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Somewhere West of Watson Lake By A.P. McKinnon God I hate hitchhinking. My friend Chuck and I have been on the road for five days. We took a city transit bus from downtown Vancouver to Horseshoe Bay, and stuck out our thumbs just north of the ferry terminal. Our destination - the Land of The Midnight Sun - Dawson City, Yukon. We had planned to make it up north in time for the Summer Solstice, the Longest day of the year, and a notorious ad hoc celebration in Dawson. Or so I was told. I had never been to the Yukon; but Chuck had been up a couple of years back, and has insisted on dragging me along this time. "The Solstice parties in Dawson are legendary," he told me, "The sun never sets, so people can't sleep and they all go crazy. We gotta get there for the solstice- that's the plan." But Chuck's plans often have a tendancy to change. We have trouble achieving escape velocity in Vancouver. Not only does Chuck have no money (he never has any money), but he's left his tent and camping gear in a locker at the bus a couple of days too long. The Powers That Be have moved his gear, and won't give any of it back until he forks over the cost of storage, which he doesn't have. So we're sharing my one-man tent, and our friendship is feeling a little cramped. We've been making good time, but not good enough, so we end up spending the solstice drinking cheap wine by the side of the highway just outside of Dease Lake- nowhere near Dawson City. One of Chuck's other plans is to return to Dawson to finish his novel. "It's a great place to write because there are so many stories up north, everybody has a story, so you just steal them all and use them for the book," he tells me, "You should try it." Part of what Chuck tells me is true, everyone in the Yukon does have a Story to tell, but what Chuck doesn't tell me is that there are so many distractions that you can't get any writing done- you're too busy living your own story. Or a series of stories. The longer we're on the road the more stories we've got. Like the one about the guy that picked us up in his brand new car that he bought in Vancouver, and wanted to see how fast it would go. By the time the radar detector kicked in the police had already passed us going the other way. They turned around, and eventually caught up with us. Our driver was fined for speeding, but as soon as the cops were out of sight in the rearview mirror he stomped on the gas pedal, and we blasted down the road like buckshot from a 12 gague. It was our first day on the road, and we had gotten as far as Quesnel. We were making good time. It was a classic ride, but the best was yet to come. "It'll be great," Chuck explained, "we'll be like Robert Service and Jack London, only bigger. I'll be the new Robert Service, and you can be the new Jack London." I told Chuck that I wanted to be the new Robert Service, and that he could be the new Jack London. We both knew that Jack London had to leave the Yukon because he got scurvy, and he had died of an overdose of morphine when he was forty. We decided that we'd both be the new Robert Service, and to hell with Jack London, what did he know? By the time Chuck and I reached the Yukon border we were both sick of hitchhiking and each other. We hadn't had a shower since Vancouver. The tent seemed to get smaller and stinkier each night. And the rides were getting fewer. We looked at the map. Dawson was a six hour drive north of Whitehorse. What had we been thinking? "Well," said Chuck, "at least we're on the Alaska Highway, there's a lot more traffic along here." That was true. The Stewart/Cassiar Highway had been a bad stretch of road. There were a lot more vehicles along the Alaska Highway. The trouble was almost all of them were Recreational Vehicles- massive motor homes filled with retirees; and they weren't stopping for anyone. These people believed that all hitchhikers were psychopathic killers waiting like wolves by the side of the road. We knewthat they had plenty of room in their R.V. leviathans, and that just made me more resentful. Most of them wouldn't even wave. The bastards! We found ourselves stranded somewhere west of Watson Lake. If we could only get to Whitehorse. I knew someone in Whitehorse. She would feed us, and bathe us. She would lend us money. She would drive us to Dawson. I just knew she would. But she didn't know I was even coming up this way. And I didn't know if she'd even be home, or how to even get a hold of her. I hadn't seen her for years. I should have called before we left Vancouver, but I hadn't. I was an idiot. Back in Vancouver Chuck and I had made a sign for our travels- in a Black felt pen on a piece of dirty cardboard we had written: ANYWHERE BUT HERE! It had seemed humorous at the time. But not anymore. The morning of our fifth day on the road I snapped. "Gimme that sign!" I barked at Chuck. I turned it over, and on the back I scrawled a new message that read: R.V.'s SUCK! "That's not going to help us any," Chuck said. "They're not stopping anyway," I yelled, "What's the difference?" "They'll stop," Chuck assured me, "one of them will stop eventually." "Eventually?" I screamed, "We've been hitchhiking for five days, and we aren't even in Whitehorse yet! By the time we get to Dawson the summer will be over!" As we were arguing another R.V. passed us by. That was it. I couldn't hack it anymore - I dropped my pants and mooned them. "Here's something for your rearview mirror, you jerk!" A mosquito bit me in the ass. "Serves you right," said Chuck, laughing. I started towards him with intentions of murder when it happened- We were suddenly coverd in a cloud of smoke and noise. When the dust settled there was an enormous tour bus idling by the side of the road. The bus door opened, and Chuck and I peered inside. A huge black man sat behind the wheel. "Where y'all headed?" he drawled in a thick American accent. "Dawson City," we tell him. "Well...I'm only going as far as Whitehorse, but if you want a lift, hop in." We hop in. The bus is empty. Here's the story: The bus broke down in Watson Lake two days ago. The tour company sent another bus down from Whitehorse to pick up the passengers, and now our driver is driving an empty bus to Whitehorse, and he wants a little company on the ride north. Chuck and I can't believe our good luck. Our driver is a man named Andrew Boyd. He hails from Oklahoma, and he Hates driving the Alaska Highway. Too many R.V.'s along the route slowing him down. He's passing all of them. Chuck and I look out the window and glare down at all the mobile homes as we drive by. I make another sign. It reads: EAT MY DUST! We make Whitehorse in record time. My friend is in town, and I somehow manage to track her down. Two days later we arrive in Dawson City in an R.V. driven my three young guys from Austria. When we get into town Chuck and I buy them a drink. Dawson City ws everything Chuck said it was, even if we did miss the solstice. It was one of the best summers I've ever had. God I love hitchhiking. |
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