Yukon River

Yukon Impression

Yukon Impression

Yukon Impression

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Monday, December 16th, 2013 Landscapes II No Comments

12. The Haul Road

The road north from Fairbanks to Prudhoe Bay is generally referred to as the Haul Road, and is primarily used by truckers who carry the supplies for the oil fields on the North Slope. When I was there, the general public was permitted to about the halfway point near the small truck stop community of Cold foot. If you had legitimate business at Prudhoe Bay you could get a permit to go the full distance, but I was unable to convince the authorities that peddling art to the oil workers was a legitimate business. Consequently, I would have to turn around just south of Atigun Pass in the Brooks Mountain Range. That point is, however, some 60 miles above the Arctic Circle so it would be an accomplishment of sorts.

The road parallels the Alaskan Pipeline, and tends to be quite straight. It goes up and over things like hills instead of trying to go around them. It is not paved except with very coarse gravel making for a rather rough ride. All the literature I read recommended two spare tires for this road so I tried to purchase an extra spare at several auto wreckers, but I didn’t have any luck. Finally, I decided to take my chances. All my tires were new, and I resolved to drive slowly.

At that time of year (June) it was quite dry and the road, in addition to being rough, was also very dusty. The dust tended to collect in the low spots between the hills, and I worried a little about my rear engine van breathing all the dust stirred up by the front wheels.

The first evening found us at the Yukon River again. A truck stop near the bridge had an area for camping. If nothing went wrong, the Arctic Circle could be reached the following day. I asked at the truck stop restaurant if the two Germans had passed through yet, as this spot is down stream from the town of Circle, but apparently they hadn’t got that far yet.

A Bend in the Yukon

A Bend in the Yukon

I called Evie to relay some information that the Pacific Art League in Palo Alto needed. She admonished me for not doing any art work. I told her I hadn’t had time yet and she said, “What do you mean? You’ve got nothing but time.” Funny, it didn’t seem that way. I felt like I had been pretty busy. I’d been writing in my journal and corresponding (which you can do inside away from mosquitoes). I was reading a book. I was peddling my prints. I had been driving, exploring, and keeping house (or van). Sometimes I went for hikes and I took lots of photos. However, she did make me feel defensive so I did a sketch to ease my conscience.

Also about this time I started to get a little worried about Georgia. Her personality was changing. She was definitely hearing “the call of the wild.” She was becoming more and more adept at catching things, and she went wandering in the woods for longer and longer spells. When she came back she was like a different cat. Her eyes were wide and her fur fluffed up and she was very excited and hungry. I don’t think she was eating the things she caught, but maybe she was. When she was out and I called her I got no response. She was either ignoring me or too far away to hear me, or both. I just had to wait it out until she decided to return. This had delayed me on several occasions already, and I was forced to entertain the thought for the first time that I may lose her before the trip is over.

If I tried to keep her in when she wanted to get out she would dash around the van staring out the windows and meowing until I finally relented. If I was trying to sleep she would walk on me meowing till I gave in. The more I tried to keep her in, the longer she would stay away when she did get out. So that was obviously not the right tactic. I didn’t want her to think of the van as a prison. All the state parks posted rules saying pets must be kept on a leash or under positive control at all times. That may be fine for a dog, but Georgia would probably have strangled herself in the first five minutes. She has never worn a leash, and I didn’t own one. If I had tried to make her wear a leash and she got loose, that would be the last I’d see of her, for sure.

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Monday, September 7th, 2009 Chapters 11 — 20 No Comments

20. Going South

The ferry trip between Whittier and Valdez was punctuated by a short side trip to the Columbia Glacier which comes right down to the sea and breaks off or “calves” icebergs. It must be miles wide at the face and 200 feet high. On the floating ice in front of the face could be seen hundreds of harbor seals Sunning themselves. The ferry, E.L.BARTLETT, moved right in close pushing ice floes aside as it went. You could hear them scraping along the hull. At about 10:00 PM the Sun was still up but low in the sky, it cast a golden, slanting light over the whole scene. The visual impact was stunning.

“The Sun was shinning on the sea

Shinning with all his might:

He did his very best to make

The billows smooth and bright

And this was odd, because it was

The middle of the night.”

Lewis Carrol

The Walrus and the Carpenter

This was probably the most spectacular of many spectacular sights that I saw in Alaska.

Arriving in Tok on July 12th completed a big loop inside Alaska. Unfortunately, I arrived on a Saturday and had to wait until Monday to pickup my mail, but I found a KOA with shower! laundry! and car wash! so I was able to get everything reset to zero again before continuing south.

I also checked on the Tok fire station as a favor to Dot Bardarson. She had sold several watercolors to the State of Alaska to be hung at that location and asked me  to see if they were actually on display. They were, indeed, prominently displayed in the station’s office and the staff was highly complimentary. I mailed a postcard to Dot with this news. We artists need our positive feedback.

I was limping about my campsite in Tok when I noticed the couple at a camp site nearby had a rig identical to mine. It was the same year, color, everything. Naturally, we had to compare notes and we were soon chatting away in a friendly fashion. I said I was from Palo Alto when he inquired and he said he had spent time there while attending the University. At that time my daughter, Deanna, was attending Stanford, and I had a cousin on the faculty, so we had more to talk about than just our vans. In addition, we had both been discharged from the service (marines in his case) at Treasure Island in San Francisco. It turned out he was a doctor (Gaylord Clark, M.D.) and an orthopedic surgeon.

I don’t believe in miracles and think the vast majority can be explained simply as low probability events or coincidence. But if I did this would certainly qualify. After all what is the probability that I would run into an orthopedic surgeon in the wilds of Alaska two days after a serious knee sprain. I told him what had happened to my knee and he gave it the once over. “Yes, you’ve got water on your knee all right and its probably going to be a while before its fully recovered.” Of course, there was nothing that could be done under the circumstances other than a superficial diagnosis.

He was certainly right about the time required to heal. I drove all the way back from Alaska with my left foot working the pedals and my right leg stretched out on the passengers side. Even after returning, I slept for several months with a pillow under my right leg to keep my knee flexed, and twenty years later, as I complete this writing project, I still feel occasional little twinges from that knee.

On July 15th I crossed the Yukon River again. That made three times we had met up at three widely separated locations. David Cornberg told me you are supposed to urinate (euphemism) in the Yukon. Its part of the mystique of the country to mix your waters with that great river, its traditional. . .  I honored the tradition.

This third meeting took place in Canada’s Yukon Territory, beautiful country. I was learning to identify the trees that grow in the far North; white spruce, willows, alders, aspens, birch, and cottonwoods. There are others but these seem to predominate. I camped for the night at Teslin Lake which is long and narrow and parallels the Alaskan Highway for a considerable distance. Very few people lived in that region. I imagine its pretty severe in the winter, and in July, I can tell you, the mosquitoes are out in full force.

At this point, I spent a lot of time studying maps to decide which way to go after my mail call at Prince George. The distances were much greater than I had realized. All the miles covered by ferry on the way up now had to be traversed on the road. I could go more or less straight south and connect with I-5 at the Washington State border, but I’d been down I-5 several times before and I wanted to see something different. The other choice appeared to be the Yellowhead Highway toward Calgary.

On the 18th I finally got off the Alaskan Highway and onto Hudson’s Hope Loop. It ran through the scenic Peace River Valley. Here the land was pastoral interspersed with forest. I found a spot down by the river in a steamy, lush, bucolic setting. Because of a noticeable lack of mosquitoes, I got out my shorts and decided to chop some wood for a campfire that a previous party had left. I was working with my shirt off to get some Sun, and as soon as I set to work, a cloud came over and it started to rain. “Okay,” I thought, “I’ll wash the van instead.” But no sooner had I got out my brush and started to work than it stopped raining, and remained cloudy, very perverse weather. It was still warm so I limped down to the river with my wastepaper basket. I figured if I could take a bath out of a plastic basin the van could get washed out of a plastic wastepaper basket. It’s definitely the hard way to wash a van and took a number of trips. I did manage, however, to get enough of the Alaskan Highway off that I could once again see its deep rich brown.

I arrived in Prince George, B.C. on Sunday, July 20th and decided to stay at a KOA in order to get a shower and do some laundry. At this point I started to experience some night again. I could see stars, but even so there was still a dull glow to the north at midnight like the loom of a large city.

I picked up some mail the following day and then headed east on the Yellowhead Highway to connect with the Icefields Parkway through Jasper and Banff National Parks in the Canadian Rockies. The scenery between Jasper and Banff is spectacular! It was well worth going a few extra miles to see. The Canadian Rockies are definitely the real thing! I had hoped that Banff would have some galleries. When I arrived, my first impression was of a tourist spot on the order of Carmel, California, but with a Rocky Mountain setting. The setting is beautiful, however, there are no galleries. Except for the museum, there were only a few gift shops and native craft outlets that called themselves galleries, none of the real thing. I looked in a phone book but there were no yellow pages. I hiked all over town until my knee hurt so much I had to stop. Then I drove around some more. I still don’t understand why, but it had been the same story in Jasper. One reason I had decided on this route was the prospect of some needed art sales. Expenses were ahead of income again and this time they were way ahead.

In the morning I got into a driving mood. Walking was still painful. I drove 450 miles and crossed the border into the USA at the panhandle of Idaho. Immediately after crossing the border I ran into a storm. What a welcome home. . . thunder and lightning, rain, hail, and wind! But I kept on and soon my traveling companion the Sun came out again. There is a not so subtle difference between the two sides of the border at this crossing. The Canadian side is mainline B.C., but the U.S. side is backwoods Idaho. Another difference was the prices. I had dinner in Bonner’s Ferry, Idaho for half what it would have cost in B.C. even considering the exchange rate.

Driving down #95 through a series of small towns I began to notice the churches. I saw Mennonite, Seventh Day Adventist, Pentecostal, and Southern Baptist. With the possible exception of the last, these are not exactly main stream denominations. A number had signs in front announcing the subject of the next sermon. There was a strident quality to these messages very unlike the gentle faith of the farming couple from Nebraska. Then there was the large billboard that read:


All of this, together with the fact I had just entered the U.S. from a foreign country, started me thinking about the parallels between interpersonal and international relations. The eventual result can be read here.

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Monday, September 7th, 2009 Chapters 11 — 20 No Comments