Arctic Campsite, NW Territories

Next to Godliness, but a little distance away:

My meandering was really slow. Of course I stayed on the road, but I had a strange feeling of ennui; not caring, not tense. My short talk with the truckers was the only contact with a human being in so long ... Then it came to me. I'm so damn tired I am close to hallucinating. I reach back in my reserves for a small can of whup-ass and swear that the next available spot will be where I rest. North Camp, NW Terr

Not too far along, I find the campsite and just crash. I laid out fully clothed on the bank, and fell asleep. When I woke, I found the weather had cleared and my head had too, but instead of making my usual camp, I took a walk around and 'played the videotapes' back in my head. I didn't even unpack, but was compelled to put pen to paper in the journal book and record my impressions of the last few waking hours. I know you won't, but if you went back and re-read the previous page we would agree my connection with reality was tenuous at best. I can even see the change in my penmanship style today.

But as you see, I didn't do too badly in the choice of a site. I do have another embarrassing admission at this point. I can't really tell you where I am here! What happened was I camped twice above the Arctic Circle, the first time still in the Yukon, the next was past the border to the Northwest Territories (remember the white triangular marker on the last page?). I shot a lot of film, but didn't mark the plastic lids right away, and screwed up the sequence of which pocket went first when I finally did. Furthermore, some whole rolls were light shot and ruined. Now, stay with me here, it gets worse! As I mentioned, there is only one way up and you take the same road back. Therefore, my images are very close in both time and geography, and all I can tell you is this is the best of a lot of crappy photography. It is either the Peel River or maybe James Creek, I will have to go back and check. Forgive me. But, now I gotta tell you a little story. I do remember a few things clearly. It was just here that I decided to join spirits with some of the characters who made history in this very spot. I was imagining most of this, but clearly this campsite would have been picked by anyone, from greenhorns to leathery old prospectors. It is sheltered from the wind, the game is plentiful, and that water is clear and sweet.

It is also certain that the surrounding countryside is rough, and those old gold-rushers most likely smelled as badly as I do. I tell you, even with all the windows in that tent zipped down, and the fresh air wafting through the bug screens, I was making myself sick whenever I got downwind of myself, and something had to be done. Now Judy (remember her? I did.) packed me a bar of non-scented glycerine soap, and it was about time that I whipped it out. It was unmistakably past the time. Also, I have to caution you, I was the only person in this camp! You see where this is going?

The weather was warm. I removed, and carefully hung every stitch of clothing I had on from various appendages of my bike, all the while worrying about corroding that Harley factory chrome. I even had a small towel, which I put on the bush at the lower-left corner. I can still see it. It was tan in color. So, translucent gold bar of soap in hand, I took my first little step into the river. Huge recoil, ice cold, feet are numb almost instantly, and the gravel/rock bottom is sure to break an ankle if I slip. The current is swift, and I venture out to about knee depth. That is awful. It is beyond my athletic ability to get wet in knee deep water, and I can't sit or lie down because the current will carry me away. So I go deeper, and colder. Suddenly I back up, very quickly, and get to where, delicately put, I still only have my two legs breaking the water's surface and nothing else. I bend forward and plunge my arms in, swiftly splashing my body and face before I totally loose courage. Now, I'm having a heart attack severely complicated by the shivering fits. Shock sets in when I splash my back. I dunk my head and frenetically start soaping all over. I mean all over. Every inch of skin above mid-thigh is done and as far as I can reach around my shoulder blades. Lastly, covered with suds in the sun, I scrub my face, hair and beard. Now I'm blind and loosing my balance.

Please I beg you not to visualize the next scene, it might damage you. I have to rinse. Of course I start with my eyes, my only hope to keep standing is to see the world, because my legs are so bereft of feeling that I must use the horizon to balance. I splash with my free hand and as soon as I can focus I throw the soap from the other hand up on the bank about ten feet away. I only have seconds before I freeze solid, so I thrash about wildly and again dunk my head, fingertips doing scalp-noogies as fast as I can. I come up for air. Then, disaster strikes. My pinky, squeaky clean skin has hundreds of ferocious attacking mosquitoes! I mean every inch, every where, and you don't want the (now very) little details. Believe me. My face is covered, they are getting on my eyelids, and if I hadn't before, now I panic. The time for grace and my normal decorum well-past, I accelerate at about six G in the direction of the slope hard by the bush. Clouds of flying, snarling beasts begin flaying my hide in chunks like piranhas taken to the air. They are that fast, with the impact of their body and the strike of when they tear a chunk out only nanoseconds apart. - I reach the bank, churning up the gravel in the shallows and scrabbled up the slope, slapping and waving frantically to clear my vision. I forget all about the towel and hit the door of my tent, unzip it about halfway and dive in headfirst. I wheel around, zip it up again, and find only about 500 of the little buggers have followed me in. I start slapping with hands, tennis shoes, old rancid socks, anything. Now I know why I didn't bring my gun. I would have started firing at them and probably blown my leg off.

As things finally settle down, I see that I have brought half the mud from the riverbank in with me, rolled about thoroughly to spread the dirty mess in an even new crust all over my still-wet corpse, and have about three flaming red welts in each and every square inch of my generous hide. I have to admit, I uttered a bad word. Maybe two. But as I check the seams and corners of the tent for damage from my wild thrashing, I find, peeping out from behind the old crash helmet, a perfectly good little flask of premium grade tequila. You will have to excuse me for now... Good night.

Well, the night wasn't too bad. Actually, there wasn't any night. When the sun stays up 24 hours, there is a psycho effect where you just yearn for darkness. My gray wool scarf gets put to good use, the double blindfold knotted in the front must look pretty stupid, but it keeps the light out and permits sleeping on my back or either side without pain. Strangely, to everyone I tell, the weather was actually warm and the tent ventilation was a further comfort.

I think there is a quality to tequila anesthetic which treats mosquito bites like Bactine, only from the inside. Somehow I didn't feel them; until I woke up.

I hesitate to call it a 'day' at all. With no dark/light cycle, and no humans who may keep an organized clock, I loose track of days, dates and schedule. I take some short walks, make a big project of beating the dirt out of my clothes, and slowly start packing. The tent gets a thorough cleaning, like I turned it inside out and shook all the dead bugs and gritty crusts from the recent havoc. A steady drizzle starts, and the fog and mist close off the views. As I mentioned, many of my film rolls were mislabeled as to sequence, and some of them got light struck too. But finally I get to the last steps. I go over the bike carefully, checking for any loose fasteners, worn or vibrated parts of my rigging, and generally find all in 'nominal' condition, as we say at NASA.

North from here is not too exciting for you. The weather got gradually cooler and wetter, the bike got to look like a mudball again, and right about Wright Pass summit my mind starts to become clear on what I ought to do, but I hadn't done it yet. The road descends; steeper and narrower, and when I get down to the ferry crossing I just take another rest. The first vehicle going South was a couple in a Pathfinder. They had a blown tire on the roof rack, and another one on the back hanger. They offered me a hot sandwich from their gas grill, and told me they had absolutely no fun all the way back from Inuvik! They had gone up in fine weather, but (and I apologize for repeating second hand opinions) found Inuvik nothing more than a dreary trailer-park-ish group of dwellings. They seemed to be just as depressed about having to fight slippery mud and sharp rocks as their disappointment about what they found along the way. I won't go into detail, but they felt they left the gold rush country and attitude and entered a neglected remnant of the oil explorations of many years ago.

I thanked them for the discussion and the fried Spam and cheese. As they drove off South, my mood sunk a little lower. Checking things over again, one image stands out. From front to back, my beautiful Harley Sportster is uniformly coated by the gritty mud. The ONLY clean spot is where the disk brakes sweep, and the inside of the final drive belt and it's sprockets. My own exterior is exactly the same. As the drizzle transitions to a medium rain, I made the decision quickly, turned around and slowly headed South myself. Climbing the hill took 100% of my concentration, the mud had about as much traction as snot, and sometime when the back end was fishtailing it would bounce off a hidden rock, solidly held, and as big as a my head. What made it worse, I could hear the whizzing noise of rubber spinning against the sharp edge, setting my nerves on edge because I was sure it would cut through the tire before I could get off and into some traction.

No time for daydreaming or second guessing, as I worked the same road, in the opposite direction, Rockman w/Stick brace

I can give you a break too. You already rode with me on the way up, well, the return was just the same. About six hours later, estimated, the sun broke out; lo and behold, what did the ancient depressed traveler need but guidance from one of the best Inukshuk "Rock Men" I found on the whole journey. There is actually a group here, don't ask me what the gnarly guy in the foreground is thinking about. His friends are directly above him in the picture, and another over on the right about half way up.

Just take a moment, from your busy life, and let your mind float out across that valley.

Thanks. With me? That meandering river can make a metaphysical connection in my head, those violet clouds had no business being so fluffy, and my poor photo skills have left most of the impact behind. That little teeny squiggle, left hand edge above the tree, that's not a speck of lint on my lens, that's the road ahead - that's where we're going. Did you think frozen tundra could be like this?
Rocmang Lonesome Valley

Now, that was the pause that refreshes.
Not too far along, see the sky, I find another. I guess on the way up I missed 'em, either in the little spells of driving rain or just concentrating on the road like a zombie. I'm sure now, this film roll is on the way back, because of what is on the later frames, so trust me. I remember, sitting here tonight going over my logbook, that this is the guy with what I called a jaunty attitude. At last, it fit the one in my soul, so I said at the time...
My spirits lifted, the miles float by in my reverie, and soon I am back to the Eagle Plains. They greet me as a welcome repeat customer, as if there were any doubt. The other customers are friendly and we swap road conditions with the after dinner bourbon(s). Almost with a flippant confidence, I top up the tanks and have a thoroughly enjoyable trip back down the Dempster... for now, my worries on making the mileage to the next gas are gone. I enjoy keeping my speed down, and let the birds and fresh air blow in all directions. Bike on Jet Runway

This double back puts 669 dirt road miles on the electronic odo, and in reading the signs along the way I have a new appreciation for the Alaskan humor, they still jocularly referred to it as a Highway.

In that vein, I notice something else while going in the other direction. Remember the airport/runway right in the middle of the dirt road? Check out the marker sign. If you look closely it is a four engine, swept wing jet airliner! No wonder they don't want you to stop.

A little further, sidling up into one of the high/low valley cycles, this Inukshuk looks stylistically different, and again I never would have seen him except I needed a walk and there was plenty of gravel to support me. The green parts cannot be trodden, so when the slopes are gentle I try to get away from the road. I can see for hundreds of yards, so this guy and I had lunch. Me enjoying my sardines with garlic, peanuts, and a nice buttermilk; I think my partner had something just as satisfying, at least I heard no complaints.

Now, with packing my fragrant lunch leavings, we're off in search of a bear proof garbage bin. The Inukshuk traveling spirit keeping up just fine with the old Harley.

You may remember this, it's the one I picked for the first image you see when you hit my site. Watch @ 3:00 AM

I'm rapidly dropping down South every hour and every mile, and after speaking to another traveler, we both marvel at how it's after midnight and still full sun. I realize again that I'm tired, and I still haven't found the trash receptacle. I start worrying about finding a campsite, and actually thought about just sleeping on the gravel on the bank. The weather is perfect. Warm, just a little breeze, and when I took this shot my eyes were so bleary I am amazed it came out. I decided against sleeping there; but what I did was bury my trash and put a big stick to mark it. I washed my face and hands, and very slowly moved on.

I pulled off just over the next rise. Not having the energy to pitch the tent, I just slept in the open. It was wonderful. After about five hours, I went back about a mile and a half, dug up my trash and never left one sign that I had been there...

As the Junction approaches, I am eager to see the kind proprietor. When I do, he's genuinely tickled to see me, and laughing about sending search parties with gas and beer on a daily basis. They just came back with fish and hangovers. Hah.

yes, Virginia, I'm now working on the Chicken page.
stop nagging, and take another step closer
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