Interruption on the bank of the Little Susitna River

I drove away from the Grotto and then decided I wanted to post the previous entry before I returned home. The bridge at the Little Su seemed like a good place to do so, but there were a couple of cars in the tiny downstream parking lot where I would normally pull off. I wanted to be alone with just Lynx, my thoughts, and my iPhone. On the upstream side of the bridge, there is a turnoff with a gravel road that leads to a private gate about 50 yards away. I pulled to the side of the road, well short of that gate and started to work on my post. I had not gotten far when I was startled to hear a knock on my window. I turned to see this gentleman, Alaska State Trooper Lindberg. He informed me I had parked on private property. I had to leave.

He was pleasant, professional, polite and respectful and was only doing his job. Still, it is a bit of a jarring thing to have your head into the middle of something and to be interrupted in such a manner. I suggested to him that next time he spoke with the property owner, he might suggest he post some "no trespassing signs" near the bridge. He told me I would be welcome to contribute to a fund to help the owner do just that, as he had put up many such signs only to have them torn down and stolen. This, I did not doubt. Even the bullet-ridden place signs on the bridge have disappeared.

He said he frequently finds people down here doing drugs, some of them with needles hanging out their necks. He said he had saved some lives, right here. I did not enjoy the experience at all, but damn - as beautiful and serene as is the setting my little community sits in, it does have a very dark fringe. Officer Lindberg's job can sometimes become most dangerous.

He absolutely did not need to stop the yellow car coming down Schrock Road so that I could pull out, but, as embarrassing as this unnecessary action was, I will give him the benefit of the doubt.

Carmen remembers the burglary - and the tears that flowed at the last hockey game her husband ever got to watch their son play

I back up to this morning, just after Shoshana served my coffee to me. Carmen came in. I had hoped we might have a nice chat, but all sorts of people kept coming in – Amanda the hockey mom; Jay, my fellow pilot and lover of airplanes, Ollie Kent, Carmen's four-year-old neighbor who came with his mom; others whose names I do not know. Some of the talk was about the burglary, and how violated Carmen and Shoshana felt to have had someone smash his way into their space, and then snoop about doing whatever he wanted in there.

Here, Carmen describes a much more joyful moment, yet a moment ringed in a halo of deep sadness. It was Branson's final hockey game of the past season – for state championship - and the last his father would ever see him play. His father knew it, too.

Branson's team was one goal behind and the game was drawing to a close. With just seconds to go, little Branson knocked in the tying score. Tears flowed from his father's eyes – tears of joy, of pride, of gratitude; tears of sorrow and of longing for all those future games death would force him to miss. Tears flowed from the eyes of all of Branson's teammates and their parents. Only Branson did not cry. His father had taught him to be strong and he was going to be.

They lost the state championship in overtime, but this could not diminish that special moment Branson had given to his team, his mother and his dying father.

I find my grandson, eager to learn about his world, watching TV in the time of Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman

I continue my Instagram/blogging experiment. I am out walking – walking and thinking, talking into

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Her sanctuary, Metro Cafe, is broken into and vandalized but Carmen still smiles, keeps the shop open and warm

When Carmen arrived at Metro Cafe at 5:00 AM Monday morning to open shop, she was shocked to see

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