Sunday, August 28, 2011

The Road To Manley

I woke up the next morning eager to get on the road, but I made a brief stop in Pioneer Park, a city park in the heart of Fairbanks that, in addition to kid friendly playgrounds and attractions, houses several historical artifacts that promote the early history of the state, including the rail car that then-President Warren Harding rode in 1923 when visiting the state to drive the first spike in the newly built rail system, and the SS Nenana, a renovated steam paddle ship that navigated the Chena river from 1933 until it was decommissioned in the mid 1950's. I am by no means a history buff, but walking around inside of these artifacts of the past was thrilling, and it only got better when I stumbled across an aviation "museum" on the grounds, a quirky assortment of planes and plane related objects haphazardly displayed in a circular building as odd as many of its contents.

The inside of Warren Harding's rail car. Cool.

The steam-driven paddle wheel of the SS Nenana.

The deck of the Nenana.

The aviation museum. Those are actual planes hanging from the ceiling.

The 80's called. They want their plane back.

A view of the museum from the top of a Vietnam-era helicopter.

My first moose sighting!

Ready to get on the road, I jumped on the Dalton Highway, which shoots north of Fairbanks by way of a well maintained paved road. It's the only way to get to Manley, and if it had been all I needed to do, the trip would have gone with ease. The Dalton bobbed and weaved through spectacular mountain scenery; rounded mountains covered with dense spruce and pine trees that stretched on for as far as I could see. Very few cars were on the road that early in the morning, save for the infrequent tractor trailer chugging through the landscape. Ninety miles later, I turned left onto what Alaska calls the "Elliot Highway"; the last eighty miles that bring you into Manley. Someone had grossly overestimated the quality of the road  when they deemed it worthy of the rank "highway"; the vast majority of the 80 miles goes unpaved, with obviously little work done to keep it from disrepair. I slowed down to 30 mph, and for the first ten miles or so, it didn't seem like it was going to be that bad. The conditions became more dicey as I went on, however, forcing me to slow down further in order to avoid ruts, potholes and loose gravel. My bike was certainly not made for conditions like these, and it was taking more and more effort for me to muscle through it.

The beginning of the Elliot Highway. This is the easy part, by the way.

One of the views along the road.

Part of the view from the road. The video below shows the whole view.



The picture I took right before realizing that the trip was going to change considerably.

 The payback for all of this effort was spectacular views of the mountain ranges to the south, as the road stretched on into infinite acres of untouched land. I stopped now and again to admire the scenery, take a break, and take some pictures. After nearly two hours on the road, weary from the constant weaving and jarring, I stopped again, getting off the bike to take a drink and take some pictures. When I did, my heart stopped.

The dry bag strapped to the left side of the bike, the one I had opened to take out my DSLR camera when I had stopped an hour or so earlier, was wide open, and everything that had been packed in the top half of the bag, including the camera, had fallen out. I took a quick inventory; the camera, my pinhole film camera, my Lonely Planet guidebook, my rain gear, my heated jacket liner; all of them were gone. The thought of losing this equipment, not only from the standpoint of the hundreds if not thousands of dollars it would take to replace them, but how essential some of them were to making it through this trip successfully, sent my mind reeling.

After a few choice words (that I'm choosing not to share in order to keep this blog family friendly), shouted out to no one else but the mountains around me, I knew that I needed to force myself to calm down and think clearly. I was running low on fuel, the weather looked as though it was beginning to take a turn for the worst, and I needed to make decisions fast. Should I go back and try to find what I had lost, knowing that someone could very well have picked it up already, or should I drive on to Manley, the only place within miles that would have gas? I weighed the options as rationally as I could given the situation, and made my choice.

I filled the tank with the remaining two gallons of gas that I carried in my side bag, and turned the bike around. I could not imagine driving on without trying to recover my equipment; the possibility existed that it was all still there on the road, and the thought of never knowing for certain if there was a chance to recover everything was going to be too much for me to stew over once I reached Manley.

If I reached Manley.

The ride back took almost an hour. I shaved off as much time as I could, picking up the pace relative to my drive out. The fixation with looking for my lost equipment spared me from having to think about how exhausted I was getting from the jarring ride. I pulled harder on the throttle and kept pressing on, a winding trail of dust tracing my path along the road. When I finally reached the spot where I had originally stopped and opened the bag, not one of the lost items was in sight. It was all gone.

I shut out the disappointment that should have come next, as I knew that I had more pressing issues to deal with. I had put myself in a difficult position, and again, I weighed my options. Even though I was probably within a half hour of the paved road, I knew from driving in that there wasn't a gas station for miles; nearly until Anchorage. The way to Manley, now probably over two hours back, had gas, but there was little chance of me getting there before I ran out of fuel. Confronted with two dismal choices, I opted to turn back towards Manley, hoping that someone would pass me on the road and offer assistance, even though I had only seen a small handful of vehicles pass me on what had now been almost three hours on the gravel road.

About a half an hour into the return ride, I saw a sign that I had all but ignored the first time around. The sign, pointing to a small road that broke off from the Elliot Highway, said "Minto - 11 miles". I had come across a short description of the town in Lonely Planet, but all that it said was "At mile 110 is the paved road to the Athabascan village of Minto (pop 180), which isn't know for welcoming strangers". Certainly not confidence inspiring, but with the fuel light glowing below my bike's speedometer, I had little choice but to take the gamble and take the road in. I was amazed to find that most of the twenty miles was paved, which at least was a reprieve from the burden of navigating the gravel- strewn Elliot. When I rolled into Minto proper, however, I was nowhere near prepared for what I was seeing.

 The town consisted of a series of tiny square shacks, evenly distributed along a road that turned back into gravel. Cars, car parts, and various debris lay strewn over many of the yards, and dogs, so malnourished that you could see their ribs, scurried along from property to property in search of food. I drove slowly along the road, wondering, with the condition that many of the homes were in, how anyone could be living in them. Reaching the end of the road, I realized that there was no gas station; in fact there was no sign of any kind of store, whatsoever. I turned the bike around, running on pure instinct at that point. I had no plan, and I was no longer weighing options and making conscious decisions. Fate had now taken over.

Instinctively, I stopped at the first person I saw, a middle aged native man with metal framed glasses, a mustache and baseball cap. He looked slightly confused as I stepped off the bike and flipped up the faceshield of my helmet, and even as he approached me and wordlessly put out his hand for me to shake it, he kept the same confused expression on his face. I explained my circumstances, and in a soft, calm voice, asked if I wanted to pitch my tent in his backyard for the night. I explained that I wanted to push on to Manley if it was possible, provoking even more perplexed looks.

By this time, more curious onlookers had arrived. A young native kid, maybe in his mid twenties, with close cropped hair and a friendly and frenetic disposition introduced himself as Izzy, practically bouncing as he smiled widely and thrust out his hand for me to shake, like a fencer jabbing with his foil. Out of the home we were standing in front of stepped an older man, vaguely pear shaped and short, wearing an oversized hooded sweatshirt that made his body type even more amorphous. He walked from the door to the edge of the porch in a way that made it seem like he was teetering on a balance beam, shifting his weight from side to side in a subtle, slow rocking motion. He had the most magnificent face; deeply carved wrinkles that made every feature more pronounced. His skin was a glossy, almost luminous reddish-brown, topped by a thick mop of mostly grey hair. He introduced himself as Loyd, and he, above all, seemed the most curious, and the most entertained, by my presence.

None of these men could fathom why I would be riding a motorcycle all the way from New Jersey to Alaska, and they were even more confounded as to how I would have made my way to Minto. The town, a strictly native settlement of only 200 people, clearly wasn't used to visitors, but as I spoke to them, I realized that they were nothing like the Lonely Planet guidebook had described them; once they established who I was (Loyd even asked me if I was an undercover police officer), they were more than willing to help, and Darrell immediately began siphoning gas from the reserve tank on the back of his pickup truck to get me on my way. When I offered to give him money, he politely declined, and Loyd quickly chimed in, "Just send us a Christmas card this year". The joke was not lost on any of us, and we all laughed as I climbed back on my bike and prepared to get back on the road. I thanked them profusely, and as they stood together on the edge of the property and waved, still both perplexed and entertained, I put the bike in gear, eased out the clutch, and made my way back to the Elliot Highway.

The loss of my rain gear and heated jacket liner hit home within the first few miles of getting back on gravel; the sky had darkened considerably and rain began to fall. The temperature, too, had dropped, and the overcast sky made visibility more difficult. I could feel a sharp pain in the muscles between my shoulder blades as I navigated around potholes and rocks, and I realized that I had been riding for more than ten hours that day, with at least another two hours ahead of me.

I pulled into Manley at nearly eleven thirty at night. Fortunately the long hours of daylight still only made it seem like a little past dusk, but I was wet, cold and thoroughly exhausted. The only place still open (and practically the only place, period) was the Roadhouse, a bar/restaurant on the opposite end of a small metal bridge that marks your arrival into Manley. I parked and dismounted the bike, the neon OPEN sign flickering as I walked the wooden pathway to the entrance. I opened the door to a darkened room, seeing the bar ahead of me through a second doorway. A small group of men were huddled together, one of them finishing the punchline of a dirty joke. The men laughed in unison, but when I walked through the threshold behind them, it immediately became silent. I asked the bartender for coffee, and when he brought it, I sat hunched over the mug, cupping both hands around it to try and warm myself. After a few more moments of uncomfortable silence, the men began talking again, oblivious to my presence.

By quarter past midnight most of the men had gone home, but a young group of native boys came in to grab a quick drink and smoke at the bar. They clearly had begun drinking much earlier in the night, staggering and swaying as they slurred their words, leaning on each other with the glassy-eyed amusement that only excessive amounts of alcohol can induce. Normally I would be weary of such a scene, as I have always been extremely cautious around people who aren't in full control of their actions; but I was far too tired to have my defenses up, and fortunately they left without incident, firing up their trucks and four-wheelers and disappearing into the rain-filled night.

The bartender pointed me in the direction of the campground, a $5 a night setup that was literally right across the road. I payed for my coffee and campsite, walked back out into the rain, and drove the motorcycle the 50 feet to the place that I would call home for the night. In defiance of the weather, I dragged a picnic table out from under a lean-to, pitching my tent underneath it to increase my chances of staying dry. I settled myself in, not knowing what I had gotten myself into by coming to this place, and wondering, as I tried to fall asleep, if the losses I had incurred were worth the trip. One way or another, I knew that this was going to change this trip forever...

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Fairbanks

I awoke the next morning to skies that, if not clear, were at least hopeful of being so by later in the day. The tent was amazing dry considering the weather from the previous night, and with a quick dry down with a synthetic towel, I was able to pack out the tent, and everything else, and be on my way.

I was too tired the night before to care that I was sleeping next to an airport.

The trip to Fairbanks was surprisingly dull compared to the previous day's riding. Or, with everything that I had seen while passing through British Columbia and the Yukon, perhaps my level of expectation was rising. After crossing through mountain passes nowhere near as big as the ones I had encountered in Kluane National Park, the road leveled out, and thick forest lined either side of the road. This went on for miles, and it afforded me the opportunity to relax a bit, not having to resist the urge to look in all directions at once or pull over at every turn to take pictures.


Most of the view to Fairbanks; pavement and trees.

Apparently Alaskans aren't too keen on reserved parking...

When I reached the city limits of Fairbanks, I felt the immediate change. I hadn't been in a city of any significant size since Seattle, and even though Fairbanks is nowhere near that level of urban grandeur, it was a stark contrast to all that I had been encountering for well over a week. The traffic thickened, street lights slowed the pace, and all of a sudden I didn't feel like I was crossing the last frontier anymore. I readjusted my mindset to city driving, directing my attention more towards careless drivers than renegade moose.

After a quick stop at a coffeehouse for a chai and free internet, I made my way to Billie's Backpackers Hostel, located on the northern edge of town, close to the University district. I had opted to pitch my tent in the back yard for $10 a night, as opposed to the $28 they were charging to sleep in one of the bunk rooms. I was already getting used to sleeping in the tent, and there didn't seem like any reason to spend more than I needed to; especially considering that all of the amenities of the hostel (shower, internet, kitchen) were available to me either way.

Billie's Backpacker's Hostel. Yeah, I thought the same thing when I saw it.
There's that tent again...

After a short drive to get the lay of the land, passing through the university campus, I stopped at Subway for dinner. Apparently the Subway in Fairbanks only offers the $8 footlong, not the $5 footlong that we enjoy on the east coast; ruining both the franchise's attempt at alliteration and my desire to get a bargain. I returned to the hostel, brushed off my disappointment, and settling in for an evening of catching up on emails and blogging.

The vibe at Billie's was very different than I had experienced from the other hostels I have stayed in over the years. There were quite a few people staying there that, for lack of any other way of describing it, seemed far too comfortable there, and I wondered just how long some of them had taken up residence. Since the vast majority of travelers are using hostels simply as a means of crashing for a night or two before moving on, there is usually a commradary in that shared sense of adventure that makes everyone feel welcome in a house full of strangers. At Billie's, I felt more like I was intruding; an unexpected house guest that no one had the heart to turn away, but were more than content to ignore. Most of the hostelers were slumped over laptops, and some looked like they had been in the same spot for days. I was hoping that the Israeli couple, Edo and Shira, would show up to break the solitude, but they were nowhere to be found. I went to bed that night committed to moving on the next day, and if all would go as planned, I would easily be in the town of Manley by the early afternoon.

I had no idea how wrong I was going to be.

Friday, August 5, 2011

Haines and the Road Through the Yukon

Even though Haines doesn't offer too much in the way of hospitality (it does cater to the frequent cruise ships that dock briefly enough for hundreds of tourists to scavenge the area for souvenirs), I did find a true gem in town; the library.

The Haines library, clearly a very new structure, was beautifully built with all the amenities that make a public library worthy of its constituents; a children's area with frequent organized events for kids of all ages, computer stations with internet access, meeting rooms to house a variety of community events, and of course, lots and lots of books. For two days it became my second home, and I found it easy to stay there for hours on end. Everyone was very friendly and helpful, and I would occasionally bump into a woman whom I recognized from the ferry, allowing us to catch up on what we had been doing in town.

OK, so I found another gem in Haines; a Mexican restaurant that served the locally made beer on draft. Fish tacos and the Haines Brewing Company's Spruce Tip Ale. Now THAT, my friends, is a little slice of heaven...

My second night at the hostel, what would be my last as I was heading out early the next morning, was one of the most enjoyable hostel experiences I've ever had. The Israeli couple, unsuccessful in hitching a ride north, had returned for one more night before trying their luck again, and a family of Canadians from Vancouver, two grown brothers with their mother and aunt, as well as a young guy riding his mountain bike north from Wrangle, all converged in the hostels kitchen for a night of stories and laughter. It's always interesting to see how people from other countries view the United States, and we were in stitches all night as the Canadian brothers put their unique spin on American and Canadian politics and culture.

A couple rode in on touring bikes on the last night I stayed at the hostel. I didn't get to talk to them, but I was admiring their wicked sweet rides that next morning. On my next trip, I think I'm gonna do it this way...

When I set out the next morning, my first real day of riding in Alaska, I was perhaps as nervous as I had ever been on the trip to that point. The fear, of course, is always in the unknown, and nothing had more stories fraught with peril than the Alaskan Highway. For as nervous as I was, though, it felt good to be on the road again, and as I made my way out of town, I saw the Israeli couple from the hostel, as they had already walked to the edge of town leading north, hoping again to catch a ride at least to Haines Junction, a hundred miles north in the Yukon Territory. We waved and smiled as I passed by, giving each other the thumbs up to wish each other success.

On the road that follows the path of the Chilcat River north, a bald eagle took flight directly above me, and not a few miles down the road, a baby black bear darted across the road well in front of my bike, my first two impressive wildlife sightings since making land. A native woman who was directing construction traffic further along told me that her people believed that seeing an eagle fly above you was good luck, and considering my last encounter with wildlife on the motorcycle in British Columbia, I was more than ready to accept her word.

There is only one road out of Haines that will take you into the interior of Alaska, and you must cross through Canada in order to get there. The border guard, a friendly young woman with a sweet smile, wearing a full military uniform complete with flack jacket,  told me that I should prepare myself for some spectacular scenery in the Yukon, and she couldn't have been more right. That first stretch of road into Canada, part of Kluane National Park, was, without a doubt, the most thrilling riding I had ever done on my bike. The land took off in all directions, rising up on both sides of the road in muted greens that still somehow seemed more luminous than they should have considering the overcast weather, breaking into earth colored patches that created irregular patterns at the peaks of the mountains; something that looked more like the creation for a science fiction film than reality. With the weather pushing the clouds down low over those mountains, it also reminded me very much of Scotland, and i wondered if their shared latitude on a world map was just coincidence, or if that somehow made for the kind of conditions that made the two locations so similar in appearance.

The air was cold in the mountains, and there were varying levels of precipitation, so I had my heated jacket liner cranked up to high most of the way through the initial stretch of road, but I kept getting chills through my arms and back. I realized that it wasn't the temperature that was to blame; it was my response to what I was seeing around me. It was truly thrilling.

Sadly, this picture doesn't even begin to give you an idea of what it looks like in person.

Once in a while the sun would break through. Sort of.
As I made my way past the road marker indicating that I was now entering the Yukon, the views became all the more dramatic. If I had followed my inherent desire to stop at every view worthy of a picture, I would have been stopping every quarter mile; it was that impressive.

The downside, however, was that the roads were getting worse, with long stretches of highway that were either under reconstruction or what looked like what had been ripped apart in order for reconstruction to begin, but with no sign that it would be getting done any time soon, leaving just packed down gravel. With just a slower pace and a bit more concentration on the road, I was able to do fine, but it was taking more of a toll on my body than I would have imagined.

Yes, it certainly is.



One of the first stretches of gravel road. And this was the really nice part!


This is the bike of an older fellow I met at a rest stop who was returning to South Dakota - the BMW R1200GS Adventure. After some of the awful road conditions I found myself on, I sort of wished that this was the bike I was riding.

As I was photographing at a rest stop with an amazing view of mountains and a lake, a car rolled up just behind me, and much to my surprise, out popped the Israeli couple. They had successfully hitched a ride with a German family who had rented a car and were making their way through the area. We laughed at their good fortune, and when I headed out, they eventually passed me in a hurry, the German father apparently confusing western Canada for the Autobahn. We waved to each other as they passed, wondering if this would be the last time that I would see them.


Just a piece of a much bigger scene. The video below gives you a much better idea of what I saw.



By the time I reached Haines Junction, I was in desperate need of fuel, and I rolled into town with the indicator light on my gas gauge lit bright yellow. After fueling up, I again saw the Israeli couple. They had gone as far as they could with the German family, and were once again sitting out by the road, waiting for another ride that would get them closer to the Alaskan border. We talked for a bit and then said our goodbyes, but as I made the turn at the junction of Route 1 and Route 3 and continued my northwesterly route, I had a sneaking suspicion that we would be going through this ritual several more times along the way.

The ride along Kluane Lake, still part of the National Park, was stunning, and I again had to force myself not to stop every few minutes. I wasn't as successful as I had hoped, and I probably added a considerable amount of time to my day with all the stops I made.



This was an absolutely beautiful spot that nearly took my breath away when I rounded the corner and saw it. The video below gives you the whole view.




The birds at one of the rest stops along the way apparently weren't shy about coming right up to people looking for food.

Ah, the open road...

And this is how we do it from Jersey - again!

 When I finally crossed back into Alaska and finally made it to Tok, the first town of any significance past the border, it was nine o'clock at night. I had pushed off at 7:30 that morning, making for thirteen and a half hours of riding, but logging in only 438 miles. Even though some of that was due to the photo stops, much of it was the slugging through rough roads. I was exhausted.

I staggered into Fast Eddy's restaurant for dinner (apparently the famous place to go in Tok), and then, after getting a quote for $125 to sleep in a 6'x10' "cabin" at a touristy campground across the road, I opted instead for a $10 a night campsite just down the road in the other direction. It began raining as I had settled into my tent for the night, the droplets of rain making rhythmic thunks on the top of the tent's rainfly. But I was far too tired to even care, and in moments I heard nothing at all...

Monday, August 1, 2011

The Ferry Trip And The First Night In Alaska

In deciding to take the Port Townsend ferry to Whidbey Island, it afforded me the opportunity to cover ground where I had never been before, but after touching down on the island and setting off, I realized that it might end up being the least scenic of all the areas I had covered in the Pacific Northwest up to that point; flat with little view of either water or mountains. The ride was pleasant enough, though, and I was getting excited at the prospect of seeing the ferry docked in port, ready to receive its passengers and begin the adventure northward. After an amazing crossing over the Deception Pass Bridge that joins Whidbey Island to the mainland, I chugged along Route 20 north, closing in on Bellingham.


The view from on top of the bridge.



When I reached Bellingham, I headed straight for the ferry terminal, knowing that they insisted that you sign in several hours in advance of the departure time. I stood in line, picked up my tickets, and hustled back to my bike. It was almost 2:30, and even thought the boat wouldn't sail until six, they would be preparing to board vehicles by three.

After a quick stop at the grocery store (as if I wasn't carrying enough already), I pulled into the port, and at 3:02, parked my bike next to a row of ten or so motorcycles, all with the same intention; making the trip to Alaska. I swapped stories with some of the riders, discovering that many of them had made the trek before, so I tried to glean as much information as I could from them; which roads to take, which roads to avoid, and anything else that would minimize problems. When the crew finally ushered us on, a wave of adrenalin rushed through my body as I pulled the bike up on to the ship ; the reality of what I was doing had set in.

My first look at the Columbia in dock.

By the looks of it, I had more stuff on my bike than pretty much everyone else combined... Be prepared, right?

The bikes, strapped down in the lower car deck of the ship.

Yup, that's me right in the middle. I paved the way for a bunch of other backpackers to get the courage to pitch their tents on the other side of the railing, as well. Always a trend setter...

The view from the aft deck before we set out.

I made my way to the aft decks as soon as I was parked and the bike was secured with tie down straps on the lower deck of the ship. The backpackers had already taken most of the prime spots, the upper deck levels now covered with tents of every shape, size and color. I finally threw caution to the wind and pitched mine in the foremost section of the lower aft deck, in front of most of the other tents but hopefully not so much in the way of foot traffic that the crew would ask me to move it. Until someone said otherwise, for the next two and a half days, it was going to be home.

Within the first hour of breaking free of the dock, I caught sight of both killers whales and seals, and it set the bar high for everyone's expectations as to how much wildlife we were going to see on our journey. The killer whales, according to the ship's captain, were more animated than usual, surfacing head-first out of the water as well as the trademark appearance of their dorsal fin. The sun eased into the horizon, and we were on our way.

The next two days moved at the same leisurely pace as the ship itself. Gliding through the waters of the Inside Passage, the views of the Tongass National Forest, although sometimes obstructed my cloud cover, were amazing.  The duration of the journey gave me a chance to experience every part of the ship, from the "movie lounge" (two flat panel TVs playing documentaries about Alaska and obscure, family-friendly movies from a VCR), to the port viewing decks, perfect places to read, write, stare at the scenery, or just take a nap. The ship even had shower and laundry facilities, which, for someone who was still getting reacquainted with the difficulties the road makes with keeping up on hygiene, was a welcome sight.

The setting of the sun the evening of the first day on the ship. This would be the last time we would see the sun for the rest of the trip.

Home sweet home. I've owned this tent for almost twenty years, and it's still a thrill to pitch it everywhere I go...

Even though it was rainy and cloudy for much of the trip, the landscape was still absolutely beautiful.
On the second day, we had to cross through an extremely narrow part of the Inside Passage, which can only be navigated by steering the ship between these concrete markers.

You can see from this picture just how close we were getting to the shore while in the most narrow section of the Inside Passage. Pretty tight for such a big ship.

Cool fishing boats.

The dock in Petersburg, Alaska.

Artsy pics while docked in Petersburg. Diagonals, photo students, it's all about the diagonals...

Sea lions chilling out on a buoy.

Drying out my tent on the morning before arriving in Haines.

I got some pretty good looks at some glaciers on the last morning of the trip.


The morning of our docking in Haines brought even more rain, but I was able to break down the tent and, with the help of the heated solarium on the upper deck, dry everything out before packing it away. The adrenalin rush was back, and when they finally announced that the car deck was open to passengers and I started to load the bags back on the bike, sweat began pouring down my forehead, and I felt a little light headed. I told myself that it was because the car deck was so hot and I was wearing all of my layers of gear, but something inside of me knew better; the adventure was beginning, and my body was just sending me a reminder. The drive off the ship felt surreal, as if I were part of a spacecraft's landing party, setting foot on some new planet for the first time. One small step for art teachers...

Yeah, THAT"S how we do it from Jersey!

With the aid of my Lonely Planet guidebook, I easily found the Haines hostel, a series of small cabins tucked off in the woods a mile or so outside of town. At first it looked like I was all alone for the night, the hostel owner heading back to his property in the woods across the road after collecting my money, and no other travelers having checked in at that point. I had an uneasy feeling inside as I walked around the grounds, alone in the woods in a part of the world I had never been before. I phoned a friend to hear a familiar voice, when a man in his late 70s appeared in the kitchen area I had been sitting.

The kitchen cabin at the Bear Creek Hostel. Rustic.

My dorm cabin was the second from the right. Unfortunately, it wasn't decorated with moose antlers like some of the others...

His name was Dallas, and he had driven from Montana, as curious as I was to see this part of the world. He was almost completely bald with a round, cartoonish face that crinkled often as he spoke, and a stuttery affect when he spoke that was as animated as his features. He spoke quickly and often, and it was a delight to sit down with him and hear his stories.

Dallas retired early, but more guests arrived, this time a young Israeli couple in their early 20s. We ended up talking for much of the night, laughing and sharing stories of our travels. They reminded me so much of myself at that age, eager to see as much as possible, ready to do whatever they had to to accomplish that, even if resources were limited. I laughed to myself that, after twenty years, I suppose I was still doing the same thing; and loving every minute of it.  I went to bed well fed and ready for sleep, excited to spend my first full day exploring Haines in the morning.