I suspect by now all of you will have fallen behind in this barrage of posts. But I’ll just keep on going. I’m in Beaver Creek, still in the Yukon, the West-most town in Canada. The cluster of buildings lies North of Anchorage, and about 30 miles from the US border.

It feels to me that Alaska should naturally belong to Canada. Having that bit of US glommed on at Canada’s side seems unnatural. Maybe Trudeau should discuss effective verbiage with Putin to prepare for the invasion.

Which brings up the wonderful contribution from one of you, who found this on Twitter (no need to follow the link; it’s just here for image credit):

Cartographic Misunderstanding

Here is an alternate route to Alaska. Maybe I have it all wrong being up here where the dark don’t gloom?

Missed Opportunity

Just at this past stop, Haines Junction I had the opporunity for a detour to Haines. Talking about the wrong prong taken at the fork:

This wasn’t a navigation mistake. I thought I wanted that right turn now, rather than later. I had to take. It one way or other.

Haines is a town across, and up on a bit water from Juneau (i.e. North-West). During my less ambitious days. I’d considered Haines as a Northern-most point of the tour,

I now just found this flyer, and I’m aching to visit this museum!

Imagine! A museum with 2000 hammers. I would so love to see that collection!

At this point, though, the worst road of the trip lies behind me. The one after the right turn. I won’t go back.

Some time after that turn, the road turned worse and worse.

Not dangerous, just gravel, and occasional shallow mud seemingly composed of dirt, oil, and tar:

The bumps were severe enough that I occasionally had to stand like a jockey. Cumulatively, the strain on one of my left panier’s anchors finally caused the end of the case’s participation in the tour. Fortunately, this bike case only held tire repair accessories, and medication. I carry a light nylon backpack for evening outings. So I transferred the pannier contents to the backpack, erected a cross for the pannier, and left it by the road for crows and coyotes to scavenge.

Not all bad, though! Interesting scenery along the road when rain eased (center image). On the right: “That’s a thermometer!”

The top left most photo illustrates a beetle that afflicted pines 30 years ago in the entire area. The absence of lightning during that period has resulted in a giant tinderbox. The assumption is that towns like Haines Junction will need to be evacuated once the fire occurs.

Signs about settlement land are posted whenever a road leads from the Alaska Highway into the woods. The history is this: Up to 1942 the Kluane First Nations hunted, fished, and trapped in the entire, large area. In 1942 the Alaska Highway was constructed, bringing whites, who hunted without inhibition throughout.

The Canadian government, trying to stop that intrusion, declared a large part of the land protected. Which was great, except that the rangers destroyed the homes of resident Indians, and kept them from hunting, fishing, and trapping. The former inhabitants had to sneak onto their land at night, and hope not to get caught.

Decades of negotiations yielded a settlement in 2004, which stipulated joint governance by the Kluane First Nation, and the Canada Park Service. That solution is seemingly holding.

Speaking of Signs

Remember my insightful thoughts about units of length being culturally impacted?

Note that up here, it’s not White Moose. It’s Caribou that defines social distancing.

Geo-Cool, Or What?

I mentioned glaciers altering river flows. Along the way to Beaver Creek I stopped at a visitor center in the middle of nowhere. The center was placed there for a reason:

This valley used to be a river…until 2016. At that point a nearby glacier moved, broke a natural dam it had previously created, and cut off water to this river within one day. Silt, blown in by the wind has created an entirely new flora on what used to be the river bed.

I know that I said this in an earlier post. But personally seeing a major landscape change that happened well within my lifetime is exciting to me.

Putting ‘Cultural Appropriation’ to a Vote

A bit further still, I found a cultural museum along the road. Inside, a taxidermy exhibit of local animals, and artwork by hyper local First Nation members. ‘Hyper,’ as in ‘the back room,’

The taxidermy exhibit was beautifully arranged. I’ve shown examples from an earlier museum, so won’t repeat. I do include the lower left photo to illustrate that ravens cooperate with wolves. The birds point the predators to carcasses; the wolf opens the skin, and breaks bones, making it easier for the ravens to eat. Similarly, jays tease other animals. The loon on the lower right is included for its beauty.

I asked the sales person whether she knew about cultural appropriation. Coincidentally, the store was filled with customers. So many heard when I presented the dilemma of obtaining moccasins for my grandson.

The entire store was puzzled.

“No,” one customer said, “that’s cultural appreciation.”

Another: “If a white person took the patterns and techniques, and sold products, that would be different.”

Another still: “Or if someone wore First Nation attire and claimed to be First Nation, that would be wrong.”

Thus affirmed, I bought a pair for myself. The appropriation was not cheap. But it was just Canadian dollars!

The leather is moose, the fur is beaver. The beads are glass.

I’ve wanted a pair of these since I was 8 years old. We kids were all obsessed with American Indians. I knew about Apaches, Comanches, Navajos, Iroquois, Kiowa, and more. We all had head dresses, wooden tomahawks. We had sheriff stars, and we turned every stick into a pistol, because our parents had endured enough gun fire for a lifetime, and refused to buy us anything realistic looking. Yet nobody, and I mean even the son of a very wealthy publishing tycoon, who had genuin carved African elephant tusks. Nobody had moccasins.

Now I do.

Beaver Creek Accommodation

These here are the funkiest of accommodations I’ve had to date:

The entire upper floor on the right side of the building (photo upper left) is mine. I am room 31.Reachabe via the stairs by the side of the building. The ‘room’ contains three king sized beds, two bro rocking chairs with can holders. In the back is a kitchen and…access to room 32. We haven’t met yet.

The entire upper story, rooms 31 and 32 used top be a local watering hole. My kitchen, plus its mirror in room 32 used to be the bar.

While none of the wall switches impact the ever rotating ceiling fan. I’m fine.

Buckshot Betty’s

On arrival yesterday I am more tired than I realized. But also hungry. Checking in is a problem, because the motel’s card reader doesn’t work. Since there is a steady stream of putatively paying gas pump customers, the young man behind the counter is overwhelmed. The computer needs to be restarted, and he’s never done that. I’m in full gear, with luggage, anticipating my room. So, eventually I propose:

“Why don’t I get dinner while you figure it out? Where can I have dinner?”

“Buckshot Betty’s down the road. She opens at 4pm, ten minutes from now. But sometimes she is late, and sometimes she doesn’t open at all. I’d hate to send you there for nothing.”

Betty is an original. Early sixties. Not your Honey-type waitress. More like:

“Menus over there. Get yourself one. Water and coffee are self serve.”

Upon which she disappears for 10 minutes. Nobody dares to complain. Not even the people trying to pay at the cash register by the door.

When Betty reappears, she appraises the room, selecting one of the needy patrons. She might accept payment from the first in line. But then disappear for another 10 minutes.

I might have known, given the signs outside, and on the walls around the tables:

I meet her tone, somehow, or it’s my eyes. I don’t know. But I’m the only one to get a smile from her during the considerable time that I spent in that restaurant.

Just now, I went back for my second dinner a day later. I grab a menu, sit down in the same booth as yesterday. From across the room she peers at me, tilts her head towards the whiteboard with the special: ribs. She raises her eyebrows in inquiry. I nod.

Betty is right over:

“Soup or salad?”

“Salad.”

“Anything else?

Yesterday I had her Merlot, which is “the red.” I want that again, but somehow the name ‘Merlin’ is lodged in my mind. I stutter out that namer, and she smile. “

“A Merlot then.”

She disappears. But I have my salad in no time. I say:

“Thank you”

“Yep,” she says, already half way across the room

The guy in the next booth, who already sat there when I arrived is still waiting:

At a table next to me, a couple in their 50s sit down. He has his back to me. A silent type. Betty arrives to take the order.

Patron woman: “What is the soup?”

“Chicken noodle. You want soup or salad?”

The woman is briefly, but fatally flummoxed by the choice.

“I’ll give you a few minutes,” and Betty is gone.

Once penalty time is over, Betty returns, and addresses to the male guest:

“Have you decided?”

“Yep,” the strong silent guest responds, and proceeds to start inhaling.

Betty: “Are you gonna let me know?”

Not even a strong silent type can withstand that type of courage in the face of strong silence. He admits to his choice.

And yet, I see Betty put on her reading glasses, and pour over a road map with a departing guest explaining to him where the fires and evacuations are. She takes her time helping the man make safe travel choices.

At this point I have several evacuation texts on my Canadian iPhone line. And now I understand why my phone was ringing with strange origin numbers throughout the day. Likely robo calls to evacuate from particular areas, far enough away. I learn, though, that now you can no longer obtain rooms in Whitehorse, because they are taken by fire fighters, and maybe evacuees.

Betty assures me that my directions tomorrow are clear.

The Tricycle People

Downstairs from my bro digs I meet a couple, who are riding a Goldwing tricycle.

The wife likes riding in the back, but sometimes drives. They come from Ohio, and are on their way home via Colorado. They in fact just this morning drove the road that I will be riding tomorrow. I thought the road issues were over…

“The road up to Tok is terrible. They take you off the embankment, around, up to a bridge they are working on. Huge bumps.”

Not what I wanted to hear. But in theory, tomorrow, it at least won’t be raining again.

The two have traveled together, on this trike, on a Goldwing motorcycle, several BMW R and K models. The trike is very comfortable, they conclude, particularly for the passenger. She loves it. However, you apparently have to wrestle the vehicle a lot. When you are on the crown of the road, the trike continuously drifts ‘downhill’ towards one embankment or the other. Enough to cause shoulder pain over time.

Also, because you don’t lean on a trike, the wide, sweeping curves that are beautiful on a two-wheeler, are, they say, a bit of a wrestling act.

O-Rings for Andreas

Many of you know that for years the Internet has been serving me ads for summer dresses on nearly every site I visit. I have bought a raw hide leather tool belt once, a power generator, electronic cables. Nothing helps convince the algorithm that I will not buy summer dresses.

Now, today, on my motorcycle tour I think I’ve won. I receive an email from

“An industrial archive with more than 6,000 molds available immediately, … the best value for money of Viton® FKM, FPM O-Rings … a reliable and competent supplier of elastomer seals”

My first thought is:

“All right, I flipped the algorithm. It found my raw hide leather tool belt, and has me as a DIY guy.”

But then I wonder.

“Wait! What do guys need O-rings for? Did the algorithm find out about my not…?

And I recall the sculpture under Buckshot Betty’s road sign:

When I first saw it, I smiled:“

“That’s a cute bottom. I’d love to squeeze that one.”

But now, suddenly it occurs to me:“

“That’s a prostate!”

See how the mind projects meaning onto art? Sometimes art works for you, sometimes against. It’s the mindset when you approach it. Lesson: approach art with caution.

Then I see the ad’s image further down:

“Well,” I calm down. “at least they are thinking of me as a high volume customer. And custom made O-rings, eh? Now that’s interesting.”

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Oh, on that topic. Did I mention the show I attended in Whitehorse?

“Oh la la,” I say. “Oh la la.”

But it’s getting late. I don’t want to keep you guys.