Friday, August 5th 2022

I wake up in Congden Creek Campground from a vivid dream of Bo standing on my head. Toes and talons curled into my hair for stability. I still feel the echo of his feet on my scalp. I wonder if he dreamt the same thing.

Outside a glorious wind hisses through tall pines. The sun is out. I go for a short run, then a long walk on the beach with Pilot. The wind is invigorating. Moving. Spiritual.

We're going to cross into Alaska today. I ask Pilot if he's ready. He's quite sure that he is, though he's not at all sure what the difference is between here and there other than some imaginary line that pale humans invented to convince themselves that they own the earth.

We leave the rain shadow and drive back into the rain.

Beaver, YT, is the last town before crossing into Alaska. I stop at a gas station and inquire about their showers.

"They're ten dollars," the clerk advises me with a smirk and reluctant tone. I think it's probably a pain in the ass to get them ready and clean them afterwards. I laugh and tell him I'll save my money for gas.

While filling the tank I meet a pair of ravens. One of them lets me take his picture in exchange for a handful of peanuts. He's goofy. All ravens are goofy. Derpy. Dorky and shy and sweet, in spite of their American reputation for being dark and mysterious and evil and harbingers of death and doom and so forth.

When I go back inside to pay for my gas, I ask the clerk if he has names for the ravens, my logic being that the friendliness of the birds indicates regular human interaction. I get a chuckle and another smirk.

"Nah."

Later I'll wonder if he thought it was a case of white girl assuming native guy had some special ceremonial and spiritual connection with the wild animals. I'll wonder if I should feel embarrassed, but being the crow lady comes with a regularity of weirdness that begets embarrassment when applied to mainstream culture, so I'll let it go.

Like water off a raven's back.

We cross into Alaska.

I touch the sign.

I hold Pilot in my arms and take a series of selfies, hoping one of them will turn out decent in this downpour. As I tap and tap the digital shutter button, a surge of emotion courses through me.

A decades old dream.

I did it.

I'm here.

We're here.

I well up. Pilot vibes the whole thing and gives me a kiss.

A few minutes more on the road deposits us into the short line for the US Customs port in Port Alcan. In line ahead of me are a couple of cyclists, their bikes loaded with heavy packs. Their bodies loaded with heavy rain coats. On one of the bikes a Mexican flag hangs wet and limp but still proud. I can only imagine what road stories they have.

The customs agent is unreal. All smiles and jokes. Asks if I've brought anything in from Canada besides high priced gas. I laugh. I don't tell him I was paying about the same price for gas in Portland as I did in most of Canada. He sends us on our way.

First impression I have of Alaska:

Jesus fucking hell does Alaska not have any money for road maintenance?!

Potholes and frost heaves for miles and miles.

A pack of motorcycles growl up behind us. Whizz past and disappear into the mist like it's nothing. Meanwhile I do my best to navigate the obstacle course in the rain while reassuring my little dog that the trauma I'm inflicting upon him is not intentional.

Not ten minutes down the once famous and now clearly forgotten Alaska Highway I see Death. He's barreling towards me in a white sprinter van. My heart bangs frantically against the walls of my chest, screaming for me to get the hell out of the way or else hell is the way we'll be heading in about one second. Adrenaline stabs my arms with little needles to see if I'm paying attention. I swerve to the side of the road.

Death turns out to be a Canadian. He waves an apologetic hand and veers back into his lane. Soorree, wrong person, not your day to die. Behind him is a murk-filled pothole half the size of his vehicle and god knows how deep. I accept Death's apology and bump on towards Tok.

Eventually we find some hope for the roads. Sit at a construction stop for a stretch. The sign holder looks bored. He kicks a rock around his truck. The sign holder, Pilot, and me, we're the only ones out here. We wait quietly for the pilot car. Listen to the rain.

In Tok the roads are smooth.

The plan on the itinerary was to set up camp in an RV park but it's raining and raining and the dog hair and human hair sticks to everything and I'm overwhelmed by the day's experiences and want the luxury of shitting and showering and sleeping under one roof.

I get a motel room. The hot water runs out halfway through my shower and the thermostat is stuck at 79 degrees but it's still the best decision I've made in a hundred years.

I set up my portable table outside my room and cook dinner on my camp stove. A big hunting party has holed up here for the day, their rain-soaked gear in various piles around the motel, in front of doors, next to trucks, in open trailers. No fear of theft, no fear of what other people think. Makes me less self-conscious about my vagabond-style motel camping. More self-conscious about being an outsider. A tourist.

Nobody here cares.

Around 9pm the sun comes out. I take Pilot for a walk. Tell him we're gonna "walk in Tok, walk in Tok," walk and talk, like we're multitasking capitalists on the go with important business matters to discuss. Pilot certainly has important business matters. Sadly, I'll learn later that the name Tok is pronounce "toke," and my joke loses its funny, if it ever had any to begin with.

Tok isn't a big town, although around here it probably is. It's got some gift shops and lodges and a visitor center and a lot of places bearing the name Three Bears. Three Bears Grocery, Three Bears Outpost, Three Bears Tok Motel where I am staying. The front desk/liquor store where I checked had Three Bears Vodka on the shelf.

Tok also has a taxidermified male moose that I'm convinced isn't actually a moose but a moose skin draped over a wooly mammoth skeleton because the thing is so huge.

Expectation tells me I should be wandering around this place with a sense of awe and accomplishment, twirling about and throwing my hat into the air like Mary Tyler Moore at the thrill of finally being in Alaska, but none of these things are happening. It's not anticlimactic, it's just another day of travel.

Walking back I notice the Tok Lodge Bar. It's in the same lot as the place where I live tonight. I fantasize about going inside, getting a drink, and shooting pool with the locals, but I'm not a drinker, not feeling social, and my travel experiences tell me that bar is either full of tourists and old men who don't want to go home to their wives or it's empty. I go back to the room. Fuck around on the internet for an hour or so.

In the distance I hear someone setting off firecrackers. Or shooting a moose. I don't really know the difference. Pilot crawls under the bed. I fish him out. He has tears in his eyes. I hold him and we climb under the covers and pass the fuck out.

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Read Day 8.

Read Day 6.*

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