More than 3,000 miles with my dog
By AMY SCHENCK
On the snow clad road
Snow didn’t just fall, it blew in every which direction, as I pulled away, car loaded down with skis, clothes, outdoor gear and dog toys. The roads were icy, at best. But I was determined, or maybe just stubborn. I made my final Eagle River rounds – bank, post office and gas station. On my way out of civilization I stopped at Turkey Red in Palmer; I ordered a portabella mushroom roasted red pepper sandwich and an extra hot latte. White froth piled up on my car outside and the sun set ominously early.
As I pulled out onto the Glenn Highway, I looked at Zippy and let out a shout of sheer joy. Finally, after days of packing, saying goodbye and tying up loose ends, we were out on the open road … err snow clad road.
We crept along in the beam of headlights. As we rounded a corner near the banks of the Knik River, my car slid into a full 360 spin – leaving my nerves frayed, but my determination intact. “Damn tires.” I steadied my hands, and pressed on, even slower than before.
When visibility became nonexistent, I pulled over. In the back of my car I concocted a bed: Ridgerest, Thermarest, foam pad, several blankets and a sleeping bag. I crawled in back, read for a few minutes with my headlamp and then dozed off.
When I woke up the snow had tapered and the plow had passed; it was 9:30 p.m. I crept back out onto the road.
Surreal scenes
Several miles later, I saw a bright glow; I assumed it must the blinking lights of a plow. I approached tentatively, preparing to be momentarily engulfed in flying ice clumps and a deep rumbling sound. Instead, the smell of smoke swept over the car.
To my utter shock, flames shot out of a large truck – or maybe it was a bus. My heart thudded as I slowly drove past the war zone-type scene. I pulled over, grabbed my headlamp and ran back – keeping a safe distance, but yelling out to see if anybody was around. Heart pounding. Silence.
I would later learn from the folks at the gas station in Glenn Allen that the truck had been burning for hours. How it started or what happened? I still don’t know.
I slept the first night along the desolate road to Tok. Nearby, a cell phone tower flashed a creepy blue light.
The next day, after a breakfast of cereal and partially frozen soy milk, I continued on, fully occupied by an audio book about a journalist turned spy.
In Tok I found a nice surprise: a superb extra hot latte made by a gruff looking guy behind the counter at a gas station.
Lesson learned: never judge things by the surface appearance.
On day two the landscapes rolled away into a sea of mangled trees and windswept lakes. Every 20 or 30 minutes a truck or U-haul rambled by, but mostly I experienced the remote winter wilderness completely by myself. I tried to imagine Manhattan’s bustle – and couldn’t. I felt warm and solitary; my Subaru chugged reliably along.
Wonderfully small
Many times during the following week and a half I felt wonderfully small. My night in the Yukon was one such moment.
I parked in a pullout used by hunters, located a mile or two down an unnamed road. Four-wheel drive paths spidered out from the pullout, leading up a bank to panoramic views of open tundra, jagged mountains and lanky lakes – as I found out in the morning. Arriving late in the evening, I bundled up against the subzero temperatures, and Zippy and I headed out for a walk under stars so innumerable each seemed to blend into the others; the Milky Way formed a grand crescendo as it arched artfully across the night sky.
Alone, in the middle of the Yukon, with no inkling of civilized society for hundreds of miles in any direction, and a cold that formed frost on my eyelashes, life seemed graced with a whole new perspective.
That night I snuggled under my sleeping bag, several blankets and a balaclava, engulfed in cozy warmth.
In the nick of time
The lady who owned the only open gas station at Haines Junction – a doublewide mobile trailer – exuded a friendliness that would warm the loneliest of travelers. She showed me photos of her son Fisher, and told me about how he got his name. (He’s named for the sport her whole family loves). She let me barrow her phone to use to my calling card to phone home. She rattled on about Haines, giving me all sorts of suggestions on what to do and where to stay. She let me fill my thermos with hot water and use the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face. Truly a one stop shop, and then some.
As I bid her goodbye, a customer came in because the pump wasn’t working.
“Ahh, I thought I might run out,” the clerk said with a bit of frustration, before picking up the phone to call, I assume, her gas supplier.
Boy, did I fill my tank in the nick of time!
Before I left on my road trip, everyone’s advice was unanimous: don’t blow through Haines. Take time to savor the drive over the pass into the tiny seaside town.
In retrospect, I don’t imagine many of my friends have attempted that drive during a mounting snowstorm. Distant clouds turned to whiteout conditions; whiteout conditions turned to a full on blizzard, with a dash of whipping wind. By the time I crossed the border and began the final “half hour” (try two hours) into Haines, I gripped the steering wheel the way I gripped my tools when I first started ice climbing. Deep, conscious breaths became my great technique for getting myself to relax.
And as if I wasn’t stressed enough, some folks at a rest stop told me the inclement weather had canceled the ferry I planned to take the following morning to Juneau.
(Keep in mind it had been a couple of days since I’d showered, or spent more than an hour away from my car).
The one bright point, however, were the bald eagles that perched along the highway. The uncanny warmth of a nearby river extends the salmon run into November, and last remaining food source draws some 3,000 big, boisterous bald eagles to the area. Scattered everywhere – in trees, along the shore, flying overhead – even the worst photographer could get a good eagle shot in Haines in November; and the good photographers – who descend on the area almost as much as the eagles – get some pretty damn freakin’ amazing shots.
I finally pulled into Haines at 4:50 p.m. on a Friday. I phoned the ferry terminal in Juneau. A message announcing office closure answered. Panic – or at least resignation! I thought I might have to wait until Monday to sort the ferry debacle out.
I listened to my voice messages. Two of them, both from the Alaska Marine Highway, confirmed my ferry trip was canceled.
I called the ferry office in Haines; to my relief, a real live voice picked up. The agent booked me to leave that same night on a beastly ferry (in other words, able to withstand large sea swells). This meant no more time to hang out with the eagles, but at least I would get to Juneau, and not have to wait three days for the next ferry out.
Peaks that pitch and plunge
I arrived to Juneau at 4:30 a.m. in weather equally as bad as what I left behind in Haines. Off the boat and out on the road, I crept along in second gear, venturing every so often into third gear, as I made my way to my friend’s downtown house.
When I finally arrived, I parked in the only available and plenty illegal spot – deciding I would wake up early to move it.
My friend, Charles, editor of the Juneau Empire, sister paper of the Alaska Star, graciously woke up, let me in and oriented me to the home.
Before collapsing into bed, totally exhausted, I took a soothing warm shower.
Charles knocked on my door the next morning; major landslides had taken out part of a home and road in Juneau, and he needed to go into the office.
Left to our own devices, Zippy and I geared up and headed for the mountains. We took a long, beautiful, sopping wet run through a temperate rainforest. After days on the road, it felt refreshing to unfurl our legs and let them loose to explore new terrain.
The landscapes in Juneau are dramatic: steep peaks pitch and plunge into the temperamental sea. Tall trees and deliciously green shrubbery carpet the whole scene.
The resulting energy is exhilarating: sometimes warm and welcoming, sometimes fierce and foreboding. Zippy and I couldn’t get enough; in the four days we were there, we took five runs and a beach walk.
The most memorable run led us to the base of the Mendenhall Glacier. After a bit of prodding, the lady in the visitor center reluctantly told me about the trail. “It takes all day to do,” she emphasized.
The clock read 3 p.m., the last ounce of light fades by 5 p.m. Armed with the headlamp I keep stashed in the glove compartment of my car, I headed out.
A gentle path gave way to switch backs, and then some rock scrambling coupled with bushwacking. Fortunately, others had gone before, leaving footprints in the snow.
To my delight, after a couple of hours, I found myself at the toe of an icy amphitheater. Just enough of the evening glow remained, allowing me to absorb its vast size. I felt the way I felt under the stars in the Yukon – wonderfully small.
Chilly air blew off the glacier and nipped at my cheeks; it was like opening the door to an industrial freezer, only there was nothing industrial about it.
I shared a few oms with the universe, ate a peanut butter chocolate Cliff bar, clicked on my headlamp and receded the way I came.
Beyond the spectacular scenery, I will remember Juneau for the good company. Charles and his roommates put out the full spread. We ate some great meals and spent a lot of time hanging out on oversized and extremely comfortable sofas – a great remedy to the seemingly relentless snow, rain and wind pounding down outside.
Charles also showed me around the Juneau Empire’s office, which houses a fine collection of Alaska artwork and touts a regal staircase (definitely a must for truly respectable newspapers).
I toured the state capitol building and the hotel where all the high-profile political scandals occurred. After spending so much time reporting on the underhanded events that occurred in these buildings, I soaked in each and every detail – the symbols painted onto the ceiling, the color of the tables, the lettering on the signs.
I went to the office that Sarah Palin vacated in July. I chatted with the receptionist for a while and learned Gov. Sean Parnell was out of town. She – the receptionist, not Palin – gave me a pin commemorating 50 years of statehood.
Quirky folks, dreary skies
The Alaska Marine Highway is reliable in a very precise way: it’s unreliable. The ferry I was supposed to take out of Juneau broke down, causing a complete makeover to my itinerary – that ended up being for the better. Instead of routing through Sitka, I got to spend an extra day in Juneau and head directly to Ketchikan, with stops in Petersburg and Wrangell.
Taking the ferry in November is less than ideal from the perspective of sightseeing – a lot of my trip was mired in dark and rain. But from the perspective of getting cheap tickets and having plenty of space to spread out, there’s no better month.
Plus by virtue of the time of year, each of the 100 or so passengers on board the 700-capacity vessel generally comes equipped with an interesting life story. And believe me, in a 20-plus hour trip the stories come out.
One elderly man was returning to Seattle after attending a custody hearing regarding his grandchildren; his daughter lost her life in a house fire last year. A 30-something year old guy was on his way to Price of Wales to spend the winter building power lines; he had spent prior winters in Tok and Haines, keeping their electrical grids functioning. A middle aged Native Alaskan man called the trip “routine” and “familiar;” he has worked on board the ferries for more than 20 years, earning seniority and a state retirement plan.
At night, I laid my Thermarest out in a corner of the lounge area and curled up in my sleeping bag – a routine practice that reminded me of how it would be done in Argentina or Guatemala, not the U.S.
I set my alarm to wake up for the middle-of-the-night port call to Petersburg. Zippy was in the boat’s hull, confined to my car, and I wanted to let him out as often as possible.
Already awake, I decided to stay up and watch the trip through the “narrows” – a precariously long, shallow and, yes, narrow channel.
Red and green blinking lights floated on buoys, cuing the captain on how to spin the ship through the squirrelly waters. Even at night, I could see the shore on both sides scratching at the ferry.
The ship captain performed flawlessly. An hour later, we were cruising open waters.
Totem poles and tangled trails
My first view of Ketchikan seemed graced by the divine. Patches of blue sky allowed sunlight to filter onto the “salmon capital of the world.”
After disembarking, Zippy and I headed north out of town to Totem Bight, a state park that displayed refurbished and replicated totem poles. The totem poles towered along a trail that wound through rainforest and along the coast – a serene and magical setting.
With nobody else around, I danced from one totem pole to the next, snapping photos and attempting to decipher meaning. Zippy, meanwhile, wandered freely, happy to be off the ferry and out of the car.
After an hour or so at Totem Bight, Zippy and I drove further down the road to a deserted trailhead. Undeterred by the slush, we bound full speed onto a path that paralleled a river and tangled around old growth trees. We ran for hours, enticed by each enchanting bend. By the time we got back to the car, night had fully engulfed Ketchikan, and hunger had fully engulfed me.
I pulled into the first eatery I could find: a diner that served all-day breakfast. One egg scramble, chi tea, and pumpkin pie later, I was feeling good, except for my feet, which were still sopping wet and frigid from the run.
I had a few hours to kill in Ketchikan before my ferry departed for Prince Rupert. I decided to head toward a road pullout I spied earlier in the day. The pullout perched above the harbor – a perfect place to watch boats and planes come and go.
I turned off my engine, sat back and drank one of the beers stowed in my trunk; Zippy, meanwhile, devoured a rawhide bone.
Small town, big state
The ferry trip to Price Rupert was basically uneventful. I boarded, fell asleep, woke up and disembarked.
The Canadian custom’s official in the Yukon was much nicer the custom’s official in British Columbia. In the Yukon, the lady asked me a few question, checked my passport, gave Zippy a treat and sent us on our way. In BC, the man barraged me with random and seemingly pointless questions: Where are you going to stay? Do you have reservations? Do you have any Canadian friends? Did they check you out in the Yukon? (“Umm … yah … I didn’t cross the border illegally … but they didn’t tear apart me car either, if that’s what you’re asking”).
Finally we got down to the basics: How long will you be in Canada? Do you have more than $10,000? What’s your final destination? Do you have any guns, knives or pepper spray?
I breathed a sigh of relief when he finally waved me ahead.
I happened upon a cute little café called Cowpaccinos, named after the dairy cows that used to roam the area. I ordered none other than an extra hot latte and found a nice corner seat.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder.
“Is that you’re car?”
Ruffled, I peered out the window, thinking I was being given a traffic ticket for God only knows what reason.
The girl laughed at me.
Her car is equally laden with skis, bikes and other gear, she said. Like me, the girl had just disembarked off the ferry, beginning what she expected to be a multi-month long road trip.
We got to talking, and before long uncovered a pretty ridiculous friends-of-friends connection. Misty, from Sitka, is really good friends with one of Alaska’s best ultrarunners, who is really good friends with my former next-door neighbor (and as a side note, Misty was the reason that this ultrarunner broke up with his former girlfriend – who I met when I was in Juneau because she’s an editor at Charles’ newspaper).
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Alaska is a small town in a big state.
‘I can see all the obstacles in my way’
While Cowpaccinos and the conversation with Misty were exactly what the doc called for, the best part of the morning was none other than the warm temps and sunshine.
For the first time, a canvass of dry road lay out before me.
I seized the opportunity to reorganize my car and tighten down the rope holding my skis to the roof rack. I then set off down the highway with music blaring – I hit repeat several times on the song that starts: “I can see clearly now the rain is gone, I can see all the obstacles in my way.”
British Columbia was even more spectacular than I expected it to be. Through my windshield, gargantuan lakes, burly mountains and wide-open valleys blurred together in one endless stream.
I found myself putting along and soaking it all in – much to the frustration of the truck drivers blazing through at supersonic speeds.
I pulled into Smithers just as the sun was beginning to set, and for the first time all trip, got a motel room – clean, simple and absolutely luxurious. I reveled in the hot shower, Internet access and space to spread my elbows.
Zippy and I discovered great trails, which we ran both at night and the following morning before I checked out – a runner’s paradise.
Before departing town, I reveled in a dose of familiarity – a stop by Safeway to pick up food for Zippy and a Starbuck’s latte. The beauty of big box stores is their sameness. Normally I balk at sameness, but when every single moment of every single day is filled with newness, there’s an amazing amount of comfort in sameness.
Savvy sayings
The clock spun past noon by the time I hit the road, meaning about four hours of easy daytime driving, before the world closed in to the beam of my headlights.
Refreshed, I planned to put in some mileage, going to Price George and then veering south toward Seattle.
When I reached Price George my heart jumped into my throat. I was faced with navigating through a huge city in the middle of the night.
Understand, that huge is totally relative. For the Chicagoan or the New Yorker, Price George would be a dusty old train stop. But for me, coming from the densely populated, industrial centers of Alaska, the Yukon and British Columbia (I’m kidding, of course), Price George felt downright overwhelming.
I made my way past car sales lots and fast food joints, two hands on the wheel, music off, staring intently ahead.
And then it happened: I came to an intersection, got totally confused and turned the wrong way. The road I chose spat me out onto a freeway, only adding to my feeling of big city chaos. A few miles later I pulled over in the parking lot of a rundown motel. Using the dim lights from the motel sign, I studied my map. I figured out where I needed to go, and pulled back out on the road, heading back in the direction from which I came.
The second time around, I turned the correct direction.
I stopped at a Husky gas station to fill up the lil’ Subaru and feed Zipparoo. The vibe at the gas station felt weird. A guy filling up a truck next to me seemed high on something, and inside everyone talked in hushed tones. Needless to say, I didn’t linger.
I felt a surge of relief as the city lights disappeared behind me. When the road tapered from two lanes to four, I knew for sure I was back in the vast wide open.
An hour or so later road weariness hit. I came to Hixon, population 2,000, and pulled into the only open eating establishment – a pub/dinner, in that order. Nobody was inside, except the waitress and the owner. I ordered a bowl of tomato soup and french fries, both of which were homemade.
Eventually a few other people drifted in – a crew of hunters and a local elderly couple who had a full day of taking care of their grandkids, and delighted in telling the bar owner about each and every expression their 2-year-old grandson makes.
I drifted between reading my book and ease dropping on the conversations around me.
When it came time to pay my bill, the bar owner and I got into our own bout of chatting. The owner loved to think up funny and witty sayings – the type you would find on bumperstickers – and she had them posted all over the pub and written all over the menu.
When I commented on how amusing I found all the sayings, she pulled out a stack of 3x5 notecards filled with them – backups in case the ones already posted on the walls fall down, get stolen or find themselves in some sort of other ruin.
The bar owner lady also told me all about her life and the town. She’s owned the bar for several years; she worked as a school teacher and did some typing on the side to earn extra money when she was a single mom.
She was born and raised in Hixon and a lot of her family is still there, or at least within a couple of hour drive.
Hixon is basically a logging town, with most folks employed at the mill located 20 minutes down the road, she said.
By the time I got back out on the road, my eyes were tired and my body was ready for bed. I read in the Milepost about a free campground, open year round, and guessed it to be about an hour’s drive away.
The long and wearisome ensuing hour and half turned out to be well worth it.
The Forest Service campground, tucked a half mile back on a logging road, was a sheer delight. Located along a beautiful, babbling river, it came equipped with all the basic amenities: bathrooms, picnic tables and even a pump house for drawing water.
And the best part: I had the place entirely to myself.
I parked in an open clearing, laid my ridge rest out on a picnic table and watched a magnificent show of shooting stars – while drinking a beer. Zippy meanwhile pranced and pounced about, thrilled to be out of the car and surrounded by so many sticks just waiting to be gnawed on.
I slept soundly in the bed in the back of my Subaru.
An ice-plastered windshield
When I woke up the sun poked well above the horizon.
I crawled out of the car, bleary eyed and happy. Zippy and I hung out for a while, walking along the river and making tracks in the inch of fresh snow, which fell during the night.
Eventually, we corralled ourselves back into the car.
In the next town, Quesnel, Safeway provided more than just familiarity. It had a courtesy phone, which I used, along with a calling card, to get in touch with Ward and Wendy, my godparents who awaited my arrival in Seattle.
I also found a coffee shop in Quesnel – with perfectly delicious coffee, but far too cluttered décor.
Out of Quesnel, signs for ski areas – both crosscountry and downhill – began to pop up.
I decided to check out a crosscountry ski area, figuring that since there wasn’t much snow, Zippy and I might be able to walk around on the trails.
Score! Zippy and I encountered a fabulous trail network.
Nobody else was out, so we had the trails almost entirely to ourselves – much to Zippy’s delight, a throng of deer crossed paths with us.
By the time we got back to the car, night was descending and we hadn’t yet made much mileage.
“Here comes several hours of starring into the beam of my headlights,” I thought.
But not more than an hour or two later that plan became entirely foiled by an onslaught of snow.
As ice plastered itself to my windshield and truckers hurled past, I reevaluated.
When I spotted a turnoff for a dirt road, I didn’t hesitate. I followed it for a couple of miles before coming to a parking lot of snowmachiner’s mecca – but with only a sprinkling of snow on the ground, revving engines hadn’t yet descended on the area.
I parked my Subaru and Zippy and I headed out for a walk along the snowmachine trails.
Flakes continued to fall, but instead of bringing the feeling of panic, they now conjured up peace.
I crawled into bed early, determined to get up and on the road before dawn. I hoped to get to Seattle by early afternoon the following day, and with the delay from the snowstorm, that meant a lot of miles to cover.
Layer-cake colors
My alarm went off at 5 a.m., and by 6 a.m. I had dressed, brushed the snow off the car, defrosted the windows and was driving away.
The battery of my MP3 player was drained, and since I don’t have a radio in the Subi, I sang and talked to myself as a way to wake up.
Plows had cleared the road and there was virtually no other traffic, so the going was smooth.
Soon the sun began to rise, revealing an arid canyonscape.
As the day progressed I descended deeper and deeper in the Frazier Canyon, finding spectacular drop offs, layer-cake colors and brushy vegetation around each new turn.
The road looked like the Marbleworks set I played with as a kid: twisting and veering downward in very zany fashion.
After hours in toyland, cliffs melted into a fertile, green valley bottom, with the quaint town of Hope nestled into it.
In Hope I found an excellent coffee shop, where I savored an extra hot honey cinnamon latte. I also found a park to let Zippy run around in.
I could have lingered longer; I liked everything about the town, but I was feeling barn fever, and wanted to get to Seattle in time to accompany Ward and Wendy to an early Thanksgiving dinner.
Back on the road, two lanes turned to four lanes, four lanes turned to six lanes, and then six lanes turned to eight lanes.
I crossed the border from Canada back into the U.S. without any trouble. The customs official looked at my passport for 20 seconds, asked me one or two questions, and then sent me on my way.
Now all I had to do was navigate my way to, and then through the big city – and I knew that this time I wasn’t dealing with just Prince Rupert, but the actual real McCoy.
The final couple of hours to Ward and Wendy’s house turned out to be largely uneventful, but nonetheless I was pretty much shaking by the time I pulled into their driveway.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had driven on a road bigger than four lanes, what alone navigated something equivalent to Seattle’s tangled maze of overpasses, underpasses, bridges and tunnels.
Luckily the signage was good and the directions I had were straightforward. Plus, the early Thankgiving dinner, which I did indeed arrive in time for, included some of the best wine I’ve had in a long time. (One of Ward and Wendy’s friends is a wine wholesaler).
Snuggling up in Seattle
During the next 10 days, I relaxed and recovered.
I spent a couple of nights with Ward and Wendy, and then moved basecamp to my brother and his girlfriend’s house in Tacoma (Brad and Meg).
My parents flew in from Colorado, so the whole crew was present and accounted for.
The highlights of my time in Seattle-Tacoma: attending a couple of Wendy’s yoga classes, staying up late to play the board game Settler’s of Catan with Brad and Meg, picking out wines for Thankgiving with my dad, meeting up with an old friend from summer camp for coffee, running in Point Defiance park, enjoying a festive, but low-key Thanksgiving, checking out the glass museum with Meg, and eating Ward and Wendy’s gourmet meals.
The final leg
The final leg of my journey, from Seattle to Jackson Hole, was like a heated, indoor swimming pool; after days of being in the English Channel, if you follow my metaphor, the sailing was so super smooth. Not only were the roads double lane, but they were also dry and the full moon was out.
I hoped from one gas station to the next, one state to the next, without a glitch.
I slept in the back of my Subi in a Forest Service parking lot located along a beautiful river in Montana. I pulled into the parking lot late, around midnight, and moonlight glistened off shallow whitewater, humming as it rolled over itself. Single-digit temperatures made the air fresh and crisp.
The last day of my journey was a cruiser – almost.
At 7 p.m. – a full 12 hours after I first crawled behind the steering wheel – I hit the notorious pass over the Tetons from Victor, Idaho, to Jackson Hole, Wyoming.
Road grades on this pass reach 14 degrees and average 10 degrees – for miles on end. Maybe it was because I was tired, or maybe it was because of the ice on the road, but that pass truly ranks as one of the most insane stretches of highway I've ever seen.
Going 2 miles an hour, I eventually made my way safely, descending into Jackson Hole.
I easily found what would become my new home.
Before going inside, I took a deep breadth, mustering up nerve. After so much time either by myself or with close family and friends, it felt a bit overwhelming to step foot into a world where nobody knew me and I knew nobody.
But, just like the road trip itself, starting was the hardest part of building my new life in Jackson Hole.
My room mates turned out to be more than I could have hoped for. I like all three of them a lot – they’re both fun to hang out with and do their share of making our home a comfortable place to be.
The night I arrived they took me out for a couple of beers at the Brew Pub, located only two blocks away – dangerously good beer, dangerously close to home.
Soon I would become wrapped up in training to be a ski instructor, finding areas to run and making new friends.
But on that first night, Dec. 2, 2009, my thoughts reveled in not what was ahead, but what was behind – in all that I had seen and experienced since I left Eagle River in a blinding blizzard almost three weeks and 3,000 miles prior.
On the snow clad road
Snow didn’t just fall, it blew in every which direction, as I pulled away, car loaded down with skis, clothes, outdoor gear and dog toys. The roads were icy, at best. But I was determined, or maybe just stubborn. I made my final Eagle River rounds – bank, post office and gas station. On my way out of civilization I stopped at Turkey Red in Palmer; I ordered a portabella mushroom roasted red pepper sandwich and an extra hot latte. White froth piled up on my car outside and the sun set ominously early.
As I pulled out onto the Glenn Highway, I looked at Zippy and let out a shout of sheer joy. Finally, after days of packing, saying goodbye and tying up loose ends, we were out on the open road … err snow clad road.
We crept along in the beam of headlights. As we rounded a corner near the banks of the Knik River, my car slid into a full 360 spin – leaving my nerves frayed, but my determination intact. “Damn tires.” I steadied my hands, and pressed on, even slower than before.
When visibility became nonexistent, I pulled over. In the back of my car I concocted a bed: Ridgerest, Thermarest, foam pad, several blankets and a sleeping bag. I crawled in back, read for a few minutes with my headlamp and then dozed off.
When I woke up the snow had tapered and the plow had passed; it was 9:30 p.m. I crept back out onto the road.
Surreal scenes
Several miles later, I saw a bright glow; I assumed it must the blinking lights of a plow. I approached tentatively, preparing to be momentarily engulfed in flying ice clumps and a deep rumbling sound. Instead, the smell of smoke swept over the car.
To my utter shock, flames shot out of a large truck – or maybe it was a bus. My heart thudded as I slowly drove past the war zone-type scene. I pulled over, grabbed my headlamp and ran back – keeping a safe distance, but yelling out to see if anybody was around. Heart pounding. Silence.
I would later learn from the folks at the gas station in Glenn Allen that the truck had been burning for hours. How it started or what happened? I still don’t know.
I slept the first night along the desolate road to Tok. Nearby, a cell phone tower flashed a creepy blue light.
The next day, after a breakfast of cereal and partially frozen soy milk, I continued on, fully occupied by an audio book about a journalist turned spy.
In Tok I found a nice surprise: a superb extra hot latte made by a gruff looking guy behind the counter at a gas station.
Lesson learned: never judge things by the surface appearance.
On day two the landscapes rolled away into a sea of mangled trees and windswept lakes. Every 20 or 30 minutes a truck or U-haul rambled by, but mostly I experienced the remote winter wilderness completely by myself. I tried to imagine Manhattan’s bustle – and couldn’t. I felt warm and solitary; my Subaru chugged reliably along.
Wonderfully small
Many times during the following week and a half I felt wonderfully small. My night in the Yukon was one such moment.
I parked in a pullout used by hunters, located a mile or two down an unnamed road. Four-wheel drive paths spidered out from the pullout, leading up a bank to panoramic views of open tundra, jagged mountains and lanky lakes – as I found out in the morning. Arriving late in the evening, I bundled up against the subzero temperatures, and Zippy and I headed out for a walk under stars so innumerable each seemed to blend into the others; the Milky Way formed a grand crescendo as it arched artfully across the night sky.
Alone, in the middle of the Yukon, with no inkling of civilized society for hundreds of miles in any direction, and a cold that formed frost on my eyelashes, life seemed graced with a whole new perspective.
That night I snuggled under my sleeping bag, several blankets and a balaclava, engulfed in cozy warmth.
In the nick of time
The lady who owned the only open gas station at Haines Junction – a doublewide mobile trailer – exuded a friendliness that would warm the loneliest of travelers. She showed me photos of her son Fisher, and told me about how he got his name. (He’s named for the sport her whole family loves). She let me barrow her phone to use to my calling card to phone home. She rattled on about Haines, giving me all sorts of suggestions on what to do and where to stay. She let me fill my thermos with hot water and use the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face. Truly a one stop shop, and then some.
As I bid her goodbye, a customer came in because the pump wasn’t working.
“Ahh, I thought I might run out,” the clerk said with a bit of frustration, before picking up the phone to call, I assume, her gas supplier.
Boy, did I fill my tank in the nick of time!
Before I left on my road trip, everyone’s advice was unanimous: don’t blow through Haines. Take time to savor the drive over the pass into the tiny seaside town.
In retrospect, I don’t imagine many of my friends have attempted that drive during a mounting snowstorm. Distant clouds turned to whiteout conditions; whiteout conditions turned to a full on blizzard, with a dash of whipping wind. By the time I crossed the border and began the final “half hour” (try two hours) into Haines, I gripped the steering wheel the way I gripped my tools when I first started ice climbing. Deep, conscious breaths became my great technique for getting myself to relax.
And as if I wasn’t stressed enough, some folks at a rest stop told me the inclement weather had canceled the ferry I planned to take the following morning to Juneau.
(Keep in mind it had been a couple of days since I’d showered, or spent more than an hour away from my car).
The one bright point, however, were the bald eagles that perched along the highway. The uncanny warmth of a nearby river extends the salmon run into November, and last remaining food source draws some 3,000 big, boisterous bald eagles to the area. Scattered everywhere – in trees, along the shore, flying overhead – even the worst photographer could get a good eagle shot in Haines in November; and the good photographers – who descend on the area almost as much as the eagles – get some pretty damn freakin’ amazing shots.
I finally pulled into Haines at 4:50 p.m. on a Friday. I phoned the ferry terminal in Juneau. A message announcing office closure answered. Panic – or at least resignation! I thought I might have to wait until Monday to sort the ferry debacle out.
I listened to my voice messages. Two of them, both from the Alaska Marine Highway, confirmed my ferry trip was canceled.
I called the ferry office in Haines; to my relief, a real live voice picked up. The agent booked me to leave that same night on a beastly ferry (in other words, able to withstand large sea swells). This meant no more time to hang out with the eagles, but at least I would get to Juneau, and not have to wait three days for the next ferry out.
Peaks that pitch and plunge
I arrived to Juneau at 4:30 a.m. in weather equally as bad as what I left behind in Haines. Off the boat and out on the road, I crept along in second gear, venturing every so often into third gear, as I made my way to my friend’s downtown house.
When I finally arrived, I parked in the only available and plenty illegal spot – deciding I would wake up early to move it.
My friend, Charles, editor of the Juneau Empire, sister paper of the Alaska Star, graciously woke up, let me in and oriented me to the home.
Before collapsing into bed, totally exhausted, I took a soothing warm shower.
Charles knocked on my door the next morning; major landslides had taken out part of a home and road in Juneau, and he needed to go into the office.
Left to our own devices, Zippy and I geared up and headed for the mountains. We took a long, beautiful, sopping wet run through a temperate rainforest. After days on the road, it felt refreshing to unfurl our legs and let them loose to explore new terrain.
The landscapes in Juneau are dramatic: steep peaks pitch and plunge into the temperamental sea. Tall trees and deliciously green shrubbery carpet the whole scene.
The resulting energy is exhilarating: sometimes warm and welcoming, sometimes fierce and foreboding. Zippy and I couldn’t get enough; in the four days we were there, we took five runs and a beach walk.
The most memorable run led us to the base of the Mendenhall Glacier. After a bit of prodding, the lady in the visitor center reluctantly told me about the trail. “It takes all day to do,” she emphasized.
The clock read 3 p.m., the last ounce of light fades by 5 p.m. Armed with the headlamp I keep stashed in the glove compartment of my car, I headed out.
A gentle path gave way to switch backs, and then some rock scrambling coupled with bushwacking. Fortunately, others had gone before, leaving footprints in the snow.
To my delight, after a couple of hours, I found myself at the toe of an icy amphitheater. Just enough of the evening glow remained, allowing me to absorb its vast size. I felt the way I felt under the stars in the Yukon – wonderfully small.
Chilly air blew off the glacier and nipped at my cheeks; it was like opening the door to an industrial freezer, only there was nothing industrial about it.
I shared a few oms with the universe, ate a peanut butter chocolate Cliff bar, clicked on my headlamp and receded the way I came.
Beyond the spectacular scenery, I will remember Juneau for the good company. Charles and his roommates put out the full spread. We ate some great meals and spent a lot of time hanging out on oversized and extremely comfortable sofas – a great remedy to the seemingly relentless snow, rain and wind pounding down outside.
Charles also showed me around the Juneau Empire’s office, which houses a fine collection of Alaska artwork and touts a regal staircase (definitely a must for truly respectable newspapers).
I toured the state capitol building and the hotel where all the high-profile political scandals occurred. After spending so much time reporting on the underhanded events that occurred in these buildings, I soaked in each and every detail – the symbols painted onto the ceiling, the color of the tables, the lettering on the signs.
I went to the office that Sarah Palin vacated in July. I chatted with the receptionist for a while and learned Gov. Sean Parnell was out of town. She – the receptionist, not Palin – gave me a pin commemorating 50 years of statehood.
Quirky folks, dreary skies
The Alaska Marine Highway is reliable in a very precise way: it’s unreliable. The ferry I was supposed to take out of Juneau broke down, causing a complete makeover to my itinerary – that ended up being for the better. Instead of routing through Sitka, I got to spend an extra day in Juneau and head directly to Ketchikan, with stops in Petersburg and Wrangell.
Taking the ferry in November is less than ideal from the perspective of sightseeing – a lot of my trip was mired in dark and rain. But from the perspective of getting cheap tickets and having plenty of space to spread out, there’s no better month.
Plus by virtue of the time of year, each of the 100 or so passengers on board the 700-capacity vessel generally comes equipped with an interesting life story. And believe me, in a 20-plus hour trip the stories come out.
One elderly man was returning to Seattle after attending a custody hearing regarding his grandchildren; his daughter lost her life in a house fire last year. A 30-something year old guy was on his way to Price of Wales to spend the winter building power lines; he had spent prior winters in Tok and Haines, keeping their electrical grids functioning. A middle aged Native Alaskan man called the trip “routine” and “familiar;” he has worked on board the ferries for more than 20 years, earning seniority and a state retirement plan.
At night, I laid my Thermarest out in a corner of the lounge area and curled up in my sleeping bag – a routine practice that reminded me of how it would be done in Argentina or Guatemala, not the U.S.
I set my alarm to wake up for the middle-of-the-night port call to Petersburg. Zippy was in the boat’s hull, confined to my car, and I wanted to let him out as often as possible.
Already awake, I decided to stay up and watch the trip through the “narrows” – a precariously long, shallow and, yes, narrow channel.
Red and green blinking lights floated on buoys, cuing the captain on how to spin the ship through the squirrelly waters. Even at night, I could see the shore on both sides scratching at the ferry.
The ship captain performed flawlessly. An hour later, we were cruising open waters.
Totem poles and tangled trails
My first view of Ketchikan seemed graced by the divine. Patches of blue sky allowed sunlight to filter onto the “salmon capital of the world.”
After disembarking, Zippy and I headed north out of town to Totem Bight, a state park that displayed refurbished and replicated totem poles. The totem poles towered along a trail that wound through rainforest and along the coast – a serene and magical setting.
With nobody else around, I danced from one totem pole to the next, snapping photos and attempting to decipher meaning. Zippy, meanwhile, wandered freely, happy to be off the ferry and out of the car.
After an hour or so at Totem Bight, Zippy and I drove further down the road to a deserted trailhead. Undeterred by the slush, we bound full speed onto a path that paralleled a river and tangled around old growth trees. We ran for hours, enticed by each enchanting bend. By the time we got back to the car, night had fully engulfed Ketchikan, and hunger had fully engulfed me.
I pulled into the first eatery I could find: a diner that served all-day breakfast. One egg scramble, chi tea, and pumpkin pie later, I was feeling good, except for my feet, which were still sopping wet and frigid from the run.
I had a few hours to kill in Ketchikan before my ferry departed for Prince Rupert. I decided to head toward a road pullout I spied earlier in the day. The pullout perched above the harbor – a perfect place to watch boats and planes come and go.
I turned off my engine, sat back and drank one of the beers stowed in my trunk; Zippy, meanwhile, devoured a rawhide bone.
Small town, big state
The ferry trip to Price Rupert was basically uneventful. I boarded, fell asleep, woke up and disembarked.
The Canadian custom’s official in the Yukon was much nicer the custom’s official in British Columbia. In the Yukon, the lady asked me a few question, checked my passport, gave Zippy a treat and sent us on our way. In BC, the man barraged me with random and seemingly pointless questions: Where are you going to stay? Do you have reservations? Do you have any Canadian friends? Did they check you out in the Yukon? (“Umm … yah … I didn’t cross the border illegally … but they didn’t tear apart me car either, if that’s what you’re asking”).
Finally we got down to the basics: How long will you be in Canada? Do you have more than $10,000? What’s your final destination? Do you have any guns, knives or pepper spray?
I breathed a sigh of relief when he finally waved me ahead.
I happened upon a cute little café called Cowpaccinos, named after the dairy cows that used to roam the area. I ordered none other than an extra hot latte and found a nice corner seat.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder.
“Is that you’re car?”
Ruffled, I peered out the window, thinking I was being given a traffic ticket for God only knows what reason.
The girl laughed at me.
Her car is equally laden with skis, bikes and other gear, she said. Like me, the girl had just disembarked off the ferry, beginning what she expected to be a multi-month long road trip.
We got to talking, and before long uncovered a pretty ridiculous friends-of-friends connection. Misty, from Sitka, is really good friends with one of Alaska’s best ultrarunners, who is really good friends with my former next-door neighbor (and as a side note, Misty was the reason that this ultrarunner broke up with his former girlfriend – who I met when I was in Juneau because she’s an editor at Charles’ newspaper).
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Alaska is a small town in a big state.
‘I can see all the obstacles in my way’
While Cowpaccinos and the conversation with Misty were exactly what the doc called for, the best part of the morning was none other than the warm temps and sunshine.
For the first time, a canvass of dry road lay out before me.
I seized the opportunity to reorganize my car and tighten down the rope holding my skis to the roof rack. I then set off down the highway with music blaring – I hit repeat several times on the song that starts: “I can see clearly now the rain is gone, I can see all the obstacles in my way.”
British Columbia was even more spectacular than I expected it to be. Through my windshield, gargantuan lakes, burly mountains and wide-open valleys blurred together in one endless stream.
I found myself putting along and soaking it all in – much to the frustration of the truck drivers blazing through at supersonic speeds.
I pulled into Smithers just as the sun was beginning to set, and for the first time all trip, got a motel room – clean, simple and absolutely luxurious. I reveled in the hot shower, Internet access and space to spread my elbows.
Zippy and I discovered great trails, which we ran both at night and the following morning before I checked out – a runner’s paradise.
Before departing town, I reveled in a dose of familiarity – a stop by Safeway to pick up food for Zippy and a Starbuck’s latte. The beauty of big box stores is their sameness. Normally I balk at sameness, but when every single moment of every single day is filled with newness, there’s an amazing amount of comfort in sameness.
Savvy sayings
The clock spun past noon by the time I hit the road, meaning about four hours of easy daytime driving, before the world closed in to the beam of my headlights.
Refreshed, I planned to put in some mileage, going to Price George and then veering south toward Seattle.
When I reached Price George my heart jumped into my throat. I was faced with navigating through a huge city in the middle of the night.
Understand, that huge is totally relative. For the Chicagoan or the New Yorker, Price George would be a dusty old train stop. But for me, coming from the densely populated, industrial centers of Alaska, the Yukon and British Columbia (I’m kidding, of course), Price George felt downright overwhelming.
I made my way past car sales lots and fast food joints, two hands on the wheel, music off, staring intently ahead.
And then it happened: I came to an intersection, got totally confused and turned the wrong way. The road I chose spat me out onto a freeway, only adding to my feeling of big city chaos. A few miles later I pulled over in the parking lot of a rundown motel. Using the dim lights from the motel sign, I studied my map. I figured out where I needed to go, and pulled back out on the road, heading back in the direction from which I came.
The second time around, I turned the correct direction.
I stopped at a Husky gas station to fill up the lil’ Subaru and feed Zipparoo. The vibe at the gas station felt weird. A guy filling up a truck next to me seemed high on something, and inside everyone talked in hushed tones. Needless to say, I didn’t linger.
I felt a surge of relief as the city lights disappeared behind me. When the road tapered from two lanes to four, I knew for sure I was back in the vast wide open.
An hour or so later road weariness hit. I came to Hixon, population 2,000, and pulled into the only open eating establishment – a pub/dinner, in that order. Nobody was inside, except the waitress and the owner. I ordered a bowl of tomato soup and french fries, both of which were homemade.
Eventually a few other people drifted in – a crew of hunters and a local elderly couple who had a full day of taking care of their grandkids, and delighted in telling the bar owner about each and every expression their 2-year-old grandson makes.
I drifted between reading my book and ease dropping on the conversations around me.
When it came time to pay my bill, the bar owner and I got into our own bout of chatting. The owner loved to think up funny and witty sayings – the type you would find on bumperstickers – and she had them posted all over the pub and written all over the menu.
When I commented on how amusing I found all the sayings, she pulled out a stack of 3x5 notecards filled with them – backups in case the ones already posted on the walls fall down, get stolen or find themselves in some sort of other ruin.
The bar owner lady also told me all about her life and the town. She’s owned the bar for several years; she worked as a school teacher and did some typing on the side to earn extra money when she was a single mom.
She was born and raised in Hixon and a lot of her family is still there, or at least within a couple of hour drive.
Hixon is basically a logging town, with most folks employed at the mill located 20 minutes down the road, she said.
By the time I got back out on the road, my eyes were tired and my body was ready for bed. I read in the Milepost about a free campground, open year round, and guessed it to be about an hour’s drive away.
The long and wearisome ensuing hour and half turned out to be well worth it.
The Forest Service campground, tucked a half mile back on a logging road, was a sheer delight. Located along a beautiful, babbling river, it came equipped with all the basic amenities: bathrooms, picnic tables and even a pump house for drawing water.
And the best part: I had the place entirely to myself.
I parked in an open clearing, laid my ridge rest out on a picnic table and watched a magnificent show of shooting stars – while drinking a beer. Zippy meanwhile pranced and pounced about, thrilled to be out of the car and surrounded by so many sticks just waiting to be gnawed on.
I slept soundly in the bed in the back of my Subaru.
An ice-plastered windshield
When I woke up the sun poked well above the horizon.
I crawled out of the car, bleary eyed and happy. Zippy and I hung out for a while, walking along the river and making tracks in the inch of fresh snow, which fell during the night.
Eventually, we corralled ourselves back into the car.
In the next town, Quesnel, Safeway provided more than just familiarity. It had a courtesy phone, which I used, along with a calling card, to get in touch with Ward and Wendy, my godparents who awaited my arrival in Seattle.
I also found a coffee shop in Quesnel – with perfectly delicious coffee, but far too cluttered décor.
Out of Quesnel, signs for ski areas – both crosscountry and downhill – began to pop up.
I decided to check out a crosscountry ski area, figuring that since there wasn’t much snow, Zippy and I might be able to walk around on the trails.
Score! Zippy and I encountered a fabulous trail network.
Nobody else was out, so we had the trails almost entirely to ourselves – much to Zippy’s delight, a throng of deer crossed paths with us.
By the time we got back to the car, night was descending and we hadn’t yet made much mileage.
“Here comes several hours of starring into the beam of my headlights,” I thought.
But not more than an hour or two later that plan became entirely foiled by an onslaught of snow.
As ice plastered itself to my windshield and truckers hurled past, I reevaluated.
When I spotted a turnoff for a dirt road, I didn’t hesitate. I followed it for a couple of miles before coming to a parking lot of snowmachiner’s mecca – but with only a sprinkling of snow on the ground, revving engines hadn’t yet descended on the area.
I parked my Subaru and Zippy and I headed out for a walk along the snowmachine trails.
Flakes continued to fall, but instead of bringing the feeling of panic, they now conjured up peace.
I crawled into bed early, determined to get up and on the road before dawn. I hoped to get to Seattle by early afternoon the following day, and with the delay from the snowstorm, that meant a lot of miles to cover.
Layer-cake colors
My alarm went off at 5 a.m., and by 6 a.m. I had dressed, brushed the snow off the car, defrosted the windows and was driving away.
The battery of my MP3 player was drained, and since I don’t have a radio in the Subi, I sang and talked to myself as a way to wake up.
Plows had cleared the road and there was virtually no other traffic, so the going was smooth.
Soon the sun began to rise, revealing an arid canyonscape.
As the day progressed I descended deeper and deeper in the Frazier Canyon, finding spectacular drop offs, layer-cake colors and brushy vegetation around each new turn.
The road looked like the Marbleworks set I played with as a kid: twisting and veering downward in very zany fashion.
After hours in toyland, cliffs melted into a fertile, green valley bottom, with the quaint town of Hope nestled into it.
In Hope I found an excellent coffee shop, where I savored an extra hot honey cinnamon latte. I also found a park to let Zippy run around in.
I could have lingered longer; I liked everything about the town, but I was feeling barn fever, and wanted to get to Seattle in time to accompany Ward and Wendy to an early Thanksgiving dinner.
Back on the road, two lanes turned to four lanes, four lanes turned to six lanes, and then six lanes turned to eight lanes.
I crossed the border from Canada back into the U.S. without any trouble. The customs official looked at my passport for 20 seconds, asked me one or two questions, and then sent me on my way.
Now all I had to do was navigate my way to, and then through the big city – and I knew that this time I wasn’t dealing with just Prince Rupert, but the actual real McCoy.
The final couple of hours to Ward and Wendy’s house turned out to be largely uneventful, but nonetheless I was pretty much shaking by the time I pulled into their driveway.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had driven on a road bigger than four lanes, what alone navigated something equivalent to Seattle’s tangled maze of overpasses, underpasses, bridges and tunnels.
Luckily the signage was good and the directions I had were straightforward. Plus, the early Thankgiving dinner, which I did indeed arrive in time for, included some of the best wine I’ve had in a long time. (One of Ward and Wendy’s friends is a wine wholesaler).
Snuggling up in Seattle
During the next 10 days, I relaxed and recovered.
I spent a couple of nights with Ward and Wendy, and then moved basecamp to my brother and his girlfriend’s house in Tacoma (Brad and Meg).
My parents flew in from Colorado, so the whole crew was present and accounted for.
The highlights of my time in Seattle-Tacoma: attending a couple of Wendy’s yoga classes, staying up late to play the board game Settler’s of Catan with Brad and Meg, picking out wines for Thankgiving with my dad, meeting up with an old friend from summer camp for coffee, running in Point Defiance park, enjoying a festive, but low-key Thanksgiving, checking out the glass museum with Meg, and eating Ward and Wendy’s gourmet meals.
The final leg
The final leg of my journey, from Seattle to Jackson Hole, was like a heated, indoor swimming pool; after days of being in the English Channel, if you follow my metaphor, the sailing was so super smooth. Not only were the roads double lane, but they were also dry and the full moon was out.
I hoped from one gas station to the next, one state to the next, without a glitch.
I slept in the back of my Subi in a Forest Service parking lot located along a beautiful river in Montana. I pulled into the parking lot late, around midnight, and moonlight glistened off shallow whitewater, humming as it rolled over itself. Single-digit temperatures made the air fresh and crisp.
The last day of my journey was a cruiser – almost.
At 7 p.m. – a full 12 hours after I first crawled behind the steering wheel – I hit the notorious pass over the Tetons from Victor, Idaho, to Jackson Hole, Wyoming.
Road grades on this pass reach 14 degrees and average 10 degrees – for miles on end. Maybe it was because I was tired, or maybe it was because of the ice on the road, but that pass truly ranks as one of the most insane stretches of highway I've ever seen.
Going 2 miles an hour, I eventually made my way safely, descending into Jackson Hole.
I easily found what would become my new home.
Before going inside, I took a deep breadth, mustering up nerve. After so much time either by myself or with close family and friends, it felt a bit overwhelming to step foot into a world where nobody knew me and I knew nobody.
But, just like the road trip itself, starting was the hardest part of building my new life in Jackson Hole.
My room mates turned out to be more than I could have hoped for. I like all three of them a lot – they’re both fun to hang out with and do their share of making our home a comfortable place to be.
The night I arrived they took me out for a couple of beers at the Brew Pub, located only two blocks away – dangerously good beer, dangerously close to home.
Soon I would become wrapped up in training to be a ski instructor, finding areas to run and making new friends.
But on that first night, Dec. 2, 2009, my thoughts reveled in not what was ahead, but what was behind – in all that I had seen and experienced since I left Eagle River in a blinding blizzard almost three weeks and 3,000 miles prior.
Labels: Alaska, Amy, British Columbia, Eagle River, Haines, Jackson Hole, Juneau, musings, ramblings, Road trip, Seattle, story, Travel, Yukon, Zippy
posted by Amy | 11:25 AM
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