When I left Alaska the destination I had in mind was Denver, Colorado. I had a job lined up there with Grassroots Campaigns, a fundraising scheme with an insanely high turnover rate. Since leaving Alaska I have seen their ads everywhere and its become clear that their operation is basically a scam. I did not know this when I decided to bet my life on moving to a new city to take a job with them in order to support a new life, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
The further up the road I travel the less familiar it is. I've traveled the road from Palmer to Glennallen countless times over my lifetime, and I have driven the road to Haines Junction once before, but by the end of the first day of uneventful driving, as I pulled into Haines Junction, I began down a road I had never seen before. I decided to stop for the night on a turnoff just outside of town. Having left home with only $500 to my name I was in no position to rent a hotel room, and opted instead to cover the windows in cardboard as a slapdash attempt at insulation, and curl up in the front seat under a blanket.
I could only sleep for an hour at a time before I would need to start up the engine and turn on the heat. it may have been April, but in rural Canada, April is still the dead of winter. With gas prices at around $6 a gallon, I had no interest in passing out with the engine running so I would set a five-minute timer before shutting off the key. After two hours of on again off again sleep, I decided to try and make it into White Horse.
I went inside and bought a map from the overnight clerk, Will. He showed me on the map which route I should take considering the time of year, and to look out for the wood bison that would be grazing near the highway further down the road. We got to talking, and before I knew it 6 am had rolled around and we had spent the whole night talking about politics, history, world wars, and the contrast between America and Canada. This reinforces one of the rules I have always striven to live up to, always talk to strangers.
The next morning I awoke in somebodies driveway, the cardboard box that I had cut up and used to insulate the cab had fallen from the windows and I could see my breath as I awoke. My nose was painfully cold from the air, and my hands numb. I started the engine and waited for the windows and my limbs to defrost. The sun was just beginning to poke over the mountains. I drove a few miles down the road until I found a small RV lodge where I grabbed breakfast and brushed my teeth.
During the course of this trip, I was progressively getting sicker, I had stocked up on the vape pens that I used to stave off my nicotine cravings. These pens were turning the back of my throat raw, and as a result, eating and drinking were becoming painful as the trip progressed. This made the trip seem to drag on endlessly. The next three days, with little in the way of landmarks save for the occasional settlement drove home the point that I was in the middle of nowhere.
Nothing of note would occur for the next two days of endless travel, which at this point has merged into a single long blur of winding roads and straight passes through the vast Canadian prairies. I remember the harsh cold at many of the gas stations, the stark beauty of the landscapes, and the time that I added a quart of oil to my engine and forgot to put the cap back on before starting up. This I, fortunately, caught within moments but did result in covering my engine in oil.
By the evening of the third day, I was sufficiently done with the endless road that I had driven as was ready to get back into the States and rest. I pulled into Cache Creek just a few minutes before sunset, grabbed a coffee, filled up the gas tank, and set off for the border.
This was a mistake.
After a few miles of relatively easy roads, my lack of sufficient headlight strength began to grate. Every car passing in the opposite direction blinded me, the road was invisible past only a few feet ahead of me, and traffic from behind was blinding me as well. the road between Cache Creek and the border is a narrow, twisting road with steep climbs and diving drops. on the left, sheer cliff, on the right, hundred foot drops into oblivion.
as I drove, a thick fog rolled into the pass, my only hope for finding my way through this twisty canyon was to stay on the tail of an eighteen wheeler that knew the route well. The good news was that I could navigate by the lights of his truck, the bad news was that in order to see those lights, I would need to be perilously close to a truck driver who knew this road well. He took those corners doing sixty miles an hour, forcing me to tighten my grip on the wheel as we plunged through another fog bank. He would turn a corner and disappear, and I would need to quickly catch up as to not get lost on the mountainside. We would turn a corner and plunge into a tunnel, a short respite from the madness that was the mountainside.
Tired and delirious, with a cough from the vape and sitting uncomfortably in three days of driving funk from a lack of showers on the Alcan, I was not prepared for this sort of driving. Around each corner, I could feel the back end of my car sliding out from underneath me. after what felt like an eternity on that road, we came out of the last fog bank and passed a gas station, I took the opportunity to pull off the road and catch some sleep. It was 4 in the morning by the time I was off that winding road, I had just done six hours of some of the most grueling driving I've ever faced.
I awoke the next morning at eight to the sound of a passing train. Exhausted, but awake, I drove the last few miles to the border. Crossing back into cell coverage, I called and texted everyone I could think of to let them know I had made it. I then proceeded to get very lost in northern Washington before finding the highway again and driving to Bellevue to meet up with my Mother.
The further up the road I travel the less familiar it is. I've traveled the road from Palmer to Glennallen countless times over my lifetime, and I have driven the road to Haines Junction once before, but by the end of the first day of uneventful driving, as I pulled into Haines Junction, I began down a road I had never seen before. I decided to stop for the night on a turnoff just outside of town. Having left home with only $500 to my name I was in no position to rent a hotel room, and opted instead to cover the windows in cardboard as a slapdash attempt at insulation, and curl up in the front seat under a blanket.
I could only sleep for an hour at a time before I would need to start up the engine and turn on the heat. it may have been April, but in rural Canada, April is still the dead of winter. With gas prices at around $6 a gallon, I had no interest in passing out with the engine running so I would set a five-minute timer before shutting off the key. After two hours of on again off again sleep, I decided to try and make it into White Horse.
I went inside and bought a map from the overnight clerk, Will. He showed me on the map which route I should take considering the time of year, and to look out for the wood bison that would be grazing near the highway further down the road. We got to talking, and before I knew it 6 am had rolled around and we had spent the whole night talking about politics, history, world wars, and the contrast between America and Canada. This reinforces one of the rules I have always striven to live up to, always talk to strangers.
 |
| Warnings of Wood Bison where accurate |
The next morning I awoke in somebodies driveway, the cardboard box that I had cut up and used to insulate the cab had fallen from the windows and I could see my breath as I awoke. My nose was painfully cold from the air, and my hands numb. I started the engine and waited for the windows and my limbs to defrost. The sun was just beginning to poke over the mountains. I drove a few miles down the road until I found a small RV lodge where I grabbed breakfast and brushed my teeth.
During the course of this trip, I was progressively getting sicker, I had stocked up on the vape pens that I used to stave off my nicotine cravings. These pens were turning the back of my throat raw, and as a result, eating and drinking were becoming painful as the trip progressed. This made the trip seem to drag on endlessly. The next three days, with little in the way of landmarks save for the occasional settlement drove home the point that I was in the middle of nowhere.
 |
| Very pretty nowhere, mind you |
Nothing of note would occur for the next two days of endless travel, which at this point has merged into a single long blur of winding roads and straight passes through the vast Canadian prairies. I remember the harsh cold at many of the gas stations, the stark beauty of the landscapes, and the time that I added a quart of oil to my engine and forgot to put the cap back on before starting up. This I, fortunately, caught within moments but did result in covering my engine in oil.
By the evening of the third day, I was sufficiently done with the endless road that I had driven as was ready to get back into the States and rest. I pulled into Cache Creek just a few minutes before sunset, grabbed a coffee, filled up the gas tank, and set off for the border.
This was a mistake.
After a few miles of relatively easy roads, my lack of sufficient headlight strength began to grate. Every car passing in the opposite direction blinded me, the road was invisible past only a few feet ahead of me, and traffic from behind was blinding me as well. the road between Cache Creek and the border is a narrow, twisting road with steep climbs and diving drops. on the left, sheer cliff, on the right, hundred foot drops into oblivion.
as I drove, a thick fog rolled into the pass, my only hope for finding my way through this twisty canyon was to stay on the tail of an eighteen wheeler that knew the route well. The good news was that I could navigate by the lights of his truck, the bad news was that in order to see those lights, I would need to be perilously close to a truck driver who knew this road well. He took those corners doing sixty miles an hour, forcing me to tighten my grip on the wheel as we plunged through another fog bank. He would turn a corner and disappear, and I would need to quickly catch up as to not get lost on the mountainside. We would turn a corner and plunge into a tunnel, a short respite from the madness that was the mountainside.
Tired and delirious, with a cough from the vape and sitting uncomfortably in three days of driving funk from a lack of showers on the Alcan, I was not prepared for this sort of driving. Around each corner, I could feel the back end of my car sliding out from underneath me. after what felt like an eternity on that road, we came out of the last fog bank and passed a gas station, I took the opportunity to pull off the road and catch some sleep. It was 4 in the morning by the time I was off that winding road, I had just done six hours of some of the most grueling driving I've ever faced.
I awoke the next morning at eight to the sound of a passing train. Exhausted, but awake, I drove the last few miles to the border. Crossing back into cell coverage, I called and texted everyone I could think of to let them know I had made it. I then proceeded to get very lost in northern Washington before finding the highway again and driving to Bellevue to meet up with my Mother.
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