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Susan Rochester's avatar

Years ago I helped a friend drive from Eugene, Oregon back to her home in Anchorage. It was early September, and the Birch trees were flaming gold across northern British Columbia, and the wind had an extra sharpness to it, the knife’s blade of winter to come.

One early morning I was at the wheel as we trundled across Yukon. A movement in the road bought my foot to the brake.

A caribou looked askance at us, calmly standing in the middle of the road. I turned off the pickup truck and got out, then eased to the front of the truck. The caribou stepped to the side of the road. Across the way, another stepped out of the brush. And then another and another and another and then the brush opened up and a stream of tawny and cream and taupe flowed across the road.

It lasted for about ten minutes? An hour? A day? At some point it thinned to a trickle, and then small groups, and then two, one, none.

We drove on, but had to stop for three more herds over the course of the morning. I wished I could go with them, to see what they were going to see.

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Vasile Decu's avatar

Dear Amy, this was one of the coolest posts I've read in a long time. Many thanks for the pleasure of reading it - and for all the material that's gonna make me a smartass at the Christmas dinner(s).

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