The Ghosts of Dyea

My car is alive once again, and just in time for the preliminary days before the salmon run. Bears, bears and more bears will come out of their timid shells and will rejoice. And the souls who so dearly want to see them will come out of their plaster houses and will rejoice.

So begins the series of journeys to our west, to capture creation at its best, to see the animals that have the honor of painting a cute image in our minds while clawing fear in our hearts. And so we drove, along the winding curves of Dyea Road with a rock 'n' roll pot luck feeding our ears and the glacially-slashed scenery intoxicating our eyes.

So many trampled this shore, wanting so much more, and drowning in a fool's paradise. And nothing remains but what is truly the same, the same as before. Dyea, what sprang up so fast, we now stand on that deserted beach of a century's past. But the Chilkoot can keep its golden stairs, because we're here for the black and brown bears, marching our way to the shore.

The paw prints were a good sign, but the sun was cruising past nine, and we wanted to continue the hunt. But the mud sloshed beneath our shoes, and the beasts of the flats were nowhere to be seen. We were simply three souls breathing the life of the ghosts of Dyea.