Dad knew exactly where he wanted to go: back to the Bayshore. That was the family-run operation where we previously stayed, overlooking Kluane Lake. He really enjoyed the atmosphere and people in these places, and a good breakfast was on the agenda.
The mother (cooking) and daughter (fixing, waitressing, and serving) remembered us well, and talked to us between their busy runs. All six tables were filled, including a group of elderly women on a stuffed-van tour led by an outgoing man in his fifties. The man and his group were full of zip and helped pass the waiting time quickly. One woman had even lived fifty years ago in Dawson City, a small town in the northern Yukon (different from Dawson Creek). Her return visit on this trip was nostalgic and especially interesting in one respect: she said the town had hardly changed.
The meal was good and filling. The mother and daughter stood at the doorway until we left, impressed by how far this journey had already taken us. They perhaps had wistful thoughts of themselves traveling far away for a while, thinking how and if they would actually do it.
The AlCan zoomed us along again, all the way back to Haines Junction and to the same Tastee Freez parking lot that served as our Suzuki-fixing “garage” previously. The Tastee Freez man, remembering us, could not believe that it had been a week. Looking back at the time, I agreed: it was hard believing it had been an eight day gap. But the proof was there. Haines Junction served well as a junction, and we took a new direction down the Haines Highway.
The road was well paved except for a length of heavy, rough construction. Midway through, a construction worker stopped us seemingly just for the purpose of genuine pity. He said “It’s only five more miles”. Only five. You could have been a pessimist or an optimist on that one. Past the construction, the rain caught up with us again and we – again – did not wear our rain suits. We again got wet. It was very nice having useful equipment serve as useless weight. Our rationale had usually been either a) it might pass soon, or b) we were already wet and could not get much wetter without drowning, so just keep going.
Haines, a drizzly little town, had the shops we needed. A laundromat served as our weather haven. Dad watched the laundry spin and re-packed some bags while I went to a grocery store and bagged up snacks for the upcoming ferry voyage. We then took our cleaned clothes and did some pseudo-strategic packing. We organized things to be used while onboard and transferred them into our tank bags and camp equipment bags. Things not to be used were stuffed in our saddle bags, to be left on our bikes in vehicle stowage below deck for the three day ferry voyage.
Pizza topped with sprouts (a poor attempt at making the slimy meal nourishing) served as dinner, and the crew of two was ready to board. While eating pizza, a nice tall man wearing black bad-ass motorcycle clothes, red-brown hair, and a big red nose walked into the pizza joint and introduced himself. He was riding a Gold Wing motorcycle through Alaska, and had been walking around town waiting for the ferry. Like us, he was going the entire distance to the Seattle area, though from there he was on his way to home and wife near San Francisco.
We ended up hanging out, talking, and eating meals with this man, Nat, for days afterwards. Fortunately, he was not just all-motorcycles, talking and talking on and on about two wheeled beasts. He had many interesting things to say about logging, construction, his work as a Teamsters truck driver, travels, and people. Self-described as a loner, but he was a friendly loner.
The wait for boarding vehicles passed quickly, talking to people from the head of the line in our position reserved for motorcycles. There was one more bike, ridden by a military guy just out of college and touring through to his new assigned location in Arizona. Everyone else in line was packed into a car, pickup/4X4, or RV. After about forty five minutes, we straddled and rode across the gratings onto the steel floor of the ferry’s vehicle stowage area.
I immediately grabbed the camping gear bags and headed topside while Dad stayed behind and secured the bikes with ropes so they wouldn’t fall over in rough seas. I had been told by several people that the Solarium was the prime spot for passengers without staterooms. Dad and I had decided to forego a room and instead use the money for more hotels along the road elsewhere. I would not have minded more camping on the road, but the convenience, beds, time savings, and showers were always appreciated at motels. Having had the Solarium pointed out to me from the parking lot, I followed stairs that ascended in the general direction up to the top deck and all the way aft. I quickly found it.
The reason for its popularity was in the overhead heaters. Although the rear side of this large open area filled with lounge chairs was exposed to the sea wind, the space heaters took some of the bite out of it. I had expected difficulty in finding a spot, but found a good spot by a window midway in. It was not too close to the wind and not too close to the loud industrial fan sucking air down to the engine room.
The Solarium was three quarters filled with people from the first stop on this route, Skagway; they were trying and sometimes succeeding to sleep. Except for a couple tents, all were bundled against the wind in sleeping bags on lounge chairs, with packs strewn around. Light came in from the ferry terminal and the orange glow of space heaters. I unfurled our mats and sleeping bags, then waited for Dad. Nat arrived with him and pulled up a lounge chair. After getting situated and watching the ferry push away, we zonked at around one o’clock in the morning with blankets around our heads as protection from the cool breeze, rocked to sleep as the ferry headed south.
Sleeping arrangements on the Alaska ferry: funky bed, great view