CANADA Part 3: Small-town stories with strangers

Mile Zero, setting out on the Alaska Highway and making a fresh start in life

After ten months and over 17,000 miles of driving Walter—our big yellow adventure truck—around the United States, Mexico, and Canada; we had finally arrived at Mile Zero. Dawson Creek, British Columbia. It was time to finally start the road to Alaska.

It’s been a long road to get us to the starting line of the road to Alaska.

In 1942, just after the start of WWII, the United States realized it needed to secure its western border, including Alaska. But there was no road north for the military convoys from the Lower 48 to reach Seward’s Folly, that resource-rich land that geographically looked like the natural northwest corner of Canada.

At that time, Dawson Creek was nearly¹ the end of the road north in British Columbia. Cutting a swatch through the rugged wilderness, a US/Canadian partnership agreed to build and maintain a rudimentary gravel road north from there. The Alaska Highway was born.

After the war, the road attracted adventurous tourists, eager to reach the Last Frontier of the United States via northern Canada. Traveling the Alaska Hwy became a thing of bragging rights, a road to conquer in order to prove one’s mettle.

The small town of Dawson Creek was no dummy; they saw an opportunity to capitalize on the tourist trap effect. Erecting an official-looking Mile Zero archway in the middle of town, they encouraged intrepid adventurers (as well as the rapidly growing RV crowd) to stop and photograph the start of their Alaska journey there, before driving further north into the wild. That sign has launched more adventures than anyone could count.

In later years, Dawson Creek decided to add an official sticker wall, so people would stop sticking their labels all over the archway. These sticker walls always feel like a fire hydrant next to a dog park—with everyone leaving their mark. But when we arrived in Dawson Creek last week, we knew we would participate in the time-honored rituals just the same—capturing a photo at the Mile Zero archway and placing a sticker on the wall.

But first, we wanted to clean up, gas up, fill our water tanks, do our laundry, and restock our groceries so we could start the Alaska Hwy at our best—a fresh start. All of us were overdue for a bath. My husband Andy and I took ourselves to an Anytime Fitness gym—one of the northernmost locations in North America—for a workout and a strong, hot shower. Then we found a carwash business with an oversized bay and pulled in to give Walter his own shower.

Tyson

A slender young man in a logo jacket and tall muck boots sauntered over to check on us, making sure we fit in the carwash bay and knew how to use the credit card portal and the instrument panel. Having gone through the process many times before, we were fine. He shrugged and mozied along but then returned to check on us again a few minutes later, saying very little, but observing our progress. We still didn’t need any assistance, but I saw his eyes linger over the truck a little longer than necessary before moving on.

He was curious.

We struck up a conversation with the young attendant amidst the glops of flying soap foam and noisy overspray of rinse water.

Although he had the stereotypical manner of an indigenous individual—slow, soft-spoken, and nonchalant—it was obvious young Tyson was very intelligent. Arms crossed thoughtfully, his dark eyes took in every detail as he framed a series of excellent questions about the construction of the rig and its various systems. He didn’t seem the least bit intimidated of speaking to us, middle-aged adults, as if we were peers—even though he himself didn’t appear to be any older than 19ish. Tyson could hold his own in conversation.

As Andy continued with his scrub-a-dub routine, battling the overhead swing arm to move the sprayer onto the far side, I answered Tyson’s questions. Then I reversed the Q & A session and began to ask him about his life, his goals and plans.

Was he from Dawson Creek?

Yes, born and raised. Most of this family is there.

Did he like living there?

Yes, absolutely. It’s a nice place to live.

Does he hope to stay there long-term?

Tyson wrinkled up one side of his face, hesitating before admitting he would like to move away. Calgary, a big city a day’s drive away, has more educational and work opportunities for him, he said. He’d like to get into oilfield engineering and sees no avenues to pursue that line of work successfully in little Dawson Creek. Working at the carwash was serving to get his finances in order so he could relocate to the city before long.

Tyson wanted a fresh start. For him, Dawson Creek had been a great place to grow up, but Calgary represented his Mile Zero, the anticipated start of his desired career journey. All his years so far were only the lead-up to a new beginning. The archway lay eight hours to the south.

Gwen

The next day, continuing with our fresh start theme, Andy dropped me off at a laundromat with our bags of dirty clothes, while he went in search of the parts he needed to connect our two fuel tanks. His project would effectively double our range, a good option before we headed into the long stretches of wilderness ahead.

I always meet the nicest people at the laundromat. Gwen and I connected over the ridiculously adorable dog bed she pulled out of a large-capacity washing machine and toted over to a dryer. She explained it had come with her latest rescue dog, a quirky French bulldog. With only that as an icebreaker, our conversation took off.

Gwen is a retired nurse from Alberta. Upon their retirement, she and her husband sold their big house and moved to nearby British Columbia, into their 800 sq. ft. summer cabin on a lake. The location is remote and off-grid, relying on solar power, firewood, and a well; but they love it. And soon, they plan to install a washer and dryer, so they won’t have to make the hour-long drive into Dawson Creek to do laundry. Overall, they have no regrets about starting this new chapter in the little cabin. They don’t miss their big, beautiful house or all the stuff they needed to fill and maintain it. This fresh start has been good for them.

The one complication, however, is their remote location. Gwen’s husband recently had his fourth heart attack, this one the most serious of them all. With the previous three, calling for a back country ambulance—a four-wheel drive pick-up truck with a camper kitted out for medical emergency response—has been sufficient. With this most recent one, though, there just wasn’t time. He knew it was serious and, fortunately, was able to communicate as much.

“Honey, I’m in trouble,” he had croaked.

She called instead for STARS (Shock Trauma Air Rescue Service) to dispatch a helicopter. Without their speedy arrival and quick flight to a hospital, her husband wouldn’t have survived this round. He is recovering now and working hard to take good care of himself, but Gwen is quietly preparing to lose him.

“None of us last forever,” she gently shook her head in quiet resignation.

For now, the remote cabin at the lake is a lovely fresh start, but Gwen knows their labor-intensive life would be difficult for her to maintain alone. When her husband is gone, she will start again. Mile Zero.

The carny and his daughter

Back at Walter, putting away clean clothes and waiting for Andy to finish connecting the fuel tanks, I noticed an older model car pull alongside us in the grocery store parking lot. The passenger window rolled down and upbeat music spilled out. Chomping on her chewing gum, a pre-teen girl called to us.

“I like your truck! That’s so cool!”

I hopped down out of Walter and Andy crawled out from underneath to meet her and her father, a man still clinging to his fading youth. He leaned his body across hers so he could join the conversation. Both were all smiles.

Upon chatting, we learned why they seemed to be in such a celebratory mood. It wasn’t just the sight of our big yellow beast. The father had not been part of his daughter’s life for quite a while. But just that morning, he had surprised her by showing up at her house and taking her around town for the day, running errands, eating out, and cruising with the tunes turned up—looking at cool trucks, among other things.

They both seemed excited about getting reacquainted, creating a fresh start for the father-daughter relationship. And the timing was not a moment too soon: he was leaving the very next day to travel all around Canada as a concessions worker on the summer carnival circuit. The girl excitedly shared that they’d just made plans for her to fly out to one of the carnivals—all the way across Canada—to see him later in the summer. She’d never flown before, and her first flight would be a big one—and solo. She was nervous, but excited to undertake such an adventure. It was Mile Zero for her, the launch into life as an independent traveler, life with a dad who wants to be with her. I pray both dreams pan out.

The laundromat lady

The newly reunited father and daughter drove off, happy to have yellow and black Nomadic MidLife stickers to show for the encounter with us. Andy slid back under the truck to finish his job, and I climbed back up inside to make the bed. Ah, freshly laundered sheets!

But there were no sheets in the bottom of the bag. I flashed back to the laundromat and my time with Gwen. Deep in conversation, I must have been distracted. I recalled checking to make sure I’d pulled everything from the dryer, but where were the sheets? Could I have somehow left them in the washing machine, or in the wheeled wire basket I used to move my laundry from washer to dryer?

With the skies threatening and dark, I pulled on my raincoat, grabbed my Ziplock bag of Canadian quarters, called out to Andy, and began the march back to the laundromat, a ten-minute walk away.

When I arrived, I first checked the washing machine I’d used, then scanned around for all the transfer carts. Nothing. My heart sank. How could I lose a whole set of queen size sheets? And those were good sheets, special-ordered to fit our unique bed perfectly.

I walked up to the counter, where an attendant handled the drop-off laundry customers. “Excuse me,” I started, and she looked up. “I think I might have . . .”

My face must have displayed my consternation, because she suddenly beamed a smile at me and raised one hand, interrupting my inquiry. Then she turned her back and reached down for something on a shelf. Turning back to me, she held up a bundle of precision-folded bed sheets—the same color as mine.

My shoulders drooped as I exhaled heavily.

Her smile grew even larger.

“You even dried and folded them for me.”

“Of course. I couldn’t quite pin down who they might belong to . . .”

“Because I’m not one of your regulars.”

She nodded, still grinning. “But I figured whoever’d left them would be back.”

“Thank you. I’m a full-time traveler, and I . . . Can I give you a hug?”

She raised her eyebrows and shrugged, then stepped out from behind her counter, arms reaching for me.

Clean sheets. Dried and even folded. In the midst of our gritty life on the road, this felt like pure luxury. It was a fresh start.

Mile Zero.

Dawson Creek, British Columbia, BABY!

I’d love to hear about your fresh starts, friend; the Mile Zero points in your life—however large or small. Drop a comment here so we can all appreciate them together.

Until next week,

Sherry

P.S. Having left Dawson Creek, Fort St. John, and now Fort Nelson as well, Andy and I won’t see another sizeable town until Whitehorse, in the Yukon Territory. My triumphal return to the Yukon has been patiently waiting in the wings for nearly forty years. I have a very specific goal, a long-anticipated full-circle reunion awaiting me there. It involves wilderness and history and poetry—and Walter—and the closer we get, the more excited I become. I can’t wait to tell you about it next week, friend.

1. A local pointed out to me that the construction of the road actually started at Charlie Lake, but Dawson Creek was the nearest airstrip, so equipment, supplies, and personnel were flown there, then trucked to Charlie Lake. Some folks are frustrated that Dawson Creek claims to be the start of the Alaska Hwy, when Charlie Lake would be technically more accurate.