Teresa & John Then Home

 

August 5th

 

Leaving at 8 a.m., I was excited about driving the Icefield Parkway again, seeing those grand,
side-by-side glaciers and icefields. Traffic of vacationers has more than doubled since early
June, when we started this adventure, and we were appreciative of having more solitude with all
the beauties. Returning from the southerly direction also lended a different and gorgeous
perspective to every mountain, river, lake, as though each a new experience.

 

T and John were leaving Coeur d'Alene this morning for Invermere, BC, and staying at the
resort in Panorama, where they'll mountain bike for a couple days. They'll tour that triangle I
adore, seeing Golden, Revelstoke, New Denver, Nakusp, Kaslo, and Nelson, and hope they
take the ferry on Kootenay Lake, which is the longest free ferry ride in North America. In order
to meet with them, we hustled, lunched in Jasper's crowds, and timing was perfect. They had
just arrived at the resort, and met us in the town of Invermere for dinner at a local pub for pizza.
It had been so many years since driving through this cool, charming lake town, and great fun
being able to take a break with Mark's family, two terrific people.

Gosh, we left T and John close to 9:30, and it was the first time we have driven "M" in the dark,
ever, I think. What an odd, kind of disorienting experience. Finding a campground was
pessimistic, and reading the map difficult. We backtracked to Fairmont, drove up the hill,
through a pretty posh residential neighborhood, Mark thinking a provincial park was our
destination. At the top, a gravel dirt turn-out delighted and surprised us, and both of us,
simultaneously, said this is it, our place for the night. We bunked down next to windows of a
very nice home to our right, and an unfinished complex of houses was across the street. The
dark night hid the view over the cliff, but I could see the tops of pines, so was a bit nervous
about not parking too close to the edge.

Both pooped, we laughed about the potential of an officer asking us to leave our beloved space,
and how we scripted telling him/her that Mark had just taken an Ambien, and that I couldn't
speak English, much less understand the situation. He was given a tip by some woman with
know-how, that in Canada, one cannot be told to drive further to camp, if someone has been
drinking, so that would have been another one, since I had had my half rationed glass of beer
with my pizza.

 

Sleep was good until more thunderous claps and lightning woke us, and took its adrenaline
effect on Mark for a while. Rising at 7 a.m., he pushed up the shade, and closed it right away,
after viewing a young man walking his dog, directly in front of the window, with Mark not ready
to be seen. After a few, shades were raised again, and we roared, because our view was of the
lovely Selkirks and a river below us, ringed by forests; another water campsite! We have lucked
out royally on this trek for amazing places to settle.

Coming through the border, an Officer Fox was assigned to randomly search vehicles today,
and we were the correct number order, I suppose. After questioning us outside, he entered "M",
told Mark gently, to keep his distance when he was looking through the fridge and freezer. He
pulled out the two tomatoes we forgot to list, and our three U.S. oranges, and informed us that
no citrus was allowed, and tomatoes from Canada are now also on the list. Fox was about
teaching us, and tried some mild intimidation tactic, saying we could be fined $300, for
withholding the tomato stash, but now we know, so shame on us should we bring the veggie
through again, and no fine this time around.

Driving south through Bonners Ferry is always a memory lane journey for me, and Mark is a
captive audience to my repetitious verbal meanderings of landmarks representing personal
histories and people in my child-rearing years. I love Bonners, consider it to have more multicultural
groups than most places in north Idaho: the Mennonites (I intend to visit their newish
assisted living facility one day, where a LPN told me she is greeted in the morn by acappella
singing by the staff); a more recent Amish settling; a large Mormon community; Hispanics who
originally came for seasonal work at the former Anheiser-Busch hops fields in Porthill, with many
families staying to raise their kids here; the Kootenai tribal members who are very visible and
blended into the their own and the town's communities; less than a handful of Asian and African
American blends (like Max and Lucy---hapa haoles= half minority and half caucasian); and the
loggers and environmentalists. A fascinating mix of peoples, that, overall, seem to co-exist fairly
well, helping eachother out when needed, e.g. house fires, illnesses.

Back in Sandpoint feels good, too. Mark took-off right after transitioning my stuff from "M", to
move on to his next set of projects and house pulling-together. Two months and a week
traveling together was fabulous, with a wide variety of scenes, nature's awe-inspiring patterns,
colors, wildlife, beloveds visited and enjoyed, and with a partner who shared his special
paradise haunts with me, consistently and joyfully. Truly, this has been a trip of a life-time, and
has enrichened my 64 years so deeply and with riches to be cherished. It was relaxing, fluid
and fun writing each day's memories, using words out of context and inventing some new ones,
I'm sure. This journal and Mark's "right there" photographs will not let me forget this kick-off to
retirement, for which I am very grateful.

Chuck's Cabin

 

August 4th

After two days of driving at least 8-9 hours on the Cassiar Highway, we camped in Smithers,
BC, last night, in our first RV park. Dinner was at a Boston Pizza there, and when I took over
the wheel, Mark heard a loose clanging. We stopped at an empty Canadian Tire shop, he went
down on his back on his length of cardboard, in the rain, and discovered missing and loose
bolts, which hold up the grey tank. Poor guy. To get out of the downpour, we wandered
Smithers and spotted a tire shop, closed for the night, with a perfect canopy. With his bum left shouldered arm, he tightened one bolt and rigged-up a sling out of a nylon ratcheting tie-down,
to sub for the missing one, which I thought was clever and laborious. We would find a shop this
morning to replace the latter.

We had planned to drive a couple more hours to Fort Fraser, but decided to bag it, and stopped
at the city campground. Sleep came fast to Mark, and I read Hillary Clinton's Hard Choices, for 30
minutes, then turned out the light.

For us, leaving camp at 8 a.m., is early, but we needed to find a truck shop to fix the bolt. The
first one on the highway was behind schedule, with the Civic BC Holiday, and the mechanic
really wasn't interested in looking thoroughly. Luckily, though, he referred us to another shop
down the road, which did take us on, and the young man was so pleasant and accommodating,
in comparison. The problem was fixed, and after getting breakfast at one of the Tim Horton's
(with unsuccessful wifi connection for me, but good for Mark), we left Smithers at 10:30. We
were grateful for the resolved dysfunction, and needed to reward our delay and stress with
finding our friend Chuck's family cabin on Francoise Lake, after Burns Lake.

 

Terrain changes have been so fascinating on this highway, from wilderness, boreal forests to
dense forests, mountains, to ranch lands today, with rolling green hills and flats of pastures and
fields, with intermittent farmlands. Francoise Lake was 7 miles off the highway, with some nice looking resorts, homes and RV park. Chuck had given Mark the coordinates, and we got so
excited when we could make out an old cabin in the woods, at the exact location! There was no
driveway to the old homestead, so we had to park on the road next to the neighbors' home.
Before taking the faded narrow trail on their property we spotted, I went to their door to explain,
but no one answered.

 

 

 

Walking about 50 feet, the cabin was still standing; although the door had been broken into, and
the tar paper on the outside visible and torn. Entering cautiously, we saw an array of furniture:
two formica tables with fifties style chairs, no plumbing (an outhouse up the hill), bed, dresser,
and a terrific wood cook stove, that I think would be the thing to save. Mouse and/or pack rat
turds were everywhere, and the back door was also wide open. Getting to a storage cabin
down by the lake, was more difficult to access, having to bush-whack through overgrown shrubs
and downed tree limbs. Someone had jammed in the lower part of the wooden locked door, and
we could see stored beds, tables, other furniture in the darkness. A wood shed was further up
the hill by the outhouse, and almost a full load was still present.

We spoke with Chuck later that night. This was his parents' cabin, and the one he built when he
was 20, was across the lake, with no road access. He was tickled that we actually found his
folks' place still standing. It had been built in the early 70s. Chuck hadn't been back to his
cabin in forty years, with university, career, bigger places to go that beckoned him away.

 

The weather heated up on Francoise, and warmth and sun was wonderful. Lunch was by the
lake, before we headed onward. Finding Chuck's place was a treat, a major geocache find, a
spell in our truckin' it home for family support. Rain seems to follow us late afternoons lately,
and getting late, we found another of Mark's spots; this one on Little LaSalle Lake in a provincial
recreation campground, free and beautiful. We visited with a couple from outside Vancouver, on
the unstable dock, while the sun was setting. There were about six sites, and it was rainy, with a
couple hours of being able to walk the stoney beach, skip stones, and then return for needed
rest.

Cassiar Highway

 

August 2nd

It is Sunday, with grey skies again with slits of blue peeking through. Sleep was much
improved, with no noises from small visitors, and a more comfortable, spacious feeling logistics
to bedding. One of my retirement goals is to be in-touch with the date and day of the week, just
for a sense of rhythm and being in the world still. Sunday still feels to be a day of rest.

A day of driving from Little Atlin Lake, and on to the Cassiar Highway late afternoon. There was
a tremendous thunder and lightning storm at the junction, with horrendous claps to our left, and
torrential drumming of rain on the windshield, that tends to throw one off at times, due to it's
power and unrelenting surge. At the gas station, a gentleman about our age or older,
approached Mark to consult about whether it was safe driving on in the storm. Mark replied he
didn't feel comfortable advising him, but that we were continuing on. About ten minutes later,
the dark blanket moved over us, and wide sunny skies welcomed us.

 

The Cassiar is flanked by healthy black spruce, poplars, birch trees, and over 30,000 hectares
(haven't figured out what specific measurement is comparable to that) of burnt forestland, from a
2010 fire, with the most stunning and vast borders of fireweed lining our drive for miles.
Surrounding the forests, are the Cassiar Mountains to the south, Coast Mountain range and
Stikine range to the west and east. Many chains of lakes are shored by lush green grasses and
shrubs, so there are many campsites consistently located on this trek.

At 6, we parked "M" at Sawmill Point on Dease Lake, another favorite spot of Mark's. It is a
huge, long lake and with only four sites, so is quiet and a paradise. We've decided to speed-up
our homeward bound journey, from a week to about three days. Several people we care about
are experiencing health issues, so it will make us both feel better, to be available for potential
support of whatever form needed. This has been an outrageous, fulfilling adventure the last two
months, feeling very blessed, and okay about missing a week more.

Dinner was yummy, with pasta with Alfredo sauce, parsley, chicken-apple sausage, smoked
salmon and mushrooms! An evening stroll around the campground, and call the night good.

Dyea

August 1st
I cannot believe another interrupted night's sleep by our resident varmint. Mark identified it
being in the exterior somewhere, but on "M". Anxiety crept into my chest and belly, and I had to
implement many skills to cope and get more relaxed, returned to slumber. Gone are those 7
a.m. wake-ups for us both this week, and I am grateful Mark's eyes opened simultaneously,
about 8:30.

 

Dyea skies were clouded again, with no immediate rain, so after breakfast of eggs and
pancakes, we bicycled throughout the old Klondike gold rush town's ruins. After a year, Dyea
folded with the waning of the miners and adventurers who dared to attempt this wilderness and
their luck. Riding on the trails through the woods was lovely, fun. The small cemetery housed
victims of an avalanche in 1898, and many were from Seattle, the rest from Portland, California,
Denmark. There was one in-tact wooden building's facade, and all the rest of lumber was taken
by fleeing klondikers.

 

We said good-bye to the beautiful tidal flats, watching the gulls and pinks in the spawning drama
and survival. Watching these mighty fish struggle to hold their ground upstream, and the
partnering males protecting their laying females from other males, is quite awesome and
moving---so much energy and tenacious cycling. Five adorable husky pups were playing on the
shoreline in the tall grasses. Their home was where sled dogs were being exhibited for the line
of tourists approaching. Skagway was a great combination of tourist town and being outside of
it in sweet, gorgeous Dyea, creating a wonderful balance.

 

On the road again at 3:30.

 

 

Tagish Lake was a long, blue-green lake on the Klondike Highway, and we stopped so Mark
could photograph the white-lit rock island and mountain across from us. A three generation
family, parents from Ontario, and the younger couple and their baby from Whitehorse, were out
for an outing. The young family intend to see the redwoods in California, and we highly
encouraged them to experience Gold Bluffs Beach and Fern Canyon, next to one another. One
day soon I want to share that drive to northern California, and my old haunts with Mark, since he
has a strong appreciation for several wonderful places of my past there.

Taking the turn-off towards our cherished Atlin, we made camp on Little Atlin Lake, not too far
from the highway, that we'll continue on in the morning, for the Cassiar Highway. Stopping at
6:30, was late enough, and I didn't want Mark to get too tired from driving, and our decreased
sleep last night is starting to infiltrate and wane our energies. I sure hope our little night-time
visitor in Dyea, proves Mark's theory true, and is a resident in the campground, who enjoyed
visiting "M" and exploring in the wee hours, and returned to his lair in the later morning, not to
be heard anymore.

At the boat ramp here, a few yards from our camp, we visited with an engaging, pleasant family
from Whitehorse, parents and two teen sons. The concrete ramp has been sinking, so the boat
trailer had to be backed into deeper waters, in order to load their dory, scraping some of the
metal on the trailer. The mother was loving her time with the family, and happy to have her 19
y.o. home from college for another month. Fish galore had been caught in Little Atlin, mostly
pike and trout, she gushed about. She raved about the convenience and joys of living in
Whitehorse, and feeling so fortunate to have easy access to such Yukon wilderness and
outdoor activities. The three of us (her husband and sons were focused upon loading their
boat) assessed that traveling in the RV over the 2.5 months, even with gas expenses and food,
really was way less costly than if we had stayed in B&Bs, hotels, motels, and paid for gas and
food. Friends had asked her opinion in the past about the wisdom of renting a RV to travel in,
and she was delighted to know now, that it can cost-effective.

Salmon steaks and broccoli, with a peppermint patty was the menu tonight, since we both were
still reeling and fullish from the cake this late afternoon. Dark clouds over the mountains, and
the wind is creating consistent small waves on the lake tonight, and I look forward to lulling rain
drops on the roof.

Chilkoot Trail

July 31st

Well, I had hoped for catching-up on my sleep, after the cheated one the night before. At 3:30
a.m., I bolted up, shaking my hand in my hair, yelping that there's a mouse running across my
head, and turned the light on! Poor Mark was instantly awake, right there with me, almost as
though he hadn't even been asleep, telling me I was dreaming. Earlier, I reported, I thought he
was up snacking on his Ritz crackers, looked to see him beside me, and continued to hear that
waxed paper package crunching by the table. Didn't linger upon it, though, until feeling
something go "thump" on my noggin.

After that, thank God, Mark started hearing little scurrying sounds in different parts of "M", as
well, and we were both turned into a pair of hypervigilant insomniacs for the next two hours, at
least. Not too long after the head affair, I flipped the light on again, swearing I heard tweaking at
the left base of my side of the bed, and then something jumping on the comforter between Mark
and me. Nothing again, shit! This is unlike me, having these tactile hallucinations, IF they really
are. Mark thought how funny it would be if we found a couple dead mice catapulted into one of
the corners of our home here.

Tonight, as I write at 9:20, we trust some ground squirrel, vole or mouse was outside "M", and
that it was shaken loose when we drove to the Chilkoot Trail this late morning (since we slept in
until about 9 a.m., from the erratic early morning). Looking out, the mountains were enmeshed
in clouds, with rain that did not look as though it would do much lifting today. We decided to
hike inspite of it, since we are good at merging with moisture and grey clouds, and not allowing
the weather to prevent our activities too often.

At the trailhead, by the Taiya River bridge, close to our camp on the Dyea Inlet, there were three
young women already getting their heavy-ladened backpacks on. We never encountered them,
and thought how swift they must be, compared to us old farts, BUT at least we can still walk.

 

We were ready with our rain pants, jackets, hats, walking sticks, bear sprays, air horns,
whistles, water, jerky and chocolate trail bars for snacks. After registering, the first few minutes
of the trail was steep with rooted walkways, and nicely placed stone steps intermittently.
Then, it was a lovely, very recently well-maintained, flat dirt trail (several wheelbarrows and
tarps over other equipment, freshly trimmed branches were evidence of trail crew returning) for
several miles. Over shallow beaver ponds and other marshes, long wooden narrow walkways
were constructed, which were lovely. Mark's last hike over these, he was walking on about an
inch of water, and must have looked like Christ doing his thing.

 

Before the beaver ponds, we met a young couple with backpacks who had been hiking over 20
miles since yesterday. They, as most of the backpackers on this 33 mile long trail of the Gold
Rush Klondikers, took about three to four days to hike, and then reserved a train ride back to
Skagway. Last night, however, they were still a ways from their first campsite goal, and a bear
cub came towards them, and continued to follow them. Of course, their fear was that mama
would be close by, and they started talking to the babe, walked away from him, hoping he would
get bored and leave them alone. Eventually, he did, but it was dark now, Jennifer and James
(?) were disoriented, not able to see through the woods for potential return of cub and/or his
parent, one or both took a couple falls, and they speed-walked back towards the trailhead for
about a mile and a half, away from the reserved train and end of the Chilkoot. After a
hypervigilant, stressful sleep, they woke, and hiked some more.

When we met them, Jennifer asked us if there was a chance that we knew the woman's number
to call, regarding their missed train, and need for transportation into Skagway, where there car
was parked. Mark reassured them that if they waited for us do a couple more miles on the trail,
we could transport them to town, or they could probably hitch a ride in, if they didn't want to wait,
which is what we assumed they would do. Both of us acknowledged them for doing the wise
thing, turning back, staying safe, and that now they also had a great story to tell.

The total hike we enjoyed was 7 miles, towards Finegan Point, and when we returned, there
was fresh bear scat, but with very few berry seeds and no hair nor salmon bones evident.
Another of the four younger backpackers we passed by one of bridges we lunched at, gave us
the scat heads-up. We met newly-weds with their older pup, a shepherd mix on leash, and
carrying his own food bags, from Whitehorse, who were doing the 33 miles as their honeymoon.
They had just moved from Toronto to the more rural Whitehorse. The last passing encounter
was with a man in his thirties or so, with a black polo-shirt and backpack, who Mark later told me
was carrying a pistol in a holster, which is not allowed in national parks.

Our feet and legs were achey and tired by the time we made it to the trailhead and bridge. The
reward was sighting a seal in the Taiya River, diving for salmon, emerging, and then arching
downward several times. Another surprise was seeing Jennifer and James across the road, by
their packs. They had only been waiting five minutes, she said, since they were moving very
slowly by then, so we drove them into town.

It was such a pleasant visit with them, riding, sitting on the sofa of "M." After Mark pointed out I
am retired as of May, they asked me from what, and I told them from counseling in a community
health center. I went on to say I was sooo glad to be leaving now before these new coding
systems were starting, and Jennifer and James both chimed about the ICD codes. She is a
family doc for a native clinic in Bimidji, Minnesota; he has been an IT medical staff, and is
applying to medical schools in Minnesota, to specialize, possibly in ER medicine. James then
asked Mark if he was a ham, and was well-versed in rattling off Mark's radio gear. Turns out he
has also been a ham since 12, so the guys talked ham rap for awhile, which was cute. We
dropped them off by their car in Skagway, suggested they indulge themselves with a great
dinner, which they had already decided, which included ice cream first. They looked even more
fatigued than we, so we assumed they may get a room instead of tent-camping tonight. Their
next stop was Atlin, one of our favorite places along this trip, on Warm Bay.

Town was a little less crowded than yesterday, with fewer cruise ships, and we were both feeling
more chirper than yesterday, so more fun and relaxation was had. Supper was at a fairly empty,
cute restaurant, Olivia's, on Main Street, with salmon and halibut in filo dough, with a nice salad
and seafood chowder. Then ice cream at our favorite sweet shop, with the nicest crew of young
women and our BYU male student. While Mark marketed, I swept "M" of the trail dirt clods and
dust, and town ended with a very few wifi minutes in the library before it closed.

No bears tonight at the tidal flats by our camp, but it was still a treat to be there before settling in
for the night. We may stay another day here and bike, or take off towards the Cassiar Highway,
a new way for me. What a nice day it was.

Skagway

July 30th

It was a rough night for me. When we were at Starbuck's, I think they gave me a real coffee,
instead of decaf, and the bod and eyes were wide awake for hours. Going to Skagway
motivated me to rise at 7:30, and we each handled our own breakfast: Mark at the Walmart
McDonald's for pancakes, while I did a small marketing, and me, a protein drink and decaf
mocha.

 

Mark was asked to wake me whenever there was a notable or grand sight to behold, so I didn't
sleep, but rested mightily. Rainbow Lake was ethereal, with its clear green-blue palette of
variations in the middle, on the shoreline, supposedly from refracting colors from the marl at the
bottom---a white substance from glacial deposits---probably similar to the glacial silt or flour that
makes Peyto Lake that pure turquoise. Going down the steep highland grade towards
Skagway, was not to be missed. Forests leading the way on the mountains were more like our
northwest woods, with density and strong, tall trees again, with the straggly black spruces
disappearing with the permafrost.

 

Suddenly, the terrain transformed into low rounded rock formations on both sides of the
highway, with lovely lakes and streams winding around tree-spotted rock islands. It was grey
and cool at this elevation, and images of Ireland came up as a comparable image. This
highland territory was referred to as "moonscapes" with the short firs as "mopheads," being
stunted and formed by the snows and winds. Waterfalls were long, wide and started at what we
could see as the tops of great mountains, and falling clearly and visibly down past the roadway.

There was dense fog now, and Sockeye Bike Tours had a couple vanfuls of tourists in yellow
rain gear, (passengers from the giant cruise ships) who were carted to the top of the highway, to
bike down to Skagway. Mark thought this foolish, with the narrow road and hardly any shoulder
for bikers, much less width for all the trucks, tour buses and cars zipping by either way. Several
runaway truck hills were also passed, demonstrating the steepness of this grade.

 

At the bottom, sun broke through again, and we turned right just before the Skagway sign, to
find a campsite in Dyea, where Mark had stayed two years ago. Again, it's one of those narrow
gravel and dirt roads many are resistant to travel, and RVs over 25 feet are discouraged from
even daring. I am very glad we are here, and the road was hand-able. It is at the end of the
inlet, where tidal flats and wooded areas co-exist tranquilly and beautifully. There is a stream
running through, and pink salmon are spawning in the open flats, so the dorsal fins are viewed
high up in the water, and densely populated by these brave fish whose sole purpose is to plant
their eggs before dying. Seagulls of two varieties were hopping in the stream, going for those
unhatched babes. One was of our usual all-white gull, and the other, a more delicately beaked,
with a fine black line running the width of its tail feathers.

We settled in the camp, detaching the trailer for a freer jaunt into town. Four years ago, Mark
camped on the tidal flat road, but two years ago, this was not allowed (probably due to erosion
and others not respecting the grasslands), so this current campground has been more
developed than when he was here last, with very nice, spiffy outhouses, and a free registration
system for sites used. It is a short walk and even shorter bike ride to the tidal flats, where we
had lunch, looking at the fjord-like inlet cradled between the mountains, and napped before
driving to Skagway.

 

The cruise ships, all four of them, had arrived and it was a crowded downtown of all ages on
foot, going through the multitude of diamond jewelers, and typical tourist stores, with some very
nice art galleries and sweet shops. Of course, all the building facades were Gold Rush period.
Wooden sidewalks are always a novelty and fun, and it was rare to see a car drive down the
main streets, since the ships' passengers are organized down a concrete trail into the little town,
or signed up for smaller tour vans that take them to rafting, horseback-riding outfitters, train
rides.

 

There were several female shop owners we enjoyed visiting with. Two sisters, young women
born in Massachusetts, but then relocated to Seattle, have lived here for 12 years, and have
one of the nicer gallery, gift shops on the drag. Out of 900 residents, about 300 take-off in the
winter, one shared, including them. They have an aging (most likely, about our ages) mother in
Seattle, so they feel a need to spend as much time with her as possible. Plus, one said she
doesn't want to hang-out in the local bars all winter, either. Another older gal, gave us
restaurant tips, and told us of eagle family viewing, watching the parents teach the young 'uns
how to dive and fish, by the bridge in Dyea.

By late afternoon, I was fading fast, with little sleep last night, so we bought our re-stocking of
fudge from a young gentleman, attending BYU in Rexburg, Idaho. He will be a junior majoring
in psychology, working the summer here, with this being his first day of employment at this shop
of ice cream and chocolates. I informed him of my retiring from counseling from the clinic, and
suggested he may want to do clinical work for the experience, and a very part-time private
practice initially, if he wants. Good male therapists are needed badly, and that it was a field and
career I really enjoyed, I also shared.

 

Dinner was at a terrific place in the marina, where we had beautifully presented meals of salmon
and a halibut stir-fry with wonderful veggies. Watching the behemoth cruise ships amidst the
marina boats, and edged-up to this little village seemed out of keeping, and one of them is a
Wonder Disney boat, which is what the experience reminds me of, somewhat, when sharing
sidewalks with all those people, Disneyland. At 7:30 p.m., large tour buses were still loading
and unloading ship folk, taking them to different destinations, and the smaller outfitter and tour
vans were passing us towards town, on their way from Dyea. Morning and early evening town
strolls are assessed as the optimal periods to do so, with returned ship masses, since night sails
are the routes and schedules for the boats.

It was soothing and open, getting back to lovely, quiet Dyea. Standing on the bridge over the
spawning stream in the tidal flatlands, we chatted with several others. A father had grabbed one
of the salmon with his bare hand, offered it to his school-aged son to touch, and gently held it in
the water for a moment, before releasing. A boy, about 11 or 12 y.o., was trying to snag a fish,
by dangling his line over the bridge. He seemed like a secure, engaging person, sharing his
knowledge of the salmon, e.g. the older ones are with the bigger humped fins, and that we may
be able to sight a grizzly about 9 p.m., when it isn't as bright outside (which is about when he
and his dad spotted one here). All three just gazed at eachother while fishing, he said.
Tomorrow night we will try our luck in sighting one; tonight it is time for a much sought after
slumber.

Whitehorse - The Second Time Around

July 29th
Max is 32 today! We got to visit on the phone, and I sent him a tribute letter of his birth, and the
powerful love that began then for him, my son, my beautiful boy. He is happy with wonderful
friends who are like family to him, grateful for our family, and for his life with lovely, sweet Diana.
I was 32, giving birth to him, and Mark pointed out that Max has been with me for half my life.

Leaving Dawson City campsite at 9:30 this morn, Mark was feeling more rested, caught up with
the previous distorted night's sleep, so we headed to Whitehorse, still in The Yukon. We packed
up the laundry bag and pillow cases with dirty clothing and sheets, to launder in town, and made
our tinier grocery list (since we will now be hitting towns and markets frequently, vs. prepping for
our ten days in Denali). Still listening through to chapter 12 of the book on tape, Boys in the
Boat, the three hours really sped by. The reader and author have done a fantastic job enabling
one to visualize and feel the crewing excitement and suspension, as well as becoming
immersed in the lives of the central character's life.

Whitehorse feels familiar the second time around, and we lunched and wifi'd at one of the
Canadian Tim Horton's sites. Mark used my phone to trouble-shoot with the Verizon rep, the
inactivity of the Canadian-Mexico phone plan we have through the company. The pin-pointed
problem may be that Mark's phone needs a new sim card, so we transferred the plan on to mine
today. Once I informed all the kiddos about the change, Christine and my neighbor Jan called,
which was timely and good for us to talk to each of them.

 

Camping again in the Walmart parking lot is funny to me. It was late afternoon, and we were
exhausted after me doing laundry, Mark taking care of "M's" needs of dumping, watering,
propane filling and gassing-up, that we chose to stay put in town, rather than finding an
unknown boondocking camp away. We were so tired, we just fell into a nap immediately. That
is the beauty of being in a RV, I must say: instant cozy home wherever you are.

Feeling like getting a bit casually dressed-up, out of my carharts and t-shirt from the day, and
shaking-off the aura from being in a laundro-mat that was not perky with clients, (as some have
been in my past days), I felt refreshed and ready to walk across the street for dinner with Mark,
who had started to feel somewhat lousy again, before lunchtime. Earl's Restaurant had young
waitresses in varied assemblances of black, short dresses, and Mark spotted the only male
waiter in a casual, non-black shirt and jeans, which seemed so double-standardish. The menu
was kind of impressive, and when I saw bibimbap listed, the Korean form of fried rice with
veggies and a poached egg on top, I thought, "All right, perfect," since I was craving veggies
and simple. This was soul-food, too, reminiscent of Mom's cooking. Mark even ventured out,
ordering the same, only with chicken, since he cannot handle tofu, which I did.

Walking in the windy coolness was exhilarating, and we strolled back and to the Starbuck's in
the same shared parking lot as Walmart, for more relaxed time with wifi service. Facebook was
fun, seeing photos that Tyga had shared from Egegik fishing with her family and friends, and
Max's birthday greetings from all and Di. Mark worked on the blogs there, and is catching up
rapidly to my journalling. Tonight, I enjoyed reading through the past week's, and love being
surprised by his wonderful and gorgeous photos he has cropped just so. The blog is now
something I am so grateful we started (after my initial shyness and resistance), since it blasts
the memories back so wonderfully and clearly; otherwise, I know my brain would fade these
experiences and sights into intermittent or permanent oblivion.

The light is fading here in Walmart/RV Land, Mark feels perky and way mo betta now, which is a
relief and lighter spirit-making. On to Skagway and the sea tomorrow.