"You are now leaving the 9-1-1 calling area...."

One of the many little voices accompanying me on this road trip says, "Pfff. We don't need no stinkin' cell phone." And I swung onto the Cassiar Highway just west of Watson Lake, Yukon Territory. All my voices had an argument in Whitehorse when we awoke to a low overcast and grimly damp streets.

"OK. No Cassiar Highway. Alaska Highway all the way."

"Well, then you have to cancel the hotels in Dease Lake and Smithers...."

"OK, if the rain stops by Watson Lake, I'll take the Cassiar." N.B.: The rain stopped. But there was a sign: BC 37 CLOSED. For further information....

"Well, there. No Cassiar."
N.B.: Checked with gas station attendant, and road is open with Pilot Car.

So, I turned onto the Cassiar Highway. By now you're wondering what the big deal is. Well, the Cassiar Highway comes with warnings. Bears, road closings, signs like '141 km to the next gas,' no services (well, precious few). At dinner one evening at Camp Denali, a guest listened to my plan to drive "out" via the Cassiar. He then asked if I had a GPS. "No, and there's only one road, and you're on it." Then came the dire warnings about logging trucks speeding at you, kicking up rocks that break windshields. "And make sure to take a tire pump, the kind you plug into the cigarette lighter." I'd heard most of his conversation before; indeed, mostly what you hear is why others would NOT take that road.

Still, it's a numbered, year-round route maintained by the Province of British Columbia. And, still, this would likely be the last chance I had to drive this road. Even with this tentative resolve under my belt, my misgivings filled the car. What if I DID get a rock through the windshield? What if I had to drive 400 miles on the Tonka tire after a flat? How far is the next gas? Where are the logging trucks concentrated.

At its far northern end, the "Highway" is little more than an unshouldered, crowned, paved causeway through muskeg and old forest burns. Turning left here, right there, around little ponds, steeply up little hills, and then steeply down the other side. Maximum speed limit: 80 kph. I thought, "This is gonna take a l-o-n-g time."

After a while the road widened, and at about mile 125, the road climbed up the side of a huge ridge, and the view in the photo above presented itself. The trees flamed brightly against the spruce; whitecaps dotted the lake. The motel in Dease Lake was clean, comfy, and quiet, and in the morning, I set out about 7:00 in order to make the 10:00 pilot car about 2-1/2 hours south. I arrived in plenty of time, snaked through some VERY dramatic areas of spring mudslide and flooding.

It was sort of like driving through that snowstorm in the Yukon Territory back in April. You go until you can't. And so does everyone else. I ended the day richer by six black bear sightings (three were a sow and two little cubs--tiny after my summer's exposure to Denali's grizzlies), a Bald Eagle, and assorted ravens.

And richer by the knowledge that now that I've driven the Cassiar Highway, I know what everyone is talking about. It's narrower than the Alaska Highway, the scenery is more spectacular--because it's much closer to you, and it's 130 miles closer to Prince George if you take it. It's difficult to remember how large British Columbia is, how broad its valleys, how much its mountains bulk up the horizon. It's as big as Texas and most of Wyoming together! I think of the ease with which the plan was made to drive it--again, as I pointed out back in April, plans made with the Atlas in your lap and your seat cushioned by the couch often end up being questioned in the execution! The mind wrestles with the why and the how of the drive, conflicted by the assumption that you will be able to handle what comes along and by the fear that you won't. The drive becomes less about touring and more about just getting there.

But when you do get there, you get to smile inside even as you hold tightly to the milestone the drive represents. I may have gripped the steering wheel a bit hard in places, but I have now driven the Cassiar Highway.

Segue

The summer job is over. Last Thursday afternoon I drove to Anchorage for a couple of days' worth of rest before resuming--tomorrow morning--the Drive Out.

As much as I dislike the word 'transition' (hence the title "Segue"), the three days here at Gail's in Anchorage have been restful and refreshing, and have provided a wonderful bridge from my fatigue to the eagerness to be on the road again. The bulk, and weight, of much of my stuff will find its way to Wisconsin via UPS starting Tuesday; MSCARLT's burden has been dramatically lightened--as has my anxiety at what a fully loaded car does to its tires, let alone the reduction in gas mileage. Yesterday we drove down to Summit Lake on the Kenai Peninsula to gawk at leaves (not yet at their peak), fresh snow (not yet anything serious), and stop in Girdwood at the Bake Shop (not yet overcrowded with snowy skiers) for some delicious Minestrone. I will admit to catching catnaps as Gail drove.

Mostly what I've done for the last couple of days is process the summer's experience. About halfway through the summer I'd come to the conclusion that I'd accomplished what I set out to do in committing two summers to working at Camp Denali/North Face Lodge. This would wrap it up. I was done. As August went on, my resolve weakened. The rain let up and the sun shone, the tundra came alive with the most spectacular display of autumnal color I've ever seen--and I'm from New England!

Then the first wing of migrating Sandhill Cranes flew over. If there is a signature moment that says to me, "It's Autumn," it's the rattly gobble of the cranes overhead. While waiting for the guests' arrival on a Friday evening, we watched a huge flock rise from the nearby tundra, their cluster enlarging, tightening, winging up, circling ever higher--we were transported as we watched. It's not something you can capture in a photograph, or record; it is an experience. And it simply fills you up.

And being full of the experience, I started to think: what are the things arguing for ending my stint here after two summers. Blasted mosquitoes. Those mornings when the room is freezing. Walking up that hill. Walking back down that hill with the knee that doesn't like descents. The more I thought, the more I realized that my dark spells came when I recognized that I'd performed at less than my best in the job. Hmmm. We're getting somewhere here.

Then came the morning that the last guests left. I checked in with the breakfast servers and kitchen staff to congratulate them on the summer being over, and I realized just how hard they'd all worked, and how well they'd done. Double hmmm.

Two days later, staff were boarding Happy Bus for the trip out of the park. Engines revved, gears meshed, wheels turned. We waved them out of the yard even as we wiped tears that kept falling...and they were gone. Then I put the last couple of things in the car and began my own cycle of departure hugs. And the awareness hit me again--as it did last summer: we really are like a family. We live in the same small community, we work side-by-side for several months, we grow to know each other so well we can laugh heartily as all our foibles and frustrations appear in the staff spoofletter.

That's when it hit me. All the reasons I cited for this being the end were just annoyances. Do the mosquitoes drive me nuts? Yes. But can I live with them? Yeah, most likely. That's why there's insect repellent. Is it cold in the mornings? Yes. Does it warm up? Yes. Well, kind of. But can I live without that nighttime view of stars peeking through the aurora? The company of laughing co-workers watching the display from the roof, all wrapped in down garments and blankets? The golden glow of the leaves flaming above brilliant red bearberry and orange dwarf birch? The friendships, the shared work and purpose? Most likely not. These are the important parts. They're what I remembered from last year;they're what will warm me through the winter.

So it took me a couple of months, but I finally got it into words. You can live with the annoying parts. But you can't live without what's important. Something not to forget.

Small World

We have staff children this year. Danika and Silas are the third generation of family on the ridge; Oliver and Lilly from Tasmania, and who, with their parents, are with us; Maggie is the daughter of a woman who has been a naturalist guide here for years. The youngsters spend a lot of time together here in organized kidcare, and staff members recognize them as their own family members, too.

Working in the office, I get a clear view out the window of the lawn in front of Potlatch and just east of the lodge--the log structure that Woody built back in the early 50s. On Wednesday, Jack, a first year staff member, had stopped washing the outside windows for a moment, and Dan, whose father has been one of our visiting naturalist-lecturers for years, took a moment from his trash-emptying rounds. All of them were cavorting! Kicking a soccer ball, waving a stick, showing handfuls of Australian coins, practicing handstands.

We are really lucky here to be such a small world, to be a community where the youngest has something to offer the oldest, where we can all play together with spontaneity, and where we all look out for each other. Especially the kids. If we're lucky enough to return for a second year, we see the growth in the kids--even Silas now toddles up to Jack, slaps hands in a two-year-old high five and says, clearly, "Hi, Jack!" Danika (4) stands up at staff meeting with an announcement about and invitation to her kids party that will last "until there's no light," and everyone pays attention. Lilly charms us all with her pink mini-wellies and play clothes over which she sports a tutu and fairy wings.

And Maggie, at 9, is an accomplished fiddler. She played with the other musicians at FallFest, serious face, tapping toe keeping the meter. If we see paper airplanes and artwork hanging in the "Smithsonian" staff room at North Face Lodge, we know that Maggie has been holding court with her crafts. While waiting for the incoming guests last Monday, we test-flew the various models in the upper lot. Anya and Jonathan helped pitch the planes, Jack and Tate (on the roof) helped gather them in. And Maggie ran circles around the lot of us.

Yesterday after a half day in the dish pit at Camp, I returned to my room bent on taking a nap. I'd been up since 5:00 in the morning, my feet were killing me, and I was looking forward to lying down. A note was taped to my door, from Maggie and her mother, Maria, asking me over to their cabin to talk beads and have tea. Suddenly I realized how much I wanted to do that, so I packed up my bead supplies, put on my jacket (early Fall here, and it's chilly), and tapped on their door.

Maria put another log in the stove, heated some water for tea, and the three of us showed each other our beading projects, talked about different patterns and techniques. I taught them how to make a star, and Maria showed me an Athabascan-style snowflake pattern that I'll work on this winter. Then as I started gathering stuff to head back to my room, Maria suggested that she and Maggie play the song Maggie wrote, the January Moonlight Song. Maria played melody on her violin; Maggie played the harmony she also composed on hers. I could see in my mind animals and people swirling and pirouetting in the January night as the tunes filled the 60-year old log cabin. Then Maggie played a couple of French Canadian songs--jigs or reels, I forget which. Lively, spirited, and outside the leaves danced on the wind.

And then I thought...in that head-shaking, how-could-I-have-missed-this way...it's not just a privilege to live here in the National Park all summer. It is a privilege to live within this small world, this place where we can leave i-pods and headphones behind, this community where age and youth are equal, where earth--not pavement--supports your feet, and where you rely on your talents and caring to create your joy, where you all--together--are part of this incredible string of once and future generations.