Comparison

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.

~

COMPARISON

(ANOVA - analysis of variance)

"The road of life twists and turns and no two directions are ever the same. Yet our lessons come from the journey, not the destination." - Don Williams. Jr.

Alaskan Homestead or Californian cottage

I can't help but look upon my new surroundings and notice how different they are from where I came from.  I'm constantly comparing.  My tiny cottage, my bed, my job, my routine, and my friends are not the same as what I had at home. 

The differences may seem like an obvious
 outcome of a move, but my concern is 
about what those differences mean to me. 

How important are the lingering desires for what I used to have: to see my mom and dad in the flesh, to casually call them up to meet for lunch, to watch my brother grow in his new marriage, to snuggle into the broad shoulder of my husband, or to wake up in my own bed with a view of the homestead out my window?  What does it mean that the everyday words, "let's go home," still have a pang of falseness and longing?

Golden fall aspen or Golden grassy oakland

When I'm on vacation, I accept that my surroundings will be different and I can revel in it.  The variation is the  goal.  I let go of all expectations and take everything moment by moment.  I seek to devour as much newness as possible and widen my experience.

But, this time, I keep looking back.  

I can't let go of what I left behind, I can't stop comparing what is around me to what used to be around me. Why?

Unwittingly, I'm stuck in an cycle of analyzing the variables of my life. This kind of experiment is called ANOVA for short (ANalysis Of VAriance).  It's a scientific term for conducting an experiment to measure specific differences in groups - otherwise known as variables. Basically, an ANOVA determines if the difference between several variables is statistically significant.  And that's what I want to know.  What differences are significant, and how so?

I want to know what the significance is of having my son with me, but not my husband? Will this be detrimental to our family on the whole? How much effect will there be on my son if he is near his paternal grandparents instead of his maternal grandparents?  Has he lived long enough with one side of the family to balance a few years living near the other side? What about his high school experience and his proximity to colleges? How important is this proximity to his success in adulthood? How important are the next four years to establishing my own future - my family connectivity, my incremental work experience, my contribution to retirement?

Ultimately, I want to know if the benefits of living in California versus Alaska will translate to long-term benefits for me and my family.  

Is is better to stay here in California and hope that my beloved family follows my lead? Or, should I go back to my home state of Alaska, where my life is more stable, and work with my family to make a joint venture beyond Alaska?  I'm trying to weight the risks and benefits - but I feel swamped by too many variables.

Skilak Lake or Lake Shasta

In my experiential ANOVA, I have created categorical differences that align with my observations. The big ones are:

• weather (sun and heat impact my daily happiness - but cold is inevitable, even in Redding)
• family (loved ones to make life seem worthwhile and provide support)
• opportunity (a meaningful career for me and a launchpad for my son are immediate concerns)

Alaskan kitties or Californian kitties 

If I observe that we spend more time outside in California, which is an important factor in our overall enjoyment of life, then I have to determine what category of comparison best illustrates this difference and how different it is.  

Based on the variables above, it seems useful to compare the differences that weather, family, and opportunity have in our lives, based on whether we are in Alaska or California. Subconsciously, I think I am always making these comparisons.  

I am looking for an answer is these logical comparisons.  But maybe life is not as simple as a scientific experiment.

Frozen toes or Sweating toes

Making a decision about where to live is not necessarily as easy as conducting an ANOVA and going with the results.  There's a lot of emotion and relationship involved that defies scientific analysis. I also have to go by my gut.  

I'm trusting my inner compass to guide me to the correct path. I'm relying on a 
supernatural belief in the outer workings of all things for our ultimate good.

Keep journeying with me to see where our path leads...

Belonging

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.

~

BELONGING
(Sense of place)

"Every experience of love, bliss, belonging, inspiration, and insight provides a stepping stone back to your true self." - Deepak Chopra

I never realized how linked my sense of self was with my sense of place.  I am not only a girl  from Alaska, but a girl made of Alaska.  I cannot separate myself from the environment where I was formed. 

I may leave Alaska, 

but it never leaves me. 

It's no wonder that I have felt so out of place and foreign here in California.  After a couple weeks in a new dwelling, new job, new state, new family arrangement, and with new nearby relatives it became clear I needed a grounding experience to bring me back to some sense of myself.

Sense of place in geographical terms "involves the human experience in a landscape, the local knowledge and folklore. Sense of place also grows from identifying oneself in relation to a particular piece of land on the surface of planet Earth."  Finding a sense of place, a touchstone to bring me back into alignment with my heart, was as simple as getting into a quiet place in nature.  

I found the ideal place to center myself at Crystal Creek, just west of Whiskeytown Lake.  Wading through the clear water into the woods worked marvels toward getting me back in step with my purpose and filling me with peace.  Nature is my bliss!  And such additional bliss to watch my loved ones revel in the place as well. 

After a couple hours, the place felt like it was mine, like it was ours. That sense of belonging helped me to plant my feet a bit firmer on this new ground.  My heart opened up to the beauty of the sights and sounds and flowed with the water that trickled around my toes.  I let my hopes and wishes be carried like leaves down the creek to whatever destiny lay ahead.

It was like each barefoot rock-hop, or knee-deep step in the creek brought me closer to an unburdened state of being.

Though I might feel totally out of place, totally lost without the comfort of my familiar people around me, totally detached from love, totally incapable of handling every challenge with grace...I am always totally capable of taking a walk.  And therein lies my salvation.  So long as I can put one foot in front of the other and take myself somewhere that I might discover a unique stone, a beautiful fall leaf, a ray of warm sun, or a creature in its niche habitat, I will find perfect purpose in the place where I am.  And if I can find purpose in my surroundings, then I also have hope that I can create a sense of belonging in this new place.  This journey will not be for nothing.

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....