Delights at dusk

Caribou Ridge

Caribou Ridge

South of the small town of Delta Junction lies a random rocky road called Caribou Ridge. We'd spotted this track on our way to Fairbanks a couple of days earlier, and now, grateful once again to be leaving a city and a mechanic shop behind us, we doubled back. The skies were forecast to clear the next day, and it seemed worth the backtrack to finally see the mountains that had stayed hidden from us since the Denali Highway.

We'd just settled in at the start of the ridge and were on the verge of closing our eyes when Tom unzipped the tent for one last look at the rainy hills before calling it a night. We both uttered a synchronized gasp. Even with rain still misting down, the sky was blazing orange and pink. The day's grey and gloom had pulled the pink into the clouds, forming a raspberry-coloured fog that deepened to orange as it neared the horizon. We scrambled outside to catch the last of the fleeting sunset before it faded. A sky that rich could only mean one thing: tomorrow would be clear. And it was.

Caribou Ridge, aptly named, meanders along the ridgeline, with snowy mountains to the west and endless flat plains to the east. We spent the better part of the morning tipping and dipping our way along the wavy, winding track, spotting several moose and rejoicing in the blue sky above us. I highly recommend this beautiful, non-technical offroad track for anyone who happens to be in the area. Maybe you’ll have better luck spotting caribou…

Chicken

Close to the Canadian border along the Top of the World Highway, you'll pass through a tiny community called Chicken, with a joint gift shop, liquor store, saloon, and cafe, all cinched together in one small block, sharing the same walls. The storefronts are embroidered with stickers, hand-painted signs, antlers, license plates, and chicken imagery of every kind. Tom and I stopped for a day-old brownie at the cafe, recommended to us by fellow offroading friends, and topped up our gas before heading into more remote wilderness.

When we first walked into the gift shop, we were greeted by a friendly local who asked where we were from and where we were headed. Fifteen minutes and a couple of books later, we wandered three doors down to the cafe, and were surprised to find the same man had beaten us there, ready to serve us that day-old brownie. (Which, by the way, was one of the best I've ever had.). 

The town earns its keep through these three stores and two RV parks. Like a lot of Alaska's remote corners, it runs on summer tourists passing through daily, then shuts down entirely come winter, as its handful of staff retreat to warmer cities like Fairbanks and Anchorage.

Last night in Alaska

North of Chicken is a four-hour detour to the community of Eagle. Tom and I didn't make it that far, choosing instead to stop early and claim a gravel bar next to a river for a sunny afternoon. On our last night in the US, we were keen to soak up the rare sunshine, read by the water, and take a chilly, refreshing shower in the clean, cold current. After so much rain and so many hours in the tent, it was a gift to stretch our legs under an open sky and reflect on everything the last month had brought us.

Our second delightful surprise came, once again, at dusk, as we were just shutting our eyes for the night. Tom heard a splashing in the river. Convinced it was something, and not just our ears playing tricks on us, we popped out of the camper for a look. Low and behold, a bull moose was strolling down the river. Completely nonchalant. We gave him a short whistle and he turned to give us a good inspection before continuing his evening wander.

It’s been ten weeks since we left Squamish, B.C. As with any chapter in life where your cup runs full, we've felt the strange doubleness of time. These weeks have flown by, and yet somehow amounted to a small lifetime.

The trip started gently, easing us into a rhythm as we explored parts of northern B.C. neither of us had seen. The weather cooperated, and things felt relaxed, just as you'd hope at the start of something big.

The Yukon gave us new friendships and a handful of dreamy days.

Alaska gave us everything else. Her rawness left us awestruck more times than I can count, with mouths open, silent, standing at the edge of a wild world we understand so little of. The technical roads we stumbled onto built our confidence behind the wheel, adding a grey hair or two to my head along the way. Truck trouble and stubborn weather tested our resilience and adaptability. 

Living in southern B.C., I'm no stranger to big mountains or rugged wilderness. But there's something rawer about Alaska. Maybe it's knowing that most of the state spends half the year in bitter cold and darkness, lit only by the green shimmer of the aurora. Living here isn't for the faint of heart, and you can feel that toughness everywhere, in the land, in the weather, and in the people who choose to stay.

Tom and I are ready to cross back into Canada. Even before we reach the border, it's already stirring feelings of home in me, that full-body relaxation that sighs out of you the moment you walk through the front door after a long day in the mountains.

Like a shot of whiskey, our time in Alaska felt short, but packed a punch. A bit harsh, but also filled us with warmth. We're endlessly grateful for the month she gave us, but we're not done with our journey yet… far from it. 

Here's to ticking off one of our dreams, and to the dreams that lie ahead.