Half clear rec path a road a snowmachine corridor cross country ski trails a riverside with warning slate grey cracks and exposed flux. The snow won’t crunch, sighing contented wet resculpted under fat tires. Then puddlesplash streets of Talkeetna, compass bearing to sweet potato fries and pints and a growler to roll and sway in the backpack back up a different way, always, a mountain that is immense enough to deserve always, Denali in the blowing clouds background. Airfield and husky dogs, plow and storm buried cars, a shack on stilts proudly tyvek and clear plastic sheets, a bonfire junior Nordic skier party that is mostly a snowball fight but hot chocolate, too.
Laughing in the swooping, bicycles side by side. Blue and green and searing white are Alaska banners of endeavor to conspire with the locals’ eyebrow raised chastising of our into the afternoon luxuriating.
I look over and the cipher is the clarity is the peaking heights.