Homer Bound:
An Account of My Solo Travels to Homer, Alaska in a 1966 VW
Westy Named Clara
September/October, 2009
Page 5 - Another Day in B.C. – Mountains, Forts, Wind,
and A Wall of Beer
A little cold, I awoke to the alarm
set for 7:30 a.m. on the fourth morning of my first “Alcan
in a Bus” expedition, acutely aware that I was not properly
“backroadbussing”, whatever that means. It is a
shame, really, since I was traveling through a huge unknown
space, and the possibilities for exploration and adventure were
virtually limitless, yet here I was, in a gentle sort of hurry,
missing all the back roads and secret spots because I was more
focused on getting to where I was going than having fun doing it
- kinda. In my own defense, I think trying to get from the lower
48 to Alaska via true back roads might be a little on the
impossible side, and the nature of much of this “main
route” was such that it was roughly the same kind of
driving as exploring secondary roads in the States. This was no
superhighway, and my adjective “roughly” used in the
last sentence could almost be considered a pun. There was another
route I could have taken back at Prince George, and I kinda wish
I had, but looking back, I realize that the many cool things that
I saw, experienced, and felt on this trip took place or happened
on the stretches of road that I would have missed had I gone the
other route, so hey, I tell myself, there is always next
time!The morning was brisk, the sun still hiding behind the mountains, and I was barely able to function due to the stiffness of the previous days’ drive, the fact that I had just crawled out of bed, and the damp chill that hung in the air on the valley floor. I remembered the omnipresent rumbling I had finally determined to be a train in the night, working hard to climb the hill from which the river that created Bijoux Falls cascaded. It was a very strange and otherworldly thing to see the headlight of the train illuminating the forest while seemingly hanging onto the cliff edge above the falls by the barest of ledges. The thrumming sound of the great diesel generators, which had started out as a subliminal hum and crescendoed slowly until finally reaching its earth-shaking peak just as the engines hove into view, was so out-of-place in that forest that I really felt a sensation akin to what it must be like during other situations, like those in which loud humming noises are heard and bright lights are seen in the deep forest at night...
Driving over to the parking lot of
the falls, I spent the next few minutes clambering around on the
slick rocks in defiance of the posted warnings, trying to get a
decent photo or video clip of the falls, despite the lousy light.
I wasn’t about to wait around for the local sunrise to cast
its spell on the area, being that I had a road to drive, and it
wasn’t likely to wait, but I did manage to stall while
eating breakfast and tempting one of the denizens of the forest
with a tidbit in order to get a photo of this rare and wondrous
bird.
After I set out on the road, I was
treated to two great things one always expects on a bus trip: A
hard hill climb and its reward, the proof that you are in real
mountains! In fact, I didn’t feel like the bus really got
enough warm-up time on relatively level road before subjecting
the engine and transmission to the strain of an ascent. Just as
soon as I reached the summit of this pass, which I think is
called Pine Pass, I was treated to a scene of intense grandeur.
To the east, haloed by the rising sun, and stretching all the way
across my vision to the north, lay what I believe to be the very
spine of the Rocky Mountains. Like the great vertebrae of a
sleeping wyrm, whose coils wind round the core of the earth,
these massifs of tortured stone rose from the valley below with
startling abruptness and the forests beneath looked dark and
mysterious because of the way they were rendered so tiny in
comparison, yet in their profusion and scope, one could tell that
it was indeed an immense woodland, with its own secrets.My next point of civilization was Chetwynd, and the drive getting there from the pass was quite spectacular. The road had some interesting recurring bumps in it, but I was paying closer attention to the colorful foliage and the Pine river, the tantalizing mix of stone and forest up on the shoulders of mountains through which this road -- with its BUMPS! – wound in meandering fashion, mostly following, but crossing the river once on its way to what I felt were highlands of a sort, which is weird, because I had just come down from the mountains! Have I yet mentioned the BUMPS? Occasionally, there were breaks in the road that were worth slowing down for – and I wasn’t going all that fast! These were the first significant manifestations of the highway frost heaves that plague much of the northern road system, and provide entertainment for those of us with less-than-optimum shock absorbers as well as ensuring a constant source of employment for road maintenance personnel, who must be a hardy bunch!
By the time I got to Chetwynd, the mountains had all but disappeared, and I was driving through a lot of undulating hills festooned with autumnal poplar, aspen, and birch in riotous display. For me, Chetwynd offered a welcome change of scenery, as it presented itself as home of the Chetwynd International Chainsaw Carving Championship … and judging by the exhibits I could see as I entered the town, there were a lot of folk around here that were real good at this art form! Between the bears and eagles and lovers and Indians and dragons and burly wooden guys with axes, I found myself particularly awed by a Samurai carving. This must have been a representation of the sad time in Japan when the sword-and-armor days were giving way to the merciless power of the black powder musket, not to mention cannon and explosive bombs! I’ll admit that I did not do any of these carvings photographic justice, but I was not of the correct mindset to really spend the time necessary to compose shots without the visual “noise” of everyday life in Chetwynd on a day when the light, and the background - simply - sucked! I found a convenient fuel station, fueled up, checked the oil, and moved on.
There was another high hill
leading out of Chetwynd up to a plateau over which, it seemed, I
traveled for nearly the rest of the day. Looking back in my
mirror at the little town down below, I could see that it was
actually a pretty cool-looking place, and then it vanished into a
sea of yellow, orange, and green as I topped the hill and my
attention shifted to the rest of the day, which was mainly
fighting the ferocious wind gusts as they tried to fling me from
the road or into the path of approaching traffic. There were a
few creases that cut across the land, generally manifesting
themselves as steep-sided gorges, which provided interest and a
bit of challenge to an otherwise fairly humdrum road. The wind
continued throughout the day – as a headwind when I was
ascending a hill, as side gusts (from either or both sides) when
descending, especially when approaching a narrow bridge at the
same time as a semi, and rarely, if ever, as a tailwind. In fact,
I felt that I was bucking a headwind almost all the way up
through Canada!The most notable breaks in the road were smaller roads going off in both directions, and to add interest, large clusters of signs were erected at the beginning of each one, showing which companies were involved in the extraction of natural resources from the area in question. I saw many “oil and gas” men in their giant pickup trucks, and once, over a few ridges, I spied a gas flare, which burned signal-like in the grey daylight. I suspect that there were logging operations in the area as well, but saw little sign of them. One thing I did note, though, was such a heavy preponderance of trees! So many trees!
There wasn’t much change as I headed to Dawson Creek, but I never made it there. Just before the city itself, it was made clear to me that if I wanted to expedite things, I could take this here left turn, wind through a heavy equipment heaven, and I’d be heading directly for Fort St. John. So, without ever meeting Dawson Creek, B.C., I ended the eastward leg of my journey, and at least now I could feel that I was headed in the right direction! After the trip was over and done, and I studied the map with a bit more knowledge, I could see that I wasted a whole lot of energy and time driving so far to the east just to double back. Were I to do it again (and I might, and soon!) I would choose what is known as the Cassiar Highway, and while that is reputed to be slower (per mile), and not really a shortcut, I think I would consider it a bit more backroad-esque. How will I know this, unless I do it?
After I filled up just past Ft.
St. John, I continued, driving through the incessantly rolling
hills, with their displays of fall colors and lots and lots of
conifers stretching for as many miles as one could see, the sea
of trees eventually offered promise of change to something a bit
more, well, different. What I mean by that is I could see
mountains far in the distance every time I topped another rise,
but in the great sweeping twists and turns of the highway, one
could easily become confused, thinking “Didn’t I just
drive through this?” and were it not for the occasional
wildlifes (a couple moose, another coyote), and the delighted
grins and waves from about half the people in the oncoming lane,
it would have been a day’s drive that never existed!I was just about to mentally pass around the next beer off the wall, which was “Five-thousand, six-hundred and ninety-two bottles of beer on the wall, five-thousand, six-hundred and ninety-two bottles of beer! Take one down, pass it around …” when I came over yet another headwind-blasted long climb to find a pickup truck with camper shell parked on the edge of the southbound lane with its hood up, and two men milling around, looking particularly unproductive. I figured they had just paused to take a leak, add some oil, and stretch their legs, so I just smiled, returned their waves, and ventured on; I enjoying the sudden slight downhill and windless tack the road had taken. As I picked up speed, however, I realized that I should at least check and see that they were OK, so I shook myself awake, slowed to a crawl, and executed a neat shoulder-to-shoulder U-turn, and soon was rolling up behind them.
The guys were friends on a road trip
back from Alaska; one had never done the trip by car, and was
returning with his buddy to Florida, where he kept his home and
his wife since he no longer lived in Alaska. His truck, however,
had done the trip several times, and was starting to complain a
little. They thought the vocalizations coming from the engine
bespake a rod about to go, so they were trying to figure out
where they were in relation to towing and mechanical services. It
was then that I showed up, and since I did not know exactly where
we were at either, and didn’t recall with any real clarity
the presence of a garage in any of the little settlements that
were who-knows-how-far-back-there on the road, we decided that
the guy’s buddy would stay with the truck and the dogs, and
that he would ride with me to Fort Nelson.The conversation about this-and-that was pleasant, and kept me awake. My new temporary friend did not seem to be too scared by the thrill of being a passenger in a teetering old bus being blasted at random by side-gusts, and the two or so hours so spent went without incident. We were none too happy to see the sign indicating that Ft. Nelson was 156 km away, and that we had already been driving for a half-hour or so, but I kept the speed up, and we were able to get into town before the towing place that he remembered seeing closed for the night. I waited for him after I fueled up to make sure that he was going to be all right, and he sorted things out, and came out to tell me what his plan was. Unfortunately for him, he would have to hitch a ride back to Ft. St. John, where his truck and friend were going to be towed to, and hopefully meet up with them and get a room, figuring it all out from there. I wished him the best, and he thanked me, giving me a map of the Yukon and Alaska which was most helpful in the days to follow, and also left me with the admonition to avoid driving at night, for the “real” Alcan, at least for him, started just north of Ft. Nelson.
While I was hanging out waiting to
make sure the guy was going to be all right, I noticed to my
chagrin the vast amount of insects that had suffered mightily
upon meeting with the nose of my bus. Their pitiable sundered
carcasses were splattered all over the nose, the mirrors, the
leading edge of the roof rack, and in the screen of the fresh air
intake. Gee ... I'd like to think I was getting fresh air
when I opened the vent, but I suspect that the dust and chunks
that come through are dessicated bug bits. Yum Yum. Anyway,
here's a shot of a good amount of the dead - if you recognise
anyone, please let their families know on my behalf that I really
didn't mean it!
One of the details that I really
liked about many of these towns of Canada in general was that
they seemed to start, and then simply stop. Not a whole lot of
suburbia or lingering in-between semi-rural business park areas.
They simply … ceased to be, and the countryside with all
its varying degrees of natural wildness was left pretty much
intact, if not at arm’s length. And so ended Fort Nelson.
One minute I’m driving through town, thinking about how
best to get away with writing incomplete sentences, and the next
I’m out on some highway running through the land of trees
and lakes. I enjoyed the acute sense of losing the dubious
security one has when within shouting distance of civilization,
and each time I left that zone of habitation for the wilds
beyond, I was fulfilled by a particularly epic feeling of freedom
and the limitlessness of being.
The clouds, which had been
threatening to engulf the entire sky at one point, were going
through the motions of breaking up, and in a most theatrical way,
allowing sunlight to spill forth, rendering the scenes unreal in
the slanting golden rays. Not sure what to expect of the terrain,
especially since I was warned not to drive after dark lest I miss
something, I started looking for an appropriate place to wake up
the next morning. The problem with that kind of search is that in
order to find the good spots, you’ve got to slow the hell
down and take the time to veer off the road to explore
possibilities. However, I was enjoying going uphill, as it was
getting kind of cold, and my heater was finally working since the
engine was being pushed a bit.
Next thing I knew, I was staring
out into a vast shadowy realm of mountain, valley, and forest,
with a brilliant half-moon and the last vestiges of the clouds
lending depth and interest to the dusky sky. I sure would have
loved to see this view in the daytime! However, as tempting as it
may have been to find a place nearby to camp, I knew that I would
have had to wait until at least ten o’clock before the
spectacle would have been illumined properly for that photo I
would have been waiting for, so I just did what I could with the
cameras, jumped back into my cozy bus, and rolled off into the
night.The road took me down rather quickly, and despite the fact that I could see the cell tower, I could only occasionally reap its benefit. I had promised Michele that I would call when I got to my stopping place for the night, and with that in mind, I pressed on, keeping my phone open on the dash so I could see when I was in a suitable area. I really didn’t want to camp anywhere near the top of the mountain I had just descended from. Two reasons: One is that I was not up there any more and would have to backtrack, which is right up there on my “Hated and Despised Things To Do” list, but also because when I was up on top, there really was no spot that was suitable for camping, excepting, of course, the big pull-out with other cars, RV’s and trucks parked within. Camping in spots with other travelers that are not in buses is also right up there on my “HDTTD” list!
At any rate, down by the river at the bottom of the pass, I passed by the riverside camping spot of the nice folk with the weird trailer, who passed me just a ways out of Fort Nelson. They had taken a pretty decent spot, although it was too close to the road for my taste, although in recent days it was becoming apparent that my tolerance for proximity to the road was at an all-time low. These folk had been the first that I took a photo of (somewhat belatedly) for the website run by a bloke named Bob Merino, who has asked me to keep an eye out for unusual rigs to augment his new website Rolling Heads RV Club (link: http://www.rollingheads.org/index.html ) I should have stopped for a photograph, and used my headlights to light up their trailer, which was different enough from your run-of-the-mill modern box on wheels, but I was too leery of getting run off with a shotgun loaded with rock salt.
Shortly thereafter, while running the serpentine river road, in last vestiges of the twilight, I came to a fairly wide pull-out next to the river. Despite the proximity to the road, I felt that this spot was “it” and that the marginal cellular service would do just fine. After a hearty dinner that I can’t recall, and a bit of time spent on the phone, I made my logbook entry, checked over the next day’s route, and read for a bit prior to turning in. I realized that I was given another reason for liking this spot: I could hear the river chuckling at whatever the leaves were whispering about as I gave myself over to sleep – once again accompanied by occasional roaring of passing trucks, but by now, nothing bothered me much!
Next: Homer Bound Trip Report: Page Six
Gene Cornelius
mizamook@geemail dot com
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