Golden Hour Flower

 

Pipeline Pig

This was used to clean an oil pipeline. It's now on display in Delta Junction, Alaska (or was when I drove through in 2011). 

An Unscheduled Stopover in Skulkovia

We were nine hours into the journey when the engines failed. Catastrophe was imminent; luckily, I had a window seat. The stars above were reflected in the dark, unforgiving Arctic Ocean. Based on our rate of descent, I anticipated burial at sea in about two minutes.

And yet I was strangely calm; there was nothing I could do to alter my fate, so I may as well die with dignity. I twiddled my thumbs and watched as the ocean loomed closer with each passing second.

But then the starlight reflected in the dark waters changed to the orange and yellow hues of civilization by night. There were cheers as the plane altered course to meet those lights, and the next thing I knew were were safe on the ground.

At first I thought we must have landed somewhere on the north shore of Alaska, but when we debarked I discovered that we were in fact the guests of Skulkovia, a small, densely populated island midway between Alaska and Siberia, in the Bering Strait. It was, of course, the most technologically advanced civilization on Earth, with a mixture of Russian and American culture reflected in the island's architecture, clothing, music and technology.

All of us passengers were warmly greeted by a small army of Skulkovians dressed in ornate uniforms of red and gold. We were welcomed into the airport mall and encouraged to use the communications kiosks to reach our loved ones. It was a world of gleaming chrome, glowing neon and shimmering vector graphics dancing across flexible datascreens that flowed along the walls.

Naturally I deployed my trusty SLR; it was a new model, but the technology was bulky and primitive compared to what the Skulkovians used. I was a little embarrassed to be photographing Skulkovian wonders with my third-class gear, but I wasn't going to miss capturing at least a couple of memories. To my surprise, I caught sight of my old colleague Avril, who I hadn't realized was on my flight; she was hefting an old camcorder on her shoulder, which made me feel a little better about my camera.

I was feeling pretty good about the whole affair until I saw a lineup of weary men and women trudging toward the opening to a dark corridor. There was no animation in their faces, and each wore a baggy, worn, grey coverall. I started to raise my camera in their direction, but then I turned away with a mental shrug and focused once again on the perfection of the mall and its beautiful citizens. As a special guest, I didn't want to embarrass my generous hosts. Hadn't they saved us all?

The Flag at Delta Junction

On July 4, 2011, I happened to be in Delta Junction, Alaska, at the end of the Alaska Highway. Strangely enough, there wasn't much evidence of Independence Day celebrations, aside from this flag and a handful of people lining up for ice cream - cash only, sadly, and I had none. 

Father's Day on Ice

Here's Dad and Sean and me sometime in the early 1980s climbing a glacier that's probably melted by now. It may even have been close to Father's Day. Mom and Dad might be seeing some glaciers even now, decades later - they're touring Alaska to celebrate their upcoming 50th anniversary. Happy Father's Day, Dad - hope you're having fun! 

Reverse Demotivational Poster

Demotivational Poster

North to Alaska, Part V

 Heading southeast from Tok, he arrived at a crossroads. He could continue to Port Alcan, and return to the Yukon the same way he'd left, or he could turn left and take the Top of the World Highway to Dawson City.

Given his demons, it wasn't really much of a choice at all. Dawson City meant Jack London and Robert Service, the Klondike, the Old West, a thousand beloved tropes. He imagined swinging saloon doors and freshly-painted boardwalks, riverboats and grizzled miners, Mounties and old-fashioned general stores. It was a chance to travel back in time to an era he'd romanticized since childhood. He couldn't come this far and miss what might be a once-in-a-lifetime chance.

He turned left, and sealed his fate.

At first, he was surprised by the road's quality. Though winding in all dimensions, the asphalt was smooth and fresh, salmon-pink in sections, a colour he'd never before associated with roads. The road was well-named; it seemed to climb inexorably to the heavens, the valleys and chasms below growing ever distant. The lack of guardrails inspired intense caution; he kept his eyes on the road, though the beauty of the perpetual sunset was compelling. He would stop for pictures, he promised himself, when he crossed the border.

But after an hour or so of smooth driving, the road abruptly disintegrated, flat asphalt giving way to rough, broken gravel. The lane narrowed dangerously, the curves tightened, vision was impaired by the towering trees and sharp-angled corners.

He was high enough that even in July there still remained patches of snow, stubbornly clinging to life; even the constant sun couldn't force them to relinquish their icy grip on these lonely peaks.

Tiny communities of single-digit populations hugged the highway, offering little but gasoline and small talk, and sometimes not even that. He marvelled at the ability of these hardy souls to endure such isolation. The roads here were so rough and crumbling that he was forced to a crawl, inching forward at 20 or 30 kilometres per hour, half-expecting a head-on collision at every blind corner. It was like walking along the window ledges on the 100th floor of a metropolitan skyscraper; there was absolutely no room for error.

Fortunately, he surprised no unwary drivers around those dangerous curves. But he did startle a moose, which galloped off in high dudgeon, leaping back into the forest before he could do more than snap one blurry photo.

Finally, around 9 pm, he reached the border...only to find that it had closed for the night. He was stunned and annoyed at first, hardly believing that a border crossing could simply shut down. And he couldn't just sleep, not with the sun blazing down the whole time. He couldn't even phone Sylvia; he'd left cell phone coverage behind hours ago. He'd be stuck here for hours, with nothing to do.

And then it hit home. This was what he'd wanted all along: some peace and quiet, some solitude, an escape from phone calls and emails and news coverage. For half a day, he thought, he'd have nothing to do but watch and think and enjoy the silence at the top of the world.

He joined a small group of similarly stranded travellers, and they shared some good-natured grumbling. Some Alaskans emigrating to Kentucky brought him over a delicious heaping of ravioli, served up on a paper plate with a plastic spoon. For a while they discussed politics and popular culture, and then each moved on to his or her own corners, leaving him alone to gaze at the sky. For hours he simply stood and stared, watching birds flit back and forth, the clouds roll serenely overhead, the sun slowly graze the mountains, barely kissing them, holding back the night.

He explored a little, stumbling across a tiny creek. The only sound was the sound of water trickling over the polished stones, and suddenly he was delighted that he'd missed the crossing. This is why we're here, he thought; to enjoy the marvels of nature, to wonder at the grand machinations of nature and science, to contemplate ourselves and the beauty of our surroundings.

For a long time he was lost in thought. He wondered how, in the face of all this serenity, he allowed himself to stress himself nearly to death over politics he couldn't hope to change alone. But after a while he realized that what he did was important; his very presence here was possible only because he enjoyed sufficient prosperity to make the journey. Many, many thousands in his home province weren't so fortunate. The most vulnerable struggled to buy groceries.

Did he deserve this indulgence, he wondered? Perhaps not. But he needed it, and when the border opened up again some time later, he drove on, renewed. The sensation would be fleeting.

The road steadily improved as he made his way to Dawson City, and then he spotted it, wonder of wonders:

A two-dimensional false street - just like they sometimes used in the movies! The doors led nowhere, the balcony couldn't be climbed; it was merely a fancy road sign. He wished he owned an original Star Trek costume so that he could pose in front of the faux tableaux, pretending he was an extra in "Spectre of the Gun."

That image alone would be worth a return trip, he thought; perhaps after losing 80 pounds or so...

For a wonder, he arrived just in time to catch the ferry across the Yukon River. As soon as he stopped on the riverbank, waiting for the ferry to make landing, he turned on his cell phone to call Sylvia. He knew that she must be worried, for it had been over sixteen hours since he'd last called, back in Tok. But the phone glumly pronounced "No Service," which made no sense to him; Dawson City was pretty far north, yes, but it was one of Yukon's largest population centres. Surely they had cell phone service...? Well, no matter; he'd phone as soon as he found a hotel room. There would be land lines.

The Yukon was perhaps the most beautiful river he'd ever seen, carving its way through the mountains with tremendous power. It was a pleasure just to watch the waves roll by, heading for the Bering Strait, ancient roadway to the continent's indigenous peoples. What must it have been like, he wondered, to explore this place in the old times before modern civilization, via raft or canoe? Hard but marvellous, he decided.

The architecture was everything he'd hoped for, with a movie-western feel inside and out in practically every building. He found lodging at the Westmark Inn and asked about cellular reception, only to discover that something had severed the main connection to Whitehorse. Not only was there no celluar service, there was no communication at all: no telephone connections, no television, no debit card or credit card machines. Unless you had a satellite phone, you were out of luck.

He worried about Sylvia; she would almost certainly think that he'd crashed the car or been eaten by a bear. But what could he do? He certainly couldn't drive to Whitehorse, not after skipping a night's sleep. He could only hope that she wouldn't fret too much, and he would have to put aside his guilt and try to enjoy the town. He was too tired to explore much, so he confined himself to a quick excursion of his hotel's street, snapping an initial round of photos, promising to capture the more interesting sights the next day:

Too many hours without sleep curtailed his meanderings. Tomorrow, he thought, I'll spend most of the morning here, then drive to Whitehorse. I'll be there a couple of days - time enough to explore the Yukon capital and ride the famous train to Skagway, Alaska. And then I'll start the long drive home. Soon he'd be back in Edmonton with a fine collection of photos and fond memories.

It was the day before disaster.

North to Alaska, Part IV

The customs officer at Port Alcan inspired vague, undeserved pity. The man was polite but brusque,  professional, and yet Earl could tell that he was bound by regulation and convention not to be friendly, to treat each traveller as a potential threat. Earl understood that border agents had a tremendous responsibility, and that each officer had to develop his or her own way of handling a job that was at once routine, yet held the potential for peril. After a few seconds of polite inquiry, the officer allowed himself to warm up just a little, pointing out (in answer to Earl's stated reason for visiting) that fireworks weren't likely given the Midnight Sun, but that parades were a certainty. And then the roadside interview was over, and Earl drove on.

Drove on ever upward, it seemed, each gentle curve winding its way into the heavens; this didn't feel like driving in the Rockies. It was more like driving along a gradually rising plateau, so gradual that it took him an hour or two to realize that there were peaks below him, and that he was driving through the clouds.

He took no photos. He'd felt this way before, the sudden urge to forsake everything to reach his ultimate goal. Gone was his pledge to take his time; now, Fairbanks was everything. After Fairbanks, he could take his time. After Fairbanks, he would relax. After Fairbanks, he would settle into a comfy chair, read a book, write a short story.

Though he swore he'd never drive a marathon again, it seemed unconscionable to stop now. He passed through Tok and allowed it to dwindle in his rear view mirror; hundreds of miles later, he did the same at Delta Junction, the official end of the Alaska Highway. He felt pieces of his mind snapping into place like blocks of Lego, piecing together their ultimate goal: Fairbanks. Fairbanks Fairbanks Fairbanks.

17 hours after he left Watson Lake, he arrived. Exhausted, he booked a room at the Whitewater Hotel. He rose in the morning, checked out and went off in search of a parade. He was startled when a trio of F-16s passed overhead, sonic booms shaking windows.

Fairbanks was a lot like Thompson, he thought. This is an industrial town, a northern town; utilitarian, isolated, a little dumpy. But he knew that those who called this place home loved it as much as he had loved his own northern home towns. There was no evidence of parades; in fact, he saw little evidence that Fairbanks was prepared to celebrate Independence Day at all, and this shocked him. He drove ten miles south to the bedroom community of the whimsically-named North Pole, and sure enough, a few hundred flag-waving souls were gathered around a traffic circle, patiently waiting for a parade.

He joined the throng with a smile. On a quest for irony both sartorial and sardonic, he wore a Hawaiian shirt over his command-gold Star Trek t-shirt. "I'm wearing a Hawaiian shirt in Alaska!" he thought gleefully, imagining his beloved Sylvia rolling her eyes and exclaiming "I'm so glad you know so many ways to amuse yourself."

The parade turned out to be very low key, with less jingoism and military hardware than he had expected; less, in fact, than even Edmonton's Capital Ex parade, as he would discover just a couple of weeks later. The parade lasted barely a half hour, mostly composed of public servants such as firemen and policemen. He felt both disappointed and gratified, for in his own way he was amused by stereotypes, but more than anything he loved seeing them shattered.

Still, it seemed anticlimactic to drive thousands of kilometres for this. Impishly, a practical joke began to take shape at the back of his mind...what if the parade had been a little more lively? What if an Alaskan took exception to his Hawaiian shirt...? Might there be...an altercation? It was just ludicrous enough to have some credibility...

Well. Let that percolate a few hours. It was time to begin the journey home in earnest, to retrace his route in a more leisurely fashion. This time, he would stop to soak up a little nature, a little history. He had days, he thought; it would be wasteful not to take advantage of every minute.

Rain had spoiled his enjoyment of Fairbanks and North Pole a little, but as he wound his way back southward, it began to clear. He paused to snap a photo of the Alaska Pipeline:

When he crossed this bridge, he imagined the conversation had his brother gone along with him:
"'Black Veterans Memorial Bridge.' Cool! Wait...shouldn't the bridge be...black?"
"It's whitewashed...just like American history."
Soon enough - somehow the drive home always seemed shorter than the drive out - he arrived again at Delta Junction, the official end of the Alaska Highway. He kept his promise and took the time to take some photos - some of them the delightfully silly sort that he so adored. He was no comedian, but it gave him great joy whenever one of his silly antics made someone laugh. The interpretive centre on the site of Mile 1422 provided ample opportunity for such silliness.

Mosquito not to scale.

Once he excised the buffoonery out of his system, he strolled across the street to examine a number of 1940s-vintage construction and support vehicles, machines that had helped build the highway.

It didn't take long to see all that Delta Junction had to offer. Quaint as it was, Earl was once again feeling the irresistible pull of new frontiers; he decided that he would journey home not via the Alaska Highway, but by taking the famed Klondike Loop to Dawson City across the Top of the World Highway.

It would turn out to be the best and worst decision of the trip. But before he made that fateful detour, he stopped for dinner in Tok - dinner and a devilish prank, recounted here verbatim:

Sylvia's last exclamation both terrified and thrilled him, for he knew that she was perfectly capable of wreaking terrible vengeance on whoever did him harm. They shared a laugh over the prank, but fickle Fate would soon punish Earl harshly for his malfeasance...