We wake up early and forego breakfast because there’s still no stove. But mostly because in Kennicott there is a food truck. And it is called Meatza.
We hike fast, and the tourist path from the edge of the glacier back to town is hunger-fueled nostalgia-land.
This day, like three pints of Ice Axe and a Stubbs Burger at the West Rib. Extra bacon, extra avocado, extra cheese. And Parmesan and garlic on my fries. And onion rings because I am alive. You’re not allowed to have three pints of Ice Axe, but anything goes when your ex-boyfriend is the bartender and there is green grass and brown dirt and floorboards beneath your feet, and you’re not standing on ice for the first time in three weeks.
This day, like Safeway after any of my trips across the bay. Where the rows and rows and rows and rows of packaged snacks tower around you, and you can have any of it, not just your ration for the afternoon. And popsicles. And green olives stuffed with garlic. And maple-frosted donuts. And honey dijon kettle chips. And chicken strips. And soft white bread. And fancy cheese.
This day, like returning to America from another country. Where I am free to get gout from eating so rich, where I’m free to eat those soft frosted finger cookies, artificial crab meat, chunky drinkable cheese. Here in America, where the only thing that stops me from indulging in every kind of excess is what I've got or not got in my wallet.
And when we get to the Meatza after walking over moraine and glacier and trail since dawn, starving, we find out that the plastic in my wallet is unacceptable in Kennicott.
And so we go to Canada. Where we're rich in credit card currency.