Finally across the border. They let us back in. After doing a check on our licenses, the guard admonished Andre to get a passport. Yeah, tell me about it, he says with a laugh. The guard motioned us through. So we were back in the States.

Here in Alaska, I began to notice changes immediately. First, the bump and slam of the roads lessened, although there was still an abundance of loose gravel patches and construction. The beauty continued. Jagged mountains and snowy peaks, rivers, green. Soon, I began to be curious about whether the fact that 95 % of all the roadsigns were scarred by gunshots indicated more than casual target practice.

Thursday we spent our first U.S. night in Tok, just 74 miles from the border. We spurned the $34. giant rv park where we've stayed before in off-season isolation. We decided, even though there was no wi-fi, on Bull Shooters, across the highway. It became apparent that the business of selling hunting and fishing licenses, weapons and bullets was thriving, but we were the only rv guests that night. I entered to register—credit and Good Sam cards in hand—thus unwittingly obeying the sign at the door: no loaded weapons in the store. We were off to dinner and back, before the long line of motorhomes across the street waiting to register had diminished to two.

Tok is where many people first fall in love with Alaska and stay forever. They feel something of community and the pioneer life is here still, materialized in more than the log cabin structures along the highway. Like Shelburne Falls, it's more than a tourist town. I think of Shelburne Falls and still can't entirely define why I am there, or if I even belong. But I don't try to break the magnetic force that brings me back and holds me there. For some reason now I think of the beautiful, spirited Elaine from Labelle's, who walked Bridge Street with her coon tail, flashlight, keys and bright suspenders—and found herself loved and appreciated. Does the coon tail make me think of Alaska, or Alaska make me think of her? Regardless, she's part of what makes Shelburne Falls home for me. While it hurts to know she's not there any more, making her rounds, it feels good to know that her long-time friends are keeping track of her, doing all they can to keep her well.

But I'm not home now. Although there are elements of home, here, on this pilgrimage of Andre's. And I'm making it mine.