Where are my f*****g pliers?

Last month on our way north to the Arctic I had a (recently serviced/replaced) cv boot clamp break on my truck. We were about 100km from Whitehorse when we heard a strange noise and noticed the grease flying about under the truck. I pulled into a coffee shop parking lot (in the middle of the Alaska Highway nowhere-ville it seemed) and figured I could at least temporarily remove the boot, re-pack the grease, and limp into Whitehorse to get it "professionally" looked at and dealt with.

Much to my surprise, when I started looking through the 100 pounds of tools I had brought along on our great northern adventure, I quickly realized I had no pliers at all. None, nada, not a one-pair. I must have neglected to put them back in my tool pack after a final pre-trip check-over before we left on our journey (My pre-trip check over apparently did not include a pre-trip tool check over). I did have pretty much everything else I could have needed in my tool pack. I very probably could have Magyver'd up a rocket ship with all the tools and accoutrements that I carried (so long as pliers weren't required).

Anyhoo, I strolled anxiously into this little coffee shop and inquired as to where the closest service station was. A local overheard me, popped his head out of his booth and offered to help a guy out. He agreed to drive the1/2 hour required back to his house and bring me some pliers so I could get myself sorted out and we could get on with getting on.
Upon his return, He presented 3 pairs of pliers and handed them over. I was able to remove the one other good clamp (with the pliers you see), re-pack the boot, then use the gear clamps from my shock reservoirs, zip-ties, bailing wire, and electrical tape to temporarily secure the cv boot back in place. Meanwhile, our good Samaritan had to get moving along, so he simply said "keep the pliers I have lots at home". (Funny I thought, as so did I).

We limped successfully into Whitehorse, located and went to the Toyota dealer and had them check everything over for the possibility of a dreaded mechanical failure. After four nail-biting hours, they checked it all over and under, re-packed the grease, re-installed the cv boot with the proper clamps, and agreed all was OK in the land of cv axles. We then went on our merry way, stopping immediately in at Canadian Tire where I purchased 4 shiny new pairs of differing pliers for my (now hopefully complete) tool kit. As our good Samaritan had mentioned he was heading Dawson City,  I figured I'd be easily be able to find him and return the 3 pairs pliers to their rightful owner at that time.

So now we were traveling North on our adventure with 7 pairs of pliers. I am quite sure that at this point any pliers requiring issue we could happen upon would have been easily and successfully dispatched with.
Later that afternoon we found and pulled into a most excellent wooded campsite for the evening, where we got ourselves settled in. As always, one of the first priorities is to take the dogs for their required and mandatory walk in  the forest so they can stretch their legs and check their pee-mail.
As we were strolling up a random nondescript overgrown deer/human pathway on this rocky ledge I noticed something laying in the shrubbery beside the trail. I bent over, took a much closer look and to my surprise Murphy had left a special gift for me........Yes, a pair of perfectly good operational (albeit a little rusty) pliers were laying there half hidden, smirking up at me.

The moral of my tale is this; go check your tool kit and make sure you have the adequate number of pliers for whatever adventure you next depart on.  And oh yes, we never did locate our Pliers Saviour, and Good Samaritan in Dawson City so we traveled the remaining 6000km of our journey with 8 pairs of pliers along for the ride.

One Night in Tuktoyaktuk - our Northern Adventure

I have always wanted to venture North, for as long as I could remember this dream has stuck like glue inside my head. To be able to finally explore the part of our Country that seemed so out of reach growing up has always been at the top of my must-do before I leave this planet list. A couple years ago, my Wife and I started discussing vague plans to consider going North at some point in our lives, sorta, kinda, maybe. Last year, when I had heard that the new highway to Tuktoyaktuk could possibly be completed and open for travel this summer of 2018, we sat our butts down and hammered out real plans in earnest to point Up and make real on my dream.

We (we: my Wife and I, and our two trusty canine adventure companions) departed the Okanagan Valley late June in our faithful Tundra and Four-Wheel Camper (affectionately named Hawkeye Rovi) and 3 weeks and 8600km later we returned home to Penticton, BC safe and sound.

The general route we mapped out was to head North to Prince George, then turn left on the Yellowhead, quickly hop over to the Cassiar Hwy and then slow our lives down to half-speed and start enjoying what our Northern adventure was to have in store for us. We had decided to make the detour to Stewart, Hyder, and weave our way up into the mountains to view the Salmon Glacier while on our way up the Cassiar Highway. This side trip was well worth the decision. Experiencing a single glacier would have made this little add-on worth the drive, however standing there beside the road at different locations and staring in awe at glaciers made me question at the time if anything could possibly top this current experience. We then backtracked to the Cassiar Hwy and continued our northerly trajectory until we crossed paths with the famed Alaska Hwy.

Once on the Alaska Highway (which honestly seems to spend most of its time here in Canada) we continued up to Whitehorse in the Yukon Territory We had originally planned on checking out the Carcross region via a secondary route but a small (fortunately, thankfully, pray to the mechanical gods small) mechanical issue had us limping the last 100km straight into Whitehorse for a quick remedy at the local Toyota dealership (thank you very much local Toyota dealership). Once on the road again, we navigated up to Dawson city, where we hung out for a few days, threw back a Sourtoe Cocktail, ordered some amazing take-out pizza, and tried to perfect the art of being a simple tourist.

The Dempster Hwy. What can I say. I have heard about and read about for years. She came across as a mythical creature of immense proportions that dared not be messed with, and she did not disappoint. Rain and fog cloaked the initial leg and the Tombstone Range on our drive up, which left us with no clue as to what we were passing through, nor what we would experience on the return trip. Aside from the precipitation and low flying cloud cover surrounding Tombstone, the drive up was utterly fantastical. My preconceived notions of a flat, long, boring road with equally boring surroundings were crushed by the vast majesty of the space we traveled through. I still find it hard to locate words to describe our experience. Pictures and video hardly come close to doing justice to what awaits the Northern traveler.

We completed the Dempster proper and rolled into Inuvik on July 1^st (Canada, Canada, Canada!!!), like champions of a first-time adventure in our own minds. We located a camp-spot and then our gang spent the first night of our collective lives experiencing the lack of anything closely resembling night. I kept popping my head out of the camper at odd late hours, and even odd-er early morning hours wondering when it was going to eventually get dark. The next morning (well, it could have been anytime really) we loaded up the mutts, fueled up, spent $27 on a 12 pack of bottled water, and headed up a random nondescript industrial road looking for the beginning of the Highway to Tuktoyaktuk.

At first, we were all certain we were heading the wrong way, as my trusty (up until then anyways) Garmin kept trying to re-route me over to, and on, the Mackenzie Ice Road. We quickly realized we were heading the right way, as we passed The Gates (open gates thankfully) and left Inuvik and any semblance of the world of man behind. The Highway to Tuktoyaktuk is something to behold. It is unlike any other road I have travelled on, and I can only describe it as this. It is more of a serpentine floating gravel bridge than a road. Picture those long bridges that people use to escape to the Florida Keys on. Turn them into gravel, and wind and float them across the permafrost of Northern Canada with no seemingly specific destination or route in mind. There are no pull-outs, there are no rest stops, there is simply The Road. Surrounded by thousands of miles of tundra in every direction, you feel alive and alone, alive beyond comprehension and at times completely alone.

After 150km, ½ tank of fuel, and 4 hours later we arrived in Tuktoyaktuk. First stop as always, re-fuel the rig. Pretty much our only golden rule was to re-fuel wherever the opportunity provided it. The Tundra (as in the truck, not the environment that she/we were temporarily residing in) as amazing as she is, is exceptionally thirsty, has a tiny belly and required feeding very often. The wonderful young lady at the gas station we made our stop at suggested we drive to the end of the road (“the point” she called it) and camp out on the shore of the Arctic for the evening. Her suggestion took a while to process, as we were under the impression that we would be day-trippers to the hamlet. A quick poke around, take the obligatory tourista type photographs, then turn tail and drive directly back to Inuvik, was our initial plan. Once the fireworks stopped erupting in my noggin, we did exactly as she suggested. We simply drove to the end of the road, parked our truck, popped up our camper and spent the night not fifteen feet from the shores of the Arctic ocean. Now there are a lot of “end of the roads” thrown about in this big wide world, this here, this “end of the road” really and truly is the end of the road. You cannot drive any further north on a continuous public road anywhere in North America. For that one night, we owned the end of the road. We parked our butts in our chairs, feasted on muskox burgers cooked up by a local entrepreneur. We stripped off our shoes, rolled up our pants, and waded into the Arctic Ocean. We tossed driftwood into the sea for our two luckiest dogs in the world to fetch. We sat around reading our books, and at some point, hours later realized that the sun had indeed decided to just hang about. What I thought was about 9pm, turned out to be 12:30am. The brain had a difficult time trying to reconcile the 24 hours of sunlight. And when they say “24 hours of sunlight’ they mean it, in no uncertain terms. No fading of the sun, no dusk, no nothing but hard-core daylight for every single hour on the clock. At, or around 3am, we decided to call it a night, plug up all the windows with anything we could find, and try to get to sleep.
The next morning, we awoke at our regular 6am, made and sipped at the single best cup of coffee I have ever had in my forty-nine years on this planet while sitting once again on the shores of the Arctic Ocean. We then bid her a fond and heart-felt good-bye, packed up our travelers lives and turned back towards only direction we could. The return trip was similar to the previous days trip……well, except for running straight into Tombstone Territorial Park on the most beautiful day of the year. It was as if, the mountains had decided to grow up out of the earth 2 days prior and we were the first to witness their gigantic birth. I had no idea, I still have no idea, that these mountains ranges exist up there. Again, words and phrases and written descriptions from the likes of me do the majestic terrain of the North no justice whatsoever.

We rolled back into Dawson City, covered in a combination of Dempster Dust and calcium chloride and promptly looked for the closest car wash to exorcise this clingy layer of the Yukon and NWT from our truck and camper. A fistful of loonies later, and we looked acceptable enough to drive on pavement. We spent one final day playing in disguise as tourists wandering the boardwalks of Dawson City, before feeding the fridge, pantry, water tank, porta-potti tank, fuel tank, dogs, and humans and departing the greater North for a more southerly mid-North and our eventual homeward bound destination.

With our primary objective completed I decided to follow a previously considered and somewhat secondary, and then tertiary route back to the Alaska Hwy via the Campbell Hwy and South Canol Road. This track was most certainly equally entertaining, interesting and Canadawe-inspring and eventually dumped us back onto the famous Alaska highway where we started to re-connect again with society at large and begin our week-long return journey home vis Hwy 97. Somewhere on our up-bound journey my Wife/Navigator and I had discussed the possibility of culminating our summer adventure by attending the BC Overland Rally in Aggasiz. We re-hashed over the idea, then slightly modified/extended our homeward route so that we could spend the final three days of our adventure hanging out on top of a mountain with 1000 other birds of the same feather. While not originally planned it became the suitable ending to our most amazing journey.

After sitting back and reflecting on our summer adventure, all I can really say is this; go North. Go now. I realize that in the big scheme of things, this particular route and destination may have many equals or greater-thans around this world.  But this adventure is ours, it is sitting there just waiting for you, in Canada, at the top of that globe we all used to spin feverishly when we were kids. So yeah, start hatching a plan point your rig up and travel, you will not be disappointed.

The North guarantees it.

Stemwinder Weekender - An Off The Leash Adventure

Stemwinder Weekender - An Off The Leash Adventure

Any adventure is what you make of it, or so I believe it should be. This past weekend was more of an exercise in destination than one of journey, probably a 75/25 split in favor of the final spot. My Wife and I were looking for a weekend getaway, one of the relaxing type variety. Life can run you ragged sometimes, so I figured a couple days spent sitting in my camp chair, sipping a beer, feeding M&M’s into my belly, throwing a stick(s) for our faithful mutts, and chatting about future trips, adventures and endeavours with my Wife would be exactly what the doc ordered. 

As it happened we departed late on Friday. We would have normally exited the real world sooner, but we have a 7-month old puppy with a weekly obedience training class that is taking priority right now. (A little extra work on our part now should hopefully offer a net result of greater relaxation down the road I have surmised).

So, we exited a little later than normal, and drove about an hour southwest on Hwy #3 to the Stemwinder forest service road trailhead. I had planned on and decided to find a Friday night camping spot as quick as possible after touching dirt, as to make the most of the remaining daylight. Once an appropriate and approved location was found, we upped the rooftop tent and quickly worked to build a fire pit suitable for flame. Smokies were on the menu for Friday night. It is tradition for us, the first night spent camping (in whatever form or definition) camping may take for us) is hot dog or smokie feast. Always has been, always will be. The dogs (of the brined and smoked sausage variety, not the furry family member sort) were washed down with a cold beer, chased with chocolate and we concurred to retire to the second floor of our Mt. Shasta rooftop tent for an evening of shuteye. 

I should take a minute to point out, that this was our first real outing with the new rooftop tent. We had played out how and where our pooches would spend the evening while sitting comfortably on the couch at home a few times, but now the fuse had been lit and we were actually “doing this”. The mutts evening started in the Xterra, with a couple very comfortable and fluffy beds. Beds, I should say, that I would be content sleeping on (insert foreshadowing hint here). We deposited the pooches into the X, and proceeded to make our way to the upper level for a well deserved night of counting sheep. I would say 5 minutes passed before our otherwise well mannered dogs started expressing their disdain for being housed alone inside a vehicle, while we were snuggled away above them in the comfort of the RTT. “Let them wear themselves out” I said to myself. I said this to myself because my darling Wife had figured out the secret to falling asleep, and was, yes, very soundly asleep. 

Well, their temporary evening accommodation ended up being exactly that; temporary. After much fanfare by two seriously peeved off dogs, I retrieved them both, and their fluffy comfortable beds and set them up in the first floor annex of our Cascadia Vehicle Tent abode. Again, a very pleasing and downright plush place to lay one’s head, human or canine. The peace and quite of the secondary sleeping arrangement lasted about as long as it took for me to climb the ladder and zip myself into my incorrectly advertised sleeping bag.

To wrap up the pre-story before the adventure/journey/destination had really even begun; I awoke the sleeping beauty beside me, hatched a quick plan to hoist mutt #1 up to the second level of the rooftop tent. I then threw myself down to the main floor to spend the night with my sleeping bag positioned on two very fluffy and comfortable dog beds beside the puppy, aka: mutt #2, who was as happy as a clam that I had decided to spend the evening curled up with him, as he quickly drifted off to sleep for the remainder of the evening.  

Saturday morning. Yes, we made it to Saturday morning without killing ourselves or each other, or both. Up with the dew-evaporating sun we were, dogs shooed out into the wild blue yonder to run around like mad morning dogs do. A quick cup of joe was brewed by I, beans ground in my mini-mill, water boiled on my 45-year-old $25 bargain find Coleman stove, matched and mixed in loving parts in our GSI Commuter travel press’ and enjoyed as if it were the first and/or last cup of coffee one was to ever enjoy. The decision was made to forgo breakfast and make tracks for the eventual destination atop the mountain that we had slept in the shadow of. 

We were off, like a herd of somethings. Aired down, and coffee’d up, we laid tracks up the forest service road in search of that turn off. You know the one, that little double track that veers off the forest service road as you drive by. The one that whispers “come here, explore me, you know you wanna”. We found our diversion and turned away from the road built for trucks that hauled what will become our homes and furniture, and onto a narrow path built by men 100 years ago who carried the ore was squeezed into a shiny substance and was wrapped around the well to do’s fingers, wrists, and necks of the day. 

Up, and up we went, progressing from 2-wheel to 4-wheel to 4-Lo. At one point I was able to finally utilize the winch I had purchased and ornamented my ARB bumper with. Alas, it was not to free the Xterra from some earth sucking pit of molten magma, but to pull a wind-felled tree from our path. (Performed like a champ she did, Miss Superwinch……but fear not, her job this weekend was not done yet)

After a half hour or rock spitting, tree-dodging, boulder crunching, mud puddle fording upwards travel, we broke free of the forest, everything she had thrown in our way, and arrived into the most heavenly mountain meadow one could picture. For a split second I imagined Julie Andrews twirling down the green slope in front of us.  Devoid of real humans, inhabited only by gophers, songbirds, and the occasional curious deer we continued our uphill progression, slow and easy we traversed. We followed the existing two-wheel track, careful not to step off our allotted line and onto Mother Nature’s beautifully carpeted meadow. A few gentle roller coaster ups&downs were all that remained between us and our “destination”, and it took what felt like a matter of minutes to reach our borrowed weekend spot. 

If nothing else, my Wife and I strive to prefect our camping set-up and break-down. The less time taken to make camp, the more time available to enjoy camp I figure. This getaway, this little adventure into weekend-overlanding, was to be a learning experience, taking our hands and guiding us into the intricacies of setting up our rooftop tent and all the accompaniments that accompany our company.

Once we raised a little tent (insert subtle Canadian rock band note) we got down to the business of cooking breakfast. Tracy had spied an “overland” recipe, omelet in a bag or something of the sort. Cut up your ham, your onion, grate your fromage, whip in a few eggs, throw it all in a freezer bag and sous vide until done. Well, all was going according to plan until Mr. Ziploc decided he’d had enough of the Sous Vide experiment and let loose the contents of his plasticized innards into the boiling water. Not to be discouraged or beaten down, we salvaged the partially cooked egg concoction, threw it in the frying pan and let it continue its way to delicious doneness. Accompanied with some hash brown patties, doused in Mrs. Valentina’s perfect hot sauce, and devoured overlooking the majestic Similkameen River it made for a perfect, and yes I truly mean perfect, breakfast experience.

As it so often happens when camping, late breakfast somehow ends up morphing into and substituting for an early lunch. With cooking duties therefore taken care of for the next few hours we got down to the serious business of relaxing in paradise. I think, not to blow my own tuba here, that we did a bang-up proper job of the business of relaxing in paradise. Chilled in our ARB camp chairs, sipped some vino, sipped some beer, crunched some M&M’s, licked the salt and vinegar off some salt and vinegar chips, threw the doggies some sticks, stared at our eyelids, marvelled at the Similkameen Valley below, and the snow dipped mountains that spike upwards out of the ground in the distance and came to the conclusion (once again) that we are truly more blessed and fortunate than we could hope to believe, living here in British Columbia. 

Post-siesta means one thing; pre-dinner. The Chef (tonight that label would be affixed to me) was cooking up chicken and pepper fajita’s. Slice the chicken, cook (sorry; sauté) over the Coleman stove, chop up some peppers, add to the concoction, introduce Mrs. Valentina to the mix, toss about with some vigor, cover with some aluminum foil (second only to duct tape in level of must have camping importance in my humble opinion) and place on a table set for two in our own personal meadow laden open air dining room. Spoon chicken and pepper mixture onto eagerly waiting tortilla, rain some shredded sharp cheddar cheese down on top, add a few drops of Crystal hot sauce, wrap meticulously, devour and wash down with wine.

Après feast was accomplished with a little more wine and chocolate, sipped and enjoyed around another cracking fire courtesy of my wife, Mrs. Firestarter. 

A day spent campsite relaxing is a sure fire way to exhaust the hardiest of souls, so by the time the short hand swung past the 9 we were all tucked safely away in bed, on the second floor of our beloved rooftop tent. Four souls up and inside, two hooman, and two of the canine variety sleeping soundly. Yes, we had learned our lesson from the evening previous, learned well enough to come out the other side aware of our future sleeping arrangements. 

Sunday morning broke, and we were up, once again. Dogs running the meadow, stretching their appendages, and marking the territory as their own. Humans grinding beans and boiling water, as a man cannot be a man and greet the morning without his beloved coffee. Breakfast was straight to the point and delicious, no Ziploc bags included. We feasted on scrambled eggs, fried ham, and hash browns. The view from the breakfast table was equally as magnificent as the previous night’s dinner table. I think I may just reserve at this scenic accommodation again. After mealtime had concluded, we looked at the schedule and noticed that we were penned in for a little more R&R. Who are we to upset the gods of scheduling, so bums down and feet up for a couple more hours it was. 

We awoke from our appointment with rest and relaxation, the rays of the baking sun helping to slowly pull us back to some form of weekend consciousness. The decision was made by the human staff that the four-legged members of the group would like to depart our sweet little piece of paradise for the opportunity to explore some local backroad areas, and maybe eyeball a couple fishing lakes for future prospects, on a kind of roundabout way back towards home.

We lazily made haste, packed up our portable little adventure outfit and headed back down to the Valley below. Down, down, down, 4Lo, 4-High, then 2-High as we met blacktop and the world again. We raced eastward down Hwy #3, passed Hedley (looked up, you always look up when passing through Hedley – the world famous Mascot Mine hangs on the cliffs a thousand feet above, and how else would you hope to see it if you didn’t look up?), followed the Similkameen River as it snakes through it’s very own Valley, reached Cawston, bid a fond temporary farewell to the River and Valley and hooked left, back into and up the mountains. 

Dirt roads once again, yes! We had only left their brethren a short while ago, and the yearning for the rock tossing and clatter of vehicle parts on gravel and dirt was once again satisfied in whole. As the Similkameen Valley vanished in the mirror behind us, our Okanagan Valley was cresting a view through the mountains to the east, in front of us. Two Valleys, side by each for a million years. Sisters running the earth Northish to Southish, so similar, yet as sibling must be, so very independent and individual. We crested a hill, came down into a slight valley within the mountain and off to the left Miss Superwinch noticed two young men in need of her superpowers.

They had headed out earlier that morning, in search of the ever elusive fish, were sidetracked by the evil of the mud bog and succumbed to her hidden tentacle’s. Stuck up to the axle they were, stuck up to the axle before they realized their 4-wheel drive did not function. Miss Superwinch came to their rescue no matter the cause, fault, or situation. She pulled one way, she pulled another, and within 15 minutes the youngers were freed from their sticky predicament and left to pursue their original and somewhat more daunting goal of catching fish.

Our good deed behind us, we proceeded on along, meandering along the dirt and gravel byway, looking for possible future fishing locations of our own. In another nutshell, we did not locate any suitable and welcoming future fishing locations. As the afternoon started to draw to a close, we found ourselves dipping down out of the mountains, and into our most attractive and welcoming Okanagan Valley. Dirt became pavement, which in turn eventually led to Highway 97. A right turn on that tarmac would take us due South, across the Canada-US border and a thousand kilometers later to the end of this stretch of road at Weed, California. That trip, however inviting, would have to wait for another day. I sensibly turned the steering wheel to the left, compassed North, and made the quick ½ hour trip back to Penticton, our home. Penticton comes from the Interior Salish word snpintktn, which translates to “a place to stay forever”. If the majesty of the surroundings of our weekend getaway did not reinforce our pure luck to live in an incredible place like this, then arriving home certainly backed up that fact.

We were tired, a good tired, but not undaunted enough from our little adventure to sit still. We backed the X into her well deserved parking spot and unloaded what required unloading. A quick beach picnic was plotted and planned, and we departed as quickly as we had arrived back at our homestead. The remaining hours of daylight were spent staring out across the serenity of Okanagan lake, eating fried chicken, watching the dogs play on the beach like nothing else in the world matters. Our thoughts pressed forward to our next little adventure, and further ahead to July, for our next much longer foray into this thing called “overlanding”: a two-week adventure and journey to Colorado.