The locals tell us, it’s The North – get used to it. Sometimes you get the bear and sometimes the bear gets you. We‘re dubbing that, Yukonic!
Things happen up here. Things you cannot control. Some days are more beautiful than anything you can imagine. Other days are so difficult that you dream of an easy life somewhere south of The North.
The legendary Al-can Highway has areas where the road has issues, but when the speed limit is posted at 90 km/hr, we can drive close to that number 95% of the time. This Arctic gateway goes no higher north than Whitehorse. To get Dawson City north, it’s the Klondike Highway for 450 miles. There are LARGE portions of the Klondike that are unpaved. We were lucky to do 30 mph over those sections. If you have hopes of crossing the Arctic Circle, you take the Dempster Highway out of Dawson – 457 miles of unpaved cruelty.
The shale road bed will slash your tires. When the shale washes away, the rutted mud will break your suspension. By the time we figured this out, it was too late to turn around. We’d have run out of gas. Our only option was to press onto to the first service station on the Dempster, 230 miles north of Dawson. Which, is where we are now, in a motel slash service station slash restaurant slash bar slash biker hang out slash RV parking lot slash working bathroom slash wifi hot spot slash truck stop slash oasis slash prison.
As Boss and T@G jarred their way into Eagle Plains, we could not remember the last time when we felt this rattled slash sore slash nauseous slash irritable slash exhausted slash dirty. We were so looking forward to (and counting on) the advertised RV park with electricity, water and hot showers that act as mandatory roadside rest and recovery across the northern territories. News flash: the Eagle Plains Lodge cut power and water to the campground due to the behavior of a few wasteful and entitled tourists.
Manager Laura was super nice about it. She said we could park anywhere on the property for free, use the 24/7 lobby and restrooms, eat in the restaurant and drink in the bar for was long as we liked. Which is what we are doing and we don’t know for how long.
The North has a domino effect. While we were getting snowed on and rained on in Tombstone Territorial Park, the Peel River 350 miles up the Dempster Highway was rising up and sweeping the M.V. Abraham Francis 5 miles downstream, unbeknownst to us. That’s a problem because old Francis is a cable ferry and the only way to get across the Peel river when driving the Dempster. The Northwest Territorial government ferry rescue program was able to find the Francis but it is anyone’s guess as to when they are going to find the cable and string it all back together.
The driver of an eighteen wheeler is camped out in the lobby of the Eagle Plains Lodge idling with a load of equipment and school supplies for the kids in Inuvik. He has no idea. 20 Wild Hogs on a bucklist ride to the Arctic on their pricey cycles and pricey gear are using up most of the even pricier motel rooms while they wait and most definitely have no idea. The retired RV’er in a Wolf Creek truck/camper who picked up and returned our T@G chocks when we forget them in Tombstone 230 miles ago has turned around after delivering our chocks because they have no idea.
We are unified in the taxidermy motel lounge fueled by liquid optimism and FIFA World Cup on the tiny twin TVs. We’re counting on a quick repair to make the Great Northern Arts Festival in Inuvik starting Thursday. It’s safe to say that we too have no idea if that is going to happen.
It’s enough to stress you out if you didn’t have a Yukonic state of mind. Yukonic is synonymous with adventure. It’s driving up the Klondike and seeing a mama bear eating dandelions with her two cubs like they don’t have a care in the world. Yukonic is flying over the largest icefield outside of Antarctica and huddling in a canvas shelter eating leftover hamburger chili cheese bowls on the Fourth of July while it is snowing outside. Yukonic is sunset at 2:30 a.m. and sunrise 30 minutes later. Yukonic is Laura letting you slip into the one motel room that did not sell out after 10 p.m. in exchange for a Canadian Jackson and use the shower to restore your humanity. Yukonic must have been what made the North a mecca for bold and curious characters with a gold rush streak in them.
Three days ago we sat at the base of the Dempster in the spiky sub-arctic range of Tombstone Mountains. It is a wild wilderness called the Patagonia of the North. We have never been to Patagonia so that means nothing to us except that Patagonia must be dramatic. The Klondike river roared behind our campsite. The fire blazed. Fresh snow fell on the peaks and hard rain fell at lower altitudes feeding the Peel. The fifty miles or so traversed on the Dempster to Tombstone Campground had been passable. Early in the morning, we spotted a moose feeding at nearby Two Moose Lake. It was just one moose, though. Does that count? We were almost at Yukonic but we didn’t know it.
Now we are stranded 250 miles up the Dempster. It’s 4,652 miles south or 350 miles and an impassable river crossing north. The mosquitos operate at a whole other level of intensity but surprisingly we have come to terms with that. They feed on fear and panic. We won’t give them that. Fresh off a clandestine midnight shower, at least we can no longer smell ourselves. We have a variety of meat-in-cans to sustain us. Boss and T@G are wrapped in a protective coat of dried mud. Perched on a ridge at the edge of a parking lot with massive views of the Yukon, we’ve found peace in embracing a Yukonic state of mind.
