Road Combing and Ferry Fears

After sitting around the Croan’s house for most of the day feeling useless as they cleaned and packed their things for the new renters, I finally left on the ferry at 4:30. Unbeknownst to me, the Matanuska ferry was last of the season. The Alaska Marine Highway system usually bumps up their schedule for the summer due to the increase of travelers—mainly motor homes and campers. In the winter there are not too many visitors to Alaska, so the ferry rates are also cheaper, but the ferries also go less often. From Juneau to Haines I paid around thirty-five dollars for a four hour trip.

My backpack was half-full of books and weighed close to sixty pounds. I staggered to the ticket counter and onto the Matanuska ferry like a mule about to die. Next plan, find a place to settle in. Some people like to nest in the observation lounge at the front of the ferry. Though it certainly has the best view from inside, it is also beset with camera-toting tourists. From time to time a naturalist will also give lectures on whales or the inside passage. This usually interrupts any plans for sleep or quiet reading, so I opted for the normal lounge area. No view, but it’s usually quiet. Another popular area is the solarium on the top deck. This area is open on one end, with lounge chairs that lay flat for sleeping and heat lamps on the ceiling. There is enough room to set up freestanding tents for those who don’t mind the wind. This area generally attracts the hippy, backpacking types. I like the view, but I find the solarium drafty.

Four hours later, the Matanuska (all of Alaska’s ferries are named after glaciers) arrived in Haines. I was worried about getting the three miles into town being that there are no busses, taxis, and I had not pre-planned with anyone to meet me at the terminal. Previous years I had hiked all the way in. But this time was different. It was dark, and I had too many bags to carry such a long distance.

Now there are several things that I find disconcerting—public speaking, first dates, and asking strangers for help. I sat in my chair studying my fellow passengers. Too grumpy looking, too many kids, etc. There were a two Carhart clad fellows my age that I assumed to be raft guides due to their scruffy appearance. I didn’t want to look like a desperate female, so I waited until they got in line to leave, and tried to position myself so that I was standing behind them. Much to my chagrin several high school girls squeezed ahead of me. Now I was worried. I followed everyone down to the car deck, looking around frantically for someone approachable. I finally asked a woman with a beat up Toyota, amazingly enough she turned out to be someone I had had a college course with years ago back in Juneau.

I ended up spending the night at Jane’s apartment on her roll-out couch. In the morning she drove me to my truck at Keith and Irene’s where I said good bye and went on my way. Slight delay when I discovered that my rear tire was flat, but Keith had an air compressor and it was inflated in no time.

I drove all day. I drove past mountains and lakes and eagles and Canadians and old tire shreds. I stopped once for a lunch of chicken pot pie and rice cakes in Haines Junction. Canada is not really a foreign country to me, too American, but I did feel a touch of Europe as I walked by the cheese section. Someone once referred to America as a melting pot, where cultures are merged together. Canada is considered to be a tossed salad of French, Norwegian, British, and Swedish heritages—to name a few. In Canada people still speak their native languages and fly their country’s flags.

The drive was long, and I amused myself by listening to some of Ross’s CDs, and NPR, and when the CDs got old and NPR started talking about Hurricane Albert for what seemed like the seventh time, I started talking to myself to pass the time. Talking to one’s self is a true mark of the lonely traveler, or the crazy person, but I prefer the first suggestion. I talked about what kind of cat I wanted when I came back in the spring, what I would name it, and then I got really bored and even pretended that I had a dog with me and talked to it. When I was little I wanted a dog so badly that I created an imaginary dog that went everywhere with me. The dog took on the appearance of Lassie, or Rin-Tin-Tin, depending on my mood at the time.

Fortunately this imaginary dog was just a phase and I moved on to road combing. Now if a person isn’t aware of road combing, think of beach combing, only without the water. On long trips vehicles generally lose an item from the back of a truck, or the roof of a car, and it ends up somewhere in traffic. Most of these escapees go unnoticed by their owner and the law of “finders keepers, losers weepers” is thus applied. My grandpa, ever the opportunist, would have been proud of the gas jug and blue floor mat I found. My shining moment almost came when I passed a camera bag in the center lane. I slammed on the brakes, did a wedge turn across two lanes, but just as I had turned the truck in the way I needed to go, I saw another comber stop and grab MY camera bag. I was forced to continue on; my missed opportunity consuming my mind for the rest of the day.

I made a few stops to take pictures of the fall. The entire world was exploding in yellows, reds, and pithy greens. I cursed my camera phone for its lack of zoom, wishing I had gotten that camera bag... Nothing ever looks as wonderful in pictures as they do in real life--probably because a picture can’t capture the movement of sun across the rocks, or the soft quacks of ducks, or the smell of damp leaves in the woods. I often have to take pictures in my mind, a private photo album.

I had discovered on my last trip that driving 50-55 increased my miles per gallon of gas. Usually I drove seventy, which is what everyone does, or even eighty (I had a record of 95 once). But I had no reason to return quickly, and so I putted along. However, putting along also increases the amount of time it takes to get home. Even with the endless road construction along the Alaska Highway, driving the speed limit puts a person in Fairbanks in a twelve hour time frame. I ended up two hours over my ETA.

I was outside Salcha, at 1 am, with an eighth of a tank of gas left, wondering if I should stop and sleep as I swerved back and forth in a delirium of tiredness. I was going my “slow” speed when a Honda Civic vroomed up behind me, tailed, and then passed slowly, a hand out the window flipping me the bird.
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I imagined turning off my lights, and stepping on the gas. My truck shuddering as it sped from 55 to 65, narrowing the gap between me and the little car. I pulled close, the Honda swerving back in my lane. With a sudden burst of speed I rammed into the Honda, sending the car spinning to the side, flipping into the air as its occupants screamed in terror. After two rolls the car stopped in the trees, smoking slightly.

But in reality, I groaned, tried to smile, and decided to pull over for the night. I awoke to a cold morning. I checked my tire (still inflated!) and continued to drive the final hour and a half home. By nine, I had arrived to a messy cabin, my cockatiel (who seemed glad to see me), and two pages worth of errands to complete.

I was, indeed, home.

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