The debate – which way do I go home. With just two highways between Tok, Alaska and Whitehorse, Yukon the decision should not be hard, yet I have been struggling with it for days. Tombstone Park has been calling since I left in July. The other choice – the Alaska Highway. I was eleven the last time I had traversed that section of Highway. The ability of driving through the Kluane Mountains influenced my reasoning. Besides it makes more sense to drive a road I have not been on recently – not just drive the route most familiar. But really, my ride over the Top of the World did not count. The scenery was thoroughly disguised by a haze of smoke so dense it could be tasted of fire. Chunks of ash bounced from the windows. Only fleeting glimpse of trees near the road’s edge distracted from the gray, the yellow, the amber cloak of a fiery haze.
Last night the northern lights taunted with a display reaching above the mountain ranges gracing my northern horizon. This fleeting glimpse captivated me through the night. Every time I rolled my eyes looked northward – yes, the lights were still there. By morning the decision had been made. If it will be clear tonight I will not deprive my want of another display – this time from the Top of the World – where nothing could obstruct my view.
The morning dawned bright – well almost. Mountains shaded my gravel pit camp until 9:30. Even moving the tent into the suns warmth the frost was not melted at 10:00. I gave in – packed a frosty, wet tent.
In Tok I checked the road status. The border crossing to Canada closes the middle of September – it was the 15th. Fortune was on my side. This year it will be open until 3:00pm on September twenty-one.
The decision was easy.
After twelve wondrous miles on the Alaska Highway I turned left – headed north on a rough, frost sculpted road – the Taylor Highway.
Chicken was the next town. Other than a strangely peculiar name Chicken has little to offer. I’d been there before and hardly blinked. Yes, there were derelicts of goldrush machinery hanging around, but it was nothing – free dry camping if I had an RV – but I get free camping most nights anyway.
I had to know – I turned off the highway to examine the Dredge abandoned in the middle of town. A tourist junket – Downtown Chicken was on the right. I moved on. Junk stores aimed at tourists don’t lure me in. I continued around the corner to the dredge. It sat there in a dry moat slowly rusting – a National Historic Landmark. It was worthy of closer examination. Nearby a group sloshed water in black pans, “Pan gold all day – just ten dollars” advertised the sign.
Leaving the dredge I was lured towards Downtown Chicken. I retraced my path to the town’s centre. A crowd was assembled at the lone picnic table. Beer bottles, Alaskan, reflected in the sun.
. . . not my kind of place.
I stopped anyway.
First stop – the trinket store. It met my expectations – but wait – in the far back corner, on the table by the door, and in between – books. Just a copy or two of each title, but it was the most complete offering of literature about the gold rush days and early exploration I had seen in Alaska or the Yukon.
Through the cut-out in the wall wafted the dank odour of a well-used tavern. It was dark but well patronized. A well-watered woman was extolling the folly of women donating their panties to an ongoing experiment. I tried to ignore her as I walked through the tavern’ door. The ceiling was tiled with innumerable ball caps. The lower wall papered with yellowed business cards. Strangely, there was a section of wall covered with frilly shreds of fabric. A poorly lit pool table took up the far depths of the small room. Five people at the bar, two more in chairs along the wall. It was nearly a full house – hardly room to walk through. As I stepped out the door the lady was still berating women – girls – who come to Chicken to waste their panties.
“Why would anybody throw away their panties? They’re so expensive. Guys even take them off their dolls.”
This place was weird. I don’t do bars and this had me wigged out.
Walking out the door I noticed a strangely grinning gentlemen – mallet in hand – pounding a wooden stick into a heavy metal canister. On his workbench, next to the flowering geraniums sat a bucket – “reload bucket” and a plastic container – “gunpowder.”
From inside the bar, the ranting lady hollered, “Be careful.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m sober this time!” responded the one with mallet and stick.
I headed to my car . . . head shaking. The strangely grinning, mallet wielding gentlemen said, “Excuse me Sir, would you wait just a minute?” Between his muscle flexed arms he struggled to carry the metal canister. From the top it leaked toilet paper. A green detonation string dangled out the side. He set it down just behind my car.
I was in no position to argue with a man carrying a strange explosive device. I stayed back – way back – by the picnic table.
He bent down – lighter in hand – and lit the fuse. Springing to his feet he dashed back to the table – fingers in his ears shouting – “Plug your ears, PLUG your ears!” Before I could even react a fountain of flame rocketed skyward and a deafening roar rattled my eardrums. Like teenage giddy girls, everybody giggled hysterically. Sheds of toilet paper drifted down.
As the shreds settled to the ground one person somberly walked towards my car, picked up a pocked and charred piece of lacey fabric.
Almost timidly he held the patch, a racy remnant, toward the crowd. Handing it to a woman in the crowd – the wrong one – he queried
“Are these your panties?”
