Ahhh yes, the magic of an old Alaskan roadhouse.
 I am fortunate enough to know the where abouts of one still standing in good repair which others seem to miss. Every once in awhile I let my old feet walk across the former hay-field now taken over by willow brush and instinctively they find their way down the hidden Old Eagle Trail where I ran and played as a kid. I shove the old handmade door open and look around the silent room. Sun rays filter through old glass and dust dances in them. A big old barrel stove sits in the center of the room, cold with neglect. A creak above reminds me of the bunk room and I climb the stairs. Those stairs are just as solid as the day they were built. Back in the kitchen sits an old iron wood cook stove. Wind blows softly through the slightly open back door. I stand and look out at the old cache and crumbling doghouses. Then I ease the door closed and bolt it. I bid the spirits of the past goodbye and leave.  I'll tell no one, may it stand in peace.