Love and Lust on the Alcan Highway – Chapter 1

Love and Lust on the Alcan Highway – Chapter 1

“Summertime . . . and the living is easy . . .”

Porgie and Bess. Every once in a while, I get this weird urge to listen to some of the old musicals. That might explain why I had that particular CD playing while screaming my lungs out in song . . . this time in the key of Q-flat. Shit, I can’t carry a tune, even in a plastic-lined cardboard box! But when you’re winding along the Alaska Highway at sixty-five miles an hour, who gives a shit? Anyone stupid enough to listen to a truck driver trying to sing deserves to have their ears fried anyway.

I’d just crawled up the Taylor hill, a miserable seven percent grade, and was relishing the possibilities of winding the old K-whopper up and making some decent time. That went out the window as soon as I found myself behind one of those damned motorhome caravans that always show up right after the May 24th, Victoria Day weekend. As soon as I spotted over twenty of them in front of me, I knew my day was now totally fucked; I just hoped I’d get a hug and a kiss when it was all over.

Well, maybe I’d get lucky and they’d all pull off at One-Oh-One for a coffee break.

Nope. No such luck. I tried to see past them, wondering if there was anything coming the other way, but the dust was just too damned thick. Those dumb fuckers might be on vacation, but I wasn’t. Hell, I had a good eight hundred and something miles between me and Whitehorse, and another three seventy-five beyond that to Stewart River. At this breathtaking speed of something less than forty-five miles an hour, I might make my final destination by, oh, say, Thanksgiving of next year?

Some smart-ass in Edmonton had slapped a bumper sticker on the side of my sleeper that read, “If it’s tourist season, why can’t we shoot them?” At this moment, I couldn’t have given you an answer if my balls had depended on it. All I knew was that these land yachts were slow, driven by people that had a tough time wheeling their Honda Civics around Wal-mart parking lots, worth something in excess of a half-million bucks a copy . . . and slower than a sea turtle with prostate problems!

There’s a stretch of this road that’s almost six lanes wide, and that’s where I’d make my move. Before then and I’d break a few windshields. At thirty-five hundred a pop to replace them, I’d be working . . . a long time for free. Not worth it. Thirty tires on eight axles tends to throw a lot of gravel, and these turkeys had the money to chase me into small debts court for what amounted, to them anyway, to being “chump change”.

Ba-wham!

Shit, that sounded like a tire exploding. I looked in my mirrors, just waiting for the telltale pieces of flying rubber that would show me which one of mine had just blown out. In fact, I was so busy looking at where I’d already been that I damned near hit one of the motorhome in front of me. He was hastily trying to get off the highway with a missing front tire, and had the back ones locked up tight. Stupid asshole! That’s the second-best way to get yourself killed on this fucking road! But it did get all but four of those land yachts out of my way, and windshields notwithstanding, I wasn’t gonna stand around gawking. I was gone, gone, gone!

It was another four hours before I reached Fort Nelson. Looking at the fuel gauge, I had just enough left to make it to Watson Lake, but if there was any kind of a delay between here and there, I’d be coasting in on fumes. Something told me that this would be a good place to fuel up, and maybe even break down for something to fill my face with. The Husky Truck Stop didn’t have the best food on the Alcan, but it was a helluva sight better than the Petro-Can across the road. That made my decision a whole lot easier. I threw the signal on, mostly out of habit, and wheeled up to the commercial pumps.

While the young fuel-jockey squirted a couple hundred gallons of diesel fuel into the tanks, I ran inside, grabbed a couple of sandwiches and filled my thermos with the last decent coffee before Watson Lake. As soon as I’d signed the invoice, I was out of there like a shot in the dark. That’s hard to do in Northern BC when there’s only a couple of hours in the day without sunshine, let me tell ya! But damn! I was gonna give it my best shot anyway!

Northbound traffic had gotten pretty scarce, but the vehicles going the other way made me wonder if there was anyone left in Whitehorse. That many cars, trucks, motorhomes, and whatever I’d forgotten, would take half the population of the Yukon Territory, and most of the people in Alaska! But with my half of the road wide open, I had my foot jammed down on that throttle hard, and the old Cat engine was just screaming like a bull moose with his cock stuck in a snow-blower! The next big pull would be Fireside Mountain, and any speed I could get here on the Lliard Flats would get me there that much sooner.

Fireside Mountain. Imagine, if you will, the shape of a Boa Constrictor that’s just had his nuts kicked hard, then stood up against a wall. Smack him a couple more times just to get him all twisted up, just to make sure he can’t wiggle or untwist. Got that pictured in your mind? Good, because that’s what the straight sections of Fireside Hill look like. We won’t talk about the others.

By the time I’d gotten half-way up that fucking goat trail, I’d dropped eleven gears. At the breath-taking speed of a whole twelve miles an hour, it’s about forty-five minutes to the top, and about the same coming down the other side. Any faster than that and by the time you get slowed down enough to jump out of the cab, you can almost get parked right beside the Exxon Valdez! For the sake of safety, I always stop at the summit and adjust the brakes. It’s a bit of an inconvenience in the winter, but it beats the hell outta falling off the road and into that ravine along the north face. Many have tried that short-cut; none have survived.

As I approached the summit, I spotted a car sitting right smack dab in the middle of the only place I could pull into. At eighty-five feet long, this rig wouldn’t fit on either side of that piece of crap without sticking out onto the highway. Damn, another stupid tourist that thinks they’re the only vehicle on the whole fucking road! Sneaking up as tight as I could so my butt wouldn’t get shoved out my nose if someone came over the top of the hill, I tapped lightly on the air horn, hoping that whoever was in the car would move enough to let me park safely. That was the theory. In practise? Not even close!

I wasn’t quite prepared for what happened next. A young woman about twenty-something crawled out of the driver’s seat, stood up, placed her hands on her hips, and gave me one of those looks that only a woman that has designs on hanging your dried balls off her rear-view mirror as a trophy can give. I didn’t know whether to get out and talk to her, or grab my 30.06 rifle, just in case.

“Sweetheart, any chance you can move that thing up about thirty feet?” I asked her. That’s when her expression changed from one of indignation to a look of resigned defeat. The tears just sat at the corner of her eyes, threatening to spill and flow if I even took a breath the wrong way.

I’m a guy, and every woman knows how helpless guys get when the tears start to fall. I confess, I’m one of those guys too. In less than a heartbeat, I went from being absolutely furious into a state of being softer than putty on a hot summer’s day. She hadn’t said a word. Not one. And I was still helpless under that feminine magic that she exuded. There’s a word that describes guys like me. I just can’t think of it, at the moment.

“If I could move this fucking piece of shit, I’d be half-way to Whitehorse!” she screamed at me. “Do you see me flying down this goddamned road? No? Maybe that’s because the fucking thing won’t start again! So, if you want it moved, you move it yourself!”

Gee, that was a great way to enjoy my day! A fairy Princess with a mouth on her that would make a sailor blush! Delightful! Just fucking delightful! But old Mr. Softy couldn’t leave her just stranded out here, fifty miles for nowhere.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s see if we can get you mobile again. I’ll grab some tools,” I directed her, then remembered my manners. “By the way, my name’s Ryan. Ryan Blackstone. And I don’t bite, so try and relax. Looks like we’re gonna be here for a while.”

She cautiously extended one of the most delicate hands I’ve ever seen, then introduced herself. I was afraid to touch her peace-offered hand, figuring I’d probably crush it into a million little pieces with my big mitts.

“Linda. Linda Coulter,” she declared, “on my way to Whitehorse. I was supposed to be there this morning. Guess I’m gonna be a little late, huh?” I stood there, looking like the mental midget I felt like. Finally finding my voice, I confirmed her worst fears.

“Yeah, I’d say so. You’re about five hundred miles short, and this is probably gonna take us a while to fix. Looks like you have a decision to make. Either we try to get this thing running again, or I can give you a ride into Whitehorse, and you can see about getting your car retrieved. Your choice.”

“Damn! Everything I own is in that car! I can’t leave it here, abandoned. Someone’s probably gonna come along and steal everything.” I could see her brow furrowing as she considered her options. “You think we can get it going again?” she asked. “I’ll quite happily pay you for your time and effort.”

The money would be nice. Spending time enjoying the view she presented would be even nicer.

With a little coaxing from me, she finally explained what had happened, and by the sound of it, she probably had a plugged fuel line. I could clear the line, but if there was rust or water in the tank, I’d have a hell of a time getting her down to Muncho Lake.

“How much gas you got?” I queried her.

“Umm, I filled up in Fort Nelson, so there’s roughly three quarters of a tank left” she replied.

“Yeah, okay, “ I conceded, “and where’d you fill up? The Husky, or the Petro-Can?”

“Fucked if I remember! If you’ve seen one gas station, you’ve seen ‘em all! What’s the difference?” she demanded.

“Well, the difference is that the tanks at the Petro-Can have more shit in them than a national park’s outhouse.