Wolverine Peak

Mom is in town. She came in Tuesday night. On Wednesday, my brothers and I went to the hotel in the tired and bright morning in order to clear our evening to hike Wolverine Peak. Mom rumbled with Car into the Millennium parking lot at 4:45 and we clambered up into the dusty, functional seats. Shortly after the moose delay, Sam kindly waited with Mom as her frequent pauses and satisfied air settled for turning around early. To the chagrin of my burning calves and JP's chaffed heels, the two of us rushed the remaining trail. 

Mom coated my bare arms and legs in bug dope—as the Alaskans call it—at the beginning of the trail. Even so, JP and I galloped in our boots for a large part of the descent, propelled by the surge of mosquitos that clung to anything moving at a trot or slower. Dont let the bugs in, instructed Mom as JP and I fumbled with our breathing and the car doors. 

Although we were out late, the tired legs, the dirt, the sun, and the conquest, left me wearied with satisfaction and happiness. Such days produce earnest sleep.

This is an Alaskan summer: long nights in the sun, heavy eyes in the morning, and a light smile through the afternoon.