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I'm a driver. I don't mean golfer, I mean that I drive. That is what I like to do best, me in the driver's seat with the window rolled down and music playing so loud I will more than likely be deaf in five years. My home for the last two years has been a 1993 green Nissan pick up, just big enough for one girl and her entourage of shit. I love it, and wouldn't trade it in for anything. When things in my life start taking a turn for the worse, I grab an americano and get in my truck and go somewhere. I usually return to find whatever problem that made me want to so hastily depart in the first place is worse than before, but I am more willing and level headed to squash the problem after the drive.
Last fall I moved up north to a quiet mountain town, called Smithers. I moved up for a job and a boy. I got there and there was no job, and the boy had another girl in his bed. But I had no where else to go, so due to no other options, I had to live with a boy for a week or two while I sorted my messed up life out. I got a job at a local cafe and had a lead on an apartment, but the morning I was meant to go and look at my potential new home, the landlady called and said that they had rented it that morning. I guess you could call that the straw that broke the camel’s back. Right after that phone call, I went to my new workplace, got one of the strongest coffees I have ever had the pleasure of drinking, put gas in my trusty pick up, and headed for Alaska. I ended up in Hyder, Alaska, right across the border from Stewart, B.C. There isn't an American customs crossing there. The only way you know that you have made it into Alaska is that the road went from paved to gravel. I was there. I had no idea what I was doing there, but I got there just fine. I went for a little run around the block to get myself accustomed to the Alaskan ways. There was no block, there was a hotel, two bars, a general store or two, and about 100 people around. I was loving it. On my run, I saw an old trapper type smoking a cigar. I literally thought "screw this, I am going to get me some of those" and I ran up the steps of the only general store, and bought myself a pack of Blackwoods and V8 juice. This is what I needed. I proceeded to call my mother dearest. She asked, "Where are you?"
"I'm on payphone in Alaska."
"What are you doing in Alaska?"
"Smoking cigars, and drinking later."
"Kid, are you OK?"
Drinking later is exactly what I did next. Home to 100 people and two bars, I have to say that I like that ratio. One of the bars is famous for getting "hyderized" in. There they sell the highest proof alcohol that anyone can legally buy, serve it to you in a shot glass and explain the rules;
"No sipping, no smelling, just slamming" the bartender tells me right before I make a toast to myself. I do exactly as she instructs, and she lights the rim of the glass on fire while congratulating me on getting hyderized. This bar has history. I sit at the bar for hours talking with the bartender. Her father started the bar fifty years before I was there, and getting hyderized made it famous all over the world. The walls are covered in dollar bills from all over the world. People sign the money and stick it up on the wall, although now one might be hard pressed to find a place to put up their legacy, as there is very little room left for any more money. I wonder how much money is stapled to the walls in this tavern. I sure it would be an amazing amount if someone ever did do the math.
I felt the need to hit up both bars in that town, considering I was only there for one night. I wanted to see it all. The other bar is part of the hotel that I am staying at, and it is a busy place for hyder. Half the town must be there...Ok maybe only twenty people, but that is still a quarter of the town. I go in, sit down, order my fourth American beer for the evening (even though I hear it is horse piss) and pull out my third cigar of the evening. I have to say, I am falling in love with Alaska by the second. The locals at this bar have already heard of the new girl in town, running around the streets and buying cigars. I proceed to have some of the most interesting conversations with some older, wiser men. One man there, a retired trucker, drives from Arizona to Hyder every year with a truck full of watermelon, just to give it out to the kind people of Hyder. He spends about six months there. He is known as "Watermelon Jim" and even has a colourful card that says so. I believe that it is still in my wallet. The bartender is actually from across the line and lives in Stewart with her family. She has two beautiful daughters (she had the picture to prove that) and tells me stories of how the younger one massacred her hair with some scissors. So in this conversation there is a seventy-one year old watermelon man, a housewife, and twenty one year old girl, trying to find something for herself. I believe that I fit right in.
I returned to my homeless life in Smithers the next day, with a massive hangover, tobacco smelling clothes, but a clear head. My problems were still there, but they didn't seem to matter as much. And now I am trying to devise ways to get back to Alaska as soon a possible. I fit right in there.
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