unat '04--Day Nine

Liard River Hotsprings Provincial Park, B.C. to Dawson Creek, B.C.
Today's Mileage: 477 mi.Total Mileage: 5,333 mi.
TT: 10 hrs. TTT: 62 hrs.
Quote of the Day: "We are here and you are not. Now you are here and we are not."—Appropriately existential sign from Las Vegas in the Watson Lake Signpost Forest
News of Note: "James Says Campbell Needs More Women"—Headline in The Province (I don't know who this Campbell person is, but he needs to get in line behind Snoop Dogg)

While the time in the hot spring eased some of my aches and relaxed me, my knees hurt by the time the squirrels wake me (about 7:30). When I rise and strike the tent, I don't realize that Andy's had a bad reaction to dinner and didn't fall asleep until late, so we agree it will be a late start today. So I elect to wander the Provincial Park, which is filled with equal parts seniors in RV's and outdoorsy folks in their twenties (some nippies, others are departing wilderness workers like Andy.

The entrance to the Park that we've camped in faces a set of foothills (what we, in Texas call "mountains") that run concurrently to the Liard (the frenchy-french word for the river-hugging poplars everywhere) River. The highway's been following the Liard since Watson Lake, and as night fell, we looked over the guardrails at what The Milepost tells me are Class IV rapids below. Andy's friend the Park Ranger tells me that nearby patches of soapberries have prompted numerous brown bears to line up in these hills like Rotarians at a Sizzler. Bears, bears everywhere and in four days, I haven't seen one. I've seen an occasional doll sheep, a caribou and a lot of scrawny squirrels and ravens. I'm not complaining about the scenery, mind you. It has been late fall for the entire trip and the foliage has been, well, the word "remarkable" really doesn't get it. The vastness of these spaces, the animus of their 'wildness' (I can't come up with a better word) is palpable. And overwhelming.

Traveler's Note: Just because you purchase a phone card that says it works in Canada, doesn't mean that's actually so. Check it (by calling the number attached before you leave) and make sure it works. As I try to dial from the payphone at the park entrance, my level of frustration is palpable. Rookie mistake—don't make it.)

Eventually my brother rises and we break camp and make our way back to the hot spring. In the daylight, the creepy factor is gone—those indulging the waters include families with kids, seniors and a couple that worked at Denali. The deeper hot spring farther up the trail is closed (due to those gluttonous bears, of course) and a gate blocks the boardwalk. We elect to go under the fence and bravely march up the trail (though we're both making a lot of hopefully ursine-frightening noises). Andy's right, this pool is great. It's deeper and a little cooler than the man-made spring down the hill. It's also covered with leaves (after all, it is supposed to be closed). An older lesbian couple joins us and we chat and swim. Apparently they're making their way back to Alaska after summering in the lower 48 (I'm not sure why). I finally get out after cutting my foot on a sharp rock (see shower shoe note, though they don't work too great when you're swimming), smelling even more like the sulfury Devil himself.

Getting back on the AlCan, we encounter a reversal of fortune (and a chance to improve my karma). Passing the Liard Hotsprings Lodge, we're ready to backtrack to Watson Lake and assault the Cassiar Highway. Frankly, a long, late day of driving isn't anything new and the Cassiar Range is something new for both of us. But Andy recognizes a truck and trailer of another Denali alum parked in front of the lodge. Peter and Shannon, a couple from Pennsylvania, greet us warmly. I seize this opportunity to right a previous wrong—I forgot to tip the waitress/attendant (whom everyone seems to call "Happy") for my coffee. Knowing that the Cassiar will be the most challenging stretch of road so far, I balance the harmonic scales with a five-spot.

But we're not going to take the Cassiar after all. Peter and Shannon (who are heading for Washington just like we are) have heard the same stories about excessive rain along the highway that we've been hearing for three days. Washouts, delays, etc. In an instant, the trek stays on the AlCan all the way to its beginning in Dawson Creek.

A Caribou buck, his harem and a couple of their youngsters stand in the middle of the road along the Liard River. The road winds dramatically through the Stone range of the Northern Rockies. After about three hours we drop out of the mountains and you're struck again with a recurring (and remarkable) feature of the Great Northwest—the collision of the extravagantly pastoral with the abruptness of the industrial. Refineries and turbines rise from frosty rivers with immense snowy peaks in the backround. Long after dark (but under a filling moon), we arrive in Dawson Creek. (Note: It is NOT "Dawson's Creek." Do not incite the anger of the residents by confusing them with the overrated WB drama). This city is a great example of this clash of manmade/Godmade vistas I'm describing. By day, this town is wrapped in the light of beautiful country. By night, under the lights of commerce, it looks like Midland with hills.

Traveler's Note: Canadian cigarettes taste like ass. I understand, that for most readers, ALL cigarettes taste thus, so let me explain. It is the difference between smoking your turd vs. smoking mine.

After dinner, we've elected to sleep in a WalMart parking lot tonight. Thus, Andy decides that I'll sleep in his space in the back of the Bronco (despite the fact that he won a coin toss) and he'll take a spot at the top of a mound of construction dirt a hundred and fifty yards behind the store. By five, he's back in the front of the car, trying to get comfortable and sleep. It's pretty cold outside.