Prologue
Travelling up the Dempster Highway (740 km of rutted, washboard, potholed dirt road) had been a long-shot wish for us. The lateness of the season, threats of a flat tire, stone-chipped windshields, no gas stations, off-grid for days, kept us silent and resigned that we “shouldn’t”. Having driven almost 500 km toward Dawson City, we came upon the cutoff. The corner had a last-stop gas station and a large wooden sign announcing the start of the Demptster. A sideways glance between us, with an unspoken, we’re here, we might as well, we pointed Mertyl north. After 74 km of body slamming and brain rattling, and with silly grins on our faces, we pulled into Tombstone Territorial Park for an overnight. Set in rolling arctic-like tundra, the ground thick with lichen, dollops of snow on the mountains surrounding us, a pleasantly loud Blackstone River bordering the rear of our campsite, we were giddy.
Update
We have exited the Yukon, now heading south on a rolling, worn and bumpy, almost paved Cassiar Stewart Highway. We have 723 km on this roller coaster, without connection to the outside world. Like the Dempster Highway of the Yukon, it’s a Hotel California route . . . no check out, no turn around, you can never leave.
So far, the land is flat and scrubby, with forest fire remnants once again evident. Sadly, we have travelled through many areas decimated by wildfires; imagining the raging sweep of flames licking the green needles off the trees, leaving the forlorn charred trunks to slowly rot and return to the earth. In the Yukon, the brilliant gold Aspens dotted the blackened landscape and offered hope of regrowth. It seems here nature has abandoned this scarred corner of British Columbia. Our “Go Camping BC” brochure is promising us a must-see destination campsite on Boya Lake – a highlight to any trip to Canada’s north.
Our second visit to Whitehorse was a delight. We visited a gallery and shop with paintings, pottery, jewelry, and leather goods from local artists, and a museum that included the story behind Sam McGee’s cremation and the frantic Gold Rush that began in the late 1800’s. I had the best scrambled eggs of my life at the Burnt Toast Café. It was refreshing and energizing after our drive by Dawson City. Despite being assured it was much different during the summer, I experienced a disturbing visceral reaction of being in either a ghost town or on a movie set, without a director yelling Action. The period storefronts were meticulously painted, goods in the windows, welcome signs on the doors that were locked, with an eerie black vacancy behind the windows. We picnicked in a deserted manicured park along the Yukon River and hit the Klondike Highway back toward Whitehorse.
As we enter the fourth week of our MERT, I am struck by how often we lean forward in our seats to get closer to the windshield and therefore to the outside and utter an “oh wow”. Sometimes I pick up my phone to take a picture; many times I ask to slow down so I can take it in with my eyes and store it in the photo album of my mind. We have spent over 85 hours driving in silence; Mertyl’s creaks, groans and brief chats with the dogs the only break in our visual immersion in all that is around us. Local radio stations hold no interest; cell service is scarce. Our one indulgent diversion has been to listen to Mathew McConnehey read his memoir (Greenlights). Sharing a set of earbuds, driver with the left, passenger the right, we have relished his stories, life lessons, musings, wisdom and humour, many times glancing at each other when his words landed with heavy relevance and poignancy. We have begun London Falling; I am voting we save it for the unremarkable stretch through eastern Saskatchewan and Manitoba as we head east toward home.
I am also aware of a sense of calm, easy temperament, and natural rhythm that has permeated my body, mind and spirit. While my senses are more acute, my emotions are gentler. I’ve lived most of my life as a human nerve ending, so this shift to a soft light on a dimmer switch feels magical.
Epilogue
Boya Lake campground blessed us with an emerald lake surrounded by snow-capped mountains, and a beautiful hiking trail. My lake dip was chilly though my feet sunk in the grey green silt bottom were kept warm.