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A L A S K A
The Northern Lights viewed from the Dalton Highway.
STRANGER THINGS
Ignorance, they say, is bliss. We sailed
around another icy, gritty corner on the
Dalton Highway, heading north in the
shadowy daylight. Spruces and blue-white
snow stretched to the immaculate horizon.
Destination: Coldfoot, a tiny truck stop
100km into the Arctic Circle near the
Brookes Mountain Range, home to more
dogs than humans and one of only two fuel
stops along this notorious 662km stretch
of frozen dirt. We had socks and thermals
and gloves, obviously. But certainly no
spare tyres or CB radio, or – as I later
found out was recommended – flares.
Driving on icy patches had that delightful
feeling of taking a boat out on the water.
Trucks occasionally churned past in a cloud
of mud and stone, overweight roaring
furies that hogged the centre line. I didn’t
even worry much when we overshot the
only fuel stop on the route; we doubled
back in plenty of time. It was only after
spending a week in the company of locals
and dour truckers who specialised in
driving this infamous highway that I began
to realise that living in a place where
temperatures drop as low as -62°C takes
some smarts.
48 // MAKE MEMORIES FOR LIFE
Never mind the pulsating Stranger
Things effects of the Northern Lights, or
the joys of dog sledding. The place was
rich in disaster stories: falling icicles; how
a person who falls through ice in winter
has to get to warmth in under 30 minutes;
how running out of petrol can kill you
(“you’ve got to keep the engine running –
it’s your life support”). Advice was liberally
dispensed: when a grizzly gets you in a
bear hug, “The only thing to do is tickle its
balls – just get your hand round there and
tickle it,” one hairy character told me.
We drove back to Fairbanks a week
later where we met another local,
who was building a house in an empty,
snow-covered space. He was very generous
with his red wine and his snowmobile. His
girlfriend offered me a quick spin. Thrilled
and tipsy, I hopped aboard. And like the
greenest cheechacko (newcomer) ever, I
didn’t just forget flares, I didn’t even put on
my gloves.
My companion flashed up icy roads as
if White Fang himself was snapping at her
heels. Near the top of a ridge she turned
onto a narrow track and churned into
cloying, soft drifts, where, eventually, the
“
THE PLACE WAS
RICH IN DISASTER STORIES:
FALLING ICICLES; HOW
A PERSON WHO FALLS
THROUGH ICE HAS TO GET
TO WARMTH IN 30 MINUTES;
HOW RUNNING OUT OF
PETROL CAN KILL YOU
“
A WILD RIDE THROUGH ALASKA, BY JANINE STEPHEN
snowmobile toppled. Its engine cut out,
leaving us a few kilometres from home,
knee deep in snow, as darkness crept in.
Well, wading through snow was warming
– as was the thought of the plane I had to
catch. We weren’t accosted by any wildlife,
nor were we far from civilisation. Also, a
spectacularly drunk man gave us a lift once
we made it to the road – bless him, no
matter his motives.
I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat, but
I’ll admit that I’ve been obsessive about
packing ever since. Gloves? You bet.