A Walk In The Woods

Driving from San Diego to Alaska in winter would be hard, but would we be stopped before even leaving home?

A True Tale From The Files; Written January 1989

From deep in my jacket, the squirming has turned incessant.

Cold. Too blessedly cold for dogs (or people, for that matter). I look down at Sam, my sister’s three-month-old golden retriever. I placed him in my jacket, at the fierce request of my sister, in the hope that he would warm up a little.

But now he’s getting restless, and he’s still cold.

The moisture in his breath has frozen around his mouth, giving him a sagely white beard. This would otherwise be amusing—but not now. It’s too cold, and the distance to the car, still a quarter mile away, makes walking alone creepy. I can’t wait to get back to the car.

Thirty, forty, fifty below zero? Did it matter? The sweat of my feet is frozen, my nose is running (the snot frozen on my upper lip), and my eyelashes are freezing together, making opening my eyes difficult. I have a sickening feeling that something bad is about to happen.

But I’m being just ridiculous! What am I worrying about? This is the only path to the hot springs; the car is just ahead. The trees, draped with snow and the fading light of the northern British Columbia afternoon, make all this look like a set from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer; all you need is the Burl lves snowman singing "Silver and Gold".

Janet and Kevin, only a few hundred yards back at the hot springs, will hear me from five miles away if I yell.

So what do I have to worry about?

Yet Sam’s yelps continue to sound too loud. I remind myself that bears hibernate in winter.

But, now that I think of it, wolves don’t, do they...?

Have you ever seen the movie Never Cry Wolf? Wolves are such fun animals to be caught alone with. They stand in packs (eyes ablaze, frozen breath hanging like clouds over their heads), until they start to run after you, slowly at first but then gaining speed. Intelligent, fighting as a team, they reach speeds of 45 mph before bringing down their victims. Walking alone to the car, I realize that if Janet and Kevin can hear me, then other, less-friendly things

(wolves)

can hear Sam’s continued yelps also.

Ridiculous!

Paranoid!

(wolves)

Get out of the cold, boy, your brain’s freezing!

(Wolves!)

Sixth Sense warning?

("Wolves, Sean, WOLVES!")

Not far now. Only a couple of hundred yards and I’ll be at the car. Speeding up my pace, I tell Sam to stop crying while I try to fight down the feeling that I’m being watched. I try to forget that I’m near the Yukon border in the middle of January.

I try to forget that for thousands of miles there is nearly a complete absence of cars, buildings, and (most strikingly) people. Christ, make a wrong turn here and the next thing to stop you will be the Arctic Ocean, not the local Burger King.

The feeling of watchfulness remains, and I decide that either I’m going to start running or I’m going to stop and look behind me.

Reluctantly, I slow and then stop. Turning around, I look back into the forest to see what is following me.

Janet and Sam in Destruction Bay, Yukon. January 1989.

Step Five And The Theory Of Underestimation

Lurking, slithering, muttering amongst themselves, Step Fives wait around every corner for us. Their trusty cohort, the Theory of Underestimation, keeps them hidden from view.

Like room 101 in Orwell’s 1984, a step five appears benign, an utterly harmless procedure, easily started and quickly finished. But fools, this is merely a part of its disguise. Step Five is ready to pounce from every aspect of life, making you pull your hair and bringing obscenities to your lips when you finally understand how complex and challenging they are.

End Apartheid!

World Peace Now!

Enroll in Speech 103!

Now put the transmission back in!

Finish Packing on December 27th!

Drive a loaded trailer to Alaska in Winter!

Change the clutch this afternoon and have a party tonight!!

No man is immune. Nowhere is safe.

The beginning of our trip is a story of Step Fives and Underestimation: underestimation of the amount that has to be moved and the time it will take to move it, underestimation of its weight, underestimation of the time changing a clutch will take, and perhaps underestimation of our own stamina. But one thing remained clear: Step Five is not insurmountable. No goal is abandoned, and few are modified.

Although driving to Alaska is a son-of-a-bitch, it’s hard not to be romantic when I consider the abstract elements of the trip. Driving to Alaska in January is a potent force in my imagination, and the actual events are as interesting as any that I could have thought up before the trip.

December 27, 1988 -- San Diego

Well, the holiday is over. There is no slacking off now. The parents packed their bags, climbed into the Saab, and left for the airport and Houston—quiet, restful Houston. Any notion of Christmas can be pushed away, and the final preparations can begin.

We all come together the last couple of days. Between building the storage closet at the hangar, packing boxes, and painting the trailer, we had a wonderful Christmas Eve. Now I’m itching to get going. The Christmas tree is pulled down the day after Christmas. It's time to get on the road.

Part of my desire to leave is the excitement of seeing another part of the country. But the main reason I want to get going is the realization that life will become infinitely easier once we get on the road.

If we could stick to our original plans, we should be leaving today. We’ll be lucky to leave by the 29th or 30th. What a drag!

Once my parents leave at 6:00 a.m., Kevin and I begin working on the clutch. The Land Cruiser is a big car, and changing the clutch is shaping up to be a big job. But we plug away and slowly progress.

We will change the clutch to a heavy-duty center-pull model, hopefully wearing better while pulling the trailer.

Kevin also wants to change the gasket on the oil pan at the bottom of the engine. It has been leaking, and Kevin is afraid it will break open completely while we are far from any service stations. He also wants to install a circulating heater to prevent the engine from freezing in Arctic conditions.

None of these things should be too hard, but doing them correctly will take time.

I laughed at Kevin’s overalls, but now I wish I had a pair myself; the work is filthy. When sprawled on the floor and looking up at the transmission, oil gasket, or clutch, I expected dirt. I didn’t expect the sickening smell of grease, oil, and anti-freeze or the strange, disorienting effect of being under the car. Staying under the Land Cruiser for more than half an hour is a real bear.

At 9:50, we take a break and head to the Toyota dealership to pick up the oil gasket replacement and talk to the mechanics about the easiest way to install the clutch. You learn something new every day. The trip takes about an hour.

We continue to work, alternating from job to job, but we are not making much headway. The old oil gasket is not coming off easily—in fact, it’s downright irritating. We finally use an air hammer to chip away at the cork of the old gasket.

I planned to be at Christy’s parents' house at 5:00 p.m., but it’s nearly seven when I leave. We at least managed to get the old gasket off, but we have a long way to go before the finish line.

When I jump in the shower, I can get all the dirt off except on my hands. I hope nobody notices.

The drive up is long, and I’m already exhausted. I sure am glad when Christy changes her mind about going out. I get two more gifts. The first one is Syrup and Bisquick from Lisa. Lucky me! Definitely going to be useful when

(if)

I get back.

The second gift is from Christy’s Aunt. It’s a plaid scarf. The entire clan has gone hog wild on me this Christmas. Life would have been tough in the weeks ahead without the clothes and Sorels I received.

Christy and I end up watching TV, and I leave early. It is great to see her, but I’m completely smashed, hashed, and exhausted when I get home. The drive back to San Diego is a killer. I get to sleep around 1:00 a.m.

December 28 -- San Diego -- Mayhem At The Hangar

Janet is supposed to pick me up at 8:30 this morning. I feel like laughing when she calls, apologizing that she will be late. “Take your time! I know what I’ll be doing once I get to your house.”

I use the extra time to ensure everything is in place for Christy. Since I’m leaving before the first and haven’t received Chad’s check, Christy will mail my bills and run my check to the rental office.

Janet finally picks me up around 10:50, and we drive to El Cajon for a trailer spare tire. I hope we don’t need it. On the way back, we crack jokes about the scuzzy-looking people in El Cajon, drawing comparisons to Alaskans. Janet can’t be sure what she’s getting herself into, but I hope Alaska is nicer than she thinks it will be, for her sake.

Although working on the clutch was just ever-so-fun yesterday (bamboo splinters pushed up underneath your fingernails?), Janet and Kevin decide I can be more useful helping Janet today. Kevin will stay at the house and continue to work on the car.

Shoot. Darn. Rats. I’m so disappointed.

Janet says we can finish taking over all the stuff that will stay in San Diego today. That will be quite an accomplishment. Galen comes over with his truck, and we slowly load those things that will go in the storage box in the hangar. As we prepare to leave, Kevin gives us last-minute instructions about getting his plane out of the hangar and back in again.

We weren’t listening too well.

At the hangar, we get Kevin’s plane out with little difficulty and begin to load things into the storage closet. Janet sure is high-strung right now. Too little sleep, too much work, and worries about when we will finally leave has made her pretty moody.

Galen is being a poop about helping us, saying that he has to get ready for work soon. (He has to be there at 4:00, and it’s now barely noon—draw your own conclusions.)

Nevertheless, this meant that we needed to hurry up. All we have to do is get the plane back in the hangar.

Now, Kevin makes this look easy. He backs the plane into its snug spot in no time flat. He could do it with his eyes closed, but steering the plane back is hard. I try five times before IT happens. While I push the plane, Janet and Galen watch the wing tips, ensuring the plane doesn’t hit the hangar.

Unfortunately, it does.

It wasn’t a jarring hit, more like a tap. The tail has hit the corner of the hangar, making a surprisingly significant dent on the rudder.

They say the kingdom was lost for want of a nail. Janet definitely loses it; she flips out, one could say. Convulsed, uncontrolled, raving, delirious, wildly emotional, unnerved, neurotic, spasmodic, emotionally rabid, and possessed, she lets loose an animal howl. Then she alternates between cussing at me, trying to repair the dent with her bare hands, and crying hysterically while beating the ground with her fists. She is OUT THERE!

Janet is sure that Kevin will divorce her or—at the very least—kill her. Through her tears, she keeps repeating, “I’m going to GET IT when I get home!”

Things were compounded when I pulled the plane out of the hangar, only to find the rope to the main hangar door caught in the tail (just like Kevin told us to be especially careful not to let happen).

Jesus wept.

Shrieking, actually shrieking, my sister turns on me, “WHAT THE ******* DID YOU DO THAT FOR!” and, “OH MAN, I AM GOING TO

(be killed)

GET IT!!!!!”

Janet’s eyes are seething pits, full of snakes.

Just then, I ask myself, “What am I doing? I could be on the beach enjoying myself. This is murder.”

We finally get the plane into the hangar.

The drive home is quiet.

I remember when I was in the fourth grade, and my buddies and I were caught lining up the lunch tables to ride our BMX bikes off the top of them. The next day, a rumor swept through the school that we would be called to the principal’s office sometime that day.

Mr. Mitchell liked to break rulers over the butts of students who displeased him. If you especially displeased him, our principal would walk through the school after, holding the broken ruler with white knuckles. I remember how the clock seemed glued in place, and all eyes seemed fixed on me. But most clearly, I remember the extreme giddiness I felt when the summons to his office finally came.

Yes, it is a quiet ride home.

I hide upstairs while Janet tells Kevin about our fun episode. I expect to hear the start-up of large power tools and my sister's final, hideous screams.

But all is quiet.

Kevin handles it well, and Janet apologizes for losing it. I tell her to forget it, that it probably felt good to "let go" like that, but I quietly pray that we are never in a serious situation with her acting like that.

We sit on the wall in front of the house in the sunshine, eating pistachios, watching Sam wander around, and laughing about the entire incident.

Oh well, back to the clutch. We're progressing nicely, but we're still quite a few hours away from being done. We finally finish the oil-pan gasket and begin work on the circulating heater.

We struggle until 7:00 p.m. before stopping for the night and go to Pizzeria Uno for dinner. We get home around 9:00 p.m. and almost instantly fall asleep.

December 29 -- San Diego -- Coping with the Original Step Five

We are finished. The clutch is done. All we have to do is reassemble the parts. This will take some time, but “Hey, the hard part is over.” Or so we think.

Everything progresses nicely until we hit the original step five, "5) Put the transmission back."

The transmission weighs well over two hundred pounds, and we must lift it three feet and slide it into the clutch housing. The problem is that we don’t have an easy way of doing this.

We improvise with the jack and raise it into the housing on the first try, but it doesn’t fit. It has another centimeter to go, and nothing we try gets it in.

After an hour of struggling, we give up and lower the transmission back to the ground to try again.

But now, lifting the transmission with the jack is all but impossible. We try all combinations.

It is cramped, smelly, poorly lit, and dirty. The prospect of having the transmission fall on my arm or head is terrifying. We finally lift it off the floor, only to have it crash back to the ground when we move it up into the clutch housing.

Despair and frustration are our middle names.

We work for two hours, but it does not oblige. Kevin is ready to give it up, and Janet is wholeheartedly behind the idea.

We give it one more shot; lo and behold, it lifts and slides into place like nothing. Only it wasn’t nothing. It was the most repulsive and frustrating two hours I have experienced recently, and we still aren’t done. But finally, like all bad dreams, it is over, and we get the Land Cruiser back into working order.

As Kevin will say, “What a nightmare.”

That night, Janet and I move all the boxes to the garage. Tomorrow we will pack, finish around noon, and start our drive.

Or so we think.

December 30 -- San Diego -- 50% overweight and Captain Ahab

Early in the morning, we pull the trailer around the house. Something should be said about the trailer, I suppose, the bane of my life for those first few days.

It is a white 8’ x 15’ enclosed trailer with doors, windows, and even an interior light. We must be careful to load it evenly, or it will swing from side to side and do dangerous tricks.

In it, Janet and Kevin plan to put all their furniture (couch, desk, tables, bed, filing cabinet, lamps); all their appliances (two TVs, stereo, compressor, washer and dryer, tool box, dishes, pots and pans); and all their clothes. We’ll then pull all of this over five mountain passes, over 3,538 miles of rough road, to Alaska, in the middle of winter.

Yeah, right.

We are somewhat rushed because the new tenants will move in at 9:00 a.m. They are a couple who have just returned from somewhere overseas. He is a lawyer, and they both seem nice.

This feeling is strengthened when they show up early, expecting us to be gone, and find us still in the process of moving out. Instead of raising a fuss or leaving, they help us. They really come in handy when it comes time to move the couch.

After everything is in the garage, we begin to load, and load … and load.

We finish three hours later, only to find that we are ridiculously overloaded.

The tires are rubbing dangerously against the wheel well and trailer siding. Driving ten miles with the trailer like that won't be good for the tires. Driving 4,000 miles with the trailer like this wouldn’t leave us with tires at all. It would be pure suicide.

The lights are on, but nobody is home. Now what?

Janet must go to the hanger to get her nursing files, and Kevin must go down Midway Drive to get two black-and-white passport pictures. I will go with Kevin, and we will meet at the hangar.

By the time we get near the airport, we know we aren’t going anywhere with the trailer as it is. We stop at the public scales, and our fears are confirmed: nearly 50% over the maximum weight limit—an unbelievable amount.

Something must be done.

We go to a nearby sandwich shop to consider our options. It is afternoon—a bad time of day for me—and a developmentally delayed girl sits across from us, repeatedly shooting napkins toward the garbage. She misses each shot, retrieves the five balled-up napkins from the floor, and returns to her seat to repeat the futile cycle. This goes on for 30 minutes as we push our food around our plates, pondering what can be done. 

Sitting there, with the afternoon sun slanting through the window and the sad girl shooting and continually missing, I wonder, “When will it stop? Will this bullshit ever end? When are we going to get on the road?”

We look into possibly having the trailer shipped to Alaska. Janet and I trudge off to the pay phones with five dollars in quarters and the Yellow Pages. Having the trailer shipped to Alaska is admitting defeat, and Kevin is not wild about the idea. Shipping it will be expensive, and I think Kevin believes towing the trailer is the only way forward.

Call me Ishmael.

My captain is Ahab and a White Whale—a whale that could ultimately kill us—possesses him. He is blinded and sees none of this. While he pursues this whale, our morale is low. "And I only am escaped alone to tell thee."

Shipping the trailer is indeed too expensive, so Kevin decides to unload everything “not essential” and leave it in the hangar. At 6:00 p.m., we begin the cull.

Much is left behind: the couch, the desk, the big TV, much of the stereo equipment, all the tables for the living room, the stereo cabinets—and that is just the start. We devise rough pallets for the hangar floor to keep everything off the floor and dry, and load the trailer back up.

We finish around 8:00 p.m. The trailer is ready. It will roll and isn’t too terribly overweighted. Finally, we are going to get out of here. We will leave early tomorrow morning for Alaska.

We go to a local Chinese restaurant to pig out—we are already starving again. When an acquaintance of Janet’s comes by to say hello, I realize that we are already gone. Although we are still here physically, mentally we’re already on the road to Alaska.

After dinner, Janet and Kevin planned to return to my house to sleep, but Kevin is worried about the trailer and sleeps in the Land Cruiser with Sam instead. Janet and I wearily make our way back to my apartment.

Coming back so soon after I thought I would be gone is weird, but the bath soothes my aching muscles, and sleeping in my bed is an unexpected treat. I set my alarm for 4:00 a.m., knowing we will finally leave tomorrow.

Postscript – The End Of The Road Was The Beginning

(November 1989)

The drive is full of frozen adventure.

It is -47 below zero in Watson Lake, the Yukon — so cold that I am terrified to go outside.

It takes 11 days to get to Anchorage; long days of frozen, deserted roads, studded snow tires, isolated communities, and low light.

There are snow-capped mountains, big horn sheep, and lavish Northern Lights displays.

I learn to shift gears in the Saab while wearing Sorels. When we finally reached Tok, seventeen below zero felt comfortable.

It is tough, but we make it.

I fell in love with Alaska, and when summer rolls around, I spend six weeks with my sister in Anchorage, enjoying the twenty-hour days and the stunning beauty of it all.

I eat my first PowerBar and learn how to mountain bike. I camp, fish, and hike. I trek on glaciers and look into blue crevasses. I see grizzly bears, beluga whales, dall sheep, and caribou. I became completely enamored with the outdoors.

I read Edward Abbey's books (Desert Solitaire is a favorite). We fly in Kevin’s plane through the Chugash Mountains. We trek to Denali National Park to stand in awe under the nearly sheer expanse of the Wickersham Wall, a cliff 14,000 feet tall, the tallest vertical relief of any mountain in the world.

Finally, Janet and I end the summer with something even more adventurous: a three-day bicycle tour through Denali National Park, along the 120-mile dirt road from Wonder Lake to the Park HQ.

We are woefully underprepared, and our gear sucks, but it is a terrific adventure.

I am finally trailed by that wolf I imagined at the Liard Hot Springs. She is tall, gray, and pads behind us for a mile as we ride. Finally, one of the park school buses (private cars aren’t allowed in Denali) pulls up next to us, and the wolf runs off.

The entire ride is an incredible experience—even when my seat broke off with 30 miles to go, forcing me to ride standing up.

I didn’t care.

I returned to school wide-eyed about the experience, and my enthusiasm spread. "What we need to do," I insisted, "is something BIG!"

After glorious daydreaming and many conversations, we decided to ride our bicycles unsupported from San Diego to Yellowstone National Park the following summer. We would ride up the California coast, over the Cascades into the dry Oregon plains, and then over the Rockies of Idaho and Montana to Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Park. Christy and Chris think this is a great idea, even though we don’t own bikes or any camping gear. 

Our most ambitious plan yet has been hatched.