Searching for Montana in the heart of Alaska

Nothing in life is the way you think it will be. No matter how diligently you strive to draft a perfect blueprint in your mind, the truth of the matter is rarely an exact replica of what you had envisioned. Seldom do even our best estimations ever amount to anything more than a close approximation.

Sometimes our imaginations lead us to be disappointed by reality, sometimes it comes as a pleasant surprise. Though it can often be frustrating, that is actually one of the beauties in life. Mystery is inherent to the human experience. How much fun would life really be if we already knew what was waiting for us around every corner, or could see what our gift was without first having to unwrap it?

I had always held a romantic view of Alaska. Like many, I was of the opinion that if things ever became exceedingly hectic in the Lower 48, there was always Alaska to run to. I imagined this incredible wilderness where a person could go and still find room to carve out an existence with little more than two hands. I maintained a belief that Alaska was the last bastion of pioneer spirit, the culmination of America's great trail of westward expansion, and in many ways it is.

All idealistic illusions aside, one thing is certain: Alaska is the end of the road, and that road is the Alaska Highway. Commissioned by the United States Army during the early part of World War Two, it continues to be the most amazing feat of highway construction ever accomplished. Its tales could fill volumes, and already have.

Officially, the ALCAN spans one thousand three hundred ninety miles from Dawson Creek, British Columbia, to Delta Junction, Alaska. In reality, it extends the length of Interstate 15 clear on to Fairbanks, passing through the Canadian provinces of Alberta, British Columbia, and the Yukon Territory along the way. It is one of the world’s most magnificent drives, and the road trip of a lifetime for many an intrepid adventurer.

Tok is the first American town on the Alaska Highway, and the road is the community's lifeline. A desolate ghost town when I arrived in February, Tok was a bustle of activity by mid-May. Fast Eddy’s was swamped. A literal army of tourists swarmed the cluster of gas pumps, RV parks, and motels that comprise the city center. They streamed along the Alaska Highway like a string of marching ants.

My original itinerary for the trip south called for another sailing on the Alaska Marine Highway ferry system, from the port of Whittier on the Kenai Peninsula near Anchorage back to Bellingham, WA. The “trifecta”, as Brandi calls it, of minor offenses I have acquired over the years effectively makes me criminally inadmissible to Canada, if you read the literature, which is in part why I chose to ride the ferry north in the first place. Still, passage during the peak of summer tourist season is expensive, and the sailing was scheduled to last ten long days. With that in mind, the ribbon of pavement extending southeast from Tok towards Montana had begun to appear terribly inviting, even after having factored in the poor exchange rate and the high cost of Canadian petrol. The border crossing was only ninety miles away. The worst that could happen was that I would get turned around and be forced to drive back to Tok. If that indeed was the case, I could still catch the ferry as planned, so there was no way I could lose, really. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I woke up early on Father’s Day. After a final sweep of the cabin to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything, I loaded up the huskies and said my goodbyes. Leaving any place always contains its share of sorrow, especially if the experience was meaningful. Never would I forget this place or the things that I went through here. In my heart, I wanted to be back in Montana more than anything and I knew there was no way I was going to stay. Still, I couldn’t help but notice the subtle sense of mourning that settled over me as I closed the cabin door and drove down the drive.

Alaska was everything I thought it could be, and a million other things besides. Turns out, however, that I am not who I thought I was. Places, experiences, relationships; they all reveal things about ourselves we never would have realized otherwise. I didn’t go to Alaska to learn anything about Alaska. Seems I went to Alaska to find out that what I came looking for was back home in Montana.

Circle around a Midnight Sun

The bugs are out in Alaska. Along its circuitous route the sun dips only ever so slightly below the northern horizon, and it never truly gets dark. Salmon are running in the Copper River. Tour buses and RVs have inundated Tok, and motel rates in Anchorage have doubled.

There is a cycle to life. It is undeniable. It ebbs and flows, its flux as constant as the tide, and fighting it is futile.

A member of my dispatch staff, a native emergency hire named Sherlene, asked for a couple days off to put up the sixty salmon she had gotten from a friend’s fish wheel. Although there are a stack of fire records yet to clean up, I couldn’t help but acquiesce. The sustenance the fish will provide through the long cold winter is more valuable to her family than the money I am paying her. The paperwork could wait; the salmon would not. Spreadsheets don’t rot. Everything in its own time.

Like a spawning king salmon, my Alaska run is nearing its end. Monetarily, the experience has cost me more than I have earned, but I don’t believe that was ever really the point in coming. What I have gained is easily more valuable than what I have lost. My immersion in Alaska has been more akin to catharsis; shedding old skin for new. For the kings, the journey upriver contains a much greater sacrifice. Compared to the salmon, I’m getting off easy.