Saturday, July 16 • This morning we leave Dawson Creek, "Mile 0" of the Alaska Highway. It's a town I look forward to since our first time through in 2001. Surrounded by green and mauve fields, interspersed with the bright yellow of canola, there's a low-slung downtown, an art gallery/shop in an old grain elevator, the modern outlying strip areas. Back in the forties part of the town blew up during the construction of the highway; some explosives were stored there and somehow went off. Today, conscious of tourists and their history, the people of Dawson Creek are in the process of painting murals all over town depicting their earlier days. Being part of the rush toward gold. The rush to build the Alaska Highway—that story of herculean labor, worth hearing about anywhere, anytime.
Today, I woke to rain and heard it loud over my head as I showered. It's always a good shower when we're hooked up to water, have plenty of propane and can dump—or have an already empty holding tank. All of these conditions exist now, so that means leaving the water on during the whole shower. Otherwise, it's the conservation procedure: get wet, turn off the water at the showerhead, shampoo, turn on the water again, rinse, turn off the water and soap up, turn it on again and rinse—varied according to mood and creativity. Andre is off by the pay phone uploading his latest pictures. I'm frantically writing this one last entry and trying to get part of breakfast ready at the same time, because we should leave soon.
Being in Dawson Creek makes me think of Jay, who I of course miss. Because he lives in town now, I've been lucky to be able to see him often. I miss his smile, hearing his feelings about things, the excitement of passing him on the highway, seeing him on the job, in the coffeehouse with his computer.
When we went to Alaska in 2001, we visited Jay on our way out. He was just starting his first semester of college in Oneonta, NY, knowing already that the school wasn't right for him. But when he opened the door to the claustrophobic u-shaped closet of a room he had just moved into, everything felt excruciatingly wrong. In addition, I was distressed that during the next 2 months I would often be unreachable. Bygones, as they used to say on Allie MacBeal; it's all over now. But I started that trip with a very heavy heart.
Weeks later, on September 10, the traffic coming into Edmonton had been awful, and the truck stop we'd parked in was packed, so we'd gotten up at 4am the next day to get an early start. An hour or more outside of Edmonton, in Sangudo, we stopped at a small park, slept, then had breakfast. While I was cleaning up and Andre was walking the dogs, I heard on the radio that a plane had hit one of the towers at the World Trade Center, and then the announcer moved on to other news, then back to music. We raced to the nearest gas station to find out anything we could; I reacted the way most people did: I wanted to talk to Jay, my parents, my friends—immediately. I was fortunate to reach everyone I called—except Jay. When I finally did, he was fine. We continued on our trip. And that situation continued its alteration of all our lives.
On our way home, we passed through Dawson Creek again. The campgrounds had closed for the season, so we were parking overnight in front of the granary art gallery. It was dark out. We were about to walk to dinner. But first, somehow, I was able to talk with Jay again. I don't know which one of us initiated the call, but he was in good spirits. He and some new friends from school were in New York City. Having a good time. Despite feeling anxiety about where he was, hearing his voice and knowing that something good was happening for him gave me such a lift.
So when I think of Dawson Creek, I think of how I was energized by the exhibit at the art gallery; how fun it was to eat at the Alaska Cafe, with its murals—unicorns and the Garden of Eden and a foolish Adam—covering the bathroom walls; how relieved and happy I was to talk with Jay there. This time around, the show at the gallery was okay. The cafe is under new management and uninviting, so we went somewhere else. But the memory of being in touch with Jay in that Dawson Creek parking lot, in the dark, still feels good.
Today, I woke to rain and heard it loud over my head as I showered. It's always a good shower when we're hooked up to water, have plenty of propane and can dump—or have an already empty holding tank. All of these conditions exist now, so that means leaving the water on during the whole shower. Otherwise, it's the conservation procedure: get wet, turn off the water at the showerhead, shampoo, turn on the water again, rinse, turn off the water and soap up, turn it on again and rinse—varied according to mood and creativity. Andre is off by the pay phone uploading his latest pictures. I'm frantically writing this one last entry and trying to get part of breakfast ready at the same time, because we should leave soon.
Being in Dawson Creek makes me think of Jay, who I of course miss. Because he lives in town now, I've been lucky to be able to see him often. I miss his smile, hearing his feelings about things, the excitement of passing him on the highway, seeing him on the job, in the coffeehouse with his computer.
When we went to Alaska in 2001, we visited Jay on our way out. He was just starting his first semester of college in Oneonta, NY, knowing already that the school wasn't right for him. But when he opened the door to the claustrophobic u-shaped closet of a room he had just moved into, everything felt excruciatingly wrong. In addition, I was distressed that during the next 2 months I would often be unreachable. Bygones, as they used to say on Allie MacBeal; it's all over now. But I started that trip with a very heavy heart.
Weeks later, on September 10, the traffic coming into Edmonton had been awful, and the truck stop we'd parked in was packed, so we'd gotten up at 4am the next day to get an early start. An hour or more outside of Edmonton, in Sangudo, we stopped at a small park, slept, then had breakfast. While I was cleaning up and Andre was walking the dogs, I heard on the radio that a plane had hit one of the towers at the World Trade Center, and then the announcer moved on to other news, then back to music. We raced to the nearest gas station to find out anything we could; I reacted the way most people did: I wanted to talk to Jay, my parents, my friends—immediately. I was fortunate to reach everyone I called—except Jay. When I finally did, he was fine. We continued on our trip. And that situation continued its alteration of all our lives.
On our way home, we passed through Dawson Creek again. The campgrounds had closed for the season, so we were parking overnight in front of the granary art gallery. It was dark out. We were about to walk to dinner. But first, somehow, I was able to talk with Jay again. I don't know which one of us initiated the call, but he was in good spirits. He and some new friends from school were in New York City. Having a good time. Despite feeling anxiety about where he was, hearing his voice and knowing that something good was happening for him gave me such a lift.
So when I think of Dawson Creek, I think of how I was energized by the exhibit at the art gallery; how fun it was to eat at the Alaska Cafe, with its murals—unicorns and the Garden of Eden and a foolish Adam—covering the bathroom walls; how relieved and happy I was to talk with Jay there. This time around, the show at the gallery was okay. The cafe is under new management and uninviting, so we went somewhere else. But the memory of being in touch with Jay in that Dawson Creek parking lot, in the dark, still feels good.
posted by Susan at 7:34 PM
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