Reach the Beach

Reach the Beach

This treatise  covers the return journey, no less full of adventure but of necessity somewhat shorter and, so, condensed in a single entry.

We put Tim on a non-stop flight to Portland, said goodbye to grandson, daughter and son-in-law after a far too short visit, and departed Wasilla in mid-afternoon, Mom and Dad on the road again together. 

Dad retraced the route east to Glenallen for 150 miles and set up camp at Tolsana Wilderness Resort; no credit cards accepted, widely spaced sites like a national forest campground, and a coffee-colored stream full of Grayling running beside the picnic table.

Tim arrived in Portland minutes after we arrived here.  It still amazes dad that one can sit in an aluminum tunnel beginning at one place and end up in a different world so quickly; especially having spent two weeks getting to beginning to end.

Another sparkling day found us heading for Kluane Lake in Canada. The road after the Canadian border hadn't changed much, still really rough and mostly under construction.  The Chuck Wagon was still closed and rumor had it that it would not open this year.  With the big commercial camp ground still closed as well, we opted for the territorial campground nearby.  It was a great choice.

The ice was still in but quite obviously at the end of its life cycle.  Late evening but still daylight brought a strong wind from the north that started moving the ice, turned now to 'candled' ice, rotten but beautiful crystal columns that made the sound of breaking crystal as it began to move with the wind.  Smoke from a wildfire near Fairbanks gave the sky a pink hue that lit the ice the color of pink sapphire.

By morning, the wind had abated, leaving 6 foot walls of ice crystal along the shoreline.  Dad couldn't resist walking a short distance away from shore on the fragile ice; the water was shallow there but the photo op too dramatic to pass up.

From Kluane Lake we made a long drive to the junction of the Alaska and Cassiar highways where we spent the night.  Until very recently, the Cassiar was all gravel, a popular route with log trucks and 18-wheelers, an almost guaranteed way to sustain a gravel-induced windshield crack, broken headlight or both.  Now it is all paved and the 460 mile length of the highway shaves 140 miles off the Alaska Highway route to Prince George in British Columbia.

Turning south onto the Cassiar early the following morning it was immediately evident that we were in for a surreal experience.  The road is built on a narrow bed that rises 15-20 feet above the surrounding forest with no shoulders. 

One senses they are in the center of a wilderness, where the road, and our View, and we are intruders.  With respect, we continued south and were treated to some of the most wondrous scenery and spirit,  and a sense, if not reality, that we were the only ones here, having been apparently been granted permission to transgress so long as we were appropriately grateful.

In Jade City, British Columbia, the store owner shared that more than 80% of the world's jade is mined there.  We could have picked a number of turn-outs and slipped a chuck or two into D'Arvy but opted to support the local economy instead.  Raw jade is shipped from here to Asia for carving and returned to sell at not-unreasonable prices.  Wonder how they do that.The road improved somewhat here and continued to do so as we continued through miles of road with clear streams, each sure to hold a fisherman's fantasy, crossing beneath and countless "lookathat's! whoaizatcool's! izatawesomeorwhat's! neverseensopretty's" and nature-inspired silent contemplation.  Oh, and not just a few bear here and there.

About 140 miles before highway's end, we came to the 30 mile spur road that heads west to yet another special place.  Some thousand plus miles after leaving Alaska, we crossed back into one the state's most southern towns, Hyder: the friendliest ghost town in Alaska, population of 97 in 2010, and, according to a local we shared stories with, now around 65. One can ship down the 100 mile Portland Canal from here and meet the Pacific to head back north or south to the smaller 48.  And the scenery?  Somewhere close to paradise-pretty; surrounded by tall peaks, glaciers and fast water.

Typical of such small Alaska towns, our local source related the tale of a new resident, lover of all things natural, but, to his mind, more than a bit short of a full deck. In fact, he related, the town was being filled with enough odd enough people he was considering heading to the Yukon to find real people. Seems, according to our source, the new resident was feeding local bear instant milk powder and had even set up the space under her house to entice them to den there over-winter.  While unverified, this is the kind of legend typical of the Great White North and we suspect is more fact than fiction.

The best scoop we got from our new friend was the where to eat breakfast in Hyder.  The Glacier Inn served us a fine morning meal accompanied by interesting history and traditions.  Long ago a miner leaving town,  and uncertain of his future fortune,  penned his name on a $2 bill and asked the bartender to keep it until his return so that he might have money for at least one drink then.  The bartender agreed to hold the funds and affixed that bill to a wall nearby.  There's no word on how that miner fared but the walls of the Glacier are now covered in currency, foreign and domestic, inscribed with visitor's names, dates and events and include bills signed by the cast of Leaving Normal, a 1998 girl-buddy film with scenes recorded there.  The Glacier Inn is also the only place in the world where one can "Get Hyderized".  Check YouTube for film of that ritual.

Soon after leaving Hyder we were back in the land of large towns, even cities, four-lane roads and many  cars.  After hundreds of miles of only one road, one lane each way and only an occasional fellow traveler, we now had to watch road signs for directions and relearn how to change lanes.  The Yellowhead Highway brought us into Prince George and another overnight stop.

Morning day 6 we continued south along a road that at times parallels the Thompson River.   Driving through the region around Cache Creek one seems to be suddenly back in the western US desert where only sage and prairie grass grown.  Soon after though we were back in the mountains and pines winding along the Thompson River Canyon.  Stopping at Goldpan Provincial Park for a night's rest was a special experience.  The Canadian Pacific and Canadian National railways parallel the river on opposite shores.  Camped just above the river we found sleep a bit of a challenge, a beautiful view with the sounds of flowing river interrupted every thirty minutes or so by a north or south-bound train, sometimes both simultaneously.

Fraser's river canyon preceded us as we headed south; made a short stop at Hell's Gate, did the tourist tram thing, enjoyed a slower pace but felt the tug of home so continued on.  

We crossed back into the U.S. mid-morning.  One more long day on the road, made longer and more stressful by Seattle's traffic, brought us across the Columbia River and back into Oregon.  

The camera wasn't so readily grabbed at this point, not for lack of subject but in recognition that this was our home country, already in our hearts and minds and already frequently captured in picture.  This was a time to be grateful for where we were privileged to live and for a successful adventure to the Great White North and return.

Some may think traveling over 7000 miles in 22 days was pushing too hard, not giving appropriate time to experience the land and people we encountered.  Dad might agree that more time would be better but would say one has to take the opportunity when it presents.  This was a trip long overdue, one for TimnDad, father and number one son, so long delayed that it risked never being done.  We had two wonder-filled weeks together, Dad a third on the return leg with Mom, remembering, making new memories, learning anew and learning new things, enjoying the fellowship and the very simple, elegant things in life.  A spectacular view, the rush of cold air flowing off an icy lake on a warm day, a mountain vista and soaring eagles, quiet conversation and unbridled laughter; it's all good.

The following morning we made the short hop down to Pacific City, parked D'Arvy and checked into our cottage on the Pacific.  It was time to stop moving for awhile and so we did.

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;        5

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,         

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.    

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

R Frost

Pick a road, any road, just pick it and travel.  It's all good. 

TimnDad

My Own Words

Hey all, I thought I’d break the mold here a bit and do an entry of a more personal nature.  Up to this point Dad has been trying to make sure the blog speaks from both of our perspectives, and you can’t tell who the writer is.  (I’ll give you a hint:  aside from some editing and a bit here,  the majority of the writing has been done by Dad, though the experiences, emotions and thoughts are shared.)  So if you find this shift in narrative different, there’s your reason.  And I apologize for the length as it may surprise you to hear I can be more longwinded than dad. ;) 

I decided that, to wrap up my leg of the journey,  I’d share a bit of my individual experience in the last couple of days as we pulled into Quartz Creek Campground, a very special place the resides in the memories of all of our family.

Most of the ideals I have from camping come from that subconscious memory left by early trips to Quartz Creek.  The crunch of the small gravel over rough paved roads, the search for the perfect smooth flat rock to get the most skips across the glassy lake.   The reflection of a sharply rising peak over a broad lake with bright green trees coating the hill from shore to peak, the light sound of waves lapping gently against a loose rocky bank and golden glow across said lake from the low hanging sun call out familiarity from some recess in my mind where 22 year old memories are held.  Everything from the ground underfoot to the speed with which water shoots from the quick faucet collapses vague feelings of remembrance into acute memories.  I’ve been to this beach and I’ve poked a dead fish on its shores with a stick.  

This is my Alaska.  While we've spent the last couple of weeks making new memories on a path following memories of various family members, this last camping spot is one that, while not uniquely mine, is mine nonetheless.  It’s the perfect place to draw a quiet close to the whirlwind of perfect days and the days of driving and experiencing the great northwest.

After a night of camping at Quartz Creek we went on to add to our party of two, first Mom and Nephew Colin, Step Brother Sean and then Sister Berni and many others.  The quiet solitude has shifted to a constant hum of activity with people we care about, an abrupt, but not unwanted shift.  And now I’m preparing to leave Dad and Mom on their own solo journey back south as I fly home.

    

This has been a trip winding through memories.  Many many things are the same, and have shifted drastically from expectation (for better or for worse). One thing, one extremely important thing, has changed, for better or worse.  Instead of devouring a purposefully charred marshmallow on a stick, today's  S’more was slow roasted over a perfectly laid charcoal bed to crispy brown, gooey centered perfection; crafted with the aide of over twenty years of lessons from everyone whom I hold close to my heart.  And for that perfect marshmallow, I thank them all.

Ending and Beginning Anew

Things get emotional, personal and teary at this point.  It could not be avoided.  On this trip, experience and emotion were bottled, fermented and then released like a cork from the neck of a fine champagne.  All the pictures are at the end of the text this time.  If you are following you'll understand that's the way this entry should be published.

One more almost sunset, one more early sunrise, another sparkling day and one more leg of the trip.  Tim n dad broke camp and drove the relatively few miles left to Wasilla.


The drive up Turnagain Arm did not lack for "Wow!" moments but each seemed more contemplative as the final miles passed beneath the wheels.

Passing through Anchorage one could not help but remark at how uncivilized it seemed.  Four lane highway, aggressive drivers, urban sprawl from the Pipeline days with only the lovely Cugach range to relieve the eyes.  Dad drove briefly by our old home, not much changed, and then on to daughter's house, just down the street from Sarah's in-laws home.

Mom had flown into Anchorage the night before and was waiting to celebrate our arrival.  Nephew-grandson had been impatiently waiting a Grandma-promised lunch out,so, after a couple rounds of hugs, we loaded them into our View and headed off to Red Robin for burgers and fries.  It was not nearly as much fun as we'd thought.

A few hours later, however, we'd agreed on a plan to extend the trip one more day.  We retraced our way south to Girdwood and dinner with our Alaska family and friends at the Double Musky, the Last Great American Roadhouse; classic New Orleans dishes made with Alaska seafood and the best pepper steak anywhere.

From there it was but 20 minutes further south to a state campground on Portage Creek.  Dad, Mom, Tim and grandson chopped wood, made fire, roasted marshmallows for s'mores and told stories about this trip, past trips, growing together in Alaska and the special place it will always hold in our hearts.

We all slept well, rose early and returned to Wasilla for a recovery day, cleaning up DaRV, doing laundry (there was lots), playing with nephew, a home-cooked dinner of steaks and fresh halibut, wine, music and dance.  It was a most fitting end to TimnDad's excellent Alaska Adventure and prelude to mom and dad's return.

The following morning we had time to loll around the house, play and laugh some more.  Then it was time to send Tim to the airport and get back on the road.

Tomorrow, Tim closes his part of this travel-blog.