Eating ice cream out of a half-gallon tub in the grocery parking lot -- how classy is that??
It was nearing the end of the spring semester when I learned I would not be spending the summer with a top secret classification designing killer robots and would therefore need to speedily concoct an alternative to sitting around Gainesville, taking Swahili or some similarly useless course. Since this was likely my last undergraduate summer, nothing short of the most ludicrous trip imaginable would do. I had thus far failed to replace my passport that I had obliterated the previous year, and so, the obvious choice was to drive 7000 miles to the distant, ice-covered, bear-infested wilderness of Alaska.
No sooner had I devised this lunatic mission that my friend Andie signed up to take the passenger seat for the epic drive. But since squeezing two people into a Corolla for six weeks is not, in itself, much of a challenge, we advertised the trip and found two more hapless souls to wedge into the narrow crease that constitutes the back seat. Over the next two months, we did team-building paddles, trained the passengers in the critical art of the manual transmission, invested in a new clutch for my car, and watched movies about people getting eaten by wolves and bears so as to prepare ourselves for the myriad trials that lay before us; we made our best effort to avoid forming any sort of actual plans, as there is no worse threat to a spontaneous adventure than prior knowledge. I did however, confirm that there was a navigable road to our oft forgotten northernmost state, and we were hence able to reasonably expect at least a 60% chance that we would actually make it there.
In the final days before departure, one of our recruits dropped out; though we were saddened by this loss, we took some comfort in knowing that we would now have the requisite space for a clean pair of underwear, and perhaps even our legs.
We began around 6AM on a Sunday morning in Sarasota and arrived, practically conscious, in Gainesville a few hours later. We piled Matt into the back seat and had a farewell brunch which, though it only consisted of bagels, luncheon meat, and hard-boiled eggs, would likely be the best meal we would get for some days.
In five short hours, we were already stuck in the typical Atlanta Sunday-afternoon traffic jam, and just a few hours after that, we were winding through the mountains of Tennessee and into Kentucky. We passed through many consequential cities but stopped at none of them; I had never been to Nashville, St. Louis, or Kansas City, and I wouldn't feel right in saying I've been to any of them now, but at the very least, I saw the arch. After driving for 18 consecutive hours, I realized that my eyes had begun to function in a most unusual way and the cars around me were no more than blurs that intermittently shifted in a motionless space; I reluctantly concluded that it was time to relinquish control to the stick shift trainee, and after a bit of a rocky ascension to 5th and a venture down a random country road to nowhere, I managed to get in a good four hours of sleep before resuming command. After only six more hours, we arrived at our first stop of some random ghost town/buffalo farm/fireworks stand in the middle of South Dakota at 10am Monday morning. Matt bought a buffalo burger and I pondered whether a stuffed jackalope on sale there would make an appropriate hood ornament.
By this time, my usual driving stupor was becoming a bit too vegetable-esque, and Andie took the next leg to Mitchell, home of the world-famous corn palace. This town, in the midst of endless stretches of nothing, had grown up over night around a theatre constructed entirely of corn. Since corn husks are both combustible and a tasty snack for birds, the first few incarnations of this dream were reduced to hone within a few years. The latest version was made mostly of brick and only adorned with thousands of corn cobs, and was could thus withstand the elements. Around the palace were a number of equally worthwhile attractions, as well as a massive store dedicated solely to the sale of janitorial supplies.
Having survived on granola bars and peanut butter for the last 30 hours, we headed to the local grocery to satisfy our neglected nutritional needs. A ready source of calcium, fat and other essential vitamins, there seemed to be no better option for the money than to split a half-gallon of ice cream; and so, we sat in the grocery store parking lot, spooning out mouthfuls of Edy's triple-fudge from a common tub; in retrospect, this was probably not the best for our constitutions, or our social standing, but for those brief shining moments before the stomachache or shame set in, we could imagine no better lunch.
We moved onward to Badlands and stopped at Prairie Dog Town; here we chased the little critters from hole to hole, hurling peanuts at their fuzzy backends as they retreated into the burrows. Though a master of animal linguistics, Matt wasn't able to coax any of the unsociable rodents into the open for a picture.
This desolate national park is home to an impressive array of complex, highly fragile rock formations, which you are for some reason, allowed to scurry around freely and explore the innumerable canyons, peaks and caves. We did an easy trail through a canyon which rose to an upper ridge and provided views of the vast wastelands to all sides. Following that, we set out on a longer trip through the grasslands; we misinterpreted the map, and rather than looping back to our car, we moved further and further into the poorly charted backcountry of the park with no supplies to support a prolonged hike. Having no navigational aids, we were left to our meager understanding of the surrounding features; we eventually just turned around and hitched a ride back to the parking lot with a ranger who seemed largely unsympathetic to our stupidity-induced plight.
Continuing with the homeless bum motif, we went to the visitor center and took brief showers using the spicket on the side of the building; several old people passed us and smiled with a reminiscence of a time before they had been endowed with 30-ft RVs complete with hot shower, full kitchen and putting green.
Dinner amounted to a concoction of cous-cous, tomatoes and peanut butter - these being the only ingredients we had bothered to buy up until then. A strong wind fired over the overlook where we picnicked and the three of us had to huddle around our tiny stove so as to keep it heating effectively.
Driving down the dirt road that led out of the park, we came across a huge bison scratching itself on a post; Matt tried to befriend it and convince it to pose for a picture, but his efforts were met only with angry grunts. Our campsite was in a free lot 20 miles from the nearest paved road, but besides the occasional bewildered buffalo wandering through, it was a pleasant enough place to stay.
The road out of the park was unpaved and full of sharp turns overlooking steep drop-offs; this made driving it at the 60mph speed limit a lot of fun. It was another hundred or so miles into the Black Hills where we stopped by Mount Rushmore (or rather stopped on the road overlooking the mountain to dodge the $8 parking fee), cruised over to Crazy Horse (and immediately left again in lieu of paying the $25 museum fee), and had an assortment of lunch foods involving bread and peanut butter which we prepared on a rock next to an office building. The forest department informed us about a number of free hikes in the area, which, after driving to the trailhead, turned out to cost a very non-free $12, and so, we opted to speed ahead into Wyoming and the legendary Devils Tower monument.
Much to my dismay, you can't very well scramble up the side of the tower without a few thousand bucks in gear and a bit of experience in 12-hour climbs; we were left to take the heavily-trafficked footpath around the tower and snap a few dozen pictures from every conceivable angle.
As we sped up a long, steep hill en route to the western parks, the Corolla abruptly decided that it was in fact a Florida car and had no business dealing with such oddities as elevation changes; even when flooring the gas, we could only manage a slothful creep up the incline. To resolve this problem, I simply hurtled us along the downhill portions in the hopes of gaining enough momentum to coast up the next gain. Unfortunately, the local authorities didn't understand the wisdom of this approach and shortly pulled me over for going 10 above the limit. However, after hearing about our ridiculous ploy and realizing that issuing me a ticket could only mean that I never return to his state, the officer took pity and let us off with a double warning for speeding and driving without proof of insurance (the things you forget when packing for a roadtrip…).
For reasons which were never completely clear, I was assigned the task of preparing dinner for the group. Sadly, I missed a subtlety or two in the preparation of spaghetti, and rather than well-defined noodles, we were left with a bucket of milky goo. The other two opted to prepare a fresh pot while I added sauce and enjoyed my amorphous, yet delicious, concoction. After nightfall, we stopped at a random campsite which, despite its quite unreasonable fee of 12 bucks, had no running water and had opted for the hardest surface imaginable for their tentbeds; furthermore, upon waking, we discovered that the area was generally unattractive and the park was therefore without a single redeeming characteristic.
We headed further west toward the entrance to the Grand Tetons (named by those perverted French for their supposed resemblance to "big breasts"). We did a 10 mile trail up and back down one of the smaller mountains in the area to see the picturesque Surprise and Amphitheatre Lakes at the top. This was our first exposure to snow on the trip and we spent some time rolling around in the freezing sludge; I scurried around the boulders along the trail chasing the elusive marmot. The steep ascent turned out to be a little much for my companions and the full trip took nearly 7 hours, lasting well after our meager supplies of water and energy had been exhausted.
Showers at the park campground were $3.50 for a few minutes, and so, we opted to just jump in a lake instead. Since the lake was largely fed by glacial streams, it was a little on the chilly side, but we were at least able to make a brief spectacle of ourselves soaping up just off the main picnic area.
We discovered fairly early on that my sleeping schedule didn't quite match up with that of my companions; this had a lot to do with the fact that while the others required sleep (sometimes as much as 8 or 9 hours a day!), I had no such restriction. I therefore regularly set out on independent expeditions between the hours of 5 and 8 such as running along a lake trail or harassing the local wildlife in their early morning foraging.
The following day we hopped up to adjoining Yellowstone. For all the fanfare associated with this the most popular of America's parks, it really seems to have very little to interest the average daytripper. Unlike in its neighbor to the south, there is little to see from the road besides endless pine forests, and the only reason to stop is to see a plethora of stinking, sputtering pools. We arrived at Old Faithful a few minutes after the eruption and had to kill off an hour watching smaller geysers nearby; naturally, the dependable spout waited until the last few seconds of the 20 minute time interval in which it had been slated. Far more interesting than the 100ft eruption itself, is the fanfare that it draws; a veritable city has sprung up around the tiny hole with parking comparable to Epcot, and every 1-2 hours, a thousand people pile into the seating area to view the display.
Unlike in the rest of the civilized world, it's completely permissible to stop at any time in any place along Yellowstone's highways, assuming there's some animal present. As if it weren't enough that you have to follow a chain of RVs traveling 10 below the limit for two hundred miles through the park, traffic can come to a complete standstill as fifty people simultaneously leap out of their cars with cameras at the ready and snap pictures of a bewildered roadside moose. Towards the northern end, we slowed to a crawl at a packed overlook where the crowds were peering down at a bear over a mile below; having had our fill of this silliness, we grabbed some of the highly touted ice cream at a visitor center, and made our way into Montana.
I remember hearing some time ago that there were no speed limits in Montana; without ready google access, it's debatable whether this is the case or not, but what you can assume with relative certainty is that, if you do go too fast, there probably won't be anyone around to correct you. Driving north towards the border, the road was visible for a hundred miles before us, cutting a bee-line through the unending fields of grain. Every hour or so, a pair of headlights would appear in the distance; we'd wave as we passed and then disappear into our respective oblivions.
Our dinner break was in the town of White Sulfur Springs, this being the only thing to approximate civilization in about 300 miles. The town's commercial district was made up almost exclusively of bars; though these had dinner menus, they all seemed to want real money for their fare and so we were forced to seek out a Mexican restaurant (though it is doubtful that any Mexican had ever set foot here) in the final few moments before it closed and obtain a few burritos.
By the time we got around to looking for a campsite, we concluded that it was far too late and too rainy to justify paying $12 to sleep outside and so we changed our tack and began seeking out a safe place to park. We arrived in the city of Great Falls around midnight and got directions to the nearest Walmart. Much to our dismay, the superstore was immediately adjacent to a number of plants spewing stinking gases into the air and at the time of our arrival, the lot was being cleaned by an exceptionally large and noisy device called "Da Sweepmeister." So we began driving around aimlessly until we finally happened upon a city park where we set up our tent next to a tennis court; it didn't look to be the best of neighborhoods - Andie held her knife to her chest as we were lulled to sleep by the sounds of police sirens.
We got moving around 5:30 as the first of the joggers and cyclists began to pass by. Following a long winding road to the entrance of Glacier National Park, we were immediately met with a bone-chilling, arctic wind and were for the first time forced to don our piddling supply of winter wear.
We put in an order for the insurance company to fax us the proof we needed to get into Canada and set out down the famous "Going to the Sun" road, passing by a huge turquoise lake ringed by a chain of imposing, snow-covered crags. We opted for the St. Mary's Trail to follow the lakefront; after a few miles, we arrived at a waterfall where Matt, the expert raft guide, determined that the flow of the water at the base suggested it was safe for a dive. We jumped from a rock about 10 feet up into the frigid stream; the Floridians informed me that the shock from the stream temporarily made them forget to breathe or swim to the top, but they fortunately figured it out in time to swim to shore.
Continuing down the highway, we came across a few ice tunnels, a lounging mountain sheep, and more-or-less the best scenery I've seen anywhere, ever. We camped on a lakeshore in the far-western tip of the park. A couple down the way was in the process of peddling from Fresno to Wisconsin; this humbled us to some degree, particularly since they had never biked prior to the trip, and they were doing it with guitars in tow. We "borrowed" someone's canoe, which someone had left on the beach along with three paddles, and explored the crystal-clear waters.
In the morning we made our way to the Canadian border and I passed into foreign lands for the first time in some six-odd months; the customs officer asked us a dozen questions about how we planned to finance our travels (having not showered or washed our clothes in six days, we may have resembled bums to some degree), and oddly enough, questioned whether we had any drugs on us (everyone knows all the best drugs to be had are from BC!).
You can tell exactly where Canada begins since the vast, empty expanses of farmland characteristic of Montana are instantly replaced by endless groves of evergreen forest. Speed limits are considerably lower here, but are largely ignored; for the most part, it's perfectly safe to assume that the posted numbers are, in fact, in miles and no conversion is necessary. My companions were growing a bit weary by this time and demanded that we take a "Townie Day" in the ever-exciting town of Cranbrook. It just so happened that we had arrived on Canada Day (July 1st) and all the local businesses were closed; we therefore had to resort to eating at Boston Pizza, shopping at Walmart and watching Superman at the mall. Our plan to stay at a hotel was thwarted by the universal $70 + tax price tag, and so we set out to the north to find a campground.
We found a pleasant-enough place on the banks of a small lake to pitch our tent. A group of locals came over with wood for our fire (quite apt since we had just run out of stove fuel and no longer had any way to eat); these fellows told us all we needed to know about traveling in Canada, from how to kill a bear with only a pocketknife, to where to get the best pot. It was at this site where we found our first shower of the trip (Day 8 in case you've lost count); for only a looney, we were provided with four minutes of wonderfully hot water.
With a northeasterly heading, we soon arrived in the town of Windermere and sought out some form of Sunday morning church; unfortunately, this particular district seemed only to offer a Pentecostal service which consisted of singing Christian pop songs for 45 minutes straight (while standing), then listening to a sermon about nothing (though delivered with much excitement and frequent "alleluia" interjections) for well over an hour. Tired and starving from this brush with new-age Protestantism, we found a tourist joint serving jumbo hot dogs and homemade ice cream, then made our way into Kootenay National Park.
The pay system for Canada's parks is fairly complicated; for 18 bucks, you are allowed entry to any park in the country until 4PM the following day - when they advertised this pass to me, they made sure to point out that I could even go to parks in Quebec or Newfoundland, just as long as I got there within the same 24-hour block; if you buy more than 7-day passes, you get an annual pass - this amounts to about $140 for a year and makes Canada's NPS just about the worst deal anywhere. We resolved to get through all four parks in the next two days.
Kootenay offers a pleasant drive through a mountain valley with impressive peaks on either side, but provides few good reasons to get out of your car; we did stop for a short hike up through a burnt forest, into a verdant valley, and up a glacial moraine to see a waterfall; we opted to double the original length of the trail by hiking a mile up a steep, sliding rock pile to stand underneath the crashing waters of the falls.
In Banff national park, we ran up a long, winding road to Moraine Lake in search of a campsite recommended by the guidebook. Given that my book was 5 years out-of-date, it wasn't terribly surprising that the campground had been replaced by a luxury resort. We scrambled to the top of a rockpile bordering the lake and were treated to one of the most beautiful views we could've imagined. After snapping a few dozen pictures, we returned to ground level; I crossed the lake by balancing on a long series of logs that floated precariously in the freezing waters.
After camping for a bit, we got up early and sped to the ultra-touristy Lake Louise. Massive swarms of Japanese tourists filled the viewing area, and any tranquility that one might have gained from the perfectly blue waters ringed by icy mountain peaks was lost in a sea of incoherent babbling and camera clicks. Every picture taken of the scene was sure to include at least a handful of the diminutive old Asians and we were forced to keep moving at all times so as not to hinder their photographic attempts. One tour group actually brought a set of bleachers on their bus so they could get a tiered group picture in front of the lake.
We wound our way into Yoho and took a road with particularly sharp turns (buses have to back up every other switchback) to Takakaw Falls. Again we were met with the hordes of tourists; we were quite hungry by this time and, since our stove was still in ill repair, we were hoping to glean some leftovers from the massive box lunches provided to the tiny Asians, but communications to that end broke down, and we were left with only half-cooked soup.
It was here that we started the epic Iceline Trail; since this was 20km long, largely up steep mountains, there was some degree of reluctance from Andie who continued to have blister problems and would once again have to hike in her flip-flops. I was nominated as the group pack horse and carried two backpacks, 2 gallons of water and enough snacks to last us the duration. For the first part of the journey, the upward slope offered few views and few breaks, and every hundred or so feet, a suggestion was made to turn back. However, by maintaining an unceasing assurance that the top was "just around the next bend", I pushed the troops forward; fortunately, pride also played to my favor after we were passed by the third group of 12-year-olds and a fairly obese, old man.
The ridge at the top of the trail was quite incredible; we skirted a long series of massive glaciers and we could see for miles into the valley below. Unfortunately, this section was all too brief and we soon began a 10km descent through boring forests; the group became restless once again and labeled this semi-enjoyable romp a "death march." We eventually made it back to the lot and went over to Mosquito Creek to camp.
The next day, we went through the final park of Jasper; my companions seemed a little sick of hiking, so we just made short stops at glaciers and waterfalls. We stopped in the pleasant town of Jasper to grab Subway subs, water, and other much-needed supplies before setting forth into the vast nothingness beyond.
After several more hours of driving through quiet forest, we camped near Prince George, the hub of northern BC. This place was labeled as a "resort" and offered a heated pool as well as bathrooms/showers reminiscent of a fancy restaurant in an upscale hotel (elevator music, separate sink stalls - I half expected to have an attendant hand me a towel on the way out).
The following day, we drove to Dawson Creek (the town, not the TV show), used the free internet at the library, ate pasta in the parking lot in front of a crowd of bewildered young students, and proceeded to formulate a plan to drive clear to Haines, Alaska overnight. Early in this journey, we ran into a small setback when Andie somehow lost one pantleg out the passenger-side window, but after a quick u-turn we were able to recover it with only a few extra sets of tire tracks. The route was complicated due to a thick fog and an unbelievable number of giant elk, deer, bison, bears and wild horses on the road, but we survived and before we knew it, we were heading through the Yukon's Kluane National Park to the small, American outpost of Haines.
Eating ice cream out of a half-gallon tub in the grocery parking lot -- how classy is that??
Just a couple of prarie dogs
Walking in the Badlands
Dinner
Recipe: 1 cup cous-cous, 2 tablespoons peanut butter, 1 can diced tomatoes
What is this stuff??
Old Faithful
Lunch in Old Faithful parking lot
They sure love their tourists here in White Sulfur Springs
Glacier National Park
Jeff the Packhorse
Iceline trail
Wild, wild horses couldn't take me away...
The elusive marmot
Demonic sheep
Cute little buffalo
Tick that off the list...
mmmm... spaghetti goo
Moose butt
Animal in middle of town
Camping in city park
This is gonna sting a little
Asian invasion
Up on the glacier
Not much for comfort but a cool idea nonetheless
No idea
Lost in the middle of the Badlands? Relax...
Surprise Lake
Utterly defeated
Sulphur Spring
Old Faithful mobscene
Fortunately, the water's moving fast enough such that I'm in no imminent danger
Can you find us in this picture?
Polar bear club
Crazy bike lady repairing 10 tubes and us stealing a canoe
Just one wrong move and we'd break through the ice to the frigid waters flowing below
