chicken - Page 2 of 2 - Living In Beauty

Posted January 4, 2023 – Narrated by Carmen

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“People who count their chickens before they are hatched act very wisely because chickens run about so absurdly that it’s impossible to count them accurately.”
Oscar Wilde

“You are a catastrophist.”

Ruth, my editor friend, wearing a “I am silently correcting your grammar” T-shirt, captured and labeled me with the benign efficiency of a seasoned naturalist before tightening the lid on a killing jar.

She’s good! Touché, shoe-fits, call’m-like-ya-see ’em.

I accept the characterization. In fact it’s my favorite emoji 😱

Thanks to the Greeks, there’s a word for “a tragic turn of events.” Catastrophe, Catastrophic, Catastrophist. The tongue needs a grab bar just to say the word. Sounds like a saber-toothed tiger devouring prey. Looks like a rusty fish hook stuck in wooden dock, thirsty for a bare foot. It runs with scissors, yanks consonants up by the roots, orphans vowels and sells them into slavery. It is a word I can trust to carry out its stated purpose.

Views from the Top of the World Highway between a break in rain and fog

If you’re dead set on eating sushi from a food truck, walking and texting while crossing the road, or planning a drive to Alaska, I will pray for your welfare, but do not mistake me and Jim for influencers. No.

We are chroniclers.

Jim and I love our lifestyle, but we do not peddle it. If, on occasion, the joy is piled on a bit thick that’s because (as a true-blue catastrophist), I deeply sense that every day we awaken, intact on this boiling cauldron of a planet, we are experiencing a bonafide miracle. It would be a pity not to savor every second.

Jim, though he listens to my concerns, actually believes good things are supposed to happen 😇. Like the starry-eyed pioneers of old as they prepared for the journey west, Jim plans for the best but he also gears up for every catastrophe I can imagine. He prays I’m wrong. I pray he’s right. We’ve found balance.

But writing this blog is my job, so prepare to be terrified of driving to Alaska.

The Ferry

At Dawson City, Yukon, we boarded the George Black Ferry to cross the swelling, raging Klondike River on a glorified raft during a downpour.

I reined my tongue. Kept thoughts to myself. I knew what he was thinking: “It’s free, safe, government-approved transportation so, okay, let’s do this. What could happen?”

And, he knew what I was thinking: “So, this is how it ends.”

george black ferry — July 10th ferry crossing

Once again the miracle of human technology won the day and I was thrilled that we will never, ever do this again.

Top Of The World Highway

Now we entered the recently reopened and deceptively named Top Of The World Highway which makes it sound both like an actual highway and a joyride. Top of the World Highway connects to the Taylor Highway and our first Alaska destination: Chicken, (no joke) Population: 12 (or 7 depending on the time of year and who you’re asking).

Chicken is to pie as pie is to Chicken.

We heard that Chicken has pie and we were holding to that image because every scrap of research warned us this would be a rugged drive. So while over-landing to Alaska I learn that I can be bought with pie.

After hours of brain-rattling washboard road and giant potholes behind us, we pulled over to shake off the stress and evaluate damage. Thus far, we hadn’t seen another vehicle on the highway. All good, we prepared to move.

Then, a truck passed, skidding sideways in the mud, barely clearing our rig before fishtailing wildly up the hill.

I repeated my silent prayer, “Chicken and pie. Chicken and pie. Only 110 miles. Dear God, please, oh, please. I am a mother and a daughter, a sister and a friend. Don’t let us be a cautionary tale. Just get us, without incident, to Chicken and hot, delicious pie.”

chicken alaska pie — Endless pie waiting for us in Chicken

On a sunny day, the Top Of The World Highway would dazzle us with spectacular views of the valleys and rivers below. But in wet conditions we were forced to focus on the slippery-as-snake-shit dirt road – until great waves of fresh fog from hell, ranging from bad,

to worrisome,

to terrifying, rolled in.

Pardon my navy-brat mouth, but we shall always remember this road as “The Grab Hold Of Your Sweet Ass Highway.”

Alaska

The drive went slow. Four hours and sixty-some miles later we reached Alaska, too exhausted to celebrate or care.

There were no crowds or red carpet or a big brass band to greet us. There wasn’t even a booth stocked with We Overlanded to Alaska merch. We passed some historic buildings which had not reopened since the pandemic. A ranger welcomed us to the United States and performed the usual inquiry about contraband before waving us through.

We stretched our legs, took the “Woo-Hoo We Made It” pic …

and scrounged up a bite of yummy lunch from our Alaska-power pantry.

Well nourished, we gathered strength for the final forty-two mile stretch to Chicken. The smooth newly paved road beneath the tires felt unfamiliar and totally out of context, like pearls before Moose.

Then, almost instantly, the thrill was gone. Fog obscured our vision.

Jim slowed The Beast to a crawl. As we rounded a curve we spotted moose and a herd of caribou running uphill.

Wow. Had we not lowered our speed at that precise moment we might have crashed into this young man waiting for help beside his disabled vehicle. He said he’d stopped as a herd of caribou crossed the highway, but a few stragglers caught him off guard, causing him to skid and roll into the ditch. He was okay but his car was totaled.

We were three hours from the nearest town offering towing services and, of course, there was no cell signal. Jim used our inReach emergency satellite system to call for help.

Our position – on a downhill curve with no shoulder – was incredibly unsafe in the fog. Fortunately, there was little traffic. We spent an hour there texting details to secure emergency services and during that time only one other vehicle – a motorhome – slowly passed. Then, as we waited for a text confirming roadside assistance was in route, a truck screeched around the curve stopping just a few inches short of slamming into all three of us.

We had to get out of there, but the young man chose to stay with his vehicle. We wished him well and, out of concern for his safety, we left our emergency traffic triangle kit.

An hour and a half later – following another twenty mile stretch of dirt road – we finally pulled into …

Chicken, Alaska

As the chicken flies, the town is about 173 miles from the Arctic Circle.

Gold mining is the thing that makes Chicken Chicken,

one of the few surviving gold rush towns in Alaska.

When the town was established in the early 1900’s, the founders wanted to honor the ptarmigan – the Alaska State Bird, but they thought it over and decided to name the town Chicken because, hell, everybody knows how to spell Chicken.

The postmaster agreed the idea was gold.

Not much has changed since then. There is the Old Town …

and the new town …

The tiny community free-ranges widely over 115 square miles.

There’s the cafe, gift shop and gas station …

a roadside motel, RV park, general store, a suspension bridge

a very cool miners cabin

and a band stand.

Chicken is an off-the-beaten-path international destination, drawing flocks of tourists who like to scratch in the dirt for gold …

and do the Chicken dance at the annual Chickenstock Music Festival.

They even have an airport so folks can fly to Hawaii. During the pandemic Jack in The Box gifted Chicken $10,000 to help the town weather the pandemic. Interesting. That sum is chicken feed for a huge corporation, but it’s just about right for a Hawaii get-away for 7-12 people.

The homemade pie at the Chicken Creek Cafe is famous in these parts. The classic breakfast …

and reindeer stew were not small comforts considering how deep in the tundra this place is. Our first made-in-Alaska brews were top-notch and they soothed the sciatica pain brought on by the frost heaves.

The ceiling of the saloon is festooned with thousands of panties donated to The Panty Canon. It’s a tradition for road warriors with Dead Butt Syndrome to celebrate their Alaska arrival by blowing up their underwear. Chicken Creek Saloon is the Sistine Chapel of grunge bars, and we’ve seen a few. With no WiFi or cell signals, the music is entirely classic vinyl. Boom!