Roads End

The Alaska Canada Highway (Alcan) is, along with Route 66 and the Pacific Coast Highway or Highway 1, one of the great North American road trips. Stretching from Dawson Creek in British Columbia and terminating in Fairbanks Alaska, the highway runs more than 2,200 kilometers through BC, Yukon and Alaska, traversing ice capped mountains, mighty rivers, and seemingly endless wilderness. Every year thousands of travelers make their way along this iconic road on their way to the 49th state.

We, however, did not. Road conditions and the particulars of our direction of travel, led us up the Cassiar Highway which runs north well west of the Alcan. The Cassiar is smaller and in general less well maintained than the Alcan but in June there was a massive bridge washout on the Alcan and though they had a bypass functioning within a few days, traffic was ‘single tracking’ through the affected area. We had already been planning to go up the Cassiar and this sealed the deal.

But knowing that every Alaska overland voyage requires driving every inch of the Alcan, as we began the long journey back from Fairbanks, we set out to reverse drive the highway from Mile 1422 to Mile 0.

Perhaps one reason that the road is so iconic is that it “feels” like Alaska most of the way. The most noticeable change in the topography when crossing the border into Canada is that the speed signs switch to kilometers per hour (ah, I feel so at home here!). Otherwise, there is little change. The road passes through mountains, meadows of wildflowers, and every few hundred kilometers a tiny village with a motel, a gas station, maybe a small grocery store, and if one is lucky, a campground. Miss an opportunity to get fuel and you may be taking an unplanned 200 km hike.

If you think it’s Alaska but it’s not, it may be the Alcan. Here a view of Muncho Lake in British Columbia.

The attentive will be rewarded with wildlife sightings. We saw a lone wolf, which appeared to be chasing down some prey. Many birds, waterfowl, and an elk or two were in evidence. Bear and moose made their appearances.

The Alcan was built in a rush. Started in March of 1942 in the midst of World War II, the first draft of the road was finished just 6 months later and as you might expect, it was a hot mess. The impetus for the road was driven by a U.S. fear of a Japanese invasion of Alaska. The road was needed to get troops and military equipment in place to defend what was, at the time, a U.S. territory. The road had been discussed previously but the Canadian government, fearing US domination, had put the kibosh on it. The threats posed by the war to Canada as well at the United States softened the Canadian opposition considerably.

Construction never ended. The ice and the shifting permafrost wreak havoc with the tarmac every winter and driving south we found a road surface that alternates between beautiful, smooth, freshly laid asphalt and roadway that is crumbling and full of potholes. In other places the thoroughfare is only gravel for many miles, or one is following ‘pilot vehicles’ through construction zones at speeds of around 40 km/hour. One must stay well back behind the car in front of you if one is to avoid a cracked and pockmarked windshield. I learned this the hard way with a nice dime-sized chip in the glass to show for it. Every summer the Canadian government rushes to repair and repave the road only to have winter weather wreck it again. I am trying to imagine Sisyphus happy but I am glad this task is not mine.

It took about a week to arrive at Mile 0 in Dawson Creek. The last miles are a rude return to civilization with lots of industry and even strip shopping centers and fast food restaurants. But the town of Dawson Creek itself has an incredible Pioneer Village with many relocated buildings and furnishings from the early 20th Century, giving one a feel for what life on the frontier might have been like.

After exploring the village, we stopped long enough to take the obligatory photos at the Mile Zero marker before turning toward the vast prairies of Alberta. All remaining vestiges of the North Country vanished instantly as the land became endless vistas of long brown grasses, rolling hills of summer-bleached yellow grains, and massive rolls of hay waiting in the fields. The temperature quickly rose to 30 C and the sky was hazy though cloudless. Soon we were in the city of Grand Prairie complete with a Costco, a McDonalds, and probably a Starbucks though I didn’t see one.

Though am sure Grand Prairie has much to offer those willing to plumb her depths, we didn’t linger. We stopped long enough to fill the tank ($1.49 CAN/ liter, the cheapest gas in Canada to date on this trip!), grab a bag of ice, and get back on the road. We hoped to escape the plains and be back in the Canadian Rocky Mountain National Park before the weekend.

With our completion of the Alcan, it feels that an important part of our trip has ended. After all, Alaska was the primary destination and now it is more than a thousand miles behind us. At the same time, we are still a long way from home and likely have 3-4 more weeks of adventures ahead. Up next - a deeper dive into the Rocky Mountains of Canada and then down into Montana and Wyoming to check out parts of those states we have not seen. Glacier National Park? Yellowstone? Maybe. We don’t plan that far ahead but no doubt there are wonders waiting around the next bend.

A friend of mine used to say after a satisfying meal, “The thing about an appetite is that there is always another one right behind it.” So too, at every road’s terminus, another track begins. At ‘Mile 0’ there is a roundabout with four exits headed in different directions. Even roads that lead to the sea always seem to terminate at a dock.  On a round earth, you never have to backtrack.

Roads end. Journeys never do.

Autumn Becomes Alaska

Maybe it’s because my birthday falls in September; Autumn has always been my favorite season. In the DC metro area, I have to wait until late September or even October to see and smell those fall colors and scents and feel that cold rain. Here, we started noticing the changes in early August.

We arrived at Denali National Park in a chilly downpour which hung around for 4 days. It was the second week of August but it felt like November at home. On the last stormy night there was even snow at the higher elevations. We awoke to fresh white mountain peaks crisply outlined against a sky of deep cloudless blue.

There was a new feeling in the air. Fall was setting in.

One of the primary indicators of the season is a plant that we have seen everywhere in Alaska – fireweed. Fireweed grows along the side of the roads and highways, in every meadow, and at every elevation, all the way up to the tree line. In mid-summer it is in full bloom with merry purple flowers that seem to dance in the lightest breeze.

But toward the end of July, they began to change. At the bottom most flowers started to fall off, leaving behind a glowing red stalk (hence the name of the plant). As the next weeks passed the flowers continued to fall from the lower part of the plant up until, at last, just a fringe of purple was left at the top of each.  Alaskans told us that when just the top flowers are left, winter is six weeks away, noting “It will be early this year.”

On our hikes too, we started to notice that the ground cover was changing as well -- deep greens giving way to oranges and reds and yellows. The leaves of the aspen trees are also starting to change to their iconic yellow that is so striking when the wind sets them to shimmering like gold.  The ground is lush with berries and we have been enjoying some of the best blueberries I’ve ever tasted – sweet and tart and there for the picking in the mountain meadows – as long as there isn’t a bear who wants them too.

Perhaps most striking, however, has been the return of night. Since we entered Canada back in mid-June, night has been unknown to us. Throughout June and July, there was at most a brief twilight between sunset at around 12:30 am and sunrise at 3:30 am. We still go to sleep usually before sunset (currently about 11 pm here in Fairbanks) but when I awaken in the middle of the night for my, um, stroll to the washroom it is actually dark. I even saw stars a few nights ago. It is remarkable to think that in just about four weeks, the day and night will be of equal length.

Aside from the pleasure of seeing a dark sky again for the first time in months, the return of darkness also means we may have a chance to see the Aurora Borealis before we get too far south. I have never seen it and it would be a thrill.

The tundra near the Arctic Circle

On Tuesday, we took a 16 hour round trip bus ride to the Arctic Circle (the imaginary line marking the southernmost point at which the sun doesn’t go below the horizon on the summer solstice) and back with a small group of like-minded travelers.  Several hundred miles further north, fall is well under way. Even at mid-day in full sun, the air was chilly, there was a strong wind and the colors of the tundra were muted.

A last sip of summer

As we begin to contemplate pointing the hood of the van southward, we should be able to follow the changing season all the way home, arriving home just as fall is beginning to get underway there. I expect it will be the longest Autumn of my life, other than, I hope, the metaphorical autumn of my life.

As insane as it sounds, I would love to return here in winter to experience what 40 below feels like and to see how never-ending night compares to never ending-day. Seeing Denali and the Arctic covered in snow must be as remarkable as seeing them in summer but it is also something far fewer people do.

I think of myself as fairly well-traveled, but pondering a map of the earth in the Yukon River Lodge, a rest stop on the way to the Arctic Circle, I realized just how little of the planet I have actually visited. There doesn’t seem to be enough time left for repeat visits when so much remains unseen. Yet, I now understand how Alaska gets under one’s skin (and no, I am not only thinking about the mosquitos). The vastness of the wilderness, so much of which feels pristine, the way humans manage to co-exist with bears, and moose, and caribou, and the color of the light is unlike anywhere I have been.

Alaska, it seems, is calling me back before I’ve even had a chance to say goodbye.

End of summer Fireweed devoid of blossoms

Living Large Though Tiny

We are taking some time off here in Healy, Alaska. We really wanted to camp at one of the campgrounds inside Denali National Park but those spots are hard to get. We got lucky and got a spot for two nights later this week. But we have a few days until then and with the weather turning colder and snow threatening, we decided to treat ourselves to a couple of nights in a motel (our first since Juneau) until we can camp in the park.

This motel doubles as an RV park and this afternoon as we cooked our lunch outside at a picnic table we were treated to the nonstop entertainment of watching the full-sized RVs trying to navigate their way in and out of the cramped and tightly packed campground.

I am sure I don’t need to describe to you the size and mass of these things. We’ve all seen the bus length campers motoring down the interstate either under their own power or being towed by a truck. Now imagine trying to back one of those up into a space perhaps the size of a normal driveway with your partner screaming, whistling, and gesturing in your mirrors all the while.

Once docked, the work truly begins. The RVers must connect the water, sewage, and electric power, slide out the extra rooms, crank up the awnings, and who knows what else? But once done, you have, well, a house, your very own house with all your stuff that you can take with you everywhere you go. I’m not going to claim that I don’t understand the appeal.

At the other end of the visible spectrum are the Sprinter Vans and Roadtreks, full sized vans that contain a bed, a kitchen, maybe even a bathroom with a shower.  You can live fully inside but still drive and park with relative ease. My cousin Brian and his wife Karen have one of these and it is wicked cool.

And then below the end of the visible spectrum, down somewhere near infrared, you have us.

We have always been tent-campers but in the fall of 2020 just having retired and with lots of road trips on the horizon, I was ready to get off the ground. Even if sleeping on the ground were comfortable (hint, it isn’t), there isn’t a tent made that won’t leak if it rains long and hard enough. I should know, having slept many a night in a puddle of cold water.

A big RV was out of the question. The big vans were tempting but they are not inexpensive and they are not great on fuel. Finally, we considered a teardrop trailer. For a long time, I thought these would be the way to go. We even visited a company that hand-crafts beautiful teardrops campers in Grand Junction, Colorado before concluding it was not for us.

First of all, we would have had to buy a new car to tow the thing. Our Honda Civic is not up to the task of towing even an ultra-light trailer. Second, I didn’t like the idea of towing something up and down narrow mountain passes, though I am sure I could have grown comfortable with it with practice.

Where, we wondered, were today’s VW Westphalia Campervans?

That’s when we found Oasis Campervans located in Broomfield, Colo. They will take your off-the-shelf minivan and turn it into a habitat on wheels.

Our ‘rig’ is a plain ole Toyota Sienna minivan, the quintessential soccer mom car with all the rear seats removed. In their place, Oasis constructed a bed platform, a pivoting table, and a teardrop style galley kitchen under the rear hatch. The kitchen holds our stoves (yes, we have more than one), two pans, three pots, various cutlery, utensils, spices, and cooking basics (olive oil, vinegar, soy sauce, Tabasco, even a jar of hoisin sauce).

We have a 500-Watt mobile battery that recharges when we drive and can easily power the phones, the computers, the electric kettle, and the coffee grinder for days on a single charge. A 5-gallon jug supplies all the water we need for a day or two and can be refilled wherever there is a spigot.

Each of us has our own compartment for our clothes and personal items, and two other compartments house the bedding and a pantry for food stuffs. A near full-sized mattress (with the emphasis on ‘near’) folds away during the day.

For things used less often there are panels that offer access to the area where the third-row seats formerly folded down. We call this the “down under.” This is where we keep things like the tent, backpacks, hiking books, and my down jacket, which I pulled out of its stuff sack for the first time yesterday as the temperature dropped to near freezing.

Panorama from an alpine hiking trail. Today was the first time in a week that it was clear enough to see Denali, North America’s Highest Peak.

There are blackout curtains for privacy and for blocking out the sunlight, essential when the sun wasn’t setting until close to midnight.

We have a pop-up screen room that has proven invaluable when it was raining or the mosquitoes were fierce.

And yes, we’ve been living in this thing full-time for the last two months.

The advantages of such a set up are numerable.

When we are not camping in it, the Sienna functions as a second car, albeit one with a seat for just one passenger. It drives like a car, which is basically what it is. Not as nimble, to be sure, as the 6-speed manual transmission Civic, which is the daily driver at home, but still quick to accelerate, easy to change lanes, and a breeze to parallel park anywhere even with the bikes on the back. It’s V-6 engine is frugal, with fuel getting 28 mpg on the highway, not insignificant when we were paying close to $7 per gallon in Canada. And it is a Toyota and thus far has been virtually trouble free throughout the more than 10,000 kilometers we’ve driven thus far.

It is cheaper to camp. Most campgrounds charge less for sites that don’t include power, water, or sewage hook-ups. We can camp anywhere a tent can go. Even campgrounds that are full will usually find a spot for us.

It is absolutely stealth. From the outside, it is a boring, silver minivan and nothing else. Though we have not done so, I have no doubt we could camp on a residential street or in a parking lot and no one would suspect that people were sleeping inside. Only the bikes on the back suggest any kind of frivolity.

But as with everything there are tradeoffs.

It is small. This is not a house. It is a tent on wheels. At night when sleeping in my preferred position, on my stomach with my hands under the pillow in front of me, my feet hang off the end of the mattress. I can almost sit up straight when in bed, but not quite. When in day mode, you can sit comfortably in the back of the van but it is not possible to stand up.

One must be very disciplined about what one brings along. With three multi-week trial runs before the Alaska trip, we had a chance to refine the ‘must bring’ list. Yet I still brought things I have yet to use. I haven’t worn my hiking boots once so far (my everyday shoes are trail shoes and have been sufficient for all the hiking we have done). I brought several pairs of shorts, I haven’t needed and have more socks and t-shirts than required. I was prepared to go up to ten days without washing clothes but we’ve been able to do laundry every week.  

Unlike with an RV, we are basically living outside, albeit with a dry, pretty comfy place to sleep. Cooking is outside too, though I have been known to use the single burner Coleman stove under the open hatch when it was raining or very windy.

There is no black water tank to empty because there is no bathroom. This means that if I need to go in the middle of the night (I am 60 years old, I always need to go in the middle of the night), I am trekking down to the washroom sometimes in the rain. On the plus side, I have seen some astonishing skies during these middle-of-the-night promenades.

It is a process to change the van from day mode to night mode taking perhaps 10 to 15 minutes to complete. The big RVs, of course, can leave the bed set up all the time. Then again it appears to me that they can often take up to 30 minutes just to park and hook-up those things.

On our next trip, no doubt, we will tweak the equipment list a little, leaving a few items behind and bringing one or two others we could have used. But I don’t see us changing to another vehicle anytime soon.

Fragile alpine wild flowers are rare and exotic.

For one thing, other than hitchhiking, this mode of travel may be among the most frugal possible, and frugal means longer trips.  I am, of course, tracking all of our expenses meticulously. Once we are home, I’ll enumerate the exact costs in excruciating detail for your consideration.

After we leave Denali, we head to Fairbanks to get the oil changed and the tires rotated and then sometime the following week, we will turn south and begin the long journey back along the Alaska Canada Highway through Yukon, British Columbia, and across the Western U.S. toward home.

I don’t think it will happen but we were planning stopping by the snowy woods of North and South Dakota on the way back to tick off the final two states I haven’t visited. It’s tempting…

but I have promises to keep

and miles to go before I sleep

I mean kilometers to go before I sleep

in a real bed.