Homer Bound:

An Account of My Solo Travels to Homer, Alaska in a 1966 VW Westy Named Clara

September/October, 2009

Page 8: Tok, Eureka Summit, Los Anchorage, and Hope

Cold! Brrrrrrr. I awoke to a frosty bus, and because I dislike the restrictive feeling of a mummy bag, I woke to a cold me. As usual, I permitted myself a few moments of snoozage, but this morning I was galvanized into action by the need to generate heat. Glancing at my timepiece, I saw that I had slept through my alarm once more. Damn! Why does this keep happening? A sudden thought occurred to me, and I checked the settings on the clock. Yep, I was right. What a goof. I had set the alarm for 6:30 p.m.! I leapt up and dressed for the day, as warmly as I dared. It felt like snow was imminent, so I donned pretty much all my layers. Eating a quick breakfast while shivering, and watching my tea cool too fast to steep properly, I checked the oil and blasted out onto the road.

Within minutes I received confirmation of my location. I was somewhere past Tetlin Junction, and just to the south of Tok. There was a highway project underway on my route, and I had to wait for a bit near a big bridge project that looked expensive, but in very little time I was cruising the streets - er, make that singular - of Tok. I fueled up and cleaned the windscreens, enduring once again the lackluster functionality of a frozen squeegee, and asked about the possibility of a local garage being available for a quick oil change. It seemed as though the people there were trying to make as little contact with me as possible, and their comments were short and gruff. At the Napa, where I bought some oil, Lucas oil stabiliser, and a cheap plastic pump for gear oil, it felt like the guy behind the counter could barely stomach accepting money from me. Was it something I said? Did I have an unsightly spot on my face? Maybe it was the funny cold-weather apparel I was sporting. (Surely, it couldn't have been the long hair or the bus!)

I found a garage specifically designed for changing the oil of RV's, and inquired within. The bus barely fit on the wide tracks over the pit, but with the man's guidance, I avoided dropping a wheel off the edge, which would have been ugly. This guy was fairly friendly, although he could not help remarking on the oddities he found as he perused the underside of the engine and the contents of my engine compartment. I thought it amusing, albeit slightly annoying, but maintained an amiable mien in order to make the experience pass more easily. It was hard enough to let anyone else touch a tool to my bus, let alone make fun of it, but I appreciated the service and the low cost of such a convenience.

With fresh oil and a full tank of gas, I hightailed it out of Tok, which I now consider to be one of the least bus-friendly towns of the trip. Heading almost due west, the roads were straight and unremarkable, except that I was seeing an increased amount of snow on the trees and mountains. The heavy glowering clouds made the day a dark one, and I felt gloomy too, and it seemed like this part of the road was taking forever to get anywhere. After a time, though, I started seeing things like ice on the water in pools and creeks, and the broad slopes of the mountains began to take on more interesting shapes as they grew closer. I was escaping the bland apathy that was Tok, and reentering the realm of adventure!

A few light snow flurries dotted my windscreens from time to time, and a light dusting accented the edges of the road, but the snow I was warned about never materialized. The woman in the gas station at Beaver Creek told me that the bus driver reported low visibility, but that was the day before, and I had no problems whatsoever. The weather even cooperated to the point that by the time I really wanted to see and to take pictures, the air cleared and the clouds began to pull away from that which enticed me: The Wrangell Range.

Should you ever need to use something as an example of "serious mountains", this jagged wall of glacier-infested, snow-clad peaks should do the trick. I am not sure as to their height, but the vantage afforded by the paths the road took as it brought me closer gave me a strong sense of their dominion over the lands to the east. It was strange, I found myself musing, that there were no foothills! The mountains, with no preamble whatsoever, simply jutted skyward from the flat lands around them. After stopping at an overlook, looking over the expanse of peaks, I thought to look at the map to see just what it was that I was seeing. These steep crags may or may not have been of the Wrangell Range, else were of the greater range, and the mountains divided into several ranges: Wrangell, Mentasta, and Nutzotin. Again, I may be totally off-base with this, so for now I'll just call all these lumps of rock the Wrangell Range, just as I will call the biggest pokey spire I saw all afternoon Wrangell Peak. If you feel that I'm so wrong that you need to sue, you can contact my lawyer if you can find it ...

At just about the perfect time for lunch, I arrived at the Junction of Hwy. 1 and Hwy. 4. A coffee shop/drive-thru homestead lay in wait, well-situated so that road-weary travellers had no choice but to stop and partake of some of the flavorful brew, as well as slurp up a steaming cup of chunkey potato chowder (bacon or not, it was damn good). I enjoyed talking to the woman who ran the joint, and eventually took the correct fork in the road. Had I taken the incorrect one, I would have ended up in Delta Junction unless I wanted to take the little mountain road "Closed in Winter" which would have dropped me out at Hwy 3, and I could have stopped by Talkeetna. In other words, I chickened out again. (I had passed the road to Chicken, Alaska the previous night, so that temptation was safely beyond my reach!)

Half-an-uneventful-hour later, I found myself in Glenallen, preparing to replace the air in my fuel tank with something slightly more toxic, and I received a well-intentioned nod from some independant-looking bloke on his way to the office. Looking over to the rear lot of the station, I noticed a vehicle that fit the requirements of "different", which to me meant that it is unlike any of the twenty or so seen in the the last hundred miles. The beast in question looked like what would happen if you took an Airstream trailer, crossed it with a Silverstreak, and made a cabover out of it. The result was "Thumper', the Avion camper, designed by a guy that worked for Airstream back in the day, and later branched out on his own. This particular one, I believe, had had interior rework done, and was quite nice and cozy inside. It was named Thumper because when they got it, the tie-down mounts for it were broken or otherwise nonfunctional, and there was this annoying and worrying thumping that happened whenever they hit a bump. Must have been fearsome on rough roads! That's all fixed now, though.

I accepted Jim's invitation to come over to their camper and check it out, and in doing so, I met Susan. Turns out that they had just come from Homer, and it was fun sharing thoughts and stories before I got on my way to Homer, and they continued back to Colorado by way of Chico, CA. Susan mentioned the interior shower and toilet, both neatly set into a closet in the rear of the camper. She said one really appreciates an indoor toilet in instances where it is cold and windy, or, as happened to Jim, when he poked his head outside to see a grizzly prowling just outside the door!

All during this enjoyable tour and visit, my bus was sitting unlocked and out-of-sight around the corner at the fuel pumps. This made me increasingly nervous, and my agitation was noted by Jim and Susan, who bid me safe and adventurous travels, and prepared to depart. The last I saw of them and their friendly smiles was as they passed by the pumps, with Jim's big camera lens pointed in my direction. With a final wave they were off. I finished my business at the station and resumed my lonely drive in the opposite direction: North!

Leaving Glenallen I was greeted with a long, straight, and otherwise featureless stretch of road. One each side of this cleared path were a lot of very silly little trees. Knobbed, bent, wiggly, and stunted, their posture permanently tweaked by the weight of snow, it looked like the snow was still there as acres upon acres of these things formed a blur as I sped by, hoping against hope for a rugged cliff face or stream through a meadow to break this monotony of madness. All that in five minutes or so. Then I took a glance at my side mirror, and was immediately mollified. Like a big blob of vanilla soft-serv, Wrangell Peak lay squat against the horizon, wreathed in clouds. As soon as I looked at the road from outside the bus, I saw quite clearly that the engineers had aligned the road precisely with the peak, and I remember thinking that that was a very cool thing.

I was so impressed by the dramatic effect of the mountain that I even turned around once over the crest of the hill, and drove back up it to bring the big pointy mountain into view over the road to the south. I shot another picture or two, and swept toward another mountain range, this time with a tailwind! The map tells me that the places I was really enjoying once I got up into the mountains were Eureka Summit and Tahneta Pass, where I was forced to wait for a couple big rigs slooowly pulling I-beams so long that they had to use the entire road width to navigate the curves, and later, because of the delay, I got to look at Dall sheep high on the cliff side towering over the road. These sheep were maneuvering adroitly on an impossible angle, snarfling for food amongst the scraggly brush that grew out of the scree, while sending torrents of stones plummeting toward the highway, a thousand feet below.

Traveling through mountains has always been a special occasion for me. Yes, each and every time I drive over mountain roads, I get happy, even if I'm still as outwardly grumpy as before. There's something about the fact that there is something new around every little bend, and the angles and shadows of the mystical places glimpsed from the corner of the eye while negotiating around pointy obstacles in the road from recent rockfalls or sheep activity. The little challenges of going up and down steep grades and avoiding driving off the precipice while staring at a glacier are somehow much easier to enjoy on a spiritual level than the hustle and bustle of "civilization", despite all its apparent conveniences. Give me liberty or give me death! Mountain roads in a VW are one of the better forms of liberty I've experienced, especially when I take the time to stop, step away from the vehicle, and wander off into the forest or explore the cliffs.

My pressing goal was to make it to Homer, see to a few details, and then rearrange my flight schedule to make for home. Had I but known I was to be stymied, I could have (should have) spent more time exploring. However, I could not have known, and with the occasional concerns about the differential and the new grumbling, I could not fully relax until I was within towing distance of my destination.

The Matanuska Glacier was an awesome sight, and as I passed, I saw exaggerated fissures in the ice gaping as the frozen river inched over an unseen protrusion of rock beneath. I was beginning the descent into the western foothills of the mountains, and soon the rocky scrub, stunted conifers and bare deciduous trees gave way to a preponderance of golden-leafed birches as I dropped into the bottom of the valley through which the Matanuska River flowed. The two-lane blacktop, laid fluidly over the land, was lyrical in its mimicry of the river; as I "ran the rapids" I counted this stretch as one of the more entertaining runs of the trip.

Unfortunately it had to end. The jarring presence of centralized civilisation was becoming more apparent, manifesting initially as an increase in traffic, then an increase in unpleasantness as the drivers began to exhibit "city-driving" manners. I was approaching Palmer fast. Palmer lay at the western end of the throat created by the Talkeetna Mountains to the north and the Chugach Mountains to the south. It was a place of rich autumn colors, grand scenic mountain backdrops, and pinhead attitudes. I had assumed that living in an otherwise beautiful city in such a majestic setting would blunt the offensive competitive edge of uber-conservative modern wannabe gangsta urban dwellers, but it seemed to set it in higher contrast instead. I know that the passing through main streets of a city is not a fair litmus for the entire population, but this town's denizens seemed almost affronted by living in such a beautiful place, preferring to keep nature at arm's length (perhaps so that they would not be negatively affected by its spoilage after the new coal mine or power plant goes in), and judging by the stupid driving, the overall vibe, the trash, and the criminal misuse of apostrophe's, I determined that I was not judging it too harshly. A quote I recently learned summed up what I felt for this place, as well as so many others like it: "Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness," wrote Mark Twain. "Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime." These people need to get out more, I was thinking. Probably true for many, including myself, don't you know! I bought a pint of Lucas oil stabilizer for the tranny, and fueled up the tank. Palmer was probably just as happy to see me go as I was to leave!

I was unable to find a suitable spot in Palmer to check and top up the gear oil, so I headed toward Anchorage, hoping to find some out-of-the-way spot to relax and do so. However, there are not many such places (or indications thereof) when traveling on four lane freeways, which is what my road had become. "Mirror Lake" a sign declared, and I took the exit indicated, with intent to find a special spot to do a little maintenance. It's important, you know, to do such things in "special spots" if at all possible. That way, if the stay is longer than intended, you can enjoy it a little, and in the process of any operation that takes over five minutes, it is always nice to be able to gaze off into the distance at something vague and indistinct, something pretty or interesting, or both. Something that you could never really describe in words. Perhaps I'm making too big a deal of it. Whatever. I drove on.

Mirror Lake was aptly named, and gorgeous. There were cabins on the other side, and on one end, but much of the surrounding forest was unspoiled, and the mountains and clouds made for exquisite reflections on the silvery surface of the water. I could not work there, however, as there was a significant slant to the parking lot, and there were no other decent spots I could have (legally) used. Back at the freeway overpass, just before I was about to use the on-ramp, I found a workable spot. Not perfect, and not at all what I had in mind, I just wanted to get it over with, and to hell with my "special spot" specifications! I pulled out my old rug to lay on in the damp sand, and got to work. This is where I discovered that the cheap oil pumps from Napa are worse than useless, and ended up discarding the pump and by jamming the tube onto the pointy top of the container, I squirted enough oil in the tranny to top it off. It wasn't very low, but since it was open, and I had time, light, and oil, I might as well do it so's not to have to think about it any more.

I reached Los Anchorage in the late afternoon, the sun just about to start its disappearing act. The highway vanished into a maze of one-way surface streets, and were it not for a lucky glance at just the right time, I would have ended up somewhere in the bowels of the city without hope of ever finding my way south. A very quick and slightly illegal multiple lane change across four lanes ended with a pert left turn onto the street that was to lead me to the Seward Highway. That was kind of fun, but the thing that was bugging me ever since I left Mirror Lake was a growing suspicion that something was in the process of going awry with the carburetors, or that the fuel I got in Palmer was in fact spiked with an anti-VW reagent. The condition worsened, and I soon had full throttle, and I had idle, but nothing in between, which was very very annoying!

The attendants at a Chevron fuel and snack station were a little worried when I parked in their lot and broke out the tools, but once they saw that the bus still ran they apparently had no problem with me cleaning my jets and passages. They must have appreciated the full-bodied roar of a 1776cc 4-banger as I revved it up and smacked my palm down on each carb in turn after letting the cleaner work things loose. Whatever I did, it took only a few minutes to do, and then another couple to re-dial in the air correction screws or whatever those things are. I'm never sure what those adjustments are doing - I just know that if you get it right, it feels good. I must have, because it did.

It didn't take me long after the Chevron scene to escape Anchorage. The sun was slipping behind the clouds on the horizon, and I was finally free of traffic, and since I had been here before, knew that the drive ahead was going to be a fun one. Oops. Those were swans! On went the brakes and down through the gears I did shift, making a U-turn and parking just off the side of the road, where the bus was buffeted by fast-moving northbound traffic. No, I didn't run over the swans, it was just that they were looking splendid in the water colored pinkish purple by the dying sun. I tried to get some shots of these big birds as they paddled around with their escort of ducks, but the light was too far gone. Back to the Turnagain Arm run!

I was feeling pretty spry, as I knew that once I left Anchorage, Homer was but five measly hours away - I had pretty much "made it". What could go wrong now that I couldn't handle? No, that's not foreshadowing, although it should have been. I'm not leading up to some disaster. Really. Actually, I shouldn't have mentioned it in the first place, thus bringing attention to the fact that there isn't anything to look forward to, and you might as well just stop reading now, because it's just bus road blah blah this and bus that blah blah moose eagle blah blah bus mud blah for pretty much the rest of it, and you aren't even reading this anyway, you're just here for the pictures, right? Oh! My apologies! If you are actually reading this then you may well have been following along and reading every word ... good for you, and thanks. Nice to know I'm writing for someone who cares enough to actually read that which I've spent so much effort to write! Anyway, back to the road:

As I said, I was feeling pretty spry, and the bus was feeling balanced, sure-footed and peppy, and the moon smiled upon us both - twice. Once from the deep blue sky and again, reflected in the tidewater of the Turnagain Arm. Jupiter, in brilliant aspect, accompanied the moon in its dance across the sky, and the jagged edges of clouds wreathed the sky in their tatters. This road is a fun one! People who like straight roads with lots of concrete guardrails and reflectors want to dumb it down (make it safe?) but for now we've got a serpentine shoreline jaunt to enjoy by the light of the moon! There were few cars, but twice I did feel I should pull off to allow faster traffic by. My video camera, mounted on a tripod affixed to the side of the passenger's seat was running, and I re-aimed it as I drove to simulate the eyes of a passenger. Between the fingers and thumb of my left hand rode the edge of the steering wheel, with it I guided the nimble bus around corner after corner; I was driving hard with a light touch, and it felt good. I guess when you're in the saddle for so many days, you and your steed become one, and can really move well together. It was a fine night for driving a bus in equestrian fashion, and I was having a blast.

By the time I reached the bridge over the southeastern end of the Turnagain Arm, it was full dark, and I looked forward to an immediate transformation from the coastal driving to the mountain freeway run I knew to be lying in wait. Having had taken the rental car over this road, I was thinking that it was going to be a series of long, hard climbs, but to my surprise, I was stoked to realize that the bus was just as suited for these hills as it was for any other. It turned out to be a pleasure, rather than a pain. Before I knew it, I was at Hope Junction, where waited my turn-off.

Instead of making for Homer tonight, I wanted to take a little side trip to find a specific spot for camping. I had discovered it back in August when I was killing time before my flight and had the rental car and not much to do. It lay pretty much all the way to Hope from Seward Highway, and as I remembered it, it would make for an excellent place to relax on my final night on the open road. I had to drive carefully to spot it, but when I did, I found that it just as my mind recalled it, with a bonus: There was nobody parked there this time! I backed in, leery of dropping off the edge into the water, and parked for the night. Nearly fourteen more hours, and I was exhausted, yet also elated. And I was a bit sad. I hate the end of trips!

One thing that cheered me up was the fact that I had my laptop with me, and used it to offload pictures from my camera. Of course, I had to look through the pictures, so fired up the full-screen slide show to see where I had been. I was pretty impressed. Few of the pictures were great or anything, but in context, they expressed one hell of a trip! I was stoked and thrilled by this, so my sadness went away. Personally, I have to disagree with people who don't like taking pictures because it detracts from the experience, as I feel I really did experience it first-hand, but was able to relish many other details of it as I looked through the photos.

Later that night as I was reading, I heard a thump-thump SPLASH from outside the bus. I tensed, waiting silently and alertly for the next such sound, but none was forthcoming. Well, even if it was a big bad bear, it couldn't get me - I was safe inside my Volkswagen, and so I then slept.


Next: Homer Bound Trip Report: Page Nine


Gene Cornelius
mizamook@geemail dot com


Return to Top