July 4th weekend.
Friends had invited us to their quiet family getaway, a lime green cabin with a loft. We slept in a tent.
In the morning we ate breakfast burritos, and later something off the grill. Jade ran around in a diaper and a sun hat. I rolled up my jeans. Alec bared his chest.
I started each day with Bailey’s in my coffee because a girl should allow herself a few small luxuries.
After 24 hours, I started to relax and passed the time trying to read while keeping an eye on Jade.
Around me, the party seemed to last all weekend. People came and went. There was the politician, the bartender with breast implants and the accountant who looks like a cop. They carried coolers of beer and brought their dogs.
Someone brought a newspaper with the governor wearing a fuck you red dress on the cover. Later, someone else got drunk and shot a gun.
I laid Jade in a portable crib for her naps. One afternoon I glanced down at the tent and saw through the window that she had climbed out of the crib and had the run of the tent.
The river was ice cold but the other children hardly seemed to notice as they floated around on inner tubes.
One of the kids kept a tally of air boats versus motor boats that drove by.
Someone showed up with a one-man catamaran. I tried it and wound up bonking myself in the head with an oar.
I’m still sun-burned.