unat '04--Day Seven

Anchorage, AK to Lake Kluane, Yukon Territory, Canada.
Today's Mileage: 590 mi.Total Mileage: 4,311 mi.
Time in Transit: appx. 13 hrs. Total Time in Transit: 41 hrs.
Quote of the Day: "I was worried this road wouldn't be scenic."—A. Nichols
News of Note: "A convenience store clerk thwarted a would-be armed robber by throwing cartons of cigarettes at him."--CNN Headline News.

Anchorage is still rainy when I finally rise at ten (ADT). A sightseeing trip to Ternagan Arm is scratched because the weather will allow no sights to be seen, thus we're on to the business of transit. After paying Mohammed Aidid-level prices for food, gas and an oil change, we head north. That's right, I said north. You must go north from Anchorage to get through the arm that is Alaska to reach the rest of North America.

A brief explanatory note: My brother, Andy, has worked in or near Denali National Park for the last five years. He's driven up twice (once alone) and back once before, thus the trip is usually powered by the miracle of mechanical flight. Logically, when driving back, he is usually begins from Fairbanks, which is much nearer the park (and from which we are not) and [ ] miles from Anchorage and takes the shortest route home to Texas (which we are not). Thus, the novelty of the beginning of this part of the trek makes me feel microscopically less guilty about his having to schlep up to Anchorage to get me. It also explains the QOD, which Andy fortunately turns out to be wrong about—read on.

Alaska Highway 1 carries through numerous mountain ranges, all of which might make Tenzeng Norgay simultaneously choke up and want to try a new line of work. Grinding through one is a massive glacier (my first real glacier, I might add). The moraine field alone is at least a hundred square miles. "Oh," you think, "I could see THAT making these mountains." The trees (spruce, some fir, a lot of scrub) are remarkably close together and again, you understand the supreme differences between the southwestern forests of my youth and here.

The truism of "other people's driving" comes into play here. As AKH 1 begins to raise it's level of technical difficulty (which happens shortly after Chuglak, 35 miles past Anchorage), accompanied by rain and the presumed high center of gravity of Andy's trusty Ford Bronco, I find myself starting to tremble a little at Andy's driving. At one curve, he feels obliged to tell me, "I've been driving people on roads more dangerous than this one all summer." Admittedly, my interior reply is "and they tipped you? Before or after the defibrillator was back in its case?" However, as the drive progresses (and I have to start navigating these roads myself later) I realize that I'm being a wussy. Andy does happen to know what he's doing and I need to shut the f@#% up. It is a matter of perception (See #3 under "The Rules"). In Tok, we meet a nice couple, kayak guides also making the late trip to the lower forty-eight.

Just before crossing into Canada (and despite some lingering clouds), I am treated to a small dose of Aurora Borealis. An enormous bracelet of white light spans a third of the northern night sky, shatters for a moment and fades. By eleven (ADT, or ten, (PDT)), we reach the border. The Canadian Customs (or "Duane," if you're from Quebec) Agent takes our ID, runs us through a computer and we're off. All of Andy's stories of Draconian questioning or long delays at a Twenty-First Century Check Point Charlie do not materialize. The lack of anyone else working at this border station may have been a contributing factor.

At 1 a.m. (PDT), we accidentally discover Congdon Creek Campground (which, according to The Milepost, was named by a Nineteenth Century miner after his favorite Canuck politician). At the first entrance there is a formal note posted that reminds campers that there has been bearsign at the site two days ago (Would be Brown, not Grizzly. We're too far south, I think). Another hastily scrawled piece of notebook paper at the pay center specifies that a sow and her two cubs have been going through camp garbage. As we pull into our pitch black site, I tell Andy I'm thinking of perhaps sleeping in the Bronco with him tonight. "You're not afraid of bears, are you?" he asks, all the while helping me pull my gear from the overloaded back of the Bronco. No, I think, I just want to be a little smarter than them. Which is when I remember to put my daypack (and its contents of airplane peanuts) back in the car. And I pitch the tent. It is dark, dark here, bears or no bears. Also, it's very windy and about 36 degrees (that's 2 for Canadian readers). I sleep warm and safe, not having the first clue what is outside my tent flap beyond Andy's snoring in the Bronco.