unat '04--Day Eight (In The Soup)

Lake Kluane, Yukon Territory to Liard Hot Springs, British Columbia.
Today's Mileage: 575 mi.Total Mileage: 4,886 mi.
TT: 11 hrs. TTT: 52 hrs.
QOD: Me: "Man it's hot on this end." Unidentified woman to someone else: "Mmm, it is over here, too."—at Liard Hot Springs.
NON: "A Whitehorse man, traveling in his car saw another man jaywalking downtown and pointed out this fact. The man answered the driver with an obscene gesture. The driver stopped his car and the two began shoving each other. A Whitehorse Police Officer arrived at the scene and the two men were spoken to. No charges were filed."—Verbatim from a Canadian radio report from Whitehorse, Yukon Territory.

Ravens chattering on the shores of Lake Kluane stir me out of the tent. The flap opens to a National Geographic-worthy Arctic Lake ringed by peaks. I walk the .7 kilometre (.58 of a mile, for those of you keeping score at home) to a decked overlook on the lake. The wind is still high and the waves in this immense lake are whitecapping. For a little while, a bird (which Audubon and Andy both identify as a White-Headed Nuthatch), follows me down the path, wondering if there's a little Clif Bar in it for her, but I'm not going for it. I could easily spend a day, six days here, but its time for us to get back on the AlCan. (I say he's ready, but he sleeps for the first forty minutes in the back of the Bronco of Death while I drive. Wise, given that he's been up all night with a stomach ailment and I'm ready to drive).

We stop for breakfast at the Bear Creek Lodge (knew we'd find one somewhere on this trip, right?). The folks are friendly, very Canadian and the prices expensive ($7.50 Canadian for two eggs, $5.78 U.S.). I think the old guy in the corner smoking over his coffee is the owner (or somebody left over from last night). I've been sitting down in my first Canadian restaurant for only about five minutes (that's about seven minutes, U.S.) when we hear Loverboy on the radio. Rush follows soon thereafter. We're definitely in Canada. The young guy cooking and waiting on us (we're kinda early, God Bless them) says they'll board the place up for the winter in the next couple of days. This has been, and will be the condition of most touristy-type places for the majority of the trek—we're late for the tourist season, which makes everything a little more homey and a little less uncomfortable. After all, Andy is one of them now.

The original plan is to take the AlCan only as far as Watson Lake and then swing south along the Cassiar Highway toward the Washington/B.C. border. It's a road that Andy's never driven before and he's looking forward to it. But first, a 250-mile detour to Liard Hot Springs, a stop Andy's jazzed about because he always has to stop there on a trip through. In Watson Lake, we find the infamous Signpost Forest, where there must be thousands of license plates and homemade signs from every continent. Some of the markers are very elaborate (obviously made long before their bearers took their trip) others hastily scribbled on cardboard. Some are sad ("In memory of..."), many are stolen (from the population listed on the Lubbock City Limits sign, it was taken some time in the '80's).

We reach Liard a little after nine. The guy that runs the place remembers Andy immediately from previous visits. For good reasons, mind you. (Note: Mr. Park Ranger will sell you a bundle of firewood for five bucks (about $3.85...oh, f&%# it), if you're ever this way). They trade pleasantries—everybody loves Andy—and $17 for the campsite. We change quickly (I've neglected to bring trunks and will have to live with cargo shorts) and make our way down a boardwalk in the pitch dark. There is no artificial light at Liard, including at the Hot Springs themselves. This will serve to be both a blessing and a curse. Famous for my nightblindness, I've already walked into a railing before we even climb in the water. I then nearly wade into a couple copulating on an underwater bench in the center of the pool (later, Andy comments, "I never noticed," which I believe). Even in the dark, it's beautiful and tranquil, when it's not unnervingly pornographic, that is, and man, it is HOT. After a half hour in the water spent looking at stars, even passing the test of placing a stone on a cairn at the hottest point in the spring, I'm still finding the vibe a bit on the creepy side. It's pretty cold outside the pool, but pleasant in the balance to the hot water and I air dry. Andy eventually joins his wet blanket of a big brother and we make our way back, stinking of sulfur. A dinner of soup, a delicious Alaskan ESB and sleep follow. (Note: there is nothing wrong with you wanting to wear pool shoes into the hot spring. The pebbles at the bottom aren't uncomfortable, but that depends on your sole sensitivity)

I close with a word to those of you that find the above description a little puritan. I have never associated public nudity with perversity. I have no judgment of those who enjoy the occasional nude beach or hot tub. However, the very nature of being naked, is to me, married to a certain foundation of intimacy and safety that I find difficult around strangers. There was only one naked person that night and I didn't even see him. So there. I just don't like standing next to folks humping. Not even at frat parties.

You've been very patient kids, but we're only halfway through the tour. See you soon. Hopefully there are pictures to come, too.