Trying to take hold of the fear and turn it in to something useful, I
found myself moving into action, propelled by a sense of purpose that
gave me a sudden clarity in my thoughts and movements. I explained what
had happened to Elizabeth, telling her that I would have to ride back to
Anchorage with her and order the part along the way, knowing that there
was no guarantee that anyone would be in stock or could order it
quickly enough to arrive in time for me to fix the bike and get back to
Haines in time to catch the ferry by Monday. Otherwise, I would just
have to accept that I wouldn't make it to Saskatchewan in time for the
guitar-building workshop, and like so many other times during the course
of this trip, I would have to stay open to the unplanned.
I changed out of my riding gear, quickly deciding on
the least amount of gear I would need for the next several days,
stuffing it into my backpack and headed to Elizabeth's truck to squeeze
the pack in amongst the piles of boxes and bags she had already loaded
in the enclosed bed. After one last ditch effort to find the missing cap
from the motorcycle on the wagon road where I collided with the rock
(we
did actually manage to find it; broken beyond repair), we
hopped in the truck and made our way out of town, bobbing and weaving
through the potholes and gravel I remembered so well from my ride in. It
was a certainty now; I would have to try to order the part and hope
that the rest fell into place. Having the actual part in hand at least
gave me a better chance of describing it to any store that I called,
because I certainly didn't have anything as specific as a part number to
give them.
Just as we had started to settle into the
drive, resigning ourselves to two hours of bumpy road, I spotted two
figures standing by the side of the road near the McCarthy footbridge,
backpacks on and thumbs out. I refocused my eyes and looked again,
utterly disbelieving that coincidence could strike again like this; but
for as much as my brain tried to deny such a thing could happen yet
again, there they were - Ido and Shira!
The truck
didn't even come to a full stop before I opened the passenger door, half
hanging out of the cab while shouting and waving - and it took a moment
for
them to fully register who
I was before we fell into
our now regular routine of hugs, handshakes and smiling faces shaking in
disbelief. They had been hiking and camping along the glacier for the
entire time that I had stayed with Elizabeth and the kids, our paths
never crossing once; but they had packed up their belongings and stepped
out onto the road to start hitchhiking just
moments before our
truck drove up. As we stuffed their backpacks in the already overloaded
truck bed to give them a ride for as long as we could take them along
our route, I realized that if I had left on my motorcycle when I had
planned, I would never have seen them; it was my misfortune with the
bike that allowed us to the opportunity to see each other again.
Partially
out of guilt for once again setting Elizabeth back from her schedule in
arriving in Anchorage when she had planned, I offered to drive. After
the exchanging of stories with Ido and Shira about what we had been
doing since we had seen each other last, we fell into a content quite
for the rest of the ride, interrupted only by Owen's discontent over the
long haul ahead, his weapon of choice being a low, monotone moan that
carried through the cab of the truck like the faint buzz of a bee that
everyone can hear but no one can quite locate. I couldn't help but feel
partially responsible, but I also knew that the moaning probably would
have taken place at the beginning of the three and a half hour drive
with or without my delaying their departure, so I tried instead to focus
all my energy on driving the McCarthy road as quickly as I could while
still avoiding the potholes, bumps and loose gravel. If I was eight
years old and had woken up at the crack of dawn only to be crammed in
the back seat of a truck with my sister, a dog and two strangers, I
would probably have moaned, too...
 |
| I realized that this is the only picture I have of Ido and Shira. We stopped on the Kuskulana
bridge on the McCarthy road for what Elizabeth explained is a ritual
with the kids every time they cross - the ceremonial throwing of the
stones... |
After an hour and a half of
driving, we reached the final stretch, passing through the rocky pass
that designated the start (and in this case, the end) of the McCarthy
road. With only pavement ahead of us, I stepped on the accelerator,
feeling the same relief that I had experienced when I had reached the
end of the eighty miles of gravel out of Manley. The miles rushed by,
and before I was ready to acknowledge it, we had reached an intersection
that would have to be where we dropped off Ido and Shira, as they had
there sites set on hitchhiking south to Valdez. While we said out
goodbyes on the side of the road, I knew with certainty that this would
be the last time that I would see them in Alaska. We all had plans for
travel in other parts of the world in the near future, though, so I
could only hope that, with the way things had been going, our paths were
going to cross again. I took one last look at them in the side-view
mirror as we pulled back out on the highway, watching them shrink in
size as they put their thumbs out to a car heading in their direction.
When I could no longer see them anymore, the side view mirror catching
only the reflection of empty highway receding behind us, I realized how
profoundly sad I was to see them go...
The rest of the
drive was long but enjoyable, and with the clear skies around us I
realized how much scenery I had missed with all the bad weather I had
experienced while driving up. Impressive mountain ranges jutted up from
both sides of the road, and I once again felt the awe for nature that
Alaska inspired. The kids had settled in to the reality of the length of
the drive (no more moaning), and I made a phone call to a store in
Eagle, Alaska; the only motorcycle dealership within reasonable driving
distance of Anchorage that could order the part I needed by
next-day-air. Without even discussing it, Elizabeth and I knew that
there was no way that she could take another trip to McCarthy to get me
back to the bike; I would have to make other arrangements.
 |
| One of the views from the passenger's side after Elizabeth took over driving again. |
 |
| Dori taking a stroll during one of our pit stops... |
 |
| ...and a little goat petting during one of our others. |
 |
| Some rusted-out tractors at the same location as the goats. |
 |
| Dori, who probably looked the best out of all of us after three and a half hours in the truck. |
As we rolled into the now familiar
setting of Anchorage, I asked Elizabeth to drop me off at the hostel
after a quick stop at her house. I had already imposed enough (and if
things were to go as we planned, I was going to be imposing a bit more
before it was all said and done), and I certainly wasn't going to ask to
stay with her and her family. I did get the opportunity to finally meet
Howard, but with it being late Sunday afternoon and the school year
starting the next morning for both him
and the kids, I made a
quick exit to allow everyone the time to settle in to their new
routines. I noticed (but wasn't shocked) that things hadn't changed much
at the 26th Street International hostel when I arrived; the same group
of characters were there, some of them appearing to have not moved at
all since I had left a week ago. I settled in, making phone calls to let
people at home know my status.
When Elizabeth drove me
the fifteen miles to the motorcycle dealership the next day, I felt a
wave of relief when the kid behind the counter put the replacement part
in my hand - the plan was coming together... But after removing the cap
from its plastic bag for a quick inspection, I realized that they had
ordered the
wrong part. I allowed the anger and frustration to
bubble up only so far, as I knew that all the negative emotions in the
world weren't going to get me what I needed, and time not solving the
problem would only be time wasted. After establishing with certainly
what the correct part
actually was, the owner apologetically explained that the best he could do was have it delivered by Thursday
- but with
no guarantees. The plan, it now seemed, was taking its first turn, and all I could do was roll with the changes as they presented themselves.
 |
| I
have no idea why there was a windmill at the end of the street of the
hostel, and even less of a clue as to why it would be decorated with
neon lights... but I like the shot - sort of David Lynch goes to Kansas... |
 |
| A Russian Orthodox church I passed by on one of my walks. I've always loved those onion dome tops. |
 |
| Industry and nature - perfect together. |
 |
| The
funny thing about this picture is, if I lowered the camera and turned
it slightly to the right, you's see the local Walmart - all of a sudden,
not so dramatic... |
 |
| I've seen some beat-up VW vans in my day, but damn... |
 |
| There's
a space to put your shoes as you walk in to the hostel - I'd never seen
red leather Russian Converse Chucks before, so I had to take a pic... Red... get it? Red... |
 |
| Some dusk shots around the southern part of the city... |
I
found ways to entertain myself the following day in the city, but when
Thursday rolled around, I was more than ready to go. Elizabeth picked me
up in the afternoon with the kids in tow, and after a quick phone call
to confirm that the part actually
did make it, we headed out for
our second trip to the motorcycle dealership in Eagle. With part in
hand, the second phase of the plan was about to be put in motion; I had
decided to hitchhike the 265 miles back to McCarthy.
We
drove the 30 extra miles north to the town of Palmer, the most logical
place for me to begin hitching east. Pulling over at what looked like
the location with the most potential to get started, we said our
goodbyes on the side of the road. I thanked Elizabeth for both her
hospitality
and her willingness to help me get out of my jamb,
and with a final hug, some laughs and a wave from the kids in the car,
she was off, and I was on my own.
Over an hour went by
with a few unsuccessful offers to take me to the next intersection (a
mere quarter of a mile down the road). It wasn't until after 5 pm when a
middle-aged woman pulled over in an old, beat up pickup truck, offering
a more substantial ride. I climbed in, the back already overstuffed
with boxes and bags of undetermined contents, and we set off. The ride
went quickly, as she was only going about twenty miles in my direction,
but she was full of stories about her family and children, and it felt
like no time had gone by at all when she pulled over to let me out.
Knowing that I may have trouble getting picked up again, she wrote her
name and number on a piece of paper, telling me to call her the next day
if I was still in the area tomorrow and stuck for a ride. The bar
across the street, she explained, had rooms in the back, and was always
willing to take in a stray hitchhiker. As she pulled away, I stared at
the building, a dilapidated wooden structure with a single neon sign in
the front, and I hoped that I wasn't going to have to resort to finding
out what those rooms in the back actually looked like.
I stood on the side of the road with barely a car passing in
either
direction, when a sleek, tan SUV zoomed past, hesitating slightly just
beyond were I stood. The car slowed to a stop, swinging a u-turn on the
empty road and turning one more time to again face in the direction it
had been going. Pulling up to me, the power window on the passenger side
lowered slowly, revealing a small Asian woman with large sunglasses and
braces on her teeth. She looked at me nervously, and then blurted out
"I don't usually pick up hitchhikers... but something told me that I
should pick you up... I hope that your a good person... please be a good
person..."
The only response I could think to give to
both ease her mind and secure a ride was "I'm a good person - I'm a
teacher!" Apparently that (and perhaps the desperation in my voice) was
sufficient, because before I knew it, my pack was loaded in the back of
the car and we were on the road. Sherry was her name, originally from
the Philippines, but she had met a man from Alaska when he had come to
visit her country on business. Sherry had been in the military at the
time, a young single mother of two who didn't possess a whole lot of
desire to be wooed by a foreigner. Her husband, as she explained, was
persistent, and after many long plane rides to visit her she relented,
finally deciding to move herself and her children to Alaska to be with
him. The gamble had paid off, as they had been happily married for over a
decade.
We talked enjoyably for the entire length of the 120
mile ride, until we finally reached the Hub, the gas station at the
crossroads of the Glennallen and Edgerton highways; the place I had
stopped on my motorcycle before making the rest of the trip to McCarthy.
I said my thank yous and goodbyes to Sherry, taking a much needed
bathroom break and a refueling of coffee before stepping outside. Night
was already setting in, and I had to decide quickly; do I find a place
to pitch my tent for the night and start fresh in the morning, or do I
press on and see how much further I could go? Almost without hesitation I
threw my pack on my back and walked out to the intersection of the two
highways, the thumb of my right hand back to its now familiar position.
It was final without any deliberation; I would take my chances and keep
moving.
Darkness had fallen, and a fine mist of rain
had started again. I tightened the drawstring of my Gore-Tex jacket hood
tighter to keep my head from getting wet. In the half hour that I had
stood there the few cars that
did pass now had their headlights
on, obscuring my view of them until they were practically next to me. I
glanced at my watch; well past nine thirty. I gave thought again to the
idea of pitching my tent and calling it quits until morning, but just
then the twin beam of headlights caught my attention. Automatically I
extended my thumb, expecting the car to drive by like all the others.
Instead it slowed down and pulled over, and I was able to get a better
look at both the car and its driver.
The car, at least
what I could see of it in the dark, was an early model Subaru station
wagon, beat up and rusted with mismatched parts of various colors. The
engine sputtered loudly, even while it idled on the side of the road,
making me assume that the muffler was either in serious need of repair
or just missing altogether. The driver, a young kid with an intense gaze
and a cigarette dangling from his mouth, stared at me without saying a
word. Suddenly the crossroads I stood on felt more like a metaphor for
the decision I needed to make; do I decline and take my chances that
another ride will show up? Or do I get in to a car that, at first
glance, had all the makings of a Steven King novel?
The moment passed and the decision, wherever it came
from, was made. I threw my pack on the empty back seat, and settled in
to the passenger's seat. The driver quietly flicked his cigarette out
the window, jammed the car into first gear, and pulled the Subaru out on
to the road. The piercing roar of the engine almost making me forget
that part of me was already regretting my decision...
