I don't remember why, but neither Kathleen nor I took any pictures on our way up to Inuvik. Perhaps because once we arrived at Colville Lake, we would not be able to get any more film. This was in our pre-digital days, and each picture taken represented one less available shot. We needed to conserve, I guess.
We left Vancouver, heading north, into the first dawn of 1999. Kathleen and I drove silently, beneath clear skies. The Trans-Canada Highway through the Fraser Canyon was bare and only slightly wet from last night’s rain – a good start for us. The first snow patches on the road appeared just north of Quesnel. From there we travelled on packed snow all the way to Prince George, which we reached just as night fell. We’re doing very well. In fact, even in summer, we usually do not travel as far as Prince George on the first day.
We stayed that night at the
Chalet Sans Souci Bed & Breakfast – a very cute residence, known locally as ‘The Gingerbread House, built and operated by our very hospitable hosts, Jacqueline and Lutz Klaar. I captured the image above from what I believe is an old webpage for the chalet, which doesn't seem to be in business anymore. The most recent TripAdvisor report is for 2010. Although this is obviously a summer, not a winter image, I thought you would like to see it. Pictures are good.
After settling in, we drove a few kilometres north into town for dinner at
Earl’s Restaurant. Snow began to fall halfway through our meal. As Vancouverites, Kathleen and I began to fret. Everyone else in the restaurant, however, seemed oblivious to the impending disaster outside. My only experience with snow was in southwest British Columbia. Normally the weather warms up to above freezing after a snow, which turns to ice. Vehicles careening and crashing all over town. This was my image of snow. As calmly as we could, we finished both our entrée and dessert and drove back to our B & B without incident.
At breakfast the next morning I talked with Lutz about the recent servicing of our vehicle. “Say, Lutz, maybe you can answer a question for me. When picking up our van, I noticed on the invoice that 10–30 oil had been put in, the same oil weight that we always use in summer. This didn’t seem right to me. What kind of oil do people use here in the winter?”
Lutz replied that “Where you’re going, with very cold temperatures, you should have a lighter winter oil. If I were you, I would stop at a service station and change the oil.”
We took his advice before heading up the road in mid-morning. We expected to reach Fort St. John by early evening. First though, we would need to cross the Rocky Mountains through the Pine Pass, at an elevation of 935 m (3,067 feet). Later on, just west of Fort St. John, we would climb up and out of the Peace River Valley on a narrow, steep and winding road. Both of these obstacles were much less fearsome than the ominous Dempster Highway. Nevertheless, I began to worry.
We travelled on packed snow with more snow falling until mid-afternoon. Pine Pass had been plowed and cleared. Very nice. The rise up to the pass was much shorter than I had remembered. Certainly much shorter than I had visualized all morning. The climb out of the Peace River proved equally uneventful. The van performed very well, with no fishtailing. All that worry for nothing. Maybe winter driving isn’t all that bad after all.
We stayed in an old, somewhat tired motel right along the highway in Fort St. John. The evening temperature had dipped to -19 degrees C (-2 F), and we decided to wear our new mukluks for our short walk to the adjacent fast-food restaurant. Although Kathleen and I both felt very self-conscious, no one stared or even seemed to notice our traditional, northern footwear.
We left Fort St. John on January 3rd at 7:15 am beneath a lightly overcast sky. Still dark, and -18 degrees (-2 F). The sky soon cleared to reveal a full moon. The pre-dawn twilight bathed the snow-covered trees in a slightly golden luminescence. As the sun rose, the entire horizon glowed pink. A very enchanting start to our third day of travel.
We had covered 1,320 km (820 miles) on our first two days of travel, which put us on the Alaska Highway. We would now be driving through a much more isolated, often mountainous landscape, but expected to reach Toad River, 565 km (350 miles) away, in northern British Columbia, before nightfall.
Unfortunately, we drove all day in snowstorms – and on roads covered in snow. If there had been any elderly grandmothers on the highways, they would certainly have whizzed right on by me. Mostly, though, we encountered 18-wheelers, travelling fast, creating white-out conditions for us whenever they passed. Our first hard day of winter driving.
Summer Image of Toad River above from the internet by Jerry & Roy Klutz
Finally, more than an hour after dark, we approached the bridge leading into Toad River, which consisted primarily of a rustic motel/restaurant/gas station, plus a few scattered out buildings. From previous trips I knew that the road made a sharp right turn as it climbed up onto the metal-surfaced bridge. I suddenly had those old visions. Those recurring visions of our van fishtailing out of control. Just like in Vancouver, I slowed way down. To this day, Kathleen said that at times it seemed like we were standing still or actually going backwards. What can I say? I was tired. It had been a difficult day for me.
We eventually crossed the bridge and drove up to the lodge, where we booked a tiny, clean and comfortable room. We rested a bit, and then walked out in our stocking feet to the small dining area. In the booth next to us sat a mother and her two young children. It was Sunday, the end of the weekend. They were on their way to the Liard River Hot Springs, for an evening soak, after which they would return home. What makes this anecdote interesting is that they lived in Fort Nelson. What makes this story even more interesting is that the Liard River Hot Springs lie slightly more than 300 km (185 miles) west of Fort Nelson.
So I think you get the picture. I had struggled mightily all day to cover 565 km (350 miles). I am beat. This family beside us, though, would travel more that 600 km (370 miles) round trip, in the middle of winter, just for an hour’s soak. Probably laughing, joking and singing all along the way. Snow doesn’t bother this young woman. At least she’s not pregnant, though. That would be even more humbling for me.
Just as our dinner arrived, a young couple, also staying at the Toad River Lodge, sat down at the booth recently vacated by the Fort Nelson family. They were restless, agitated, and immediately began telling their story. The United States military had transferred him from his base in Florida to a new assignment in Anchorage, Alaska. As an adventure they decided to drive, rather than to fly. Before leaving they had been told, by Floridians (probably by people who didn’t know how to tell whether or not a block heater worked), that snow tires weren’t necessary. “The roads will be fine,” they were told. [I don’t know how Floridians would know about winter road conditions in northern British Columbia. I’m just telling you this story as it was told to me.]
Just about an hour ago, 24 km (15 miles) south of Toad River, the young couple were passing an 18-wheeler on a narrow, up-hill climb above a river. They hit a patch of ice and tumbled over the side (See. I told you!), apparently severely damaging the passenger side of their vehicle. Tomorrow they would return with their towed vehicle to Fort Nelson. Tonight they were blaming everyone but themselves.
“The government shouldn’t have let us drive here in the winter. Those people in Florida should have known better about the roads. Some of these roads aren’t even paved. It’s dangerous.”
Yeah, I thought. It can be dangerous. It can be very dangerous to pass 18-wheelers on dark, narrow, windy, icy mountain roads. It can be very hazardous to drive in northern British Columbia during winter as though you were in southern Florida in summer. Why did you do that? Perhaps you should have been more patient, and not have tried to pass the truck.
I tried to cheer them up – to get them to relax. “You know, you’re actually pretty lucky. Your dog is not hurt. Neither of you is hurt. Your car will be fixed in a few days, and you will eventually get to Anchorage. Not so bad, you know.”
They remained undeterred, though. “The government shouldn’t have let us drive to Alaska in winter. They need to get us back to Florida, to see our families, and then fly us to Anchorage.”
The next morning after breakfast we rolled away from Toad River at about 9:00 am. Not an early start, but sunrise was at about 9:30, and I preferred to drive during daylight. A little bit warmer than yesterday morning, at -14 degrees C (7 F). Just north of the Liard River Hot Springs, seven bison stood next to the highway, grazing placidly in the snow, which continued to fall all day long.
We were making very slow progress, and tentatively decided to stop in Watson Lake, in the Yukon, a distance of only 320 km (200 miles) from Toad River. With 1500 people, Watson Lake was the only ‘large’ community between us and Whitehorse, which lay another 430 km (265 miles) beyond Watson Lake.
After lunch I told Kathleen that I felt pretty good about the driving conditions. “I know we’re not going very fast, but we’re making progress. I’m not too tired. Maybe we can go a little farther than Watson Lake.”
Kathleen looked skeptical. “There’s no reason to push it, Michael. Watson Lake is a good place to stop. We know there are several hotels and restaurants. There’s also grocery stores where we can get more food for lunches. We need to shop, which will take some time. We might as well stay.”
She made good points, but I offered a compromise. “Well, if we get there soon enough to shop, that’s just like a rest. We can then go on if we agree.”
Kathleen still looked skeptical. “Well, OK, but only if we agree. OK?”
“OK.”
We reached Watson Lake at about 3:45. I still felt good, and apparently had forgotten about the pact that I had struck with Kathleen less than two hours ago. Without saying anything, I surreptitiously continued driving west, out of town.
My ruse hadn’t worked, though. “What are you doing, Michael? I thought we were going to stop in Watson Lake!”
She sounded somewhat agitated, perhaps even irritated.
“I’m not tired, Kathleen. I think we can easily get to that little motel that we read about in the accommodation guide.”
“But we agreed to talk about it first.”
“It’s less than an hour away. It would be good to get there. It would be good to put in some more distance.”
Sunset in early January at 60 degrees north latitude occurs just after 4:00 pm. Night was beginning and the snow continued to fall. Poor visibility, but I pressed on. Seconds later an on-coming 18-wheeler showered us with swirling snow. Poor visibility became no visibility. I couldn’t see the road. I couldn’t see the side of the road. This is not good. A second on-coming 18-wheeler continued our white-out conditions. I couldn’t see to go forward, yet I dare not go too slowly in case more 18-wheelers were coming up from behind. They might not see me until too late to stop. This is very bad.
“We have to turn around, Michael!” Yes, she definitely sounded agitated and irritated.
But there was nowhere to turn around. No exits. No pullouts. I drove on, very much wishing that I had stopped. Very much regretting that I had ‘forgotten’ about my pact with Kathleen. Finally there appeared a gated road to the right. Just enough room for me to nose in, back out on to the highway, and head back to Watson Lake. I was a very happy and appropriately apologetic person when we checked into the hotel room.
We agreed to get an early start, and left Watson Lake on January 5th at 7:00 am. The small, roadside motel I had been headed for the previous night was closed for the winter. Kathleen didn’t say anything as we passed by. The first light appeared at 8:15, and the sky turned pink-purple at 9:40. The sun rose above the mountains at 10:15, as we moved easily along a plowed highway beneath brilliantly blue sky. Easy driving. It felt good to be on the road.
We stopped for gas at one of the very few, small communities along this section of the Alaska Highway. We enjoyed a cup of coffee, paid our bill and returned to the van. My stomach sank when I noticed green fluid leaking from our radiator onto the snow. dang! I just had the van serviced. Why is this happening to me? We trudged back inside and asked if there was a mechanic available.
“Not in the winter. There’s no mechanic anywhere around here.”
“But my radiator is leaking. Is there anybody that might have a look at it for me?”
“There is a guy renting that cabin down the hill. He’s good with cars. He might be able to help you. But I don’t think he’s around right now. He sort of comes and goes. Besides, we don’t have any radiators here. You probably can’t get a new radiator until you get to Whitehorse. You could go back to Watson Lake. It’s closer.”
I didn’t like either of these two alternatives. Certainly I wouldn’t want to give up the valuable ground I’ve gained by going back to Watson Lake. And besides, I might not make it to either Whitehorse or Watson Lake with a leaking radiator. I’d rather stay here than break down along the highway.
“I’ve had leaking radiators before. I used to pour in that grayish kind of powder that comes in small cans. I don’t know what it’s called. It seems to work, though. Do you have anything like that?”
“Yeah, I have one can left. Two bucks.”
I poured it in, headed northwest to Whitehorse, and hoped for the best.
We reached Whitehorse in the early afternoon, where we again stopped for coffee and gas. The radiator seemed to be working fine. We had not overheated at all. We agreed (yes, we agreed) to press on, rather than looking for a mechanic, or inquiring about new radiators. The weather had been getting colder all day. The thermometer at the gas station read -31 C (-24 F).
We intended to stay that night at the Braeburn Lodge. This iconic institution of rustic cabins and café – well known for its cinnamon buns – lay approximately halfway between Whitehorse and Carmacks, a distance of about 85 km (50 miles). We arrived about 3:30, just after the sun dropped below the mountains. Perfect timing. We walked inside to the warmth of a wood fire and the delicious aroma of fresh baking. Very inviting. We were looking forward to this.
“So would you like a menu?” the man behind the counter asked.
“Not right now. We’d like to get a room first, and then come back for dinner.”
“I can’t rent you a room. I’ve got no running water in the cabins.”
“Do you have an outhouse? We’d be happy with that. We don’t have to have running water.”
“No. I can sell you food, but I can’t rent you a room.”
I was a little surprised by the unyielding attitude, which I suppose had something to do with government health regulations. But it was cold outside, nearly dark, and still almost 75 km (45 miles) to Carmacks. I was more than a little surprised and disappointed to be turned away.
We continued on slowly in the dark toward Carmacks, a town of about 400 people. The only hotel, with its downstairs smoke-filled bar, was noisy and uninviting. On the foyer bulletin board we read a flyer advertising the
Mukluk Manor Bed & Breakfast. You gotta like a bed & breakfast called mukluk. I called the number and asked if they had any rooms.
“We’re not really open this time of year. You can stay, but we’re not set up to serve breakfast.”
“We’ll be right over!”
Our hosts, whose names I cannot remember, led us downstairs to a self-contained suite. Very luxurious, comfortable and roomy. Like having our own apartment. We turned on the TV to the weather channel, which forecast increasing cold for the Whitehorse-Carmacks-Dawson City area.
We spent Wednesday, January Sixth in Carmacks. Not because we decided to take a break from the road, but because our key would not turn in the van’s ignition. Overnight the temperature had dropped to -46 C (-51 F), and the van completely froze up. Perhaps the van still had residual moisture in the ignition from its normal life on the coast. Our
Mukluk Manor host draped a tarp over our vehicle, and placed a small electrical heater inside the tent-like structure. “Maybe this will thaw your ignition. I’ve seen it work before,” he said.
Carmacks sits at the junction of the North Klondike and Robert Campbell Highways, where the Nordenskiold River joins the Yukon River. We viewed our predicament as an opportunity to try out our winter gear, and to explore walking on ice. We donned our mukluks, layers of wool, canvass wind suits and mountie hats and strolled about one km (0,6 miles) down the Nordenskiold River to where it joins the Yukon. Along the way we investigated cracks and odd-looking, yellowish discolourations in the ice. At the confluence we stared, somewhat in wonder, at the large ridges and hummocks created by differential freezing rates and overflow between the two rivers.
We strolled back along the road, toward the Mukluk Manor, very pleased with how warm we actually felt, even at -51 degrees Fahrenheit [I switched from Celsius to Fahrenheit here because -51 F sounds so much more impressive than a mere -46 C.] We particularly loved our mukluks. We were two happy people with warm feet, prancing along as though in bedroom slippers, just like the Conovers promised.
As we neared home, a passing car slowed, and the driver rolled down the window. “Do you need a ride?” he asked.
“No, thank you. We’re just out for a walk.”
We weren’t trying to be flippant. We were indeed out for a walk.
The driver, however, seemed put off by our response. While rolling up his window he replied, rather disdainfully as he enunciated each word, “It – is – minus – forty – five – you – know.”
We know. That’s why we’re out walking.
Back at the
Mukluk Manor, the key still refused to turn in the ignition.
“I don’t think it’s going to work,” our hosts reported. “I think you should call the garage, and have the tow truck come out. His garage is heated, and your van can thaw out overnight.”
So we called the tow truck, and happily prepared for another night in our suite. Our hosts, ever gracious, said, “We won’t charge you as much for the second night, as you didn’t really intend to stay.”
Now that is Northern Hospitality.
It turns out that several vehicles had been towed in for thawing before ours, which wasn’t ready until 2:00 pm the next day. Even at this relatively late hour for us, we decided to head for Dawson City, 350 km (215 miles) away. We had always enjoyed our summer visits to Dawson City, and wanted to experience its winter ambience. We would have nearly two hours of sunlight for driving, and I was well rested.
Our hosts made us promise to call when we reached Pelly Crossing, about one third of the way to Dawson City, just to let them know that we were OK. I think they said something like, “no one goes out on the roads in this kind of weather.” Kathleen and I were both eager to get going, though. We had been stopped too long.
Twenty km (12 miles) before reaching Pelly Crossing we started to experience the unwelcome effects of severe cold. Even with the heater at full strength, no heat seemed to be entering the cab. The
inside of the windshield began icing over from the condensation of our own breath, and I had difficulty seeing the road even only a few metres (yards) ahead.
I had heard about this possibility, and had brought some cardboard to use as a home-made “winter front,” a remedy about which I had read. All I needed to do was jam the cardboard in between the grill and the radiator. I had never done this before, nor had I ever seen it done before. I had only read about it. With our windshield rapidly becoming opaque, the job had to be done right.
Summer view of Pelly Crossing. From the internet. Creator unknown. IPTC Photo at YukonInfo.
So when we pulled into the combination gas station/grocery store/cafe/video game parlor at Pelly Crossing, which claims to be the coldest place in the Yukon Territory, I walked toward the large building to seek help. The thermometer on the wall registered exactly -50 degrees Celsius. Just inside the front door I encountered an elderly man sitting at a table, grinning at me.
“Pretty cold today,” he said. “Minus 60.”
I’m pretty sure he meant Fahrenheit, still clinging to those old Imperial units. Minus 50 C equals minus 58 F. So one might as well round up to minus 60. It sounds mighty impressive. Even to this day, that remains the coldest temperature I have ever experienced.
At the counter stood an RCMP officer paying for his purchases. A man of experience. A public servant. Here I stood. A man of inexperience. A member of the public. A match, as they say, made in heaven. Certainly he would like to assist me with my piece of cardboard. I walked up, said hello, told him about my windshield icing over on the inside, and asked, “Do you think it would help if I stuffed a piece of cardboard between the grill and the radiator?” I had posed my question in a sort of pathetic, helpless kind of way – thinking – even hoping – that he would do it for me.
He looked at me with an unconcerned expression, and said, “It might. You can always try.”
Kathleen wasn’t having any better success with making a phone call to our
Mukluk Manor hosts in Carmacks. There was no indoor pay phone, and while I had been bantering with the mountie she had tried using the outside pay phone. She now stood beside me to report, “The phone didn’t work. The keys were frozen. I couldn’t press individual keys anyway with my big mitts on. I even took my mitts off, and tried poking the keys with my wool gloves, but then my fingers didn’t work.”
The girl behind the counter said, “It’s way too cold out there. Here, use the store’s phone.”
So, while Kathleen made the promised phone call, I crawled under the van and jockeyed the cardboard in between the grill and radiator. I seemed to get it positioned and secured reasonably well after only three attempts. The important lesson learned was that I could be reasonably functional at -50 degrees if properly dressed. Vehicles and other kinds of modern, mechanical conveniences such as telephones give up long before that. We drove away and the windshield eventually did de-frost, more or less. The interior of the van remained very cold, however, and we rode fully dressed in our long underwear, parkas, mitts and mountie hats.
It was now dark, and four o’clock. We agreed to abandon our plan to stay in Dawson City, and would instead get a room at the Klondike Corners, the beginning of the Dempster Highway. Dawson would take us 40 km (25miles) each way out of our way. And, at my current speed of 20 km/hour [I was still having difficulty seeing, and with driving on snow], the trip to Dawson would add two additional hours of driving tonight.
Finally, at 8:00 pm, after having seen no other vehicles on the road since Pelly Crossing, a tall, beautiful, brilliantly-lighted outdoor Christmas tree, like a welcoming beacon, emerged from the darkness. We were at the Klondike Corners.
The motel/restaurant/gas station was just now closing, but the owner welcomed us inside. “I would have left the door unlocked, even after closing up. You could have let yourself in. I can’t cook any more meals, but I can heat up some left-over chicken. Show yourself into any of the rooms.”
The temperature had ‘warmed’ to -47 C (-53 F). I remained worried, though, about my van. I asked the owner if his garage were heated. “Can I keep my van in there, so the ignition doesn’t freeze up again?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have enough room. I have to keep my tow trucks warm in case there’s an emergency out on the highway. Sorry.”
“That’s OK. It will probably be fine.”
Kathleen and I carried our suitcases inside, and a few minutes later I began uncoiling my frozen extension cord to plug in the block heater. The owner came up to me to say, “I’ve rearranged my trucks. There’s room in the garage now.”
“Thanks very much. I really appreciate it. I’m happy to pay for the heated parking. Can you add it to my room bill?”
“Just park on the far right-hand side,” he said. “Good thing you didn’t go into Dawson. There’s no garage open in the winter in Dawson. If you had frozen, you would have stayed frozen. No charge for parking in my garage.”
Now that is Northern Hospitality.
Back inside I waited at the counter while the owner filled out the paper work for our room. He looked up and said, “You know, at these temperatures I don’t feel right charging normal rates for rooms. You get my ‘minus 40 rate,’ which is $40.00.”
Need I say it again? Yes. Now that is Northern Hospitality.
The dining room was now closed, so I carried our re-heated chicken dinner to our room, where Kathleen had been organizing our stuff, including our gift of two bottles of wine for Marilyn and Alan. We brought them inside every night so that they wouldn’t freeze. During today’s cold journey Kathleen had kept them under her front passenger seat, nearest to the heat.
“Guess what, Michael.” she said. Both bottles of wine were frozen solid. The corks had nearly popped right out. Good thing we didn’t buy twist-top-lid wine.
Now that was cold. Obviously there are good reasons why ‘no one goes out on the roads in this kind of weather.’
We woke early the next morning, Friday, January 8th. Today we would begin the long-dreaded trip up the Dempster Highway. Two stretches worried me most: (1) the steep, winding climb up to the Ogilvie/Peel River viewpoint south of Eagle Plains, and (2) the Richardson Mountains north of Eagle Plains. I expected the climb to be icy, while the open, tundra-like ‘Richardsons’ are prone to blizzards and white-out conditions. Our drive had been going pretty well so far, though, and Kathleen and I both felt confident.
At breakfast, the owner and staff advised us on winter travel. “You say you have sleeping bags. That’s good. Do you have matches? Here, take this pile of newspapers. You might need them to start a fire. In an emergency you can always burn your spare tire for heat.”
While I chatted and drank coffee, Kathleen called the Eagle Plains motel to make a reservation. From what I remember, the motel has at least a couple of dozen rooms, but we wanted to make sure. The Dempster is very isolated. We couldn’t take a chance. We had to get a room at Eagle Plains.
“What did they say?” I asked, when Kathleen returned.
“The girl just laughed. She said we could pretty much have any room we wanted.”
We packed up and headed out in complete darkness, up the Dempster Highway, to Eagle Plains, beyond which lay Inuvik, our final destination. We’re getting close now.
After less than one km (0.6 miles) Kathleen said, “I think we’re going the wrong way, Michael. I think we’re on the way to Dawson City.”
Like most men, I instinctively disagreed completely with my wife’s sense of direction. I had been to Dawson City several times. I had been up the Dempster Highway several times. I knew what I was doing. “No we’re not. We’re going the right way.”
Kathleen persisted. “I don’t think so. There’s a bridge just north of the Klondike Corners that crosses the Klondike River. If we were going north, up the Dempster, we should have crossed the bridge by now.”
Uh oh. Kathleen made a strong point. I began to waver. “Maybe we haven’t reached the bridge yet.”
“No, Michael. We should have reached the bridge by now. Let’s stop at the next one of those little distance markers along the side of the road. They have them every five kilometres (three miles). If we’re going up the Dempster, it should say only 5 or 10. If it’s a big number, we’re still on the North Klondike Highway, going to Dawson City.”
“Good idea.”
A couple of kilometres later (mile or so), Kathleen hopped out of the van to brush the snow away from the marker. I turned the van to shine the headlights on the number, which turned out to be ‘big.’ I don’t remember exactly what number, but big, certainly more than 5 or 10. We headed back and turned left just after the Klondike Corners. Seconds later we crossed the bridge over the frozen Klondike River and headed up the actual Dempster Highway. Now you know why I married Kathleen. No telling why she married me. I don’t even know where I’m going.
Image of Eagle Plains captured from the internet. Unknown creator.
About 80 km (50 miles) later we reached the North Fork Pass, where the protracted dawn turned the northern horizon a deep purple. The land lay empty and still. Later, with mist rising all around, caribou wandered along the banks of the Ogilvie River. We reached the viewpoint above the river without incident, and eventually parked in front of the Eagle Plains Hotel just as darkness fell. Staff outnumbered the guests, which included Kathleen and me, plus one highway worker. We saw just two other vehicles all day long. Only one day to go.
We left Eagle Plains on Saturday, January 9th, at a balmy -32 C (-25 F) – we actually felt a bit of heat blowing in from the engine. We crossed the Arctic Circle at 9:30 am. A pink glow along the southeastern horizon promised another beautiful day. At 11:35 am, the crimson sun rose above the Richardson Mountains foothills. We climbed up to the Wright Pass and crept down to the Mackenzie River lowlands in first or second gear much of the way. I mistrust these snow-covered descents. I constantly worry that our van would suddenly begin a sickening slide that would end only when we plunged off the road. We drove down very slowly indeed. No elderly grandmothers whizzed by me, though. No surprise there. Since leaving Eagle Plains we had seen only one other car, and that one was heading south, toward us.
The sun slipped below the horizon just after we crossed the Mackenzie River ice bridge a little before 2:00 pm. We stopped for gas in Fort McPherson. Only a couple of hours to go now. We reached Marilyn and Alan’s house in Inuvik in the early evening, after nine days on the winter road.
As we sat chatting over a glass of wine, the drive up didn’t seem so difficult. Despite driving on snow since the end of the first day, I never once had to put on the snow chains.
“How did it go on the Dempster?” Alan asked.
“Somewhat anti-climatic,” I replied. “Entirely uneventful. It surprised me, though, that we saw only four cars in two days between here and the Klondike Corners.”
“What do you expect?” he answered. “No one drives the Dempster at -40 degrees.”
I didn’t ask him about all those lonesome, pregnant women on their way to Whitehorse. I was just glad to finally be in Inuvik. Kathleen and I went to bed early, and slept very well. The most worrisome part of our winter escape was over. After more than a year of planning and nearly a lifetime of dreaming, We had reached the end of pavement. We would fly beyond the end of road to Colville Lake in only three weeks.