Hitchhiking North, 2006:
Geology, Literature & Bears,
Racist Lunatics & Revolutionaries:
A symphony in four parts

Part I

Well, in late March I made a weekend trip to Mission, nothing interesting in particular about that except that I hitchhiked on the way back from the visit to my uncle—marking my first successful hitching in my thirties. Seems silly now to be concerned about a non-tangible number, but it felt better to have that at least “under my belt” before beginning the trip this summer, one both a return home after a difficult year involving the illness of my mother and a chance to go and work. A chance to do some political work, even if it is vastly smaller than last summer, would make a trip based on simply working all that much better. More than anything, to find myself, I needed to get lost on the road.

This is a story from 365 days ago, give or take. My apologies for the delay in production, but I had an interruption of familial sorts in October when about 70% of this article was written. I am in the middle of new stories as I click "publish" now, so please stay tuned.

Macdonald

Well, for some reason, I got very nervous about how I would get into the Valley--beyond the roads. So leaving Somba Ké (Yellowknife) was a little gut-wrenching, at least enough to be very noticeable. I am guessing it was all the internalized hype--“hitching into the Valley!” and I was fearful of failure. Plus, once having arrived in first Fort Providence and later “The Knife” and realizing that neither the canoe nor a plane ride would work to getting me down the valley north further exacerbated the nerves. I would wish to say a lie: that at first the challenge of hitching into such an unusual location would make me happy, but in reality the nerves were indeed simply stretched thin.

Dawson City into Denendeh;
Alternatively, “Why I Love People”.

I love people.

Let me explain. When you are hitchhiking it is one of the greatest ways to reinvigorate your belief in humanity. Sometimes, you learn more than that. Some random incidents of simple kindness to consider, all since leaving Dawson City. In the north, it is hard to garner a ride sometimes, simply by virtue of lack of traffic. The ratio of cars-passing-by to rides goes dramatically in your favour, increasing in odds as the vehicles themselves decrease numerically. To get out of Dawson City, one short ride with a woman named Sylvia I had met 2 years ago, while she working in Tombstone Territorial Park, at the Interpretive Centre. She offered me shoes until it was determined that they would likely be too large. Then, at “Dempster Corner”, I waited for at least 2 hours, feeling increasingly ill. Yes, as I feared, I was getting a cold while on the road for the first time in my life.

III: Carmacks to Dawson City:
2 Chiefs, a Czech and a Command Performance

I woke up and left some time or other. I couldn’t tell you when. I know I felt great to be this close to Dawson, knowing I’d make it today. It was Friday and the happening that never happened was supposed to start happening this day, but that was no matter as it turned out. I left slowly and was wandering up the side of the highway again, when before I settled on a particular spot, the Chief (Eddie) from the Little Salmon government grabbed me and drove me along, teaching me a lot about the land around his Nation. He was going to a conference near Minto involving all of the chiefs in the region, about drugs and alcohol. When he dropped me, I waited about 40 minutes. Then, the Chief from Pelly Crossing (Eric) picked me up, having been told about me by the other guy. This guy had just been elected for the first time, only a month before.

IV: Dawson City:
Employment in the Town of Debauchery

Dawson City is nearly impossible to try and explain, but here goes. It was founded on the destruction of the Klondike River and the salmon runs, killing most of the Trondek Hwei’chin Indians while dredging the river for all gold possible, and was the pole attraction for all those who had the motive to come here led by greed & money. The slogan of the town then was “gold, whiskey and women,” which is where the local whorehouses come into the picture. Today, this little town built on greed continues to use yesterday’s greed to market a way to feed the greed of today, as the town is all about “frontier” tourism. The town has a few more than a thousand people who live here (where I am as I write this) during the Winter, but in the Summer it swells up to over three thousand. Most of the people who live here in the Summer are transient. The transient population being so high makes for a very strange community, or should I say lack of one, anywhere; you can find this kind of headspace in places like Whistler or Banff. Here, the city is known as mainly a place to drink-- drink a lot, and drink really fast. Throw into all of this amazing amounts of money flowing around in circles and a sun that never fully sets, and you can imagine what kind of crazed party town this place is.

II: J37 to Carmacks

Thinking I would stop in Whitehorse to see my former partner Heather when I first left Iskut, my mind changed on that as I tried to get to the “Hitchhiker Happening” that never happened-- It was supposed to be the weekend of July 8-10th; but never seemed to materialise. Nonetheless, Dawson City became the goal, with a planned stop over in Whitehorse on the return trip.
When I first woke up at Albert Creek, I was certain of one thing only: need new tent now. I headed for the road, after my usual slow breakfast. It was maybe a five to ten minute walk to the junction. I wish the walk had taken longer, because this wait was like so many north waits are. Long, boring and offset by the length of the ride when finally picked up.

I: Prince Rupert to J37.

In all reality, it wasn’t until July 2nd that I got on the road to leave Prince Rupert for real; I left Port Edward sometime in the late morning on that Saturday. I was first a little irritated with myself for not taking the work of being on the road seriously the day before. Now, once I got my first ride, I was going to make some miles. It took me forever to get my ride, so it seemed, but the first one was only “halfway” to Terrace, the city I had to cross on my way to Highway 37, Kitwanga, Meziadin and later, Tahltan territory.
“Steve”. Steve was a grower, and he was driving fast to meet up with a buyer somewhere. He talked a lot about the product and how proud of it he was. We drove for about 45 minutes of cultivation conversation, before he let me out, said he was “going to go 2 miles away to meet this guy, and then after if you are still here, I’ll come back and give you a bunch for the road.” Well, I was stuck at this spot for over an hour and the guy never came back—so let this be a request that you are not being the guy who makes the trip more fun/relaxing/enjoyable if you pick up a rider and then offer them things you don’t deliver. It’s not a god thing! But really, I never expected his return and was simply happy to be near water; I had run out while camping in the garbage spot (due to a lack of road humility). The water was the Skeena so I boiled it on my stove first, and to “quench thirst” was drinking hot water from a bottle.

It Takes a Whole Society to Murder Your Best Friend

"Old man take a look at my life, I’m a lot like you
I need someone to love me the whole day through
Ah, one look in my eyes and you can tell that's true"
--Neil Young.

Just before I left Lax Kw’alaams, I received the notice that one of the best friends in my life had died going over a small but jagged waterfall in Bow River, adjoining the city of Banff, Alberta. As with all news about these kinds of matters, it takes a day or two before it actually means that it is real, not just a thought. After spending too much time getting out of Prince Rupert, I only made it around 20kms past the city my first night on the road in over a week (to Port Edward). Then, as happens in Prince Rupert almost every night of the month of July, it rained rather hard and my tenting spot, not even worth photographing, was a dump site with at least a decently flat spot on the ground to sleep. Stuck in the rain, at the beginning of the hardest part of my journey, seemed almost the perfectly appropriate place for me to be while the fact that my friend Chris was dead became real.

Well, I had a week and a half off the road to be in Vancouver, and it was very relaxing. But returning to the road was important. The road has been my caregiver, this has been very clear, and also my teacher. I am certainly of the belief that the general direction of this whole trip has been decided upon by forces greater than myself. It’s important that I not figure out what they are, but they are there clearly. Let me stress this: I am determined to experience these wonders without trying to define them, lest that kill their spirit. First, a story from before Vancouver that I must tell before returning to the new leg, and the new tales.

Hitchhiking in Southern Alberta:
Hospitality, kindness and white-supremacy.

It was after leaving Regina that my spirit was first given a small but real test from the road. In fact, it was while leaving Regina that my tests began. Having gone shopping a little in Regina, I was now carrying more weight than usual, as I also had nearly four litres of water on me because I had no idea whether or not I would have enough fluids on the road through Saskatchewan and Southern Alberta. I left a little late in order to say goodbye to my host-friend Sharai, and had serious doubts as to making it all the way to Fort Macleod in the one day.