Taking the Long Way Home

There is a lot to be said about the journey, but sometimes it is only a prelude to the rest of the story. The beauty of an expedition is that, unlike the journey through life, we know where it begins, which direction it will take us, and, most importantly, where it ends. That sense of certainty allows us the luxury of having time to smell the roses. Conversely, our lack of that knowledge is what makes it so difficult to do so in life.

The road from Fort Nelson, British Columbia, to Edmonton, Alberta, passes through the heart of Canadian oil country. It is a pleasant enough path, if you don’t mind the constant reminders. As I was being conveyed across two thousand miles by an internal combustion engine, I wasn’t about to point any accusatory fingers at the oil pump jacks, natural gas wells, pipelines, or refineries. And though not particularly attractive, it was actually a pretty awesome sight.

I took a break in Fort Nelson and had a real sit down meal at the Fort Nelson Hotel. The café offered free internet access, so I surfed around a bit, wrote Brandi, and updated my status on Facebook. After lunch I strolled down to the office of the local telecom provider. When I asked if he had any insight as to why my phone didn’t work, a young man there informed me that I would have to wait until I got a bit closer to the States. Although frustrating at the time, this was a good thing I later learned upon receiving my bill.

There were “Caution: Bear in Area” signs posted throughout the campground at Charlie Lake where we stopped for the night. I weaved the dogs’ leashes into a makeshift gangline and walked the nature trail down to the lake. I soon discovered three dog power is quite a bit more than one human power. When we twice encountered other dogs along the path, it was all I could do to hold the huskies back. Being isolated in the truck canopy had taken its toll on them, and they were anxious for interaction. Tensaw showed particularly poor form, tangling himself in the leads while performing howling backflips.

Having backpacked solo for years, I don’t own a tent, preferring the weight savings of a space blanket bivy. Made nervous by the bear signs, I had arranged my sleeping gear directly behind the truck and left the canopy door open while I slept, thinking that the dogs would warn me of any animal’s approach. I realized my error when I awoke in a terror, mindlessly leaping to my feet after feeling a paw upon my back. The dogs were tearing through the underbrush. It took a few seconds before I understood they weren’t after a bear, and that what I had felt was one of them landing on me as they launched themselves after some rodent. I collected my wits along with the dogs and shuttered them inside the truck before drifting off to sleep once more.

The following morning I drove the short distance into Fort St. John. Finally having found its voice, my cell phone made quite racket as it was inundated by a deluge of pending messages. I phoned Brandi and reveled in the fact that I could once again contact her at my leisure.

My next stop was the end of the line, sort of. Officially, the Alaska Highway has its beginnings in Dawson Creek, BC. I stopped there for some time, taking pictures of the dogs at the welcome sign like a true tourist. I talked to Brandi through her lunch break and felt my feelings about the journey pass through a metamorphosis. I wasn’t driving the Alaska Highway anymore. I was driving home.

Long periods behind the wheel were beginning to wear me down, so the dogs and I took every opportunity to stretch our legs. They were beginning to lose interest in obeying my commands; at a park outside of Grande Prairie, they assaulted a group of picnicking locals. A stop at Williamson Provincial Park was assured, but Blue lost her privilege to walk off leash almost immediately. As the day wore on, I looked more and more fondly upon the prospect of halting travel for the day.

The map showed numerous campgrounds on the road between Valleyview and Whitecourt, but somehow I missed them all. Panicking slightly, I turned south on a minor route and drove to a campground on the McLeod River. A sign at the entrance informed me that it was full. Distraught, I again checked my map. The nearest campground was another thirty kilometers away.

A call from Brandi helped check my disappointment and I wandered down a rural route towards Pembina River Provincial Park. It was nearly full as well, and I was extremely fortunate to find a campsite. The dogs had finally lost it and threw themselves against their tieouts as I tried to feed them. Exhausted, I threw myself on the ground and slept hard.

It was early when I pulled into Edmonton the next morning. I knew the West Edmonton Mall would be closed at this hour but I wanted to witness it anyway. From the outside, it was less impressive than I imagined. I bought a cup of coffee at Starbucks to help ease myself back into civilization before braving the four lane south.

Mapquest told me the quickest path to Hamilton was down I-15 through Helena. By the time I made Calgary, I was beginning to have my doubts about the route. The wind was howling off the east slope of the Rockies, and I swear my hand was bruised from gripping the steering wheel against the gale. When I stopped for fuel in Nanton, I’d had enough. I turned the truck west into the mountains.

I had been eyeing Fernie since the beginning of the trip. For some reason, I knew I was going there all along. My plan was to call my buddy JP when I arrived; if I reached him, I would push on to Eureka. If not, I would get a room in Fernie and clean up some before setting out on the final leg.

One nice thing about being an American traveling in Canada is that all the distances along the roadside are displayed in kilometers, and our minds think in miles. The klicks ticked by much quicker than miles did. I was in Fernie before I knew it, with the added benefit that the drive over Crowsnest Pass was much prettier than the plains had been.

Johnny Paul didn’t answer at first, but he soon called me back. After the vast distance I’d already traveled, the hop, skip, and jump to the port at Roosville was over in a flash. The jackbooted customs agent tried his best to be antagonistic, but his heart wasn’t in it. He fondled my passport for a while before glumly waving me through.

Although not quite home, I was back in Montana, and on the Kootenai no less. The night spent with Des and JP made for a good transition, and we spent it in our typical fashion, ranting about the Forest Service while my huskies jousted with his retrievers. When I left there in the morning I got a bit off track and wound up following a logging road the back way to Trego. This unplanned side trip timed my arrival in Whitefish perfectly.

Brandi was at Flathead Lake, camped on Wild Horse Island doing field research. We made plans to meet at Big Arm State Park where her boat would land. I stopped at Elmo and let the dogs have a good long run, preparing myself for the reunion with her.

Her boat was late, which was good, because it gave the butterflies in my stomach a chance to calm down some. Brandi always gives me butterflies. These ones were in a particular frenzy after two thousand miles, but when she leapt from the boat and tore up the dock to greet me, they completely disappeared.