GAME

May 30, 2007

The sun was already bright at four thirty.  I doubt it made it to the predicted low of thirty nine.

By seven Onie was awake and her back, which has been giving her some trouble, was still aching so some BioFreeze was applied in the hopes it would give her some relief.

Outside the temperature had climbed to forty six and the sun was even brighter if that was possible.

Our coffee and tea were set to brewing while last night’s dishes were washed and put away.  Sipping on the tea our breakfast of  Freedom toast and sausage was prepared.

Onie took her laptop and walked to the laundry where the DSL line was located.  She plugged in, got on line and paid our lawn service bill which arrived yesterday via email.

She was back soon and we finished preparations for the road.

At nine fifteen we left the park and joined the traffic flow,  A little searching led us to the local Sobey’s, a grocery store, parking lot.  I waited in the coach wile Onie went in to replenish our supply of fresh fruits and vegetables.

We were on the highway headed towards Edmonton by ten thirty.  The hills slipped by under the bright sunlit sky and all was well with the world.

We stopped in Whitecourt for fuel.  The sign said full service and a young lady came out to pump two hundred forty liters for us, we had averaged nine point three miles per gallon, at the bargain basement price of ninety nine point nine cents per liter.  A young man also labored mightily at smearing the accumulated dead bugs on the windshield all over while removing very few.  While she fed the fuel into the tank we talked about fuel prices and governments.  She stated she had to cancel her planned vacation due to the high fuel costs.  She went on to say the suppliers were really gouging the public and making way too much money.  I have heard that old plaint from friends and enemies for years and remind them of the Carter administration and gas price controls.  They didn’t work then and they won’t work now.  For those of you who didn’t get to live though his glory years and those good old days motorists waited in lines for hours to buy a few gallons of gas or to get to the pump only to be told the allotment for the day had been sold.  Yes, that plan was such a howling success that even the most liberal of the liberals hated it.  What will work is less consumption.  When folks revolt against the high price and stop driving so much, prices will come down.  It is called a market or free economy.  Before you demand price controls for gas remember the same government that can fix the price of gas can fix the price that you can get for your beef cattle, for your accounting work, for your legal work, for your work as a secretary and every other job.  That is what the USSR did and we all know what a glowing success story that was.  When these few facts were recited for her she then turned to what could be the real culprit or at least a major contributor to high fuel prices.  That would be high fuel taxes, enacted by own enlightened elected representatives and senators for our own good. You do understand that laws are never enacted unless they are well thought out and for our own good.  The good elected officials in Alberta think that a thirty five percent fuel tax is good for the people.  Yes--you read it right, thirty five PERCENT, or at least that is what the fuel pumper told me.  Now thirty five percent of our fuel bill in the present instance would only come to eighty four dollars and no one would argue that that is exorbitant or confiscatory unless it would be this writer.  Regular unleaded was a trifling one twenty nine per liter so a family car holding twenty gallons would only pay thirty six dollars and twelve cents each time it filled up.  That is more than the total bill just a few years ago. No politicians in his or her right mind would argue that this is a burden on working people.

Well, we had to leave our fuel pumper and bug smearer and move on down the road where we saw the first evidence of God’s food control engineers, beavers.  These are amazing little creatures, busy each waking hour, building their homes, gathering food for the present or storing for future use and still finding enough time to raise a family.  There were lots of families here and they had built everywhere, in creeks and ponds and even in the ditches that lined the road.  There would be no quick run off of rain water if these dam builders had their way.

Edmonton traffic at twelve fifteen is a mess.  It has to the Houston of Alberta.  Besides sharing this horrendous traffic problem Alberta and Texas have a lot in common.  They raise a lot of cattle, they poke a lot of holes in the ground to get out oil to ship elsewhere, they have a thriving economy built on entrepreneurship plus a healthy mistrust of big government.  Both peoples are also forthright and outspoken, for the most part.  We have friends in Edmonton and they would make good Texans with nothing more than transplanting necessary.  Just before we got into Edmonton we saw a tractor van with a big sign painted on it, “More Alberta, Less Ottawa”.  That is the equivalent of “More Texas, Less D.C.”.

On the far side of Edmonton we saw our first sign of moose, on this trip.  It was large yellow and black, a sign with a moose painted on it.  We were also treated to seeing a pair of geese coasting about a roadside pond and a coyote, resting in the bar ditch.  For him it was run game, catch game and lunch game.

Grand Prairie and its big Wal Mart seem like old friends now.  We parked out among six or eight other rigs and went in to do a little shopping.  We also had a fishing rod we had bought in Livingston, Texas and broke in Sterling, Alaska last year.  I wanted to try to exchange it.  At the service desk a nice young lady explained that they didn’t carry that same rod but if a similar one would do she would be glad to exchange it.  A refund could not be offered since I didn’t have a receipt.  My receipts usually end up as a wad in my pocket.  If they are lucky I throw them in the trash at home before they make it through a wash and dry cycle.  I did find a similar rod that was a little less expensive than the broken one but I was good with it and thought things being what they were it was a good deal.  I can’t think of any other store that could have such a story told about it.  With the new rod in hand we picked up some fire starters for the campfires we will have in Alaska.  Onie rounded out our shopping with some groceries and then it was back to the coach to store our treasures.

Dawson Creek was beckoning us from the north and we answered the call.  On our further trek north we saw several hundred head of bison and elk.  No, they weren’t free roaming, they were all behind fence.

For all the bison and elk there was wind to match.  We were buffeted like a wind blown leaf as we motored toward Dawson Creek. 

By eight o’clock, when we arrived, our preferred campground was full so we overnighted at Tubby’s, not the best campsite we ever visited but certainly not the worst.  After four hundred fifty miles here, a campground with a level site, water, electric and sewer was a good site.  Tubby had all three even if the view wasn’t great and a little trash pickup would have been nice.  The front of the coach was covered with dead bugs, the suicide bombers of the highways.  They had died in warm clear air and would spend the night in same.

By nine thirty we were seated at the supper table and at ten we retired.  

DIFFERENT

May 31, 2007

If it weren’t for all the Canadian license plates I would think we were in Alaska, already.  This morning at four thirty the sun was shining brightly and it was forty eight.

If the old body clock would just adjust a little I could quit waking at these unseemly hours.  Perhaps it won’t be too long before we can sleep ‘til ten like all respectable retired folk.  Until then we will just have to struggle on.

Although it was cool outside it was a pleasant sixty five inside the Marlin.  Outside there was not a breath of wind but inside the perking coffee and tea had the air swirling.  With their fresh aroma surrounding me I washed the dishes from last night then pecked away waiting for Onie to show her shining face.  At seven she did.

Folks who know us think we lead a pretty interesting life.  We think so too.  One way to keep things interesting is to let no routine be your routine, in your thinking, in your day to day living and in your dietary habits.  Like this morning we had sautéed haddock, fresh tomato and eggs along with our coffee and tea.  That is really quite a good breakfast if one is not hidebound by tradition.

Breakfast behind us we went out and put the car cover on the toad.  Our first trip to Alaska taught us to protect the toad, its windshield, headlights, front bumper and anything else we can reasonably cover.  Each trip seems to bring overall improvement in the roads but there is still plenty of opportunity for damage to anything traveling the highways and byways.

With the toad ready we unhooked the Marlin from the landlines, got the toad in place and hooked up the towing gear.

We were hoping to log three hundred fifty miles today.  That would put us close to Liard Hot Springs when we wake in the morning.

We managed to be on the road at five minutes to ten.

Not too many minutes later we were in Ft. St. John and the Safeway gas bar.  With our Safeway card we were able to buy diesel for $3.06 U.S.  We averaged eight point six miles per gallon on that leg.

Fully fueled we headed north to Alaska, again.  Ever watchful for wild animals we soon saw three moose, one on Onie’s side and two on mine.  All three were resting on their sides in the ditch, dead as a mackerel.

The beautiful hills and distant mountains kept us interested in the passing montage and soon our persistence was rewarded with the viewing of a live cow moose and just down the road a live yearling moose.

Onie kept looking for animals but I turned my attention to the very steep, ten percent, grade that would take us down to the Peace River.  The grade down, going north, is at least three miles long and the pull out of the valley, once the river has been crossed, is at least five miles.  We will revisit this locale in a few months on our way back home.  One can imagine the challenge of herding our fifteen tons down this steep winding road.  Misjudgment or miscalculation means hitting the mountain wall or ditching in the very cold river, neither one a very good option.

Safely down and back up we began looking for our stopping place for the night, the Tetsa RV park.

This is a very different kind of park located at historic mile marker three hundred seventy five but actual mile marker three hundred forty seven.  The difference is due to the ever changing route of the Alaskan Hiway.  The actual route is changing each year and with each change it is shortened as roads are straightened and leveled.  Much of what we traveled in two thousand one is no longer in use and trees, grasses and shrubs are reclaiming what was once asphalt paving.

What was different about the park?  Let’s see.  Our water line, a flexible black tubing was mostly on the surface of the ground and delivered a trickle of water no bigger than a wooden pencil.  Our electrical, advertised at thirty amp, was a one hundred foot extension cord with a regular outlet and probably did not carry more than fifteen amps.

The fifteen amps came from a diesel powered generator which was turned off at ten and back on at seven in the morning.  We were so far out in the sticks that there were no electric utility lines available.

The actual mileage logged today was next door neighbor to the actual mile marker.  We had stopped at mile marker three hundred forty seven, you recall, and had logged three hundred forty six miles.

We were parked in our sylvan setting at five thirty.

Hooked up to these amenities we set off on our evening walk.  Across the road we found large amount of snow nestled in among the trees, resting quietly in the shade.  It would take warmer days to turn it into run off.

Our walk over we returned to our site which in reality was quite pretty.  It was just a little different from what we had expected.

During our walk we had passed the remains of the shower and laundry building.  Last night it had caught fire and burned to the ground.  All that remained were ashes and a little twisted metal.  Next to the nearby creek sat a gasoline powered gear pump with a fire hose attached.  This belonged to the local firefighters, the owner and his wife.  They had fought the fire but the fire won.

In the coach Onie rattled her pots and pans and came up with a salad and chicken soup for supper.

While she sliced, diced and cooked I made notes in long hand to save electricity.  We wanted to be sure the freezer ran so I made notes in long hand to save electricity.

When the sun began dropping behind the nearby mountain top she settled quickly and the gathering darkness brought cooler temperatures.

By nine o’clock traffic noise had ceased and the wind had stopped its sighing in the tree tops.  The only sound coming through our open window was that of the water in the Tetsa River as it tumbled down its rock bed on its way to the sea.  Sleep came quickly.

IN HOT WATER

June 1, 2007

One must have their coffee or tea before the day can get off on the right foot.  Without coffee or tea one becomes left footed and that means adopting strange habits like drinking Coke or Pepsi for breakfast.  These people sometimes grow up to be politicians or other weird folk.

While the coffee and tea brewed the outside temperature started its daily climb in the dead still air.  It had started at forty nine at five and by seven thirty it was all the way up to forty six.  We may be in for a scorcher.  With our very still surroundings one could still hear the river sending its contents ever seaward yet never going dry.

The sound of the central generator starting broke the silence.  The sweet sound of babbling water was replaced with the clatter of a diesel engine.  With the noise came electricity.  That is progress, I think.

Cooking grits and then frying eggs added more heat to our environs and bodies.  While Onie was busy straightening up inside the writer went out to disconnect the exotic hookups.

Yve, pronounced “Eve” appeared quietly from the trees as I stooped to disconnect the water.  Yve is the paid helper of the owners.  Like a good employee he does as he is told and perhaps a bit more. 

Yve lives here.

His name is French and he hails from Quebec which he considers elitist, snobbish, and effete and a few other unprintable things.  I tried to get him to open up and tell me how he really feels but I quickly realized time would not permit such a fishing expedition.  While I went about the disconnecting business he told me how jobs are not available in Quebec, not even blue collar jobs, without a college degree.  The people of Quebec have the idea that one cannot be a carpenter and know how to hold a hammer correctly unless one has spent at least four years at an institute of higher (?) learning.  This is not the opinion of the writer but that of Yve who has moved west to prove them wrong.  To date he has mastered hammer holding, nail driving, wood cutting and other skills associated with carpentering.  He has also learned to take care of his tools and is progressing in the area of personal grooming although his hair is a bit long and his beard needs some work.  It is too scraggly to be a real beard and he needs to learn how to make it grow full.  Failing this effort he needs to go back to Quebec and attend college where full unkempt beards are the order of the day.  When the electric was disconnected Yve took the extension cord and rolled it neatly before hanging it in a tree branch.  The driver went into the coach to prepare to leave.

Onie had the jacks up, the slides in, the interior policed and the Cummins idling.  I slid behind the wheel and eased us out of the woods, down the drive and onto the pavement.  Liard Hot Springs should be our next overnight stop.  It was nine thirty.

The buzzer that alerts us when the jacks are still extended or partially so beeped and at the first pull out we stopped.  Outside on hands and knees I removed rocks and dirt.  The right rear duals seem very adept at loading same in the jack pad.

In just a short while we were nearing Summit Lake, a reference point for us.  Rounding yet another curve on the mountainous road we saw sheep on the shoulder of the road.  Like years past they were licking residual salt from the gravel and just as in years past I wondered where they got their salt before the road was here and salt was added to deice it in the winter. 

If you believe Darwin’s theory of evolution, an unproven goofy idea at best, the three caribou just down the road were ascendants or descendants of those goats and the mosquitoes that had been biting this morning while I listened to Yve talk about higher education.  By the way, he speaks three languages; French, English and Canadian English, more about Canadian English later, and he hasn’t even been on a college campus.  The dead moose and live bear we saw just before Muncho Lake all came from the same amorphous gunk, according to Darwin and his apologists, as the bugs that were now plastering our windshield.

Stone sheep, not to be confused with their cousins, thin horned sheep, thrive in the Muncho Lake area.  Right where we stopped for lunch last year, next to the lake, a small group of these individuals munched springs of grass and ate salt.

Muncho Lake is a large mountain lake and the road around it follows the shoreline.  Thus it is flat but very winding.  The extreme temperatures and ice and snow wreak havoc with its surface so the ride is a slow tortuous rough one.

Leaving Muncho Lake one heads back into the hills and mountains where the many curves and grades combined with the still poor surface render the speed limits meaningless to those navigating in motor homes.  One must drive judiciously to meet conditions and go very slow on curves. The alternative would be to abruptly end the trip.

Even in the remotest of places people drink coffee.  On hiway ninety seven at Poplar RV Park, north of Muncho Lake we stopped for a latte for Onie.  The driver opted for blueberry yogurt.  The latte shop also serves as an ice cream store, bakery, restaurant, gift shop, gas station, RV park office and office for the local fire warden.  If I have left out any function it is merely intentional.  The smell of fresh baked yeast bread created too much temptation so we added a loaf to our pantry along with a huge cinnamon roll.  Should hard times befall us we would have plenty of carbs o pull us through.

One of the hot spots on the Al-Can highway is the Liard naturally warm, hot, springs.  After coasting down the approach to the Liard River bridge with the exhaust brake engaged and the transmission held in second we climbed the half mile out of the river valley and gained the entrance to Liard Hot Springs Provincial Park.  That seems like a run on sentence but for the life of me I can’t break it up at ten ‘til eight in the a.m.

We checked in at twelve forty five, drove to the parking lot, found some shade, put down the jacks and declared the day’s drive at an end.

Dressed in bathing suits and sandals and carrying our beach towels we trod the boardwalk.  Even Onie’s sharp eyes couldn’t find the resident moose, bear, geese, ducks or swans.  We did find the hot springs and joined a multitude of children of all ages soaking and frolicking their aches, pains and cares away.    The hot, slightly sulfuric, water is claimed by some to have curative powers.  For certain it is good for bones, joints and muscles that have ridden and jolted their way north for several days.

A great massage.

Water feels great!

By three thirty we were back at the Marlin, prunized to the max.

We continued our relaxation with a few games of dominoes.  In spite of myself I finished next to last three times and second to first once.  Onie decided it was supper time.

Fresh quartered tomato, an avocado half, hot baked salmon and roasted asparagus were served up by the resident chef, Onie.

Then it was back to the hot springs for another good long soak before retiring.

Back at the coach at nine thirty we enjoyed sliced strawberries and  honey topped with half and half.

Sated, very tired and relaxed we went to bed at ten.

CHALLENGES

June 2, 2007

It was forty four at four.  Don’t ask how I knew.

By seven the temperature had risen to fifty three and I had risen with it.

With the generator running the coffee and tea were made. Two thick slices were cut off the yeast bread we got yesterday and quickly rendered as skillet toast.  When our snack was over we headed back to the hot springs.

Once there and soaking we visited with two couples, one on their way to Alaska for the summer and the other from Dawson Creek.  Charles and Marilynne Quinn were the couple from Dawson Creek.  They are both retired, he from the railroad, I think, and her from owning an arts and crafts shop. They were a delightful couple.  They come for ten days at a time, a few times a year.  From visiting with them we believe they are of the Pentecostal faith.  He is also a Gideon.

We were back at the coach at ten.  More coffee and tea along with sausage and a micro wave heated cinnamon roll was breakfast.  I’m not a big cinnamon roll fan but that one was delicious. While Onie cleaned the kitchen I checked the coach as we prepared to leave.  With everything in readiness I assumed the position in the driver’s chair, cranked the engine and listened to it sputter and die.  A small alarm bell went off somewhere in the back of my mind.  This hadn’t happened before.  Perhaps we had a problem.  Thinking and trying to get a handle on the little challenge it came to mind that the water fuel separator hadn’t been drained this trip.  Perhaps we had a little water there that needed to be drained.  I did that. Another few turns of the starter and the Cummins purred to life, sputtered and died.  The alarm bell became a siren declaring an emergency.

What we do when faced with the unexpected may be a key to our inner self or so would say a psychiatrist.  I would say it shows how we deal with problems.  Many folks have written about the subject.  Rudyard Kipling wrote a famous poem entitled “If” that dealt with the same issue.  When I was fifteen I used it as a declamation piece and won first prize in the statewide competition for the Boys Clubs of America.  Somewhere there is a dusty trophy attesting to that fact.  The poem begins, if memory serves “If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs, you simply don’t understand the problem.”  A more recent rhymer wrote “When in danger or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout!”  We did neither.  We sat and mulled over the situation before crossing the road to the Liard Hot Springs Lodge, RV Park, fuel bar and Café where we did what any civilized person would do.  We started making phone calls.

Our friends at the Cummins hotline were called first.  The man listened patiently while I explained the situation, in Canada, a hundred miles from the closest town, no cell service, the engine won’t run and I can’t fix it.  He asked for my exact location.  He looked for it on his computer map.  Since the computer couldn’t find Liard Hot Springs in northern British Columbia, on the Al-Can Highway, also know as highway 97, I was lost and he couldn’t help me until I found myself.  Thus began days of talking to people in the U.S. who had not a clue where we were except to be certain we were lost and not where we said we were.  We could not be helped until we were at a place on their computer map.  The man at Cummins finally found a paper map.  Then he found where we were.  We had burned half an hour to find us on the map.  Now he unfolded the good news.  No technical advice was available.  It was Saturday.  The techs would be back on Monday.  Enjoy the weekend and call back Monday.  He was kind enough to wish me a good day.     

The conversation had been a real joy.  I had called for help, not an easy thing to do for an Anglo-American male in his sixties, but I had done it.  I had received assurances that, one: I was lost, two: I didn’t know where I was, three: a usual source of good information had dried up due to a calendar.  Calendars moved right up there with alarm clocks on my lists of worthless inventions.  After consulting the yellow pages, a good place to find businesses that have made sufficient money to place an ad that may or may not be a true representation of what they do and who they are, I called a few in Ft. Nelson.  This was a logical place to begin as it was only two hundred miles away and after all someone may actually be working on a Saturday, or not.  Someone was working but they offered no hope of help now or within the lifetime of my children, grandchildren or great grandchildren.  Thinking there was at least a fifty-fifty chance I wouldn’t live that long I thanked them and hung up.

Watson Lake lay to the north a hundred forty miles.  We were headed that way.  Perhaps someone up there would like to help us accomplish that goal.  More looking in the phone book uncovered yet more folks to call.  I did.  Yes, they were open for business but no, they didn’t want to come out and help me.  It was rapidly becoming apparent to me that road service was an invention and idea that belonged solely in the U.S. of A.

A dim light went on somewhere in the forgotten recesses of my brain.  We were members of the Good Sam Emergency Road Service Club.  I took out their card and dialed the toll free number.  Place phone trees on the list as another useless, worthless invention meant only to torment and antagonize a normal person.  It also takes away a job from an ordinary human being who might try to help me.  After punching this button and that, on the phone dial, I was finally connected to a live person.  At least at the time I thought it was a live person.  More questions followed and after fifteen minutes I was told I was not where I thought I was but in another place that was on the computer map.  Computer maps might be on the list too.  Quite gently I thought, I explained that his map stopped at Ft. Nelson, British Columbia and began again at Whitehorse, The Yukon.  Unfortunately this left out about six or seven hundred miles of Canada and the Canadians were not going to happy about this when they find out they live in a place that doesn’t exist. My guy, Calvin, tried to commiserate with me and extend his condolences to those souls lost today because their homes were not on the computer map.  Oh, the frustration of it all.  All I wanted to know was if he could help me locate a mechanic.  This request caused him to repeat his initial question, “are you in a safe place?”  Of course I was in a safe place.  I was standing next to the pay phone in the Liard Hot Springs Lodge, restaurant and RV office on the highway between Ft. Nelson and Watson Lake.  Calvin reminded me I was lost and that such a place did not exist, the people I thought I had met were mere figments of my imagination and the place I was standing had never been because it wasn’t on the computer map.  As soon s I found myself he would try to help.  Meanwhile he would call folks on his map and see if he could get a resolution to my dilemma of not knowing where I was with an engine that wouldn’t start in a place that didn’t exist.  In closing he asked if I was in a safe place and then gave me a reference number should I want to call back with a real location.  Forty five minutes had passed.  I hung up the phone and clung to the wall much like Spider Man might do.  It was all I could do to not fall down in this place that didn’t exist peopled with creations of my mind.

My head hurt. My hand hurt from holding the phone.  My wrist hurt from being connected to my wrist and the rest of my body ached from standing there like an idiot talking to a person who couldn’t even read a map.  The whole situation was just mind boggling and yet it was a reality I had to deal with.

I went back to the coach to give Onie an update.  When I told her we were in a time warp she looked at me like I was warped.  Then I invited her across the road for lunch and she realized it was just a big joke.  Ha!

At the restaurant part of the Liard Hot Springs etc. we ordered lunch or a reasonable facsimile.  She had the soup of the day, split pea, and I had poutine, French fires covered with cheese and drowned in brown gravy.  With enough gunk in my veins to clog a city sewer I went back to the phone.

Good Sam had a solution for us.  They would tow the Marlin.  Wait just a minute was my reply. I personally saw a coach towed twelve miles and it had twelve thousand dollars worth of body damage.  Our coach would not be towed if it could be fixed on site.  Perhaps Good Sam could locate a person to fix it in situ.  No, that wouldn’t happen in situ or in standu.  Don’t you just love literate folks?  When the questioning began again, “are you in a safe place”, I hung up.

The Lord helps those who help themselves is oft quoted as scripture but it is in fact not.  Nonetheless I believe he wants us to do our best before throwing ourselves completely on his mercies.  He is always willing to help but is after all a very busy being.

.   

Whitehorse is only a hop, skip and a jump as distances go in Texas, Canada and space, being only something over four hundred miles away from where I wasn’t.

I decided to call the Cummins authorized repair shop there.  My call was answered by a pleasant sounding lady who transferred me to a service advisor.  After a morning filled with the utmost frustration I felt that help might actually be within my grasp.  I explained how the Cummins had choked and died.  I asked the man if he had any ideas.  Quite quickly he responded with a couple of guesses but then said that it would be necessary to tow it to the shop, put it on the computer and then and only then could a positive diagnosis be made.  I reminded him we were talking about a diesel engine, not a person.  I simply needed his educated guess as to what the problem was with the Cummins and what I could do to repair it, not heal it.  No, I didn’t understand.  The Cummins would have to be computer analyzed to determine its problem.  I told the man the Cummins was not mentally ill it just wouldn’t run.  It didn’t need analysis it needed repairing.  His final response was to tow it to the shop to have it analyzed, Monday.  They were closed for the weekend.  Before he signed off I asked him who he recommended to tow it if I couldn’t fix it where it was.  He said Rudy’s in Watson Lake and they don’t tow, they haul it on a flat bed. We hung up.

Boy did my head ever hurt!

Ever the glutton for punishment I called Good Sam back.  I told them I had located a towing service that didn’t tow, it hauled.  Would it be possible to have it hauled to Whitehorse to the Cummins affiliate there, I wondered.  What to my wondering ears was the reply, “Are you in a safe place?”  Yes, was my answer.  Are you still where you can’t be Good Sam wanted to know.  Well certainly I replied, I can’t go anywhere my engine won’t run.  Further, I asked, have you read the screen in front of you?  The impersonal voice replied yes it had but it was obvious I was still lost or had I moved.  It is most unseemly and in very poor taste for mature men to scream in public but I sure wanted to.

Gathering myself and taking a deep breath I launched out again.  Pleading with the person on the other end to get a hardcopy map and find where I was turned out to be an exercise in futility.  When at last the person on the other end of the line agreed that perhaps their computer map was incomplete I thought progress was at my door step until I was told that it was Saturday.  Nothing could be done until Monday.  The cost to tow/haul the coach to Whitehorse would exceed three thousand dollars and Good Sam’s Canadian counterpart doesn’t want to spend that much money without researching their options.  Fix it on site, I pled.  That doesn’t happen in Canada, wait until Monday.  Call back then and they will tell me my fate and that of the Cummins.   Patience has always been a trait that I thought God had blessed me with.  Now it was being tested to the fullest.  Stifling the world’s longest most agonizing scream never heard I nearly collapsed on the floor.

Onie was still seated in the café part of the building so I tottered back to where she was, collapsed opposite her and felt I was about to decompose and sink through the floor.

A waitress, kind soul, who was privy to our plight came by and introduced us to a gentleman sitting at the next table.  He, with a friend, was having coffee.  As it turned out he was a Cat mechanic but had worked for Cummins for years. After listening to our explanation of how the Cummins would crank but not fire he offered several suggestions as to what might be wrong.  He was on clock for Cat so he couldn’t help us but wished us good luck.

The afternoon was long upon us and we resigned ourselves to the fact that we had done all we could do until Monday morning.

On our walk back toward the springs and the coach we stopped to pay for another couple of days.  The guy at the pay station asked us why we were staying over.  We explained we were broken down.  He asked what the problem was and I gave him the short version, the engine wouldn’t start.  He asked what kind of engine and I told him.  He motioned toward a fellow, Gerald, standing about two feet from me and said he was a Cummins certified mechanic.  He was visiting his son, Brian who was working in park. When Gerald volunteered to have a look our spirits soared.  Using our tools he worked a couple of hours, with me pushing tools and holding a flash light, and told us it was the fuel lift pump.  He was two hundred percent certain.  He said we could probably get the part from Ft. Nelson on Monday, by bus.  Brian can install it for us as he too is a mechanic.  We relaxed and decided to enjoy our few more days soaking.  I had said this a.m. I thought it would be good to stay and soak a little more.  That was before trying to crank the Cummins.

We started the generator and occupied our keyboards.

Marilyne Quinn came by to visit.  While she and Onie chatted I pecked away.  When the visit was at an end Onie began working on the website to get week one ready to post at next wi-fi spot.  

With all our problems behind us we went back to the springs at eight thirty.  Mature adults were the primary bathers and we stayed an hour before heading back to the Marlin.  We got there right at ten.

Supper was sliced, a slice of bread, sliced Vadalia onion, sliced tomato, slices of cheese and a little salsa.

The park gates were locked at ten.  The highway traffic had almost ceased by eleven when we called it a night.  It was cool and quiet with the wind whispering through the open windows.

RATIONING

June 3, 2007

It was Sunday, sixty one outside at eight thirty, with a clear sky and bright sunshine.  We had lots to be thankful for.  We were in a safe quiet place and could enjoy the hot springs for another day.

The Hutterite dad, his three wives and their seventeen kids had left the premises.  That fact, the Hutterites, was probably omitted from yesterday’s ramblings and in retrospect it is not too difficult to understand that brief lapse in detail.  The kids had been cute and delightful if a little standoffish.  They and their parents spoke mostly German and were very clannish.

We had our coffee and tea in hand by nine and let the generator run an hour to bring the freezer back to its coldest.  While we had power Onie unloaded the pictures from the camera to her laptop.

Rationing began last night.  With limited water and holding tank capacity we wanted to be sure not to run out of either before the one could be replenished the others emptied.  Most of the readers are too young to remember the Second World War except as history.  To those of us who were alive at the time and have memories it is more than history it is a part of us.  We had rationing then.  It came with ration books that had pages of stamps in them.  Each family or individual got ration books depending on the government’s idea of what you needed.  To buy meat you needed stamps.  To buy shoes you needed stamps.  To buy gasoline or tires you needed stamps.  Other things were rationed as well but these I remember most vividly because there were six in our family by the time the war was over.  Part of this time Daddy was attending the Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Ft. Worth, Texas.  The rest of the time he was preaching at very small churches in Oklahoma where there was more love than money.  Money was scarce to buy meat but shoe stamps were more scarce, to buy shoes for everyone.  Mama traded some meat stamps for shoe stamps so no one went barefoot, except in the summer.  Shoes were well taken care of in those days.  Today in the land of plenty, folks have lots of shoes, some folks have two or three dozen pair or maybe more.  Then we were glad to have one pair.  Our current rationing is voluntary due to storage capacity.  There is nothing to do with the excess water if we do replenish the fresh water from the park supply.

Breakfast consisted of bacon, toast, eggs coffee and tea.

While we were eating we could see a lot of hurried coming and going on the boardwalk to the springs.  Presently we heard a shot, then another and then several more.  Bolting the remainder of my breakfast I walked across the parking lot to where two young women were standing.  They had been pointing though the brush and trees to a spot a hundred yards down the boardwalk.  They were gesturing in a very animated manner when I walked up and speaking a foreign language.  When I approached and stood near them they turned their attention to me and began speaking English.  My inquiry as to what all the hubbub was about led them to tell me about a black bear that had been standing on the boardwalk not a hundred yards from where Onie and I had been eating breakfast.  When spring goers approached it the bear was reluctant to give up the dry boardwalk in favor of the wet, marsh-like land surrounding it.  With the bear and people both upset the bear was at a distinct disadvantage since park attendants, manager, Armand and Brian accompanied by his Dad, Gerald,  were there with a gun and bear bangers. 

Each time we travel where English is the predominant language we think we know what is being said until we hear some new phrase.  This can be in the Queen’s English as spoken in Scotland or Canadian English as spoken in the different provinces. Just as the U.S. has distinct geographic colloquialisms so does Canada.  In northern British Columbia or The Yukon a bear banger is a load, usually fired from a rifle or pistol, that is referred to in the U.S. as a blank but there is a big difference.  A bear banger has a large firecracker attached to the end of it.  The firecracker is timed to go off at about six meters or twenty feet.  The object is to put the bear banger right under the nose of the bear or against his body thus inducing in him the desire to look for quieter premises.  This time it worked.  When it doesn’t and the bear is in close proximity to a lot of people, like in this park, the bear is neutralized.  These folk who live so far from a mall or Wal-mart seem to have a hard time saying that they killed a bear but that does not apply to men and women who hunt.  They will tell you about the bears they have killed, over and over.

With this bit of excitement passed we settled back into our routine and filled our pill boxes, an every two week chore.

By noon we were back soaking our bones in the hot springs and by two we were once more at the coach.

The boardwalk to the hot springs (about 1/2 mile)

The excitement of the bear and the exertion of walking to the springs and back had us thoroughly exhausted.  We lay down for a nap.  At five we woke, hungry.

Donning our best camping clothes we set off for the Lodge and supper stopping along the way to visit with Charles and Marilyne.  They had a campfire going and we lingered a bit longer than intended enjoying the good company and cooling evening temps

At the lodge we enjoyed bison burgers and a serving of poutine, which we shared.

After supper, using our prepaid calling card, we called our good friend, Jim Johnson, to check on his wife, Polly, who had undergone surgery.  The report was good much to our relief.  Jim did give us a bit of bad news though when he told us our Sunday School teacher, Pat Lindsay, had been operated on and had a cancerous growth removed.  How a cancer could grow in Pat is a mystery to me as there doesn’t seem to be enough meat on his bones to support normal cells much less a cancer.  We pray for his full recovery.  We also visited about efforts to get us a deer lease closer to our homes, with a mutual friend.  Things may be progressing well.  The phone call was long for two men who are usually very taciturn but was too short to say everything.

Fed and better informed on things around home we walked back to the park, changed into our swim suits and walked back to the springs.

Charles and Marilyne were there.

We met Terry, from Haines, Alaska, and his lady friend who were also soaking away their accumulated aches and pains.  They invited us to their home where we can sit on the porch and catch halibut and reds.  We were so intrigued with the idea we stayed until ten. 

Our thermometer was setting on seventy eight when we got back to the coach.  That is warm but a nice breeze stirred through the coach and we hoped for a little rain as we dozed off.

HIGH BOONDOCKING

June 4, 2007

No rain fell last night.  It is still dusty.  The fifty eight degrees at six seemed hot with the dust swirling around us.

At seven it was off to the lodge to start calling, again, seeking a solution.

The Cummins Tech hotline was my first call.  A tech said it could be the fuel lift pump but it could be various other things and it needed to be analyzed to be sure.  I told him we weren’t going there this morning I just wanted it fixed.  He said Watson Lake Motors, in Watson Lake, had a good mechanic but he was not Cummins certified,   I called Charlie’s in Ft. Nelson, he didn’t agree with Gerald’s assessment and said he had never heard of a Cummins fuel lift pump going out.  I asked him if the had a fuel lift pump he could put on the bus to me.  He didn’t.  Marshall at Inland Kenworth Pacific in Whitehorse was my next call and he said Gerald was probably right, he had the part and could get it to us on the bus, Wednesday.

The cravings of my stomach overcame my need for a resolution so I went back to coach where Onie had hot biscuits, tea and sausage ready.  Up to now this had been the best part of the day.

With the rumblings in the nether regions quieted it was back to the lodge and phone.  Charlie’ was called back to see when they could have the part and at what cost.  The answer to both questions was; we don’t know.  They needed some time to get the answer to both questions, say half an hour, and then I should call back for answers.  Television I usually consider a good waste of time, so the half hour was spent in front of the one in the lodge.  Charlie’s was called back.  No one answered, then or fifteen or thirty minutes later.  Remembering the advice from Good Sam the lack of a response was put down to the fact that Charlie’s had been a figment of my imagination all the time and I had never talked to them, anyway.

Eight hundred-igo-nuts should be the number for Good Sammers who call from Canada but call again I did.  Hopes of being repaired in the park had died with the morning vapors.

After the ever present phone tree a person answered, got my reference number which brought up the history, as logged, of this unfortunate event, and asked “Are you still in a safe place?  My mind screamed for relief!  Was I talking to a goose?  Did these people wake up in a new world every day?  Did they ever read their screens?  Was there a safe place when dealing with them?  They had brought the meaning of frustration to a new high and one hoped never to be surpassed by this scribbler in this or any extended lifetime. Communicating with them was like talking to rocks or a tape recording.

The Canadian counter parts, who never talk to a member of Good Sam, because they may be aliens for all I know, are trying to arrange for a tow.  Of course Good Sam is helping in the nefarious scheme to destroy the Marlin and all its contents including perhaps the driver, if not with outright violence, then through mental torture.  Although I have good information that could save these folks, Good Sam, hundreds if not thousands of dollars they will not let me talk with their counterpart in Canada.  It is sad to report but the Good Sam folks still have no idea where we are since their computer doesn’t have Liard Hot Springs on it and its map stops at Ft. Nelson.  Of course it picks up on Whitehorse so we still can’t be where we are.  Only the distance prevents me from doing mayhem.  A total of sixty five minutes is spent on the phone with them while they talk to their Canadian counterpart.  Forty of the sixty-five minutes were spent on hold listening to music that only an atonal imbecile could enjoy.

The highlight of this hour was a conversation I happened to overhear.  It was between two guys who were checking into the lodge and a young lady who was showing them to their rooms.  After they had their bags in their rooms they followed her back down to the restaurant where she was a waitress.  After they were seated and had ordered some food she asked them, bold as brass, if they would like her to knock them up in the morning.  Had I not been in the anesthetized state I was from the noise Good Sam was passing off for music I am sure I would have fell slap out.  As it was I stood there starring at the young brazen hussy.  Before I get back to the Good Sam stuff I will tell you this is some more of those good local colloquialisms.  After I was off the phone I cautiously approached the young harlot and asked her if I had heard her correctly that she was going to knock up, not one, but two young men in the morning.  Yes, she said.  The lodge did not have any phones in the rooms nor did they provide alarm clocks, so as a service, the waitresses, who arrive early, go from room to room knocking on doors to wake guests, knocking them up.   It was just as I supposed.  These young chaste women were helping the guests by waking them up.

To continue with Good Sam.  When I was about to give up, a real person came back on the line and told me that Rudy’s Wrecker Service from Watson Lake, sound familiar, was being dispatched and should arrive in three hours, about three pm, to load the coach on a flat bed and take it to Watson Lake.  Relieved but dazed I started back to the coach but had a nagging feeling and returned to the phone and called Watson Lake and Rudy’s Towing.  I asked the lady if she knew where the coach was to be picked up.  Yes, she replied, it was on the parking lot of the Liard Hot Springs Lodge.  Oh! My head hurt again.  After telling her the coach was on the parking lot of the Hot Springs she informed me that the truck had left and was out of radio range.  I would have to wait at the lodge for them.  Good Sam and his Canadian buddies had given me one more headache.  It was all because of their abominable communications, or lack thereof, and their refusal to let the customer talk to the person arranging the service.  A mental note was made to send Good Sam a long letter about this unreal experience as soon as I had access to a printer.  Perhaps I will just print out a few days of this journal and mail it to them.

Watson Lake Motors, more familiar names, had been given as the repairing shop. A call back to them was answered by the same young lady who answered for Rudy’s.  She was a busy young lady, and curt.  I asked if they had the part to repair the coach.  She said she didn’t know, was on the other line, had someone on hold and needed to go.  Not content to let her off the hook so easily I asked why she answered both phones.  The answer was a simple one, two businesses, one owner, good bye.

The walk back to the coach was one of relief and resignation.  Everything had been done to keep the Marlin from being towed/hauled.  If damage was done in the process Good Sam was on notice that our attorney would be contacting them.

An update on our situation was give to Onie.  While I did a quick change to go soak and try to relieve tight muscles and an aching head Onie opted to stay and work on readying the coach for the haul.  She had already labored five hours cleaning while I had lollygagged on the phone and listened to lewd conversation.  Now she would work a bit more.

Forty five minutes didn’t do much to relax muscles and cure a throbbing head but it was time to go find a flatbed truck and driver.  At the coach, to dry off and change, Onie had everything as ready as she could for a new experience.

The flatbed, driven by Sean, arrived right at three.  He introduced his swamper, and I promptly forgot his name, for which I apologize.  I do remember his name began with an H so that is how we will refer to him.

They surveyed the situation and set about getting their equipment in position to load the coach.  As soon I they began to work our fears began to subside. This was obviously not their first rodeo.

Final loading step. Tom backed this thing onto the trailer!

The loading itself was a bit scary as a cable was hooked to the trailer hitch on the Marlin and it was winched backwards onto the waiting trailer.  The writer was steering and it can be rightfully said with much trepidation.  When the coach was on the trailer it appeared to be a bit to one side but that didn’t bother Sean and H, they boomered it down, passing chains around the axles and then pulling them tight.  Then the trailer was picked up, using the same cable that had winched the Marlin onto the flatbed, the trailer was hooked to the fifth wheel of the tractor, air and electric lines connected and with H driving the Marlin headed for Watson Lake.  It had been loaded without a scratch or dent.  That was good.

Ready to roll.

We stopped at the lodge one more time to call Marshall at Inland Kenworth Pacific in Whiteshorse to see if he could get a lift pump to Watson Lake tomorrow.  He would try but buses only ran on Monday’s, Wednesday’s and Friday’s.  Today’s bus was gone.  He said he would try to find a south bound trucker to drop it off.  If that didn’t work it would be in Wednesday afternoon.  Believe it or not the news didn’t upset us.  After the last few days another day didn’t seem so long and at least we’re moving forward.

A few miles down the road we caught up with H, Sean and the Marlin.  They were rocking along at about sixty five and the Marlin seemed to be getting quite good fuel mileage.  The only troubling thing was it was leaning at about a five degree angle to the right and each time the truck made a left hand turn it leaned more.

You can see the coach leaning to the right.

Taking a turn. It really looked small up there.

A few miles into the hundred forty mile haul we decided the trailer wasn’t going to tip over so we began watching for animals and enjoying the ride.  After all this was our first trip on the Al-Can in a car.

Onie soon spotted three bison bulls having an evening graze and a bit further on a red fox trotted leisurely along side the road.

We were in Watson Lake at seven fifteen.  After a consultation with the owner, Pat, it was decided the coach would stay on trailer until it was fixed.  We would be living high on the trailer tonight.

What a view!

Even though we hadn’t gotten in a planned walk today Onie would still get her exercise getting into the coach.

It's a long way down there!

Many are the adventures we have had in our years together and each time Onie has been a real trooper.  Tonight, high in the sky, she put soup on the table.

The day had been a hot one and now the temperature was still hovering at eighty seven.  We cranked the generator and sat the air conditioner thermostats on sixty five.  We cooled down and so did the freezer.

At ten thirty we shut down the generator and opened the windows.  Outside the traffic had slowed to a trickle and a cool breeze wafted over us.

That infernal invention, the alarm was set for six thirty.

SWEET MUSIC

June 5, 2007

Whether the alarm woke us or not we don’t recall but we were up at six thirty.  As usual it was sunny and cool, sixty degrees.  Rain was in the forecast and cooler temps but they were nowhere in sight.

Coffee and tea along with thick Liberty toast, made from our yeast bread, and sausage sated our hunger.

Sean came out and told us he would start work on the coach at nine.

We finished breakfast and cleaned up the kitchen, ready for work to begin.

Near nine Sean came.  There was a change in plans. A road was in danger of washing out on Highway 37, the Cassiar Highway.  The location was near New Hope, about a hundred miles away.  He would be leaving momentarily with Pat, the owner, to haul a front-end loader there to try to save road.  A bridge/culvert may be clogged and the debris must be cleared.  Sean will get Pat and the equipment there and then he, Pat, will try to save the road.  The tractor was unhooked from our trailer and hooked to another, Sean was gone with the empty trailer.  There was much bustle going on here but not for us.  We plugged into a local one-ten electrical service but it only provided ten amps.  That was good enough for the freezer.  Before Pat got away I tracked him down and asked when he thought repairs could start for us.  He promised someone would be on it today.

Sean returned with the flatbed and a large power shovel.  Pat climbed in and they were gone.  We had Pat’s word the work would be done today. 

Climbing the ladder back into the coach I sat down to write about our high adventure while Onie worked crosswords.

By eleven the temperature had climbed to seventy five and there was no sign of rain or cooler weather.

At noon we left to shop for fuel prices.  The cheapest we found was one thirteen a liter.  We went to the Northern Lights Center for a presentation on space.  It lasted thirty minutes.  It was followed by a show about the aurora borealis which included actual photos of the northern lights.  It lasted twenty minutes.  In the air conditioned comfort and a reclining seat I dozed through the last part.

Back outside we went to a local café for a bite and then Onie took me back to coach where Sean and Serge, a Russian/German emigrant, were working.  They were just doing a final check on the lift pump prior to taking it out.

Onie left to go grocery shopping.

With the old fuel lift pump out a shiny new one was installed.  Where it came from and how it got there I never found out but I was pleased beyond words that it was there.  With Serge twisting the wrenches, under Sean’s tutelage, the new pump was installed in about ten minutes.  Now came the task of bleeding the air from the fuel and injector lines.  With Sean giving the commands I cranked the Cummins over and over.  At last she, the Cummins, coughed, cleared her throat, and roared to life.  What sweet music!  Hours and hours have we listened to that roar and then the purr but never had it sounded so good.  It would be many an hour before we took that sound for granted, again.  Once again we were reminded that one never misses the water until the well runs dry.  Our well had been dry but was full again and we couldn’t have been more grateful.

It was four.  Onie pulled in with the groceries just as the first black fumes exited the exhaust pipe.  From my elevated position in the coach on the trailer I could see her grin, ear to ear.

We let the Cummins idle while I unhooked the one ten power and stowed the cable.  Sean unhooked the tractor from the other flatbed and got it back under our trailer.  The boomer chains were removed.  When we both were ready, with Onie in the navigator’s chair, we began our ride down to the ground.  The cable was hooked to the trailer and then the trailer was unhooked from the tractor.  The tractor eased forward and with a lurch the trailer was off the fifth wheel and supported by the cable alone.  Slowly the trailer was lowered and then the bed pulled straight out.  The front of the trailer was on the ground.  Two by twelves were placed in front of the trailer, to reduce the step down, and we drove off.  Solid ground was once again under our wheels.  We drove to a vacant parking lot across from Watson Lake Motors and parked.  We would put the cover back on the tow here and hook up. 

Believe it or not what happened next was the easy part.  We paid the bill.  It was half of what I expected. Good Sam picked up the hauling bill which was over fifteen hundred dollars.  They could have saved half that by sending Sean and Serge to the hot springs.  They didn’t and that’s their loss.  We tried to help only to be told we were; I’m not going there again.

Outside the weather was changing, fast.  A cold wind was blowing and rain spit through the air like small needles.  We would have to hurry if we were to get the cover back on the toad and get hooked up before the real rain set in.  Onie and I worked quickly and got the job done.  Sean came over to wish us a safe journey and we thanked him again then gave him a couple packages of sockeye to remember us by and as a way of saying a special thank you for getting us back on the road. 

What a great feeling to be on the road again at five o’clock headed to the Continental Divide Campground.  The purr of the Cummins never sounded better as we looked for animals.  We saw no animals but it didn’t dampen our high spirits nor did the spotty cold rain that sometimes had a bit of sleet in it.  A good road made the short tip even more pleasurable. 

Seldom had driving eighty four miles been more fun.  At seven we pulled into the campground and after checking in dumped our full holding tanks.  After hooking up we took our evening walk at seven thirty.  There was no rain but it was very cool and cloudy.

Back in the coach a few notes were made and we visited, in high spirits about being mobile once again.

With plenty of water, after days of rationing, Onie took a long shower and then I had my turn.  A smooth running engine and a good shower did wonders to lift my spirits.  Why I ever worry about anything was beyond me.

When the rain came at eight it was a gentle patter on our roof but by nine it was a steady, and welcome, drum roll.

We dined sumptuously on avocado, tomato, cheese, salmon salad and crackers.

After supper was over we turned our attention to a crossword.

At eleven we pulled covers tightly under our chins as we listened to the steady beat of the rain.  It continued all night.