Babe traveled across hard pavement yet again. Since Woodstock had gotten the call of the wild many states had felt the tire treads of Babe, his trusted truck. Babe was named after Paul Bunions Blue Ox Babe. They had a love-hate relationship and got into arguments regularly. On one occasion Paul and Babe got into a shoving match pushing each other back and forth across the desert. When they were done, huge trenches were dug up in the ground. Today we call it the Grand Canyon. Woodstock and Babe had a similar relationship about who was in charge. Usually a reliable vehicle, but on occasion Babe would break down and cost great amounts of cash to fix up.

They were now travelling across the Great Plains, although Woodstock saw very little about them that were great. The area between Ohio and the Rocky Mountains seemed to be the flattest most nondescript place in the world. Luckily Chicago was behind them, the symbol of poor transportation planning and congestion. This post trip was painless enough, but other times have been near torture with three hour long stand stills in 100 degrees + weather and no air conditioning.

Central Minnesota had little to comment on and Wisconsin’s most noteworthy attribute was t he variety of cheeses at subway sandwich shops but North Dakota lay ahead. A new statement new experiences and sights to see. Anything more than open grasslands would be entertaining after 3 days on the plains.

North Dakota did not look promising at first, but some plateaus appeared in the more arid northern section of the state. Here the air seemed to stand still with quiet desolation until hot winds blew it past. There were a number of abandoned structures in the roadside that were slowly persistently being reclaimed into the sides of plateaus. It spoke of a waning that natural forces would deconstruct anything left unkempt by man. Who really ruled here, was it man or nature?

Canada lay ahead. Border customs was the only barrier to the great-untouched northern forests of Canada and Alaska. Unfortunately the customs officers were suspicions of blue trucks full of luggage and longhaired drivers. Many hours would pass before free reign of Canada would be given to a road weary nomad.

Canada held great hopes and great disappointment for the traveler. Apparently his fifth grade teacher led him astray with visions of endless untouched forests spanning everything north of the U.S. border. Saskatchewan and Alberta were merely extensions of the endless wheat fields found on the Great Plains. Boredom and insanity were the norm in this flat breadbasket. Stunts of driving and overplayed tapes served as distractions from the redundant driving routine.

Then suddenly it happened near the border of British Columbia. There was an ever-growing lump on the horizon, a sign of differentiation, a sign that the Canadian Rockies were coming. Mountains were the most spectacular places in the mind of the traveler and they were coming.

Of course, in suiting his luck of the Irish, it started raining where truck met mountain, and continued until truck left mountain. At first this was a devastating prospect, but once the environmentalist excepted fate, things looked a little nicer. Even though wonderful mountain peaks eluded the eye, there was plenty of wildlife to see on the Alaskan Highway.

Moose, black bears, coyotes, deer, and brown bears with cubs traveled the Alaskan Highway and knew it belonged to them more than it did to man.