Yukon Episode Two: Handy Hitchers Head Hither

Mary and I hitch from Fairbanks to Eagle, float a canoe to Circle, then hitch back to Fairbanks. 
This is episode two. Read the first episode.
August 2013 - Yukon River
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Our next lift shot past at the five mile marker, then turned around to make the retrieval. He had just roared down the highway, rocketing past a string of motorcycles and our raised ride hooks. Twenty years old and on the run from the law, our driver said he had picked us up hoping to accrue good karma. He told of his current heartache, and the tempest he was now caught up in, of rotten luck and worse associations. 

The story he told was that his girlfriend and her mother attacked him, unprovoked. He called police for assistance. Required to arrest someone when called out on a domestic disturbance, they promptly decided he was their unlucky perp. His record was swiftly updated to show he was now charged with having committed two assault fours, one of them a domestic violence charge for which he could not receive a plea deal pursuant to a new Department of Law directive.

He had drove away today, missing his court date, a bench warrant issuing as a result. His phone rang, interrupting this requiem of disclosure. The gruff voice of his father echoed out from the speakerphone, accusing him of being on the lam (he admitted it), and warning of dire trouble if he didn't reverse course. I asked him who was representing him, the Public Defenders? "Oh, you mean the Public Pretenders?!" he snorted.

Thirty miles on, he turned off on a side road, intending to sell a piece of property he owned, before skipping the state and country, that day if possible. We waved him off and set down on the roadside for a bite to eat. Barely had three bites in, the next vessel slowed to offer occupancy. A farmer in nearby fields, this transplant from the midwest raises draft horses and grows barley, wheat, and hay to feed those horses. Curious about the soils' merit, he chuckled back in answer, "the rocks, you mean? That's what the soil is, rock!"

Generous with us even if while bearing a morose outlook, he detailed relevant road construction and painted images of mountains and a family that had moved here beneath those mountains, necessitating his removal along with them. Passing his road to take us to a good turn-off, he left with a wave and rumbled on home down his dirt track avenue. Our occupation of this wide bit of pavement turned into a perversion of marbles, gravel shot into gravel across the tarmac. So few cars drove past that we began to think we might be tenting here for the night. One hour on, a Ford Ranger with a topper on back slipped in beside us to offer safe passage further.

Tristith, employed by the Alaska Department of Fish and Game, is responsible for a game management area the size of Maine. He was full of contented smiles and calm enthusiasm for our quest. We shared book suggestions; Two in the Far North and Land Gone Lonesome were his contributions. Eyeing our packs, he calculated we were traveling awful light for a float-trip, but conceded the need to hitchhike to our put-in as the cause.

This game warden had recently taken his two young children and wife on a float-trip from Whitehorse to Dawson City, which set him to talking on how much he enjoys times on the river, and sadly, how he finds far less time to be there than he once did. Our talk of canoeing trips led to discussion of other water-borne vessels. His most recent journey was aboard an old diesel fishing boat, 1100 miles covered from Seattle to Haines, at a rate of 9 knots per hour. He was mate to his brother-in-law's captain, in this mission to bring the boat up to those lakes and mountains stacking up against the Yukon's long-ago impeded outlet, so as to setup a gainful fishing endeavor.

Motoring north on their route, they hit "The First City," which will is our soon-to-be-home of Ketchikan come the end of August. Once tied up in Thomas Basin, he and brother-in-law walked ashore to O'Briens for a quiet pint. They were quite surprised to find every Rotarian in the city carrying on with drink and dance. Tristith said they finally drug themselves to the boat around three in the morning, after dancing with everyone in the bar. Look up the Rotarians when you get in, he said, for they sure know how to have a good time.

His home was 30 miles south of Tok, but, speaking of the great difficulty most have in hitching out of the town center, he drove us the 10 miles west out of town to the Tetlin Junction. Here left the Alaska Highway, heading north-west on the Taylor Highway. Also known as the Top-of-the-World Highway, this partially paved, partially graveled route leads all the way up and over the Canadian border down into Dawson City. Tristith told us, "be sure and stop-in at my favorite hangout, 60 miles up the road in Chicken, the Chicken Saloon, the town's most authentic joint"; and, if we made it to Central, on the other end of our trip, "look up the caretaker of the shuttered hot springs for a potential warm soak in the pools." We thanked him and set out on foot to traverse the Top-of-the-World.

Two miles of climbing brought us to a bustling gaggle of of road pavers. While the flag truck waited for traffic to arrive, we took advantage of the captive audience to secure a State-run ride through to the other side of the asphalt-laying.  Efforts to keep this wild road in repair happen annually, but only between May and October, being left to its own devices during the long and frozen winter. The hardhat wearing workers at the other end of the maintenance watched with amusement as we waved, striding past them into the back of beyond. Two miles further we came on a four-wheeler road to a lake, and though tempted to hike in and setup camp, made the decision to stay on the road in case a car passed by going our way.

We finished dinner. Three or so hours since Tristith had dropped us at the Tetlin Junction had passsed by. The tally of western-journeying cars came to a mere six; none showed any interest in making room for us. With our gear just buttoned up, the rasping rattle of a car screaming up the road toward us, we stood just time to jut out our thumbs and put smiles on display. A little Toyota Tercel occupied by Gabrielle and Pio, both from Quebec, skidded to a stop, and was soon spitting gravel in reverse as it rocketed back our direction. Gabrielle, driving, offered us a ride, with the caveat that "we do not want to take you over the border - it is hard enough for us, we cannot take hitchhikers with us."

We gladly acquiesced and were soon fit like tetris pieces into their tiny car. This accomplishment took nearly a half-hour of jostling and reorganizing their possessions and ours, to meld our large packs with their assorted and jumbled possessions. The largest box in the trunk was filled with halibut they had caught over the past week in Homer. Their next big stop on the return trip to Quebec was Dawson City, where this fish would supply the goods for a fryout with friends.

A discussion of languages ensued, and we learned that Quebecer (French-Canadian) is spoken with the tongue in the back of the mouth, but Spanish (Spain) is spoken with the tongue on or under the teeth. We tried out our pronunciations amidst much howling and laughter. We marveled at the sunset and rolling vista from this aptly named path carved somewhere between the sky and the summit of the earth.

Our new friends left Quebec in March of 2013 to hitchhike to British Columbia. There they worked for some time until their funds purchased this fine, diminutive steed they now drove. Presently, they had been in Alaska for nearly two months. We discovered they were also at the Trampled by Turtles concert in Healy, where we had been just one week previous.

By the time we snuck up on Chicken, the darkness had set in. Since all of us hoped to be much further ahead by morning, we didn't take the time to visit the ol' Chicken Saloon. Some 90 miles after they picked us up, soon after the stroke of midnight, Gabrielle pulled off in a wide spot, where tents were quickly erected, all four of us seeking a brief sleep. 

Up with the light, we each boiled water for coffee and nibbled some cereal bars before cramming back into the car. Our paths diverged another 10 miles on, at Jack Wade junction. We waved into their gravel dust, as they sped off to cover the 8 miles remaining until the Boundary line, and on to the Dawson City fish fry.

- EVEN MORE DANGER AND INTRIGUE IN EPISODE THREE, WAIT AND SEE! -