The desk clerk in Whitehorse greets us with a hardy, "Good Afternoon!" It's 9:30 at night, but he's not completely nuts, it's still bright enough outside to be the middle of the day. After securing rooms in an actual hotel, taking actual showers and using an actual hairdryer, an emergency Macallan inspired Map-kin strategy session ensues.
Democratically, I decide for everyone else that while Valdez, which lies exactly six hundred-forty miles southwest of our present position is technically reachable, it will require a lot of high mile days on the back end to get home. The time we spent waiting for the campfire to calm down has eaten into our days. We consult iPhones, Google Maps and the GPS, as well as good old analog AAA paper map, and come up with a decent Plan B.
Haines is in Alaska, which means there will be a
Welcome To Alaska sign nearby. While Alaska is not an island at all, I have something special planned for this unsuspecting state just the same. Haines is also served by the Alaskan Marine Highway, so if we're lucky we'll be able to roll into Haines and catch a ferry to nearby Skagway, enabling all of our eyeballs to have even more Alaskan sights in front of them. Satisfied, Dark Meat succumbs to the lure of the telephone, and Fiona and I wander around Whitehorse, finding the strangest Canadian power duo band ever. Along with six locals, we enjoy the weirdest cover tunes ever heard, until the sky finally turns a little less bright, and we fade off to bed.
The Alcan highway is a pleasure. We twist the right grip hard, and enjoy the breeze that only a high speed cruise can provide. As some point, while we're traveling at ** MPH, a blue Toyota truck zooms past us at ** plus 20 MPH and rapidly disappears into the distance. Rounding one of the several million beautiful curves the Alcan offers, we see that the Mounties have caught and pulled over their man, and are in the process of writing him a ticket worth at least $***. Better him than me!
And on we go.
The road into Haines is a special kind of mind numbing beauty. The distant mountains suddenly loom large over our heads, each one completely different than the next. It's as if Industrial Light and Magic chose this area to store prop mountains for the movie version of
Northern Exposure.
The kilometers turn into miles again as we reach the border. After a quick glance at our documents, we are allowed back into the USA, but not before stopping in front of the ultimate prize of the trip.
ALASKAAAAA!!! WOO!!!!!
Since it is not technically an island, I cannot technically claim Alaska for the Kingdom of Rhode Island. But nothing is stopping me from making the expansive lands of Alaska an official protectorate of the Fiefdom of Frenchy!
All this monkeying around causes us to miss the ferry to French Skagway, which is by no means a disaster. We secure decent rooms in a decent motel in French Haines, and sit in front of our rooms for the traditional toast.
A little kid on a Schwinn rides past, slows down, gawks at me and says, "Hey! You! You look like somebody famous, like from a record or CD!"
"Oh yeah? Who?"
"Like somebody from ABBA! You know that band?" Just to make sure I do, he then spells it for me, "A-B-B-A."
I think I just got punked by an eight year old, and am not sure what to do next. The woman sitting next to us outside her room gets a good laugh out of it, while the kid speeds off on his bicycle.
After some pleasant chit-chat, the lady tells us she had been diagnosed with cancer for a second time, and Alaska has always been high on her bucket list. So, one day she packed up her dog, rented a car and is enjoying the hell out of herself, the road, the stories and the characters she's met. She isn't sad, she isn't depressed, she is doing the same thing that we are, making the best of the time we have.
That's heavy.
After she excuses herself, all three of us wander to a local dive bar for a beverage. As soon as we sit, three amazingly, astoundingly drunk local patrons slur at us from across the bar. "Ya wanna live in Haines, ya gotta really lower yer standards! This town's nuthin' but th' same people in th' same stools talkin' 'bout th' same shit all th' time. If ya don't like 'em, ya can always shoot 'em!"
Knowing this can't end well, we sneak out, and visit the most incredible museum of all time.
Yes, we visit the Hammer Museum, the only museum in the world of its kind. I admit, I want to walk in there to have a chuckle, but it turns out the place is seriously cool. Dave, the Hammer Museum owner and an incredibly enthusiastic man gives us the history of this unique place. He lived in the wilds of Alaska without electricity, desiring to be completely self sufficient. His hammer collection grew, and in 2001, he and his wife purchased a building in French Haines. They turned their purchase into the Hammer Museum, a quirky but awesome place.
The next morning, we are up early to queue for the ferry to Skagway. Dark Meat Snack seems nervous on board. It doesn't take long to figure out why.
Significant risk of attack? Attack by what, The Pirates of the Taliban? That isn't the only sign that strikes fear into the dark heart of Dark Meat.
French Skagway is everything that French Haines isn't. This town looks like the set for
The Love Boat Comes To Alaska. Three enormous cruise ships are moored in the port, puking tourists out by the thousands. I overhear one couple actually say this as they step off the shuttle bus: "Ohhhh, Haaarrry! Looook!! We're in Al
aaaaskeeeerr!"
"Lets go buy something!"
Ready to get out of Alaaaaskeeeerr and back to Alaska, we hightail it for the highway. The scenery out of French Skagway is equally as breath taking as the scenery into French Haines was.
As a bonus, the border crossing is simple and hassle free.
Back in the Yukon and on the Alcan highway, we make up for lost time. There I am, happily cruising along at a high rate of speed, when suddenly I am struck in the neck by a small caliber insect. The impact knocks my head back, waking Sleeping Beauty from her nap. Because I am so tough and strong, I carry on until the stunned-but-not-quite-dead insect wakes up inside my shirt and demonstrates his displeasure by stinging me five times in my belly. I then lose all dignity, howling like a bitch while I somehow manage to park
Rain Cloud Follows, wake Sleeping Beauty up and get her off the bike and rip off my jacket all in one motion. That little bastard got me good, making my incredibly ripped set of abs and impossibly flat stomach swell up to at least ten times its normal size.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Hammering back to Watson Lake, our planned home for the night, we are shocked to see more thick smoke. In our absence, the fires have gotten worse. Route 37 is completely closed now. Nobody is waiting to go through. Watson Lake is completely covered by a blanket of white smoke.
Smokey or not, we stop by the world famous Signpost Forest.
67,000 'Welcome To...' signs are too tempting to pass by. With the application of a single sticker, I make the largest land acquisition in history, claiming all 67,000 territories for the Kingdom of Rhode Island. Welcome to the kingdom, one and all!
We'd planned to stop for the night in Watson Lake, but we'd also planned for Watson Lake to have breathable air. Heading further down the Alcan, we look for the next suitable place to stop.
The next place to stop is about eighty miles down the road. It is closed down. That is bad. We continue. The next place after that is actually open, but has no vacancy.
After charging us the Canadian equivalent of an arm and a leg for a junk food dinner, the woman at the register puts on her best Scare-The-Tourist act. "Good luck finding a place with an empty room. People are leaving Watson Lake because of the smoke. There aren't many rooms between here and Dawson Creek, and they're all gonna be full." No sense wasting a Boo-Boo face on this winner, we walk out to choke down our stale but expensive and nutritionally lacking dinner.
Obviously not satisfied with her attempt to ruin our day, she returns with more good cheer. "Oh yeah, forgot to mention, but be really careful for the buffalo. They're all over the place, and extremely hard to see at night. Wouldn't want to hit one of those heavy buggers in the dark, now wouldja?" Finally satisfied with her dismal warnings, she goes back in the store, flips the Open sign to Closed, switches off the lights, then turns into a bat and flies away into the night.
Thanks!
Buffalo? Whatever. It's getting dark, and we don't have a place to sleep again. One disaster at a time, right? Right. Let's go.
Five miles down the road, we meet this guy.
Oh, shit! She wasn't kidding! That thing is huge! It is right at the side of the road, blissfully munching away. Did I mention this buffalo is HUGE! We creep by this hulking mass of pre-ground burger as quietly and tentatively as we can. Safely past the beast, we are positively giddy at the sighting. So giddy that we nearly plow into the buffalo's entire extended family right around the next corner.
I stop in my tracks, surrounded by tons and tons of angry looking beef. Dark Meat, no longer the darkest meat on the street, bravely puts
Rain Cloud Follows between himself and the biggest of the buffalo. Sleeping Beauty, insane or blissfully unaware, decides this is the perfect time to channel the Buffalo Whisperer, and jumps off the bike to snap a few pics.
A mother buffalo with baby buffalet calf by her side stops eating and starts giving us the hairy eyeball. A very big, very angry, and
waaay to close to us hairy eyeball. She snorts her displeasure, just to be clear. Fiona stops fucking around with the camera and nervously jumps back on the bike. A three way French-Trini-Buffalo Mexican standoff commences.
Out in the middle of North East B.F.E., all by ourselves, stopped on a deserted road, on two motorcycles that offer little to no protection from any form of buffalo attack, things stop being fun and suddenly become very, very serious.
