We did it. The roadtrip. 3,434 miles. Google Maps says that’s 59 hours of driving. We estimated 2 weeks, anticipated 10 days but in the end made it in 8, with one full day break. We drove. It hurts my brain and my hips to really think about the distance. My poor car needs an oil change, a total check up. My poor car? She didn’t quit. We drove with such risk. No spare, despite knowing the poor road conditions and the car’s heavy load and there often being no towns–no passing cars–for hours and hours and hours.
In Beaver Creek, Yukon, a man told us he got a flat. His friends from Anchorage were driving it up to him because the nearest full-serving tireshop was in Fairbanks. After that exchange, I drove with a clenched jaw until we reached a real big city that had to have my tire size. Fairbanks was six hours, seven, eight, ten hours, two days, three, four days away.
This roadtrip was different than the one we completed in August, when it was California to Alaska and not Alaska to California. August was planned so that we only drove every other day. On off days we wandered cities or hiked, moved our bodies, drank with friends. In August, we skipped most of the Canadian drive and instead took a four-day ferry and slept on the desk in a tent. Driving driving driving every day with no friend retreats is a different thing.
This roadtrip was glorious, painful, whatever. We did it. I’m so happy we did it, made it, left, drove the roads that people dream of crossing.
Even after getting into that packed Mini Cooper for 7 days straight to drive all day–sometimes not seeing other cars for hours, sometimes driving on unpaved road that hurt my bones–after becoming dull to music, dull to crying, dull to unfathomable sights and endless mountains that still had me keening despite my being so dulled, even after giving in to Outlander on audiobook–even after hearing I had a reason to get to California sooner to say goodbye to someone I love–we were still alert, sort of smiling. Or at least I was. Maybe because I’d just had my first coffee of the morning.
At some point, I think as early as the first day, I stopped taking photos of everything that made me squeal. I became more selective with what I chose to capture and tried to let go, be there, wherever I was. On some days, I hadn’t slept and it hurt to sit because my knees are bad and sitting in my car requires very bent knees. On all days, I drank more coffee than I ever have and ate at least two roadside soggy sandwiches.
I’m already missing it, at least glimpses of it. I’m already nostalgic. I still haven’t washed my car. I’m driving around shiny south OC in a dirt-covered Mini with Alaska plates and a giant cargo box on top. There may be some pride involved with my procrastination to wash it.
And when I finally drove south enough for a real night? The first night it got dark-dark? Like not just a dim twilight but I CAN’T SEE OUTSIDE IT’S DARK AND LOOK STARS dark, on day 3 or 4, I don’t know, I howled so happy, so relieved.
The next day, we drove through sun and rain and snow. The Northern Rocky Mountains, a touch of home. Connected to Colorado. I’m too sentimental. I called it a blizzard. Regan laughed at me and we argued about the snows of Indiana versus those of Colorado and then we just drove through the snow until we reached the end of the day’s road.
Southern British Columbia is a damp dream. Like Scotland. Or maybe I only think that because we were listening to Outlander as we made our way through it, I don’t know. But we were through the worst of the drive, the most remote, the risky portion, and it felt so good on the eyes and mind. The rain. All that rain. It only made my car more muddy.
If you have the option, drive the Sea to Sky Highway. But please, take a piss before speeding through the bulk of the curving knuckle-gripping mountain way. Don’t make my mistake. Or do. I have no regrets. It was mesmerizing. It was home. Go through Whistler (because at this point you’ll have no choice) and be confused by the sudden affluence, by its comforting similarities to Park City.
Vancoooooooouver! I love you, I do. I have since 2014 (or really 2010 when I did my first Vancouver research) and still do.
In Vancouver, we stayed at a harbourfront hotel. A treat for making it through Yukon, through British Columbia. A farewell to British Columbia. It was nice.
The next day, I started paying rent in Seattle–a storage unit, in which we emptied half of the car into, I put much of my life into. A commitment to Washington. We were only in the city for a few hours. There was an urgency to go further south, to finish the drive. We stayed in Portland with friends. The next day, we drove 10 hours to the Bay Area, to my older sister, to my darling niece.
We took our first day off. A day off from driving before the last final stretch. It was a delight. I wore a dress and boots, not my jeans and a beanie and some grimy tee. We drank wine and I played with my niece and we just fucking relaxed.
And then, the next day, 7 hours down the 1-5, through Los Angeles rush hour traffic, then then then then, the roadtrip was complete. Over. A little over a week doesn’t sound that long but time warped up there on the Alcan, somewhere between the Yukon and British Columbia. I live in California now, for a few months. I’m writing every day. I’m sleeping and healing and will be seeing too many doctors next week and next month.
Why the hell am I already nostalgic for the roadtrip?
What is happening in Alaska? What’s Alaska?