I was about to run out of stones, and had resigned myself to another four hour expedition to get a truck load of rocks.
On my way home I was passing what in Fairbanks is called the “transfer station,” i.e.,where one transfers one’s garbage and anything else one wants to dispose of before it is taken to the landfill.
This is the place one finds old trampoline frames, old doors, refrigerators, etc. I hadn’t stopped there for months.
As I was approaching the transfer station, a small voice in my head said, “Turn, turn.” So, on the spur of the moment, I turned into the transfer station.
Right at the entrance a man with a trailer was unloading stones, of all things. In twenty years of occasionally visiting the transfer station, I had never, ever, seen anyone unload stones. I backed my pickup truck next to his, and we transferred them from his trailer to the truck. He had one more load stones to get, and I suggested I could be helpful.
Apparently, he was taking apart a waterfall that his employer had built; she had driven a pilot car all over Alaska, and would pick up interesting stones on her job.
What were the chances?