by Doreen Orion
It always reassured me that Tim felt so close to Jim, for he and I have much in common. Lisa, on the other hand, is much like my husband: a sweet, helpful, kind, and generous person. If the marriages were reshuffled, the relationships would become studies of inertia, both the implacable and impeccable kinds. Neither couple could ever get anything done, but for very different reasons: Jim and I would be waiting each other out. But good-hearted Tim and Lisa’s life would be just as much of a living hell.
“What would you like me to cook for you tonight, sweetheart?”
“Oh, no! Let me cook for you.”
“No, no. I insist. I’ll cook.”
“No, darling. I insist.” The two of them would become skin and bones, only made worse by all the exercise they’d get cleaning the house.
We were, regrettably, nearing the end of our yearlong journey. And we were regretting our decision to go to Alaska. While we still wanted to see the state, we weren’t really sure, given all the potential for new disasters, that we should do it in a bus.
“How ’bout a nice, tame cruise?” I wondered out loud. But we had also learned not to let fear, panic, or trepidation—no matter how justified—run our lives. So, like the morons we had become, off to America’s Last Frontier we went.
Chapter Eleven
BUS-TED AT THE BORDER
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Always Get Your Man
1 case Moosehead beer
Chill. Serve straight from bottle. Turn on hockey game. Keep mouth shut.
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We had gotten our usual early start of noon when we left the campground in Washington to cross the border into Canada. There, we would drive for three days through British Columbia to catch a ferry to Alaska. Tim had never had a burning desire to go to the forty-ninth state. I was the one who declared oh so many months ago, “If we have to do this bus thing, we should at least go to Alaska.” What an idiot. After nearly ten months on the road, I was still apprehensive—especially about heading “North to the Future.” Just what did I ever think was so bad about the past, anyway? Especially a past that included a nice, safe, stationary home.
Although the state motto was full of promise, I wasn’t exactly sure what that promise held. I had heard the roads in America’s Last Frontier were not only terribly rutted, but dotted with the ominously termed “frost heaves.” I could only surmise these occurred when iron-deficient, ice-age monsters, entombed during the original paving of the road, broke through the blacktop, grabbing at unsuspecting vehicles, of which buses driven by hapless men living their dreams were undoubtedly the easiest targets. And that was just along the paved parts. I was also, shall we say, just a wee bit “concerned” about hitting a moose, getting mauled by a bear (granted, that was more likely to occur outside our rig, but you never know), and since my bus phobia had by now generalized (a fancy-schmancy shrink term that means I’d become bat-shit crazy about being in anything that moved), I was also terrified of the ferries.
Taking the ferry up sounded like a good plan all those months ago when I made the reservations, as it would not only cut our driving time substantially, but allow us to make several stops along the Alaska Marine Highway in towns inaccessible by car. Now, however, as with my usual, run-of-the-mill bus phobia, the prospect of riding on the ferries had me fixating on the sound of our belongings careening and crashing. Never mind that our Prevost would be in the ship’s hold with us topside for the entirety of each journey, so I would never actually hear anything—except perhaps what sounded like a giant can opener when our boat hit an iceberg.
I was half hoping we’d be turned back at the border, but we weren’t. They didn’t even ask about the pets’ vaccinations and trusted us on the ridiculously minuscule amounts of alcohol we said we had. Tim assumed the border guards must figure no self-respecting terrorist would dress like me. (Pink cotton tracksuit with what I call my “slippy socks”—a bit of a misnomer, I admit, since they’re really antislippy socks—big, pink, furry things with rubber on the bottom to prevent sliding. A necessary accoutrement for a Princess on the move.) Indeed, it took us only two minutes to cross. The Canadians didn’t bother aboot us at all.
We would have avoided Canada altogether by catching the ferry in Seattle or Bellingham, Washington. But, since that would have nearly doubled the cost of our entire Alaska Marine Highway passage, we decided to drive the nineteen hours to the port in Prince Rupert. We were glad we did, as for most of the ride through British Columbia we were treated to stunning scenery, ranging from majestic peaks shrouded in mist to more barren vistas reminiscent of the Old West (no wonder Hollywood often films up there) to churning rivers fed by waterfalls twisting down mountains like the woven tassels on the white summer Chanel bag I’d left back home. (Do waterfalls ever feel unfashionable after Labor Day?) Fortunately, the roads were in excellent shape and had many more rest stops and large pullout areas than we were used to in the States. I relaxed. A little.
On June 11, we left the campground in Prince Rupert at the ungodly hour of 7 a.m. to board the Malaspina at the port just a half mile away. She would take us to our first stop in Alaska, Ketchikan, in under six hours. At over four hundred feet long, the Malaspina was one of the larger vessels in the Marine Highway’s fleet, able to transport five hundred passengers and almost ninety vehicles.
We joined the other cars and rigs parked in the ticket holders’ line and unhooked the Jeep from the bus. Then we ensured that everything was battened down and the pets supplied with ample food and water, since, as was the case for all the ferry crossings, we would not be allowed back in the car deck until we docked.
Tim was concerned that the deckhands guiding the bus would have an attitude, that they must be weary of directing hordes of inexperienced RV drivers to their spots in the cargo hold. (See? Even my angelic husband has his catty moments.) But he was pleasantly surprised, even more so when he realized that given the way the hold was organized, our bus had to be first or last, meaning everyone either watched him park from the dock while waiting their turn, or watched him park from the deck while waiting for the boat to sail. Meanwhile, I was fortunate nobody gave me a second look. The only time I’ve ever managed to parallel park was on my driving test at age sixteen. Since then, my parking ability has rivaled my navigational skills (and if I ever have to do both at the same time, well…). The deckhands must be used to such confluences of vehicular ineptitude, because their instructions to me in the Jeep were precise and easy to understand; none of this “turn the tires right” crap. I can’t be bothered to figure out which way the tires go when I steer. And besides, does the instruction refer to the front or the back of the tires, which end up pointing in opposite directions, after all? Just tell me which way to turn the wheel. Geez.
During that first passage, we sat outside on deck chairs, letting ourselves be enveloped by the salty air as we took in the lush forest surrounding the calm waters of the sound, complete with snowcapped peaks in the distance. We read, snoozed, gazed, got sustenance from the cooler we brought, then repeated the whole process.
As we arrived at port in Ketchikan, population 10,000, we scanned the Tongass Narrows for a glimpse of our first Alaskan town. Finally, we found it: a dot sandwiched between hills thick with spruce and sea teeming with all manner of marine craft, from small fishing vessels cutting quick, determined paths across the water, to humongous cruise ships lumbering to and from port, to seaplanes flitting about to avoid everyone else. As we approached, Tim commented he’d never seen such dense forest. I just nodded, for not having anything to compare to, I wouldn’t know. But then we saw our first eagles, circling in the distance over the treetops in the hills south of town. Even though they were far away, we were mesmerized, watching their graceful arcs as they effortlessly rode the currents in the crisp northern air.
Disembarking the bus was as easy as getting on had been. I drove ahead in the Jeep, figured out (I firmly hoped) which way to turn to get to our campground, and waited for Tim and the bus at the termi
nal exit. (We couldn’t use our cell phones to communicate; we would discover they did not work throughout most of the state.) There was no reason to rehook the Jeep (we didn’t until we left our last campground on the Marine Highway three weeks later) since, as with all the stops we would make, it was only a few miles to the RV park.
Our site was right on the water, across from the RV “resort’s” dock. When we checked in, the campground manager mentioned that he saw eagles in the park around sunrise every morning, so Tim, eager to get a closer look, immediately decided he’d get up early the next day. Since sunrise in summer in this part of the world is around 3 a.m., it was clear my husband would be on his own. The next morning, a bleary-eyed Tim reported that although he’d theoretically risen in time, he hadn’t seen any of the majestic raptors. Then, that evening, we saw an eagle in the tree right next to our rig, proving my lifelong thesis that it never pays to get up at the crack of dawn. By our second day in Ketchikan, it seems we couldn’t avoid seeing the things, including several perched on rocks near the Safeway (which was right on the water, its salad/sandwich/Chinese food bar offering seating with a view). Still, we didn’t become jaded. Instead, we felt sorry for all the other birds.
That second day, we took our first hike in Alaska. Yes, I said “first.” I figured since we were coming all the way up there I might as well. The added advantage was imagining that this would fulfill my quota for the coming decade. But it was really Tim who made the mistake of encouraging me to go, only worsening his faux pas by picking the Perseverance Lake Trail. He loved it, of course (being easy to please has its advantages), but I found the endless steps of a boardwalk leading to an averagely scenic lake endlessly tedious, although the rain forest we passed through was lovely. But really. For mile after interminable mile—all three of them—it was all pretty much the same. Even having camera in hand couldn’t redeem the trek. Enough was enough.
Although, it did inspire me to develop a hike rating system for the couch potato spouses of outdoorsy folks, to let us Couchies know if it’s worth our effort. Instead of Easy, Moderate, and Difficult ratings for hikes, the CE (Couchy Equivalent) would be: “Acceptable,” What do you want from me?, and Why should I suffer? The first entry, the Perseverance Lake Trail in Ketchikan, would be a definite “Why should I suffer?” Not only does it need an escalator (look, it has stairs anyway, so it’s not like they’d be introducing something totally foreign to an über-pristine environment), but a few waterfalls here and there would certainly help. Truth be told, we could hear waterfalls, just couldn’t see them. Perhaps, then, the CE description should more accurately reflect that some clear-cutting needs to be done.
Adding insult to injury, the entire time on the trail, I was afraid we’d encounter a bear. Tim tried to calm me, saying he didn’t think bear like such dense undergrowth.
“Oh, great. They’ll all be waiting for us at the lake. A regular bear convention.”
“Yup,” Tim agreed. “And they’ve been promised a JAP as the keynote squeaker.” We let the only other person on the trail, a young man, pass us. Beneficent me whispered to Tim, “Good. Now he can startle the bear!”
The next day, Tim did the five-mile, nearly vertical Deer Mountain Trail with the poodle—not that they didn’t invite me. In spite of the spectacular views of the town and harbor he reported on his return, as well as the wide grins on both their faces, judging by their mud-crusted, exhausted state, I was glad I had stayed in the campground, reading out on the dock.
With the heaviest annual rainfall in North America at 152 inches, Ketchikan is one of the wettest spots on earth. We could tell; it rained for part of every day we were there. If I had to walk around, I much preferred strolling through the downtown with its colorful history, where I could at least duck in and out of shelter when needed.
In 1903, Ketchikan’s city council decided to root out the “bawdy houses” from “Uncle Sam’s Wickedest City,” ordering them all moved to Creek Street. Since more than two “female borders” constituted a house of prostitution under the Territory of Alaska law, most of the women chose to live alone or in pairs. Thus, sailors of the North Pacific halibut and salmon fleets found their favorites by the glow of porch light globes, inscribed with such names as: Frenchie, Prairie Chicken, Deep Water Mary, and Dirty Neck Maxine. More discreet customers would slink to their rendezvous under cover of hillside brush by way of the “Married Men’s Trail.” During Prohibition, booze was snuck into the establishments via trap doors over the creek which the Creek Street houses were conveniently located on. Thus, prostitution in Ketchikan flourished until 1954, when it was permanently banished. Some old-timers still grumble about honest women put out of business.
These days, Ketchikan’s main industry is tourism and as many as four large cruise ships might be docked in the harbor at any one time, effectively doubling the population for the afternoon. That’s why it seemed to us Ketchikan might be better called Kitschikan. Some of our favorite tourist shop finds: a key chain with a plastic moose that when squeezed, seems about to extrude a dropping. (I still wish I’d bought that.) A five-fingered glove, each digit with a different native animal’s head. A pillow with a picture of a moose reclining, its head and feet sticking out for a more realistic, 3-D effect. It sure looked real all right—like real roadkill.
The indigenous people throughout Alaska’s southeast, the Tlingit, had a complex society that was blessed with an abundance of sea life and relatively mild weather for that part of the world. They even had a saying: “You have to be an idiot to starve.” The Tlingit adhered to the notion of intellectual property rights well before modern Western laws came up with the idea; property belonged not to individuals, but to clans who claimed ownership of things like stories, songs, dances, artistic designs, and speeches.
They also held slaves as property, taken from other indigenous people in the surrounding areas. When emancipation came after the territory was purchased from Russia, they lost an important part of their economy and expected their new U.S. government to compensate them. The compensation never came. To shame those with unpaid debts, the Tlingit traditionally erected a totem pole with the welsher’s likeness, and this time was no exception. In Ketchikan, at Saxman Totem Park, we saw the one with an unmistakable Abraham Lincoln perched on top.
When we walked into a Tlingit community house, daylight was creeping in between the vertical boards of the walls. Project Nerd made a brief appearance, muttering about the shoddy craftsmanship. But when we were informed by a guide that the boards, all hand-hewn from logs, were in fact intentionally engineered that way, both Project Nerd and Tim were duly impressed: We were there during a warm, (relatively) dry period and the boards had shrunk, the gaps allowing a natural ventilation. During the cold, wet time of year, the boards swell, creating an airtight seal. The clan house itself was a single large room with a central fireplace used to house the native community of several dozen people during the winter months. The sole entry consisted of a small door, requiring considerable stooping to get through, thus conserving heat and also making it easy to kill any enemies trying to enter. As a former New Yorker, I found this design immensely satisfying.
Before leaving Ketchikan, we splurged on a seaplane trip to Misty Fjords National Monument, as it was either that or a boat to get there (and we figured we’d be sick of boats all too soon). We flew on a six-passenger, DeHavilland Beaver for a two-hour flight that included forty-five minutes on the shore of one of the fjord lakes. There are no cars and no roads anywhere in this 2.3-million-acre preserve, so there was no one else around, although our pilot helpfully pointed out bear prints in the sand where we stood.
On the ferry from Ketchikan to Wrangell, I saw “DOREEN” written on the front inside cover of a book lying on a deck chair, its pages flapping in the wind. Soon, a Hispanic woman sat down and I asked if her name really was. We discovered we had something else in common; she’s from Colorado, too, but the similarities ended there. About ten years previously, when her son was in
first grade, he got suspended for having a knife in his sock. He told her he needed it for protection. So this single mother decided right then and there that they had to move to prevent his joining a gang. She did some research and settled on Wrangell (population 2,000), where they knew no one. That soon changed, as not only did her son thrive in the small town, but she married the great-great-great-grandson of one of the Tlingit chiefs. Doreen gave me her number and told me to call with any questions, or come by and she’d give us some salmon (her now teenage son makes four thousand dollars a week on fishing boats). Turns out, this sort of openness and hospitality is typical of people in the state. But since I doubted her offer included filleting, we didn’t take her up on it.
With such a small population, we weren’t going to Wrangell for the amenities. I’m not even talking about the fact that there are only a couple of restaurants and bars. Oh, no. In Wrangell, the grocery store closes at 6 p.m. and isn’t even open on Sundays. We went to Wrangell simply because it’s peaceful and gorgeous.
When we backed into our spot at Alaska Waters RV Park, I guided Tim with the improvised signals which had by now become our standard. It was a system that worked well for us, but inevitably, some man in the park would come on over to “help” the little lady with the wildly flailing arms who couldn’t possibly be doing it right. I’m sure I wasn’t, and Tim, being the only one whose opinion mattered, didn’t care. This time, however, when the park manager started to help, he quickly stepped aside when he saw that I was doing just fine. After the bus came to a stop, he told me, “That was some really good signaling.” We immediately became fast friends with him and his wife.
Jim and Joanne Silverthorn have had quite the colorful life. Former restaurant owners and developers of a super-secret pizza recipe that folks would drive hours to tiny Creede, Colorado, to sample, they were now in retirement, full-timing in their RV with their two cocker spaniels. They particularly love Wrangell and come up every summer, where they manage the campground for the owners. One night, they had us over to their rig for a fresh-off-the-boat salmon dinner. We brought the wine and salad and ended up talking until the wee hours. Before we left, Joanne blew us a kiss and gave me a lovely piece of slate she’d painted, to remind me of Wrangell. It reminds me of both the place and the Silverthorns when I see it on my desk every day.
