Driving the Alcan Highway

We load the pick-up, put shutters back up on the cabin windows, and take the Alaska State Parks staff out for an appreciation lunch. The plan to stay in Whitehorse, Yukon while our truck gets an oil change and tire rotation takes a twist. After the much-needed maintenance, we head out on the highway and then…thump! The front driver’s side wheel rolls off and into oncoming traffic. The rotor skids along the roadway. We are lucky to not be travelling at 70 mph.

A cop calls the tow truck to take us back to Whitehorse Toyota. The dealership assures us that they will take care of everything. So..they pay for the tow, buy us breakfast, replace the rotor and tighten all the wheels. Then they present us with a check for $1500, the repair estimate for dents. I sign the check, releasing them from liability, and again hit the highway, this time $1500 richer. My truck earns the title of “Babe Magnet II” which is a different story. I have no intention of repairing the dents.

Every little rattle on the truck makes Mare nervous.  Three hundred miles later, through rutted, twisty, muddy roads, we settle down and realize that the wheels probably will remain attached. In the bar at our hotel that night, we learn that heavy rains have closed the Cassiar Highway, so we will stay on the Alcan. Mare relieves some stress by singing karaoke, which makes me wish I was back at the cabin.

The best part of driving the Alcan south of Whitehorse, Yukon runs through the Northern Rockies, from Watson Lake to Fort Nelson. Jack swims in Muncho Lake, while bears, bison, elk and caribou roam the colors of fall.

Finally, we settle in downtown Vancouver, BC where luxury spoils us. We plunge into paradise with a splurge at the Century Plaza Hotel and Spa, courtesy of Whitehorse Toyota Motors.

We enjoy a fun night in a friendly city. A total stranger with whom we converse pays the tab for our drinks. I cannot remember the last time somebody bought me a drink. We stroll to Rodney’s Oyster House and feast on raw oysters. The staff buy us another drink and throw in extra oysters. A woman sitting next to me at the bar says, “You guys look so wholesome.” I tell her that living on fresh fish in Alaska must have some benefits. Then I pay her tab…hey, pay it forward. Two gals sitting next to Mare ask her, “What’s you’re secret for such beautiful skin?”  Although we don’t pay anymore forwards, this re-entry into the rat race proves easier than we had expected.

NFL football games play the entire next day in our room on the 29th floor. Oh yeah babe, bring on the room service. Our final day tomorrow will consist of finding a “Japadog” (very special street vendor hot dogs) followed by a search for sushi. The following morning we shall head for the lower 48 and see what adventures the abundant universe has in store, perhaps along the Oregon Coast.

Roam the Roads in Nome, Alaska: Council Road through Solomon

The second road from Nome heads toward the town of Council. It parallels the Bering Sea’s coastline for miles. Rough waves splash sprinkles of water over the sea wall onto our windshield.

Our hearts pound fast when the four-wheel drive Dodge slides on the slippery, rutted road. One flip over the rocks would spill us into the freeze of turbulent waters.

Many gold mining operations, (they mine their own business) from commercial to individual gold-rushers, line these shores. Major construction projects build better roads and sea walls in support of a newly needed infrastructure.

Small homes line the beach and provide a place to dry fish, escape during the summer, and warm-up in winter when the Iditarod sled dogs howl towards the finish line.

Fishing season has ended, and the Safety Roadhouse boards its windows until March, when it will open for the Iditarod and serve as last stop before the finish.

Boats continue to dredge for gold, some with floating backhoes.

When the Bering Sea freezes over, fishermen cut holes in the ice and drop crab pots to catch King Crab. We would love to see that, but are…too early.

Remnants of the once booming community of Solomon tell the town’s story on a boardwalk display. The Last Train to Nowhere sits rusting in the tundra, since being abandoned in 1907. The ambitious railroad made it 20-miles short of its goal to reach the town of Council.

We walk through this area with an eerie feeling envisioning a lively town full of saloons, hotels and miners during the gold rush of the 1800′s. Ferries brought supplies and influenza, which all but wiped-out the Eskimo Community of Inupiaqs, who naturally were the first residents. Most were buried in a mass grave in an unknown place under this shore.

The area around Solomon also attracts birders and hunters. But where are the Musk Oxen? Mare and I are on a mission to find them with only one more road left to roam.

We roll into downtown Nome just in time for dinner with Jeremy.  What are the odds of knowing someone in Nome? This gateway to the Bering Land Bridge National Preserve holds artifacts of peoples dated up to 10,000 years old. Mare and I are practically on another planet.

We met Jeremy several years ago in the southernmost town on the South American Continent – Puerto Williams, Chile. He had just completed his Master of Science in Recreation. (Wish my school had that major) Seems Jeremy, Mare and I share a passion for extremes. Originally from New Jersey, he hadn’t even visited Nome before accepting the position of Assistant Director of Recreation.

“I’ve been here three and one-half years now. He smiles. “I love it.”

“What do you like best?” Mare asks.

“My job is awesome and I have gotten involved in the community. It was the best thing I could have done on many levels.” He removes has hat and looks to be my son, if I had one.

“I never had good luck with the ladies in the lower 48, but here I am a catch. Of course, that is just because I don’t beat women up and I have a job.”

More laughter and drinks to our table, at the Husky Restaurant, which serves the best Japanese food in town.

Dog Days in Haines, Alaska

Mare on top of Mt. Riley overlooking the inlets and the town of Haines

Bill and Sandy from Alabama stomp on our deck at seven o’clock in the morning. Sandy places French-pressed coffee on the picnic table, as they prepare to bring us breakfast. (I thought that it was the beer talking last night).

Soon, Mare and I sit in their Mercedes RV and slurp pancakes drenched in my homemade spruce tip syrup. I worry about our first overnight guest, Jill, who may wake in the loft to find a deserted cabin in the remote…like a weird dream.

I insist on going fishing. It’s a rainy day…a “Hainey” day. Despite a disapproving glare from Mare, who went hiking up Mt. Riley with Jill (www.pacificnwseasons.blogspot.com) yesterday in the sun, while I whacked weeds, I simply have to go.  So what if my dog, Alaska Jack, is going on his 5th straight day of horrible diarrhea and Haines has no veterinarian? We’ll call the closest vet, in Juneau.

“Did he eat anything out of the normal?” the Juneau Vet asks.

“Well, some duck pate and raw fish heads.” Mare hears the Vet laughing.

“I’ve never heard of that combination before,” he says. “Is there blood in his stool?”

She looks at me. “Yes, a little.”

“You’d better bring him in, the blood concerns me” he says. “It could be a blockage. The cheapest and fastest way to do this is to put him in a kennel and fly him to Juneau. We will pick him up, give treatment, and send him back.”

Ron is on FIRE!

“Take me down to the fishin’ hole,” I say. ”Drop me off, and you can show Jill around Chilkoot Lake. Pick me up on the way back and I’ll deal with Alaska Jack.”

They leave. I cast. I cast again. “Fish on!”

“I’ll go get my net,” a fellow fisherman says with a French accent.

I drag a 10 pound sockeye ashore, grab him by the gills, pull out my pixie with needle-nose pliers, and knock him out with a rock. By the time French fisherman comes with a net, I’m gutting sockeye in the stream. Then I tie an old rope around a rock, and use it as a stringer to keep sockeye fresh in the cold water, and out of scent of grizzly bears. Onlookers admire the catch. They think that I’m an expert. They should have seen Mare, Alaska Jack and I last week, chasing my first ever sockeye around on the shore, like the “Three Stooges.” Fishing is luck…pure luck.

Mare and Jack and Jill come down the hill and cannot believe the sockeye. My swollen ego barely fits into the truck cab. After another filet job, we will dine of fresh sockeye tonight…impress our guest.

Healthy Chile Rellenos at Mosey's Cantina

No lack of good eats around here. Last night, we dined on excellent mexican food. Yes, Haines has a mexican restaurant, “Mosey’s Cantina,” www.moseyscantina.com.  …but has no vet.

I simply cannot place Alaska Jack into a kennel and put him on a single prop plane to fly to Juneau and be handled by strangers. He’s been neither in a kennel nor a plane. The animal rescue center advises me that there are veterinarians in Whitehorse, Yukon, a five-hour drive. I make one more call to the Juneau vet to see if anything can give Jack some relief in the meanwhile.

“Try some Pepto-Bismal tabs and two raw egg whites,” he says. “It’s a Grandma remedy and I don’t know if it works.”

I separate raw egg yolks while sitting on the truck’s tailgate. Man, I’m filthy, but got a fish in the cooler!

The Fireweed is begining to bloom

The next morning we bring Jill to Hotel Halsingland www.halsingland-hotel.com for her final night’s stay in Haines. Yes, I get to drive Jack and Jill up the hill, to fetch a…hotel room.

Jack, who is on his 6th day of diarrhea, rides with me to Whitehorse, of course, where crowds celebrate “Canada Day.” The vet prescribes antibiotic and pro-biotic medication, along with a diet of white rice, after a 24-hour fasting period. Fine…time to crawl through congested traffic and stand in a long line at the liquor store.

Eventually, we find what could be the last vacant motel room in town. Jack has not started medication yet. We stroll along the Yukon River. In these parts, he is known as “Yukon Jack.” He squats along the way…amongst the strolling crowd. He pinches out a perfect Tootsie roll. I’m overjoyed. But geez…one more day, if I had waited one more day, we could have avoided this long trip. Perhaps Grandma’s remedy works.

Hold on…here comes a rent-a-cop. He holsters a portable credit card machine in place of a 9-millimeter hand gun. He fines me $200 on the spot. I don’t even try to explain why I have no doggie bags. I’m going back to our room to enjoy running water and electricity. Perhaps I’ll splurge on a hamburger and a few hundred beers tonight.

Jack is back!

Seduced by Seduction Point Trail

The trail near Moose Meadow

One cruise ship visits Haines each Wednesday. Cruise crowds roam the downtown shops and a few folks make the excursion to our cabin for glacier views. An elderly German man barges into our cabin and interrupts a discussion we’re having with some new friends, K.C. and Gretchen. “Move out the way, I get photo through window.” He lifts a camera with a long lens. Mare and I decide to designate Wednesdays as our “day off” from that point on.

Here we sit…Mare, Jack and I among wildflower and glacier views from the rocky coast of Moose Meadows. Jack drinks from a freshwater stream, which is the last source of reliable water along Seduction Point Trail. Two Bald Eagles hover above like kites sailing in the wind. Time to move on. We feel a strange seduction, like the dance of a Cobra luring us into a trance, enticing us into the dark woods.

Previous hikers described this part of the hike as "creepy... like something out of Lord of the Rings"

We trek under the canopy, singing songs to scare the bears away. I made up these verses just the other day, while in a weird Andy Griffith mentality: Meet me down at the waterin’ hole, and I might be your friend some mo…Take me to your fishin’ hole, and I will be your friend fo shor…Now tell me, would that not scare a bear?

The descent through a dark forest grade opens into a rocky beach. The first of “Twin Coves” shows some signs of previous hikers, in the form of driftwood benches and garbage covered by a discarded rubber raft. We snack on bananas and nuts. After the break, we negotiate our steps over slippery rocks.

The next cove looks just like its twin, except for the rocks growing larger. Jack has a hard time. His legs slip between the baby boulders. Where is that trail? A small sign soon entices us with an arrow pointing towards the forest. “Come on in…I’m beautiful,” we almost hear. Our pace quickens upon entry.

Davidson Glacier from David's Cove

Bear scat scatters along the trail in this darker forest. Our silly songs sing louder. Jack trips and limps on ocassion…the first tell of the degenerative discs in his 9 year-old back. Am I strong enough to carry a 70 pound dog back up these hills? The seductive Cobra begins to surround its prey. This trail leads us down a steep, root-layered hill which ends at “David’s Cove.” We now trek on a coastline of medium-size boulders, camouflaged by tall weeds. Jack slows his pace, and so do we…trying not to twist an ankle.

Can this really be the right way??

Rising tide waters splash against the big black boulders that frame the southern end of the cove. We try to climb the rocks while sharp winds blow whitecaps into disintegration.

“This can’t be the way,” Mare says.

“It is,” I respond

“No way.”

“I’ll go scout it.”

I climb the boulders around the first point and see yet more of them, leading to another point. Upon my return to Mare and Jack, we backtrack along the cove, hoping for a sign to seduce us into the woods and away from the monster rocks. We find nothing. ”The brochure points out one-half mile of boulders,” I say.

Away we trek, climbing, lifting Jack up to higher plateaus. “Maybe it gets better around that next point,” Mare says. We push. Around the next point looms another stretch of black boulders that lead to another point. Here we stand, one-half hour later, too far inside to pull out. We move forward so that the rising tide will not strand us. Poor Jack, he hurts. His paw pads swell and bleed. This terrain is one place where two legs are better than four.

Jack and Ron take a well needed rest

At this point of no return we push on. Jack curls into a lamb position and licks his paws. I cradle him, lift him and high step up to a three-foot rock. He jumps out of my arms, sensing my close collapse. Whipping wind scratches our eyes. This one-half mile boulder climb along the coast feels much longer.

Finally, around another point we spot smaller rocks! Where’s the trail? A sign post that once held a marker must be our clue. Perhaps a bear tore it down, with hopes of lunching on lost trekkers. Or maybe it was that Cobra. Regardless, the lone post seduces us back into the woods. Now we walk through fresh bear scat and waist-high weeds. Not much of a trail. ”Take me down to the fishin’ hole…” gets pretty loud.

Down the hill we spot a beach. A sand bar connects the peninsula to Delasuga Island. We plop down on some driftwood and give Jack most of our water. Mare and I lunch on avocado and tomato sandwiches. Jack gets dog food which he barely eats, but he takes a few bites of sandwich. He licks his swollen, bloody paw pads and circles around, not able to get comfortable. He limps and cannot lift a leg to piss, so he squats, hind quarters trembling.

Mare wonders how we will get Jack back over those boulders

The Cobra finally bites us…still, seduction teases us. We want so bad to finish, to conquer the easy, forty-five minutes to Seduction Point, along the final spine of the peninsula. But we feel horrible about Jack. How could we do this to him?  I can’t carry him back across those boulders.

The trail may have seduced us, but we are like serious flirters, who decide not to cheat (go all the way) at the last-minute. Jack is all that matters.  Hell with Seduction Point…we may have been seduced but now we just want to leave before morning, like a midnight lover. This marks the first time Mare and I have not finished a trail.

How will we all get out of here? The only way back is the way we came in, over that half mile of boulders and six other miles through the woods and along the rocky shore.

Back up the hill…trekking through the weeds and bear scat…singing those loud silly songs, with a dog who limps and stumbles. Tears well-up in our eyes, while I carry Jack over some high boulders and when Mare lifts his hind quarters. I unleash him to see if he does better finding his own way.  He couldn’t chase anything if he wanted anyway. We are heartbroken. How could we have done this to the dog we love as our child?

Seduction Point

Trekking along the same spots from which we had come, the thrill of the seduction wanes into guilt. Jack may not make it back.

Finally we sit at Moose Meadows. Jack drinks from a freshwater stream. Bald Eagles watch. We have one last, forty-five minute trek through the Spruce and Western Hemlock forest, to reach home. The ground feels soothingly soft, spongy from years of decay. Jack finds a second wind and I have to leash him from running off. He pulls, while Mare and I struggle to keep pace. For the first time, Mare and I notice our own aching bodies.

Back at the cabin in paradise, Jack sleeps on his bed. I almost feel like lighting a cigarette. Instead we crack cold beers, and contemplate the seduction of unfinished business.

Trusting Wildflowers, Weeds and People

“Whack weeds and mow grass,” Ranger Preston says. “Don’t worry about cutting the wildflowers. They grow back in hoards, trust me.”

Mare in a rare mowing mode

Hmm…trust? Mare and Jack and I are three weeks into our four-month committment. Tempus fugit all over again. Although our racing minds are starting to slow down…trust? Of the 24 definitions of “trust” in Random House Dictionary, I cannot get past number 2.(Confident expectation of something, hope.) Too big of a leap, after 26 plus years in  a career fueled by criminal behavior. Mare and I still size up every stranger and expect the worst from them…They’re all out to steal or destroy either property or us!

Wait a minute…slow down and smell the wildflowers, beat some weeds, breathe…

Shooting star, wild sweet pea, iris and geranium, among nootka rose, chocolate lilies and buttercups

Example of a recovering peace officer:  Ranger Preston and Chilkoot Bob warned me about kids partying and burning pallets for bon-fires. “Big problem out at Chilkat.” Soon I see a few scooters (Not motorcycles) rolling past the cabin on the gravel road, followed by some 4X4 vehicles, and several more carloads of kids…It’s on, baby.

I pace in the cabin and tell myself, “I’m not a peace officer anymore. I have no authority. So I’ll wait and listen for things getting out of hand.” Nah, can’t wait…can’t resist. I take my bear spray (humongous can of pepper spray), throw my expandable baton under my jacket, and sneak down to peak at the party near the bay. Much to my surprise, and delight I might add, kids sit at a picnic table and snack. The folks from the 4-wheelers emerge from a hike in the woods. The music no longer blares.

I walk away and wonder how long it will take before I no longer expect bad behavior?

Another retired friend and coworker of mine wonders how we have ever managed to let the few folks we love into our hearts at all. Mare seems to slow down faster than I. Perhaps I struggle more due to my years as a defensive tactics trainer.  This serene environment filled with friendly folks is teaching us both a lesson. I may still be on “red alert” and size-up everybody within view, but who knows, recovery could come, if time does not fly by too fast.

Seals

Currently we have only one family camping in a tent by a sheltered bay. The 12-year-old loves seeing the seals and eagles. He has eagle feathers above both of his ears. ..I run into this  family in downtown Haines at the IGA grocery store. Then again at Dejon Delights. And yet again at Fireweed’s Restaurant, where today the special is fresh caught King Salmon.

Salmon at Fireweeds

The following day, Mare and I hike Battery Point trail and run into ten hikers along the way, two we know. Later, at the cabin our only guests turn out to be a woman we met at bear training with her parents from Mesa, Arizona…Did I mention that Haines is a small town?

Let’s get back to nature…wild strawberries bloom and we look forward to the treats. Other wild berries around here include: Watermelon Berries, Salmon Berries, Red raspberries, Thimbleberry, Blue, Black and Red Currents, Bog and Blue Berries. Some of the look-a-like berries prove poisonous, so perhaps we’ll stick to the strawberries until we can trust our identification skills.

People continue to wave while driving, and now I am waving back. A small step, but perhaps I am starting to trust the human race again.

An Eagle on the hunt

Spruce Tips and Other Delights

Jack and Ron picking Spruce tips for syrup

Today is our day off…”Off from what?” While walking our rounds in the campgrounds, Jack catches a small mouse that hops across the gravel road. I pull the mouse from Jack’s mouth, and toss it into the bush. The bush happens to surround a young spruce tree, with healthy buds hanging from the limbs. Mare and I heard about spruce tip syrup, so we decide to pick the buds before they become cones…add water and bring to a boil. The buds then steep all night. In the morning I strain, add water and sugar, and then simmer a few hours until we have spruce tip syrup. Called a cold remedy by some, on account of loads of vitamin C, jellies and brews are also made from this delight.

Jenn and Preston

Ranger Preston and Naturalist Jenn come to the cabin with parts for the pump. Once we attach the pump-handle, Mare and I feel like we just got a new kitchen sink. No need to go into town today…we showered yesterday at the laundromat, and look forward to hanging in our delightful cabin.

Waterfalls bleed from the belly of Rainbow Glacier

Rainbow glacier hangs in the Chilkat Mountains across the Inlet from us, bleeding 1,000 ft. waterfalls from its belly. The numerous falls grow thicker each day as summer approaches. Icy water splashes on the rocks below, forming a forest delta that dumps into the Inlet. Fishermen float their boats in this area with hopes of catching King Salmon, who slow their swim to smell the stream, in search of their origin, where they will spawn and then die…of course they must also survive predators, such as bears, fishermen, or bigger fish during the fantastic journey. (Not to mention oil spills)

Speaking of fish…we live in a fishbowl, where people from all over the world walk on our deck to absorb the view. We travel without leaving our cabin. Ironic that we move from Phoenix, a city of seven million people, and find that it is here in Haines where we are never alone. In Phoenix we were alone, amongst the crowd. The only privacy here can be found in the outhouse, where we don’t spend much time.

Chocolate Lilies and Escholtz Buttercups

Daily photo tour groups come to our cabin deck for the obvious view. Bob Adkins, renown photographer, leads groups to the reflections and frames of spectacular scenes. He graces us with an autographed copy of his book and returns later with yet another photography book for Mare to study. Another visitor, and expert “birder” knew of my birthplace, Mingo Junction, Ohio, as he tracked a rare Raven who nested there about two years ago. He explains that one must always have two hummingbird feeders, with just one you promote violence within the species. Another fellos, a Jamis, a fisherman from the Yukon, advises me to buy some “pixies” to use as lures for the upcoming Sockeye run. He also suggested we read a book, “The Omnivore’s Dilemma.”

Mare tries one of Bob's photography tips

We plan to learn how to fish and crab, especially after talking with some of the serious fishermen who drop baskets for crab and shrimp  while hunting down Chinooks. Since we cannot afford a boat, perhaps we could get a kayak…and I could be the only fisherman on the Inlet hoping to not catch something too big. Although the thought of being pulled around for several hours by a big halibut sounds delightful, with only about 8 minutes of survival time if spilled into the cold waters, for now I’ll do my fishing at Dejon Delights. As a matter of fact, I caught a 1.5 pound fresh King Salmon filet at that shop just the other day, even watched the monger slice the chunk of meat from the side of a recently caught 20 pounder.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Mare takes photos of flowers and catches blisters from a Wild Celery plant. The stalk of this plant causes severe dermatitis, but is edible if peeled. Hmm…think I may pass on that one.

Ron enjoys wearing this head gear a little too much

Okay, the next day we cut grass and weed-eat. Then we go into town for a potluck ( a friend from our previous employment calls them”macaroni massacres”) and meet the other camp hosts, as well as the bear monitor. Turns out to be an excellent meal of spicy shrimp, grilled salmon, spinach salad and my meager chips and salsa. Nice folks, these camp hosts. We let Jack out of the box, (my pick-up) and he promptly attacks the ranger’s cat. No worries, everybody is so laid back that they hardly notice me putting Jack back in the box.

After the potluck Mare and Jack and I take a hike along Battery Trail, where we get lost and enjoy views of the Lynn Canal and surrounding forest. Okay…we earn a beer at the Harbor Bar, part of the Lighthouse Restaurant. ”We’re open until five o’clock in the morning,” Tim the bartender says. “And no good comes of it.”  We laugh.

A few young women get ready to leave. “Go out and enjoy the sunshine,” a fellow drinker says to them from the bar. “We will,” a gal responds. “You enjoy the fluorescent lights and cheap beer.” On that note, we decide to delight in the sunshine and head out to our cabin in paradise, where glacier calving, boulders rolling and waterfalls surging send the sound of thunder across the Inlet.