Author: ryan

Perfect weather today, and a great day for it. The scenery in Banff and Jasper National Parks is unreal — the Rocky Mountains here define the word “rugged”. It looks almost as if they had come shooting up from the core of the earth and burst through the surface into huge vertical towers crowned with razor-like ridges. The addition of snow on the barren grey rock further enhances the forbidding aspect of these behemoths. There haven’t been many trails to get out and hike on, but I’ve managed a few short excursions and can say with certainty that anyone who stands on the summit of one of these peaks would most definitely have to earn the right to do so.

I turned east at Prince George and am now heading down towards Jasper, Banff, and Glacier National Parks to chase mountain goats. Jeremiah Johnson would feel quite at home in the remote, mountainous country I’ve been passing through this afternoon.

I feel as if I’ve crossed an invisible boundary — in the far north there are pockets of humanity in the midst of the wilderness, while in the south there are islands of wilderness in the midst of a sea of humanity. The country that I’m traveling through now feels very much like a transitional zone between the two — the area around Hudson’s Hope didn’t feel like a wilderness, but it was in no way crowded or spoiled. Bradford Angier never wrote anything negative about his home, and seeing the country around Hudson’s Hope I can better understand his views — it would indeed be an amazing place to live. The Peace River rolls lazily through a wide valley, mountains rise slowly on all sides, forests are interspersed with golden meadows, and dozens of deer roam throughout. It lacked the wild feel of lands further north, but had a “homey” feel that the Yukon and Alaska lacked.

A last note, but I would be remiss if I failed to mention Jason’s Log. He and I have followed eerily similar paths over the last few months — I made up my mind to quit my job while on a backpacking trip with him, we both left jobs at Accenture at about the same time, and our lives have both changed direction dramatically since we quit. Jason’s journey, however, has involved more showers, less soup, and the occasional bit of haggis.

For reasons that are a complete mystery to me I woke up at 2:00 AM and couldn’t get back to sleep. The fog was so thick that visibility was (maybe) twenty feet, so I waited in the Subaru until the sun came up around 7:30, at which point visibility improved to (maybe) thirty feet. Spotted two coyotes along the road, but they didn’t stick around long. A short while ago I bid farewell to the Alaska Highway and am now heading towards Hudson’s Hope to find out if it really is like Bradford Angier described in his books.

The first two Canadian moose finally made their appearance, popping out of the fog a few miles back. I knew they were out there somewhere.

I didn’t plan on doing much driving today, but after hiking through a canyon at sunrise I wanted to move further down the highway to see what animals might be out. Seven caribou met me near Summit Lake, which is the highest point on the Alaska Highway (4248′). Shortly thereafter I saw four deer — this is the first time I’ve seen deer since leaving British Columbia back in early August. It turned foggy as the morning went on, but the fog cleared occasionally to reveal some spectacular views of snow-covered peaks in the Canadian Rockies.

All told I probably covered about 350 miles today, and only 120 miles remain before the end of the Alaska Highway at Dawson Creek. Just before stopping tonight I spotted what was either a wolf or a big coyote near the road, but no sooner had I pulled over to get a better look when he was gone. I waited a while to see if he’d reappear, but unfortunately I’ll never know if this was my third wolf encounter or simply a coyote sighting.

On a side note, many thanks to Sheila for helping to get the journal back online.

Along the British Columbia border the Alaska Highway travels through the northern extent of the Rocky Mountains, and the scenery and wildlife are spectacular. I camped last night along the Liard River with torrents of water pouring through the canyon next to me. Once the rain stopped a campfire made for a relaxing evening. This morning the sun appeared for the first time in over a week, and the sunrise turned the entire sky pink. I followed the highway for about forty miles to the Liard River Hotsprings Provincial Park, and after hiking for a half-mile along a frozen boardwalk I enjoyed an hour in the hundred-plus degree water — sitting in a hotspring is not a bad way to start the day. When I got out of the water and back into the thirty-plus degree air I very nearly blacked out, but after a short rest everything was back to normal.

One of the folks I met in the hotspring was a guy who had been working in Denali for the past eight years, and we chatted about how awkward it’s going to be returning to the city after being out in the woods. He’s off to Memphis, but he also thinks he’ll be back in the wild places of the world before long. Upon leaving the park a herd of about thirty bison greeted me, and a short time later several woodland caribou appeared on the road, to be followed immediately by a small group of stone sheep. All of these animals were extraordinarily tolerant of people, and allowed me to watch them from as close as about forty feet.

Since the initial sighting I’ve encountered several more caribou, and the road has led through rugged canyons, past huge emerald lakes, and to the current camping spot along a wide gravel river surrounded by snow-capped mountains and giant spruce forests. All in all a great twenty-four hours.

Continuing rain and clouds, and since the forecast calls for more of the same during the next week I’m going to do a good bit of driving south today. The scenery in the southern Yukon Territory/northern British Columbia is extremely tranquil — the forests are considerably greener and taller than those further north, and the lakes all are clear with an emerald tinge to them that is reminiscent of South Pacific waters. Today should definitely be a relaxing day.

Stopped at the Pizza Hut in Whitehorse around noon, and they probably still don’t know what hit them. I was hungry.

I’m camped out for the night at the beginning of the Atlin Highway next to Little Atlin Lake. It’s a very peaceful spot, surrounded by mountains and with hardly any traffic at this time of year. I’ve kind of been reflecting on the trip as I’m beginning the journey home — sitting with a Dall sheep, watching the peak of Denali glow pink in the sunset, howling with wolves and so many other things have all been very special experiences. I’ve spent the past ten weeks immersed in wilderness, and in the words of Thoreau I’ve been able to “front only the essential facts of life”. As I’m returning I feel a responsibility to give something back — Aldo Leopold wrote that even if we never visit the wild places of this earth, we need to know that they exist. Having gained so much from this experience I feel the need to help to keep the wilderness as it is, so that even if I never come back I’ll always know that such a refuge is here when needed.

More rain and clouds, so I said goodbye to the Chilkat Bald Eagle Preserve and also to Alaska — from this point onwards the path home leads through Canada and eventually back to the lower forty-eight. Despite the fact that I’ve left Alaska it’s not a terribly sad parting – were I a betting man I would wager very heavily that I’ll be visiting again in the not too distant future.

I’m trying to time the driving tomorrow so that I get to Whitehorse right around lunch time. On my last visit I noticed a Pizza Hut that was advertising a lunchtime buffet, and since then I’ve had dreams about pizza on several occasions. If all goes well I should be setting new pizza-consumption world records in another eighteen hours or so — there will be no canned soup for me tomorrow, oh no.

The weather is again rainy and overcast, so while I’m seeing some amazing sights I’m unable to do much photography — it’s both uplifting to view all of the eagles that are here, and at the same time horribly frustrating not being able to capture the experience in any way other than as a memory.

Just hanging out with the eagles today. The weather is being uncooperative for photos, so hopefully tomorrow will have more sun. I can get NPR out of Haines on the radio here, and the opinions being expressed on public radio are encouraging — apparently I’m not completely alone in thinking that war should not be the first option when trying to attain peace.

I’m nearly nine hundred miles south of the Arctic Circle now, and it’s like I’ve gone backwards in time — the temperatures are in the forties and fifties, the trees have leaves, and the smell of autumn is again in the air. I came down here to visit the Chilkat Bald Eagle Preserve, which from October to January hosts the largest concentration of bald eagles anywhere in the world — between three and four thousand eagles gather here to catch a late run of salmon. The preserve is literally packed with eagles — I counted nearly fifty on a sandbar this morning, and it’s tough to find a stand of trees that doesn’t have at least one eagle in it. While it’s amazing to see so many eagles, the most incredible thing about this place is the sound — the cry of a single eagle is inspiring, but hearing multiple eagles calling out to one another is an experience that even a poet would have trouble putting into words.

Early this morning I snarfed an entire Braeburn Lodge cinnamon bun — they are huge and meant to feed four, so it’s a good bet that I haven’t been eating enough lately. Oh well. After driving for a long time this morning I spent the afternoon in Whitehorse getting my fourth(!) flat tire fixed, doing errands, looking around, and checking e-mail. At the internet place a kitten picked me out of the seven people present to be her playtoy, and I left covered in kitten-sized toothmarks and clawmarks. I’m generally not a cat person, so this little one was very lucky that she was cute.

Almost exactly two months ago I was driving north on the Klondike Highway, and today I’m driving back south. It seems both like a long time has passed and like very little time at all has passed. When I set out it was with the desire to “make each day count.” At some point during the trip that sentiment changed to “allow each day to count.” The difference is subtle, yet it in some ways defines what this trip has done for me.

While preparing the daily meal today I looked up to see a fox looking back at me from no more than fifteen feet away. Given her close proximity I initially thought that she must have somehow habituated to people, but any time I so much as shifted my weight she would go running off, so I guess she was simply curious. She stayed around for perhaps ten minutes, making a close examination of the Subaru, roaming all over the area I was parked in, and twice coming to within three or four feet of me while I was kneeling down. At times she would dive and roll in the snow, and although I first assumed she was hunting mice, after watching her do this a few times I think she was just having fun. This experience was one of the best wildlife encounters I’ve had, partially because it was great to see a fox so close for such a long time, but moreso because this fox made me feel like an object of curiosity rather than an intruder into her world.