I keep meaning to write this post and yet it keeps getting passed off without me doing it. In large part because of a lack of time and in other parts due to a lack of free time at the computer. On my journey out of Anchorage for my job, I was doing work in a remote part of the state. By remote, I mean you drive for four hours to get 60 miles from your destination at which point you still have another two hours of driving on a lumpy bumpy dirt road that is the old railbed before you get to the creek where you have to leave your car, move your things across a footbrige, and then either catch a shuttle or hike the remaining 5 1/2ish miles to your final destination. The land is rugged, and boy, are the people ever interesting. The second night we were there we sat down to a dinner–that we had to make advance reservations for–in a place that served nothing that cost less than $15 and where a meal for five people tallied to $160. And our waitress was wearing pink sweatpants. The owners of the place wandered back and forth in grubby jeans, old tshirts and baseball caps. The food was delicious. Absolutely fantastic. Most of the patrons were tourists visiting from Europe. The service was mediocre, but the atmosphere was nothing short of a study in dichotomy. There was something so “anything goes” about the area, so interwoven and interconnected. It was innately small town, with all that goes with it, but in a manner that felt inviting and welcoming, not standoffish. It was very strange to see items on a backcountry menu that included items like “nut crusted halibut”. The restaurant where we ate lunch every day was very much the same, and even more remote than the restaurant in town. We’d walk in in rubber rain pants, or covered in rust and dirt and no one would bat an eyelash as they served us our grilled salmon sandwich, or stuffed tomato salad. I enjoyed the experience very much. Definitely not something I’ve experienced too much, although at the same time strangely reminiscent of rural maine.