Day 28 - Dalton Crossing, Asian Noodles & a Waiting Message

Both Jackson and I were excited to put the Yukon Flats behind us and get back into the mountains. The topo lines on the map show tall, steep cliffs closing in on the river's edge once again. After days of fighting through the labyrinth of islands and channels in the thickly braided Yukon Flats, the idea of the river closing into one solid flow again was enticing. 

We paddled a tough 15 miles before I noticed a small white line cutting along the side of a distant ridge. Immediately I knew we had made our goal for the day - Yukon Crossing, where the famous Dalton Highway is paired with the Alaskan Pipeline in a bridge that crosses the Yukon. Truly a feat of engineering. 

The bridge was a big milestone for us. For the next 800 miles - all the way to the Bering Sea, there are no roads or bridges. The remoteness of that thought excites me. Having already paddled nearly 1,000 miles, we are ready for the challenge. 

After pulling up to the boat ramp near the shadows of the bridge we tied off and walked up a short hill to the cafe. The place was called Yukon River Camp and sits just off the Dalton Highway, where the pipeline road crosses the river. The restaurant itself sits in an old building that reminds me of a glorified trailer park. As we walk in the main entrance, Jackson turns back to me and says “There's a note on the bulletin board that says Will Collins, please see hostess inside for a message”. 

What?! 

I walked into the foyer of the resturant to find a piece of notebook paper pinned to the board. A stick figure drawing of two people in a canoe was joined by a scribbled message - “Will Collins! Ask the host inside for a message”. 

We walked inside and asked for a table. I asked about the message, and with a gasp the young hostess returned “You’re Will Collins?!!” She then runs back to the cook, to the back office and into the hallway to tell all of her coworkers that she had found Will Collins, the guy with the message. She then took removed a thumb tack from a folded up note which had my name written across the front. As she handed it to me she sheepishly admitted “We had to read it”. I opened the note and read the first line - “Hey Willio!” - and immediately it all clicked. 

My good friend Tres left me a short message which essentially was  a “hey how ya doing, hope all is well” letter. Tres had been through about 20 days prior while leading a group of 17 and 18 year old boys on a 45 day backpacking trip in the far northern mountains of the Brooks Range. It was the same trip Tres and I originally solidified our friendship on when we were that age, and it altered both of our lives significantly enough that 9 years later we both found ourselves at the same small asian noodle restaurant in the middle of nowhere Alaska. Friends are the best. It's a small world. Never in a thousand years did I expect to get a handwritten note at Yukon Crossing. It was a great feeling. 

We enjoyed a hot meal, and afterwards met a wild man named Yukon Jeremy. He ran a gift shop (if it can be called that) out of an old beat up plywood shack in the parking lot where, with his mom, he sold pelts, stones and other odd Alaskan souvenirs for truckers and tourists traveling the Dalton. He gave Jackson and I a Corona each and talked our ears off. We learned that apparently booze and beer is illegal here. It’s a dry area, and thus beer is hard to come by, and something of a delicacy. We learned this after Jackson had slugged his down and Yukon Jeremy looked at him sideways “Don’t drink that so fast!!”.  His gesture of cracking one for us was a sincere one. He was also talking about using good salmon strips as trading currency for mushrooms and pot. A true character.