Beaver Fever does not mean what I thought it means.

I have to clear my mind and allow myself to reset. I have to stop looking at the world around me according to preconceived notions of society and presumptions of the behavior of individuals. I have to erase my personal expectations of life and experience things honestly as they occur. I have to just be, and let things be. I apologize for suddenly going all zen, but I realize it every time that I walk around down town. In something as simple as the way people park, or walk around from shop to shop, or lay in the middle of the park with a growler of beer and pass out in the sun. I look around for the meter maid (a truly laughable thought) to tell people that they have to move because they're in a no-parking zone. I look for every business owner to tell people that the bathrooms are for customers only. I look for the cop to hand out tickets or at least roust the drunk and have him move along. These are the conditioned responses of living in even a small urban area, and certainly the experiences of a city dweller. That is not life in Talkeetna.

I was talking yesterday to Holli, the woman who runs the hostel where I loiter almost daily and occasionally sleep. We were discussing the local sights and nice places to hike and so forth and in the midst of our discussion she mentioned that when she takes her kids to the slough they either drink all the water she brought in the first five minutes or don't drink any at all the whole time they are there. This prompted my brain to wonder if the local water was drinkable, and I asked as much. "No," Holli replied, "that's a good way to get beaver fever." Now, I knew from the context of our conversation that what she said and what I thought those words might mean were not even on the same continent, so I asked for clarification. Apparently that is a colloquialism for Giardiasis, the sickness you get from drinking water contaminated with Giardia lamblia. This tends too happen when you drink water that other animals crap in, and lots of beavers crap in the water around here. This is not life in New Jersey.

I have gotten quite a bit of feedback on my last post about the soldier who went nuts and AWOL and trashed the hostel and yadda yadda yadda. I want to clarify that (apart from my childish thirst for vengeance) there was never any danger in the air, at least that I could discern, and I'm fairly adept at knowing when some shit is about to go down. I have not encountered one locked door since I've been here. There is a bumper sticker promoting this town which reads: "Talkeetna - A quaint little drinking town with a climbing problem." The bars are allowed to stay open until 5 am. I have had one beer since I've been here. I wouldn't say that I've made new friends, but I am certainly on friendly terms with a number of regular locals and summer locals. In fact, some of the guides just invited me to a bonfire tonight at the river. There are hippies everywhere, and some other fringe types, as well as climbers and skiers and granolas of every shape and size. Everything is expensive. I miss my dog, and think warmly of the friends and family I left behind to come here. Apart from this blog, I haven't really done any significant writing since I came to Alaska. As comfortable as I've been able to set myself up (and it's actually not bad) sleeping in my Jeep, I still have trouble actually falling asleep because I constantly think someone is going to come along and tell me to move, that I can't just park and sleep on whatever piece of land I've settled on. I have worked a total of six hours in the last month. I work again tonight and tomorrow night, but the part time thing will not get it done. I had a job interview this morning, which I hope will turn into full-time employment at the big lodge up on the hill. If this comes to pass, I've already found a great place to stay for the summer, and that should be ready in two weeks or so. If I don't get a full time job very soon, I'll be on my way back to Jersey. This is life as I know it.

And I'm only drinking water from the tap.

The Night Crazy Came to Town

For those who have never read/seen Into the Wild, here's the tiniest bit of background:
Christopher McCandless was a young man from Virginia who basically gave up all his worldly possessions, hitchhiked his way across the continent, and finally entered into the Alaskan wilderness with only the most meager supplies, surviving for about 100 days before succumbing to either poison or (more likely) starvation. He weighed less than 70 pounds when he died. The book and, especially the film of his story, in which McCandless refers to himself as Alexander Supertramp, make him out as a bit of a folk hero who turns his back on the materialism of the world to live simply in the wild. I am a fan of both bits of media, especially the book, as I think its author Jon Krakauer is a magnificent writer. I have learned that the good people of Alaska generally don't share my opinion of the book or movie, and they feel that McCandless himself died needlessly, and if he wasn't such an inept fool than he wouldn't have had to suffer his fate. They also tire of the endless pilgrimages taken by copycat wanderers and fringe dwellers who worship the guy.

This morning I was given a bit of a lesson as to why.

After spending my previous evening on the couch at my friends Natasha & Tyler's cabin due to my normal digs being completely booked (I didn't have to sleep in my car, yay!), I came back to the hostel last night. I spent most of the day out and about, enjoying what was some really nice weather for once, and I was looking forward to a quiet night in, as the place was almost empty. There were only two other people booked for the night, and I hadn't seen either of them since I got back. I watched a movie with some of the climbing guides and was feeling sleepy enough at around 1:00 that I thought I could turn in and get a solid six or seven hours before the normal bustle of the morning intruded on my dreams. Turns out this was not to be.

I was jarred out of my slumber by some very loud banging, as well as what sounded like a noisy conversation in French. After tossing and turning for a bit, thinking maybe that it was morning and I just had to deal with the noise, I checked my phone; it was about 4:40 am. This was odd because despite the constant back and forth of climbers, guides, and hostelers, everyone who came through pretty much adhered to the rule about quiet time from 11 pm to 7 am. I put on the least aggressive countenance I could muster and walked down the hall to the common area. The television was the source of the French, someone put on the movie Chocolat and it was turned up loud. The banging stopped, so the TV was the focus of my ire, but there was no one on any of the couches or chairs; there didn't seem to be anyone watching. I made my way to the television and noticed that someone was in the kitchen (directly adjacent to the common room). I didn't recognize him, he wasn't one of the guides and since I didn't know who was checked into the other rooms I just assumed that he was a climber and was getting his gear ready to go up to the mountain. That would account for all the banging around. I asked this stranger if I could turn down the TV and he told me I could turn it off if I wanted, which I did immediately. As I turned around to go back to my bunk he asked where I was from, which isn't an odd question in a hostel. "New Jersey," I replied. "No wonder you're angry," he said.

Now, those who know me also know very well that I will respond to an attack on my beloved Garden State with no less than the full measure of my considerable arsenal of mean-spirited rhetoric and sardonic wit, but it was 5 am and I was just too tired. All I wanted was to get some sleep, so I ignored this little remark and simply told this stranger that I wasn't angry, just tired. With that, I went back to my room, climbed into my bunk, and tried to fall back asleep.

Not twenty minutes later, the movie is back on, the French dialogue is just as loud, but is being drowned out by the even louder music pumping out of a laptop. Plus he's singing. At this point my patience is wearing thin, but I'm a guest here just like him so I don't want to come off like some maniac who thinks he owns the place. I make up my mind that I'm just gonna remind him that from 11 to 7 people are expected to be courteous and quiet for the sake of everyone sleeping. As soon as I walk out of the hall I'm met with him packing things into a large backpack and before I can get out a word he assures me that he'll "be out of my hair in five minutes." "I'm going to McKinley," he says. I stop in my tracks, turn around and mutter something like "sounds good" before going back to the bunk again to wait out his nonsensical behavior. I'm still exhausted, not a state that puts me in a good mood, and now I'm starting to just think his rudeness needs to be met with some of my own, but surely I can wait out five minutes of the sake of keeping the peace. I get under the blanket, wrap the pillow over my ear, and wonder why the other guests haven't come out to complain like me.

About fifteen more minutes passes (see how patient I was being) and the movie and music are just as loud, but I notice that the singing has stopped. Also, the same song has played at least twice in a row now: Revolution 9 by The Beatles. It's a long song, and I know I heard the beginning a couple of times. I get up again, this time prepared to have it out with this incomprehensibly rude person, but he's gone. In his stead is a room full of hazy, fragrant incense smoke. His pack isn't on the floor. There is something stuck into a map on the wall, which turns out to be a butcher knife wrapped from tip to handle in plastic wrap. Hung from the butt of the blade is a t-shirt with the logo of a military company on the front. All the books from a free book exchange in the common room have been removed from the shelves and are stacked on the floor next to the shelving unit. A few of the books, specific titles dealing with the Alaskan wilderness, are set standing on window sills, one book to each, throughout the room. I turn the corner and look into the kitchen to see every single cabinet door left open and every drawer pulled out, as if a poltergeist had its way with the place. Even the stove was left open. I turned the TV off again, leaving only the Beatles' song to sound out through the place. I step into the kitchen and notice that a book has been placed standing, open to a page scribbled with the line "Start a Revolution," on an unlit burner on the stove. At this point I'm starting to get a bit creeped out and visions of Tate-LaBianca start to fill my consciousness. I head back to my room and grab a pocketknife from my jeans and head back out to assess the rest of the damage. Little notes are left around with tiny missives scribbled on them about what is needed to head into the wild. One indicates that he took a water bottle belonging to one of the climbers, the note read: "I owe you 1 Nalgene bottle - Edward Supertramp."

I'm feeling a little less likely to be killed by some crazed Manson groupie after reading that, but still a bit unsettled. Looking around again I find more notes, food left out on the stove and counters, a wine bottle stacked on a coffee press, which is stacked on a coffee can, wine footprints on the kitchen floor, and a particularly rancid smell coming off a plastic wrapped plate with what appears to be a full shot glass in the middle of it. I made sure all the burners and the stove are turned off, shut off the music, and tried to piece together what was going on. The creeping feeling I had earlier gave me a little jolt of adrenaline, so I was starting to wake up. Then I started to get even more pissed. The hostel where I stay is a very open, accommodating place. They never lock the doors. It's a small business run by a young woman who does her best to make sure everyone who comes in feels welcome, and she really doesn't deserve to have her place trashed by some jackass McCandless wanna-be. I decide I'm going to find this person and, I don't know, bring him to justice. My myopic tendencies reared their ugly head and I just went out to my car and started driving around town. Talkeetna is not a big place and I figured he couldn't have gotten too far since I last saw him. I ran parallels of the neighborhood streets where I stay and then went to the downtown area. At this point it's some time around 5:30 in the morning. I didn't see him anywhere. Then I start to think that if he's going to Denali maybe he's taking a flight up, so I drive past all the Air Taxi companies to see if he's camped out waiting for one to open, to no avail. Now I'm wondering--if he thinks he's gonna walk the few hundred miles up, will he head back down the spur road to the main highway north or is he smart enough to just follow the train tracks? I decide to drive a little bit down the spur road, about as far as I figured he would have made it on foot with his pack, but he's not there either. I realize that if he's on the train tracks I cannot follow him in my Jeep. I turn around and head back towards town. After I come around the bend in the road where an observation turnoff is set up I notice for the first time this morning that the skies are perfectly clear and Denali is out in all her glory. I pulled into the turnoff and just sat for a bit looking at the mountains. Normally I'd post a picture here, but I left the hostel in the sweats I sleep in, without even grabbing my wallet and license let alone a camera. My notions of petty vengeance were starting to look awfully silly in the light of day. I drove back to the hostel to start cleaning up his mess. When I arrived, the only other guest who actually spent the night was just emerging from her room. Abigail was her name, a Brit on holiday who was wearing earplugs and had managed to sleep through the entire ordeal. I told her about the intruder, and together we assessed the rest of the damage and cleaned up the place as best we could. I was still stewing a bit and to be honest, she did most of the dirty work. After everything seemed to be back in its place I decided to get the sleep I had missed that night. It was now about 7 am.

I wake up again around eleven, and the house is buzzing. Holli showed up and Abigail told her the whole story as I related it to her. Holli decides that the best thing to do it alert the Rangers and the State Police so this stranger doesn't do anything that could get him hurt, or worse. Also, some of the guides are up and point out that he used one of their phones to call Modesto, California about seven times. He also drank an entire large bottle of wine that belonged to another guide. A bit later, the phone rings, and the puzzle pieces fall more firmly into place. A woman asks Holli if someone named Chris checked in the night before. He never did, officially, but they get to the truth of the matter when the woman says that her husband had gone AWOL from his Army post the night before, that he was a bit obsessed with Into The Wild and might be smoking something (not weed) that makes him a bit delusional, and that he's not supposed to be drinking (medicated perhaps?). He left behind a blue motorcycle helmet, which the wife identified, although he doesn't have a motorcycle. So he left on foot. She was calling from Fairbanks, over 250 miles north, and we speculated that he hopped a freight train to head south, but since they don't stop in Denali National Park, Talkeetna was the first place he could hop off. The Modesto number is his brother. The police, army, and a very annoyed/concerned wife are all looking for him. I'm still angry that he trashed the place and stole from its guests. My sympathy and compassion are non-existant.

The hostel and its guests are really no worse for the wear, though I still shudder to think what could have happened if someone interrupted his stabbing/trashing/stealing spree if he was truly delusional. I was half asleep both times I confronted him, but he seemed completely lucid, if a little "off." Holli has two small children, and I'm really glad they were not here when any of this was happening. I realize that I was not behaving all that well when I went out with violence in my heart to find him this morning, and that kind of reaction is just one more thing I have to look at as I while away the hours out here. At the same time, none of his behavior indicates to me that he wants to come back. His course and actions were all self-destructive. If he's on something maybe he'll think the better of it when he comes down, or maybe someone will find him and talk some sense into him. The last thing Alaska needs is another ill-equiped dilettante walking off to his death. But walk away he did, out into the wild, and part of me thinks that he wants to die out there. Faced with someone like that after less than two weeks here forces me to compare it to my own journey. I came here to examine my life, and what to make of it. If this morning has taught me anything, it's that I certainly don't think giving up is the answer, and that as much as I may chide myself for running away from my life by coming here, at least I know I plan to go home.

Racing Glaciers

Been some ups and downs and back ups since last I wrote. There was a distinct possibility of a job which has yet to materialize. There was an ad for someone looking for a housemate. It was a bit far out of town, but being a beggar I couldn't exactly turn it down. Of course it was already taken when I called. I heard news of three other places where the scheduled summer employees have yet to appear, places where I have already applied. Checking back has resulted in a whole lot more "we'll let you know" responses. Yesterday I was treated to the mind blowing experience of Flightseeing the Alaskan Range. You're flown up over Denali National Park in a small, single engine plane and given an air tour of the mountains and glaciers that make up the range. It is breathtaking. A singular experience that I really cannot shape into words. Here's a few of the million pics I took (that also do the real thing no justice). 

Best flight service in the land.

Glaciers, glaciers everywhere...

Billions of tons of ice moving at three feet a day.

Bashful Denali.

More glacier and the Alaska Range.

A little avalanche.

Crazy beautiful up here.

Our intrepid pilot, Tyler. Master of the glacier landing.

The view from Ruth's Amphitheater.

Another view from the glacier.

So that was a big part of the upswing yesterday. And then I wake up this morning to find out that the hostel is full tonight, so I don't have a place to sleep. Luckily I bought a sleeping bag before I left, in case it gets cold spending the night in my car. Also, while I was typing this and uploading the photos, I got a call back and start work at a local restaurant on Saturday. I don't know if I'm beating the glacier, but I am making progress. 

Fear and loathing in Talkeetna, Alaska

I spend my nights in a bunk at the chilly end of the Talkeetna Hostel and my days looking for work and a more permanent place to live. The weather isn't warm by any stretch of the imagination, even if some of the people are; the thermometer hasn't climbed out of the fifties yet. There's been some sun, but it's a little gray every day. And the nights rarely get above freezing. I've been trying to keep my head in the game, as it were. Not to sweat things out of my control, which, at this point, is just about everything. Vacationers and the climbers who guide them come and go on a regular basis. The hostel is just up the street from the airfield and each day I hear the buzzing of small single-engine aircraft shuttling them back and forth from the mountain. Denali stands like a magician in the mist, never fully there, always part of the illusion.

So why have I evoked the good doctor? What does any of this have to do with the American Dream? Truthfully, not much at all. I punched my card on that lofty ideal the day I handed in my letter of resignation to the Mercer County Sheriff. The part of my brain that must constantly put the rest of me in my own way was certainly at work again bringing me here. Leaving New Jersey, for me, was a solution to that age old problem of trying to observe a thing without changing it. I could not legitimately observe my own existence, mostly because I was living it day to day in a terrifying circle of tedium that was getting smaller and smaller each year. I was working upwards of sixty hours a week and going exactly nowhere. I lost sight of who I was and was no closer to discovering what I wanted from this world. The creature comforts provided by my loving family were like an opiate at work on my passions. I had grown so complacent that it was almost beyond me to even recognize how low I had sunk. My shot at the mythical American Dream disappeared when I walked away from the last chance for a generous paycheck and a slow suburban euthanization.

And now I am here, to figure out…god only knows what. Who I am? What I want? Where I want to be? How I'm gonna get there? Why bother? Any and all of the above. Even the people I know who are established in a life they love didn't come by it easily, so I'm not whining about not knowing my place in the world. And it's a very different world than it used to be. Softer, really, on those of us who didn't find our way in our twenties. Socially it might be a bit stigmatizing, but really, it's not like the lost and wayward are roaming the streets, stealing bread and sleeping under bridges by the thousands. You'll find us here and there, working at some menial task, struggling to make sense of our own choices, and wondering why we couldn't just take the same roads as everyone else. 

Since I've spent the better part of the last week with nothing to fill my time, I have read quite a bit. Today I picked up Emerson's Self-reliance. It's a quick read, no more than as essay really, and I wouldn't say it really stirred anything within me. There were a few lines though that made me smile, considering my current situation, foremost of them all being: "Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist." If being desperately unemployed, slowly running out of the meager savings I managed to put together for this trip, and going out of my head with wonder at what happens if things DON'T change is the path to manhood, than perhaps I was better for being written off as a child. The truth of the matter is I don't have the slightest fucking idea what I should be in this world. Still. 36 years old, and nothing has struck me as the "right" thing. If such a concept even exists. At this point it seems I should have just toed the line at any one of the hundred chances I was given at a normal, sensible life and just stuck with whatever I would have fallen into because finding your proper place in this world through trial and error is a long, miserable process that takes the best years of your life and pushes everyone who supports your foolishness to the breaking point. Trying to reveal the meaning within, if it is not obvious, and you're not stirred by passions great or small to point you in a direction is like 36 years under brain-cloud inducing fixtures of noxious gray light.

I have always had a demonstrative heart that steers me. I follow my instincts when I know that the other way is simpler. It is a stubbornness that I possess for making the decision that I believe in, even if it means things will be more difficult down the road. The problem is I'm not the only one who pays for these decisions, and the weight of that fact has been pushing down on me more and more. Being supported, in the most literal ways, by the ones I love and who obviously love me more than I have any right to claim I deserve, has left me soft and fed right into my directionless behavior. Everything they have done to help me, to keep me on my feet or put me back there when I've stumbled, has enabled me to stand perfectly still in life. I did not take advantage of a single leg up, I wasted every single break that came my way. And that is part of the reason I am in Alaska. Really, a big piece of the puzzle was just leaving the nest. Now I either get to see how magnificent my scramble back to the blanket is when things don't go my way, or I cowboy the fuck up and get on with my life. Time will tell.

Another facet of this little passionless play is finding some time to be by myself. I'm a fairly social person, I like hanging out with my friends, going to pub for some craic and a few pints, a nice meal and conversation, sitting around a fire pit after a nice BBQ, or maybe heading to a show or some other such thing. Point is, I am blessed with fantastic friends, and we're never at a loss for something to do. But just as often I am in the mood to withdraw, to stay in and keep to myself. Unfortunately I don't use this downtime to whittle away at my list of things to do. I'm not writing the great American novel or answering the deep imponderable questions of man. Usually I'm not doing anything at all. I don't know where these days and nights come from. Sometimes I've already got something planned and then without warning I want to ignore the world and just hide in my little cocoon. Well, let me tell you how Alaska puts that behavior to the test. I know exactly 1 person in this entire state. In fact, the closest other person that I know to hang out with is over 2000 miles away. I've already been invited here and there by some friendly types at the hostel, and the temptation to do that very thing, despite not having a leg to stand on financially, just reminds me how much I love the company and companionship of others. I am not half the misanthrope I sometimes act. So far, however, I have turned down every invitation. I have resisted every impulse to join and frolic, be it hula-hooping in the park with locals or taking in live music and a few drinks with my dear friend Natasha. I don't want to be out and about. I'm not ready to let loose and have some fun. There was a greater purpose here which I cannot even begin to cipher until I have set a stake in the ground. Circumstances being what they are, I have done just a little soul-searching. But I don't know what I'm looking for in there, so how will I know when I've found it?

I suppose the point, if there is one, is that I'm still alive and well, here in this place so far removed from everything I know. I haven't died from exposure to the elements, I haven't starved, I haven't thought of throwing in the towel or cursed the fates for my sour luck (though I was tempted the other day when I discovered that there is a hole in my radiator), I don't spend my nights weeping for the life I left in New Jersey. Existential ennui is never that dramatic anyway. I just look around corners for my muse, wondering at the same time if I'll ever fill that purpose for someone else. I ask the questions I feel need asking, and take in the world around me while I wait for the answers to appear in my shocked little brain. If at any point, I, or anyone else, thought of this summer as a vacation for me, let me dispel that notion here and now. This is a journey. A portion within the larger whole, but with a purpose I have more of a hand in. This is MY journey. My searching and my wandering and my wondering, and if the conclusions I come to are as simple as heading home with a heart comfortable in its mediocrity and a life without any great accomplishment, then I can at least say I went the distance in finding that out. Not everyone leads a life of greatness, maybe I will or maybe I won't, but I have to learn to be okay with the goodness that stands in its stead. 

My current housing, as seen through the crack in my windshield.

Anchorage, AK

I haven't updated while we were in town because there was actually stuff to do. Anchorage is a cool town. Reminds me of the Jersey shore. A little resort city on the water that will blow up once tourist season gets here. It even has that kind of vibe to it. I see a bit of SLC here as well, a big city surrounded by gorgeous mountains.

I dropped Frank at the airport a while ago. I am now on my own, whatever that means. I have literally never been so alone before in my life. I'm not anxious. I'm not worried. I'm also probably not doing too good a job at facing reality. Technically I'm homeless and unemployed. I suppose I should start thinking more and start "going with the flow" less. Maybe even grow up a little?

Fuck it. Others have done more with less. Tomorrow Talkeetna, and the future.

Tok, Alaska

Finally here! Back in the states. In Alaska. Holy shit. And one more day until Anchorage. We made the long trek up from Whitehorse, stopped here for a bit for lunch, and then made our way up to Delta Junction to see the official end of the Alcan. Now we can say we did the entire 1422 mile journey. Then it was time to head back to Tok (sounds like poke) for the night. More beautiful scenery, of course, but there was something about driving towards a town called Destruction Bay while listening to Springsteen sing "This Land is Your Land" that filled me with a powerful dose of melancholy.

Whitehorse, Yukon Territory Canada

Today was a short driving day and now we have our first real evening of free time to walk around a spend however we want. And wouldn't you know it, Whitehorse is the saddest, most desolate place on Earth. It's not tiny or empty, there are stores and bars and restaurants and whatnot; but it just has this run down vibe and it doesn't seem to be the least bit tourist friendly. TV is not a good distraction, although for some reason all the channels we get are from random ass places--Seattle, Detroit, Rochester. You can only spend so much time on the internet. This place is really lame. There is a pretty big skate scene here, if only I had brought my board and was twenty years younger. I think a big part of the problem is I'm not ready just yet to sit around in my own head and think about what brought me here and where I'm going.

Saw some more moose today, and more beautiful vistas. We're almost to the end of our journey and I suppose that, besides the obvious financial requirements I need to address, I'm also ready to find a way to settle in and just start my summer up here. I'm kind of hopeful, but also still detached or removed from the whole thing. It's almost like I'm interested in seeing what happens as if it was someone else's life. I guess the most optimistic way to say it is I'm full of wonder.

Watson Lake, Yukon Territory Canada

The highway has exacted its steepest price yet: my windshield will have to be replaced. The first leg this morning was snowy, icy, and fraught with poor road conditions. A big rig passing in the other direction kicked up some stones and the rest is history.

Pink Mountain, Milepost 143 

We did see some amazing sights today. And once we got into the mountains the weather and roads cleared and there was beauty and majesty in all directions. Toad River and Muncho Lake were especially magnificent. We also caught our first glimpses of wildlife today. Three moose, four bears, and at least a dozen buffalo. All in all an eventful part of the journey.

Toad River

Whirlpool Canyon

This is definitely the most out-post like town we've stayed in so far. It is also home to the legendary Signpost Forest. You could spend hours walking around that place, checking out the names and towns from all over the world. We left our mark, like all good travelers should. Tomorrow is Frank's treasure and our last night in Canada.

There are over 55,000 signs.

Our contribution to folk history.

By the way, it's after ten o'clock and still light outside. The long days are sort of a miracle to Frank. The notion hasn't really settled into my brain yet.

Ft. Saint John, British Columbia Canada

We're on the Alaska Highway! Officially closer to our destination than home. Today was definitely better than yesterday, in spite of the fact that the prices up here are murdering my budget. Gas is over $4.00 a gallon and the cheap rooms are still over a hundred. But there is really good candy.

Saw some great scenery along the way. Frank has been the main camera man, as I'm still a novice behind the lens, but I've taken a shot or two. You may have noticed there hasn't been much talk about what's to come in Alaska. That's because I'm really not sure. Maybe next time.

Edmonton, Alberta Canada

I usually update at night, before bed, but all I wanted to do last night was sleep. It wasn't a particularly long travel day, but it was exhausting. First things to have gone wrong--trouble with the debit cards we use for gas. It's a nightmare scenario that might mean we're paying out of pocket the rest of the way. On top of that, the weather was alternately gorgeous or horrifying. Almost went off the road at one point in a  violent hailstorm. On the upside, we saw the world's biggest dinosaur at some town called Drumheller. 

And Frank sprang for dinner at Outback last night. Still, I hope today is better by a measure. We will finally get to the Alcan today. Next stop: some place called Fort Saint John.

Great Falls, MT

Not much to report today. Drove like bastards through the eastern plains of Montana where there is nothing but cattle fields. Even less to witness at seventy-five miles per hour. Drove through rain and sun and snow and more rain and only three towns in three hundred miles. I can't believe my folks ever considered moving here. There was occasionally some nice scenery, but mostly just grasslands. Had a decent meal at a place called Jakers. There were slot machines in the waiting area. Every other building has a casino, which I assume just means more slot parlors.

I'm finally focusing more on what's to come than just the road in front of us or the next hotel. Shit is getting real. And real expensive to boot. Hope I find a job ASAP when I get to Talkeetna. Tomorrow we cross into Canada, hopefully it will be as pain-free as possible.

Circle, Montana

We stopped at this rest area outside of Circle, Montana. On the wall just above the urinal I spotted the following graffiti:

"Curse the fates that bind me to this cowboy life"

Fargo, ND

1400 odd miles from home. A great distance achieved. Truth is, I slept through most of it. Frank was a trooper. The big push is over though, and most of the rest of these traveling days will be spent over reasonable distances. My arm aches. Getting tattooed for six hours on the inside of my arm two days before an eight day road trip might not have been the best idea. But I'm actually glad I did. Have at least SOME sense of completion before leaving home it worth the pain and discomfort. Things on the road are getting less familiar--different stores, different faces, different beds. Onward, through the fog.