Mile: 0 of Alaska Highway
My years studying physics inform me that time can be a function of distance, provided you can arrive at a velocity. I have been on the road for about 10 days, covering an average of 362.9 miles a day, which works out to about 15 miles an hour. All told, not that fast. Kerouac covered America in a little over three days in a '46 Nash going most of the time over 100 miles an hour. Of course, his journey (like his writing) was based on speed. Mine is considerably more subdued. I find myself writing more like Steinbeck, needing time to collect my thoughts, time to gain perspective, time to heal wounds, time to perhaps lose some of the passion that overwhelms the brain and causes it to shut down.
Time is one of those constructs that we have to take (almost) as an axiom. In fact, even the greatest physicists have difficulty letting go of a concept of absolute time. They've fucked with space, distance, energy, temperature, mass, but time remains an absolute ticking clock, which in my mind seems a vain hope that we can measure ourselves against the universe. The universe does not care for time. To it, time is a needless division of a complete whole. Perhaps time is no more
universal than space, and our time may have no meaning in other parts of the universe (or in other times?).
I am at mile "0" of the Alaska Highway, at DawsonCreek, British Columbia. It is 9 PM at night and the sun is still high in the sky, more inviting for a game of softball than a few pints before I head off on the AlCan. I slept out in the woods last night near a town called Little Smoky fighting off God knows what demons in my dreams. Are bears able to channel? I know that wolves can, but I am not fearful of wolves; Bears are different creatures; I am not able to see into their souls. The wolf is the guardian of the East, of the rising sun. It is the bear which is the guardian of the West, of the setting sun. In Indian lore, that means the wolf is the gateway of your birth and the bear is the gateway of your death. Who is your guardian if the sun neither rises nor sets?
I reward myself for going native with a last little fling with civilization. Dawson Creek is a modern town, built on the promise and hubris of the Alaska Highway. I get a motel for the night, shave off my detritus, and head out into town for a few beers at the local bar. Seattle is playing the New York Mets tonight, and as I head in, I see an overhead of Shea stadium, 3629 miles and 10 days from when I left New York. I remember it, but only in my dreams. Are dreams and memories the same, with only the direction of time being different? If so, my life in New York is now just a dream. I am here at a bar in British Columbia and that is all I know.
Checking out the game, I am pegged as a Yank, which invites conversation from some of the bar patrons. I meet Warren, Charles and Chuck, who work in the oilfields. I learn that it's pretty easy to get work in the oilfields under the table now that war for oil is a constant companion thanks to King George II. I could earn $24 (CDN) under the table, but the work is dangerous, and of course I'd have no health insurance. Warren gives me a number for a guy in Vancouver who does construction. I'd like to pick up some carpentry if I can on my way back, and I suppose my Dad would chuckle at the sight of me on a job pounding nails.
That is, ... if... I come back. I haven't thought about that until I reached the beginning of this highway, but I do not have any clearer plans after so many miles. I'll see how I feel when I reach Fairbanks but I no longer have expectations to figure anything out. The journey to this point has been a necessary washing of the spirit, a purging of bad blood and pent anxiety. The next road will be a new experience for me, I expect; more solitary than most. A road is a great place to learn how to be alone. It's hum is a passenger's chatter; its winding and grades are the turns in the story; its stops are the awkward pauses that lead to revelation.
I have 3 Murphy's Stouts in Dawson Creek and bid farewell to my new friends. Tomorrow I head out for the 1500+ miles to Fairbanks. I hope to make that midnight baseball game at the solstice, but we shall see. It is 11:30 at night and dusk is just arriving. I wonder with no night, what do you call a day?
-Tom
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