Across Continents

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Hungry Hill

He continued his rummaging in the bins, pausing occasionally to pull out the odd plastic bottle. Tossing it into the back of a smart pick-up. His wife looked on. I sat a short distance away, sipping tepid coffee from my small flask. She looked embarrassed.

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I’d pulled into a small rest area close to the summit of Hungry Hill. Close on three thousand feet. Not especially steep, but drawn out over quite a few miles. Signs at the bottom explaining how to fit snow chains, not that they were needed today. Another sunny autumnal day.

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The rummagers moved off to other bins on the other side of the highway. I wandered over to the nearby "Hungry Hill Grizzlies" sign. Tales of a dangerous Grizzly christened The Phantom. Which seemed apt, since, as ever, there was a single bear to be seen. Not that I was in a hurry to stow my deterrent spray.

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