Top of the World Highway

July 27th

 

Continuing upward on Top of the World, saw decent roads, not muddy nor too rutted from the
previous rain, with no dust. There was a RV caravan, with each trailer or motorhome with a
round sticker on their left-hand windshield, some form of tour signed on for. We must have
passed at least twenty, and at a lovely, tundra'd viewpoint where Mark had camped before, a
woman from Rhode Island (we swore she had a New York accent, so very close to) was lagging
back from her group, saying they were to dry camp in Chicken, where she'll meet up with the
rest. She and her husband tend to do their own thing, voting not to always be part of the long
line. All these vehicles, in addition to some with towed cars, were filthy, having come on the
Klondike Highway. Hers was no exception, which we laughed about, and I photographed their
rigs as a memento. They live in their 40 foot RV, pulling a Jeep Wrangler, with only a slab base
in Florida, to touch-into, in-between visiting their kids around the country and adventuring.

 

There was a herd of caribou up the road, she tipped us about, which was appreciated and
sighted. At first, I spotted three on the green, low tundra'd mountain slope, and then yelped
seeing five others closer to us, galloping down the hillside, with one of them with a magnificent
rack containing them from behind. In Denali, from the shuttle, I sighted one caribou running
down a similar mountainside, and wondered if it was fleeing from a predator, but there was none
visible. Today's herd continued to run until unseen, down a gully. That was a gift, being able to
witness them as close and so free.

 

 

The Top of the World does give one a sense of flying above the greenest, lush and dense
forestlands and valleys, with the Forty Mile River snaking throughout the bottom. Cloud
formations were magical, so close, and of a myriad of shapes, sizes, different hues of white to
grey-black, on powder blue canvas. Gorgeous. The terrain changed radically, the lower the
elevation, with fewer boreal forests, into more woods as we are used to, with healthy looking
groupings of trees with less space within.

 

 

Rolling down to the Yukon River, we were one of the first few in line for the Dawson City ferry to
scurry us over to town. It is a red and white open boat, not big, and the captain appears very
skilled and precise in maneuvering it over in about two minutes. There is no dock to anchor
onto, just river sand, between two orange plastic markers. It is charming, and I wonder why a
bridge hasn't been constructed, since there is so much traffic to this town in the summer.

Mark started feeling unwell, after eating an apple after breakfast, with stomach cramps
exacerbating by afternoon. It was warm, sunny, t-shirt and sandal weather again. We started
out at the visitor center, with another friendly, helpful young woman ranger, who pointed out
accesses to potable water behind the building, great bakeries and coffeehouse (which were
closed on Mondays), and much cheaper gas than the station in town. Wifi was available there,
as well, so we spent awhile catching up on emails and blog-work. Afterwards, we strolled
around the old west, wooden side-walked town, then got gas, Mark sprayed "M" off at a RV
park, and we returned to the main street for dinner at Sourdough Joe's: salmon burger for Mark,
and chicken philly cheese sandwich for me.

Instead of finding a place to boondock for free, with Mark's physical unease, we camped at the
Yukon River Campground, just a few miles outside of Dawson City, took a short walk around the
sites and bedded down, listening to the rain.