WHACK!!!  – – – something huge, hard and heavy hits the front of Howie. We feel the impact as if we were slapped, scaring the crap out of both of us. At first, we can’t figure it out. We are traveling west on Trans-Canada 16, leaving Prince George in the pounding deluge of an evening thunderstorm. Four hours before sunset, it’s dark as dusk, and the highway is a ribbon of rain-smeared headlights. Double-speed on the wipers is barely keeping the windows clear, and strong wind gusts have Howie dancing back and forth in the waterlogged lane. Visibility drops to less than 100 yards now and then. Front tires skip across puddles and contribute to the steering uncertainty. And the occasional oncoming logging truck sends a menacing tidal wave of dirty spray across our bow. When this happens, the windshield wipers wildly bounce and flutter, spindly little dragonfly wings about to leave Howie and sail away.

It’s a new, smooth, fully paved road, and reasonably safe to drive through these pouring-down floods. But it was one of those logging trucks, which splashed up a giant wave containing some un-known, demonic object. The impact has left us with soiled underwear and a gigantic softball-sized smash in the driver’s-side windshield. You can’t call it a crack, that sounds too small – it’s more of a 6-inch-diameter spider web.

We were fully expecting to get some chips and dings, perhaps a month from now, while traveling the infamous gravel roads of the north. In fact, I double-checked with my insurance company before we left to be sure we had coverage. But that was all kind of theoretical, and I think we both were expecting to maybe escape unscathed. This road we travel now is a major paved highway, no rocks or gravel, and we are only four days into Canada. What a bummer. Fortunately, it has not punched through the window, and it is slightly off to the left of my straight-ahead line of sight. Kind of a distraction going into left-hand curves, but not so bad on the straight roads. Not much to do except keep on driving.

Later, at camp, we check up a bit during some rare Internet. We find that almost every town in Canada (it seems) has an auto-glass repair shop. Looks like we’ll be visiting one soon.

The “Northern Lights” (no, not the Aurora)

We normally wait for the day to fade to have dinner. But up here in May at latitude N54:26, the day’s fade is no longer timed to our California N37:21 circadian rhythms. As I write this, the sun is beaming brightly through the window onto my computer keyboard, way above the horizon at 8PM. If we go to bed a little early tonight (maybe 9:30PM), the sun will not yet have set.

Furthermore, the gentle angle of the sun’s descent means that twilight lasts a LONG time. Even with the sun setting at 9:40PM, we still find the sky a gentle indigo blue (far from black) after 11. My friend up in Anchorage tells me that northerners get a little manic this time of year, with the light affecting metabolisms. Apparently, sleep masks are the order of the day, and Karin and I each sport one draped over our bedroom reading lamps, within easy reach for slumber-land. Man, it’s so bright outside, we could almost use two of them apiece.

Tonight we are camped outside the town of Fort Saint James. Its namesake fort was perhaps one of the most important historical settlements in the history of the province, helping to open up trade, and later mining, across the region. This Sowchea campground turns out to be the finest one in the area for our likes, right on the shore of Stuart Lake and very sparsely occupied. Here are some views from our campsite.

Tomorrow, we’ll do some local exploring in Ralph, checking out the fort and some Forest Service roads in this very popular area. On Monday the old Fort opens for the season, but we’ve already walked the grounds a bit. Besides, we have seen a lot of old pioneer paraphernalia by now, and will likely just be traveling westward.

• Miles driven: 1,910
• Days traveling: 15
• Direct miles home: 1,503