by Doreen Orion
The Kenai Peninsula has the largest concentration of moose anywhere in Alaska and as we left it, we finally saw a cow with her calf. Making our way east for the first time in a long time, we realized this was the official beginning of the end of the bus thing. While we still had many sights to see in our three-week trip home to Boulder, we were now going back, no longer forward. We firmly hoped that would only be true of the physical part of our journey.
After doubling back to Tok (apparently there aren’t many roads heading “North to the Future” in our forty-ninth state) on the Alaska Highway, we took a quick, seventy-eight-mile jaunt over to Chicken, population 87. Chicken, boasts its website (yes, even tiny Chicken has a website), was the second town in Alaska to become incorporated. In the late 1800s, the enclave of miners there kept themselves alive by eating ptarmigan, which for some reason were abundant in the area. Ptarmigan (which resemble chicken—wonder if they taste like chicken, too) would later become the state bird. So when Chicken became incorporated, the name “Ptarmigan” was suggested. As the website says, “Many people liked the name, but felt the quotation marks were too presumptuous. The name was shortened to Ptarmigan.” Apparently, no one could agree on the spelling, so Chicken was born.
Downtown Chicken (is there any other part? Perhaps a north wing or a south leg? Groan) has a café, bar, gift shop, salmon bake, and post office. The public restroom (really a fancy outhouse) is called (what else) the “Chicken poop.” Even the post office gets into the act, sporting various chicken “art.”
Busing out of Tok heading east into the Yukon, we passed through the tiny town of Destruction Bay. I’d read that the name dates back to 1942, when winds in the area destroyed parts of the U.S. Army’s construction project. (The Alaska Highway was initially built in less than eight months as a supply route during World War II.) Not too long ago, I might have wondered if buses could also be blown away. Now I just trusted that if that sort of thing happened regularly, we wouldn’t be allowed on the road.
We kept seeing various RV tow vehicles covered with cardboard, plastic bubble wrap, and the like. Sure, this part of the Alaska Highway was rather rough, but that seemed a bit of overkill—or so we thought until we stopped at our campground in Whitehorse, just within the southeast corner of the Yukon border. Our intrepid little Jeep was caked with dirt inside and out (we had inadvertently left the windows open a crack). Its windshield had more stars than an Alaskan winter’s night sky. The Prevost was filthy as well, but the Jeep had clearly gotten the worst of it, dragged behind our behemoth of a bus, getting dirt kicked on it like a beach-bound ninety-seven-pound weakling who had yet to take the Charles Atlas course. And like that scrawny boy with the shattered eyeglasses, our poor, pip-squeak Jeep endured the added humiliation of two broken fog lights.
Project Nerd spent several hours cleaning both vehicles. We also got the cell phone number of Randy, a local windshield repair guy. We were told to just leave a message as “he’s really busy.”
Our Jeep thus revived, we crossed the border back into Alaska for a day trip south to Skagway. Skagway sits on the Taiya Inlet just across Lynn Canal (the northernmost fjord of the Inside Passage) from Haines, which had been our last stop on the Marine Highway exactly three weeks before. Although nowadays a tiny town with only 800 residents, Skagway seemed like a veritable metropolis compared to Chicken. And in the late 1800s, it actually was, thanks to the Klondike Gold Rush. Then, Skagway was the largest city in the territory, with a population of nearly ten thousand. Most of the residents had initially arrived to prospect for gold themselves, but surveying the treacherous mountain terrain, decided instead to stay behind and provide support services (I’m talkin’ brothels and saloons here) along with food and equipment to miners who passed through town at the rate of a thousand per week.
Any place growing that quickly due to the singular, albeit elusive, pursuit of fabulous wealth was bound to become totally lawless. Skagway was no exception. In fact, one Canadian Mountie at the time described it as “little better than a hell on earth.” The town’s most “prominent” citizen was a notorious crime boss, Jefferson Randolph “Soapy” Smith, who originally hailed from the American West. His operation was so successful in Denver, where he paid off so many officials, that he was not afraid to boast to the press of his prowess as a con man.
“I consider bunko steering more honorable than the life led by the average politician,” he said. He got his moniker “Soapy” after the Denver paper reported on his “Prize Package Soap Sell Swindle,” an elaborate street con in which unsuspecting bystanders bought bars of soap, believing that one included a hidden hundred-dollar bill. Of course, the only folks who ever got any of the money were Soapy’s shills, members of his “Soap Gang.” Soon, this “king of the frontier con men” became too famous for his own good and even the large amounts of protection money he paid city officials couldn’t shield him from the law.
Wanted for attempted murder, Soapy fled Colorado and soon set up shop in Skagway. There, as the head of an organized crime ring, he formed his own militia, developed a network of spies, and even controlled the deputy U.S. marshall. He conned and swindled as many miners as he could, from simple scams (his telegraph office charged five dollars to send a message anywhere in the world, only its wires dead-ended in the brush out back) to elaborate gambling operations. He finally met his maker at the hands of a vigilante group previously sworn to drive him out of town, after he refused to refund a miner money lost in a game of three-card monte. Soapy’s last words were “My God, don’t shoot!” But he seemed to be the only one with regrets; his purported assailant’s tombstone bears the epitaph “He died for the honor of Skagway.”
So many prospective prospectors came to the area unprepared for the weather and terrain that, trying to forestall widespread famine, the Canadian government began to require that each bring with him a year’s worth (equaling one ton) of food and supplies. At the summit of White Pass, then, it fell to the North West Mounted Police to check that the stampeders had the requisite supplies. Snowshoes were quickly discarded, as the thousands of feet that had gone before had already packed down the trail. To transport that much equipment, each stampeder had to trek the nearly forty miles over the steep pass a few dozen times. The biggest casualties were the terribly overburdened pack animals. More than three thousand died one summer over the White Pass Trail, which then quickly became known as Dead Horse Trail. A journalist at the time wrote, “Yesterday a horse deliberately walked over the face of Porcupine Hill: Said one of the men who saw it, ‘It looked to me, sir, like suicide. I believe a horse will commit suicide and this is enough to make them;…I don’t know but that I’d rather commit suicide too, rather than be driven by some of the men on this trail.’”
The stampeders’ other alternative, the Chilkoot Trail through the town of Dyea, wasn’t much better; either way was brutal for both man and beast. As one prospector who had climbed both said, “Whichever way you go, you will wish you had gone the other.” Soon, there was no choice. Adding to its enviable deepwater port, Skagway was chosen as the site of the new, narrow-gauge railroad. Coming on the heels of an avalanche which buried Chilkoot, the town of Dyea was doomed, its population dwindling to three. By the time the railroad was completed in 1900, the gold rush had largely died, as well.
Today, along with the Chilkoot Trail (at thirty-three miles, considered the world’s longest outdoor museum), Dyea, and a visitors center in Seattle (a major outfitting and departure point for stampeders), Skagway is part of the Klondike Gold Rush National Historic Park. We spent a few hours strolling along the wooden sidewalks and poking our heads into the nineteenth-century buildings. Imagining the hustle and bustle of yore wasn’t difficult in this well-preserved town, especially while trying to avoid the crush of cruise ship tourists.
Skagway reaffirmed how much our trip had changed me. As we toured a small museum devoted to the Klondike Gold Rush, I wondered if I, too, would have been drawn to the great white north by the promis
e of impossible riches. But as we wandered through, I was struck by the many old photographs depicting how cruel the stampeders had been to their dogs and horses and realized nothing could be worth losing one’s compassion and humanity. As one packer put it, “I must admit that I was as brutal as the rest, but we were all mad—mad for gold, and we did things that we lived to regret.”
When we left Skagway, we were leaving Alaska for good, although we sincerely hoped not forever. We made it back to British Columbia in a nearly ten-hour drive, ending up in the tiny town of Steamboat Mountain, which didn’t seem to have much else but the RV park. Our standing joke the entire year had been “Let’s get an early start,” which usually meant 11 a.m.—if we were lucky. Well, we finally achieved one: After a quick overnight at this muddy, mosquito-infested campground with only 15 amps of power (for all systems to run smoothly at the same time, we needed 50, although 30 would do in a pinch), you might say we felt no pull to linger. Tim swore he’d have us out of there by 9 a.m.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” he said to my skeptical look. Yup, that’s me: Yee Orion. From the lost tribe of Asian Jews. We were gone by eight-thirty.
Before we left the campground, I chatted with the owner about the plethora of RV parks and restaurants for sale along the Alaska Highway, especially noticeable once we entered B.C. While we talked, her Australian shepherd head-butted me, trying in vain to herd. Well, maybe not so in vain. I suddenly found myself standing awfully close to the woman. She said they were going to sell, too; that it had been really hard to make a go of it, especially that year, with high oil prices driving down tourism. Adding to the difficulty, they have to generate their own power. Winters found them in nearby Fort Nelson (pop. 4,200) working for the oil rigs. She said it was a hard life. Not for the first time on our trip, I felt blessed.
The mosquito situation had been bad enough in Alaska, but in B.C., if anything, they seemed even bigger and badder. I mean, these things would make the new Airbus jealous.
On our way through Alberta, the bugs flew into our windshield like a squadron of kamikaze pilots.
“We’re under attack!” Tim exclaimed. “Shields on full!”
“Aye,” I responded. “Full power to the shields, sir. But she canna take much more a this!” We carried on like that for several miles, our own impromptu tribute to James Doohan, Star Trek’s Scotty, who had just passed away.
Our campground near Edmonton was notable for a particularly grotesque bug with more leg than a supermodel on stilts. With all my screaming, I’m sure I failed to do my bit to enhance the reputation of Americans around the planet. On the positive side, the city boasted that it had the world’s largest mall—it was in the Guinness Book and everything (although apparently the year before, it had been eclipsed and was now only North America’s largest). So we took the Jeep for a jaunt to the West Edmonton Mall. With hotels, an amusement park, water park (complete with a bungee jump over the wave pool), mini-golf, sea lions, sea caverns, arcade, casino, movie theater, replica of the Santa María, ice-skating rink, church (who said malls were godless places?), and, oh yeah, the over eight hundred stores, of course, we had to see it. Change is good, but let’s not get carried away.
Still, I bought nothing.
After brief stops in Missoula, Montana (to visit some more e-mail buddies from work), and Pinedale, Wyoming (to visit Lisa and Jim at their cabin), we crossed into Colorado, where we happened to get gas at the same Flying J that had no place for us that awful, rainy first day of our meltdown cruise. There was still construction going on (Hey, how come it took less than eight months to complete the nearly fifteen-hundred-mile Alaska Highway?), but this time, it was easy to find (well, it was noon and sunny). Then we passed the exit for that community college whose parking lot had unwittingly hosted us. We could actually laugh about that night now, marveling at how far we had come.
About an hour or so from Denver, we stopped at an outlet mall. It was Tim’s idea to shop and there was one specific store he had in mind: Carhartt. He wanted to buy work clothes for his new occupation. I stayed in the bus.
You don’t need to be a shrink to figure out why, in spite of all I do recall about our trip, I really don’t remember anything about how we debused for good. I suppose we landed back at Vanture’s parking lot in Denver, loaded what we could into the Jeep, and made several trips back and forth to our house in Boulder. What I do remember is how I felt: Sad. Terribly sad. We both did. Our adventure had come to an end.
It took us weeks to unpack. I’m sure we could have done it all in a day, but it was as if by holding on to the containers that had been in the bay, we were holding on to our year, as well. I, for one, was astonished by how much I had taken on the trip and how much I’d ended up doing without. Seeing me in our master closet, which was about the size of our entire bus bedroom, Tim observed, “I had no idea you’d brought that many shoes.” I had only worn six pairs the entire year, with one being sneakers and another, hiking boots. Even amongst his containers, Tim kept finding more of my stuff. I couldn’t see where I could possibly fit it all in the bus, let alone our house. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and pleaded, “Don’t tell me when you find anything else of mine. Just give it to Goodwill.”
“Sure thing,” Tim agreed as he hunched over yet another container. Then I heard him mumble, “Who is this Richard Tyler, anyway?” I let out a primal scream and grabbed at the jacket in his hands.
Over the next few months, I did give a lot away (although not the Richard Tyler) and didn’t buy one new thing. This was especially impressive as while we were gone, Boulder had gotten a brand-spanking-new mall. I hear it even has a Macy’s. I wouldn’t know—I’ve never been in it.
Although I don’t shop much anymore, some things never change; I’m still concrete as a sidewalk—maybe even more so. The winter after our return, I was working at my desk and happened to see a headline on MSN.com that said, “Buffalo Hit by Snow.” Not that I have anything against buffalo, mind you (I think they’re even tastier than cattle), but I couldn’t wait to get a break to click on the video of one being hit. Was it like…a snow meteor? Surely some form of killer projectile precipitation to fell such a beast. Then I glanced up and saw the same headline on CNN. Only the TV showed a blizzard in Buffalo, the city, and I finally got it. “Buffalo Hit by Snow.” Oh.
One of the things I rediscovered about myself during the bus thing was my love of reading. I just hadn’t made much time for it, for years, it seemed. Once we got back, as things naturally became more hectic with work and a stationary home, I found myself reading less again, so started staying in bed (with my phone turned off) for a half hour to an hour every morning with a book. And although Tim recently observed, “You’re the only able-bodied person I know in danger of developing bedsores,” I noticed that he’d been starting his days with a leisurely breakfast—while he reads.
While I still prefer to get my exercise in front of the TV, I find I don’t watch reality shows so much anymore since I’d gotten out and experienced reality on my own for a year. (I’m still a sucker for Project Runaway, though.)
As for Tim, he embarked on his new work life as soon as we got back. First, he rented a warehouse next to the Vanture guys in which to store the bus. Then he refurbished an office space in that warehouse to see patients in, keeping his private practice small (“It’s so small, nobody knows about it,” he quips), only taking on cases he enjoys. Within a few weeks, he bought an old house and started fixing it up with Chris and John. Project Nerd was in heaven, working with the guys and learning all sorts of neat tricks he couldn’t wait to try out at home. Just like Chris, he was waking up every morning looking forward to what the day had in store.
He also makes more time for developing and maintaining male friendships. Before we left for the year, one of his psychotherapist colleagues stopped by Tim’s office at the hospital to chat about a mutual patient and commented how sorry he was that he and Tim had somehow never made the time to develop more of a connectio
n.
“I don’t know what went wrong,” he said. Tim took that to heart and, once we got back, made more of an effort to connect with Steve, as well as other men. Recently, they even attempted that most quintessential of male bonding experiences—going to a sporting event. I say “attempted” because that evening, the Rockies were unfortunately rained out. (I should also put “sporting” in quotes here, because really: How can it be a “sport” if even the beer-bellied players excel? Seems more like a skill, to me, like archery or bowling. Football and sumo wrestling are exempt from this rule of mine, by the way, as is any sport in which beer bellies actually enhance performance.)
I’d like to say that whenever Tim has a project, he now has several male friends to call on to help. And he does. It’s just that, unfortunately, I’m still handier (in a proximity, not ability, sort of way, natch).
Of course, we both fall off the wagon now and then. When Lisa came to visit for a wedding, she wanted to head for an outlet mall, since there aren’t any good ones where she lives. So I took her to my old haunts: The Rack, Needless Markup Last Call, and Saks Off Fifth. At first, I intended to just browse. I hadn’t “gone shopping” in a very long time. Poor Lisa.
“I’ve lost my mentor,” she said wistfully. Just to make her feel better, I bought a little something. Soon, I was buying a lot of little somethings. I got back into the swing of things so quickly, it became clear just how quickly I could swing back into old ways. I’m relieved to report I haven’t gone shopping since.
Shula and Morty have maintained their uneasy truce. No longer hissing and spitting at each other daily as they used to, they’ve become able to tolerate sleeping on the same furniture at the same time, as long as they aren’t touching. Even though, like her mother, Shula undoubtedly had no interest in stretching herself, the bus thing forced her to do just that, and she is clearly the better for it as well. She no longer runs and hides when people come to the house and she is certainly no longer intimidated by her brothers. Morty, in fact, seems to allow her a grudging respect, as even though he’s still quite the alpha male with any strange animals, he generally leaves his sister alone—most of the time.