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Overly confident of The Chief's fuel economy, I run out of gas in the Yukon Territory. I hitch a ride from a woman on her way to run errands in Dawson City. An employee of the visitor's center, she gives me a tour of the town and then returns me to my vehicle. Charmed with the small gold rush town, I stay for five days. I make friends with a man from Switzerland who is touring Canada on his bicycle. He and I visit a bar where the house drink is shot of liquor poured over a petrified human toe. I meet a farmer who tells me about his favorite pig and describes the conspiracy behind the Apollo moon landing. Since it is summer, darkness does not completely fall on Dawson City and people can be seen tending to their yards at any hour.
The treeline is low and the winds are strong as I drive on the gravel road to Alaska. We visit Fairbanks and then arrive at Denali National Park. For years I have romanticized that visiting Denali must be the quintessential northern experience--seeing Mt. McKinley and hiking across tundra in the home of grizzlies and moose must surely be a magnificent experience. As it turns out, it is cold and raining during my visit. I take a miserable bus tour of the park, the best part of which is walking ahead of the bus when it purposelessly stops for half an hour. |
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