Forests to Farmland

I have burned 474.5 gallons of gas since having first purchased my pickup. I am not sure how many of those were consumed over the course of the 2250 miles that I drove traveling from Tok, Alaska to Hamilton, Montana but I do know that, until I started bucking a twenty knot headwind south of Calgary, the truck had been cranking out its best gas mileage yet, over nineteen miles per gallon. A combination of sub-sixty mile per hour speeds and minimal acceleration had conspired to drop fuel consumption by 33 percent.

I took my own advice on this trip and topped off the fuel tank at almost every opportunity. The needle on the gas gauge never fell below the halfway mark. The most I paid for petrol in Canada was $1.59 a liter at Liard Hot Springs; the cheapest, 91 cents in Edmonton. Gas was $3.25 a gallon in Alaska and $2.65 in Polson, MT. Although I do enjoy simple math, I’m not sure what all those figures add up to, other than the fact that oil and dollars are the predominate factors in every equation calculated along the ALCAN.

Following our night at Wolf Creek, the dogs and I trekked out to the Yukon River once again, then made tracks for Watson Lake. I still hadn’t decided whether I should turn south onto the Cassiar or continue following the Alaska Highway to Dawson Creek. When Cousin Tyler and I drove north on our previous trek, we had taken the Cassiar. It was a shorter route, but more rugged, containing several unpaved, gravel surfaced sections. Mapquest recommended the Highway, and since I had never actually driven the length of it, I tended to agree. It would be nice to have that feather in my cap, just in case I didn’t happen this way again.

Two things were once symbolic of the Alaska Highway: roadhouses and rock chips. On the Highway of today, technological advancement in the form of fuel efficient vehicles and wide well-maintained blacktop has conspired to greatly reduce both. Derelict buildings dot the roadside, abandoned for less solitary environs; the whole point of their existence, to provide services in the middle of nowhere, lost. Chips in the windshield caused by errant rocks flung from spinning wheels are still a certainty, but their impact, in scope and number, has diminished as the old surface has been upgraded to modern standards. I took note of those I gathered, and added them to the running tally I kept of things encountered on the Highway.

Unable to pass up a sign boasting fresh baked cinnamon rolls, I paused at one establishment apparently still able to remain open for business. Diversification in the form of gas service, RV parking, and homemade food kept it viable. I gave the pups some water while I devoured one of their delicious, oven fresh rolls.

It was later than I hoped when I made Watson Lake. I passed on taking the Cassiar and continued into town, hoping for some cell service. Disappointingly, I found none, discovering the infamous Sign Post Forest instead. Not nearly as intrigued by the sight as I, the dogs were left panting in the truck while I wandered through the veritable jungle of scavenged welcome signs and license plates. I was impressed, but not surprised, by the number of Montana cities and counties represented. I spent a good while searching for a Richland, Washington sign to photograph for the McCoys, but, alas, it was to no avail.

After sending Brandi several messages via email and attempting to remedy the nonexistence of my cell phone coverage via a landline call to AT&T, I continued on towards Liard Hot Springs. A particularly “hot” spot to camp along the route, I was a bit concerned that I would find the campground filled to capacity. Fortunately, I was able to snag one of the last two sites and set up camp amidst an almost incomprehensible cloud of mosquitoes.

Stopping at Liard Hot Springs Provincial Park is a must. All the tour books rave about it, and they’re probably right in doing so. I did indeed camp there, but I would feel guilty if I didn't admit to not actually having soaked in the pools. For whatever reason, fatigue, fear, or something even more inexplicable, I simply didn’t feel like it. So I played guitar, fed the dogs, and built myself a hootch out of visqueen to keep the blood suckers at bay. Quite happy with its construction, I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

The next day was the most visually stunning part of the drive. Before leaving Liard River, I topped off the tank. The fine gentleman who sold me the petrol was particularly pleasant for such an early hour, and I soon understood why. “Great day, eh," he extolled. “Gonna have me a beer.”

I stopped at Northern Rockies Lodge and enjoyed an honest cup of coffee on the shores of Muncho Lake. The woman in the café had a German accent, and she gave me the coffee for free. I had packed away my insulated mug and was reusing a Styrofoam cup that had accompanied me the length of the journey from Tok. It had become ugly with coffee stains, and when I offered the woman good money to see it filled, she kindly refused my payment. I tipped her a loonie and continued on down the road.

A short distance later, I encountered a lovely little enclave situated between the Toad and Racing rivers. Several horse herds were pastured here in fields alongside the Highway. One thing that had annoyed me about Alaskans was their staunch dismissal of agriculture. Beyond their personal gardens and the government projects in Delta Junction and the Mat-Su Valley, it seemed they were adamantly opposed to even the notion of harvesting anything other than moose and oil. Given, conditions in Alaska are considerably more harsh than in northern BC, or even the Yukon, but it appeared to me that mindset was the limiting factor, not environmental factors or carrying capacity. Throughout Canada, one observed a certain Continental influence, and it was obvious that settlers, both early and late, found value in husbanding the land.

Stone Mountain Provincial Park is beautiful, filled with glacier carved geography. We took a break near Summit Lake and climbed a hiking trail to the ridgeline. The dogs were mad with animal scent, which was making me madder still. As I paused to photograph them, I noted a lone caribou walking along the roadside below. It appeared as if its arrival at the truck would coincide perfectly with ours. I stepped up the pace and forcefully called the dogs to heel as we made our approach, but all for naught. The caribou had grown wise to his situation, and thankfully fled.

Crossing the Continental Divide, I passed a sign that claimed the last rest stop in four hundred kilometers lie two klicks ahead, and though I remained somewhat dubious of its credibility, I halted nonetheless. A huge RV towing an SUV dominated the gravel parking lot. A man inside was occupied with talking on his cell phone. As I stepped out of the pickup, I was nearly run over by a semi-truck that ploughed into the rest area at a very rapid clip. I took a quick stroll to stretch my legs and got back on the road.

The Highway wound down from the mountains into the Muskwa River valley. I was closing in on Fort Nelson and would be leaving the spectacular part of the drive behind. After this farms and fields, boasting yields of both food and fuel, would rule the landscape. I scanned the radio and found several stations to choose from. Be it isolation or development, mountains or malls, blue sky or rain, no matter where you go, there is always plenty of something.