On Seeing Denali...The "High One"

This Grizzly sow and her cub seem to have found some tasty treasure in this tree.

And on the third day of our visit, our patience was rewarded when Mt McKinley – or Denali, as she is known to the Athabascan people who refer to her as the “ High One” - allowed the cloak of clouds that almost always cover her to fall away. There she stood, all 20,320 feet of her. She rises more than 18,000 feet above the lowlands of Wonder Lake – a greater vertical relief than even Mount Everest.
But, on Friday afternoon, three days after we had arrived at Denali, she showed herself to us.
In the meantime, we had not wasted our time for we had the privilege of seeing five Grizzly Bears, a Lynx, Moose, five Wolves, a Coyote, a Golden Eagle, Snowshoe Hares, Caribou, too many Dall Sheep to even count and, perhaps, the most amazing thing of all: dozens of tiny Arctic Squirrels that are quite unique among all the animals. In the numbing cold of Denali's winter, their body temperature drops to 27 degrees F. Their hibernation is so complete that their blood actually freezes. But they return to life in the spring. Quite remarkable.
When you come here, you are not permitted to drive through the six-million-acre park on your own. This place is so huge it is larger than the state of New Hampshire. This is a preserve, created in 1917 to protect the Dall Sheep. It is necessary to travel on a shuttle bus or to walk into the wilderness. The road is 92 miles long. And the place only begins to yield wildlife when you go beyond the first 20 miles.
We packed our lunch, took a bus,and headed out. Our driver, John, described the park's history, as well as the flora and fauna. He mentioned Lynx but said it was highly unlikely we would see one of these reclusive animals. It was the first animal we saw! Passengers are asked to shout out “Stop” when they see an animal. One man did and when John stopped the bus and asked what he'd seen, he said, “I think I saw a Lynx.” I thought to myself, “Sure you did.” But there she was in the underbrush at the right side of us, slinking along, not that happy to be in our sight. I was unable, in the crush of people aboard, to get a picture but we both saw this massive cat.
But that was just the beginning. We watched and photographed a sow Grizzly and her two or three year old cub as they collected berries about half a mile from us. She even did something John said he'd never even known a Grizzly could do: She climbed a tree to get something that appealed to her. The Grizzly is not designed to climb trees like the Black Bear. Her claws are just too massive and long. But there she was.
We had been warned not to expect Dall Sheep to be too close to the road. These creatures are at their happiest when they cling to an almost vertical face of rock. But we came upon a bachelor group that had decided they'd take up residence on a knob of rock that was ridiculously close to the road.
Moose languished in ponds. They are so large, it would take the pelts of five Grizzlies to cover their bodies.
An Arctic Timber Wolf loped onto the road and looked at us insolently before jumping down the bank and making its way to the Savage River where he joined his mate. What an experience we had. Caribou were everywhere, the bulls and their enormous antlers are still covered in mossy fuzz for another five weeks while they continue to grow.
The next day, we visited the kennels at the park where a ranger explained this is the only national park to have teams of dogs that pull sleds in the wintertime. When the Denali road is closed with the first snows, the dogsled is used by the rangers to cut trails in the park for snow-shoers and skiers. They also are used to haul garbage out of the park – garbage that was placed there by miners back in the 1900s. A twelve-dog team can easily pull 1,300 pounds of material. We were invited to pet the Alaskan Huskies – very friendly dogs that are mutts in that they are a mix through the years of wolf, and all manner of other dogs so that they are bred for long legs, narrow feet and great stamina.

I found this Inuit myth in the kennel:

“The earth split in two and the men and the beasts were separated by a profound abyss. In the great chaos of creation, birds, insects, and four-legged creatures sought to save themselves in flight. All but the dog. He alone stood at the edge of the abyss, barking, howling, pleading.
“ The man, moved by compassion, cried, “Come”, and the dog hurled himself across the chasm to join them. His front two paws caught the far edge. The dog certainly would have been lost forever had the man not caught him and saved his life.”

Later in the day, as we made out way south by 100 miles, we decided to make another foray to view Denali. And there she was in all her pristine glory, with wreathes of cloud moving down upon her. A UFO-type cloud, with a mushroom top, hovered off to her south and the majesty of the moment was breath-taking. We lingered for three hours as we watched the weather work its way back and forth around the mountain and we were able to photograph the mountain and her surrounding foothills with the setting sun until 11:30 at night.

Sunday, June 27
The rains came in the night and that wrapped it up for Denali. We drove south to Wasilla, Alaska. This is the home of Simple Sara, the former governor of the state who has the remarkable ability to see all things in terms of black and white.... no grays.

Striking Gold in Fairbanks

This is the result of our panning for gold at El Dorado Gold Mine.

The truck driver was lonely and wanted to chat. He lives in a man house, he told us. It has seven rooms with three bunks to a room. He misses his wife and his granddaughter and he says, “Money isn't everything.” But it surely helps him.
He told us his story as we sat outside the wi-fi connection at the Border City (Alaska) RV Park. He said he works between 10 and 16 hours a day. He is paid $34.75 an hour for the first eight hours and gets time and a half for anything over that. His lodging is paid for, as well as three meals a day. Tomorrow (Sunday) is steak night, he said with relish. When he heads out, driving his gravel truck, he is given two massive sandwiches for his lunch break.
“The only thing I have to pay for is cigarettes and toothpaste,” he said. So the money is useful. He has paid down half his mortgage on his home back in Edmonton, Alberta. But he still misses the wife and granddaughter.
“Last winter,” he told us, “I just packed up and went home for the dark time. Who needs the money that bad?”
I had asked him earlier in the conversation if he is paid by the shift or the season, or what. “Oh, no. We're all union up here. We're Teamsters. We get paid by the hour for every hour on the job.” And the job includes maintaining his rig. But he'd still not convinced that the money is worth it. “I sure miss that granddaughter,” he said as we left him.

Sunday, June 20
We're in Delta Junction, the official end to the 1443-mile Alaska Highway. The Alaska Pipeline – four feet in diameter, comes through Delta Junction on its way to Valdez, 240 miles to the south. When we parked at a little RV park on the outskirts of this town of 800 souls, there seemed to be no one at the park office. A sign directed me to the next door down and I knocked. A woman's voice called for me to come in. A woman in her 80s sat ensconced in heaps of papers and other debris. I asked about staying the night and she said, “It's $17. Pick any empty site.” She filled out some paperwork for herself and I handed over the cash. I asked if she was English because I detected a slight accent. “I'm Australian. Came here with my husband in 1966. He was Norwegian and I guess he felt Alaska was similar to Norway,” she said. We chatted for a while about Alaska and Australia and then I went back to our rig and picked a level site.
It was a little low at the rear wheels so I switched on our handy-dandy hydraulic jacks and began raising the rear of the rig. Suddenly I had a pink stream of hydraulic fluid gushing from behind the front wheels of the rig. I'd blown a hose. Happily, I was able to retract the half-lowered jacks on the rear. I fretted for a while, then called our road support system. They told me it was not a huge deal, that the driving would be in no way impaired.
We drove to the little town's gas station to see if someone in town could help us with the problem and were told the only guy would be Andy McNabb. We stopped by the Visitor's Center to ask for directions and the 20-something girl behind the desk, suggested I try 24-Hour Collision and Towing. “They taught Andy everything he knows,” the girl said. Sensing a slight conflict of interest, I asked if she was related to the folks at 24-Hour Collision. “That's my dad,” she said. Ah, a little bias here, I thought. But I thanked her and left with the numbers for all of the repair operations in town.
Next morning, I called 24-Hour and the girl's mom told me they could not repair the rig. She suggested I call Andy McNabb, which I did. Andy said bring it in and he could fix it. We did and he did in an hour. We had pinched the hose on one of our mighty hops over the jack-rabbit road into Alaska. We were on the road and on our way to Fairbanks inside the hour.

Fairbanks on Mid-summer's night. The perfect place. Sun sets at 12:47 a.m. And it rises at 2:57 a.m. Length of day: 21 hours, 50 minutes and 13 seconds.

I should mention there is no car or SUV or truck with Alaskan plates up here that does not have a pigtail of an electric plug hanging out the front grille. Every vehicle – EVERY vehicle – sports these to heat the engine block during the heartless -40 degree days that await in the cruel winters. To make life tolerable, you can purchase a device that switches on your vehicle's engine when the oil temperature drops to a specific temperature. The car runs for 8 minutes, then turns itself off. That's technology you won't need most other places.

Tuesday, June 22
We went off on the tourism trail today when we took passage on a stern-wheelers and cruised the Chena River, down to where it joins the mighty Tanana River. At the confluence, you could clearly see the chalky white Tanana meet and swirls its way to the west with the relatively clear Chena. It looked like coffee creamer was mixing with the coffee-colored water. Salmon that were born seven years ago and made their way downstream for they journey to the Pacific would return to the Chena, among other rivers and we marveled at their ability to find their way home to within 50 feet of where they started out – even though the rivers have changed course during their time of travel.

Along the way, we stopped along the river at an Athabaskan village where we were treated to the culture and the lifestyle of these people. We learned, interestingly, there is no word for “goodbye” in the Athabaskan tongue. It is just a word that has no place since it would indicate you'll not return. “Good luck” is used instead.
We were treated to a display of the superb parkas, made by the people. The best of these use wolverine fur because human skin will never freeze when it is covered by wolverine. In addition, caribou, ermine, arctic fox and beaver skins are used.
The boat was nearly full, including many busloads of people who had come up by cruise ship to Skagway and were then moved north and west, via railroad and buses. These folks would travel to Denali National Park, then Anchorage before flying home to the U.S.
We met, also along the riverbank, with the husband of one of Alaska's great mushers – a woman who had three times won the Ididarod Race from Anchorage to Nome. Susan Bucher died recently from cancer after running the 1,000-mile race a total of 17 times. Her husband spoke to us from the bank after demonstrating how he harnesses his dog team to an all-terrain vehicle and exercises them by flying through the bush at 23 miles an hour.

Wednesday, June 23
We continued on the tourism trail by heading out of town to the El Dorado Gold Mine. This is an old mine that you reach by train. We passed through a permafrost tunnel where a miner explained that the safe thing to do is to scrape and dig up the permafrost in the winter months. You drag the frozen dirt to the surface and stack it until the summer months. This is because the permafrost can be carved in the wintertime but if you expose it to the summer heat it will become mud and the mine could collapse.
The miners always are searching for the bedrock where the lode of gold might have found its way.
The old style mining was incredibly destructive to the environment, of course. Streams were rerouted and the mined permafrost was hit by steam that was generated by cutting down all of the fragile trees (fragile because it takes years for a tree to grow up here on a permafrost landscape.
We pulled into the sluicing area and watched demonstrations of panning for gold before being handed our dirt and a pan. Our job was to work our dirt out of the pan and find the grains of gold. Sure enough, I found $25.20 worth of gold and Jo managed to pan $10.10 cents worth. We proudly went to the gold doctor and he was happy to sell us a locket into which we could pour our gold dust. Now that's tourism of the highest order.
We drove back to Fairbanks and visited the amazing Museum of the North at University of Alaska. Very dramatic architecture. Inside, we were able to see only a tiny portion of the museum before power failed and we were required to wait in the lobby. We waited and waited for an hour. Still no lights. So we abandoned this adventure and asked for our money to be refunded.
Before the lights went out, though, I discovered that Aleuts in Alaska were removed from their homes in the out islands of the Aleutian chain of islands when the Japanese bombed Dutch Harbor in 1942. Dutch Harbor, as some of you may know, is the home base for the current crab fishing fleet that is featured in the weekly TV show “Dangerous Catch.”
We decided to head on south from Fairbanks because of the beautiful weather. We want to see Mount McKinley at Denali National Park. We made the 140-mile journey in good time and pulled into an RV campground just north of the entrance to the park. There we met up with two couples also from Florida. I asked them why they are following us!

If this is Kluane Lake, we want to stay forever

Whitehorse, Yukon Territory, is a modern little city of 25,000 people on the banks of the Yukon River. We are in a place called Caribou Campground, on the outskirts, and I am inside a log hut in the campground, lighting a fire and stepping back 155 years.
The hut, built of spruce logs and chinked in the gaps with moss, is offered up by the owners of the campground to help you experience the lifestyle of the early settlers. It is 12 feet wide by 8 feet deep. There are a couple of windows in one corner, and a collection of early stores on the shelves. The firewood is there to encourage you to build your own fire. I get it crackling and the cabin begins to warm up. I sit there, thinking about those early settlers. There's a typed story on the wall that tells about Joe, the pioneer who came up from Seattle back in 1857. He was a loner. But he had a dog named George.
“Joe traveled all by himself. He carried a rifle, a couple of traps, a good knife, some tinned meat and coffee. He'd heard of the countless prospectors up in Dawson City, north of here, the hard job they did and their inability to deal with sudden wealth. He'd heard the only people getting rich in Dawson City were the owners of saloons, the guys selling eggs (one single egg at that time cost $4.00), the prostitutes and the gangsters. No. This was not what Joe was looking for. He wanted to head north to the Yukon to find solitude.
“Joe was a mountain man and not a very outgoing person. The only company he deeply enjoyed was his dog, a mutt. They say his name was George. Joe loved to discuss all sorts of things with his pal, who was a very good listener.
“It took him a long time until he found his place to stay, where he could live peacefully, without being bothered with too many human beings. He lived off the land; he hunted, fished and he collected 'fruits of the north'.”
The crackling fire lulled me and held me in that web of memories. My book fell out of my hands as I sat there by the fire and I dreamed of those early pioneers who defined courage and a willingness to step off the edge of our known world.

We drove into downtown Whitehorse for dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant. Then it was time to do some grocery shopping and then a quick trip back up the road to the campground.

Next day, we wandered through Whitehorse again. This is an interesting enough place, though its interest seems to be less so today than 100 years ago. The stern-wheeler, SS Yukon, sits of the hard along the Yukon River. She'll never move again. When you listen to Canadian Radio, much of the talk is about characters from the past. Today, the town is like so many other places – just getting along. There are lots of aboriginals on the streets. All the others seems to be trying to get tourists to part with their dollars.

Friday, June 18
We rolled north and west on a drizzly day. The mountains to our south are shrouded in clouds. The elk look at us cheekily from the side of the road. One female stuck out her tongue when I stopped the rig to get her picture.
We came to Kluane Lake, halfway between Whitehorse and the Alaskan border, and decided to call it quits for the day. We pulled into a Yukon Territorial campground and found the best site was just being vacated. We took up residency, paid our $12 and watched the view steadily improve as the afternoon sun cracked through. Jo and I went for a hike along the lake and learned we are in a rain shadow area. Only 210mm falls at our campground. Up in the mountains to our west, however, 2,200mm falls each year.
The mosquitoes seem to like this rainless area and they were so thick we felt we could be lifted on their wings. We have invested in a new clip-on device with a fan that throws out a mosquito repellent. IT WORKS! The five million mosquitoes circled around us but none ever landed. Now there's an endorsement.
This area, we were told by the interpretative signs, did not have ice covering it during the ice age back 12,000 years ago. The Elias Mountains, to our west, are a totally different story. They never lose their ice. This is the beginning of the Bering Sea land bridge which allowed our ancestors to make their way across from China, originally Africa.
The Tlingit people who live here now have trails through these mountains. In addition, they have much to teach us about the wild plants that are useful sources of vitamins and nutrition.
We watched as the crystal-clear lake became still and reflected the peaks to our south. What a glorious place this is. We reveled in the beauty and peacefulness. We took another walk, with the sun still riding on our shoulder at 10:30 at night. The still water provided a perfect reflection of the mountains and I was able to get pictures that'll stay with me for the rest of my life.
We did note a sign on our way into the campground that warned tent campers not to camp in July and August because bears will be here in numbers then. They apparently like the soapberries that will be ready during that time.

Saturday, June 19
We came back to the US after a horrendous ride over a heaving highway that shook us and the springs on our rig. The permafrost offers up massive resistance to man's efforts to lay a road over it. For the first time in weeks, we faced a real duel with the highway. We came up on our first rock-n-roll piece of road when we came down a hill. There were warning flags on the side, but we were unprepared for the severity.
The up-and-down motion was like a roller-coaster. We desperately fought to bring the speed of our RV down to 20 miles an hour while we rocked back and forth. Then we found we could maintain 20-25 miles an hour with occasional bursts of speed to 40 when we could see the road ahead. We learned how to navigate by watching the solid yellow line in the center of the highway. As you looked on down the road, it became clear that trouble waited ahead when the yellow line began to buckle and twist. Not a lot of fun.
When we stopped at a rest area, we met a couple in a rental car who had flown from Denmark to Calgary, Alberta. They were driving to Fairbanks and back to Calgary. They shared our wonder at the staggering mountains that stand above us. “We have nothing higher than 500 feet in Denmark,” the Dane said with a laugh.
When we arrived at the US border, a young border agent welcomed us with a smile and asked how we were doing. “Well, pretty much surviving,” I told him and he laughed. “We have the road built this way to keep out the riff-raff,” he said with a laugh.
As soon as we cleared the border, we decided to call it a day and we pulled into an atrocious park that did offer electricity and water, along with rutted pull-through areas and dripping faucets.. We washed down the rig and the car and then tried to realign our spines, hoping that tomorrow will be a better day.
We now have driven 6,150 miles since Florida.

Finding Paradise in the North

This caribou wanders up the side of the hill, alongside our RV. He couldn't decide about the danger of crossing the highway.

Two nights.... two of the prettiest campgrounds we've ever stayed in. The town of Sikanni Chief (it's so small you pass it without noticing it exists) has a river at the bottom of a terrifying down-spiral of highway. We were in 2nd gear and braking hard all the way down. When we pulled into Sikanni River RV Park and got out to register, there was a nasty smell of burning brake lining issuing forth from all four wheels.
The lady at check-in told us she was full but we were welcome to pull into a dry-camping site that was right alongside the river. We checked it out and decided it was the best site in the whole park. The soothing ripple of running water lulled us in the evening. We ran our generator for 90 minutes so we could watch a movie. But the red streaks of the setting sun still lingered in the sky at 11 at night.
There was large animal scat among the river stones and we surmised it was elk. Jo was convinced it would show up in the early morning and she checked at 4 a.m. But no. So we rolled on out at 8 in the morning and began climbing on the loneliest road in the world, it seems. There are no people here, except for gas line workers. They seemed to be housed in deadly mobile home blocks that are jammed together in little clusters every 40 or 50 miles.
Half an hour into our journey, we came across a huge male moose, ambling across the highway. We pulled over to let him pass and, as we moved along, we came to his mate who had been hit and killed about 100 yards up the road. After morning tea break, we came alongside a healthy female elk. She eyed us casually, then wandered into the spruce and balsam trrees at the side of the road.
We arrived in the town of Fort Nelson at 11 on Sunday morning. Last chance to get gas for 355 kilometers, we were warned by a road sign. We stopped and paid $1.239 a liter – that's only 23 percent more than in Hope. It is so remote up here that folks can charge anything they like for anything.
Onward. Jo chose Summit Lake Provincial Park as our stop for the night. What a great choice it is. We are coming through the northern edge of the Canadian Rockies now and we are parked in an Alpine meadow, on the shore of an emerald green lake. Our backdrop is the Rocky Mountain range, snow-covered and jagged. I maneuvered the RV so our million dollar view is visible through the front and side windows. It is nothing short of breath-taking. The weather is sunny, but in a matter of five minutes it changes to rain in gusty wind. Then it is back to bright sun again. Later, as we sat in the cozy RV, the mountains disappeared and we were hit by sleet.
When the provincial parks lady came by to pick up our $16 for the campground site, she told us she has never known such winds to blow up at Summit Lake. Now she tells us. She did say she saw lynx spoor the other morning and she has been bothered by lots of bear. She also pointed out a beaver house 200 yards away from us. She said she is having a terrible job breaking up his dam every few days because it is causing the lake to rise.
Our rig just passed the 55,000-mile mark on its odometer. When we bought it just over three years back, it only had 29,600 miles on the clock. So I think we are getting some pretty good use of our home on wheels.

Monday, June 14
We awoke to howling winds and wondered if it was smart to head on. But we rationalized that the winds were higher because we were so high – 4,377 feet. They would be less in the valley. And so we set off.
This proved to be the case and it didn't take long for us to forget the crisp outside air when we came upon out first Stone Sheep. These are peculiar to northern British Columbia and the Yukon. They have huge eyes and are powerfully built. They showed no fear as we pulled up alongside them on the highway. They seemed more interested in sucking the salts or other minerals from the asphalt.
A few miles farther on we came upon our first caribou – a handsome fellow with a gorgeous rack. He seemed to want to cross the road but was too nervous to make the trip over until after we passed him by.
We crossed Macdonald's Creek, named after a Cree Indian who helped the Corps of Engineers figure out the best route for the Alaska Highway in these parts. Mountains still towered above us to the right and left and we marveled at the endless vistas and beauty all about. We fairly whooped with delights as we approached Liard Hot Springs and came upon a herd of Buffalo. They were heading south with their calves and passed right alongside our stopped rig while we photographed them. We turned a corner in the road and came upon a ptarmigan mother and her brood of chicks, pecking away at the side of the road.
We arrived in Liard Hot Springs Provincial Park and picked out a site that was level and near the springs. After lunch and a nap, the sun came out and we hiked on a boardwalk to the springs. We changed into our bathing suits and stepped into the 110-degree water. It smelled a little of sulphur – but not bad. We found we could move around in the springs and change the temperature of the water by sitting nearer to a small waterful of cold water. Then, if we wanted to cook a little, we found an underwater bench that allowed us to sit nearer to the bubbling water that was coming up from the earth's mantle. Delicious. We chatted with the other travelers and met a couple of ladies from Yuma, Arizona, and Denver, Colorado, as well as a couple who had driven up, for the first time, from Vancouver. They could not believe the size of their province. It is huge. It seems to be the equivalent distance of driving from Florida to Connecticut. We are very close now to the border of Yukon Territory. That's when we pass the 60th latitude.

(Measurement lesson: 0 degrees is the equator. 90 degrees is the north pole. Each degree of latitude equals 60 miles. Each minute of latitude equals 1 mile. And there are 60 minutes in a degree of latitude. As a result, when we pass 60 degrees of latitude, we are 5 degrees higher in latitude than Edinburgh, Scotland. That means we are 300 miles farther north than that city. New York City is at 40 degrees north latitude, so it is 1,200 miles south of where we are.)

Tuesday, June 15
We passed a brown bear this morning on our way to Watson Lake in Yukon Territory. The road was rough, with lots of frost heaves. In one section, it had been completely torn up by the road crews and we were stopped for 15 minutes while they moved traffic through from the other direction.
Watson Lake's claim to fame – and it really is fame – is the signpost forest that has been erected by RV-ers at the western side of town. There are about 72,000 signs in the forest, mostly with the names and towns of the people who have stopped by and left their mark. Some are poignant, like Cindy Barber's, from Florida: “Lord, please let me get back home.”

John and Eva Wood of Grandby, Texas, on their sign said “Where Jesus is Lord'. We found one special sign: “In Loving memory of Precious, world's most traveled cat and cherished traveling companion 16 years who bailed out on the Alaska Highway Mile Marker 404-422, May 1997. Loved, missed and never to be forgotten.”

We wandered through this wilderness of signs, many of them taken from hometown highways in addition to old license plates from every state. Quite amazing. The forest was started back in 1942 by Carl K. Lindley, a U.S. Army soldier who put up the first sign in 1942.
Later we wandered over to the Northern Lights Centre, where we watched a display of the Aurora Borealis which we won't see in person since it doesn't get dark enough in the summer months. We now have light for 22 hours each day.

Dawson Creek: Mile "0"

Passersby photographed us under the Mile "0" sign in Dawson Creek, BC

A batch of unemployed firemen came up to Hope, B.C., from San Francisco 155 years back. They came by canoe up the Fraser River. Based on what we saws of the Fraser, it must have been awfully quiet back then. Today, this week, the Fraser is a roiling, angry river that whirls its way down to the Pacific. The firemen stopped on an island across from Hope and they idly panned for gold in the gravel there. Eureka! They started to pull out nuggets from the gravel and the rest is history for this quiet little corner of the world.
Thirty thousand gold miners descended on Hope and built their tatty shacks along the river. They never did find the mother lode. But they took lots of gold out of these parts. The Indians were friendly, not knowing what lay in store for them. They traded for metal axes, rifles and other goodies. But the white guys did what they always have done: they grabbed the Indian lands.
Now Hope is a peaceful place that makes its reputation from outstanding chainsaw carvings. There are about 60 carvings all over town and the quality of work is world-class.
We left the town in a pouring rain. Jo and I dithered back and forth about which road to take to the north. Advice from our friends suggested we go the Provincial Highway No. 5. It is essentially a limited access road through the mountains with limited pullouts. Our book about driving to Alaska suggested Route 1, which runs up the Fraser River Canyon, through Hell's Gate and on northward. It is much narrower. While we were unplugging the rig at our First Nation campground, we still had not decided. Then, when we pulled out onto the highway we had to decide to go right to PH5 or left onto Highway 1. We went left. As Robert Frost said about coming to where two paths diverged in the woods, we took the path less traveled – and it made all the difference.
The rains disappeared. The sun broke through and we came through this delightful highway with only one incident while Jo was driving. An oncoming truck pushed her over to the edge and I saw my life flash before my eyes as we came within two inches of touching the rock face at the edge. We came out onto a high plateau at Cache Creek. This is described as desert-like. But the farmers here have spent a fortune on irrigation and the fields were thick with healthy alpha-alfa and other crops.
We rested in Cache Creek for the night and met up with a pair of campers from North Carolina. They described their adventures thus far: coming farther west than us, through Nevada and California. We told them we'd see them along the route north.
Tuesday morning, we awoke to blissful sun and headed out for Williams Lake. Lots of construction along the highway.
We came to 100 Mile House. Now, you might imagine this is a lonely outpost in the wilderness. But no. It was at one time, of course. Now it is a thriving little town, with gas stations and three supermarkets. Along the route, we see ranches that are named 103 mile Ranch, 108 mile Ranch. 100 Mile House used to be a way station for fur trappers coming down to trade their catch. Now it services anyone with a need.
We came to Chief Will-Yum's Campground on the outskirts of Williams Lake and were delighted to stay again at native American RV parks. We perched on a hill overlooking the lake. The chief sells gas below the camp.
Now we are beginning to experience the long twilight of the north. There's still light in the sky at 10:30 at night. And dawn breaks awfully early.
We parked at Prince George, one of the few places we will see coming and going on our trip. Prince George is a city of 80,000 and has all the supplies anyone would need. We drove right on through, since we are as well equipped as we can be. We climbed through the Canadian Rockies and ran into slow traffic because of construction on the highway. But to park in a rest area with the vista of the Rockies out our side window is really something special. We are high in the mountains and we look down on a pristine lake with Douglas Firs covering the little islands in the lake. We had this million dollar view to ourselves before descending into Chetwynd to the east.

Friday, June 11
Chetwynd looks like a million other little towns in North America. But some smart guy thought about holding a chainsaw wood-carving contest each year and the place has built a reputation for quality work. As a result, chain-saw wood-carvers come from Japan, Germany, Slovakia, as well as places like Connecticut, Oregon, Massachusetts and British Columbia.
We are lucky to have been able to stop on Day 2 of the 4-day contest. As a result, we were able to watch the carvers working away on the initial shaping of their designs as well as photograph the results from earlier contests. It really is quite astonishing to see the amount of detail and expression these guys are able to coax out of the trunk of a tree. You can see the work at our photo album site.

We drove for an hour to Dawson Creek, which is designated as Mile “0” on the Alaskan Highway. This 1,543-mile road was built in eight months back in 1942 when the U.S. realized it needed to protect its Alaskan frontier from the Japanese who had already landed on some of the islands near Dutch Harbor in the Aleutian chain. The Army Corp of Engineers brought 11,000 men up to Dawson Creek and rammed the road through in record time. It was essentially a winter road because, with the melting ice of summer, many of the bridges were knocked out. But this remarkable feat opened up the Alaskan frontier. They continued to strengthen the road during the next two years and made it an all-weather highway.
Dawson Creek is a funny little town. It used to have a population of 400 before the highway was built. Now there are thousands of people here. Lots of supply stores to cater to the needs of the travelers. You see license plates from all over the lower 48 states. Prices are ridiculous, however. A small bottle of Goslings rum goes for $32.99, instead of the $13 I've seen it for in Florida. Wine is prohibitively expensive. Even boxed wine sells for $45 up here.
We are in a campground that calls itself Mile “0” even though it is actually one mile up the road. It is full because there's a caravan of RV-ers leaving in the morning on a guided journey to Alaska. These tours costs around $8,000 per RV and are designed to give comfort and support to those who are nervous about making the journey from the more populated south. But many folks are just like us. They are striking out on their own and we expect to see them along the route.

Falling in Love with Vancouver

Bald Eagle protects its dinner at the side of a country road on Mayne Island, off Vancouver.

Okay, folks. Cards on the table. We've pretty much fallen in love with Vancouver, British Columbia. This is a world-class city...Not only is it spectacularly beautiful, being nestled under the mountains to the north, it is utterly international, very clean, with great, great parks, beautiful trees, green, green, green because of the dampness. Maybe that's the only downside to Vancouver: There's rain on a daily basis. Not lashing, grinding rain. More like a misty rain that feels pretty good on your skin.

Jo and I have driven and walked the city. We have wandered through the amazing parks with laburnum trees that are totally coated in yellow, dripping blossoms. We have talked to the giant Redwoods and towering Douglas Fir trees. But, as always, it is the people who are the standouts.

We were on Granville Island last week and had wandered through a thousand shops filled with aboriginal art. We were beginning to sag and ordered a lunch at the Indian food booth. I took my buttered chicken and lentils and rice and veggies and nan to our little table, then I left to get coffees. When I returned, Jo was chatting with a woman of our age who asked to join us in the crowded eating area. Emily had emigrated from Newcastle, England, a year before I came to the U.S. She'd come directly to Vancouver in 1960 and had lived on the main street back then. “There were so few cars, only one every few minutes came by our house,” she said. Believe me that is not the case today.
Emily said she and her husband had lived in a VW bus for two years before coming over. They had land-trekked from England to the continent and had made the overland passage through Europe and Asia to Afghanistan, Iran, Pakistan and ended up in India. This is an impossible land journey today because of the strife.

Vancouver is very much an Asian city today. No matter where we walked or drove, we were conscious of being in the minority. Everywhere you look are Koreans, Japanese, Hong Kong Chinese, Filipinos, Malaysians and Indians. The population of Hong Kong Chinese is so high the city sometimes is called Van Kong or Hong Couver.

Jo and I are staying with friends who originated in Scotland. Scott works for a security firm as their top salesman. His wife, Linda, is a teacher. Both have retained their Scottish accent. They live in luxury in one of the best parts of the city in a seven-bedroom home. Our rig is parked on the street outside, probably bringing down property values as we linger here.

Their two sons and daughter have been giving Ting a workout. In addition, this is her first experience of living in a real bricks and mortar home, with stairs and wooden floors that allow her to slide at will. She is in the best physical condition of her life with all the exercise.

We left her in the rig on Friday and Saturday while Jo and I took off on an adventure aboard the ferry system for two days. We cruised the Straits of Georgia, through the islands and came to Mayne Island where by the greatest coincidence in the world, we met up and stayed with my old landlord from Namibia in Africa. Frank and Helga Zellner are retired now and enjoy life on this lovely island. On a drive around the perimeter road, we came upon a massive bald eagle, eating the remains of a baby deer that had lost a battle with a car or truck. The eagle hunched over the deer to protect its food supply from two turkey vultures who seemed to think they should get in on the action. I left the car to edge closer and the vultures took off, followed by the eagle, which spread his enormous and powerful wings and flew off to hover overhead until we drove off. Beautiful sight.

As we returned to the mainland, the sun had burned off all the clouds that have been shrouding the massive mountains range behind Vancouver. Our panorama view of the snow-covered peaks was breath-taking as we cruised across the straits.

Scott told us, when we got back, that he'd gone out to the RV to bring in Ting for some play time with the kids (and him!). She slipped between his legs, however, and escaped into the street. She disappeared under the rig and Linda said her life flashed before her eyes as she imagined having to tell us Ting had been lost to traffic. The cat eventually came back out from under the RV and Scott pushed her back inside it and locked the door. Enough was enough.

On Sunday, June 6, we left our Scottish-Canadian hosts, bundled up our cat and headed east to the town of Hope. B.C. where we parked for the night in a First Nations campground. This is how Canada refers to aboriginal Indians. We parked on the banks of the raging Fraser River, roaring along at about 10 knots. Our rig faces the river and we are in an idyllic spot.

Now that we have headed out from Vancouver we are at that part of the journey where we think we have come a long way. But it is just a tiny part of the journey we now face as we climb north into the wilderness of British Columbia and the Yukon Territory. It reminds me of the quotation from Sir Winston Churchill: “Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”

Tomorrow, we head north. North to Alaska.