Its been over 4 years since Iv thumbed a ride down a windy road (with the exception of a regrettable night involving some hurt feelings, a large bar tab, and a long walk home). Maybe its something about the vast Yukon…the allure of unspoiled forests and roaming beasts. Or maybe last minute travel plans falling through with the only other option being a 600$ one way ticket is what pursuaded me. In any case the freeloading trail of so many unkempt peacemongers of the 70s just seemed like the right route.  Canada was a promised land during my underage years. Droves of Seattle area youth could take the trip for the weekend to the twinkly city of Vancouver. Old enough to fight for one’s country but not quite old enough to mumble a favorite Journey song then vomit into a trash can at outside the local liquor establishment…we would go to Canada. But its a place much bigger then headaches and lost wallets. Its home to massive expanses of some of the most pristine tracts of wilderness and resources left on Earth. But the border has changed a bit since my last outing. No longer would an expired library card and an off note rendition of a National Anthem serve as my ”two forms of ID”. The Kanooks mean business these days, although they lack firearms of any sort at the gates of their country…As I approached the border with my newfound friends ”Asia” and “Mark” the conversation topic changed from the burning down of Asia’s Chinese restaurant to Asia’s last trip to the border. “They wouldnt let me through because they thought I was a drug dealer” he said in Thai accented English. As non-US citizen with a gold chain, apparently he warranted a little more inspection. Which included a vehicle search. Which turned up 5,000 dollars cash. Not drug money (he was an unemployed insurance salesman on holiday) but understandably odd…a fact I couldnt seem to convey to him. “Its not illegal to have cash!”, he said as if I was the guard again. In any case we were immediately red flagged and sat at the border for over 2 hours. After several extensive interviews, phone searches, and a small but heartfelt mental breakdown of one of the border guards (at my doing: She stopped her schpeel and whispered to me, “You know I dont like this ok. Its my job and I have to do it. aka “please stop rolling your eyes at me and being a prick)  we were in Vancouver and I was spending my first night under the stars. (note: dont be lazy about the tent, ants still rule the planet.)

Hitchhiking is magical. I was already remembering of the ups and downs of free-world travel. How your heart leaps as  a vehicle pulls over, the mystery of the next stop, and the curiosity and boredom that come with meeting each new denizen of the world. I couldnt have pondered these things more then 10 minutes when my first lucky break pulled slowly to the side on an exit ramp outside of Vancouver. Through Whistler I noticed the wheels of progress were turning fast. What used to be a 2 lane country road was now a 4 lane mass transit highway. Condos and corporate boutique-looking stores were going up everywhere and the people I met were torn on the whole thing. On one hand traffic used to be a problem. On the the other there is a bubble being created and small business is being driven out. Just like in Salt Lake, after the Olympic dollars are gone the spike will be over and the income may not come. It amazes me how ape-shit cities and countries go over a couple weeks of heavy commerce. Then they are left with highschool softball teams holding practice in billion dollar stadiums shaped like a toddler’s crayon drawing of a bird’s nest. Seems a bit shortsighted but I suppose can see the logic. Go big or go home right?

Apart from the construction business, its a really scenic drive.

Of course its always an incomplete picture when you meet people fleetingly on a road to somewhere…but that being said I feel the conversations and impressions you get from people in this way have the spice of sincerity in them. There has been too many times someone has told me something you would have trouble telling your best friend, knowing they will never see me again. It is anonymous. It is a chance to exchange. Im a ghost who listens for awhile. Personally, its always been an incredibly revealing experience. Prone to being overly curious about mundane sociological tidbits and people in general, it gives me a chance to pry without feeling formal. “How do you think Canadians feel about__insert silly political situation or questionable snack food__?” ”Why did you divorce your first wife and marry a Brit?” “Whats your absolute favorite form of birth control?”…my point is that no topic feels taboo in a stranger’s car. Its an odd dynamic to be had between hitchhiker and kind stranger. Everyone wants to be honest with someone. I wanted to paint an incomplete but genuine portrait of a few of the interesting people I met on the way.

I met the dog first. “Chikabelle” didnt like sharing her seat. Seconds after introductions Heather got down to business,  ”Im moving…you want to help me out?”. A few hundred miles for some light lifting…fair enough. She is a social worker on one of British Columbia’s many Native reservations. With a voice and presence as smooth river rocks it was easy to see why she had chose such a turbulent occupation. We wound our way through the mountains and she told me about overgrown piles of rocks meticulously stacked by immigrant chinese workers of old days. The empty house we were en route to with a truck full of furniture was many years in the making. It was her finally-house. Back and forth through the moutain pass for years. Fixing and painting on the weekends. ”Theres still no carpet in the living room but Ill find something.” I said goodbye to Heather and her mutt after we enjoyed some fried chicken…my first Canadian meal.

It wasnt 30 minutes later until I was in another pickup and going North. I cant remember his name but he had a rifle and an attention starved puppy in the front seat. “Its for coyotes”. A rancher. He invited me to stay over on the couch if getting out of town was a problem. I havnt met a Canadian I didnt like.

 Getting out of town wasnt a problem. Kenny is a car guy…seriously. I suspect his soul is a bored out 454 with a blower. He hailed me over to the opposite side of the road. “Forest fires…get in”. An alternate route was needed. Kenny knew these roads pretty godamn well. “I watch the NAPA auto parts stores in BC”…all of them. The hood of his brand new car was riddled with rock chips. “Im getting a new one soon”. He was following a race car when he picked me up. But everyone had to go seperate ways now. We found out quickly we had a few things in common (french girls, fast bikes, and 70s rock). The conversation wasnt forced as it often is after meeting too many people in one day. And its a good thing because there was a 9 hr drive to bypass the wildfires. Kenny had a fireball of energy underneath his calm and simple-country seeming exterior. One of those people that can, is willing to, and has the mental ability to do anything for anyone. He somehow finds the means to work on more crazy shit in a year then most can do in a decade and all without having the air of exerting any effort at all. We drove through the night…Im sure it was pretty but it was only black ink. 1am was not enough to squash my curiosity at his house. I insisted on a tour of the garage…he might as well have been Jay Leno.

I enjoyed snooping around the spare bedroom/Kenny’s office before hitting the sac. The place smelled like old dog and the life of guy who has alot to be proud of. I woke up to strange noises in a strange place. Luckily it was just an off-balance baby… a darling but her head was much to big. Im sure she will grow into it.

After a hot breakfast with Kenny and his cousin it was back on the road outside of Prince George. One minute its hot food and heated rooms and the next its rainy asphalt and black bears. Luckily they seem more scared then I am. Not too long later an interesting fellow pulled to the side. “Not going very far but get in!”. This was the most coherant thing he said for the rest of the ride. I said something generic about Canada…little did I know what Id started. ”You know the government will take your land here?”. I didnt. “They said I cant live on it…I told them to fuck off ya know?”. I didnt. “Ya know I invented my own style of music a few years back?”….I didnt. Its not that I didnt egg the conversation on…because THAT I did…but this guy was trying to outdo himself with every sentence. The cosmos had provided my comic relief for the day.

A few slow and uneventful miles later a noisy car pulled to the side. After the brimmed hat the next thing I noticed was the giant smile on The Man’s face (I cant remember his name!). “You gotta license friend?”. Apparently I was driving this stretch. The wheels felt like they were going to fall off but The Man and his family in the back kept my attention off the rattling metal noises below. They were visiting family on a neighboring reservation that they hadnt seen in over a decade.

This was one of those few rides where there was no loneliness/craziness/curiosity behind picking me up.  Not that those things are negative in any way…but often times its easy to tell the driver wants an ear for awhile. These folks were just doing what they saw as pretty standard in their neck of the woods. No prying or touting. It was not draining on my social reserves.

My next lift was hilarious and gave me chicken nuggets.

Mary said something I heard alot on my trip. “I never pick up hitchhikers”. Having the face of a 12 yr old does seem to pay off sometimes…albeit rarely. Personally my rule of thumb (hey oh!) is that if it looks like you smell of urine I think its fair to drive by. But not everyone feels like this. I was getting surprised by the wide variety of Kanooks boosting me North. She married a trucker in Northern BC and they played poker with friends on the weekends. “Thanks for the chicken nuggets” I mumbled between chewing. (Fast food is OK when its free). She rattled off while I ate. “Im really glad your not scary. Its a long drive and you can keep me entertained.” We had the same last name…she married into it.  Mary was the youngest mother from a group of overly isolated mom’s who had young girls in a pop-dance gym. She was coming back from a meeting with the troup. They toured the local circuit…of rural British Columbia. Mary mixed it up in the group and often had the other moms blushing. “my favorite actor huh? hmmm Mathew Mconahay…or Mathew Mcuminmymouth.” It turned out she was entertaining me. We got along fabulously and she invited me to Bocce ball on my way back through. A recent addition the small list of activities her and her friends could participate in the tiny oiling town. Dusty roads, storage tanks, and 2 whitewashed bars were all I could make out downtown. This is the veritable “middle-of-nowhere” you always hear about. Cell reception was spotty until 1/2 mile out of town…then non-existent. She dropped me outside of town and wished me luck. Which came that night in the form of a blackbear at 2 am. He sounded like a rhino stomping through the brush. Although I never saw him he hung out a few yards away for who knows how long, grating my nerves.  Not a wink that night. “up with the sun” as they say. After several lifts, including a disgruntled trucker and a wolf biologist, I got my most interesting ride of the trip.

When I got in Neil’s RV it had that smell. Carefully tidied but dusty dasements with plaques, shadow boxes, and old train sets have the smell. Life has gradually become more of a memory then a reality. Neil’s was grittily interesting and sharp, his memory…his reality not so much for the last few years. He didnt say much. Nothing actually. He just stared at the road and I pried for information that wasnt going to be given yet. “Are you on Holiday?” “Im retired…so Im always on holiday”. He came as close to giggling as someone over 90 can do. “Thats my son ahead of us.” That was it for awhile. There was only an accepted silence, stabbed once in awhile by his distrustful pomeranian’s bark from the mattress in the back. He stopped barking at me after a couple hours.

We didnt talk much. It was hard for him to speak and drive at once. A shaky arm pulled his entire body forward each time the wipers or shifter were needed. I thought we were going to die on the mountain passes.  I did gather he was on a special trip of sorts. He hadnt been to the Yukon since he left in the 50s and was excited to come back. “Im not leaving this time…I brought the only woman who has a fur coat who hasnt left me.” He was referring to the  mounted grizzly bear in the back of the RV.

We stopped and I decided to ride with his son. This is where I got the full story on their trip. Neil was dying. His ashes were going to be spread in the Yukon river. The RV would be the last home in his kind blue eyes ever closed in. The old man was in much better spirits then his son…but he was resolved to make this a good trip for him and his father…and “skooky” the pomeranian. Night draws on late up North and we spulled over before the sun had gone down. After a fire and a few “pops” (beer), as the Canadians say, we sat around in the trailer and Neil told us stories from his old gold mining days. He was the best kind of old, the kind that lives in the good recollections and makes more. Neil didnt dwell in a cave full of sad memories. His youth was spent living in one of the last wild places on earth. His son had heard them a hundred times but laughed and looked surprised anyways. My favorite was about a pod of killer whales that began bumping him around with their tails during a summer swim in the ocean of NW British Columbia. “That fuckin’ thing came way up over my head… (the tail) and I made right for the dock…”. He couldnt remember how many gold claims he’s staked or how often he slept outside. For over 10 years he called a log cabin his home among the Natives in the upper Yukon. Canada was rough territory back then. “He walked right into that bar and shot him in the head…blew it right off…he was stealing peoples claims you know.” I got the impression it was the wild west but in the 50s.

I tried to bow out early but the old man wouldnt let me. “We dont start a box of beer unless we finish it ay?” You cant really say no to a 90 yr old man’s challenge. But this guy had a pulled a live elk by one hand, 2 miles upriver, in a paddle boat…so it seemed I was a tad outclassed. After a bit I gave him a flask of “bai jiao”…(100 proof chinese rot gut). It was the scourge of chinese liqour but only .50 cents a bottle and the only thing I could afford to take home. He took a nip and scowled. “whooo thats some monkey juice ay?” It was gone 30 minutes later. The old miner was still kicking for sure.  We left early the next morning and I drove Neil’s RV the rest of the day while he slept off what I can only imagine was an awful hangover in the back. Every few minutes I eyed the rear view mirror closely to see if his chest was still rising and each time Skooky growled. Whitehorse marked the end of my trip with them. They figured on doing some fishing and enjoying the sun. One more night of stories and venison chilly and I was on my way again.

(I stole the old man’s hat for a self portrait of my first and last time ever driving an RV)

The rest of the trip was easy and interesting. I met a friendly seasonal worker who took me all the way to Tok. Getting out of Canada was much quicker then getting in.

From Tok it was gray and beautifully silent.

There wasnt too many people going this way and I began to doubt my chances of reaching Anchorage that night. Then, as often happens when all hope is lost, a crazy person stops for a stranger in the middle of nowhere. After a couple sporadic and short rides I had a big break in the form of a flood. The Yukon had run its banks and hundreds of people were without houses for the time being. George was only 30 miles from home but going much farther South because 4 feet of water seperated him from his driveway.

He told me how to deal with bears, ride out snowstorms, and cure salmon outside. In the 70-80s George was a pretty renowned hunting guide in the area for over 20 years. “I was in those hunting magazines all the time…but now I dont do that no more.” We stopped to watch the ice flow down the Yukon for a bit and the drive was incredibly slow as we craned our necks to see the damage every few miles. He left me 200 miles from Anchorage with an invite to his salmon camp in a couple weeks.

It was really getting dismal looking for the night. A couple more hours of walking and I was eyeing the woods for a flat spot with no snow. Then a black escalade pulled over to side a hundred yards away…almost hesitantly. “Republicans never pick up hitchhikers”, I thought to myself. He began to back up. He wasnt a Republican…just a fellow sailor with too much free time and not enough friends. He was on his way home from Valdez for a couple weeks off. After an incredible but slightly frightening drive through the mountains, a whiskey and water, and a prolongued conversation about the end of the world (a popular topic among seaman, Iv noticed) I was home. Yay for budget travel. Seattle to Anchorage in 5 days is not too shabby.