“Dang, Karin, it’s another bleeping 100 miles of bleeping dirt road!!”

Please understand, I don’t ordinarily say “bleeping” a lot, but these were circumstances extraordinary. We had just come back to Dawson, after nearly 1,000 continuous miles of rough-and-tough dirt road travel on the Dempster highway. Both Howie and Ralph had been well beaten, Ralph expensively so. Consequently, in leaving Dawson for Alaska, I simply wasn’t recovered enough. Another three hours of pounding and rattling would deeply challenge my sense of equanimity. My ‘wa’ would be disturbed. Oh well. Ahead of us, beckoning irresistibly, was the tiny gold-rush town (population 23) of Chicken, Alaska. Who could resist such a Siren call?

Turns out, although the Top of the World Highway (Yukon 9) had its faults and foibles, it was generally not as rough, and certainly not as long, as our recent round-trip marathon to the Arctic Ocean. We were also very fortunate to have good weather (no mud!), including photogenic cumulus clouds, and we had some really nice views along the way.

After a relaxing(?) two-hour wait for the ferry out of Dawson, we crossed the Yukon River, climbed up the first hill, and headed out across the mountain tops. The highway gets its name from its northerly location, and also from its path, negotiating the high slopes and ridgelines west of the Yukon.

At almost every “swoop” from one mini-range to the next there was a sweeping view of a valley, river, or both – – none apparently touched by the hand of man. Even in the northern Arctic, we seldom felt this level of grand wildness. No fences, buildings, structures, not even mining tailings or scrapes. Just our tiny stripe of roadway scratched across the land, as if by some giant seismometer needle.

To add to the wonder of it all, every once in a while, something truly magical would appear: pavement! This road is truly a potpourri of surfaces, from blissfully smooth to rough as a corn cob. Pieces of pavement would appear, lull us into a (false) sense of security, and then suddenly disappear in a welter of old asphalt chunks, potholes, and washboard. I suppose it’s all simply part of a day’s wandering….

After a bit less than two hours watching scenery and navigating rough spots, a tiny little blue building showed up in the distance – – Customs. We were at the border between Yukon and Alaska, and of course between Canada and the United States. This crossing is only open during the (4) warm months, and the staff works pretty interesting hours: 12-hour shifts, 8-on, 2-off, 8-on, 5-off. The guy that checked us through was from Anchorage, and said that he tried to get the Top-of-the-World duty as often as he could.

First time we’d seen the U.S. flag in quite some time. It kind of caught me by surprise how good it felt. Canada was a great place to be, people as friendly as can be, terrific experiences – – but as with all the different places around the world I’ve visited, every time I came back it was always nice to feel “home”. I suppose it’s true for most folks.

Near the border station is Boundary Peak, which is easily spotted by the many rock cairns erected there. Seems to be some kind of eco-gentle graffiti (no paint, please) on the knoll. There must be a hundred little copy-cat cairns up there, mimicking the Big Boy on top.

I’m not sure if it’s official, but there is a self-proclaimed “town” at the border – – –

After customs, the road transformed itself to near-perfection. Billiard-flat asphalt, pristine yellow and white lines, crisp clean shoulder gravel. It gently undulated through the hills, treating us to vibration-free vistas. We were mesmerized, with a ride as smooth as a baby’s cheek – perhaps we’d died and gone to RV heaven?

Alas, it also was a teaser. A few miles later, the potholes and washboard returned, and stayed with us all the way to Chicken.

A historical account says that the founders of Chicken really wanted to name it “Ptarmigan” – but nobody could be sure how to spell ‘ptarmigan’, and they were a bit stumped. Since ptarmigan (a kind of grouse) tasted a lot like chicken (and perhaps the whiskey was running low, for all we know), the town was expeditiously named Chicken. That’s their story, and they’re sticking to it.

Chicken was (and is) a pretty successful gold town, but that hasn’t stopped them from capitalizing on the name. Everything is chicken-centric, from the huge steel statue to the restroom labels (“Hens” and “Roosters”).

There are also some great pieces of history, a dredge which can be toured, and some really decent samples of early 1900’s gold-mining machinery.

The dredge (#8) is smaller than the huge Dredge #4 that we previously toured near Dawson. We didn’t go in, but we were told that there is even more original hardware in place. This one also has the buckets stripped off the digger, but it is still impressive. And nicely decorated with intense deep-pink fireweed as well.

Always ready with a chicken-based play on words, the summer music festival becomes – – you guessed it, Chickenstock. On a rather unique stage, to boot.

The (scant) remains of the original town has some of the best signage we’ve seen on gold-dredging, I’ve included it here for your education. You should be able to click and zoom to read the fine print.

The gift shop, and nearby suspension bridge across the stream, are some of the interesting sights around town. Columns on the porch are made from burl-knotted tree trunks, and the suspension bridge is innovatively engineered out of available materials: steel pipe, cables, lengths of rebar, cable clamps and 2×6 planks. It bucked and weaved like a drunken sailor when we walked on it, but it seemed sound. We always wonder what OSHA would say….

Old snapshots in the gift shop add to the sense of wonder, at what lengths the “stampeders” went to (both labor, and environmental devastation) in their efforts to find their gold.

We stayed at Chicken overnight, and were delighted to find out the next day that the dirt road became paved only two miles out of town. Then, only 78 miles to Tok, which is right on the Alcan. Tok is a typical highway town, just some businesses and services. An easy overnight there, and then 200 miles or so to Fairbanks. Piece of cake.

Driving all those miles on paved roads (again) really brought home the amount of punishment we’d endured. We have to re-think any of our future choices for how much more self-flagellation we want to endure. Ralph can take anything, but running the pair of them down a rough road extracts a heavy toll. We’ll see what comes at us.

• Miles driven (Howie): 5,107
• Miles driven (Ralph): 1,305
• Days traveling: 55
• Miles from home: 2,997