North to Alaska!

Alaska by road. The idea sprouted as a camping trip to Yellowstone, but matured when Madbus’s mom asked, provocatively, shamelessly, “Honey, don’t real men go to Alaska?”

“No way, mom,” said Madbus. It was way too far. Thousands of miles through Canada’s utterly uninhabited (albeit spectacular) Prairie Provinces preceded the Rockies and some of North America’s most dangerous stretches of highways. But Madison’s mom called us wimps if we didn't go, and thus it was settled: Seward’s Folly or bust. Annie and Darrah both questioned whether it was actually possible to drive to Alaska (“isn’t that a really big island kind of near Hawaii?”), but we were pleased to learn that the scenic Alaska Highway could take us there. Moreover, it was built during WWII in anticipation of a Japanese invasion. American engineers blasted, paved, and plowed through British Columbia and the Yukon without even asking their host government if it was OK. I have a soft spot for big American projects, but the fact that this one represents severe PWNage of our good ol’ buddy Canada? Step aside, Sugar Loaf Parkway and Beaver Ruin Road, the Alcan is my new favorite!

A seven-month head start on the idea meant that we could plan methodically. Madison’s mom volunteered her Honda Element, and I combed the scrapyards for the choicest spare parts. We had been warned to bring a full sized spare tire- the donut wouldn’t be able to handle the Alaska Highway’s notoriously heinous washouts, gravel pits, and frost heaves, and we’d likely have to travel hundreds of miles to the nearest service station. We read a book about the Alaska Highway, which was very thorough and well researched. It had been endorsed by Sarah Palin. Madison’s co-workers donated a Hawaiian girl in a hula skirt for our dashboard. We named her Frances, after the wife of William Seward, and she wiggles when the car’s moving.

I gathered and organized my camping gear and folded the American flag that had once been my grandfather’s. He had bought the now-faded banner when we had upgraded from 48 to 50 stars, and it’s heavy canvas- not the cheap rayon that they pass off as Old Glory these days, but real cloth that swishes and cracks in the breeze and screams Americana. It would get plenty of air-time as we drove through Canada. I debated tracking down a t-shirt with something suitably disparaging, like “Canada: America’s Hat,” but thought better of it. Far easier to just ask for a Molson’s at every bar, then pour it on the ground in nationalistic contempt and order a Bud Heavy.

In addition to the clothes, tools, tents, stoves, boots, lanterns, and other useful relics from my Boy Scouting days, a case of Canadian whisky joined our inventory. “The natives like to trade,” we’d been told, “And they like to drink.” I opted for nip-bottles: they would allow us the same bartering leeway as bringing small bills to an antique market. My sincerest hope is to trade for an authentic native harpoon. I hear they’ve gone out of style (the Inuit now hunt whales with grenade launchers) but it would be a suitably Alaskan antique for my future mantlepiece.