A Father And Son's Journey

A Father and Son's Journey

On the morning of June 3, 2006 (after my wife, Billie, served up a generous portion of gravy and biscuits), Pop and I pulled out of Ripley, Ohio. We set our sights on Alaska--the Great Land. With the Artic Circle being our lofty goal, we traveled 860 miles before stopping in Monticello, Minnesota. Now, that's traveling! Barreling across Indiana and Illinois, with great expectations, the dells of Wisconsin became the lakes of Minnesota and the more populated areas transformed into North Dakota's wide-open spaces. This gradual decrease in habitation was only a foretaste of what lay ahead.

We were stopped for a random I.D. check, on the American side of the border, which lasted longer than it took the Canadians to examine our passports and send us merry on our way. Now, faced with liters, kilometers, and all other such things Canadian, we cautiously persevered and spent much of this day on a 4-lane. Pop and I decided to rest on our laurels the second night in Regina, Canada: the capital of Saskatchewan, and the first of four provinces that we would cross on our northwestwardly course. Smooth, huge boulders, left by ancient glaciers, held our attention throughout most of this region, along with expansive farms and oil wells.

"Someone's making money, even while they're sleeping" Pop said, admiring the miles and miles of wells. The discussion of oil would be a reoccurring theme throughout our trip. The pumping mechanisms prompted me to sing a verse of the Beverly Hillbillies--and up through the ground came a bubbling crude, oil that is, Texas tea, black gold.
After one failed attempt to trade our money (because we didn't have a Canadian bank account), we located an institution to exchange American bucks for colored paper embossed with the Queens face. Their money being worth eleven cents less on the dollar made us feel a little better, until the cold, hard truth hit us--Canadian gasoline cost about $4.50 a gallon. Oh well, nothing we could do about that--aye. Even though it was sunny and warm, the harsh winter realities of flat terrain soon became apparent. Most homes had trees and shrubs planted around them to block the snow and wind, especially on the northern exposure. Picket fences connected the out buildings and made the properties look like forts.

Alberta's birch and pine added to yesterday's wide-open spaces, along with never-ending fields and hay bails, although, this province looked similar to the first. One note worthy of mentioning is the clean and attractive cities that we passed through--Regina, Saskatoon, and Edmonton. Really, quite striking.

Now, my friends, things started to change more dramatically. With the modern world disappearing behind us, we traveled 854 miles to our first planned destination: Dawson Creek, British Columbia, the southern rail terminus for the construction of the Alaskan Highway--the road we came to conquer. It was here that we found mile marker Ŕ".

The highway was constructed in 1942, in eight months, as a supply route to military bases during World War II. It left it's mark on those who built it, and seemingly everyone else along the way. It officially ends in Delta Junction, Alaska at mile marker 1422. Of course, we have photos at both locations. The two-lane is mostly paved, with occasional sections of gravel stretches. Construction is an ongoing affair, permafrost being the main culprit. (More about this later.)

The town was named after George Mercer Dawson, a nineteen-century railroad surveyor, geologist and anthropologist. His work led to the exploration of northwestern North America, and established the exact boundary between Alaska and the Yukon. We stayed that night in what appeared to be one of Dawson Creek's early resorts. The handsomely built cedar cabin must have been glorious in its day. It was an older structure and obviously seen its share of pioneers on their way to Alaska. People had carved their initials all over the inside walls and ceiling. It wasn't difficult to envision the bustling activity, and dreams, of the early settlers and pioneers.

Tuesday, on our forth day northward, picturesque scenery abounded across the Peace River area. Later that afternoon, we experienced a breath-taking and captivating piece of real estate--the 300 miles between Ft. Nelson and the town of Watson Lake. The going was slow, however, as we traversed the Canadian Rockies. The highest point on the Alaskan Highway is Summit Lake. The snowy, panoramic, mountain views were daunting, and the pristine streams finally enticed me to fill up a bottle with water. Pop and I enjoyed the chilly treat, while hypnotized by the largest mountains I had ever seen. Forget beer commercials, it really doesn't get much better than that. Muncho Lake, the centerpiece of this region, is considered by many to be one of the most beautiful lakes in the world, no argument from me. It was here, on the way back, that Pop and I would try our hand at trout fishing. We also saw a seaplane take off right in front of us.

Pop practiced his Nascar skills on the windy roads, all the while stopping on a dime, so we could witness the indigenous wildlife. First, a black bear rose up on its hind legs to look us over, then a moose and her baby calf strolled beside the road without a care in the world. Before we reached Watson Lake, we saw bison, wild horses, elk, mountain sheep, caribou, and one small fox. It was quite a day! It was through British Columbia where we began testing our picnicking skills.

In 1897, Frank Watson, an American, gave up trying to get to the gold fields in the Klondike and settled here. He prospected and trapped until 1941 when the Alaskan Highway began. Carl Lindley, a homesick GI, while working on the Alaskan Highway in 1942, started what turned out to be a mind-boggling sign-collection. He erected a signpost pointing to his hometown of Danville, Illinois. Travelers have been leaving signs ever since. To examine them all would've taken forever, but I did find one from Jackson, Ohio. We stayed that evening in a 1942 restored Air Force Lodge that was used by Canadian pilots during World War II. The bathroom and showers were down the hall. The French-Canadian that owned and restored the place was quite a character; he resembled Ozzy Osborne but was more talkative, interesting, and certainly more understandable. Before explaining the entire history of the place, he requested that we take off our shoes at the door; the place was spotless. No TV's. Later that evening, a woman said in passing, "Well, it is peaceful."

"Like a Japanese monastery," I replied, looking up from my journal. I was taking advantage of a table in the lobby to catch up on my writing.

The next day the wildlife included another fox, two black bear, and a light-colored wolf loping along beside us. In preparation for our trip, I had read Jack London's Call of the Wild and couldn't help imagining the wolf was an ancestor of the mighty dog Buck, the hero of the novel. We thoroughly enjoyed the stunning, ninety-two mile-long Teslin Lake. As we made our way deeper into the Yukon, I wondered what other visual pleasures could possibly await us. Well, it didn't take long to find out. The Kluane (pronounced Kloo-Wa-nee) National Park was certainly a pleasure I won't soon forget. We slowly weaved around this gorgeous body of blue water--Kluane Lake--with the mountains towering above us. The vastest of the setting, at the very foothill of the mountains, in a huge delta created by a glacier, made me feel small and undeniably in awe of Mother Nature.

Pop kept saying, "Man alive, and man alive." It was if we had been dropped in the middle of a National Geographic special--it was awesome. On paper, the details are lacking I'm afraid, suffice to say it was a visual delight. The small village of Destruction Bay is also situated along this lake and was once used as a way station for the Alaskan Highway. It got its name because a violent storm once destroyed the buildings and materials the workers were using. We finally made our way out of the mountains and stopped to enjoy a Native American museum filled with stuffed animals. It was extraordinary. The display included wolverines, grizzly bear, birds of all sorts, and indigenous animals of every category.

We ate eggs for supper at a truck stop, and I just couldn't help myself. I had to ask three Canadian truckers if they knew where the Possum Lodge was. "All of us aren't like Red Green, the duct tape king," one trucker said, and we all had a good laugh. A little farther up the road, on the fifth night, we finally made the Alaskan border. It had been a long and rewarding day.

We stayed on the outskirts of Tok in a neat roadside motel. It was here that Pop and I figured out Alaska had its own time zone. We were actually four hours ahead instead of three. My phone call woke my wife, Billie, at one o'clock in the morning. Tok was where we first saw cabins with sod roofs. They actually have to mow their roofs. The town was named after a small Husky puppy that was the mascot for the Ninety-Seventh Engineers working on the Alaskan Highway. The owner of the Burnt Paw Trading Post keeps Husky puppies on display to this day. We went through before the place opened that next morning, but stopped on our way home and saw the puppies and dog team equipment. Remember, there's only one road in and out.

The 100 miles from Tok to Delta Junction was severely damaged and slowed us down considerably. Don't worry; this time was put to good use. I counted one chipmunk, thirteen fat rabbits (that's right, I counted them) and seven moose. We also saw the Trans-Alaskan Pipeline for the first time in Delta Junction. It travels southeast out of Fairbanks to Delta Junction, then turns south to Valdez and the Pacific Ocean.
After a few photos of Pop and Mrs. Claus at North Pole, Alaska (where we saw actual letters sent to Santa) we arrived in Fairbanks on the sixth day--3,940 miles after leaving home. We took the truck through a car wash (you wouldn't believe how dirty it was), had the oil changed at Wal-Mart, and found the motel that we would spend the next three nights in. It had a separate TV room with a couch, frig, and microwave. The place was roomy with large closets, and we happily made camp.

Our first excursion took us north of Fairbanks to the El Dorado Gold Mine. It's located a few miles from where Italian immigrant Felix Pedro--actually not "Pedro" but Pedroni--discovered gold in 1902, spurring the settlement of Fairbanks. Earl Hughes, Alaska's Ambassador of Country Music, took our boarding passes and doubled as our tour guide on the train ride. The train was a replica of the narrow-gauge Tanana Valley Railroad, which used to make the forty-mile trip from the Tanana River to the mining area during the original gold rush years. We stopped along the way to take in demonstrations of mining techniques, while Earl gave us a detailed history of the gold rush and how it paved the way for Fairbanks to become a thriving city. Earl was quite the entertainer and fiddle player; his life-goal is to be inducted into the Grand Old Opry. His father had played with Hank Snow and Kitty Wells.

We arrived at the sluice box and got down to business. Dexter Clark and his wife, Yukon Yonda, went through the entire process. They were actual miners with working claims, who had contracted to run the tourist attraction. Ol' Dexter had a long beard and looked exactly how I had envisioned a miner. Yukon Yonda showed us nuggets worth over $30,000. She jokingly said, "I keep the gold on me at all times, in case I need to make a quick getaway." The couple had met over thirty years earlier, while mining individual claims, and later tied the marriage knot. The lust for gold was still in their eyes.

A front-end loader dumped dirt and gravel into the long and narrow sluice box, and huge amounts of water forced the mixture over specially designed grates. Underneath these grates were sections of Astroturf that the gold would settle on. After a block of instruction on the use of the pan--the miner's most important tool--we were all given a bag of dirt. They had a building set up with troughs filled with water, and seats. This is where the fun, or work, began, depending on how well you paid attention. Pop and I hit pay dirt! What a feeling to see those shiny specks in the bottom of your pan! I must admit; I had doubts. We took the gold dust to the assayers office to be weighed--Fifteen dollars between us! Not enough to buy a cabin, or stake a claim, but plenty for a great time.

I woke up the next morning at noon, so I thought. I figured we had slept half the day away, until I looked outside. Turns out, it was midnight. I had forgotten all about the midnight sun! Oh yeah, on subsequent days, I checked at 3:00, 4:00, and 5:00 am. It just didn't get dark. I read there was supposed to be twenty-two hours of daylight in June, but it never really got dark, those two hours were dim at best.
After I got some more sleep, Pop and I joined over 600 travelers for a cruise on the Discovery III--a four-deck steamboat. With its two predecessors, Discovery and Discovery II, the steamboats are the last authentic sternwheelers left in Alaska. These particular boats were built especially for tourists and have been operating since 1950. Captain Charlie Binkley first arrived in 1898 with dreams of piloting sternwheelers on the rivers of Alaska. A great family tradition was started, and over ninety years later, his descendents still carry passengers on Alaska's rivers. His grandson was the captain for our outing.

Back during the gold rush of 1898, the riverboats made 2000-mile round-trip voyages that linked remote villages, miners and trappers to the city. It was on such a trip in 1901 that E.T. Barnette, a land speculator and entrepreneur, got dropped off on the banks of the Chena River at the site of modern day Fairbanks. He started a trading post, and the next year Felix Pedro struck gold. The rest was hard work, boom or bust, and ultimately history. E. T. Barnette had a friend, Federal Judge James Wichersham, who promised to help Barnette settle the region if he would name the town after one of his friends, Senator Charles Fairbanks from Indiana. Incidentally, Fairbanks was born in a log cabin in Ohio and graduated from Ohio Wesleyan College.

The homes along the Chena River were an interesting mix of small cabins and elaborate contemporary log-homes. We saw several new foundations in the making. Permafrost is serious problem for homebuilders, because it contains two layers--a top layer that freezes and thaws, and a bottom layer that remains frozen. We saw a number of older buildings that had sunk and destroyed the structure. I was told that the permafrost in Fairbanks is about a 100 feet thick, and the thawed layer on top may be as much as several feet in depth. Before concrete is poured, most modern homes have 6-foot deep gravel pads installed to insulate the active layer. The secret is to keep the permafrost frozen, so it won't heave and buckle. Many sites have piles driven into the ice, and the home is constructed above ground, leaving a vapor barrier--like much of the Alaskan Pipeline.

OK, back to the cruise. We stopped at the home of Susan Butcher--Iditarod dog
sled champion. Susan is currently battling cancer and wasn't on the property. Another racer and trainer, using a microphone, talked about Susan's operation and gave us a dog sled demonstration. No snow of course, the sleds had wheels. Come to find out, Alaskan Huskies aren't purebred, but rather a category of dog--sleds pullers. Alaskans aren't concerned about their dog's ancestry or looks. They're bred strictly for strength, temperament, and intelligence. We waved goodbye to the dog show and continued out to where the Chena and the Tanana Rivers join together. The Chena River is a clear water river, while the Tanana is glacier fed and full of "glacier silt". The braided channels and white colored sediment looked barren and weird. I noticed this peculiarity coming into Alaska but didn't know what it was. We also passed Cripple Creek and watched a bush pilot take off and land on 200 feet of ground beside the river. Airplanes are the most common mode of transportation in the interior of Alaska today, and the only way in to many villages.

The most interesting part of the day was disembarking at the Athabascan native village. The name Athabascan means great traveler; they're related to the western Navajo. The Athabascan people have traditionally lived in Alaska's interior and were nomadic. I got a picture of Pop in front of a huge grizzly bear hide. They made beautiful clothing out of animal pelts and fur. Generally, groups of twenty to thirty natives would follow the moose migration, which was a major food source. They had summer fish camps, and winter villages that served as base camps. The guides were entertaining and explained building methods, tools, and their way of life. To this day salmon is a mainstay for them. We watched a young gal fillet a large salmon in less than a minute. The Athabascan people invented a device for catching salmon that looked like a small Ferris wheel, with only a couple seats, on a raft structure. The fish swim in and are rolled up and over and dropped into another container. Now, that's smart! The big salmon runs weren't until July, so we didn't see the devise in action.

On the cruise home, they treated us to smoked salmon that was specially prepared by the Brinkley family. Not only were they in the boat business, they owned a cannery and sold salmon. Those Alaskans sure are enterprising! After our cruise, at the gift shop, I took a picture of Pop in the sled that Susan Butcher won the Iditarod in. Cool huh. We roamed around Fairbanks awhile and ate supper before hitting the sack early. Tomorrow would be our longest day. We had booked a bus trip to the Artic Circle with the North Alaskan Tour Company--7:00am was our departure time.
June 10, 6:40 am, we're standing in a room full of people from all over--Arkansas, Pennsylvania, Canada, New Zealand, and even South Africa folk. We received our last minute instructions and turned in our lunch and dinner requests, which would be waiting for us at a truck stop by the Yukon River--sorta the halfway point of our journey. Rob, our guide, a twenty-eight year old Alaska citizen with three bachelor's degrees, informed us that he carried a special satellite phone in case we broke down. So there wasn't anything to worry about. OK. Rob was a colorful character and made the trip enjoyable and educational. He would ask geographical trivia ever so often, and not to brag, but Pop and I were kicking you know what and taking names.

The Dalton Highway (a.k.a. Haul Road) was built in the seventies for hauling supplies during the construction of the trans-Alaskan oil pipeline. There were rocks, potholes, steep grades, and giant trucks pushing other trucks throwing gravel everywhere. Its no wonder very few rental companies allow their cars on this trip. The entire length of the highway opened to the public in 1994, but most of it remains a gravel road and construction is never-ending. Fairbanks to Prudhoe Bay is 414 miles, and 600 more to the North Pole. We were headed for a pull-off at mile marker 115; a sign designating the Artic Circle was located there--just a hop, skip and a jump.

The pipeline runs 800-miles from Prudhoe Bay on the Artic Ocean, along the outskirts of Fairbanks, past Delta Junction, then south to Valdez on the Pacific Ocean. Even though we had seen the line in Delta Junction, and visited a pipeline informational sight in Fairbanks, it's a different experience to view it stretched out, with its expansion loops, as far as the eye can see. Man, that was really the big job! Rob explained the specially designed supports, which held the pipeline about head high, had refrigerant lines under ground to keep the permafrost from thawing. In higher elevations the pipeline was buried, because the permafrost was less severe than on the open tundra. They also installed bridges so the caribou herds could get across the line. It was sure something to see for two ex-pipefitters.

Our first stop was in Joy, Alaska. I believe they said the population was ten. They had three really nice outhouses. However, the more particular folk used the flusher on the bus. A homesteading family (from the lower forty-eight) came years ago in a school bus they had converted into a camper. It's still on the property, along with the original lemonade stand the children used to sell the highway workers drinks. They eventually started a trading post and the town was born. Several nice cabins had been built on the property. The woman said she hoped to turn one of those into a bed and breakfast. I'll say it again--Alaskan's sure are enterprising! On the way back, it was here that our trusty guide treated us the some delicious cake.

One of our scheduled stops was at Finger Mountain--you can probably guess why. We saw huge granite slabs and other strange rock formations. As we got closer to the Artic Circle there were fewer and fewer trees, but the tundra was filled with wild flowers galore. You could see for great distances; the many colors formed patterns stretching to the horizon. It was vast, like something out of a futuristic movie. It was the largest space I had ever seen.

I was glad to reach the Yukon River and eat lunch. The Yukon is one of the largest rivers in the world. Pop and I walked down by the water and took a closer look. Here would be a good place to admit that I missed one of Rob's trivia questions. I guessed the Ohio was one of the largest rivers--no way. Hey, the Mississippi was one. I was first to get the Euphrates.

The truck stop had a large cafeteria, with a gift shop, and old billets attached with multiple shower stalls and rest rooms. Pop speculated, and I later confirmed, that the pipeline workers had used them as housing years earlier. Gary Prince, my first cousin, had worked on the pipeline as young man and might have stayed in one of these units.
On the way back, we stopped at this same place for supper. An Eskimo woman, and her small daughter, was selling wares in a tent at the far end of the parking lot. In answer to my question, the roughly dressed woman pointed and told me she lived two miles across the Yukon. Her face was weather worn and she spoke slowly and in a relaxing manner. She was proud of her work and applied no pressure. It was there that I purchased the most authentic souvenir on my trip--a homemade, birch necklace for Billie.

When we made the Artic Circle sign, our guide, Rob, rolled out a red carpet. No, I ain't kidding--an actual red carpet. We all took turns taking pictures, stretched our legs, before starting the tedious journey home. We watched several documentaries about building the Dalton Highway, and the pipeline, and listened to Rob's tales of adventure. Once, a grizzly had him trapped in a tree for eight hours--living in Alaska presents different challenges than we face in Ohio. We played musical chairs, so everyone would get a different viewpoint, and finally made it back to Fairbanks after midnight. That's right--over seventeen hours to cover about 200 miles. We were all presented certificates stating that we had crossed the Artic Circle and survived an adventurous journey through the Alaskan wilderness.

We decided to change our plans for touring Denali Park, south of Fairbanks. A forest fire closed the road a day earlier, and we saw the smoke on our bus ride to the Artic Circle. The next morning on Sunday June 11, Pop and I left Fairbanks satisfied that we had given our best shot at following in the footsteps of the early pioneers. I felt foolishly sentimental, but looked forward to going through the Yukon and British Columbia again. We plotted a course that would turn south at Edmonton, Alberta (instead of retracing our steps through Saskatchewan, North Dakota, Minnesota, and Wisconsin) and set our sights on Montana, Wyoming and Yellowstone National Park.

Pop said, "We ought to see Old Faithful; we may never pass this way again."

Our familiarity with the Alaskan Highway enabled us to enjoy the areas that could've used more attention on our way through, and of course to stay in different places at night. We picnicked on the Kluane (the big blue lake I mentioned earlier) and a squirrel jumped in the truck after our picnic basket. The fat ravens along the side of the road, along with two porcupines, were the only other wildlife we saw that day.

We found a cute cabin in the village of Haines Junction, nested at the base of the St. Elias Mountains. The view out our window could have been a postcard. I snapped some pictures from inside the room to capture it. A Canadian sports channel was our only TV choice, and the bathhouse was in the adjacent RV park. Pop said it took him awhile to figure out how the showers worked. He had to deposit loonies (Canadian coin dollars) into a machine. Some of their dollars have a loon on the back, and some don't. Sure, a few inconveniences, but the view was out-of-this-world.

Monday more than made up for the lack of wildlife the previous day. Two black bear ran across the road in front of us, and we saw moose, mountain sheep, a large ram (which I got a good picture of) and two more porcupines. We also stood on the Continental Divide, where the two largest river drainages in the world converge. We stayed that night in an older motor lodge in Ft Nelson.

Tuesday was relatively eventless, except for the usual cast of characters--the fat ravens, two bored-looking porcupines, and one lone fox on the hunt. We did see our first deer on the trip. We got turned around a bit in Edmonton, looking for our new route south, but a friendly Canadian helped us out. We persevered and put 769 miles behind us, making it to Red Deer, Alberta late that evening. The huge ranches made me think of the rodeos I used to watch on the Wide World of Sports--they was always a cowboy from Alberta in the hunt for the all-around cowboy trophy.

We hit the American border at 1:00 pm the next day. Kilometers and liters were all behind us--along with $4.50 a gallon. It felt great to be back in the good ol' U.S.A. Montana's sky was as big as I always imagined, and in a two short days, it would spur my imagination and steal my heart. The people had a reserved, yet direct manner about them. We purchased gas in Helena from a Mom and Pop operation. The elderly woman, Luella, was a straight talker and happy to chew the fat, but she wasn't garrulous. She informed us that thirty-five years ago they made ten cents a gallon profit. "Now", she said, "our profit is only three cents a gallon." There was a lean and independent tone that resonated through her polite manner.

From an earlier experience at a small restaurant, I was beginning to get a sense of what the people were like. They never rushed or got in a hurry, but their actions were deliberate and every move had a purpose. It was different than the slowness of the Deep South, where the lack of speed gives off a lackadaisical spirit. This was cemented in my mind by a statue of a fly fisherman we passed. He had a trout on the line and his expression was totally focused. Our bunkhouse that night was in a brand new western-style motel in Three Forks, Montana. Grazing cattle and mountains were all we could see out the window.

"Home, home on the range, where the deer and the antelope play, where seldom is heard, a discouraging word, and the skies are not cloudy all day." As a songwriter, I'm here to tell ya, that songwriter penned it perfect. The Missouri River Valley, with its lush, green, flowing plains, was thoroughly enticing and aroused serene and idyllic feelings. Below the contemporary homes and cabins, perched on gorgeous knolls, overlooking the clean and calm Missouri River, the antelope and cattle peacefully grazed for miles--breath-taking! I know now where The TV show, The Big Valley, came up with its inspiration.

On a chilly, Thursday afternoon, we passed through the corner of Idaho (leaving only three states I haven't made yet (Washington, Oregon, and Hawaii) and entered Yellowstone National Park and Wyoming. Minutes after entering the park, we came upon three huge bison on the side of the road. Not having read the brochure yet, which clearly stated to remain in your vehicle and not get closer than twenty-five yards of a bison, I immediately jumped out of the truck and got within several feet of the animal. Woops, but I did get a good picture. One note of interest: the effects of the 1988 forest fires were still prevalent.

The park is huge and our passes was good for seven days. We took the southern route and stopped to see the bubbling mudpots and fountain geysers--the kind that erupt broadly and in several directions--and went about sixteen miles before reaching Old Faithful--the granddaddy of them all, a cone geyser that erupts in a narrow column straight up in the air. The parking lot was packed. I tried a little German on a young couple walking along beside us, who I thought were speaking German, but it turned out to be Serbian. They didn't understand a word I said, and told me, in English, that the German and Serbian languages do sound similar. People of all nationalities had come to see the world's most famous geyser. Pop and I walked up five minutes before Old Faithful blew. Lucky. A guide told me that the average interval between eruptions is ninety-two minutes. I'd say the eruption lasted two minutes, or so, and went approximately a 150 feet in the sky.

We gradually turned east, making our way around the West Thumb Geyser Basin, and started our trip around Yellowstone Lake. At this point, our elevation was 7000 feet. The lake has 141 miles of shoreline and is over 400 feet deep. I cast my new rod and reel for a spell, while we watched fishermen out on the lake in what appeared to be some form of small, individual pontoons. The chilly air soon moved us on through the eastern portion of the park. A sign read twenty-seven miles to the east entrance, or exit in our case. We didn't know there was major road construction ahead. Mud, rockslides and erosion had taken its toll on the steep road. It took over an hour for us to make our getaway.

We passed through Buffalo Bill State Park and the town of Cody. Everything was cowboy this, or Wild Bill that. It looked like a western town from a movie set. Things soon changed. Oh yes. The next portion of Wyoming looked like how I imagined the Grand Canyon, only not as big of course. To my surprise, the ravines and cliffs suddenly turned into a desert. I had no idea the state was so diverse. Our next obstacle was the Bighorn Mountains. We decided on Alternate Route 14, and crossed the pass at Burgess Junction, a summit of over 9,400 feet and closed in the winter. It really was wild; the windiest road I'd ever been on. We ate lunch at a pull-off, and could see the road snaking below us. Once we cleared the mountains the terrain became greener and resembled Montana, only hillier. We were glad to bed down in Gillette, Wyoming that night. Our mileage had dropped from an average of around 700-miles a day to a 500 or so.

We left Gillette the next morning and soon found our selves going through the Black Hills National Forest. We changed the oil changed and washed the truck (for the second time) in Sturgis, South, Dakota. Later, we turned off Highway 90, on to 16, and headed south for Mt. Rushmore. Without exception, this day lived up to all my childhood expectations. The presidential monument had recently gone through a renovation and cleanup. It was distinctive, easy to see, and truly impressive. If you will, it was the most "American feeling" place I have ever visited. A mere eight-dollar parking fee was all it took to enter the complex.

Fifteen miles away we found Crazy Horse Mountain. When finished, this will be a monument of epic proportions. One day, the entire mountain will be shaped into Crazy Horse with outstretched arm, riding on his steed, pointing towards the Sioux burial grounds. To give you an idea of its size, all four heads on Mt Rushmore would fit into Crazy Horse's head--it's massive. Even though they have been blasting on the mountain for fifty years, only the profile of his face was completed.

The complex itself is amazing. There are museums, a full sized theater, and an ongoing educational center. Anyone interested in western, Native American culture should make plans to visit. Ditto for those interested in the works of Korczak Kiolkowski, the famous sculptor who started the project some fifty-eight years ago. He died in 1982. Many of his works and personal belongings are kept on the property. There were many things to see, and we spent more time at Crazy Horse than Mt Rushmore. But soon we were back on Highway 90 and skirting by the Badlands. After looking at signs that went on for miles about a town called Wall, we stopped and had a buffalo burger and a beer at the Badlands Bar, and then settled in for the long drive across South Dakota. For some reason, I felt that South Dakota was more appealing than North Dakota. Maybe it was a way of holding on; our journey was quickly coming to an end.

Well, I can now say that I've been to Kickapoo, Illinois. I have a thing for strange names. They're cool in songs. At a rest stop in Illinois, I also learned that Herbert Hoover was orphaned at nine years old and became the president of the United States at fifty-four. "Not bad," Pop said, "for a country boy."

Driving across Illinois and Indiana left me plenty of time for contemplation. I know how lucky I am to have a father, who also came from humble beginnings, and who has accomplished much and traveled far. Anyone who knows Brownie Lewis will attest to his endless drive and stamina--I had a tough time keeping up, and he's seventy-eight years old. We arrived in Batavia, Ohio on day 16, with 8,552 miles under our belts. I'm thankful that Pop and I had this chance to share our love of traveling. I do believe I have inherited many of his traits, although, I would never, for a minute, presume to be anywhere close to his equal. It's like the song says--I'm just a living legacy to the leader of the band.