The tour bus navigated steep curves; the scenery changing from forests of Norway Spruce to moss, patches of wildflowers and other low-growing plants clinging to rocks far above the tree line. Patches of snow among the vegetation warn of what awaits outside the comfort of the motor coach. Advised to dress in layers from the cruise ship experts, it seems evident we will need them all. This excursion from the port of Honningsvag, to North Cape is the one we anticipate being the highlight of our 12-day cruise. We ride from a town of 2500 people to desolation halfway up the mountain for a photo stop at a typical camp of the native people:  The Sam`i. Formerly known in English as the Laplanders, they are again known by their original name. The term Laplanders or Lapps is now considered derogatory, as Lapp refers to a patch and the poverty of the people whose clothing was made of patches.

For me it remains a term of endearment. In third grade we read about these hardy people and how their entire existence centered on reindeer—herding them, depending on them for food, clothing, transportation; even trading reindeer as a form of money. To travel here a half-century later and meet them is a thrill. Exiting the coach into the wind and cold, the group crunches across the gravel parking lot toward the token native connected to his token reindeer by a leash. The gentleman clad in reindeer hides poses dutifully in front of a teepee. I feel uncomfortable seeing his vulnerability making a living as an anomaly to be captured in a vacation photo. His scrawny reindeer was different and less attractive than ones depicted in my childhood story-- molting its winter coat in patches no less; practically unrecognizable as a deer at all.

Continuing up the mountain wondering how the driver is maneuvering through the clouds, we arrive at North Cape Hall. We are instructed that everyone sees the panoramic film first and then can proceed to the exhibits, gift shop and eateries.

After sitting through the video, we venture out to the Globe and get a few pictures—there really is no visibility this day—clouds blocking any view of the ocean and fjords below. We go back inside and purchase two postcards and join the dozens in line for the only cashier. Thirty minutes later we photograph ourselves mailing from the northernmost point in Europe. We browse the gift shop and check the time as we were given ninety minutes total. I offer to get us a seat on the bus while Bill checks out with a souvenir for our son.

On the way I notice another cute troll statue. Two couples in front of me take their time capturing the ideal shot. I get my turn and then head outside toward the busses. There are none. I ask a fellow if this is the way to the busses and he points me back from whence I came, through the North Cape Hall and out the opposite exit. I follow his directions and now see five busses parked side by side with one parking space conspicuously vacant. With the fog, I must get close to each bus to see the number in the window. We were “Yellow 19” coming here but I don’t see that. The escort said we would have a different bus to descend the mountain, but it would still be marked “Yellow 19”. All the tourist busses I see have higher numbers up through 23. We were told we would depart at 4:45 and it is now 4:49. How could I have lost track of the minutes and risk missing the hour-long ride back to the ship and most of all losing my husband all because I chose to take a picture of one more dumb troll statue? I’m not quite sure if every bus is returning to our ship, so I retrace along the fronts of them still looking for “Yellow 19”. Not there. I see the American escort who rode up with us and she says: “Just get on this bus. I hesitantly board and do not see Bill. Then she says “The numbering system changed, but all the coaches are going to the pier. The one I’m on is leaving last and the one at the beginning of the row goes first.” I get off, pushing past folks who are boarding and follow the escort. I figure Bill would want to be on the bus leaving sooner rather than later, but he is not on this bus. Maybe he left on that missing bus and would expect to meet me back on the ship. That could work—I do have my cruise card in my purse, but he is holding my passport which they may request on the pier. Of course, with no cell service up here we left our phones in our cabin. I can’t believe we are separated; I’m nauseated and at a loss in this fog. Would losing my husband be the salient memory of this anniversary cruise? As I move to the front to get off this second bus, I spy my husband talking to a lady! I call to the escort outside the bus to yell “Bill” and point to this bus. She does so and he turns and jogs over and up the steps saying loudly: “Where were you? I got on every bus and then asked some woman to check the ladies’ room!”

We got the last two seats across the aisle from each other, and he continued in his playground voice: “One bus was all Spanish speaking so calling for you there was fruitless. I went back inside and called your name; it really echoes in there! What happened; where were you?”

I wasn’t truly listening—just relieved he was within arm’s reach, and that I had awakened from this nightmare. He wanted a logical explanation and, however real, stopping for another troll failed the logic test. I went with the uncomfortable truth and since he knows me so well, he believed it.

I added, “We need a strategy going forward. I could not guess what you would do in this circumstance—after decades of marriage, I should know.”

“Return and wait in front of the building!”

Personally, I hope never to be standing alone in front of North Cape Hall—the so-called Top of the World. And…I made him promise never to get lost again.

Lilly Kauffman is a non-fiction writer who was privileged to work as both librarian and a teacher. Her essays, whether serious or humorous, capture the experiences that allow us to laugh and grieve. Family and faith inform her writings. She is currently working on several book projects: A Mother Grieves in Ink, Ampersand, and Lil Letters.