September 1st rolled around and you could feel it in the air: realization, regret. It’s winding down and the excursions you hoped to take, the hike you were supposed to do and the post you were supposed to write have yet to be done. There may not be time to do them.

End-of-season epiphanies present themselves: I cook with Bree, vegan veggie burgers that take hours, and we say “Why weren’t we cooking together like this every week?” “Why didn’t we meet up at Arctic every week and write next to each other?”

It’s my firm conviction that the stuff that needs to happen rises to the top. The rest must be reserved for your someday return or eventual reunion, no matter how make believe. You can’t do it all. Not only because you might not have the money to go on all the adventures you want, but because you work 6 days a week! You’re exhausted! But if you’d known what you’d known at the beginning of the season, you may have done things differently. But you didn’t because you didn’t know.

So you lament your woes in conversation: “You’re leaving when?! I’m not ready! What am I supposed to do without you?!”

Claire said it lugubriously yesterday “September is breaking my heart!” And we are in the same boat going in different directions (but it’s the same boat, don’t question it Schrödinger).

So many wonderful things poofed up like one last fabulous burp of a good meal that reminds you how good that pork roast was. But it’s too late you ate it. It’s gone to the next organ.

And ultimately, September is for heart-wrenching departure. Unlike the Tongass tunnel, there’s no way around it. You can’t kayak under your desire to leave and skip it somehow. You gotta go through with it. You gotta go.

Pack your bigs, little one, it’s time for the next adventure.

On my last night, Jazmin spent the night with me. It’s a twin bed but we didn’t have any problems. She showed me her glorious tattoo. She’d have to lay on her left side because her right thigh was too sore from the fresh ink.

How about that? On my last night, Jazmin and I had our first sleepover and we lived together half of the season. I can’t express how it helped to have a companion as I went through the motions: wrote the cards, caught up on posts, made pasta, zipped and unzipped the same silver carry-on.

And we can’t do that again. But maybe that’s what made it sweet.

Sweet September.