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July 28, Thursday - Day 12
I awake and my watch says it is 7:30. Judging from the sun
above, you’d think it is noon. The sun is high above in the sky in this very
short nighttime. I still can’t get used to that. I pack up and an oldster
walks by. Seeing me, he strolls over and asks an odd opening questioning,
"You’re a Marine, eh?" The "eh" must mean he is from
Canada. I noticed that at breakfast the other day in Tok. They all say that. We
chat some and the "eh" is on the end of every other sentence.
"I noticed the sleeping bag and camouflage poncho. Plus,
you’re the only guy without a tent, eh. I saw that and I knew ya had to be in
the military, eh."
Well my secret is out.
"Yah, we camped next to a retired Marine Sergeant the
other night", he says, "Boy, he told some stories, eh."
The guy says his son used to ride motorcycles too. Everybody
has a life story rattling around in their head and they all want to tell me
theirs. I pack up and get out of there. A sign near the campground says:'In
1883, U.S. Army Lt. Frederick Schwatka completed a survey of the entire length
of the Yukon River. One of many geographical features that he named was Fox
Lake, which he called Richthofen Lake, after geographer Freiherr Von Richthofen.
Known locally as Fox Lake, the name was adopted in 1957. The Miners Range to the
west was named by geologist/explorer George Mercer Dawson in 1887 ‘for the
miners met by us along the river’.
I am only 30 miles from Whitehorse. So 30 prompt minutes
later, I pull into the town after passing by a reindeer farm. 572 kilometers
sure seems like a long way but at a 3/5th ratio, that must be
something like 320 miles. I pull into the McDonalds again. The same one where
I met Scott. Even though that was only a few days ago, it seems like weeks have
gone by.
I see the same young lady that Scott was with. She is behind
the counter when I walk up and recognizes me and smiles. I ride through the town
this time. The first time through, I was sort of in a hurry. Now exploring the
place where two thirds of the Yukon resides, my curiosity is stoked.
The first odd thing I come to is a three-story log cabin. I
never thought of that. I find the MacBride Museum and that looks like a good
place to start.
Whitehorse's role as a transportation center is as new as the
jet age and as old as the Gold Rush of '98. Founded in 1900 with the arrival of
the White Pass & Yukon Railway from tidewater at Skagway, the sparsely
populated tent-and-cabin city became the terminal for freight being transferred
from railway to riverboat for shipment to Dawson City. Before the railway was
pushed through to provide an easier mode of transportation, the bulk of the
early-day stampeders came by ocean steamer to Skagway or Dyea and toiled over
the White Pass (the route presently paralleled by the railroad) or Chilkoot Pass
to the head of Lake Bennett. Here they whipsawed native lumber and built crude
boats and scows to travel the 550-mile Yukon River water route to the gold
fields. Some steamers went even as far as St. Michael, a small post on Alaska’s
Bering Sea Coast.
The greatest hazards in river navigation were found in Miles
Canyon and Whitehorse Rapids. The name of the town is even thought to have come
from the miners in the area who thought the foaming rapids resembled white
horses’ manes. To bypass these once-treacherous waters, wooden rail tramways
were constructed on both sides of the canyon. On the east side of the river the
wilderness gave way to two settlements of cabins. Closeleigh was near the
present site of Whitehorse and Canyon City was five miles upriver, where the
portage around Miles Canyon began.
With the completion of the railway on the west side of the
river on June 8, 1900, Closeleigh was moved to the present town-site and became
Whitehorse. For years Whitehorse continued in its role of connecting railhead
and riverboat navigation to Dawson City and the Klondike. The second great
period of development and population surge followed the agreement to build the
Alaska Highway during the Second World War. During the nine-month construction
period of 1942, area population swelled to 50,000. With building space at a
premium, one entrepreneur of the construction trade began building small two and
three-story log cabins, or "Log skyscrapers,"
After the war, Whitehorse maintained its importance as a
transportation and communications center. On April 1, 1953, the capital of the
Yukon was officially transferred from Dawson City to Whitehorse.
Today, mining, government and tourism have enabled Whitehorse
to grow and prosper. Whitehorse is a frontier city with all the amenities. Paved
streets, sidewalks, modern businesses and residential areas contrast sharply
with the Yukon wilderness.
The museum is really neat and I like the history placards. I
read almost every single one, grab a handful of brochures and head out. I make
for Watson Lake, and the road is very fast at times. I cruise lazily along at 80
through the forest heading east retracing my steps from a few days earlier. I
come up on the same road construction which lasts for miles, seems they are
rebuilding everything. For a while, there isn’t even any pavement although the
hardpack isn’t all that bad.
The road winds along low mountains, over the Yukon River, the
Teslin River, and along the border of Teslin Lake. In Teslin, a sign there
reads, The community of Teslin was originally a summer home of Tlingit
Indians from coastal Alaska and British Columbia. During the Klondike Gold Rush,
the settlement boomed briefly as a stop on the "All-Canadian Route" to
Dawson. The present townsite was established as a permanent trading post by
1905, and was serviced by sternwheelers from Whitehorse until the Alaska Highway
was built in 1942.
Along the banks of the Teslin River that flows swiftly
downstream, the road passes over the Teslin River metal bridge with steel
grating all the way across. As I ride over it, I can see right below me to the
water. I was warned to be careful on the steel bridges. They are the site of
several motorcycle accidents without fail every summer. My ride over in
uneventful, just another bridge.
Hunger pains awake me and I begin to look for a place to pull
over. I spot a road off to the side and take it. It leads into a deserted quarry
above the surface of the road and I stop here. I work my way into a packet of
Beef Stew from one of the MRE’s I have and it tastes so horrible, I can hardly
finish it. Yuck. Then fully leathered up, I just lie down right there on the
ground in the middle of this quarry and fall asleep for an afternoon nap. The
ground is kind of rocky so I have to wiggle a little bit to find a flat spot. I
place my hands on my chest, place my gloves under my head for a pillow and waft
into dream land.
Reaching Junction 37 where the Alaskan Highway and Cassiar
Highway meet some time later, it's time to stop for lunch at the same place I met the
Harley guy on his way to Whitehorse. The beef stew didn’t quite do the job.
The bike rolls to a stop, out pops the kickstand, and my
stiff body rolls off the bike. Standing upright like a real person again, I
stroll inside. On the wall is a huge moose head, antlers and all. A big deer
head is on the wall too. This is the Yukon all right. It’s sort of warm in the
restaurant but the word "air conditioning" must be some sort of joke
around here. After 2 hours of relaxing, Mark pulls up on the Paris Dakar right
outside my window next to the Venture. He looks over at it and I can see the
look on his face.
I walk out to greet him and laugh. He peels his Bieffe helmet
off and says, "I had a feeling I would be seeing you again." I invite
him to come and sit with me. And we proceed to chat for another 2 hours.
He’s 41 and has been doing this 3 month adventure every
year for the last 24 years straight. He has never skipped or missed a year
except when he was in the Army. And each year is totally different. He’s
motorcycled, hiked, biked, jeeped, rafted, kayaked, bungeed… you name it. He’s
already done it. North America, South America, Europe, he’s been there. We
talk a lot about motorcycling. My schooling, my major, job, his job, wife of 3
years, some of his trips, his 4 years in the Army, my present ones in the Marine
Corps, our motorcycles. He suggests I slow down and take my time instead of
trying to do and see so much on a trip like this.
"I did New England and it took me 3 weeks just to do a
state or two," he adds. It’s good logic, I know. We keep on talking some
and I am very curious as to his job. What would permit him to travel like this
for 24 years? He is a special-ed teacher who’ll take difficult children. He's only part of the real world during the school year, the rest is about travel. His entire life has
become geared to this 3 months out of the year.
Each fall, he plans the next one and saves money. He’s
hiked the Appalachian Trail, bicycled across America, motorcycled all over North
and South America and even mentions Jeeping across the Rockies. For the last 3
weeks, he has been inside Alaska on dirt roads, just riding around. He says he
ran out of roads to ride.
I ask about the tire.
"That is superstition. Chances are I’ll never need it,
but I got the front one changed in Kalamazoo, Michigan and decided to keep the
old one. I’ve had it ever since. Besides," he says smiling, "it
makes a good backrest."
We walk out to the bikes and we cannot seem to stop talking.
I am absolutely fascinated with this man. He is something out of a storybook- a
living copy of National Geographic or something off the Discovery Channel. This
guy has done more stuff in his lifetime and seen more things than I could ever
hope to see. People aspire throughout their lives for their retirement- that
time when they get the motorhome or plane ticket to Europe and the freedom to
travel anywhere they want. This guy has seen it all at 41. They write books and
make movies about people like this.
It occurs to me as our conversation is drawing to a close
that he sees a little of himself in me. It is an odd thought. I could never hope
to see all that he has in his lifetime, but my fascination with him must be
apparent. We saddle up and ride over to the gas pumps together to fill up.
"Never even once had it on reserve," Mark says
proudly as he fills the 9 gallon gas tank. I get the young lady behind the
counter to take our picture and then it is good bye. He heads south and I head
east. At that point what I didn’t realize is that I left the camera on the
seat and motored off. It fell into the mud leaving that precious picture behind.
I ride for a short while before making a sudden decision to
stop right outside Watson Lake at a campground. I will get an early start the
next morning. I pick a campsite and settle in. Sitting at the picnic table
munching on some food, the fire pit seems to be staring back at me. Remembering
the free wood at all the campground entrances, it is the right thing to do.
Carrying some wood back to the campsite, I split it into kindling with my
K-Bar. I knew this thing would come in handy. The crackling fire is a wonderful
companion as I sit at the picnic table and write by the firelight. The air is so
still here in the forest. The pines above sway but I can feel no wind. I love
this feeling of stillness.
The trees sway gently back and forth. Above them the
stars shine in the clear Yukon skies. |
