I'll Kiss 'n'Tell

We're standing at an overlook along the Matanuska River, where  glacial meltwater curlycues  along miles and miles of a   very wide riverbed. Towering mountains in the distance frame this magnificent view, lit by a rising full moon.

A car pulls up.

I look down (the overlook is high above the parking area) and I see a couple of kids, teens really, hop out of the car, and then jog up the side of this little hill. They ignore the long sidewalk we used to get up here, the one enclosed on both sides by a protective fence. Instead, they jog up the hill (on a well-worn path, I notice) and both leap over the fence.  

They see us, nod hello, and begin to  amble around separately, looking at the view, the trees, an interpretive sign about   Alaska's gold rush days.

After no more than two minutes,  they leap back over the fence and scramble down to their car.

Odd. I turn back to look at the abundant scenery.

I hear another car. I turn around to watch.  Two kids climb out. Jog up the hill. Leap over the fence. Say hello. Wander around. Leave. A third car. A repeat performance.

I  think we've found Alaska's Blueberry Hill, its own Lovers Lane, alongside the Glenn Highway just north of Palmer.

I tell Allen my theory, we mock a kiss for our camera, then return to our motorhome. But we don't drive away. Instead, we stay for the night. And listen as the cars come and -- eventually -- go. Not as quickly, now the chaperones  are gone.