Cool Treasure

Apparently, I frequently say “… and everything like that.” I honestly never noticed.

But that’s what it said on my quittin’ cake, the cake that every significant Fairbanks Daily News-Miner employee gets as they depart. “Good Luck, Josh … and everything like that.”

I asked copy desk chief Gary Black if I said that a lot. He said, “You’re kidding, right?” I guess I have a new catch phrase.

I shook hands, explained my plans to coworkers Friday afternoon and left Saturday morning. I’m bad at goodbyes, and I’d be leaving too many people out by mentioning some of them here. So here’s my parting message to the people of Fairbanks: I don’t regret a second I spent with any of y’all, and I’ll be back, if only for a short while.

And enough with that. This blog is about the future, a commodity that I’ve banked on for so long — and is depleting faster with every letter I type.

It took a bit longer to leave Fairbanks than planned. I had a few errands to run, which ere severely elongated by a charity walk that circled my neighborhood. After a stop by the transfer station, I turned onto the Mitchell Expressway, then to the south offramp onto the Richardson Highway and never looked back. It was 11 a.m., and I was officially without a home state.

I’d been between Fairbanks and Delta Junction plenty of times, but there were always places along that drive I told myself I’d check out. Like Harding Lake:

Or a small turnoff by the Tanana River:

These shots were actually from a bathroom break, but at least I picked a scenic area:

The sun kept the inside of my car warm as I scooted to Tok as a breeze outside kept the temps around 50. I plugged in my dad’s Tom Tom GPS navigator, but it always thought I was 20 yards south of the highway. Still, it was very accurate in telling me how close I was to Chicken, my first-day destination.

Because of my late start, there were a few hikes along the way I forewent, namely Donnely Dome near Delta. I wasn’t running a tight schedule, but it’s hard to manage a 6-hour hike when you’re running a little behind.

After fueling up in Tok, I took my last minutes of cell phone reception to call my buddies Mario and Russ. A mile later, I turned left onto the Taylor Highway to take the long way out of Alaska.

Had I driven straight, I would be in Canada within two hours, tops. I decided to add more than 500 miles of swerving road to this excursion, though. The Taylor heads north to Eagle with a little spur road that crosses the Canadian border to Dawson City, which was my plan of emigration.

The first part of the Taylor goes through an area ravaged by the infamous wildfires of 2004. Seven hundred and six acres of Alaska forest burned that year, which is not all that astounding. But usually, it does not affect areas so close to civilization.

By the time these forests grow back, I’ll be fertilizer.

I stopped at the West Fork Campground, about 10 miles south of Chicken. At its most populous in the summer, Chicken has 17 residents, so there was no point in arriving after 8 p.m., as most things would be closed.

The campsite had a spectacular view of a half-filled flat called Johna’s Lake, and there was an open spot with unused firewood. Score.

The camp host was Dennis White, an on-again, off-again Alaska resident who spends five months per year working up here for the Bureau of Land Management. I sipped a Budweiser tall boy as we chatted about Florida at his campsite. Turns out he has a brother in Bradenton; go figure.

Dinner was going to be tuna, peas and rice. There was no potable water, so there goes the rice. I sliced my finger while trying to open the can of peas, so I got Medieval on it with my multitool and forgot about opening the tuna. Thus, dinner was amended to a campfire-cooked can of peas and some granola. Good enough.

I slept well despite the 24-hour light, woke at 5:30 a.m. and got a move on. I had enough gas to get to Dawson City, and I didn’t figure there would be anything open in Chicken or Boundary on a Sunday, so I wasn’t concerned with arriving too early. I was on the road by 5:55 and had time to do anything that caught my eye.

I swung by Chicken for a short picture break and went on my way.

A few minutes up the road was a trailhead for a 1.5-mile downhill hike to a scenic overlook. I laced up my hiking shoes and grabbed my camera, apple and a tall boy (hey, I was out of water).

It was a chilly morning. My car was icy from the night before, and it could not have been more than 40 degrees. I had enough clothing, but no gloves, so holding the Budweiser can was a pain. I had to alternate hands holding it and my camera.

There were four overlooks along the way. I got as close to the edge as possible each time, keeping in mind that if I fell there was no one who knew where I was, unless Dennis back at the campground has ESP.

There was a nice payoff at the end.

The 1.5-mile return trip was not as pleasant, but it felt good to get the old leg muscles working again. I hadn’t been to the gym in weeks. Also, I got within 5 feet of a snowshoe hare.

From there, the road became progressively worse. The Taylor had been smoothly paved until about Mile 70, when it became gravel and led around blind turns with steep drops and no shoulder. Still, there were no significant bumps, and I only had a few “Ah!” moments when encountering another vehicle on a hairpin turn.

As i passed the turnoff for Eagle and headed to the border, a recent snowfall had converted the dirty gravel into a muddy, sticky mess. My loaded-down Kia had a heck of a time climbing hills in those conditions, but it made it. As I neared the summit, it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

I pulled over at Border, a pit stop with some gas pumps and coffee near Canada, and talked with the owner. He apologized for not being open. Heck, I expected that. The border doesn’t open until May 15, a day before I was there. I gave him the apples and carrots I hadn’t eaten (expecting them to be taken at the border anyway) and skidded away on the muddy road.

After fumbling through the Canadian border guard’s questions (I was an Alaskan moving to Arizona with a permanent address in Florida, so that took a bit to explain), I said goodbye to Alaska.

Then it was off to the Top of the World Highway, which is about as useful as the Denali Highway in that it connects about 5,500 people in Dawson City, Chicken and Eagle to each other and doesn’t offer better access to the main road system. So it basically exists for tourists like me. Here’s a little background:

What that sign should say is:

“Yukon Route 9 is the most swerving, challenging road in Canada. It also is nearly the most unkempt, second only to the 100 kilometers of the Alaska Highway from Beaver Creek to the United States border. When a road serves no other purpose than to enter the U.S., we make no attempt to maintain it. That is out anti-emigration policy: Go ahead, move to the States, if you can make it.

“This route is the prototypical mountain ridge road, as it spirals up peaks with no shoulder and an endless supply of sharp, prolonged turns that offer little visibility to the road ahead but plenty of panoramic views of mountains that seem to stretch on forever.

“Expect random meter-high clumps of snow spanning the entire roadway on uphill climbs. Be aware of snow overtaking the inside lane on a no-visibility turn that will the driver to move into the oncoming lane and pray that they don’t have to choose between a head-on collision or swerving into the snow and losing control near a 2,000-foot drop. Beware of potholes of all kinds: big ones, small ones, the shallow ones filled with nasty gravel chunks and the continual line of bumps that act like moguls.”

“If you make it to Dawson City, thanks for coming to Canada. Go Habs.”

Well, I made it. It was fun. But I am never doing it again.

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