Old outhouse on the island. Log
is for beating off mosquitoes.
© Ray Zvirbulis
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Even
though my room at the Sgt. Preston Lodge was directly on the
main street in Skagway, I slept soundly and woke refreshed
at 5:00 am. I don't recall what I had eaten for breakfast
but had enough time to take a short tour of the historic part
of Skagway before my ride to Atlin arrived. What impressed
me the most as I walked around the town were the snow-capped
mountains that surrounded Skagway.
As I rounded the corner to head back to the lodge, I saw a
Chevy S-IO pickup with a camper shell parked on the street
right in front of my door. I guessed, correctly, that it was
my ride to Atlin. The driver was sitting in the truck waiting
for me. After I introduced myself, she said her name was Ruth
and she was the sister of Dave, my ride finder.
I grabbed my three bags, put them in the back of the pickup,
and said I was ready to go. Ruth, somewhat surprised, asked
if that was all. My first thought was to say something like,
"Well, when the police are after you, one has to travel
light." But I thought better of it since I was not even
seated in the pickup yet. I sure did not want to see her disappear
down the street with all my gear in the back of the truck.
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As we drove out of Skagway and up into the mountains, heading for
Canada, Ruth began to tell me all about herself. It seems that she
lives in Skagway from March through October and in Arkansas during
the winter months. She made the drive back and forth twice each
year. While living in Skagway, she worked on a gold dredge. It was
brought to Skagway by a company to serve as a tourist attraction.
Tourists would be able to pan for gold from a pile of dirt brought
to Skagway by a dredge because there is no gold in Skagway, except
for that found in the pockets of the tourists. Ruth said she worked
as a cook on the dredge.
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The
miles rolled on as the mountain views and lakes unfolded
seeming to become increasingly spectacular. Ruth's story
rolled on also. When she lived in Arkansas she had two kids
of her own and adopted three more who had been abandoned
by the parents. The kids had to walk a mile to get to the
main road to catch the bus but when the creek rose, they
lucked out if they were on their way to school. If they
were coming home when that happened, they stayed with an
uncle. Her grandfather owned 160 acres of land which he
plowed using a couple of draft horses. He said that it was
more efficient to use the horses since he did not have that
much land to plow. But one time, while working with one
of the horses, it kicked him in the face and killed him.
There were many other stories that made the time fly.
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Small island across from Atlin where
I camped the first night.
© Ray Zvirbulis |
As we approached the Canadian customs building at the U.S/Canadian
border, Ruth pulled out her passport. My stomach nearly strangled
my heart as it dropped down in a death spiral. When Ruth noticed
my blanched face she asked if everything was fine. I asked her
if a passport was needed to get into Canada. She answered, "Yes,
didn't you know that?" When I was able to answer her, I told
her that all I had was my driver's license, credit card and a
phone card. Both of us thought the same thing: I was not going
to get into Canada.
We stopped at the door of the building and a customs agent came
to the car. Ruth handed her passport to the agent who then looked
at me. I sheepishly handed her my driver's license saying that
that was all I had because when I had come to Atlin in 1999 that
was all I needed. She looked at me and said, "You don't have
your passport?" I put the most pathetic and helpless look
on my face that I could muster and said, "I'm sorry Ma'am,
but I just did not know I had to have my passport.” She
told Ruth to pull into the parking lot while she went inside to
check things out. As we sat waiting we were convinced we would
be heading back to Skagway where I would have to call my wife
and have her overnight my passport to me while I spent a couple
of more nights at Sgt. Preston's Lodge. I was also down on my
knees mentally doing some intensive praying.
Looking down Atlin Lake from village of Atlin.
© Ray Zvirbulis
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When
the agent came back to the car she handed Ruth her passport
while sweat poured down my back. She then asked me if I was
born in the US. After a very brief pause, I told her I was
a naturalized citizen and had become a US citizen in 1956.
She said that she had checked the information through my driver's
license and had found out all that and more. She then became
very friendly and reminded me that the next time I enter Canada
I had to have my passport. She then said that we could go
on to Atlin. I thanked her profusely and would have kissed
her feet if I had not been strapped in by the seatbelt. As
Ruth and I drove away, the agent added, "Have a good
trip in Canada and a safe passage on the Yukon River." |
We drove
along Tutshi Lake (pronounced: Too Shy) for quite a longtime.
Ruth said that it was about 50 miles long. Mountains rose on both
sides of the lake and I thought it would be a great lake to paddle
someday with my wife. We continued on through Carcross and were
talking so much we missed the turnoff to Atlin and only realized
it when we reached the Teslin River. Stopping at a road construction
site, we asked one of the workers for directions, who told us
to turn back toward Carcross at Jake’s Corners where we’d
find the road to Atlin after about 100 yards. Being more attentive
on the way back we found the road to Atlin. It was 98K to the
town. The road started out paved, turned to dirt and after some
time became paved again. It was a beautiful drive along Lake Atlin,
which is close to 100 miles long.
We got to Atlin at 11:00 am. I paid Ruth $160 plus $10 for the
scenic drive to Teslin River and thanked her for her time and
willingness to take me to Atlin. After my three bags were unloaded
and Ruth left, I walked to one of the three grocery stores in
town and bought fuel for my backpackers stove and some groceries.
Next I called my wife to let her know where I was and that I would
start the next day and asked her to send my passport to Eagle,
Alaska so that I could enter the US legally. Ruth had told me
that she’d had some trouble getting back into the US with
just her driver's license and birth certificate. When I got back
to my gear (it was undisturbed) I set up my kayak, loaded all
the gear into it and paddled across a couple of hundred yards
of water to a small, wooded island facing the village of Atlin.
There I set up my tent against the loud protestations of a flock
of gulls.
By the
time I had made supper and crawled into the tent it was about
10:00 pm but as light as day. Before zipping up my sleeping
bag I made my journal entry without the use of a flashlight
and noted that the temperature outside the tent was 45 degrees.
The next day I would begin my kayak trip down the 2,300 miles
of the Yukon River; starting at the source from Lake Atlin
and ending at the Bering Sea.
Ray Zvirbulis, Show Low, Arizona
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Atlin Village, viewed from island.
© Ray Zvirbulis |
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