Epicness

A bit of home greeted me on the outskirts of Calgary—a DeKalb corn sign. I hadn't seen that logo in years, in fact, I had no idea that DeKalb corn was still in production (I just checked—Monsanto bought it, but it's still called DeKalb corn). So there I was, in the middle of Canada, being reminded of home; stuff I hadn't thought about in forever: the smell of a greenhouse, the thrill of my dad fumigating and me running away from the fumes. (Why did he take me to fumigate when I was a kid? Kind of dangerous stuff, isn't it?) Also, Corn Fest, the smell of sweat and food on the street, and of course, summers working in the cornfields as a teenager, being in the presence of older guys with their shirts off. Ah, good old DeKalb! I gave a salute to the sign and continued on my way.

Entering urban sprawl, the ease of the open road ended for two reasons: traffic and ice, and these put together were dangerous to the max. This was not a good time to discover that Buck's windshield wipers were useless. Ice accumulated on my windshield, and the wipers just skimmed over the surface. Even blasting the defrost did nothing. I had to position myself in awkward ways in order to peer out of a patch of clear glass. This was happening as trucks barreled past me. I had to pull over continuously to scrape away the ice. This is not how I wanted to approach the Canadian Rockies. I was nervous enough about driving in the mountains, and this certainly wasn't helping. Try as I might, though, I couldn't yet see the mountains. The weather was crap, and it was enough to try and see the road. Thankfully I made it past that rough patch outside of Calgary, and traffic somewhat lessened on the highway to Edmonton. Of course, I wouldn't be going all the way to Edmonton—I'd be stopping in Red Deer.

Canadian Family

I was fortunate enough to have secured lodgings with Chris's aunt and uncle who lived in Red Deer. His Uncle Steve and his Aunt Jane—an absolutely lovely couple. I was able to navigate my way to their house, which was like a haven after my stressful day of driving. They lived out of town, almost in the countryside. Their house was located on a patch of land on the edge of a large river. Even though I had yet to see mountains, the scenery was gorgeous with pine trees and deep snow. Yes, I had officially entered the Great White North. It was Halloween, but winter had already set in for this part of the world.

We sat around the fireplace, sipping wine and talking. Steve and Jane had retained their soft British brogue (Jane's was English, while Steve's was Welsh). What an amazing couple in their retirement years. They were world-travelers and adventurers, and we had so much to talk about. How lucky to have relatives in Canada—our closest family. It turned out that Steve and Jane's daughter, Sarah, lived in Whitehorse with her husband and son. Whitehorse was the closest city to Haines by road, just across the Canadian border. How cool is that, to have family in the Yukon, just a car ride away? (Even if that car ride is five hours away!)

I stayed with Steve and Jane for two nights. Having the basement to myself, it was a perfect respite. On my drive-free day, Steve took me for a hike along the river. The weather was foggy, much to my dismay. I wanted to see those mountains! Still, there was a lot of beauty to be found in the area around Red Deer. Pine-blanketed hills, gorges and ravines and fast-flowing rivers. At one point on our hike, Steve pointed out a bald eagle soaring above us. This was exciting for me, as I had never seen an eagle before. Soon after, he pointed out another one, this time a golden eagle, which I’d never heard of before. Golden eagles are even larger than bald eagles, their wingspan reaching a breathtaking 7.5 feet. Pretty impressive. I was getting a taste of what I might see in Haines.

That night, I accompanied Steve and Jane to the community center where they swam several times a week. I offered to take their dog for a walk. It was dark and biting cold, but I loved getting this doggy time in. And their dog was so great, an older chocolate lab who heeled very nicely as we walked though the neighborhood. There was a point on our walk where we came to an overlook of downtown Red Deer. It was all so beautiful, everything glistening in that frozen landscape. I thought of all the naysayers back home, asking why I wanted to move to Alaska when I hated the cold. Do I really hate the cold? Not really. I've always loved winter, with sledding parties and ice skating at the Lagoon on campus, long snow-filled walks of solitude and running with Kaya (my old dog) in a fresh field of snow. Winter makes me feel alive like no other time of year. What I don't like about winter is getting around in it, when the snow turns to ugly slush. I also didn't like living in a place with little insulation and a flawed heating system (my old house), shivering my way through three months of the year. But winter—I don't think I could live without snow. We didn't have much of it in the UK, though snowstorms did occur in the winters I lived there, where everything shut down because Brits can't cope with anything besides rain. Here in the North, the snow was clean and pure, the kind of stuff I had been longing for in the humidity of Southeast Asia. Deep in my heart, I know I am a Northern girl. I was meant to live in Alaska.

After taking their dog for a walk, I watched Steve and Jane swim, impressed with how active they were keeping. They definitely are are an inspiration. The last I heard, they were traveling by bus from Santiago, Chile up through the Americas. How cool is that? It goes to show that you're never too old for an adventure. I really loved the time I spent with them, with their generous spirit and their knowledge and expansive worldview. I was definitely hoping we could meet up again, perhaps in Whitehorse, as they'd be visiting their daughter from time to time.

So it was goodbye to Red Deer and to the main highway. I was nearly the only car on the road as I headed towards Rocky Mountain House, and beyond that—Banff and Jasper National Parks.

The Grand Scale of Things

It was foggy when I left Red Deer. I feared this would be the way of things, and I'd only be traveling in a little bubble through the mountains. But as I cruised along a nearly-empty road, I pushed upward and broke through the clouds, and there was the sun shining down on a whole kingdom of mountains. Mountains! I had made it, not to Alaska, but I had made it out West. This was actually happening!

The reality of what I was doing hit me—this move, this drive, all of it. How incredibly lucky I was to be here, to be driving into these majestic mountains. I burst out crying.

Now, I've had what I would consider "spiritual experiences" in my life. Two, in fact. To clarify, when I say "spiritual" I'm not suggesting that these were genuine moments of the divine. I have since attributed these moments to massive releases of feel-good chemicals in the brain (not produced by drugs, but rather, by nature). The first of these experiences happened when I was living in Northern Illinois, and was brought on by a moment of clarity when playing with my dog. My dog's heartbeat, the sun shining through the window, the tree outside—the universe inside the synapses of my brain expanded as quickly as the universe after the Big Bang. I saw it all, from the infinitesimally small scale to the grand scale—the whole universe. And I saw how it was all connected, and how I was part of it. I saw the universe; moreover, I saw that I was the universe. And an inner voice told me "There is no need to worry. Everything will be alright." And I wasn't even facing anything in my life where I needed that reassurance. It was an overwhelming feeling of love, much what I imagine Christians experience when they are "born-again." This was a powerful experience, one that has gotten me some pretty tough times, this knowledge that I am part of something large and beautiful. This feeling came again while walking in the Pennines, just outside of Mossley. I followed a trail up a hill, not knowing where it was heading. When I came to the top of the hill, a view spread out in front of me that nearly knocked me on my ass. The sun was shining down on folds of hills as far as the eye could see. It was a moment of standing there all alone, just me and nature, and I was aware of being alive and being a part of it all. This all sounds, crazy, I know, and I can't fully explain why these moments in my life have occurred. In my atheist years, no less. I longed for moments like these when I was religious, and had nothing on this scale. It's the power of nature. What an amazing thing to be a part of.

So perhaps I was having one of those moments as I drove into the mountains. It was just me, with no one else around, a speck in the grand scale of things. It's a good thing that no one else was on that road, as I was blubbering like an idiot. "It's so beautiful," I kept repeating. And it was. I kept thinking how frickin lucky I was to be alive and to be experiencing this. I must have cried for a good hour, as it came in waves, as I rounded mountain after mountain, and new views kept appearing to me.

I officially crossed into Banff National Park, but the kiosk was closed and I didn't even have to pay a fee to enter the park. I had the Icefields Parkway all to myself. This was a section of road which had worried me in planning this drive. First of all, the sound of it—Icefields. I envisioned ice-covered roads. I also envisioned switchbacks and hair-raising drops. But no such things occurred on this well-maintained road. It was basically a straight paved ribbon of road with steep mountains on both sides. I did climb one side of mountain, only to encounter a few mountains goats. Then I came to a platform where I viewed the Columbia Icefield (hard to make out with all the fresh snow). Somewhere along the line I crossed from Banff into Jasper National Park. My destination was the hostel in Jasper, my accommodation for the night.

In those hours of driving, I encountered two other cars. How bizarre that I had this road to myself. It was almost unreal, like driving in a dream. I stopped in a few places to view the sights: turquoise lakes, frozen waterfalls, canyons. The lakes in Jasper and Banff National Parks are known for the gorgeous hue of their water—a brilliant turquoise, which stands out all the more in contrast to pure white snow. The air was so sharp and so clean, my senses were alive. Was this a taste of Alaska? If so, I was definitely heading to the right place.

The sun started to sink in the mid-afternoon sky. I got back in the car and continued to drive down that lonely road. Night was coming and I had to find that hostel.

Jasper Hostel

In my very limited experience with hostels, I have to say that Jasper Hostel is one of the greatest in the world. It's located several miles outside of town, and is more like a lodge with its giant fireplace and cozy lobby. There were very few guests, as was to be expected in a nearly empty park. It was just me and a middle-aged woman named Trish in the massive womens' dorm. Trish was a bit of a weirdo; a local who had fallen on hard times and lost her home. When she talked (which was a lot), her speech was slow and slurred, as if she were on drugs. I never could find out her story, because I had to navigate through so much bullshit in order to pick out anything truthful. Poor Trish. And poor me, as I attempted to understand her as we sat before the fire.

Not much went on that first night at the hostel. Just me and Trish, and the threat of bears. Yes, we were in bear country, as we were reminded by all the posted signs. One sign in particular was worrisome, the one which said that there was a resident bear who had been spotted recently. This was hard to believe with all the snow. Wouldn't the bears be in hibernation? But it was just the beginning of November, the time of year where many bears were preparing for hibernation. I didn't want to meet any of those bears.

Since Trish was a local, I asked if she wanted to show me around the next day. I had a full day to explore Jasper, and I thought it would be nice to have someone with me. Yes, I knew Trish was weird, but it would be nice to have a guide. I didn't know what I was setting myself up for, as I went to bed that night, but I knew the next day would be interesting. And indeed it was.

Trish frickin talked every second we were together, as we toured the area. Some of her information was useful (receding glaciers and such), but most of it was nonsense. At first, I tried to pay attention to her, but after awhile I gave up, realizing that she was a compulsive talker. We went to a few places, saw a few gorgeous lakes, and the entire time I was trying to get away from her. People like Trish are my worst nightmare, especially in confined quarters, literally making me want to claw out my hair. What was worse, is that Trish thought herself a brilliant person who had been the victim of other people's actions. It was hard to say if any of this was true, but to commiserate with a person who is obviously on drugs is really hard, and her needing attention took up most of my energy that day. By the time we got back to the hostel, I was through with her. I wanted to read my book in front of the fire, but Trish planted herself beside me on the couch. Now, this is quite rude, is it not? When someone has their nose in a book, why would you talk to them? My visual cues couldn't be more obvious, in the way of clearing my throat and leaning into my book. Oh, but she had so many stories to tell. These stories were rambling with no point whatsoever, and never really ended as much as trailed off into another story. "Oh look," I said, "A puzzle." My book reading was never going to happen, so I figured I'd start putting a puzzle together. The puzzle had license plates on it, so Trish said she wanted to tell me a really good story about license plates. I was at my wit's end with her, so I said I'd listen to her story only if it was really short. She started talking about a losing a shoe in the forest, and her dad was this really important man—ten minutes into this story and there wasn't even the suggestion of a license plate. I finally told Trish—and this was the first and only time I have ever done this in my life—that I couldn't listen to her story. "Sorry," I interrupted her, "I just can't listen to this any longer." She looked mortally wounded, but thankfully stopped talking. I felt bad, but at the same time, was proud of myself for speaking up. How many times have I wanted to do that in the past, but have always sucked it up, not wanting to be impolite? Well, Trish was the only person I have ever told to stop talking. But it's rude right, these people who steal your precious time? I feel strongly about this. I'm not here to satisfy your talking needs. Still, I felt sort of bad as she slumped into her seat.

Thankfully, others entered the scene. Located next to the lobby was this fantastically big communal kitchen. Hostelers fixed their dinners and added energy to the room. There was a young English guy named Simon who befriended me, sharing his food and flask of whiskey (alcohol was prohibited in the hostel, so we snuck sips). He helped me with the puzzle, and soon, everyone was in on it. It was a group project, putting together this 1000-piece license plate puzzle. There was a lovely young French couple, and an Australian guy. I've never had so much fun putting a puzzle together! There was a great spirit of comradery at the hostel. Trish had decided to be no part of it, and slunk away to the dorm room, which made me feel only slightly guilty.

The next morning, Trish said very little to me as I got ready for my departure. I guess she had figured us to be great friends. She had even said that she'd come visit me in Haines. In a way, I was afraid she'd stalk me. I was happy to get away from her weirdness, but hard to leave the best group of hostelers I had spent time with. Someday I'd like to go back to Jasper Hostel, with its large fireplace and picture windows looking out over the mountains. I might even spend a night there, if Trish isn't around.

The Highway of Tears

Heading out of Jasper, I made a few more stops in the park. Frozen waterfalls were the thing to see, among pools of turquoise water. By this time, I had grown used to the mountains I was wasn't crying my eyes out like that first day. I was worrying about the next section of my drive, the infamous Highway of Tears.

Steve had told me about this road between Prince George and Prince Rupert. Over the decades, a serial killer had stalked that highway, killing female travelers. Twenty-one girls have been killed or have gone missing along the Highway of Tears. Most of these girls had been hitchhikers, which goes to show you that hitchhiking is not a good idea in the remote north (or anywhere, for that matter). These murders have gone unsolved. Although they did have a suspect, Bobby Jack Fowler, some of the disappearances happened after his incarceration. So was a killer still on the loose? According to the locals—yes! There's a billboard in the town of Smithers which reads "Girls, Don't Hitchhike on the Highway of Tears: Killer on the Loose!" This was daunting, even though I was in a secure car. Still, it served for the backdrop of my drive, and I hoped that Buck would see me safely through to Prince Rupert.

The remoteness of Highway 16 is startling, and sometimes, downright scary. I noticed this when I stopped in a town between Jasper and Prince George. My tank was low on gas and I was looking to fill up, but the only gas station in this town had no power. Cars were lined up; some of them had been waiting for hours. They had no idea when power would be restored. I figured I had enough gas in my tank to get to Prince George (and luckily I was right), but other drivers weren't so lucky. There were no other options for gas between this place and Prince George. This drove home the fact that towns were few and far between in this part of the world. I coaxed Buck into being an even better car, promising that tune-up at the end of the road. Of course, the end of the literal road was in Prince Rupert. I'd be taking the ferry from there to Haines, a three-day journey. However, it was Prince Rupert I was psychologically seeking. If I could make it there, I was good.

I booked a room at a hostel in Prince George. The town was a shit hole if I had ever seen one. There was nothing redeeming to this industrial center; it felt a bit New Jersey, only New Jersey in the 1970s. Nothing seemed from this millennium. As I walked around town, I felt I had been sucked into a time warp. Serial killers were on my mind as I roamed the streets. The people seemed a bit off, but they'd have to be to live in a place this remote.

I encountered my first Tim Norton's, just a few blocks from the hostel. This is a Canadian chain restaurant which specializes in donuts. I ordered a bowl of chili and had a donut thrown in for free. I thought that a weird combination, but somehow it worked.

There wasn't much going on at the hostel, so I went to bed early, and rose early the next day, seeking to reach Prince Rupert by evening. I had the ferry to catch at 5:00AM the next day. There was no way I could miss it, as ferries sailed only once a week, and this was it.

It was an incredibly long day of driving. The mountains were behind me, all I could see were trees. There were a few cars on the road. Every time a vehicle pulled up behind mine, and no one else was around, my heart would start racing. Was this a serial killer? I'd slow the car down and let them pass. There's something very creepy about having a pickup truck on your bumper in the middle of nowhere. I just wanted to get done driving the Highway of Tears.

Weather-wise, I had lucked out on this venture across America and Canada (other than that ice storm outside of Calgary). The sun was shining and the roads were clear. I hit one snag along the way, not weather-related, and it was due to an accident. It must have been a huge accident, as both lanes were blocked. I tried to gather information while I walked along the line of cars. The word was that it could be hours before the road was cleared. This sent me into a mini-panic. I had to get to Prince Rupert. I couldn't miss that ferry! Some of the drivers were talking about taking an alternate route. Of course, most of these drivers were in huge-ass trucks. How would little Buck do on a back road? Well, I decided to go for it. I couldn't be waiting around for hours. I followed the convoy of trucks onto a dirt road. It was pretty rough, but we made it, landing back on Highway 16. I was a little shaky by this point and just wanted to get to the end of the road.

The last stretch of the highway was gorgeous, as it ran alongside a river, however it was windy as hell. With the sun going down, oncoming headlights attacked me around curves. This was my first real test driving at night with my bad eye. I was feeling the full impact of my corneal scar. When light hits that eye (which being my left eye, is particularly bad with oncoming headlights), the light disperses, as if giving a mini fireworks show. This is horribly bad, as I lose sight of the road while this light show is going on. The last leg of my epic drive was fraught with high anxiety as the curves in the road never seemed to end. Finally, I pulled into Prince Rupert with a huge sense of relief.

My dinner was at Tim Horton's, then I continued on to the ferry terminal. I had planned to spend the night in the parking lot, but it was freezing cold and no one was around. It seemed a very dismal place. So I broke down and got a hotel room for the night. I'd be checking out at 2:00, but at least I had a nice warm bed for a few hours.

I was told to show up three hours before departure. Seems silly now, but I believed them, so I dragged my ass out of bed at 2 in the morning to line up for the ferry. There was only one car in front of me in the line. We waited there for an hour, with nothing going on. Finally we were summoned to a kiosk where we were to fill out customs information. After all, we would be entering America, and this was a huge process. The only thing of interest which happened here was getting my oranges confiscated. No fresh produce allowed in America from Canada. Isn't that insane? Anyway, one of my oranges rolled under the seat, and I only found it when I got to Haines, so I had unwittingly smuggled in produce.

It was another hour of waiting while they lined us up. I don't know why, but I was put into the lane that went last. They were even waiting for last minute vehicles while I sat there. Ridiculous, waking up that early just to wait. But finally I boarded the ferry, and the epic drive portion of my trip was over. I could relax now as the ferry took me to my new home.

Fjord Crawling

Hardly anyone was on the ferry. The older couple which had been before me in the car line were on board; we'd nod to each other in passing. I had booked a cabin, but it was stark and so quiet that I preferred being in the observation room at the front of the ship. It was a great place to read, as the hum and vibration of the engine had a relaxing effect. Large windows lined the sides of the observation room, perfect for watching the scenery inch forward as we crawled along.

Ketchikan was our first stop. It was raining so hard that I didn't even consider venturing out. The town was colorful, even in the rain, with layers of painted houses on the hills. We stayed about an hour, and then pressed onward.

It was rainy for that entire first day. But the scenery was still wonderful. Spruce- and fir-covered hills. There was nothing dramatic, but it was gentle and lulling, and my book reading soon led to napping.

That evening after dinner (there was a cafeteria there that served pretty decent food), I spoiled myself with a drink from the bar. The older couple was in there and we got to talking. They were from the interior. They'd be disembarking in Haines and driving up to Anchorage. They told me about the temps they'd be encountering in the interior—minus 40 below. They said when it was that cold, you didn't even turn off your car in fear of the gas lines freezing. Wow, I was getting stories from real Alaskans. They seemed hardcore, which led me to believe that maybe they had been Palin fans. I had some pretty weird concepts about Alaskans back then, which I laugh about now. I was worried about the kind of people I'd find in Alaska. But I was pleasantly surprised when the bartender announced that Obama had won the election. Yes, this was election day. It was hard to imagine, in the middle of Alaskan waters, but the rest of the country was embroiled in politics. When the bartender casually announced that Obama had won, I looked over at my bar mates. They were silently pumping their fists, and I felt a huge sense of relief. We said very little about it, but the older gentleman made the comment that "some people in this country just can't accept a black president," and one of the guys sitting at the bar goes "Yup, and I'm one of them." Still, it was quite civilized in that ferry bar. It kind of showed me that Alaska is a world apart. Anywhere else in America, this election would have been a big deal, but not out here. There wasn't even a TV on to show the election coverage. The ferry chugged along, and politics seemed a million miles away.

We stopped at many ports of call. Many of these came in the middle of the night, and I couldn't be roused from my bed. The only port of call which really caught my attention was Sitka, as it was the former capital under the Russians. As the ferry dock was miles from town, a few of us organized a taxi to take us. We organized a time to meet to get back to the ferry. This left about an hour in town, which was enough to walk around and see the highlights of a ghost town. It being the non-tourist season, not much was open, but fortunately the Russian gift shop was open for business. Because I'm a sucker for matryoshka dolls, I bought a few for my collection. Yeah, I might have splurged a bit, but I haven't seen such a fantastic selection of dolls since I visited St. Petersburg, Russia. The owner was Russian and she got the dolls directly from a place back in the Mother Country. I was in Russian heaven. I've always had a thing for Russia. And here I was, moving to Russia! Or at least a place that had at one time been Russia. The influences were felt in Sitka, especially in the Russian church which dominated the downtown area. I visited a museum which was free (got to love this off-season stuff) and then went to go meet the group to get back to the ferry.

The ferry ride in general was very relaxing. I got a lot of reading done. There were so few people on board that we could space out and watch the slowly-emerging scenery. One thing that caught my attention is just how long dusk lasted this far up north. The sky would turn purple after the sun set, and would remain that way for close to an hour. The further north we crawled, the steeper the mountains and the more prevalent the snow.

We pulled into Juneau at 3:00 in the morning. I heard an announcement, noise erupted in the hallway as passengers disembarked. By the time I woke up, we had pulled away. I had missed Juneau, but it didn't matter, because I woke up to a completely different setting. First of all, the ferry was now crammed with people. No more quiet reading in the observation room. It didn't matter, for I had lost interest in my book. The weather, and the scenery, had completely changed. We were heading into an alien world, full of unreachably high peaks against a bright blue sky. We sailed through a narrow sliver of water between high mountain ranges. This was Lynn Canal, I was to find out, one of the longest fjords in North America. My excitement could hardly be contained. At the end of Lynn Canal was Haines. It was hard to believe my new home was somewhere among those tall peaks. There was no mistaking it—this was the North. And we were sailing directly into it.

I can't convey the beauty of that first ferry trip up the Lynn Canal. It belongs to a magnitude reserved for such things as gold rushes. Imagine, this is what those goldseekers experienced on their way to the Yukon. I wonder what they thought when they saw those mountains and realized they had to make it over them. Wow, what an epic time in history. Everything's epic about Alaska, more so than I had imagined.

They announced that we'd be docking in Haines in half an hour. I caught glimpses of the town as we sailed past. There was a section of white houses on a hill—other than that, I couldn't see much. The town was located on a strip of land with soaring mountain peaks in the background. On every side were mountains. Mountains—those very things which had made me burst out crying just several days before. It was pretty obvious that I'd be in ecstasy in Haines.

As we neared the dock, a ripple of anxiety rose in me. Okay, this was it, the real end of the road. It had taken me ten days, thousands of road miles and a ferry trip, but I was here, I had made it. And now my real life was beginning.

Driving up the ferry ramp and approaching the highway to town, I spotted the sign which read: "Welcome to Alaska." It was official—I had made it to Alaska.