Driving the Alcan, Part 1

The first time I drove the Alaskan Highway it offered great adventure. The Alcan twisted and turned its way through eleven hundred miles of gravel, following much the same route that was hastily cut through the wilderness at the beginning of World War II.

The Army Corp of Engineers completed the road in just over eight months. It was a dusty, rutted, sometimes narrow lane, that followed the contours of the land. Sometimes a passing vehicles would create bellowing clouds of dust so thick that cars prudently stopped until the air cleared. Vehicles reaching pavement at the other end came out painted a shade of yellow ochre, and half of them sported broken windshields because oncoming trucks and cars propelled rocks at them.

The road climbed over majestic mountains and snaked its way through pristine wilderness - no fences, electric poles, or buildings. It passed an occasional roadhouse, or hunting lodge - otherwise nothing marked human presence. For a young man who grew up in Indiana it was like going back in time, like visiting the far reaches of the earth.

I bought an Alaskan Milepost, a yearly publication describing, mile-by-mile, the 1522 miles between Dawson Creek Canada, and Fairbanks, Alaska. There are, literally, mileposts all along that great distance, and with the guidebook, one knows what to expect around the next bend in the road. My 1967 edition was more the size of a large paperback novel. The latest Milepost edition is 8 by 11 inches, and packed with 800 pages of information - a must for anyone thinking of making the trip.

I spent a week in Kokomo getting ready. I traded cars, buying a 1965 six-cylinder Oldsmobile hardtop. It had a black top and was painted lemon-yellow on bottom. (The color proved to be prophetic.) People told me I should expect at least one flat tire on the trip, so I got a car-top carrier and put the spare tire and camping equipment on it. The camping equipment consisted of a Coleman stove, a folding aluminum table and an old army pup tent made of heavy canvas.

I stopped off in Skokie to say good-bye to brother Don, his wife, Barbara, and my nephew, Lee. We looked at a map as I showed them my proposed route. Don shook his head as we spoke of the nearly 4500 mile distance to Anchorage. It was such a long way. I wondered if he thought I might never come back, and I remember saying something about the fact that the road went in both directions.

I headed for Alaska in early June of 1967. I had enough money in my pocket to get there, and a cashiers check for something like $757.65. I no longer remember the exact amount but $757.65 is about right.

I was fifty miles east of Edmonton, Alberta when I noticed a black cloud of smoke bellowing out behind me. It soon became evident that it was emanating from by tail pipe. I pulled over to check things out and could not get the car started again.

I spent a week at a modest hotel while a mechanic named Denver worked on rebuilding the engine of my 1965 lemon-colored Oldsmobile. He didn’t mind that I hung around talking and handing him tools, so the days were not a total loss. I got a mini-course in engine replacement. When the job was done I took the bill and my cashiers check for $757.65 and walked across the street to the bank. I don’t remember what the bill amounted to or what the exchange rate was at the time, but once I paid it there was less than a dollar in change. It was like they knew.

I was near the point-of-no-return. Edmonton was about half-way between Kokomo and Anchorage. There was enough money to go either way. Dad and Mom had given me their Shell gas credit card when I left Kokomo in case something happened, so I thought, “Eh, what the hell”, and headed on toward Alaska.
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