If you want instant street cred in Fairbanks, show up with your car covered in mud. 7 am outside McDonald's, a middle-aged man with a perfectly clean Chevy Avalanche waves for me to roll down the window.
"Did you guys come down the Haul Road?"
"Yep."
" We're going up Atigun Pass."
"We didn't drive that far. We just came from the Bridge."
"How's the road?"
"First 15 miles or so are just dirt, but then it's mostly paved after that up to the Bridge."
About 2 hours later, I'm scrubbing my back window, trying to get enough sludge off to see out of it and some guy walks up and hollers.
"Haul Road?"
"Yep."
He just nods knowingly and smiles.
It's what doing time does for you in the hood and what going to Harvard does for you in New England. You drive the Haul Road in Alaska, you're in.
The Haul Road is officially known as the Dalton Highway (where the pipeline runs and where a lot of Ice Road Truckers is filmed) and the Bridge is the Yukon Bridge. It's 60 miles from the start of the Haul Road to the Bridge, where I park my car and take a boat into Stevens. My Indian friend W. and I drove into Fairbanks Friday night to get some odds and ends done and stock up on some much-needed food. The drive in was good because the road was dry, and the dirt packs pretty hard; there also wasn't a lot of big rig traffic to worry about. The trees were all yellow and orange and the views were pretty incredible, and lots of Alaskans were parked along the side of the road, presumably out moose hunting. W. and I crashed at the hotel and woke up bright and early to start our guerilla shopping.
Wal Mart, Fred Meyer's (twice), Sam's Club, a feed store, Alaska Communications Systems, 3 banks, the airport, breakfast, lunch, Chinese take-out for the wives, and, of course, cheap Fairbanks gas for hunting. 30 gallons @ $3.79 is quite a bit cheaper than the gas station at the Bridge, over $5/gal.
W. and I were burned out on shopping for the ride back, and the rain didn't help a whole lot. The Nav was considerably weighed down, and there was a point where any time we went over 30 we started slipping ever so slightly on the mud road. You always have to brace yourself when trucks go by the other way because your windshield is going to get coated. The sun came out before the end of the road and we hit the blessed pavement again, and it was home free.
I drove the Navigator down the "Do Not Enter: Barge Traffic Only" gravel hill right up to the river bank and we loaded up our friend A.'s boat with our goods. Back on the river was a chance to relax after driving all day long, and I was almost about to drift off when W. spotted the black bear walking up the side of the river. A.'s 30-06 was in the boat ready to go, and W. took over driving while A went outside the make-shift "house" build on the boat (a handy shed with plenty of windows that keeps out the rain and wind) and lined up the shot. W. pulled the boat up nicely and cut the engine. The black bear, which was a pretty good size, stopped and stared at us, a bit unsure, but we were downwind and I've heard they have pretty bad eyesight. A. told us later that the boat must have hit a little wave right as he was going to shoot, b/c the gun went of a fraction of a second too early. I saw the cloud where the bullet struck the gravel right past the bear's shoulder, and it was off. A. fired another as it ran, but no luck. We had one more shot at having a good dinner when the bear stopped at the top of the hill and peaked its head back, but by that time it was well over 100 yards away and A. was shooting uphill at only its head. No chance.
"Well, at least we had a bit of fun," A. said, laughing it off, but obviously disappointed at missing. We scanned the river bank for the whole ride back in, but no more opportunities for a good dinner.
W. turned to me at some point and gives me a well-known Native bit of wisdom.
"Never let a woman eat bear meat."
They're serious, too. It will turn her into a...well, you know.
Back home with the goods and the kids think I'm the best Dad ever for bringing home all the good food, including the dozen doughnuts. They have no idea that getting groceries isn't supposed to be a celebration when you're middle-class American, but their naivety makes life so much more interesting.
I was thinking on the boat ride back into Stevens, after the bear incident, that life in the lower 48 just isn't interesting enough. Not sure when I'll make it back. The Bridge is 60 miles south of the Arctic Circle, I might need to drive on up there someday.
