Do not smile. Do not make eye contact. Keep your hands on the wheel and fully visible at all times. The border official paces around the car like a paedo-wolf or Piers Morgan, whichever is worse. Do not speak unless you are spoken to. Answer the officer in a timely and respectful manner.
It was another beautiful day at the Poker Creek border crossing.
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My secretary and I stand at the edge of a place not intended for life to occur. A swirling portal of cold malevolence lies beyond these endless ice cliffs and lattices of crevasse. Dark forces are at work here. Even the Earth itself has deemed this place unsuitable for continued existence.
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The City of Denali offers all the comforts of a large US city, yet remains just a 45 minute drive from the beautiful Alaskan coast. Founded in 1917 as Mount McKinley National Park, Denali was once home to the highest mountain peak in North America.
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We sat alone on Thorofare Ridge as the savage tragedy of nature’s brutal indifference plays out below us. We are very small and the wilderness does not care if we live or die. We attempt in vain to calculate the impossible infinity in front of us while we eat our sandwiches.
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My secretary and I have urgent business to attend to in Seward, the nature of which cannot be revealed here for reasons which cannot be revealed here, but it is imperative that we should be in The Salmon Bake bar and restaurant by sundown. Needless to say, the consequence of our absence would be devastating – for all of us.
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