Driving Through a Mountain by Jessica Bryant Klagmann
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en hours of traveling south from Fairbanks, Alaska through boreal forest, and we’ve arrived at the Anton Anderson Memorial Tunnel, a two and a half mile passage through Maynard Mountain and the only route into and out of the town of Whittier. There we will put our kayak into the water and paddle off—somewhat blindly—into a territory neither of us knows much about. But first we wait. We cook MREs on a propane stove propped open on the tail gate of the truck. They’re supposed to resemble something that took more preparation and much longer to cook, like pasta primavera or chicken teriyaki. Two of the many we’ve packed for this trip. The water boils while we change our clothes, pulling on heavier socks and waterproof pants. Long underwear underneath long-sleeved shirts. The truth is, we don’t even know that much about each other. Big stuff—like whether or not we want children someday—sure. The small day to day stuff—like which way we like the tent door facing—not so much. A half hour passes. The direction of traffic reverses in the one-way tunnel. We pack our stove and stow away our casual, lighter clothes in the back of the truck. We pull into a line of other cars, ready to drive through a mountain, not expecting things will change all that much on the other side.
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