Sunday, July 17. Today we rolled into majesty. Drove through gray clouds and rain, then shocks of bright sun, the roads steep and winding. Drove over 200 more miles in BC toward Watson Lake,Yk, mountains rising higher and higher behind the hills, until finally they dominate the landscape. Mountains of stone, mountains green with spruce, aspen and ground cover.

Motorhomes, campers, semi trucks and a few cars are on the road. There are numerous pullovers; Andre points out where we stopped for lunch, or to rest, on previous trips. Today there are other people on the road who we begin to recognize and speak to briefly; we're all pulling over in some rhythm at the same time. Out here in this wilderness, there are miles between motel-cafe-RV-parks; then there might be several. There are some new enterprises, but more and more seem to be closing, or for sale.

Tonight we've stopped in an RV park on Lake Muncho, mile 423.7 on the modernized Alaska Highway. As we drove the final miles, the turquoise lake stretched off to our left, rock walls rose to our right. On the other side of the road, the shoulder at regular intervals has crumbled into the lake. The first time we drove by the lake in the motorhome, I was driving—on that other side.

Having driven by the lake concentrating on the narrow winding road, entranced by its beauty, it's exciting to be here. To have stopped by the lake, walked down to it. Touched it. Both of us taking pictures. There's a one-hour boat tour tonight at 8. But that's nothing I want to do; it's too cold and windy. We've had our chicken soup and salad. Our walk. Almost the usual, as if we really lived here and occasionally look out the window, and see these gray mountains lit by the setting sun. I think of Bridge Street in Shelburne Falls, how for years I have been addicted to watching or sensing the rhythm and flow of people on it. How I've seen sunsets there night after night over the hill beyond the iron bridge, sunrises finishing over Arms Library, the morning sun shining through a new-leafed young maple on up beyond LaBelles. And I have to say to myself still: you live here, you actually live here. But, the truth is it's that way wherever I am.