These are the Chronicles of Famous Surf Writer Ben Marcus and his trip into the Wilds of the Alaskan Frontier.
Latest Update: September 27, 2000

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12:11 ROOM 9 AT FAST EDDY'S MOTEL TOK, ALASKA

Okay, okay, I'm a sissy. I rented a hotel room. Paid $68 for a "rheum with a pheun" for plugging into the internet (so I could continue to bore all you people) and a (faulty) color TV for watching the Olympics. I should be sleeping in the van to save money, but as I look outside my hotel room right now, the van is frosted, no, covered, with snow, and if I had slept in it last night, I might have wound up with frostbite.

But I had a long day yesterday, a very long day, and I earned a hotel room. Yesterday I drove from Haines, Alaska to Tok, Alaska: into British Columbia, into the Yukon, through Haines Junction, all the way to Beaver Creek, back into Alaska and on to Tok, which is the crossroads for a number of decisions. In that 200 or 300 miles yesterday I crossed in and out of timezones, international borders and passed through more kinds of terrain, weather and road conditions than I would have thought possible in one day.

You name it, the Alaska Highway threw it: wind and rain and snow and sleet, on clean, dry roads, gravel roads, muddy roads, snow-covered roads. I hit potholes at full speed, nearly drove into a ditch at Haines Junction, saw a live porcupine at Beaver Creek. I bought another dozen lapel pins, bought a miner's pan for gold, ate a lot of junk, tried to find radio stations, dealt with the CD player on rough roads, fell asleep in front of a restaurant while listening to Miles Davis, watched the celebrity version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, got barked at by an RV caretaker, talked to lots of ladies holding "Stop!" signs.

I did it all, baby.

It started in Haines. Two nights ago, after watching the Olympics in another bar until around 1:00, I pulled into an RV park that might have been closed for the season. Slept okay under Peter's sleeping bag, but it was only 40 degrees outside.

The next morning I found a phone hookup provided by the RV park, but as I was plugging in the grumpy owner came around and told me the park was closed and that I should disconnect and get on out.

I offered to pay, but he just grumped at me. Then I pulled out Mr. Walther and insisted I pay-a Twilight Zone scenario if ever there was one-but he still grumped at me. What a grump.

So I got out of Dodge, and retraced the steps I'd made the day before: Past the fish weirs, which were still a-rotating, past the Chilkat Bald Eagle Preserve, with only one bird in sight, through Canadian customs yet again and then up the road, into the moors and beyond.

The road was as desolate and lonely as I had thought, and as I drove along I wondered at what point I would have run out of gas if I had pushed on the night before.

I wish I had mounted a time-lapse 16 mm camera on the roof for the whole trip, because it's almost impossible to describe all the terrain and scenery changes.

I eventually made it to Haines Junction, which had a General Store with a cash machine. There was a harassed Canadian guy there, squiring around a batch of 15 German tour guides. Apparently Germans love the Yukon. There are direct flights from Frankfurt to White Horse. I guess they like all the light and space. When I bought gas at the Shell Station, the guy behind the counter was Swiss. There it is.

In Haines Junction I was confronted by a truck towing a piece of heavy equipment that looked like a military generator. Trying to get out of its way, I drove into a ditch that could have gone critical if I'd been a little deeper. I wonder about the axles on the van. They're taking a beating.

A little after that, one of my blue plastic water bottles came off the roof and tumbled onto the road. I turned around and picked it up.

But I survived all that and got on the Alaska Highway, heading northwest. On the way out there was a sign:

Anchorage 1064.

That was in K's. In miles it'll be around 600.

After that sign, I drove and I drove and I drove, with the Wrangell St. Elias mountain range to my left, and Yakutat somewhere beyond that, over the mountains and far away.

It was a lot of driving but it never got boring, because the scenery was always changing and always good.

At one point-at one of hundreds of bridges over one of hundreds of rivers along the way-I thought that my trip was over. There was a sign at the entrance to the bridge. It said:

"Cars with lugs prohibited."

I thought, "That's a bit discriminatory. I am as God made me."

After sitting in front of the bridge for an hour, debating whether to take the chance, go across and break yet another Canadian law, a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman came along and explained the whole situation. Lugs meant something else entirely. A mechanical thing, not a character thing.

I passed over the bridge and continued on, free of guilt or recrimination.

And then I kept going, and so did the road. Sometimes it was snowing, sometimes there was blue sky. Sometimes the road was paved and nice and I could fly along. Sometimes the road was rough as guts, with huge top-loaders roaring past, throwing up mud and gravel. A lot of the Alaska Highway is gravel and still under construction, which is strange when you consider it was started during World War II.

I had some nice conversations with the cold ladies working the STOP and SLOW signs at all the construction zones.

As I rolled down the window to get the 411, my opening line was always the same:

"I'll have a tall latte with whipped cream, please."

But that line didn't get many smiles for some reason.

I had to go slow through all the construction zones, as there was a lot of huge, Terminator-style heavy equipment on roads which were pitted and pot-holed and needed improvement.

It's all a blur. I remember drinking innumerable cups of bad coffee, and stopping in front of one place to sleep for a while, listening to Miles Davis. Inside, the retired couple who ran the place were watching the celebrity version of, "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" It was snowing and yucky and lonely on the road, so I watched it with them. Drew Carey won half a million dollars. I had another cup of bad coffee, and two bad doughnuts.

I'm going to need to detox after this trip. Too many Cholesterol CafÈ breakfasts, and too much sugar.

I bought a gold pan at that cafÈ. "Color is where you find it," said the guy who sold it to me. "Good luck."

Farther long, I saw a porcupine by the side of the road. It was alive. I wished it well.

At Beaver Creek, in the evening, I stopped along the creek to try out my new gold-mining pan. I looked at the creek but it was mostly mud, not gravel, so I didn't try.

The border guard at US Customs asked if I was carrying more than $10,000 in US funds.

I chortled.

I crossed into Alaska a little while after that, and came into Tok as the sun was setting. Had a giant BLT in Fast Eddy's Restaurant, and decided to get "a rheum." I was tired and dirty and I wanted to see some Olympics.

Slept good last night with the TV on and the heater going full blast.

Now it's 12:11. I just checked my e-mail and found out that SURFER had the Video Awards and SURFER Poll last night. Heard they weren't as good. Of course they weren't as good.

Now I'm watching CNN and watching the snow fall. I think I'll stay here another day, catch up with CNN, watch the Olympics, finish the Jeff Clark interview and just relax for a day.

Hope all is well out there. It's getting wintery up here. Not sure how much longer this place is going to let me hang around. I'm going to try to go to Valdez and Anchorage, then head south, if the weather keeps getting worse. I'll probably take the ferry back to Washington.

I'd stick around in Alaska if I had a Humvee, but I don't.