The Small Town of Talkeetna, Alaska — Van Chronicles

Trill takes a giant shit right outside the Conscious Coffee Shop. I look up at a man sitting on the couch with a big red curly beard and he’s watching me. “She sure pulls you around.”

“Even with a broken leg,” I respond trying not to be embarrassed about the shit and the fact that Rob’s inside with the bag.

A small white golden trots over to meet Trill. They are cordial. The 10 month old is more interested in my attention then in Trills. And then a mom-ish looking woman with shoulder length blonde hair and a flowery skirt steps out of the shop with a coffee in one hand and a floral leash drapped over her shoulder. We chat about dogs as she clips the leash to the young golden.

And then a tall strong man with a long very nice white beard comes out the antler handled door drawing the woman into conversation about how her patrol on the mountain was. Her husband's still up on patrol I hear her say and he asks about her fingers and toes. “Still got all your fingers and toes I see. No frostbite?”

“Nope, everything’s still here. It’s been nice up there.”

I look up at a small birdhouse while they talk and see the cheeky black and white face of a small bird watching us all curiously. Tilting his little head from side to side like a koo-koo clock his neck decorated by the pink and blue sun bursts painted around the door.

“Well, I’ll see you around. I’m still saying hi to everyone. It’s been 10 months since I was here,” The bearded man tells the woman. And he steps down the short ramp with his coffee in his hand. Holding it up to her as he goes. “Have a good day Pam. I’ll be see’n ya.”

And Rob steps out the door.

***

I’m getting chilly at the table outside the coffee shop. The sun fell behind the clouds or rather the clouds rose to meet it and with it a slight breeze is making it through my plaid shirt. I notice the plants growing along the small log building filled with books. Tall fiddlehead ferns, fireweed not yet in bloom, columbine stretching it’s petaled leaves to the sun and droopy lazy bluebells standing over dandelion greens. The grass is not as prolific. In fact it’s patchy, more dirt and rock than grass. As if the earth around the shop has mange. But it’s a clean pleasant shop with a consistent flow of locals at this hour.

Wait until 1 o’clock though and this town explodes with a frenzy of retirees and families and tourists with giant cameras around their necks. I’m aware I’m a tourist too. The hypocracy of my tourist dislike doesn’t pass me up. But I feel it none the less as the charter busses from the cruises unload the cattle. I’ve actually been working on it though. Telling myself that it’s good that these people are out seeing the world in the way they can and also supporting the economies of these small towns like Talkeetna. I mean with out them would a town like this even survive?

Of course there are different kinds of tourists. The other sector here in Talkeetna are the climbers, the mountaineers aiming for an ascent of the white capped mountains in the distance. Mt. McKinley to be exact. And planes leave regularly to drop off the generally quiet, grizzly men wearing approach shoes to breakfast or beers. They usually have stubbly beards, maybe a hint of body odor and a plethora of name brand gear. Maybe a baseball cap that says, “Patagonia,” across the front.

Rob gets back from a conversation with the doctors or the insurance. The whole debacle we thought had been resolved is back.

The first group of awkward bellied tourists arrives wearing Gucci sunglasses and fake nails. Out of place in a climber based tourist town like this. I’m irritated now with Trill whining and pulling on the leash and the hectic vibes that the tourists bring and the anxiety oozing out of Rob about the insurance and surgery and if they’re going to pay for it. That annoyance keeps following us northward, buzzing in our ears like the damned mosquitos and yellow jackets up here in the Alaskan interior.