We’re Goin’ North, the Rush is On


I’m sitting in the Fairhaven district of Bellingham, Washington, waiting to board the Alaska Marine Highway System’s ferry, the M/V Malaspina. I’ll be taking the ferry through the Inside Passage to Haines, where I’ll rejoin the terrestrial highway system and drive through a couple of hundred miles of the Yukon, circumnavigating Kluane and Wrangell-St. Elias national parks (Canadian and American, respectively) and mountain ranges, to return to Anchorage a few days hence. Simply put: the thought of retracing my steps through the entirety of British Columbia and the Yukon after having come south just four months ago was too terrible to contemplate. I’ll leave the majority of the driving — three days’ worth, this time of year — to someone else.

It’s a return, to Alaska of course, but also a return to a route taken long ago. Almost 19 years ago, to be exact. In May 1992, I was in this same town in my VW camper van with my dog, Spooner, and we were off on what was then a great adventure: a couple of months of cruising through the Great Land, living in our bus. It was a tremendous, truly life-altering trip in 1992, and coming down the hill toward the ferry terminal today got me wistful for those long-gone and vastly different days (and not just because I still wish Spooner were around to join me on these trips). Despite what this particular trip to Alaska will entail — how long I’ll be there, what my employment situation will be, how much work I’ll get done on my house, etc. — there’s always a sense of comfort when returning to Alaska. Not a return home, exactly — I’ll always be a New Englander — but a return to my second home but an equal first love. To say I’m looking forward to the journey would be an understatement.

And it’s been an interesting trip so far. I’ve watched spring emerge in places and yet seen winter still firmly in command. Orchards are blooming in California’s Central Valley, and flocks of ducks and geese are massing in Oregon’s Willamette Valley, prepping for their journey north. And yet, inland, in the Sierra Nevada mountains and beyond, in the Great Basin, in Utah’s high mountains, winter is still very much in control. But the fact remains: it’s only February but spring is indeed on the way. The vernal equinox is just 31 days away.

Last night’s full moon, which I enjoyed from around Eugene, Oregon, northward, seemed a portent of the times to come: bright, vibrant, glowing. I’m looking forward to the coming days.

(iPhone photo of the full moon rising over the mountains east of the Willamette Valley from the side of I-5 near Eugene, Oregon.)

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To Live and (More Likely) Die in L.A.

OK, granted: I’m not in the best shape of my life. 2010 has not been one of supreme physicality for yours truly. Between my knee surgery late last winter and then my Alaska sojourn wherein I spent my time working on my trashed-by-tenants house in Anchorage — lame excuses, all — I’ve really let myself go this year.

So going for a run this morning here in the wilds of the City of Angels presented me with a unique opportunity to die by natural causes. Namely: a heart attack induced by strenuous activity by one not capable of such stress. But what was surprising was that I didn’t die. And while I huffed and I puffed as I struggled up the Santa Monica Mountains or Hollywood Hills or whatever-the-hell-you-call-’em near my sister’s home, I made it and never once thought I was in any danger.

Until I got to the top.

And there, laid out in all its grandeur, was…a dense pall of smog. At which point, the thought very clearly screams in your head: what the hell is that crap doing to my cardiovascular system?!

It’s a shame because I’ve done this particular route before in the morning after an evening rain, when the air was wondrously clear and one could see the ocean with Catalina Island floating offshore, down south to the hills of Idyllwild and Orange County, east toward the peaks of the San Gabriel Mountains and the high desert beyond, and it’s at times like those where you think, “You know, L.A. isn’t so bad.” The trail is pleasant, the people are lovely and the views are magnificent. It’s at times like those where I reiterate my assertion that Southern California prior to World War II had to be nothing short of Eden: the best climate in the world, snow-covered peaks, citrus groves, salmon in the streams, tons of fish offshore, the ability to grow ANYTHING.

And now? Well, something short of those times. Granted, it’s vastly improved over when I was here in 1987, when the Hollywood Hills were invisible most of the time and you could forget about ever seeing the San Gabriels. But a far cry from the old days, I’m sure.

And then, of course, there’s the constant drone of police helicopters overhead — tons of ’em, 24 hours a day, seven days a week — reminding you of how tenuous it is here in this blessed urban paradise, regardless of which side of the law you’re on.

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Dateline: Shelby, Montana

Fort St. John, B.C. to Shelby, Montana
846 miles, 13.5 hours

That’s right: Shelby, Montana. Out here on the high line, where an impossibly bright full moon is lighting up the plains as bright as daytime. The moon is so bright that it takes a couple of seconds for your eyes to adjust when you look straight up at it after you’ve been staring ahead into the dark night while driving for so long.

Instead of turning right at Grand Prairie, Alberta, and heading back up into the Rockies and Jasper, I went left and out to the freeway, down through Calgary and across the border back into the United States. Not much to report: driving south on Highway 2 in Alberta is pretty much identical to driving south on I-25 in Colorado: Rocky Mountains to your right, northern plains as far as the eye can see…and cancerous subdivisions exploding out across the prairie around the cities. Other than the full moon, it was a pretty straightforward drive (no photos to share as a result).

Waking up in Fort St. John this morning, it was apparent: the wilderness part of the drive was over. With that in mind, the transportation aspect of the trip I mentioned yesterday came to the fore…and the miles just started rolling by. And with that, reports from the road come to a close.

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