Twenty-five years ago now, I sent this postcard to my parents. I was a lonely young buck sitting at a cold picnic table in a Yukon campground. I was days from completing a trip back to Alaska, where I had lived 1.5 years when I was in the Air Force.
Loved that truck. Bought it in Mississippi. Carried me to New York, and then up here, where it died after I sold it.
I've outlived the truck, and have been heating with wood in Alaska ever since, only now in a bigger house, full of females. Regarding my choice to come to Alaska (for school, and adventure, and opportunity) some poet once said, that has made all the difference. Or, as my old man would say, if he were around, "Sweet Mother!"