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Published: September 4th 2009
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The very next day however, I get my first sketchy hitching experience. Now resolved to hitching all the way to Whitehorse, I am a couple of lifts out of Dawson Creek, where I spend a couple of fruitless hours in the hot sun with my thumb out and insects all around me. I am rapidly losing heart, when a battered red pickup almost runs me off the road as it stops. A First Nation guy with a baseball cap, black shades and stubble opens the door, and I get in. This, it turns out, was a mistake.
We set off, and his first words to me are "Got any beer?" "No." I reply. "Anything to smoke?" "Tobacco?" This gets the thumbs up, so I roll him a ciggy. But I am already aware of a problem here - the guy has slurred the words so badly, he's barely understandable. I realise I am sat next to a rolled up blanket and a pillow - he sleeps in here. Then I notice the array of medication and loose pills rolling around on the dashboard. And then I notice that we are weaving all over the road. The guy is completely wasted.
After a few moments, things get worse. "I've just taken a load of painkillers. I think they're starting to kick in." he slurs. This revelation is accompanied by a fair amount of gurning. "Will you be alright to drive?" I ask nervously. "Yeah" he lies. I spend the next 30 minutes willing the truck back into the centre of the lane, and wincing every time he embarks on a violent coughing fit, and takes a hand off the steering wheel. At first I ask him questions in a bid to keep him grounded in reality, but I give up when I realise I can't understand any of his replies. At one point, he asks if I have the time. "1.30" I answer. "1.30 in the afternoon?" he asks incredulously. I nod. "Shit." He looks across at me and breaks into a crooked grin: "Guess I lost a coupla hours." I concentrate on giving off anti-weaving psychic vibes. A while later he begins complaining about the amount of fuel he is using, which I take as a good sign that he is returning to reality. Until he realises he's been in second gear for the last hour or so. This
Mountain goats
though they call them 'sheep' here. Look like goats to me. realisation causes much cursing, consternation and self-recrimination on the part of my host, who thumps the steering wheel repeatedly, sending us careering across the highway once again.
The Lonely Planet describes the town of Fort St. John as "a stop not worth starting", but since it is the next town, and he is dropping me there, I feel I cannot agree. Eventually and without further incident, but plenty of hot weave action, we arrive in Fort St. John, and I try not to appear too hasty as I exit the truck. He drops me by a Starbucks, and I retreat inside in a mild state of shock. He was actually a decent guy for stopping and giving me the lift, but it still took hours for the sphincter to declench.
Luckily the next few days are spent hitching all the way up the Alaska Highway with plenty of excellent lifts from some very cool people. The volume of traffic averages out at about one vehicle every 20 minutes, so I have a few 3-hour waits in the blazing sun with only insects for company (damn them), but it usually means that once you've got a ride, it's going
all the way, since there is nowhere until the next town, hundreds of miles away.
The scenery along the highway is stunning, and a particularly good all-day ride with a group of twenty-something Canadians who have just finished tree-planting somewhere, sees us chilling out at the Liard Hot Springs for a couple of hours - very pleasant. We also pass various wildlife on the side of the road, from bears and elk to a herd of wood bison and some mountain goats. I also realise that every Canadian vehicle has at least one metre-long crack in the windscreen - the number of cracks on the windscreens increases the further north I get.
At Watson Lake - another 'highway town', with a row of buildings in a line either side of the road, and nothing else - I stumble across the Signpost Forest, which is massive, and a testament to peoples ability to pilfer road signs and cart them all the way up here.
Four days and 1,123 miles after leaving Prince George I finally get to Whitehorse, where I have promised myself I will stop hitching get the bus up the Klondike Highway to Dawson City. Only
to find that there
are no buses to Dawson City, and the only hostel in town (and the only one I have seen since Prince Rupert) is full.
Bugger.
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Sara
non-member comment
Sounds as though it's been an adventure! It's been highly entertaining reading your blog. More please. Oh, and did you hear... England took back the Ashes? Hurray!