Chapter Two

Anchorage to Inuvik, Northwest Territories

Anchorage was situated on the northern end of the Cook Inlet, a large body of water that flows south into the Gulf of Alaska. In comparison to the other cities of the 'Lower 48' it was not a huge city, yet it was by far the largest city in Alaska. There was an impressive museum in Anchorage that showed life-size dioramas of Eskimos going about their daily lives within their compounds containing several village huts. You can see women using cooking utensils and men preparing for hunting expeditions. Kayaks made from animal skins, tools and weapons made from walrus and whale bones are strewn about, providing an accurate picture of life for the Eskimos of the past. Today, with snow mobiles, high-powered guns and other modern technology, in addition to the social security benefits, life has changed completely for these once proud people.

After Anchorage I parted ways with my kayaking companions, as they had to return south. I drove along the Turnagain Arm to Homer, a charming little fishing town situated on Kachemak Bay at the end of the Kenai Peninsula. It was also the end of the road in southern Alaska. From Homer it was necessary to turn the van around and backtrack to Anchorage, although there were some deviations. Therefore, before returning to Anchorage, I located a pleasant campsite overlooking a little bay where an old wrecked fishing boat lay on its side. The Alaskan Wildlife and Fisheries Department had, some years before, put millions of salmon eggs in the bay, artificially. The salmon that hatched from these eggs, therefore, considered this bay to be their spawning ground. After their migration cycle, these fish return to their spawning grounds to lay their eggs for future generations of salmon to repeat the cycle. These eggs were placed here to enable all people going 'up north' to catch salmon, including tourists. Hence fishing for them was quite easy, especially at low tide. The Fisheries Department were also concerned about depleting natural stocks in the rivers. Whilst reading Jack London's, "The Call of the Wild" (which depicted the harsh reality of life in the Arctic during the goldrush period, especially in the winter months) I watched holidaying fishermen hauling in numerous salmon. One particular fisherman with a spare rod invited me to participate. I did so willingly and within moments I caught a sizeable salmon which provided enough food for four days!

While I was fishing, I met Brett who worked for the Wildlife and Fisheries Department. He invited me to his home overlooking Cook Inlet and several volcanic peaks of the Aleutian Range. His wife, Alice, prepared a delicious meal of fresh halibut and scallops which turned out to be very tasty indeed! Like many Alaskan men of the wilderness, Brett was also a hunter. He proudly showed me his trophies of musk ox and various mountain sheep that he had shot on previous hunting expeditions. The following day he took me to a charming little fishing village, Nikishka, where an attractive Russian Orthodox church with typically green onion domes and white walls sits dominating a bluff overlooking the fjord. Inside the church I noticed an Indian woman with intense blue eyes. Apparently (according to the book, "The Great Alone", which describes Alaskan history in fiction but based upon fact) Tlingit Indian women were forced to mate with Russian fur trappers during their period of exploitation of Alaska in the early nineteenth century. Succeeding generations of Tlingit Indians continue to be born, therefore, with interesting hereditary mixtures.

Together, with my hunter-fisherman friend, we drove to a beach on Cook Inlet to gather mud scallops. At certain times of the year and only at low tide people may gather them until they reach a quota limiting each person to a maximum of sixty scallops. Consequently, dozens of Alaskans carrying buckets and small spades, were walking slowly along the tidal shoreline searching for these tasty morsels. You looked for a bubble on the surface of the thick grey sand and quickly dug your hand down to grab the scallop whilst at the same time using the spade, dug deeper underneath the scallop pulling it to the surface. After we collected our quota, we cleaned them in a nearby stream where huge red king salmon were spawning. What a splendid sight it was, to see these huge fish in crystal clear waters, trying desperately to make their way upstream to fulfil their duty to nature! After cooking these mouth-watering scallops over an open fire, we feasted deliciously on them, enjoying each morsel as they slid effortlessly down our throats. Yet, it was time to continue the journey and again I had to say goodbye to another friend, whose brief interlude into my life enriched me with several interesting experiences.

I drove through the Kenai Mountains Misty Fjord National Park, to another town on the Kenai Peninsula, Seward, which was another interesting fishing port where dozens of salmon boats lay moored in the harbour. Fishing for salmon is done by quota these days as the fish are no longer in plentiful supply. Seward also boasts a railway line to Anchorage, built at the turn of the century under difficult and hazardous working conditions. At Seward harbour, I met another fisherman, Brad, who invited me to accompany him to visit an old American World War II bunker built to defend Seward against Japanese invasion. We used a rubber dinghy to get there and clambered up the rocks with ease to find the entrance to the bunker. With a flashlight we entered the derelict concrete bunker and walked along moist but empty tunnels to the gun-emplacement housing where an open slit in the front wall provided us with a superb view over the fjord where Japanese ships could have been fired upon, if they had invaded.

With Seward behind me, I travelled north until Devil's Pass where an interesting hike into the mountains awaited me. I packed some food and set off through lush verdant forest. During the walk I let my imagination wander, thereby feeling like a medieval European monk travelling by foot through an unknown forest glade where wild animals such as bear and moose roamed freely. Walking through this unfamiliar landscape certainly provided me with some indication as to how a traveller of the Middle Ages felt. Naturally, he would have hoped to come across a medieval town surrounded by well protected defence walls where a night's refuge could have been procured against the bitter cold of the outdoors, as well as a hearty meal of broth, followed by an ale or two! As I hiked deeper into the forest I remained on guard against wild animals but came across none at all. However several little marmot chirped warning sounds to others, signalling my approach. After a while it started to rain profusely, dampening my boots which caused severe blisters on my feet. I continued through the forest, hiking at an altitude higher than the treeline and into a low vegetation area where moss and lichens were the predominant growth. As the lower part of my body became cold and wet, from walking in the wet undergrowth at the edge of the narrow path, it became an increasingly difficult mental challenge to attain my objective, two lakes at the top of the pass. I finally arrived at the lakes, however, but there was no shelter against the incessant rain and cold blustering winds! Needless to say there was no reason to linger at this arctic scene longer than was necessary. I turned around therefore, and headed back down the mountain. Due to the blisters, which had by this time broken, I walked the last two miles over rough terrain with one boot off. Once again, I felt relieved to arrive back to the comfort of the van, switch on the gas heating which warmed me up immediately and change into warm dry clothes. Yet, the exhilaration felt, having accomplished my objective alone, in totally unfamiliar territory, was tremendous! From this experience, however, I decided to buy some new weatherproof clothing and boots. Conditions in the Arctic could rapidly turn sub-arctic, even in summer, when the weather turns foul! Preparation was essential if one was to survive!

Ah! The challenges that the intrepid adventurer sets himself!

Well rested after thawing out, I set off again, this time to Portage to view the grandly impressive glacier there. In the cold misty rain I watched, fascinated by these awe-inspiring masses of moving ice. Chunks of ice were seen calving away from the high glacial wall and floating away as small icebergs. At the tourist facility nearby one could gain valuable geographical knowledge about the formations of these glaciers. Several interesting and educational films and diagrams brought the glacier to life. They moved constantly. Some were in retreat whilst others were still growing. One of the most fascinating locations to view glaciers was Glacier Bay, located at the northern end of the Inside Passage where cruise ships come annually to show passengers one of Alaska's great highlights. Discovered by George Vancouver in 1794, he only saw a glacier back then. If he were to return there today he would have noticed that the glacier had retreated sixty to seventy miles, thereby creating a fjord.

Near Valdez, an oil port for the enormous tankers loading up crude oil from the Prudhoe Bay pipeline, tourist boats were available to take people to view the awesome and spectacular Columbia Glacier in Prince William Sound. At a campsite overlooking the fjord, I came across three Swiss tourists travelling in another VW Campervan which they had transported by sea from Bremen, Germany, to Baltimore, USA and drove across Canada to Alaska. We sat around a campfire and became acquainted with one another and decided to take a boat the following day to the mighty Columbia Glacier. It was a pleasant boatride indeed! As we sailed through the fjord, we could see magnificent bald eagles flying overhead searching for fish which they would take back to the nest to feed their young. Sea otter were also swimming about looking for fish to feed on. From a distance the Columbia Glacier looked small but as we approached, it loomed larger and impressively larger. Depending on the volume of ice floes at the bottom of the glacial wall, at certain times, boats can approach quite near to the ice wall, but at times, when the ice floes are too thick, it is considered more prudent and safer to view it from a distance. This is due to the tremendous volume of ice which breaks off continuously, crashing thunderously into the seawater thereby creating huge waves and enormous icebergs which can be seen floating ominously in front of the high glacial wall. Further away from the highly active ice wall, dozens of cute harbour seals were lying peacefully on the ice floes, watching with curious trepidation and apprehension and looking out for the first signs of danger as the passing ship slid effortlessly past them.

At the end of a gravel road, off the highway to Valdez, lies the little village of McCarthy, an old service town to the Kennecott Company copper mine closed since 1938. Many people were not fore-warned adequately enough by the owners of the Company that the mine was about to close. There was no notice of the intention to abandon the copper mine! Consequently, when the last train left McCarthy in 1938, there was therefore, decidedly, a mad scramble to clammer aboard. The workers left behind almost everything, especially in the old wooden buildings of the copper mine. One of the principal reasons for the Company deciding to vacate this mine was due to the fact that it was located high up in the Wrangell Mountains, the only access being across several swift-flowing rivers. At spring time these rivers flooded with melting snows, destroying many of the wooden bridges built to take the railroad into the mine. It eventually became uneconomical to rebuild these bridges every year. A second reason for closing down was due to workers' unions demanding higher pay for their labourers. Yet another reason for closing down this particular mine was that the company had located another mine near Calama, in Chile, where it was cheaper to extract the copper ore.

Today the gravel road, built over the old railway track, still crosses some of the more sturdy bridges which have been strengthened while bypassing others not so sturdy, their rotting wooden timbers slowly crumbling and falling into the rushing rivers. The Swiss in their VW campervan (which incidentally was converted magnificently inside to resemble the inside of a Swiss mountain cabin ) accompanied me on this stretch of road. We drove as far as we could towards McCarthy, and camped at the edge of a wild river for several days while we discovered this attractive area. To get to McCarthy we needed to cross the last two rivers using flying foxes, as the bridges were never rebuilt after the last train left. All villagers and their supplies are ferried across the river using these interesting and workable contraptions which consisted of a little trolley, capable of taking two people only as well as a box or two of supplies, and connected by a double cable pulley-system to both sides of the river. As we were four, we needed to go in two shifts! When two of us were sitting securely on the little steel seats provided, we let go from one end. The force of gravity took us to the middle of the river where the raging waters, just two metres below the trolley and flowing thunderously in rushing torrents, pervaded a sense of doom and helplessness. When the trolley reached the middle it was then necessary to pull it, hand over hand and upwards, along the cables to the other side. This experience was fun eventually and we repeated the exercise many times during our stay! But do not fall in! The river water comes directly from a melting glacier and consequently is freezing cold. Located at the foot of the glacier and surrounded by high imposing mountains, McCarthy is a fascinating little place to visit. The Lodge, which is still decorated in its 1938 decor and which continues to display its original advertisements as well as an old billiard table, is an interesting place to have lunch. Outside is a hitching-rail for horses. There were no cars in McCarthy, which added a tremendous sense of tranquillity to this once busy little hub.

One of our discovery tours included a visit to the old, time-worn wooden mine buildings. Large pulley belts could be seen linking one machine in one building to another machine in another building further up the slope. The buildings were painted burgundy-red with white frame timbers, not unlike the old farmhouses which I saw in my travels in Sweden twenty years before. The old powerhouse nearby, where four smoke-stacks dominate the skyline, powered the whole operation. We wandered around the inside of this work-place where boilers and several other machines are still intact. Accounts and other papers were strewn about the factory floor and in the offices. Outside the powerhouse, cables connected to poles, went up the mountain and into the mines. These cables ferried the carriages, laden with ore, extracted from the tunnels which were built deep into the slope of the mountain. The ore was crushed and processed further down the slope in the buildings below. Today, these old buildings seem frozen in time and if you shut your eyes, you can almost imagine the chatter from the mine workers and the cacophony of the machines, as the ore is crushed and processed into high grade copper. We climbed up several worn wooden staircases and further up into the mine buildings and looked outside. The view was incredible, for directly below, was the enormous silt-covered glacier, mentioned earlier, making its way slowly but inexorably towards the sea. Beneath these buildings, were the old railway yards where steam trains took the copper back down the mountain. Today, hundreds of yards of rails lay rusting with weeds covering another piece of history. Mountain bikes can be hired to ride up to the mine buildings or to trek along worn trails overlooking the glacier. A light plane ride over the spectacular Wrangell Mountains, where icefields and glaciers slope gradually downwards to form silt-laden rivers meandering their way through rich green valleys, was another highlight of this magnificent area.

We continued our way northwards to Gakona, a small junction town, where I had a decision to make. Whether to take the road north through Fairbanks and the Brook's Range to Prudhoe Bay, located in the very north of Alaska (and for which official permission was required, due to the oilfields located near there) or to take the Dempster Highway through the Ogilvie Mountains to Inuvik, located at the end of the road in the province of Yukon, Canada. Both roads were made of gravel which influenced my decision because of the speeding trucks which spit up stones that can shatter windscreens. I decided on the latter, thinking that there would be less trucks to contend with and also eliminating the need to deal with the bureaucratic red tape necessary to get official permission for Prudhoe Bay. I said goodbye to my Swiss friends and drove on alone, crossing the rolling scenic hills of the Top of the Mountain Highway and across the border into Canada and Yukon Province again. I drove to Dawson City, located at the confluence of the Klondike River (hence the 'Klondike Goldrush') and the Yukon River. In the late 1890s and early 1900s, the sternwheelers came here carrying the gold diggers and their supplies. From here they would set off for the Klondike goldfields located further upriver. Today many tourists are drawn to Dawson City to relive the goldrush days. Many of them gather at the typical old saloons dating back to this period of history where those heady days may be remembered with a whisky or two! A sternwheeler, the "Keno", is moored at the river's edge and adds its grand charm to the gold digger atmosphere. The goldfields were located a few miles out of town where today panning for gold is still being carried out, although on a significantly minor scale. Old dredging machines are laid up at the edge of creeks where they had once worked. Nearby also, were a number of office buildings and dwellings where the gold was processed and recorded.

While wandering around this attractive little seedy town I came across another two Swiss travellers. These chaps were mountain climbers who had just successfully climbed to the top of Mt McKinley, a very difficult feat that requires fitness and knowledge of the prevailing conditions. We became friends and decided to travel in convoy to Inuvik and from there to take a plane to Tuktoyaktuk, a little Eskimo township located at the edge of the Arctic Ocean. This would signify the end of the journey northwards.

We left Dawson City and made our way up the Dempster Highway which led to Inuvik, crossing the beautiful treeless arctic tundra through the Ogilvie and Richardson Mountain Ranges. The intention was to be ferried across two wide rivers, namely, the Peel River at Fort MacPherson and the MacKenzie River at Arctic Red River where the unasphalted road continued as far as Inuvik. The Swiss were also transporting a canoe on top of their car and consequently we decided to do a canoe trip on the Ogilvie River. Once again, this proved to be a difficult task as three men in a canoe on a raging river can be a perilous experience. Hypothermia sets in quite rapidly in these arctic conditions which we found out soon enough! At the first set of rapids we were pitched into the freezing rushing waters. Fortunately we were able to grapple our way back to the river shore, dragging the canoe which was filled with water. Within a few minutes in the water, we were very cold! Not to be deterred however we emptied the canoe, warmed ourselves in the arctic sunshine and tried again, this time with two people in the canoe, while the third drove downstream to a spot where the road met the river. This worked successfully and once we had worked ourselves into a rhythm, it was indeed most pleasurable paddling our way downstream, occasionally spotting moose and other wildlife such as bald eagles fishing to feed its young.

We continued our drive north and came across an interesting mountain ridge to climb that required fording a shallow stream and crossing over marshy tundra before reaching the foot of the rocky slopes. The views from the top were magnificent as we looked out over the vast treeless expanse of the arctic tundra with just one dirt road winding its way through it. Rushing rivers could be seen flowing through vast verdant valleys where high majestic mountains captivated the background scenery in snow-covered splendour. In these instances one feels totally alive!

At one particular camping spot, after we had crossed the Arctic Circle, we cooked a delicious meal on a campfire with Eskimo Indian bread accompanying a Swiss röstli. Deciding to sleep outside this particular night, by the campfire, I was well rewarded for this decision with a bonus surprise that made coming this far north completely worthwhile. At about three o'clock in the morning I got up for a few moments, when suddenly the lights of Aurora Borealis became clearly visible, exposing the entire dark sky to a symphonic movement of moving light. In this case words are superfluous to describe the incredible beauty and eeriness of this experience! It just has to be seen to be believed!

There are few trees on the open expanses of the arctic region, mostly due to the short growing season. Consequently, when a wind picks up there is no protection on the roads for vehicles, especially campervans. At one point while driving into a brutally vicious strong wind, I had to tie the pop-top down with rope to prevent it from being blown off! It was a relief to find a protective valley with trees at the edge of a small stream where we were able to bathe as well. The water was incredibly cold and we had to 'sing' to stave off the intensity of this chilly experience! It was necessary to pick the days for the simple tasks such as washing hair and shaving, preferably when there was some sunshine which could provide added warmth after that cold, refreshing and tingling bathing experience. In these cases the opportunities for taking hot showers are rare but when available, are appreciated totally!

The following morning we decided that I should go ahead, as my VW was much slower than their car. They were supposed to catch me up at the ferry crossing the Peel River. I was never to see them again! On this gravel highway huge eighteen wheeler trucks play havoc with passing cars by speeding along these roads and spitting up small stones, cracking and breaking windscreens. Even though I braked hard and stopped every time I saw such a vehicle, I received three cracks on my windscreen! A particularly aggressive driver in one of these trucks had apparently pushed my friends' car off the road and caused its complete destruction. After having conquered the heights and challenges of Mt McKinley, it seems ironic that they had to have their adventure in Alaska destroyed by this shattering mishap. By the time I had heard of the accident from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Inuvik, it was too late to find them. I did try to locate them, however, setting off immediately after finding out about this sad news and backtracking all the way along the Dempster Highway to Dawson City, visiting each campsite along the way.

As a result I did not take the plane ride to Tuktoyaktuk, but spent a couple of days in Inuvik, which I found to be a little disappointing. I suppose I was hoping to experience an Eskimo village in its more traditional form before the interruption of 'civilised' man! Unfortunately that Eskimo lifestyle belongs to the past. Most Eskimos survive on government handouts and consequently have lost their need to hunt and gather, which was so much part of their lifestyle before the interruption of white man's civilisation. I feel that they have lost a great deal of self respect and self esteem by living under these alien conditions. The town of Inuvik itself is unremarkable with several wooden houses painted in many different colours dominating this bleak arctic landscape. Many Eskimos were seen driving pick up trucks, most carrying a rifle located on a rack at the back of the truck.

Having reached the end of the road at its most northern point, at Inuvik, it was still an incredibly long way south to Tierra del Fuego. It seemed a daunting task, especially in an old 1969 VW, but I was determined to reach it, somehow! The journey southwards took a further year and a half and was an adventure that was to leave an indelible impression on me forever, with insurmountable obstacles being overcome, such as driving over dusty mountain passes of 4300 metres (17000 feet), roads submerged by running water and muddy tracks where a four wheel drive vehicle could have been more appropriate.

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