Wawa Bound Wawa must mean hope in a language unknown to me. The solitary sign: Wawa 110, a beacon in my endless ascent and descent, traversing a severe winter and an uncertain spring in this dangerous season between solid and liquid, without safe passage by boat or foot past iced-over bays, jagged granite and spindly white pines on infinite stretches of convulsed road that keeps a cautious distance from the vast, inland sea. The sea, its immensity both buoys and diminishes me. It is big in the way the mountains are not, could never be. The sky is but a mirror for its icy blue infinity. Superior is the story here. Is it gravity or the sea that grinds down the granite vertebrae of these ancient mountains, until they are decomposing bone chips scattered along this battered beach. Lonely and shaken I drive into the muted light of evening's reprieve. I used to think signs told us nothing of the destination or the journey but tonight as the sun fades, the only posts are the lengthening shadows of trees. When every ink spot of a town is announced, their absence is telling on this long stretch of road. Even settlers knew enough to leave this land alone. Absence whispers “there is nothing” through the trees, and I am Wawa bound.