I once heard a joke about a carpenter who boasted of having a hammer that belonged to his great grandfather. He bragged that it was a hundred years old and had only two new handles over the years… but he did have to replace the head once. The story reminds me of the changing Alcan. It’s paved all the way now. Many sections have been drastically improved, others abandoned entirely. It’s not the same road anymore, but still an adventure - though I’m a bit jaded after so many times over it.
So, what advice can I offer a modern day adventurer? I was warned about flat tires and broken windshields, so I carried my spare tire on the roof for fast access, but never needed it. I felt somewhat complacent having completed the trip without even a small crack in the windshield only to have it smashed in Anchorage a week after arriving.
Those particular hazards are not much of a threat now-a-days. In 1983 Mary and I were returning at summer‘s end, and as we passed through Beaver Creek, the last Canadian town before the border, I thought about filling the gas tank. I didn’t have enough Canadian money to pay for the gas, didn’t feel like using a credit card, and knew there was a station in Alaska, about twenty miles further.
Evening approached as we crossed the border and headed on west. When we got to the station it was closed, its parking lot filled with road graders and bulldozers. The old guy who run it for years had died during the summer. I had an eighth of a tank of gas, and the caretaker informed us it was about twenty miles to the next station - either way. It wasn’t a puzzler to figure our options.
Twilight and drizzling rain fell as we pulled onto the highway, still heading west. I slowed to thirty MPH to conserve fuel as we drove into the night. The headlamps lit a glistening blacktop that blended with the darkness on each side. We shared a mile-by-mile silence, eyes fixed on the road ahead, looking for salvation. The gauge went to empty and then fell below the mark.
We were climbing a long wide curve when the engine sputtered. I switched tanks, hoping there might be a teaspoon or two left in the other empty tank. The engine caught; we topped the hill and started down the other side. The lights of the station, like a beacon in a stormy sea, shown ahead and guided us into the driveway. The engine sputtered again and the truck came to a stop about twenty feet from the pump. We were overjoyed with relief. I never let the tank go below the half-way mark after that.
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