The three primary reasons to drive the Alaska Highway are the scenery, the animals, and the people. Then there’s the road itself.
Dec. 7, 1941. The Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor and everyone in Washington asks, “Where the heck is Pearl Harbor?” They dig out the maps and make a startling discovery. The Japanese islands are only 700 miles from the Aleutian Islands in the US Territory of Alaska. What if the Japanese invaded Alaska and worked their way down the coast? Seattle. San Francisco. San Diego. They could all be threatened. So the boys in Washington decreed that Alaska must be reinforced and told the Army Corps of Engineers to build a road whereby to do it.
The project began in March, 1942, just four months after Pearl Harbor. The boys in Washington had a vague idea where Alaska was but no idea how to get there. Still, that didn’t keep them from issuing orders. Fortunately, the Canadians agreed to provide a right of way beginning at Dawson Creek, British Columbia where the railroad ended.
Recruits who had no clue what a D-8 bulldozer looked like, let alone how to operate one, found themselves learning on the job. In March it is still winter in Dawson Creek. In eight months, those recruits built 1,500 miles of road, give or take, despite temperatures of -70°F--weather that froze lubricants, destroyed equipment, and quite a few men.
Today, road construction is much more sophisticated. Precise surveying. Huge, more efficient (and freeze resistant) equipment. Better trained engineers and construction workers. Even so, they could never do it in eight months. Or eight years. Today they would still be filling out the paper work and conducting the environmental impact studies. If you choose to drive the Alaska Highway, be grateful to those guys in ‘42 who made it all possible.
The first time Shirley and I started up the Highway we had several preconceived notions based on what we had read and what people told us. It’s a rough road with lots of gravel. Watch out for the frost heaves caused by ungodly temperatures. Count on breaking a windshield. It’s slow going. Allow plenty of time.
First, much of the Alaska Highway is now better than your average highway in the Lower 48. In Canada it is pretty good. In Alaska, it is excellent. Until we reached Haines Junction in the Yukon, I drove at about 60 mph. Pickup trucks with BC and Yukon plates went roaring past, growing impatient because I was so slow. The Highway was in far, far better shape than the Anthony Wayne Trail in April. Except, that is, for a four-mile stretch where they had scraped off the pavement for resurfacing. No, wait. Even that was better than the Trail. But, then, they don’t have to contend with Toledo winters in the Yukon. There were 17 or 18 potholes. I hit one of them. I defy anyone to drive 1,500 miles in Toledo and hit only one pothole.
Frost heaves were another issue. First, I had it exactly backwards. I thought a heave was where frozen pavement had pushed up to create the equivalent of speed bumps. Frost heaves are more like dips in the road. They are marked with orange flags or traffic cones so that, if you watch ahead, you can slow down just a teensy bit. Not too much or you’ll get run over by impatient Canadians.
If you go to Alaska, you’ll break your windshield we were told. And they were right. We did break our windshield. A truck through up a stone in North Platte, Nebraska. Got it fixed in Jackson, WY.
As for allowing plenty of time, that has less to do with road conditions than with the scenery, the animals, and the people.
Those of you who have been to Alaska will believe me when I claim the scenery is simply unbelievable. Those of you who have not been will not believe how unbelievable it really is. It starts out magnificent and passes quickly through awesome on its way to gollliegeebobola!
We think the best of the best starts at Haines Junction in the Yukon where the road runs parallel with the base of the Kluane (Kloo-ah-nee) Mountains rising 15,000 feet into the clouds.
Along the way you might keep an eye out for Stone sheep, bison, moose, caribou, and bears. In Yellowstone, we have grown accustomed to “bear jams.” One tourist spots something that might or might not be a bear a half mile up the slope. He pulls over to get a better look. Eighty-seven other tourists stop to see what he is looking at.
On the Alaska Highway, black bears trying to thumb a ride right at the side of the road don‘t even tempt people to slow down. A huge grizzly bear might justify a pause of 20 or 30 seconds. I stopped for one grizz and Shirley said, “Poo! He’s just a little one.” So we drove on. She is one jaded woman.
But she is a people person. We “camped” at the Walmart in Hinton, BC and some people from Texas in another Roadtrek RV came over to say “Howdy-doo.” With so many people headed north at approximately the same rate, you tend to run into the same people every couple of days.
At Watson Lake, we had the choice of camping at a Regional campground with no services and pit toilets for C$17 or at the Tetsa Lodge for C$23. (I don’t know what that is in real money.) The lodge and campground, run by Ben and Gail Andrews, has water and electric hookups, hot showers, and the best cinnibuns you ever put in your mouth. Guess where we chose to stay.
There was one little catch. They are literally off the grid up there so electric power is provided by an on-site generator that runs until 10 p.m.
The next morning, our microwave went Beep! when the power came on. Shirley and I got dressed to head over to the lodge for breakfast. “Oh,” I said, (or something like that) “my watch is broken. It says 4 o’clock.”
“So does mine,” says Shirley.
We got undressed and went back to bed.
Ben and Gail are third generation operators of the Tetsa Lodge. There are only the two of them to handle every thing so they work all day, every day during the season. For Ben, the day begins at 4 a.m. when he starts generator to bake the cinnibuns and fresh bread. We bought a loaf of his sourdough to take with us. His day ends at 10 p.m. I couldn’t help wondering if he clears minimum wage for the hours he puts in.
Gail said their daughter is a nurse and their son is a techie for an oil company. Both of them make more money for a lot less work than they could ever expect from the family business so three generations is the end of the line.
A young man who is proud to maintain his “family business” is Cole Drewhurst. We met Cole at the Tlingit Heritage Center where he explained the history of his people and the artifacts on display. The Tlingit (pronounced Klingit--no, really) were a coastal people who began trading furs with Russians and then Americans (pronounced Ah-mir-cunz) two hundred years ago. They moved farther inland in pursuit of pelts and other trade goods.
Cole said his full Tlingit name is Yes’thsxi (him), Cokotaton (his clan), Lesotho (his clan leader). Put it all together and you have a precise description of who he is. Cole said the Tlingit are a matriarchal people. At the age of four, children are assigned to a clan by their grandmothers. (Almost everybody has two grandmothers so the family politics must get interesting.)
We tried some Tlingit bannock (fried bread) with berry preserves. The woman who served us said her name was something I can’t spell even phonetically. She confessed that the modern version of bannock is made with lard--to which your physician might have some objections. Don’t know what your doc might say about the more authentic moose or bear grease.
About an hour west of Watson Lake, Yukon, we met two men from San Diego at a rest area. They were headed (or so they thought) to Anchorage to work for a fishing company. They had left Whitehorse four hours earlier that morning. Bad news: If you are headed to Anchorage from Whitehorse and find yourself near Watson Lake, you have driven four hours in the wrong direction. Good news: You get to see four hours of marvelous country from the opposite perspective.
Shirley and I kept track of our progress--and our direction--by consulting The Milepost, an annual publication that lists everything along the Alaska Highway and all the roads that connect with it, mile by mile. Some observations: Although every location is identified by the relevant mile post, there are no mile posts in Canada. There are occasional, randomly scattered kilometer markers. To keep track of where you are and how far it is to where you going, you need a navigator who is highly adept at solving ordinary linear differential equations in her head. Multiply the kilometers by .6628735 and add the square root of the temperature in Celsius to get the number of gallons per liter--or hectares as we say in the US.
And another thing, according to the signs, the distance to anywhere in the Canadian northwest is always two kilometers. Rest area? Two clicks. B&B? Two clicks. Gasoline, campground, view point, visitor center? Two clicks. And you’d better pay attention because. If you don’t note your odometer reading and convert it to kilometers you’ll zip right past whatever that place was in two clicks. Personally, it takes more than two clicks to make the conversion in my head. So I blame Shirley.
At the beginning of the Alaska Highway there are signs warning “Driving Distracted Laws in Effect.” That’s just more Canadian foolishness. In the US, “driving distracted” means yakking on your cell phone or texting when you should be paying attention to the road. Listen, people, there ain’t no cell coverage on the Alaska Highway! The visitor centers and Starbucks claim to have Wi-Fi and cell service. They lie just to get you to stop for a half-caff/half decaff mocha grande or take some tourist brochures off their hands. Even so, you really are in serious danger of driving distracted. If the mountains don’t distract you, the bears and moose and caribou will. Distracted or not, all 1,500 miles of the Alaska Highway are just a walk in the park.
For more photos of the Alaska Highway, see the post for Nov. 28, 2017.
No comments:
Post a Comment