First We Quit Our Jobs Read online

  We had no radio reception at all, signaling to me that we were as remote as we’d ever been. When we pressed scan, the numbers on the display flashed at us and never stopped. No station featured traffic and weather together on the eights, twos, or any other time up here. When work was being done on the road, however, we had the scoop. The Long Island Expressway or the five in L.A. are not known to get personalized, individual road status reports. Up north, when vehicles have to wait while dirt is being moved, flattened, or graded, each driver hears the whole story and dimension of the work in an up-close-and-personal kind of way. Signs warned us well in advance of a slowdown. We learned to time lunch, soda retrieval, driver switches, and bathroom breaks according to road conditions.

  The first time we were approached by a member of a crew, I thought some major calamity must have occurred ahead. Was a bridge washed out? A truck overturned? Were they looking for escaped convicts? Just the road news, ma’am. Friendly (generally also young, blond, and female) road workers would come up to the driver’s window and chat. How were we today? How far were we going? Then we would get a description of the project, how long we could expect to wait today, how far this particular job stretched, and where the next bit of work was. Pretty civilized up here in the outback. It helped keep the blood pressure down—a good thing in a place where everyone carried a gun, I guess.

  At the edge of a milky emerald lake we stopped for the night. The opacity of the waters in this part of the world was a result of glacial flour—runoff that hauled with it aeons of finely ground rock. It created beautifully colored waters, terrible for fishing. We sidled up to the shore and rolled out our awning. The sky was still threatening, so we decided to go for a hike right away. Wearing our Gore-Tex just in case, we scrambled up the side of the mountain until we had an overview of the campground. The water changed color with the mood of the sky: gray, green, turquoise, black. We watched while a tour bus pulled in, relieving itself of passengers, who relieved themselves in the latrines and reboarded. From our lofty position it was like watching the Keystone Kops moving jerkily back and forth. By the time we got back, we had neighbors. A young couple and their small daughter were pitching a tent. They were on their way home to Whitehorse, they explained. As the rain began in earnest, I was glad not to be in a tent.

  * * *

  In places the road became very primitive. Pilot cars led caravans of cars, trucks, and RVs through muddy pathways around equipment. Often we wondered whether we were on an old road, a future road, a shoulder, or just something to get us out of the way of the workers. I thought about our usual anxiety in traffic jams, how tense we became. Here it rolled off our backs. We had no appointments, no reservations to keep. Any personal need could be taken care of easily since we were already home. I felt like a pioneer on a wagon train. At night I imagined it was like “the old days.” We sat around a campfire and shared stories with those coming the other way: How was the road? How was your weather? See any animals? Conditions varied from smooth and amply shouldered blacktop to dirt and rutted and barely big enough for two cars to pass. Skies changed hourly, and the sunny weather of the plains disappeared. For the most part the clouds were benign. Then one would roll over the mountain behind us and open the floodgates. There was a sense of discovery along the highway. One night we camped next to Judy and Ken, young retirees from Oakville, Ontario, on their way down from Alaska. They were bubbling over with enthusiasm about the Great Land, its beauty and ruggedness. Eagerly they described their trip up the Dempster Highway, a faint dotted line on our map, from Dawson City, in the Yukon, to Inuvik. They also were the first of many people we met who encouraged us to go north from Whitehorse to Dawson in order to take the Top of the World Highway into Alaska. They explained their various routes to us, which glaciers they liked best, and how they had come to love dry camping, being completely self-sufficient. They seemed like sensible adventurers. Taking advice from total strangers seemed as reasonable to us as following a guidebook. A new laissez-faire attitude had kicked in. We were still dubious about the Dempster but leaning toward the Top of the World.

  The road was our shepherd.

  Sergeant Preston, If You Please

  After driving the Alaska Highway for many hours on a raw day, we needed to decompress. Our bodies were tired from holding on, bouncing around, and gripping the wheel. Our minds were exhausted from anticipating bumps, calculating distances between work sites, and trying to grasp hold of reality in this foreign environment. We headed for Liard Campground, about 850 miles north of Edmonton, a thousand miles from Fairbanks. Our site had ample privacy, no electricity, and a water pump down the way. Just as we were about to collapse onto our lawn chairs, we noticed something odd. Streams of people—couples, families, clusters of teenagers—were coming out of the woods nearby with wet hair and happy faces. The shower house was in the opposite direction. Grabbing our bathing suits, we decided to investigate.

  We followed a trail that led to a boardwalk. Passing through a swamp that looked like prime moose-grazing territory, we hoped for a sighting. These large vegetarians like to feed on water plants and willow bushes, in areas we called moosaurants. No diners at the moment. All we saw were a few birds. Walking on, the vegetation looked familiar but out of place. There were fernlike plants and bushes that reminded me of palms. Then came something that looked like a castor bean plant with powerful thorns. Someone said it was called an Indian club. Everything was very lush and green. Red high bush cranberries dotted the scene. Despite the fact that it was a gloomy day, there was something cheerful in these woods. The parade of wet, smiley campers coming toward us continued.

  Half a mile down the path, we came to a pond. Along one side was a wooden terrace and bathhouse. Steam rose from the water, particularly from one end. In various stages of immersion, people of all ages were at play. Evidence of human and animal sojourns to this place have been found dating back thousands of years, making Liard Hot Springs, in my mind anyway, nature’s inspiration for Waterworld in Edmonton. We changed clothes and eased into the water at about the midpoint. To our left the pond cascaded over a miniature waterfall toward a cool spot. On the other side the water grew too hot for me, as the temperature rose above 115 degrees Fahrenheit. Once accustomed to a moderate warmth, we felt our aches melt away in the moist heat. We bobbed along from rock to rock, searching for the perfect spot.

  A group had clustered near the waterfall, and we joined them. It was becoming easier for me to talk to strangers out here. A word or two about the road, the weather, the water, or the campground would start a simple conversation. It struck us that “what do you do?” was a rare topic of interest, except perhaps to us. But what did people do up here? I wondered. Talking with a couple from Fort St. John, British Columbia, about thirty miles north of Dawson Creek, began to open my mind. Their kids, a boy of about nine and a girl thirteen, played with each other in the water and occasionally came around to listen to the adults. Cathy and Mike, refugees from Vancouver, had moved north to Fort St. John in 1979. They had sensed that their life was more hectic than it needed to be and less fulfilling than it could be. On the verge of starting a family, they wanted a place where they could grow, along with their children. Cathy eventually decided to take responsibility for home schooling Mary and David, at least through their elementary years. Mike, a pharmacist, wanted to do more than pour, count, lick, and stick. In the smaller community of Fort St. John, he became an active participant in the health and well-being of his customers. The six of us spent the afternoon together lolling in the Eden-like atmosphere of the hot springs. The kids were extremely content, and we marveled at how well behaved they were. Mary, blond and lithe, told me about her favorite books and authors. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke. She confessed she wanted to become a writer. I believed she would.

  That night we gathered again, in our living room this time. Over cookies we talked about changing lanes on the highway of life. Although Cathy and Mike had remained in the same province, they were 750 mil
es from Vancouver. The population in the Fort St. John area was 40,000, though only 14,000 locally. They were both greatly satisfied with their choice and, when they went down south to visit friends and relatives, found the city increasingly unpleasant. In terms of both work satisfaction and overall quality of life for themselves and their children, moving had been a wise move. Cathy was interested to know what books I’d read about Alaska. She tried to be informed about her new territory and enjoyed sharing that interest with the children. She’d read all but one of the titles I mentioned, the name of which I wrote on a piece of paper for her. She said she would check it out of the library as soon as they got home. This wasn’t idle chat. Somehow I’m sure she did. In the morning as we left, we drove past their campsite to say good-bye.

  * * *

  We had always planned to go through the Yukon Territory, so getting there was not a surprise. Being there was altogether unexpected. The road sometimes seemed made of Silly Putty, stretched here and there at our expense. The terrain was rugged, wild, and big. As easterners, New Yorkers, we were unprepared for the size of the territory before us. Most of our maps cut off this part of the world as if it were irrelevant: not Alaska, not the developed tourist areas of Banff, Jasper, and Lake Louise in Alberta. The Alaska Highway zigged and zagged back and forth between BC and the Yukon seven times, as if it too weren’t sure which way to go, increasing the anticipation of moving through the territory. Eventually we all made a commitment. We had our bearings. We were off to Whitehorse to see the Mounties.

  By our fifth day out of Dawson Creek, we had found the rhythm of the road and felt comfortable. We went up with the heaves, down with the washouts, left to go west, straight ahead for north. The sky was gray most of the time, and the air felt noticeably cooler. Shorts sank toward the bottom of the cubby, and turtlenecks floated to the top. Evergreen mountains surrounded us. There were no intersections, no choices, no alternative besides turning around. Signs of civilization were thinning out. Food was harder to come by, and gas a rare commodity. We kept a northwesterly heading.

  * * *

  I devoured the quiet. There was something very seductive about the isolation. Sandy and I wordlessly agreed to forgo listening to our tapes. My mind was able to tick away its own thoughts. For some time back home I had been feeling put upon by noise both human and mechanical. Mysterious street repairs made in the middle of the night by men with jackhammers kept me awake. When I called my parents, they would inevitably get on both extensions and end up talking to each other or shushing each other while I listened. In meetings everybody spoke and nobody listened. I’d always kept my office door open, a practice I’d learned from my first boss and mentor, Mr. Jaffe. Why was it, I wondered, that people would walk in and talk to me while I was obviously engaged in a telephone conversation? Bad manners? Too self-involved to notice? Talk, talk, talk, blah, blah, blah. Then the noise of the subways, hawkers on the streets in my face, unwanted phone solicitations at home, music (not mine) coming from somewhere, and the television that seemed to turn itself on wherever we were. Thirty years later I understood what my mother meant when, exasperated, she would plead with some unseen spirit in the sky for tranquillity. I too sought quiet. When I had taken up scuba diving and became at ease in the deep, the first thing that became apparent were the incredible fishes and their electric colors. The second thing was the sound. All I could hear was my own breathing as I pulled the air from the tank to my lungs and returned little bubbles to the sea. I loved it.

  Now, for the first time, I found that peace on land. We heard only the wind and felt it push our hollow bus around. We called attention to beautiful creatures and sights for the other to see. We made love and murmured against each other’s throats.

  * * *

  Whitehorse, the capital of the Yukon, announced itself in writing for many miles before it actually put in an appearance. A modern town of 22,000 in a 162-square-mile area along the Yukon River, it offered anything the weary traveler might desire without any of the complications. The streets were broad, flat, and easy to move about in the RV. We easily found everything we needed: a campsite overlooking the river, a good Chinese restaurant, and a well-stocked bookstore to replenish our supply. Sandy had seduced me into reading mysteries. He’d been reading them for years and suggested I try Sue Grafton and her alphabet series. I started with A Is for Alibi, and each town we came to, I now fled like a junkie to my dealer for my next fix. Even though the books had no sequence other than the titles, I made a game of reading them in order and buying them one at a time. (I am also the type who saves the frosting for last.) It was a delightful addiction.

  Mac’s Fireweed was a wonderful place with a good general selection, lots of local works, and many periodicals. We dove in. I found D Is for Deadbeat, looked over the headlines, then declined to pay ten dollars for the Sunday New York Times but couldn’t resist Log Homes, Alaska magazine, Vanity Fair, and People. Sandy found a book called Wilderness Seasons, an adventure autobiography by a young Vancouver couple, Ian and Sally Wilson. Thus armed, we went back to our bungalow on wheels and fell asleep in the lingering daylight.

  After a righteous breakfast of coffee, fruit, and cereal, we followed our noses in the direction of our campground neighbor, a fellow in his sixties in a black cowboy hat, fixing an aromatic pancake-and-bacon breakfast outdoors on a grill. We decided to call the guy Curly, after the Jack Palance character in City Slickers. Sandy was intrigued by the gizmo Curly was cooking on, which was attached to the RV’s propane tank, and went over to strike up a conversation. He learned that the grill was homemade. Not something most folks we knew would think of, since you could buy the things for about twenty dollars. But out here independence was everything. If you could make it, why would you buy it? I was inside devouring D, sniffing the bacon, and wishing it were mine. I couldn’t make out the words, just heard a gravelly voice. Sandy came in to pry me out. As we rode our bikes down the hill into town, I looked back over my shoulder. Curly was just sitting down to breakfast. I hoped it wouldn’t kill him. I was really just jealous, though.

  We set out to find the action. Rotary Peace Park, along the riverbank, was the place. Various tents were set up on the periphery for locals to hawk their wares. We picked up a couple of sodas. People had positioned themselves on the grass around the ring. The Mounties were due to perform their celebrated musical ride any minute. After a hundred years of protecting and serving the people of the Northwest, this summer was being spent as a dog-and-pony, or horse-and-horse, show of appreciation. We found spots in front of the bleachers and spread ourselves out, eager to soak up what could almost pass for sunshine. A few rows ahead of us, I noticed a little blond girl and nudged Sandy. “Wasn’t that the kid who camped next to us the other night?” Sure enough, small world—when her mother turned around, we waved at each other. The entertainment began with several warm-up acts, including a First Nation singer from over near Burwash Landing. Everyone but us seemed to know where that was. Then came the Mounties—thirty-two red-jacketed riders and their high-stepping, tall black steeds. They strutted and danced with a precision that would have made the Rockettes proud, weaving in and out of formations, into lines and circles, then back again. The sun, as if on cue, came out for real, and the music played all around us. The children in the audience watched with a dedication I’d previously seen reserved only for cartoons. It was a perfect summer afternoon, uncomplicated by modernity. Even a provincial girl from New York City could be content in the Yukon Territory on a day like that.

  After the show was over, we loaded our bikes onto the RV and made our choice to head north to Dawson City. We couldn’t resist the opportunity to take the Top of the World Highway into Alaska. It was a summer-only gravel road with breathtaking views, we’d been told. Having come this far on the Alaska Highway, how much tougher could it get? we thought. It was late in the day when we made camp at Tatchun Lake, less than halfway to Dawson. By then, it was raining but far from dark, allowing for a quick hamburger gril
ling on our store-bought appliance. As we sat inside our cozy home, we felt a great deal of satisfaction. It was not the sense of accomplishment of a business deal concluded or a manuscript edited, but a slower, deeper sense of well-being. We were happy being where we were at that moment, not wishing away time until the weekend or anxious to get past a tough employee review. The change of place, the change of pace calmed and energized us simultaneously. Life was simple, life was good.

  When the rain stopped, we walked down to the lake and ran into the only other campers in the park. A man and two boys skimmed rocks across the water. Some things have always been satisfying.

  Gold!

  T he next morning we drove an easy couple hundred miles. In the East we would have measured this in terms of megalopolis distances: New York to Boston, Philadelphia to D.C. At home a trip like that would have been a day’s event: getting the car from the apartment house garage (at a daily rate of twenty bucks or monthly for four hundred) out of the city and onto an interstate would have been time-consuming and exasperating. Four hours or so later, after inexplicable and unexplained traffic jams, tense face-offs with anxious drivers, and a pit stop in some grim grimy bathroom, we would have arrived. Arrived to face weaving through another city to our ultimate destination. Hardly a pleasure. That two-hundred-mile stretch back east would have been home to ten or twenty million people and no elk. Here we rolled out of bed and onto a nearly empty two-lane road called a highway. If there were forty thousand people in the province, including tourists, I’d eat my head net. (Everyone had warned us about the, ha ha, state bird of Alaska, the giant mosquito. Thus far we had seen none, but we had those head nets that draped down to your collarbone just in case.) Animals were everywhere: mountain goats, black bears, deer, and elk.