Crossing the Line

The border crossing was much less dramatic than I had imagined it to be. I still maintain that gaining entry from the lower 48 would have posed a greater challenge, but that is mere speculation. The customs agent was quintessentially Canadian, aloof and unconcerned. Her only display of emotion occurred while she was registering my hunting rifle, a simple process that amounted to little more than a very cursory inspection and a $25 fee. The rifle, a Ruger Model No. 1, is a rolling block single shot chambered in the ubiquitous .30-06. “Don’t see many like this,” she noted, twice.

My plan was to limit driving to six hours a day. In theory, that would keep me healthy, allow for lots of stops and side trips, and still get me back to Montana in less than a week. It seemed like a good plan. Of course, plans are always subject to change.

A funny quirk about traveling the Alaska Highway is that it seems like no matter whether you drive straight through at ninety miles an hour or lollygag along at a crawl, the trip takes five days. To be certain, that is a gross oversimplification. When Cousin Tyler and I drove the Highway in 2001, we crushed the route in a brutal 72 hour sprint. Some travelers spend a month on the road. Ideally, a trip along the ALCAN would be about the journey, not the destination. Unfortunately, that has yet to be the case for me.

Another interesting attribute of long drives is that the closer we get to our destinations, the stronger their pull. It’s a phenomenon similar to gravity. Obviously, it doesn’t make much sense to start a drive like the Alaska Highway thinking about its end, and for the most part I wasn’t. That first day I was just thankful to be in Canada and finally on my way home.

Canadian customs is actually situated twenty miles southeast of the international border, just outside the tiny community of Beaver Creek, Yukon Territory. It feels immediately different from Alaska. Sure, mileages are displayed in kilometers and gravy is offered with French fries, but it’s more than that. Although we “Americans” are quick to think of Canada as just an extension of the United States, a strange cousin we’re not willing to admit to as family, it is actually a foreign nation and fully a country unto itself.

It always seems odd to find sub-continental Asians living in the far north, but I wasn’t surprised that the man operating the motel slash café slash gas station where I filled up with my first tank of Canadian petrol was Indian. With that in mind, I misread a bumper sticker in the glass cabinet on which his cash register was placed. “There isn’t one single mosque on the Alaska Highway,” was how I read it. That’s odd, I thought. Upon further inspection, mosque was really mosquito.

My next stop was at a road side rest area overlooking a lake. After the other users left, I let the dogs run. There were quite certainly mosquitoes present, not one single one but swarms of them. When there was no more space to feed on my neck, they tried to fly up my nose, in my ears. I kept after the dogs, and not because they were looking to escape. I had to keep moving or be devoured.

The change from Alaska to Canada is abrupt. Immediately, the terrain was different and more to my liking, the valleys narrower and the mountains closer at hand. The sun was bright, the sky brilliant blue. CBC radio was talking about social concerns, rather than economic ones. I felt better than I had in weeks.

I was proud of Canada for having FM radio in the middle of nowhere, but it was a short lived satisfaction. The CD player in the pickup had died during Brandi's visit, and I was soon hurting for audio distraction. I played the few cassette tapes I had, and then occupied myself listening to looped weather reports on XM radio and scanning the broadcast bands every time I saw a microwave tower.

When I had driven the Highway with Cousin Tyler, I had been surprised by the amount of cell coverage along the route, and that in 2001. In Beaver Creek, I had witnessed a motorcyclist talking on his phone at the visitor center. My phone, on the other hand, hadn’t seen a scrap of signal since I left Tok. At the sight of each hulking red and white striped microwave repeater towering over the route, I powered up the device and checked for service. Each time I was greeted with the same result. Nothing.

I made numerous stops at various attractions: Pickhandle Lake, Kulane Lake, Rancheria Falls. I was shooting for a campground near Haines Junction, but when I couldn’t get a signal there even though I was staring at a young Canadian talking on his phone at the gas pump, I knew I was going to push on to Whitehorse. I topped off the pickup’s tank and bought some groceries at the local market before hitting the Highway once again.

Traveling the Alaska Highway is a journey one has to share. It overloads the senses. The more I drove, the more I longed to talk to Brandi. Huskies are great companions but they are poor conversationalists, other than Tensaw, who speaks a language all his own. Besides having become accustomed to speaking with her regularly, I needed Brandi just so I could decompress.

Whitehorse has a Starbucks. A city of twenty odd thousand, it is the territorial capital of the Yukon. Sixty-six percent of the territory’s population lives in Whitehorse, and I was certain AT&T would have coverage there. Even if they did, I didn’t.

I sent Brandi a text via email through a bootleg wifi connection scabbed off one of the local hotels. Ah, the glories of the modern age. She was emphatic that I call her, so I resorted to an ancient technology, the pay phone. It’s amazing how disconnected we have become from what used to be a fixture. I felt almost foolish standing in front of the convenience store chatting with her. Look at this bozo, I imagined the passersby saying. Backwards American doesn’t even own a cell phone.

We made camp at Wolf Creek campground just a few miles outside of town. It was a nice location, with a nature trail only steps from our site. The mosquitoes weren’t too fierce. After taking a lap out to the overlook and back, grabbing a quick bite, and strumming the pups a few tunes on the guitar, I settled into my bivy and enjoyed the fact that it was actually getting dark.

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.

State of Things

Fire season has finally arrived in Alaska. Broken Snowshoe is burning outside of McGrath, and Tok Area’s very own Old Man Fire has grabbed the number two slot on the National Situation Report. Both burns are near human populations, the only real reason to fight fire in Alaska. Old Man is burning in thick black spruce forest, north of the town of Chicken. A classic example of stand replacement ecology, nothing is going to stop the fire until a heavy rain falls or it exhausts its supply of fuel.

It was only a matter of time. Weather has been warm in Alaska since the beginning of May, and during one particular heat wave early in the month, temps reached record levels. A few systems have moved through, cloudy and cooler but without any measureable precipitation. All that was lacking was an ignition source, summarily supplied by some afternoon thunderstorms over Memorial Day weekend.

Brandi was here for better than a week. It was great having her visit, even though watching her walk off into Fairbanks International Airport was absolutely heart wrenching. We went on several grand adventures, and learned quite a lot about Alaska, ourselves, and one another. Brandi wrote an excellent essay summarizing our exploits, so I won’t share them here, other than these two valuable lessons. There aren’t as many campgrounds along the Parks Highway as one might suspect and always top off your gas tank at every available opportunity when driving across Alaska.

To be frank, Alaska has been kicking my ass. Unless you are in Anchorage, where life is downright cosmopolitan, living here is pretty much an expedition into the wilderness dotted with sporadic internet access and occasional cell coverage. I have run myself almost completely out of gas and fought dark clouds of depression. The dogs have gone native, regressing back to their predatory roots. Tensaw is as fixated as a junkie, constantly sniffing the air and regularly leading the charge in search of rabbit scent and caribou herd. Alaska is an incredible place, but there’s a constant sense of the struggle for survival. Livin' never comes easy here. It’s a battle I feel I wouldn’t win, even if I had a mind to fight it.

Montana is the greatest state in the Union. It boasts every resource imaginable, its wealth of raw materials second only to California in scope and magnitude. If each of the United States was its own country, I believe Montana would boast the wealthiest citizens. Its freshwater reserves alone would seem to dictate as much.

If Montana looked to fulfill all of its own needs from within its own borders, there would be little to want for, and much with which to parley. A fraction of Montana’s current hydroelectric capacity is enough to power the entire state. There is wheat and beef aplenty. Freshwater abounds, including the headwaters of America’s greatest river, the Missouri. The only staples lacking are cotton and corn, with oil, coal, gold, silver, timber and wool as trading stock.

This, however, is not the state of things in Montana. Rather than benefiting Montanans, this abundance of resources is controlled by outside interests, and residents receive little capital gain from them. Land value is exaggerated in Montana, and the cost of living is high compared with the prevailing wage. Little headway can be made by the average worker in the face of foreign capital. Most Montanans scrape by as servants and laborers. They toil to export their valuable commodities for pennies on the dollar, all the while paying market rates for items from their own backyard.

I wouldn't be suprised if one day Montanans take arms against this sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them. Most of us are much too content to rock the boat, and should it be overturned by a violent sea, we would rather tread water somewhere recognizable than paddle into the unknown, so I'm guessing secession is a long way off. Until then, Montana's still the last best place to live, poor in cash yet rich in wide open spaces, and I for one can’t wait to get back there to her loving arms.

Beauty Is Skin Deep

Alaska is beautiful, containing millions of acres of absolute wilderness. Disparages cast by Into the Wild be damned; should one have the sense and the skillset, it is certainly possible to wander into the boreal forest, erect a cabin, and enjoy contended isolation eating moose until the end of your days. Squatter cabins scattered throughout the Tanana stand as testimony to this reality. Even in a civilized metropolis such as Tok, residents live almost completely free of rules and regulation. In fact, working hard not to freeze is really about the only thing required of citizens in Alaska.

Bluebird skies have reigned over Tok these past weeks, and days are quickly growing long. Temps have soared into the high 30s, and the cabin’s roof has sloughed its shroud of snow. One thing I’ve noted here is that temperature truly is relative. Standing outside on a sundrenched 25 degree day is downright pleasant. It doesn’t even require a coat, as long as one has become accustomed to habitually donning the Alaska state uniform of long underwear.

Officially its fire season, but that is a hard concept to take seriously when two feet of snow still covers the ground. Even so, it appears that spring arrives like a freight train around here. I am guessing that I will step out of the office at quitting time one day to find the aspens have put on their leaves since morning.

In an effort to simplify, I’ve taken to spending Sunday afternoon baking my own bread. The first attempt was disastrous; what I created was more akin to a brick than a loaf. This last attempt met with greater success; the dough actually rose, though not much. Next time we’ll try going with less flour and more kneading.

So far my greatest joy in Alaska has been the abundance of dog mushing. I have been to several races and had opportunity to act as handler for several dog teams. At the Tok Race of Champions, I deserted my newly acquired mentor, a local native named Tom Denny, to assist a team of Siberians from Anadyr Kennels. Once the premier sled dog, Siberian Huskies have become the bastard children of competitive dog sledding, dethroned by the faster hound crosses. Anadyr runs Siberians exclusively, and even though their team finished last at the Race of Champions they were the apple of this Siberian lover’s eye. I can foresee an Anadyr dog running with the By Dog team in the future.

The most wonderful thing about dog mushing in Alaska, beyond the sheer abundance of it, is the incredible support. The native village of Tanacross is little more than a handful of homes surrounding a community hall, but they laid out a spread at Friday’s musher dinner that put to shame every potluck I’ve attended in the Lower 48. Nearly the entire village population was on hand to give the collection of local and professional mushers, many of whom enjoy world class status, the warmest welcome possible, though I harbor a suspicion that most of them were only there for the after dinner bingo session.

Yes, it is beautiful in Alaska, but there is a lot more to the place lurking beneath it's grand façade. Nonetheless, it’s gorgeous outside at the moment and the dogs want to run, so let’s leave that part of the Great Land buried beneath winter's melting snow for now.