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Published: August 17th 2007
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I have ridden through many tiny towns on my trip. Many only consist of a few ramshackle huts and outhouses, usually each with a scrap yard of rusting junk strewn all around. A lot of people living in these wild, lonely places are here for one reason and one reason only. They don’t want to be part of any community, or system and they do want to be left alone. They are what you might call ‘Mountain Folk’.
I had been cycling for 3 or 4 hours and the sun had been beating down on my head. The sun hadn’t moved an inch in the sky, which is an amazing phenomenon when
you cycle so far north. - it just stays in the same place all day. Unless you had access to a watch you wouldn’t know what time of day it was.
The tourist information leaflet advised that there were numerous campsites, hotels, shops and eateries lining the Glenn Highway and that there was no need to stock up on food or water. So it figured that I hadn’t encountered any of these at all - just mile after mile of nothing. I should have known that this statement was probably written by someone who hadn’t actually been to the Highway. The leaflet should have read “This road is bloody lonely. There is nothing to eat or drink for at least 70 miles, so whatever you do, stock up on food and water or else you will suffer greatly.”
Anyway, I was desperate for a cold drink to cool myself down. I eventually came across a lodge in the middle of nowhere, that looked like it could feed and water me. I walked into the lodge, sweating and panting and looking forward to a cold orange juice.
As I pushed the creaking door open, I was surprised to
find that the lodge was full with people. Half of the lodge was a shop and the other half was organised into a reception hall, with 15 or 20 people now all staring at me.
“Oh, Err, Hello. Shall I come back?” I stumbled nervously on my words, feeling the stares burrowing through me.
I thought I had stumbled into a set from ‘The Hills Have Eyes’. Balding, big, muscley, hairy bodies covered in self applied tattoos filled the room - and that was just the women. If the ‘Duelling Banjos’ had started up it wouldn’t have surprised me.
“Oh, hi honey”, came a reply. “Don’t mind us, we’re just having a meeting. What can I get for ya?” asked a rosy cheeked woman with her hair in plaits.
“I’m going fishin’ later, if you’d like to come?” announced an unknown male voice from the congregation.
I couldn’t make out where this voice had come from, but another man said annoyingly “for heaven’s sake Howard.”
“Ya’ll leave him alone” another unknown female voice shouted out.
“Gee. He’s always asking people if they wanna go God damn fishin’. It ain’t right.” The second
man replied defending himself.
“Ya’ll leave him alone and don’t take the Lord’s name in vein.” The woman snapped.
This ping pong argument by persons unknown was getting quite heated. Blimey! I really didn’t want to start a big argument at their meeting, all I wanted was an orange juice. Howard had by this time stood up and walked over to me. He was a big guy, in his 30’s and his breathe stank of alcohol and he looked agitated. I had immediately worked out where I was going to hit him.
Now I know that sounds very aggressive to most people, but I have had enough experience of drunks to know that they can often turn on you for no apparent reason. You have a massive advantage by pre-empting your defence and strike, the key is not to show any of this in your actions.
Fortunately, Howard was a nice guy who just liked to go fishin’. His left ear was a lot lower than his right ear and I tried not to stare. I found myself staring at his ‘normal’ nose, but then I felt conscious of staring at his nose, so I looked
away only to met by numerous pairs of eyes glaring back at me from the room.
“Oh thanks Howard, but I am cycling to Glenn Allen today. I’ll just get my orange juice and I’ll be on my way.” I was super friendly in my reply to allow the others to see me as a friend, rather than someone to eat.
To be honest, I would have left the orange juice if I could and run out screaming with my hands in the air, but for fear of being lynched. I felt sure some of the gathering were already mulling over what vegetables to serve with me, as I rotated slowly around on the town BBQ spit.
“That’s OK, I’ll give ya a lift” Howard continued. My heart sank further, I thought that would have been the end of it, but Howard had taken a shine to me and he was determined. Glenn Allen was 80 miles away and if my legs were broken I would have crawled there rather than get a lift with him.
“Thanks Howard, but it’s really important that I cycle”, again I was sickly sweet in my reply. What I actually
wanted to say was “For f**k sake Howard, please, please leave me alone. I am sh*tting myself as it is and the people here are going to sacrifice me to their God’s if I don’t leave soon and you aren’t actually helping me”.
“Leave him alone, for God’s sake Howard” said the man that started the argument in the first place.
“Ya’ll leave him alone”, said the women’s voice. She stood up. I think it was Howard’s mum, because her left ear was a lot lower than her right.
By this time I had now received my hard fought orange juice. I wished everyone a good afternoon, in my clearest Queen’s English and headed out the door. I had lived to see another day.
I cycled swiftly for the next 10 miles or so, in fear of Howard beeping his car horn and waving out his window in a frenzied continuation of his desire to give me a lift. I then came across the first cyclist I had seen in about a week.
I get very excited when I see another cyclist, because you are talking to someone who knows what you are talking about.
The only thing is that I can get too excited and appear a bit scary like Howard. I cycled across the road beaming a cheesy grin.
“Hello, how are you my friend?”
He looked a little perplexed and lowered his head in a kind of respectful acknowledgement of my greeting. He was an oriental guy and I just assumed (as most English people do) that he spoke English.
“Where have you come from?” I asked eagerly.
There was no immediate reply. I realised at this action that he probably didn’t speak English very well, so I repeated the question more slowly.
“Where……have……you……come……from?”
He smiled, nodded his head and pointed back up the road to where he had, in fact, come from. Having now established that he had come from the opposite direction to me, I tried to communicate again.
“I”, pointing to myself, “Come….from……Vancouver”.
“Ahh” he sighed and with that smiled and shook my hand.
“No…..my……name……is…..Colin……I…..have……come……. from……Vancouver” I said, realising that he had probably thought that I had been introducing myself as Captain Vancouver.
After the Howard incident this was turning out to be an unusual day. The conversation reminded
me of a blind date that I once went on, where the girl I met didn’t want to talk to me. She just kept smiling and moving her drink around whilst staring at the table. This one-way conversation persisted until I asked her if she was alright. The date descended into further despair when she thought I meant was she ‘alright in the head’. Not one of the more successful dates I have been on.
Anyway, I soon realised that the conversation (like the blind date) was going nowhere fast. I stuffed some toffees into his hands and wished him the best of luck. I think he said his name was Lee, but it could have been Xiu Xan Yii, I am not too sure.
The Highway here follows the edge of the Kluane National Park. Pronounced Kloo-wah-nee the park is considered a national treasure and it contains the largest non-polar ice field in the world - some 8,500 square miles of it.
It is quite simply stunning and even though I didn’t hike into it, you could still appreciate that it was something quite special. The park contains numerous giant mountains that form the St Elias
Mountain Range. The largest mountain in the range is Mt Logan, which is also the highest peak in Canada and stands at 5,950 metres.
According the excellent information centre guide, there is continuous year round snow fall. This is due to the close proximity of the St Elias range to the sea, where warm air hit’s the cold mountain air and mixes to form snow. Apparently, at any given time there is some kind of blizzard on the range and certain areas receive 340 days of snow a year.
This heavy snow fall in turn creates gigantic glaciers. The sheer weight of each layer of snow that falls compacts down to form rock hard ice and then gravity starts the movement of ice downwards and thus a glacier is born. They can move 15 to 20 feet naturally each year, but occasionally they surge.
A surge is where the speed of the glacier increases (sometime up to 100 times the normal speed) and this can end with devastating results for the surrounding environment. Scientists have yet to fully understand why these surges occur.
I have decided to cycle down to Valdez (pronounced Valdeez) as I have
heard that this is exceptionally beautiful, with glacier coming right up to the edge of the road. I will be trying to get on a ferry to Whittier, which will leave me with about 70 miles to cycle to Anchorage.
More to follow shortly……
***CLICK ON THE PHOTOS TO ENLARGE***
***THERE MAY BE MORE THAN ONE PAGE OF PHOTOGRAPHS, TO SEE THESE CLICK ON THE RELEVANT PAGE NUMBER AT THE FOOT OF THIS DIARY ENTRY***
*** MY PERSONAL EMAIL ADDRESS IS colin.d.Snowdon@hotmail.com PLEASE DROP ME A LINE FROM TIME TO TIME***
***FEEL FREE TO FORWARD MY EMAIL ADDRESS OR DIARY BLOG ONTO ANYONE THAT MAY BE INTERESTED***
***IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO READ MY PREVIOUS DIARY ENTRIES, PLEASE CLICK ON THE 'PREVIOUS JOURNALS' IKON AT THE FOOT OF THIS DIARY ENTRY***
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Sarah
non-member comment
Really enjoying your tales they are truely fantastic, your almost there good work mate!!!