Hatcher Pass and Fuzzy Cuffs
I’m not yet finished with the Europe series, but lets face it: I’m bored easily and Alaska has provided me with ample detour material.
This weekend I went for a hike with Stephanie into Hatcher Pass. It was a spur of the moment decision and we decided the rainfall would not deter us. Unfortunately, it also didn’t deter a certain lady ranger that made the most of showing off her “superiority.”
We didn’t make it half way up the hill to Hatchers before my $100 car began smoking. Stephanie and I were gabbing away when a guy honked at us and let us know that we were on the verge of a major meltdown–or blowup; you decide. (Being the awesome mechanic that I am, I personally sense that it is a slipping belt… or maybe it was Levi who told me that. We will never know.)
Gloria sitting on her rightful throne... awaiting junkyardom.
So we changed the plans from starting at Summit Lake to making it our final destination. As we first began the ascent, “Fuzzy Cuffs” (my coworker, Matt, informed me of this endearing title with the summation: “because she’s a pansy.” ) told us to move my car further uphill. I protested with the “but it’s gonna blowup” defense, but she made me anyhow.
Ireland!?
About 500 yards up the road she told us we were not dressed appropriately for such severe weather. It is summer. It is rainy. So what. Even in Alaska, the summer temps are mild enough that you will make it out alive if only you keep moving.
Enjoying the scenery. Fuzzy Cuffs excluded.
Nearing the top, now. She stops us again: “I don’t think you understand. Are you okay? I don’t think you are. You’re not dressed right. You know people have died up here!?” Yes, ma’am. By the way, it’s summer. And warm. Just in case you have failed to actually step outside of your ranger rover in the past few months.
Summit Lake surrounded by an eerie fog. Perfect murder mystery setting. Maybe we misjudged Fuzz.
.
Stephanie and I ignored her other failed attempts and began mocking her as an alternative to slaying. We did get some good pictures. One as she parked on top of the hill and hawk-eyed us all the way back to my car, and the other as she drove by once we made it. One thing is for sure: she is an import.
See ya next time, Fuzz!
A Slice of It 