Yukon Episode Five: All Good Things Come to an End

Mary and I hitch from Fairbanks to Eagle, float a canoe to Circle, then hitch back to Fairbanks. 

This is the fifth and final episode. Read the first, second, third, and fourth episodes.

August 2013 - Yukon River

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On the fifth day we woke to wander the grounds of Slaven Roadhouse until the mosquitoes made us tire of our explorations in bloodletting. Tidied up camp on the hill then packed the canoe by the river. I couldn't resist a dip in the cold, clear Coal Creek, flowing into the Yukon just upriver. I walked a short ways to a hole deep enough to disappear in - eureka! A fine chilling dip, dried by the sun, bliss. Afterwards, returned to the lady who disdained this cold creek and steered our craft back out into the constant flow.

Lunchtime on the river typically rumbled in our bellies a couple hours after mid-day. We spied a promontory to river right. Mary cried out what a good idea it would be to lunch on its precipice, so we banked the boat, packed two small bags and scrambled some 500-1000 feet up a steep slope, then skirted around to where it nosed out over the river far below. 

The wind was ever-present, a pleasant constant which kept the perforating proboscises of the Alaska state bird at bay. Lunch was eaten with 200 degree vision up and down and across the wide muddy river. We grinned with sandwich in our mouths at such a luxurious banquet. Napped in the growth of ivy and grasses, soaking up the sun's afternoon warmth. Grappled and slid back down to the boat and on down the river took us. 

(promontory grandeur)

Today we covered 28-30 miles; floated over 23 miles yesterday. Today we aided the rivers efforts more with additional paddle strokes, thinking to check out 28 mile Cabin - so named for its distance from Circle, our terminus on the river. 

An hour downstream from the promontory, I loudly complained to the brush and to the air that I would be sorely disappointed if this trip ended without a bear sighting. Sure, the fowl of water and land had been grand, but I wanted to commune, if ever so briefly, with ursus. Not fifteen minutes later, a black bear appeared on the right-hand bank. It walked directly from the brush right up to the river's edge, stepping in without hesitation. The bear and the boat were now riding the river current together, both paddling towards the opposite shore as bear sought destination and we sought to stay within sight of bear. 

(all hail the zoom)

When its breathing became audible, we let off our paddling in the murky water, let him pass on in front of us beneath the sun hovering in its soon to be set glow. We pulled up to the left hand bank shortly after bear did, though well down river of him and his potential ferocity. Bear ran up the bank, turning around near the crest of a hill to watch us. We whistled in return. This may have been the 2-3 year black bear the ranger had warned us of. Several times bear started to depart, then turned to watch us. We thanked our lucky stars for such an oddly rare interaction.

As the cabin came into view we were strongly repelled in our wilderness state of mind to see new construction, solar panels in place, and a boat resting on the bank. Deciding we'd prefer privacy and an artificial extension of our own personal Shangri-la, our paddles continued for 2-3 more miles until a gravelly island appeared. Exhausted, we setup camp, devoured dinner and retired.

(rainbow bear)

Here on this spit of land, likely the product of a past flood, we were up-river from foliage - trees, grass, and a variety of brush - all prime mosquito habitat. Safe inside our tent, their stabbings were avoided but the piercing shriek of their buzzing wings nearly drove me insane of their own accord. Combined with the claustrophobia of our tiny tent, my head pushing the top while my feet pressed against the bottom, I began to devolve. Salvation was recalled in the form of the mp3 player and headphones brought along but not yet made use of. Jumping out in the midst of the devilish denizens, I retrieved the device and DJ'ed us into the night hours as the sun tipped into shadow beyond the range of mountains to our west.

Morning dawned us into our sixth and final day on the river's time. We tried to delay our impending departure from the flow, to slow our roll, knowing we were less than 25 miles from Circle. Our plan was to camp just upstream of the tiny community tonight before pulling into the shore the next morning to hunt for a ride out.

More traffic on the river today - two upstream motor boats which waved and watched us with binoculars. At one point we stopped for an hour or two, running along muddy banks, stopping to build houses with sticks and dirt, watching bugs living in little mud dams. Tried to take it all in, breath in one last full inhalation before having a snack and pointing our nose towards the finish line.

Two seagulls kept us company, circling about to follow, chatting in various tones, then landing nearby and squawking more discussion between themselves and us. Tthe closer we floated to Circle the more we saw banks studded with unoccupied fish camps. On the lookout for our evenings accommodations a gravel bar presented itself, nude of grown apparel, glorious in its bare gravel, free of mosquitoes, a sanctuary for our final night. We sat and thought on our journey, as the sun grew restless in its eagerness to be elsewhere. We bid it be on its way as rest took our heads to a tented bed.

The next morning I watched the sun rise - and rolled over to return to sleep. The flu-like illness we had picked up shortly before starting this trip had lingered about throughout for the full duration. This morning it weighed us down more than usual. Combined with a desire to stay on the river as long as possible, we delayed and slumbered in our comfortable nest, sat upon gravel with river flowing on either side. We eventually rose slowly, snacked a quick breakfast and headed down the last 3-4 river miles to Circle.

After pulling up onto land for the final time, we emptied the canoe and cleaned it. In the process of changing shoes, a large Chevrolet truck with Michigan tags joined us at the put-in. A couple in their sixtie's exited and struck up conversation  - where had we come from and what were we doing. We asked about their route, in midst of a multi-year move-by-degrees to Alaska; with their RV currently located 30 miles up the road in Central.

Seeing us shouldering the canoe to return it just up road, they offered to assist and then drop us in Central, where we hoped to have better luck getting a ride to Fairbanks, about 120 miles further on from there. Here in Circle, there appear to be 5 other persons and no one headed towards the big city.

We hopped in the back of their crewcab truck, three rifles and a shotgun propped up between Mary and I. They told us of a recent encounter driving down a random backroad. Seems they disturbed a fellow who snapped that folks like them ought to be required to obtain visas before coming in to visit. The male of our ride-gifting couple now carries his 45 magnum revolver on his hip, because he "won't put up with that shit anymore!"

Maybe fifteen miles down the road our hosts spy a clutch of spruce-hens on the side of the road. Pulling up, I'm asked to hand out the shotgun. He hits one, maybe two. We helped him search for that second one, without positive result, and then watched as he gutted the one retrieved. We snacked on their cherries before hopping out at Central.

Where Circle was a collection of several buildings and few people, Central had a mere 4-5 buildings and a steady stream of people; camping across the street, turning at the junction to the hot springs; opening the screen door to the only-joint-in-town and banging it shut behind to go seek services and goods. Apparently this level of humanity is not the norm, but right now in the roaring throes of fire season it was the cross-roads of a large and active fire management area, fire fighters from the Rocky Mountain division going from hither to thither.

From our station on the corner thumbing for a ride with our goods propped up on the store's sign, we met Tyson, a young guy from Colorado in charge of medical management. He told of how there were people performing a wide array of tasks: archaeologists, GIS mapping specialists delineating the various jurisdictions and ownership statuses (these folks were privileged with helicopter rides for surveying the landscape), medical staff (Tyson's role), equipment management, maintenance and others I'm sure. 

We learned that any vehicle with a chalked indicator of E-## in the upper passenger windshield was one of the firefighter's rental vehicles and would not be picking us up, since it was against government policy to retrieve good-fer-nuthin' property-abstainers in good economy-supporting government-paid-for automobiles. Something to do with insurance and strangers and uncovered liabilities. Several drivers stopped to tell us this, in far more positive terms than already chosen here. In general, folks were amused by our endeavor and wigglin' thumbs here at the corner of the only two roads in town.

Tyler returned and talked of his two-month long trip through Europe - Belfast, Amsterdam, Vienna, and other locales and companions made along the way. Cost to him, including flights, was $3,000. We salivated over the prospect of European travel and conspired to discover our own soon, soon, as soon as possible. 

Tyler left to reassume his duties, and we went inside the only establishment in town, with a sign at the door stating, "Entrance to Everything." Within was a grocery store, bar and restaurant, bathrooms, showers, and a large marker board with the names of competitors in the Yukon Quest dog mushing race. 

We rested ourselves in the vinyl booths while having a bite and a drink. The characters that came wandering through entertained us. We wrapped up half the meal and returned to our corner to find the couple who had driven use from Circle earlier. They stopped and expressed concern we'd not yet found a ride to Fairbanks. We told them of our plan to pitch a tent when it got dark and to try again in the morning. The storekeep had said some miners would be heading in the direction we desired when the sun lolled its way back to us on the morrow. Our friends drove on, in search of someone with details on a piece of land they hoped to purchase.

An hour later, here they come rolling in with their toy-hauler RV latched on behind, their ATV's parked inside the RV for transport. Said they'd decided to head into Fairbanks tonight, pick up some supplies and then head up to Manley Hot Springs the day after. Asked if we'd like to ride in with them. Thrilled at their kindness, we tossed our bags in the RV and climbed into the truck.

Twenty miles later. The road was still gravel, the RV jamming the truck fore and aft with each bump it cleared. My stomach twirled the greasy meal about in gurgles. The views were outstanding - high grassy hills sloping gently down, down to creeks in the dales below.

Thirty miles out of Central we hit pavement and my stomach hit bottom. I begged leave to get out for a crawl on the side of the road. Our hosts gladly consented and I was soon bent over in the bushes, groaning and grousing at my unhappy state. Very little relief was gained, but our host's impromptu conversation with some placer miners whose driveway we'd parked in had ended and it was time to go. I warned everyone of my body's impending rebellion some thirty miles later, but there was no pull-over. The Mrs. of our hosts handed me a miniature doggie water bowl for catchment of eruptions - I looked at it with one hand clapped to my retching mouth, quickly put the window down and my head out as far as could be safely achieved.

Ohhh the unpleasantness. The Mr. of our hosts disclaimed his weak stomach, an explanation I heard through the rush of wind past my ears as he cranked up the music to mask my horrible utterances. Sated, the greedy gods of tempestuous tummies allowed me some brief respite for nearly 50 more miles, nearly to Fairbanks, when I repeated this stunt once more. Warning our hosts that Act Two was upon us, I nearly leapt out the truck as it stopped, quickly engaging in quality time with the soon-soiled roadside.

Mary gave directions to our car parked at the University. We exited and thanked them. Mr. was able to inspect the damage I'd done to the exterior of his truck and camper. Quite a number. I groggily took it in as they certainly wondered why they'd taken us in. I tried to splash it off with a bottle of water, gaining minimal success in a small area. They headed out to a Wal-Mart parking lot for their night of rest and we soon found our little immobile camper truck for our own welcome sleep.

The flu filling our heads and my stomach taking over my thoughts, we were far too exhausted that night to properly take in the pleasure of the dream we'd just rowed and hitched to reality. Thanks for our benefactors with wheels was foremost on our minds' though, enhanced with the shame of having just left a temporary, yet unfortunately memorable reminder of my presence on the traveling home of our final friendly folks.

Our journey over we packed up in Fairbanks and moved down to Ketchikan within a week, leaving inner Alaska for the time being. The Yukon is a vast land that we barely beheld, yet even that narrow exposure to the place was enough to count ourselves fortunate for the time spent within and upon. It's no wonder the river sends out its siren call to those susceptible to its sandy whispers. Maybe you too will hear its voice against your inner ear, see its visage in your mind's eye, find plans made within your dreams, feel yourself drawn to come see its glories for yourself, at your own pace, in your own way, when you are ready, but soon.