Know Carrion Lug Edge Four Ewe.

“‘Sup?” I mutter, complete with snap-back head move, just to let him know I’m serious, that this is an everyday occurrence for me.

The recipient of said ‘sup begins with a passive face, his eyes narrowing slightly to inspect my belongings, then widening in slight alarm. I get the overwhelming feeling I’m not fooling him.

I’m trundling numerous bags before me. Quite clearly, everyone can see a prodigious amount of women’s shoes, inexplicably carried in grocery bags.

We’re both on a plane. The plane is exceedingly narrow, a two engine affair, propellers not jets, and features a riveted aluminum construction that would appear to strike fear into canoe enthusiasts everywhere. Come to think of it, there’s little more room than a standard canoe on this particular plane. There are two rows of seats, and I’m in the aisle down the middle, couched low not only because of the plane’s cavelike structure, but also by my burdensome loads.

There is one seat left empty, and it’s in the back. Every other seat is taken by large, rough looking men in winter clothes. They work on the oil rigs, and appear unaccustomed to seeing someone wearing summer clothes in the dead of winter carrying sacks full of ladies footwear.

Hours before, I had been appropriately attired in summer clothes, despite it being December. I was in Hawaii, and had offered to take my girlfriend’s suitcase back with me to Alaska after spending two wonderful weeks with her in Maui.

Though she’s not flying with me, she brings the suitcase into the airport with me. It’s a red number, roughly the same dimensions of a small cottage. She’s been living and attending graduate school overseas, and the case is filled with the items she no longer requires, formal clothes and winter wear, as it’s the height of summer in the Southern Hemisphere, and school is no longer in session.

There is a weight limit for pieces of luggage, and my girlfriend wants to make sure there’s no extra excess baggage fee. It has to weigh less than 50 pounds to avoid the extra charges.

I wheel the case up to the scale. Thankfully, like a tiny SUV, this case has wheels. I attempt to lift the case onto the scale. I wonder how much the previous two weeks of lying on the beach and drinking mai-tais have negatively impacted my fitness, as the case to me feels like way more than 50 pounds. My girlfriend sees me struggling and assists, guiding it onto the scale as I catch my breath.

“52.6. Do you think that’s okay?” I hear her ask the airline employee.

“Should be okay.” She responds, and my girlfriend is happy as she lifts it down from the scale. It makes an audible thud in the crowded airport as it hits the ground.

We spend a few precious moments together before it’s time for me to go through customs and check the giant container.

Confident in its weight, I struggle to hoist it onto the checkin scale. The readout displays over 60 pounds.

There must be some mistake. It is nearly 10 pounds over the limit. I look closer and see that all four of the SUV wheels are indeed on the scale. In the interest of experimentalism, I slide two of the wheels onto the side of the scale. It reads 52.6 pounds. That must have been exactly how we weighed it initially. I ask what the excess baggage fee is. $30. I agree and pay it.

My flight is delayed, so I’m late getting into Alaska. I have to wait at the baggage claim to pick up the red beast.

My connecting flight is imminent, and features the canoe construction plane. I hoist the SUV onto the scale.

“This is way over the limit.” The airline agent says.

“Yeah, I know. What’s the charge?”

“$50.” Fifty dollars is half of the ticket cost. This is ridiculous.

“This is ridiculous.” I inform her.

“The plane leaves in 10 minutes.” She informs me.

I pull the bag from the scale and open it. It looks like a JCPenney exploded. I try to grab the densest items I can find, which happen to be shoes. All manner of heels are quickly shoved into plastic grocery bags which I had luckily kept.

I get it close to 50 pounds. She says it’s good enough, and that the plane leaves in 5 minutes.

I run down to the gate, wondering about how many carryons or “personal articles” I can get away with. I have on my backpack and am carrying three grocery bags. It doesn’t seem to be an issue as I’m rushed out to the plane.

Everyone else is already on the plane, rather impatient and ready to depart. I take my seat after navigating the disparaging glance gauntlet, and finally relax as we take flight.

I glance over at the oil worker across from me, who is eyeing my bags of heels like it was filled with vipers.

I entertain the idea of asking him to hold it while I “go powder my nose,” but decide that I’ve cheated death enough for one voyage.

Besides, there’s no bathroom on this particular canoe.