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Day 17

I awoke slowly. The tent was warm. I was very warm. I started to peel of the layers that I had slept in. I changed, broke down camp, and packed the truck. As I prepared to leave, however, I noticed the right rear tire was flat. I was half expecting it, because the tire already had a slow leak. Nevertheless, it was a bother and something extra to deal with.

I got out the jack and tire iron and set about changing the tire. While I was at it, I decided to change both rear tires, thus keeping the tread even on both sides. There was a nail in the flat tire. I brushed off the old tires as best I could with a paper towel so as not to get the rest of the cargo dirty and tossed them in back. Soon I was on the way to Haines Junction.

The new tires made a remarkable difference in driving. There is now much less vibration than before at high (45+ mph) speeds. The old tires must have been way out of balance. I arrived at Haines Junctions and asked around for a place that would patch tires. Following some advice, I stopped at a little service station beside the Stardust Lodge. There I met a balding man with a slight limp, who looked familiar for some reason. I asked how much to repair the tire, and he said he could do it for $12.

I gave him the tire and went back to empty my extra fuel from the jerry cans into the fuel tank, thus preventing the hassle that came on the last ferry ride when I had to remove my jerry cans and place them in a special locker on board the boat. Then it hit me - it's Picard! The little man at the service station looked just like Captain Picard of Star Trek-The Next Generation. Anyway, with my newly patched tire I started up the engine and headed for Haines at maximum speed...

gear 4...

engage.

I hit some rain going through the mountain pass between Haines and Haines Junction, just as I had on the way up. A small sign advertising a native crafts shop and musuem led me to a small village off the main road. Klukshu village was the name, and in the middle of a dozen or so shacks and trailers was a little building that was the museum/gift shop. A sign said to go on in and a person would be by shortly, so I entered. No one was inside. There were several interesting blankets, shoes, tools, and the like.

What I found most amusing was a beautiful suede leather traditional jacket, complete with little fur trimmings, hung on the wall and covered in plastic, like it just came from the dry cleaners. On the wall beside it was a picture, apparently the grandmother who made it, and a grandson who looked like he was being forced to wear it for Grandma's sake and hoped he wouldn't be seen by his friends in this getup. An old lady came in shortly and I asked her what type of indians inhabited the area. She answered that she was Southern Toshonee (sp?). I thanked her and left, taking care to stay out of the way of the young boy who was zipping around the village on a small dirt motorcycle.
I continued along the road. All was going well until about 20 miles out from Haines. I began to hear, at least I think I began to hear, a faint, faint, whine. Or perhaps a click, click, click. I am almost certain it was there. It seemed to grow louder, until finally I pulled over to take a look. I couldn't see anything wrong under the hood, and couldn't reproduce it by revving the engine. I felt the front bearings-they were no warmer than expected. I felt the transmission case-seemed OK.

I felt the rear axle and differential -- maybe just a tad on the warm side, about where I expect the pinion gear to be -- the one that connects the drive shaft to the differential. Maybe it was supposed to be that warm, but it scares me a little. After all, I have come prepared to deal with almost any automotive problem I could imagine, except transmission problems. It's pretty hard to carry along a spare transmission or rear axle. You just take care of them and usually they last a long, long time. But sometimes, things go wrong. And since I know that the oil had been low in the rear axle for a long time, I fear the bearings may have been damaged. In any case, there was not much I could do for it where I was, so I proceeded on, listening very carefully and varying all the parameters that I could think of to try to pinpoint the problem.

I arrived in Haines and searched some shops for Tlingit artwork, though my mind was heavy with the truck problem. My sister's birthday is August 16, and I needed a birthday present. After flipping through prints in several different art stores, I found a Tlingit print of a sun and a moon. Since my sister is Angie Malone, and I am Patrick Malone, our initials have always been A.M. and P.M., so I bought both prints, planning to give her the sun and keep the matching moon. Then I asked the clerk about the ferry schedule to Skagway. One was leaving in about an hour, so I hurried on over to the terminal and got a ticket. I got back in the truck and pulled into the appropriate lane for vehicle boarding. While waiting in line, I pulled out the maps to consider my options. Whitehorse is the capital of Yukon, and with a population of about 20,000 it is the nearest city. I could probably find someone there who could repair or replace the transmission or rear axle, if only I could get him the parts. Shipping a rear axle is no small feat, and I can only begin to imagine the shipping costs.
I could take the ferry from Haines or Skagway back to Bellingham, but the cost would be so outrageous that I could probably have the entire tranmission replaced for the same price. Plus, that would only get me as far as Bellingham, which leaves another 1,000 miles before I get back to California. No, the best option, if the bearing seems to be holding out, is to drive home. As long as the drive shaft and differential keep turning, and the truck keeps moving, I'll make it. At worst (for the truck), I'll have to replace the rear axle or transmission. At worst (for me), I could end up riding my old single-speed bicycle several hundred miles for help, which could take a few days. Not good, but doable, if I have food and water, and a way to carry it on the bike.

My turn came to board the ferry, and I cranked up and moved into place. They asked me to remove the jerry cans anyway, even though they were empty. I must have been getting a little nervous thinking about all this, because I cut my hand while taking off one of the jerry cans. Not very deep, but there was a lot of blood, so I fished out a metal ammo can from the back of the truck. This ammo can contains first aid supplies that I have kept ever since my days as a raft guide. After dousing my hand a couple of times with alcohol and bandaging it, I proceeded upstairs. I ate quickly at the cafeteria on board, wolfing down a plate of corned beef, cabbage, and mashed potatoes in 15 minutes.

I walked out on deck and watched the scenery slip by as the ship plowed through the frigid waters toward Skagway. The mountains that rose up from the edge of the water were beautiful, but austere and cold. Had this fierce land conquered me? Was Hans right? Perhaps I'd better hold off on sending that Alaska post card I was about to mail to prove I made it to Alaska and back. Skagway approached, and I prepared to return to the car deck. My plan was to get gas and groceries, and proceed to a town called Carcross, about 70 miles away. Along the way, I would listen to see if the sound got worse, and if it did, I would proceed to Whitehorse to have a transmission mechanic investigate further. If it seemed to be holding steady I would proceed southward toward California.
Finally, if noone in Whitehorse could help, I would take the ferry back to Bellingham and try to make it to Seattle for service. I drove off the deck and onto the main street of Skagway. Skagway was where the sourdoughs would get off the ferry during the Gold Rush times. From here they would take the Chilkoot trail over the mountains. At one point, the Canadian government regulated the pass, and required that everyone who passed had to carry at least a year's worth of provisions with them. They would determine this by weight, which was something over 2,000 lbs. I don't have that much with me.

I parked the car and went on foot to find groceries and ask about a gas station. It was a little after 10PM.

I found a gift shop that was still open, and asked about groceries and gas. They told me that both the grocery store and gas station were closed already. Since I had consumed my extra fuel before boarding the ferry, it looked at though I would be staying in Skagway for the night. I walked on along the wooden boardwalk in front of the stores, looking for a place to stay the night. I liked the way my boots went KULIK, KULOK on the boards as I walked, just like an old western town.
Tourists flocked along the main street in the dusk light, fresh off the ferry. Many windowshopped along the rows of closed stores. Some had backpacks and hiking boots and were headed on through town toward the mountains. I found the lobby of a hotel and inquired about a single room. It would be $79. That's kind of spendy for me, so I asked him if there was any place less expensive in town. He said there was a Youth Hostel, and gave me directions.

I walked a couple of blocks through a neighborhood and spotted a small "hostel" sign that pointed toward a normal-looking house with a few people standing and talking on a patio outside. I asked for a main desk and was directed to the kitchen, but first I had to remove my shoes before going inside. There were lots of shoes outside. Apparently a brother and sister ran the place. I'd guess they were in their 60's.

After waiting for a chance to break into a conversation, I asked the brother about a bed for night. His name was Dave. At first, Dave said they only had room left in the church, but later he found room in the "annex", a small concrete block building out back. It was $13 for the night, plus I had to do a chore, which for me turned out to be sweeping the patio. They had a sheet explaining the rules in lots of different languages, including separate ones for American, English, and Australian.

If I knew a language that they didn't have the rules written in, Dave said that I could translate the house rules into that language as a substitute for my chore. I told him about my truck and he said he had owned 9 old trucks before. We talked about about my suspicions on the rear axle, and he said the rear axles on those old trucks could whine a long time before they go out. That made me feel good. Then again, he said, they could go out just like that. That made me feel bad again. I'll stick to my plan and make a decision in Carcross. Now, I'm going to get some rest.

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