Returning

I've come back home on purpose, with purpose, and, perhaps not surprisingly, discovered the most profound pleasure in life...

I've found a wonderful freedom in choosing my own path home to Alaska:
to be myself,
to like what I like, 
to let others choose for themselves,
to say yes or no as the mood strikes,
to take the risks I want,
to learn from my losses,
to live each day in a way that feels right to me.

I have made a pact with myself not to shrink

for anyone.

Hard times have happened, and will happen again, but I've learned something over the last two years: I will recover. At 37 years old, I finally acknowledged the strength, passion, and wisdom within me to author my own story...and a damn good one it's turning out to be! 

One year ago, I drove the bare essentials of my life (including my son) in a tiny hatchback over 3000 miles of highway from California to Alaska, which was just a year after making that same trip in reverse...escaping from Alaska. Both trips were adventures beyond the horizon of my known universe and the limits of my emotional comfort zone. Both were giant leaps of faith and stubborn determination to get across the yawning chasm that separated me from the life I wanted to be living. My landings were those painful kind of affairs where the leaper just barely catches the edge of something solid on the other side of the gap, banging shins and forearms, and has to claw and scramble and heave oneself up over the edge to stable footing. I did it twice. 

Each leap took me six months to heal and another six months to feel really glad I'd done it.

And now I'm in a beautiful place in life where everything seems to have fallen into its proper place. Each self-affirming decision has created a "pay it forward" momentum that continues to cascade toward more positive happenings. The abundance of joy, affection, support, and gratefulness between myself, my son, and my former spouse is actually ridiculous! We are each finally being who we were meant to be and loving each other better for it.

I am gobbling up the long Alaskan days, the steep trails, the sunshine, the moments with friends, the informing encounters with new people, the late-night campfires, the live concerts, and every possible experience that catches my fancy. 

I feel awake and like life is all re-prioritized to suit my needs and adventurous desires. 

And while it may seem counter-intuitive, all this energy toward myself has actually freed my dearest ones to also pursue their heart's desires. For the first time in years, my boy and the man I once called "mine" are discovering their own pleasures, with vigor! And we all continue to support each other, probably more genuinely than we ever did before. 

So, I guess I'm here to say...I'm back, baby! And things are gonna be different from now on. Better. More real. More affirming. It's not always gonna work out, or feel good, but it's gonna be what I make of it. And when I feel out of sorts, like the choosing has gotten away from me, then I still find solace and focus in the great outdoors...the WAY OUTDOORS! And I learn to get my choices back.

My world can be set right by the moon rising over lavender-lit mountains, the flutter overhead of a bat at dusk, or the crackle of wood-fueled flames licking the night air and throwing sparks up to the stars.

This is a moment in time where I feel perfectly where I ought to be...and I want to create a reminder that it is possible. If I am willing to take the risks, to not hold back, to be my best self...truly lovely things can happen. They HAVE happened. Wherever I go from here, I'm grateful for each connection, every moment of vulnerability, all the opportunities I've had to test my mettle. I think things are just getting interesting.

Remodeling

PARDON MY ABSENCE

My life - and this blog - are undergoing a remodel!

But I'm still here and I still want to share my adventures with you...

I will return to sharing my adventures soon, but for now my energy is going into the labor of changing my environment to suit my needs. I've had so many pivotal experiences over the last ten months that I just couldn't find the time to write about it. And my sharing takes more brain and heart power than you might think, too. I pour over every word and contemplate my message. Even though I absolutely love writing about my passion for this journey, when I'm in the thick of it, sometimes it's not clear to me what the point is. And right now I am currently focusing so much attention inward, on building a new foundation that will support my healthy future, that I need extra time to rest and relax.

Here's what I can tell you now:

• I'm living in Alaska and redefining what this means to me while exploring with fresh eyes and an open heart.
• Some days I struggle and want to quit reaching for something better. But I don't quit. I keep getting up and trying something new.
• Being in Alaska means my son has both his parents within a stone's throw and we are all happy, healthy, and friendly with each other. This is a great thing.
• I am staying connected as best I can with my California friends and memories. They keep me focused on where I want to be.
• My efforts are supported by a crew of personal and virtual friends, for which I am so incredibly, fall-down-and-kiss-their-feet, thankful! I can't do this without you.

So, here I am.

Right here.

In the mess of change.

I'm thinking, feeling, designing.

I'm learning to love me.

From that love,

I can love others better.

Sometimes,

it doesn't make any sense.

Sometimes,

I get frustrated and disappointed.

Sometimes,

I'm lonely and tired.

And sometimes,

it comes together so beautifully

that I am filled with hope.

My adventure now is an internal one.

But soon, I'll be able to share again.

Soon.

Meet me here later...and we'll continue together.

Comfort

I've begun an adventure to live 3000 miles away from my lifelong home, accompanied by my 13-year old son.  My husband remains in Alaska with my family on a multi-generational homestead where I grew up, while our son and I explore living in Northern California near his family.  I've traveled south to seek sun, heat, and new opportunities. Along the way, I'm sharing my journey about pursuing dreams, discovering what matters most in life, and finding the strength to be brave in the face of uncertainty.  For me, healing and strength are often found in simple pleasures and frequent communion with nature, so join me as I embark into the outdoors to reveal what's inside of me.

~

Comfort

(the feeling of home)

"Oh give me a home where the buffalo roam, and the deer and the antelope play.  Where seldom is heard a discouraging word, and the skies are not cloudy all day." - Dr. Brewster M. Higley

I went home for Thanksgiving.



I was stand-offish at first, but it couldn't last for long.  Nowhere will ever be home like Alaska.  When I'm home I slip into a way of life I don't have to think about.  Alaska and I are like old dance partners who know all the other's moves.  We fit into each other's grooves and fall into step without much effort.  It's much the same with the people I left behind in Alaska, we embrace each other and take up our old routines without trying.  The feeling of home envelopes me in a comfortable warmth like crawling into a familiar bed. There's even a special kind of satisfaction from the familiar interactions of home. Something eases in my chest when I return, lets go of anxiety, and settles into the reliable assumptions about the places and people I've known best and longest.

I felt myself being drawn toward home weeks before I boarded the airplane, like my heart was leaning that direction so hard I thought I would fall over.  It hurt.  I wondered if it meant that I wasn't supposed to be in California. I heard my home calling to me, beckoning balefully, but my emotions became more muddled the closer I got to answering the call.  I was afraid that when I got there, I wouldn't want to leave.  That's why I was stand-offish at first.  I knew I wasn't done with my quest in California and needed to get back to it, but I also knew the allure of comfort was a powerful thing.  Comfort is a feeling that lulls me into complacency and instills fear toward losing it. In general circumstances, comfort is a lovely thing, but I had learned to become comfortable with things at home that weren't good for me. I had come to realize that many of the comfortable habits I would slip back into weren't serving my soul, my inner joy. I had become comfortable with holding back, sacrificing my pleasures, and believing that more wasn't possible.  I was starting to learn so much about myself during my time away from home that I didn't want to lose my fragile insight, my new perspective, my tenuous hold on inner desires. So, I tried to view my visit in a different way: as a visitor.  I tried to stay in observation mode, to tell myself that I could be the kind of person who returns to her childhood home on occasion to reunite with family and friends, but I didn't have to stay.  They make movies about people who do that sort of thing!  Lots of movies.  I could be one of them.

At first, I felt like an impostor, a black sheep, rather than a prodigal child returned to the snow from whence I came.  But, I waded back into the flow of the lives I left six months ago and was swiftly caught up in the old ways. I laid back in the current and tried not to think about where it would carry me. I reveled in simple joys like snuggling my kitties, warming my back by the wood fire, cooking in my large kitchen with the expansive views outside, and having lunch dates with my dearest loved ones.  These were good comforts that I noted to myself as necessities in an ideal life.  I was grateful for the beauty of a light snow on our first morning, for the orange glow of the fire and the lemon yellow of the walls, for the easy physical closeness of my family, and for the seemingly vast indoor space of the house (compared to the 350 square feet of our California living quarters).  I dually noted that room to stretch my legs and large windows to look out on the world from within the warmth of my home was an essential ingredient to my feelings of joy, and something I missed desperately in our tiny California rental.

As I encountered people during my visit, I had to put away my former pride about loyalty to my home state and learn to tell my story about a new relationship with a warmer, sunnier place.  It was sometimes awkward, like telling the friends of your ex about your new beau.  It made me reflect on my choices and my choice of words.  But I maintained my convictions and did not regret for one second the decision I made to leave Alaska...so long as I could say that it was still temporary.  I was still no closer to knowing where this adventure was leading me, which made me feel untethered and apart from the kind of real lives everyone else was leading.  Their lives sounded concrete and dependable, while mine felt like it was dangling and drifting further away from anything solid.  I felt like the bit of lint at the end of a thread that's come unraveled from a sweater.  My state was precarious and ever-shifting, barely connected to anything, and vulnerable to being cut-off completely.

During my time at home, a sense of homelessness began to grow. It became clear that I had neither a home I could truly call my own in Alaska, nor California.  I felt uprooted and in danger of my roots withering if I didn't find soil to plant myself in soon.  I felt the pressure to choose a soil and at least say that I would end up there soon.  I felt like a traitor, a refugee, from any home I'd ever known and I yearned for the grounded feelings of place and belonging I'd had before.  On the other hand, I was nervous about admitting that I liked the freedom and unpredictability of the place I lived in now.  California was the land of opportunity and surprises for me...each day presented an adventure toward an unpredictable future.  That uncertainty and openness suited me, too.
























Being home in Alaska was exactly the paradox I thought it would be.  I felt at once peaceful and restless; comfort and discomfort; satisfaction and longing.  The two halves of myself were facing each other in the mirror and squaring off.  I decided to allow the Alaska self, the one that found comfort and reward in conformity, to overrule the wilder adventurous self that was visiting from down south.  I decided to lay back into my familiar mould and just sink down in the warm cushion of familiarity for the sake of peace and comfort.  Oh how easily it is done!

Comfort came in the automation of my few days back in the familiar realm of home.  I could drive to town on auto-pilot, find groceries at the store without thinking, relish the provision of heat and light without concern about finances, and fall into familiar routines and physical intimacies without self-consciousness.  There was so little thinking necessary to functioning at home.  Unlike the exhausting rally I had to muster each day I spend on my own in my new sunny surroundings down south.  These were all luxuries I'd learned to live without while away in California.  By the end of my short week at home, despite my initial trepidation, I had sunk deeply into the old ways.  I was a spoon in a jar of honey, slowly submerged, coated, and now impossible to extricate without a sticky mess and a good deal of waiting.

The shock of returning home, and leaving again, hit me the night before I left Alaska.  I didn't sleep.  I rose with butterflies, churning questions that needed answers, and panic over not having enough time.  I felt like there were things that needed to be talked about, but never were.  I felt the urge to make some kind of decision, but I didn't know what it ought to be about. I worried over the future. I lost my feelings of comfort as I faced a plane ride back to the ever-changing battle lines of my life expedition.  I was headed back to the front lines and wasn't sure I was ready.  I didn't know where I was headed and where home was supposed to be anymore.  I hugged my family goodbye, again, and pulled myself away from the solid warmth of their bodies against mine.  My husband said, "We'll figure this out."  And I knew that he meant, "You have to figure this out for yourself."  The tears began to roll down my cheeks.  They didn't dry out until I was somewhere over Oregon.

I recognized that I didn't have answers yet, but I accepted that the kind of answers I was looking for weren't going to be found in the comfort of my family home.  I allowed myself to feel the pain of separation and uncertainty, to let it seep down into my open wounds, to run hot down my face.  I let it out and wasn't ashamed. It helped that my son was right there with a hand on my arm, comforting, loving, quietly hopeful that when I emerged from my longing sorrow we would continue on our adventure.  And so we are.

Survival

I've begun an adventure to live 3000 miles away from my lifelong home, accompanied by my 13-year old son.  My husband remains in Alaska with my family on a multi-generational homestead where I grew up, while our son and I explore living in Northern California near his family.  I've traveled south to seek sun, heat, and new opportunities. Along the way, I'm sharing my journey about pursuing dreams, discovering what matters most in life, and finding the strength to be brave in the face of uncertainty.  For me, healing and strength are often found in simple pleasures and frequent communion with nature, so join me as we embark into the outdoors to reveal what's inside of us.

~

SURVIVAL

(keep breathing)

"Start by doing what is necessary, then what is possible, and suddenly you are doing the impossible." - St. Francis of Assisi

It's not totally unfitting that today is the day that I feel relieved to be a survivor.  After all, for Americans in my generation, the date September 11th is forever marked in our memories as a reminder of the importance of surviving.  The instinct to survive and protect was etched in our psyche in 2001 due to acts of hatred, but our emotional take-away of that day is so often grounded in finding community amidst the suffering.  It was the kind of day that everyone remembered exactly what they were doing the moment they became aware of the tragic events happening in New York City, the needless and confusing deaths of innocent people at the hands of closed-minded individuals.  I remember picking up my infant son in my arms, while watching the tragedy unfold on TV, and feeling the need to protect him from some faceless threat.  I felt lucky that day to survive, to be near my family, and to be in Alaska, which seemed worlds away from danger, yet surprisingly vulnerable.

Thirteen years later, today, I feel grateful again to have come out on the other side of an emotional trial.  For the past five weeks, my son and I have lived three thousand miles from our safe place in Alaska, and from our family.  Thankfully, though, they still bring us comfort, and I am realizing the irreplaceable role they have always played in our lives.  As I negotiate my way through the hoops and obstacles of being a single-parent in a new place and with a new job, I am often overwhelmed by stress and responsibility.  Yesterday, I felt at an all-time low, ready to pack my bags and retreat home.  I was sure I would not survive the collapse of my resolve to see this schoolyear through in California.  The urge to return home was immense and near-debilitating.  As with all survival stories, though, I made it through my  crushing doubt and found the strength to keep putting one foot in front of the other, to keep breathing in and out, until the day was done.  I reached out to my parents and found exactly the kind of support I needed to press on toward a more hopeful and stable place.  Hearing their empathetic and encouraging voices was the sustenance I needed to renew my resolve. Their humble acceptance of my decisions was enough to allow me to refocus my intentions.

I realized that, as my dad said, "the weather is nice somewhere in the world any day of the year, but family is only in one place; relationships can't be replaced."  The biggest question I came to California to contemplate, became clearer through my homesickness.  What is most fulfilling to me, nice weather or proximity to family? It seems that family satisfies something in my heart that weather can't do alone.  I'm far more social than I realized and quality time with loved ones fills a deep well in me even on the coldest days, whereas a perfectly pleasant day in outdoor paradise feels somewhat hollow without loved ones to share it with.  Only one month into my California adventure, this seems like an unfortunate epiphany to have, but I don't think so.  It is a step toward knowing myself better and knowing what I need to live a fulfilled life.  I don't think it is the last lesson to be learned in California, by far!  This is a lesson of great importance that will be further shaped by all the other lessons to come.  It is an answer which I am grateful to have, as I am grateful to have survived the emotional process it took to reach it.  Now, I keep moving forward to honor this event and count myself a survivor.  There is more to experience to come and more to be learned.

Alaska in the Rearview - America

On our fifth day of driving south, I started to feel anxious about re-entering America.  I felt my road trip coming to an end and the reality of the life that lay ahead of me looming very large.  There was no turning around and I was a wee bit nervous about what I'd gotten myself into.  I counted down the few days remaining of my summer freedom like a school kid. I started to drag my feet, so to speak; I wanted to linger in Canada, to find meaning, to find a memento to mark my progress through another country and toward a new way of life.  I had to buy something! As I mentioned earlier, Canada didn't necessarily capitalize on the memorabilia market, but I managed to waste a whole morning in order to find some Canadian-made tea and a locally-made stoneware mug in Maple Springs.  We also stopped at the duty-free store on the border at Blaine and picked up Canadian maple syrup.  I felt satisfied. We'd loitered long enough and I was ready to return to my home country - even though it felt like entering a different country from Alaska.

I don't know what it is about crossing borders, but there is  a difference from once place to another.  For one, we could drive faster on I-5 than in Canada.  At 70 mph, the kayaks wiggled ferociously on the roof from the buffeting wind.  But they held. For second, Washington state was absolutely brimming with lusciously dark green evergreen trees that towered over everything man-made.  I felt like a deer mouse in Sasquatch country or like the trees were gentle giants just allowing the freeway to pass between their legs.  In spite of the speed we were achieving, I veered off the freeway at the first opportunity, because I still wanted to show my son as many sights as possible before we reached our destination.  I followed the scent of saltwater into the maze of islands in Puget Sound, hoping to avoid the Seattle Metro area and catch a glimpse of the ocean.

We hopped across islands and over ornate stone bridges until we ran out of road.  I hoped that there would be room on the last ferry across the sound that would connect us with the mainland and Hwy 101, but I wasn't sure.  I was traveling by the seat of my pants with my fingers crossed and it made my traveling companion very nervous.  Fast forward through the argument we had about optimism and trust, and where my attitude got real stinky, to the part where we joyfully found our way onto a transport from the southern tip of Whidbey Island to Port Townsend.  The ferry ride was another checkmark on our "first time" list.  I was grateful it worked out and we eventually enjoyed the coastal scenery and the novelty of all the cars packed onto the boat traveling across the smooth ocean sound.

First time taking our car on a ferry!

I'm going to say something here that will incriminate me, or endear me, depending on your perspective.  I was a wee bit excited to see the town of Port Townsend and see whether it still had any trappings of its fame brought on by the Twilight book series which feature this hip harbor.  Yes, I read the books (straight through in 4 days with hardly any sleep - I'm slightly ashamed to admit).  But sadly, or not, I saw nothing regarding the cult trilogy during our brief layover.  However, I was completely taken by the cool and crunchy vibe of that remote Victorian town in the heart of the Olympic National Forest.  I felt quite at home there with my tiny hatchback piled high with outdoor paraphernalia.  This was the kind of place I could put down roots and grow tall as the pines!  It requires a lot of rain to get that tall, though, so I opted to continue onward toward my last stopover with the in-laws down in Portland, Oregon.  Right after we ate.

The main street was lined with eclectic, modern shops behind brink facades. On a quiet side street, we found the funky Hillbottom Pie where we feasted on scrumptious artisan pizza and salad while we observed the locals from our barstools above the sidewalk.  I started to feel a particular comfort seep into me with every sip of pungent green tea, like each choice I made toward my personal happiness was a cautious step into my new life.  Each time I said "yes" to my desires I carved out a little niche in which to get my footing and find stability.  I hoped that over time I would dig in enough to feel settled.

It was late after we finished dinner, and I knew we would arrive in Portland after dark, but I hoped to make it through the unfamiliar woods and back to the freeway while there was still light.  The boy put a movie in the laptop and I started hugging the turns through the darkening forest.  My tummy was full, my feet were warm, and my heart was at ease knowing I had a familiar bed to look forward to that night.  Those winding miles of tarmac through Olympic National Forest granted me the most peaceful and beautiful hours of the whole trip.

The next morning was a straight-shot south on I-5 to Redding, California, and the tiny cottage we would learn to call home.  We ate a pleasant breakfast with the grandparents, picked blueberries in the yard, and hit the road.  Oregon was my old stomping grounds in college and driving through it put me in familiar territory for the first time in days.

An Oregon Caveman greeted us in Grants Pass...it's apparently a tradition.

As we neared the Oregon-California border, my anxiety inched its way up into my chest.  The sun was setting on the landscape behind me and cast everything in shadow on the horizon ahead, both literally and metaphorically.  I had many questions churning in my mind and emotions vying for position in my heart.  Could I afford California on my own? Would my son like our new life?  Would our new home ever feel like home? Could I do my new job properly and make friends?  I felt keenly the reality of entering uncharted territory, and not just for a short vacation.  I was committed to a long-term change!  As if to signify my apprehension, ominous smoke clouds emerged on all sides the closer we got to Redding.  Forest fires in Oregon and California were to become a familiar part of our new daily life.  We were entering the land of triple digit summer heat, drought, and landscape like a tender box.  We were entering a strange new world...California.

At nearly 10pm, after some uncertainty about whether or not we needed a hotel for the night, we arrived in Redding at our tiny cottage rental.  I met our hostess in the dark of a moonless night as she unloaded bales of hay into a barn adjacent to our cottage.  I felt overwhelmingly grateful to this woman, whom I'd only spoken to once on the phone.  From 3000 miles away, she had sensed my need and extended her kindness and trust towards me by offering me the cottage sight-unseen.  I met her with a hope that we would like each other and find mutual benefit in our arrangement.  For the immediate time being, I simply wanted to unload our overnight bag, set up our sleeping bags, and get situated in our tiny new home.  As with most first nights in a new place it was sleepless and uncomfortable, but I felt tremendously grateful that we had a clean and welcoming place to lay our restless heads.

Alaska in the Rearview - British Columbia

Before we left Alaska, I told my son that this road trip was important to show him just how far Alaska was from the rest of the United States.  It was a lesson I learned when I was eleven and took an epic road trip with my family all the way to New Mexico and back.  He tried to tell me that he got it already, Alaska was a far away, but I assured him he didn't know until he'd experienced it.

Look at where we came from!

We left the expansive, but beautiful, wilderness of the Yukon Territory on our fourth day of driving and entered British Columbia with some giddy anticipation at being more than halfway to California.  We soon arrived at one of the best sites of the whole trip: Liard Hot Springs.  I carved out a couple hours of our day to share this hidden gem with my son.  The excursion only cost $8 for parking and the springs were not very crowded.  We donned shorts and tank tops (because our swimsuits were packed away) and walked the long boardwalk through a steaming bog to its source.  Pretty little orange fritillary butterflies flitted about on buttercups and the sun filtered through the boreal forest leaves.  The changing rooms and decks surrounding the hot spring were surprisingly clean and modern, just as I remembered from 16 years ago when my husband and I drove through.  We waded into the sulfurous creek and my son's eyes lit up with wonder.  A hot creek!  We waded toward the cooler end and followed the water through a narrow passageway of undercut banks and overhanging roots that reminded me of a mythical swamp from a movie.  The water became cold and clear, but downed trees blocked us from going further.  Back at the steaming pool, we let ourselves just float and drift around while the heat penetrated deep in our muscles.  The whole experience felt very European.  I managed to dip myself into the upper hot pool nearer the source and let the scalding water reach into the core of my bones.  It felt euphoric!

Reluctantly, we pulled ourselves out of the water, put on dry clothes, and walked back to the car to press onward.  Our bodies felt all squooshy inside, like softened butter, so we didn't really mind smelling like rotten eggs.  My son exclaimed in a theatrical and breathy voice, "That was awe-some," and that's all I needed to feel like mom of the year.

By late afternoon, we'd reached Dawson Creek at Mile 0 of the Alaska Highway.  It felt like the first modern civilization we'd seen since leaving Alaska.  Imagine driving 1,543 miles while encountering only a couple towns big enough for a stoplight.  Suddenly, I had to pay attention to traffic and use my map to navigate streets.  But it also meant the convenient reappearance of recognizable stores like Safeway, Shell, and Kentucky Fried Chicken.  I indulged my son in a hamburger, root beer float, and sweet potato fries from an A&W restaurant, which totally topped off his good day.

As we traveled on through BC, I also noticed the warmer sunshine.  We'd left behind the drizzly rain and cool air of the northern territory and Alaska, replacing it with wide open blue skies and the warm penetrating rays of lower latitudes.  It was hard to imagine my grandparents starting up the newly built Alaska Highway from this point almost 70 years ago.  Things were so different then, so much more rugged.  I think traveling in a northerly direction as far as Alaska, was like going through a worm hole that transported one back in time.  The further North you went, the older the technology got, the rustier the cars, the less sophisticated the architecture, the fewer the amenities.  Anchorage, of course, was the anomaly to this trend, but it it didn't totally avoid the characterization (especially 70 years ago).  Likewise, driving south was like taking the worm hole toward the future.  I had a sense that as I drove further south, I moved forward in time. Mile by mile I entered the modern world. 

That's a good pack job!

Having reached the beginning of the Alaska Hwy., I offered a silent thanks and pat on the back to my ancestors for being such intrepid adventures.  Then we found the closest modern hotel with room service and a pool and I gave another silent thanks for progress!

Where did my coffee go?  Last you saw it was on the roof?

On our last morning in BC, we made a hasty retreat from the somewhat seedy metropolis of Prince George.  Thanks to my son, who left my complimentary coffee from the hotel's continental breakfast on the roof of the car, I began to ween myself from the caffeine I'd come to rely on for our long days in the car.  The more frequent towns, increased traffic, and signs of civilization broke up the scenery sufficiently to keep me awake.  We aimed to stop anywhere interesting along the road, but pretty much kept to our goal of 500 miles per day.

At long last, the Canadian border came into view.  We lingered a bit at the duty-free shop to buy some Canadian maple syrup and playing cards to commemorate our trip through a foreign country.  And then we got in line to re-enter our own nation.

It's a little funny to think that America shares this continent with another country.  I think we forget sometimes.  While Canada isn't really very different from America in language or customs, it is still a foreign place right outside our back door that's worth exploring.  I had a good time visiting it again.  I feel accomplished to have driven through it by myself.  Give street cred to this mom!  We went 2,283 miles without a single major problem.  But, if I'm honest, which I usually am, I'm pretty darn excited to get back into my own country.  I want miles back.  I want smooth paved roads.  I want Taco Bell and Target.  I want tourist traps and kitschy shopping.  I want to feel like I'm with my people again, like I belong.  Washington state, here we come!

Alaska in the Rearview - Yukon Territory

 We crossed the Canadian Border without a hitch, and were promptly stopped by road construction.  There was some kind of agreement when the Alaska Highway was built, that Alaska would foot the bill for constructing the road, but Canada had to do the maintenance forever afterward.  Guess who got the better deal?  It seems that some large portion(s) of the highway are ALWAYS under construction.  People ask, "Isn't that road finished?"  Well, yes, but the moment the tar dries on one part of the road, another part starts to disintegrate.  Most of the highway is nothing more than rocks and dirt pressed into something hot and sticky and left to dry.  It makes for quite a rough tarmac.  That being said, rough texture taken at 50mph is a pleasure compared to being at a standstill, waiting in the middle of nowhere for a pilot car to lead you across miles of un-tarmac'd road under re-construction.

Two other things...why are there two systems of measurement on the same continent?  Kilometers per hour vs. Miles per hour.  I just can't adjust my thinking!  Thank goodness for the little Kph numbers on my car's speedometer.  And secondly, have you ever seen a milepost with so many numbers!  I admit to being a bit daunted knowing that when I reached Mile 0, I was only about half way to my destination.  Dang.  That's a long way.



Our drive through the Yukon was quite devoid of human comforts and the good ol' American abundance of everything, but that was kinda nice.  My boy and I devised games to play in the car to keep us awake and entertained.  The best were Twenty Questions, Would you Rather..., I spy, and a few we made up ourselves.  We took turns starting a string of words that rhymed until someone got stumped.  We tried to say words really fast or loosely to make the other one guess what we were saying (this idea came from the movie John Doe).  Or there was this game I thought up:

Mom: "I'll say a word like 'tree' and you have to make a real sentence of words that starts with each letter of the word I said, in order.  For instance, 'Theresa rakes every evening.' Okay, so try 'road.'"
Izak: "Randy often ate deer."

And so on...you should try it on your next road trip.

What the Yukon Territory did have was a lot of animals.  I've never seen so many bears in my whole life!  Our first one was just meandering along the highway in all his shaggy animal-ness, barely (pun) noticing that we had pulled up to capture his existence on our digital devices.  We saw six bears in one day!  Eight in total.  There were also moose, bison, porcupine, and lots of adorable little hares eating gravel along the roadsides.  We even saw a wolf!  The elusive wild canid was contemplating crossing the road when we zoomed by and, as sightings of elusive things go, he was gone by the time we managed to turn around and go back for a picture.

Between road trip games and taking potty breaks to stretch our legs, we snacked on peanut m'ms, horribly tough salmon jerky, cookies, fruit chews, and other unhealthy things.  In the afternoon, when my eyelids started to feel heavy, my son put a movie in the laptop and we shared a pair of earphones.  I was super surprised how well this kept me awake.  I'd rather not mention how often I found myself watching the movie - which wasn't much, I promise.  But I did find that listening to the action and the storyline kept my brain engaged enough that I wasn't fatigued. This was a good thing, since we decided on the first day that we wanted to put as many miles behind us each day as possible.  We put in about 12 hours driving each day to cover over 500 miles between decent lodgings.  This part of the highway is definitely more suited to motorhomes that can stop and sleep anywhere, than folks like us who depended on lodging with clean beds and food.

I was hoping that Whitehorse would hold some interesting sites and treasures for humans...a good restaurant at least.  This capital of the Yukon Territory was the first real city we'd seen in a thousand miles.  Alas, it was smaller than I'd imagined (or remembered) and not exactly rife with obvious touristy sites.  We parked in the downtown area, which is where I always go to scope out a new place, walked up and down a couple blocks that were mostly closed, and got back in the car. The day was waning, our bellies were growling, and we still had 100 miles to put under our wheels.  In a desperately hungry state, we gravitated toward the only business that seemed to have signs of life.  We entered what felt like the back door of a tiny, dimly lit, Mexican restaurant with patrons sitting inside and out.  I figured that was a good sign, so I ordered a couple things from the menu and then waited awkwardly between the cash register and the kitchen for our meals to-go.  As we drove out of Whitehorse, 25 minutes after we arrived, my only wish was that I'd ordered more food.

Whitehorse is a one horse town.

The only truly interesting sight in the Yukon was the sign city in Watson Lake.  I remember wandering the forest of signs as a kid twenty-five years ago on a family trip.  It has definitely grown!  There are also a lot more homemade signs and things people have simply written their names on to contribute to the menagerie.  Official street and town signs are still my favorite, like "Defiance, Corporation Limit" and "Niederwallmenach."  We spent a good half hour walking through the circular rows and reading the signs.  I loved finding names of places I recognized.  I think my son was just grateful to stretch his legs and have something other than me to look at. Watson Lake had a gas and a grocery store in town, but not a lot else.  Next stop...British Columbia and hopefully some civilization!

**Updated Oct 7, 2014**

Alaska in the Rearview Mirror

You know you live in a big place when you can drive in a single direction all day and still be in that place.  No one would ever accuse Alaska of being small, but I think few people realize just how difficult it can be to get out of the last frontier by road.

After almost five wonderful summertime weeks at home in Alaska, half of that time being occupied by frantic preparations for my return to California, I had to get in my car and start driving south.  I wasn't exactly anxious to leave the mild summer sunshine and impossible green lushness of home, but I knew that in six months time I would feel lucky to not be in the long deep-freeze of the northern winter.  So, Izak played with his cousins and snuggled the cats one last time as I tried to reduce the weight in my car by eliminating one more box of kitchen ephemera.  Somewhere in that box was a very useful can opener I later needed.  Good thing there are Target stores everywhere!  Everything else I thought I needed was crammed as efficiently as possible into boxes and an overnight bag that filled my entire hatchback from floor to roof.  My dad expertly harnessed our two kayaks, paddles, and walking sticks to a new roof rack on top of the car and applied protective plastic on the hood for the unpredictable journey through Canada.  I only hoped that everything was secure enough to not rattle off and not so heavy as to blow out any of my tiny tires.

My son and I made our tearful goodbyes to our dearest loved ones in the driveway on a drizzly Saturday morning.  The only way to make such a heart-wrenching departure was to do it without thinking too much.  Easier said than done, of course.  It also helped to avoid actually saying, "Goodbye." So we said, "See you later," and climbed into the seats we would call home for the next week.  Our first stop was only 10 miles down the road at my favorite healthy cafe, The Red Beet Bistro, where we bought lunch and some gluten-free cookies for the road.  About two hours later, we finally left familiar surroundings behind and started making our way into uncharted territory.

My sport-car seats soon had us shifting from cheek to cheek and regretting that we forgot the pillows we'd set aside to cushion the non-luxury ride.  I developed a technique of putting the car on cruise control so I could alternately cross my legs or sit side-saddle and stave off numbness.  We watched the spruce forest and aspen groves flash past the windows for several hours.  Mountain ranges approached and receded, rivers meandered close by and then drifted away, and millions of trees watched quietly as we drove by.  Izak filmed interesting viewpoints and vantages with a new video camera I bought for that purpose, but, mostly, we drove without talking much.

We got out at a rest stop somewhere on the interior plateau, beyond the blue peaks of the Alaska Range, and stretched our legs.  A young couple on heavily loaded bicycles pulled in just as we were getting back into the car.  I asked where they were going and learned that they had started biking at Prudhoe Bay on the North Slope and were headed to Mexico.  This beautiful couple from Amsterdam hoped to be sipping Mojitos on a Mexican beach by Christmas!  I marveled at their story (and their freedom) and suddenly felt like our adventure wasn't as daring as I thought.  Mostly, though, I appreciated how remote places had a way of drawing out fascinating people, and that our converging paths weaved together some of the outer fringes of human experience.  Izak and I were out on the borders of the human tapestry integrating our own unique thread.  I just hoped that when we looked back on our journey that our thread made sense in the larger picture - that it looked like it belonged - and maybe even enhanced the greater whole.

 Alas, we didn't quite make it to the border of Alaska that day, but stopped just short of it.  We overnighted in Tok at a lovely cabin, ate burgers at Fast Eddy's, and picked up a couple final Alaskan souvenirs.  Our first day racked up about 280 miles on the odometer in about six hours, which was an easy start for our journey.  In order to get to California by Friday, like I hoped, we had to start putting twice that many miles under our wheels each day.  I hoped it wouldn't always feel like an endurance test and we could manage a way to enjoy it, too.

We stretched our legs by walking on the road near the cabin until the cold wind forced us back to the warmth of indoors.  The next day promised to be full of firsts, so I didn't mind one more night of familiarity and comfort before crossing that physical and metaphorical border.  Tomorrow, we venture into the Yukon Territory of Canada - a place more remote and lacking in services than most people in North America are likely to ever experience.  Here we go....