Thursday 8/30
It turns out that we stopped last night just beyond the Morley River. This morning I fished for a while but gave up after about half an hour. The terrain was challenging—there were good spots, but I couldn’t get to them from the bank—and it was cold (mid 40’s) and rainy. In typical fashion we whiled away the morning and were on the road about noon.
We’re on a major mission today—today we’ll travel the last 150 miles or so of the 1,422-mile Alaska Highway! We’ve done the road in segments. We started on the Highway on July 5 but diverted north for 3 weeks in a long upside-down “U”. We were back on the AKH briefly on 7/21 and then headed south for a month-long, BIG, right-side-up “U”. Over the last 9 days we’ve taken side trips to Haines and Skagway, but, otherwise, we’ve been on the Highway headed toward Watson Lake where we abandoned it 7 weeks ago. When we get to Watson Lake, we’ll actually have to turn around and backtrack about 20 miles to get to the Cassier Highway which is the route by which we’ll return.
There’s rain, rain, and more rain. My mom would have called this a “glunky” day. For as long as I can remember she used this onomatopoetic word which I certainly thought was real. But I just looked it up, and I get no match on Google. Strange. “Squanga” means “awesome”, but there’s no “glunky”. I’m going to add the popularization of “glunky” to my life list. Maybe I can elevate it to that special status where it’s an adjective, noun, and verb: “It’s a GLUNKY day.” “What is that GLUNK?” “GLUNK you!”
Mid afternoon we arrive in Watson Lake. We overnighted here on the way north at an RV Park that had gas and internet, so we stop there to fill up, dump our tanks, and attempt to blog (unsuccessfully because the connection is so slow). The place is nearly deserted. We ask why. “The season’s OVER”, says the attendant, “a week earlier than usual. Don’t know why, but it’s OVER.” We do not find this as discouraging as he…we LIKE the idea of an empty wilderness all to ourselves. The attendant’s remarks about the end of the season are consistent with our observation that everybody’s headed south…RVs, trailers, and flocks of ducks and geese.
We buy a few groceries, back track 20 miles and turn south on the Cassier Highway. There are just two north-south roads in British Columbia: in the east, Highway 2 (most of which is also the AKH), and in the west, Highway 37--the “Cassier”. The Cassier is less-traveled and generally considered to be the most scenic, so we’re excited about this part of the trip; but we’re also beginning to feel the vague pain of the impending terminus. It’s like nearing the end of a great book. You’re flipping page after delightful page, lusting for the next twist or turn, but as the remaining pages dwindle, you know that the end is in sight. You can’t wait for the final chapter, but you don’t want the reading to end. That’s the feeling we have now as we start down the 600-mile long Cassier. We’re eager for the next adventure, but know that with each day the end of our trip draws nearer.
At the top end of the road, there are signs warning that the next “services” are 235 km away. We love signs like this that suggest a paucity of civilization.
Shortly we come to a small body of water named High Lake. Our family spent many great summer vacations at High Lake in northern Wisconsin. Great memories…dad dragging out the fishing gear…mom helping us sort through the clothes we needed…loading the back of the family station wagon…piling stuff that wouldn’t fit inside on the roof rack and securing it with a tarp that inevitably worked loose and flapped noisily for the most of the trip…the l-o-n-g drive through northern Illinois and Wisconsin…the building excitement as we passed through the exotic towns of Tomahawk, Minoqua, and finally Boulder Junction…stopping there to buy groceries and a new, can’t-miss fishing lure…pulling into the High Lake resort…the crunch of the gravel road as we slowly threaded through the birch trees to our designated cabin…the tedious unloading when we really wanted to rush out to the lake…the first promising cast into the clear water from the end of the pier…the teeter-totter of the aluminum boat…the adrenal rush of the rumbling outboard as we make that first foray to the island cove where the lunker Muskies must live…my dad in a ball cap and a flannel shirt, steely-eyed at the helm, admonishing us to “sit still”…throwing huge lures into the lily pads with the tingling expectation that a giant, angry-looking muskellunge may attack THIS cast…peering into the clear brown water as we retrieved the lure to see if a fish were following the lure…transfixed in that rare moment when there actually was a “follow” and a huge log-like fish rose out of the depths, looking up blankly as it glided under the boat…the swimming…canoeing…campfires…big breakfasts…the brisk mornings…bright days…and days spent inside playing games when it was “glunky”…great memories of High Lake.
That was a different High Lake with cottages and boats. This High Lake is unpopulated except for some Greater White-Fronted Geese (new birds!)
We’re looking for a place to spend the night. We’re finding that there are very few spots along the side of the road to camp. We stop, and I walk back in the woods to survey the viability of an area where the province stores gravel for road repairs. The site is not suitable, but I notice fresh moose tracks through the gravel…it’s been a long time since we’ve seen a moose, so we’re excited by something as plebian as tracks.
We finally end the day in a rest area. There are already several Alpenlite 5th wheel trailers parked in this area. We’re figuring it’s a group of Alpenlite owners that are part of a caravan. Normally we’d push on until we found a spot alone, but since there are few opportunities along the Cassier, we decide to join this community.
It’s soon dark, and there are luminescent clouds drifting past a brilliant moon glowing in the crystal sky. Nice!
