North to Alaska with a No-Account Cat

love.

Driving up (and down) the Alaska Highway in the land of the midnight sun is, to say the least, a most memorable experience. However, finding the road is also exciting. It is not some super highway that suddenly begins where the US 5 ends at the Canadian border. It isn’t even accessible until you reach Dawson Creek, some 600 miles north.

The 1,645-mile Northwest Highway System popularly referred to as the Alaska Highway, runs from Dawson Creek, British Columbia to Fairbanks, Alaska and includes the Haines Highway. This is all explained in the must have The Milepost, a trip planner for Alaska, Yukon Territory, British Columbia, Alberta, and Northwest Territories. A review of the How to Use It section in this bible is of primary importance to avoid frustration, confusion, and wandering aimlessly in the immense wilderness.

The original road, built by the United States Army in 1942 as a wartime measure, took just nine months to build. At times, while traveling on it, you may think maintenance has been deferred ever since. The mostly two-lane highway is constantly exposed to the forces of nature necessitating continual repair and reconstruction work. Most of the construction sites are identified in The Milepost, however, since it is published annually, yet the freezing and thawing of moisture trapped in the roadbed on top of permafrost occurs continuously, many new unrecorded problems crop up. Areas with surface breakups and frost heaves (bumps) are usually marked with small red flags; potholes, seldom marked, but big enough to dodge, and washouts necessitating wonderful detours are common occurrences.

The standard procedure for road repair, especially in Alaska and the Yukon, is a process of laying out loose gravel, fondly called chip-seal, sans asphalt, hoping that after thousands of tourists have driven over the renovation, the road will be sufficiently packed down enough—though not evenly—to keep the chips from flying.

The biggest threat on the gravel portions of the road are trucks and other vehicles rolling at high speeds toward you. Canadian trucks are not the usual eighteen-wheelers; they seem to have more like 100 wheels, all throwing rocks as they pass (giving a new definition to rocking out). Don’t make the mistake of thinking that just because they are coming at you, that they can’t throw a ton of rocks in your direction. The small stones like to ride up the tires and then at the highest point, with the most velocity, explode into oncoming traffic.

Because of airborne rocks and mud, it is not a good idea to follow another vehicle too closely in the construction zones. But, most of the time you can’t get that close since few drivers stay within the construction speed limits, or slow down for gravel or bumps along the way.

For the most part, there are long stretches of good road surfaces, and there is no need to worry. Just take precautions, such as slowing down for road problems, providing extra protection for your vehicle, keeping up-todate on road conditions, and perhaps, applying an old physics lesson—an impact is greater than the sum of all its parts. In other words, flying rocks versus a moving windshield will increase the chances for a crack, star burst or bulls eye. Lastly, drive defensively; you never know when a vehicle, pedestrian, moose, bear, or caribou will cross in front of you.

British Columbia

Wanting to avoid the border congestion in Vancouver, British Columbia, we drove northeast to what we thought would be a less hectic border crossing. Located in the agricultural valley called the Sumas Prairie between the Dutch settlement of Sumas, Washington and Abbotsford, British Columbia, Canada, it’s nestled in a pastoral setting between majestic snowcapped mountains.

The traffic in Sumas was light even though the exchange rate was favorable to Canadians, but apparently not favorable enough, since many of the businesses—possibly a record for the most gas stations and liquor stores—within a mile of the border were out of business.

At the border, my thoughts of a favorable crossing, traffic-wise, were abruptly interrupted when I stopped the rig adjacent to the customs booth, and a female officer sitting inside began asking questions. Immediately, I realized that she was unfriendly, as if she faced another dreary interview of an unreliable American. There was to be no light-hearted chat—not even a good morning—between two people who shared both a common language and a common continent.

She began the interrogation easily enough, How many adults and children are traveling with you?

Just my wife and I.

Do you have any pets with you?

Just a house cat.

The cat doesn’t count, she said, thereby labeling Pickles as a noaccount cat for the rest of the trip. She didn’t even ask for Pickles’ shot record or health report. I felt cheated after the hair-raising efforts I had made obtaining both documents. Pickles had to be chased to a point of no escape, usually under a bed. She doesn’t fight capture, but can seemingly add several pounds to her dead body to make it very difficult to pull or lift her. Then I dropped her headfirst into a cat carrier—you can’t push a cat forward or backward into anything!—and transported her to and from the vet to the tune of non-stop, pitiful moans and wails.

Then the officer asked the trick question, Do you own a gun?

Yes, I answered truthfully, expecting her to ask if I was carrying the weapon in the motor home, and warn me about bringing a gun across the border in violation of Canadian law.

Instead, she asked, How much liquor are you carrying?

To be on the safe side, I responded, A little over one liter.

And how much beer?

A couple of cans

How much is a couple?

Two or three, I suppose.

Pull over there, she gruffly said, suddenly pointing in the direction of a holding area. Stay in your vehicle, and wait for an inspector to arrive.

Evidently, my imprecise liquor and beer calculations, and my ownershipof-a-gun answer, triggered (no pun intended) a search. I wasn’t happy about the prospects of someone tearing apart my home away from home, looking for some non-existent weapon, over-quota booze quantities, or whatever else they might deem contraband.

Sharon was less nervous about the search than I, so before the inspector arrived, she left the motor home to find the facilities. Consequently, when the inspector entered the vehicle, my wife was outside—against orders. He angrily went looking for her. When he returned with my wife in tow, as if she was some captured criminal, he said, Both of you sit down and don’t move until I finish my inspection.

Wow, I thought. What pissed everyone off? When do they put us in handcuffs? Will we be incarcerated or fined over a miscalculation of beer amounts?

I guess, telling the truth interfered with the guard’s sense of duty and somehow cast us as liars, smugglers or both. Jeeze, we were just a couple of retirees trying to get on with our vacation.

The examiner, with unexpected politeness began a search of every cupboard and drawer inside of the living room. He carefully moved objects about in each, being sure to place them back in the original spot. We kept waiting for an Ah ha! but it never happened.

Next, he searched the refrigerator, in the same cautious way, and because it looked like Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard, except for a few beers (which fortunately, he never added to my quota) and miscellaneous foods, it didn’t take long to complete. I surmised he was looking for a gun or drugs, and he seemed disappointed that neither was found.

In the bedroom, the inspector was less neat; he had to remove clothing from where we had stuffed or stashed it. Nothing went back the way it was found. Some items were just left on the bed. Then, he found my revolver holster.

He asked, Where’s the gun?

Sometimes I carry it with us in the States, I answered. But I knew it wasn’t allowed in Canada, so I removed it.

This answer didn’t satisfy him. He started looking for the weapon. How inopportune, just when I thought he was satisfied with his nonfindings, I created a problem by leaving a smoking holster in the rig. I knew he would never find a gun, but now we were faced with a different attitude from the inspector. He was less pleasant and continued his search with more zeal.

At the moment, because of his intensity, I began to doubt whether I left the revolver at home, and began to worry about what he would do with the weapon if he found it. Maybe he would just check it in at this border station and give it back to me on my return, or maybe he had a collection and was always looking for good additions. I had no idea, but he was so earnest in his renewed search, I knew there had to be more to his motivation (such as an arrest) than mere duty.

Finally, he resorted to opening all of the outside storage cabinets on the right side of the RV. When that produced no Revolver, Colt .45 or M-16, he told me to accompany him to his office. I proceeded with a sense of relief (my memory was still intact even if my veracity had been impeached), and was completely exhausted from the ordeal. I was asked to review and sign a release, and I complied without comment. I just wanted to get the hell out of there.

As we drove off in liberation, I realized the examiner hadn’t made a complete search at all; he hadn’t opened the outside storage cabinet on the left side of the rig where the beer was stored, and he hadn’t lifted the bed to investigate the underneath storage area, which was large enough to house a rocket launcher.

What would make the dutiful examiner bypass such crucial storage areas? Maybe he forgot that our RV had storage spaces, called basements, on both sides of the house. Or maybe he had seen Pickles, poised and ready to attack from her cubbyhole beside the bed. When fearful, she can swell up to an enormous, menacing size.

Later, when we stopped at a rest area, I reflected that crossing borders would never be the same as they were before 9/11. Although, I have had fruit, potatoes, eggs and the like voluntarily confiscated at miscellaneous border crossings in the past, I have never had my vehicle so thoroughly searched, except one time in the ’70s. I suspect that my driving a Volkswagen van (Vanagon) while sporting a full beard—two characteristics of pot smoking hippies in those days—might have had something to do with the Canadian border agents ripping apart the headliner, emptying the glove box, lifting the floor coverings, taking out the seats, popping the top, removing the rear engine cover, and searching every nook and cranny!

Sharon’s and my experience this time left me feeling that a large degree of trust was now gone, and in its place was the concept that anyone crossing a border between nations, might be considered a terrorist, a smuggler, or some other noncompliant soul rather than a simple tourist, no matter their age or demeanor.

I decided to better prepare myself for upcoming crossings into Canadian or Alaskan territory. Hoping to avoid future searches, I prepared a 3 × 5 card listing the exact amount of liquor and beer in our possession. This was handed to any border agent along with our passports. However, if asked if I own a gun, or have one with me, I shall answer no to either, or both, questions.

British Columbia

Trans-Canada Highway 1 from the Canadian border, northward, was at one time part of the Cariboo Waggon (Canadian spelling) Road or the Gold Rush Trail, depending on previous reasons for transcending it—greed, commerce, or even stupidity—and was described in its early days as utterly impassable for any animal but a man, a goat, or a dog.

I could imagine the early rock strewn and rutted trail was much like the one that my dad and I traversed in a 1929 Essex sedan with woodenspoked wheels and a longing for shock absorbers (not invented yet). In our pursuit to reach the perfect camping spot in the San Bernardino Mountains, we bounced constantly and literally ate dust.

Now, in the present day, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of guilt for having it so easy as I drove on a well-maintained highway through flatlands before it wound, climbed, and descended for miles along the Fraser River Canyon and followed the path of one of North America’s largest gold rushes. We had no goat or dog—just a no-account cat that couldn’t have cared less about the historical significance of our journey.

We were under a time constraint that didn’t allow much occasion to explore small towns along the way. Nor did it allow time to do justice to the many hinterland antique shops (Sharon has never met an antique shop she doesn’t like). Under such constraints, we bypassed many settlements including Abbotsford, the raspberry capital of Canada—almost every city in Canada is a capital of something or other—and Chilliwack, where the abundant farmland (confirmed by the numerous highway signs advertising fresh farm products) of the Fraser River Valley stretched out in a green and brown patchwork pattern, which reached as far as the dark turquoise mountains that lined the horizon. The same patchwork configuration occurs near our home in Redlands, California; but, while the surrounding mountains rise above, the agricultural lands below are being swallowed up by assortments of subdivisions. I fervently hoped the scene which stretched before me would never suffer the same fate.

In the early 1800s, as the search for gold moved up the Fraser River and Canyon (named for Simon Fraser, the first white man to go down the river in 1808), communities sprang up, often around existing Hudson Bay Company posts such as Hope and Yale, (but no Harvard).

We took a break in Hope (the chain saw art capital of Canada), a small, picturesque town fronted by a broad sweeping curve of the huge Fraser River, and surrounded on three sides by wilderness stretching high up into emerald green mountains.

The collection of chain saw carvings in Memorial Park started with a twelve-foot eagle, which had been carved from a large tree with a bad case of root rot. Because this tree and others with similar maladies had to be cut down, and because several citizens objected to the trees’ destruction, a local artist, Pete Ryan, proposed that carvings be created from their stumps.

We took advantage of the town’s self-guided walking tour (the best kind in my estimation), to look at over two dozen giant wooden sculptures scattered throughout the downtown area. As we meandered along, following a map from the visitor center, I marveled at the three dimensional, larger than life figures including eagles, bears, cougars, and replications of the past, including a ten foot Mountie, and a rustic prospector leading his Jenny (rumor has it that old-time miners preferred female donkeys because of their temperate nature and romantic spirit).

We had been informed to be on the lookout for Pete because he might be working on his never-ending artistic collection (root-rot is forever). However, he was nowhere to be found, and we missed the opportunity to tell him how much we appreciated his skill and dexterity (a chain saw is no light weight carving tool), and to ask him the burning question, How does carving up what’s left of a dying tree, ‘save’ it?

North, beyond Hope, but not in the literal sense—the local joke here is that no matter which way you travel, the rest of British Columbia is beyond Hope—we visited Hell’s Gate, which is not a place of judgment for one’s sins, but is a spectacular canyon; the deepest and narrowest point on the Fraser River. In 1808, Simon Fraser wrote, We had to travel where no human being should venture—for surely we have encountered the gates of hell.

I parked Big Blue at a convenient spot just south of the attraction. Actually the parking was more than just convenient, it was what RVers dream of, with clearly marked spaces some sixty feet long. We walked across the highway to board the Airtram, a flying elevator, for a spectacular view high above millions of gallons of water surging through the narrow gorge and a gentle 500-foot descent to river level on the opposite side of the canyon. There, we exited and walked out onto a narrow, metal footbridge. Standing on that bridge, I could feel the peril rafters must experience when they rise to the challenge of the maelstrom. Years ago in Wyoming, on a white-water rafting trip down the Snake River, I had felt the same sense of accept-your-fate, stomach churning foreboding.

Sharon’s excitement and apprehension was greater than mine because she had spent many happy hours as a child camping out in a tent with her family close to the rapids. She vividly remembers walking along the riverbank looking for mica with her black Lab, Champ, who unfortunately chased after a grizzly bear one day and never came back.

More than two million spawning salmon face these rapids every year (but not the day we were there). The fish, however, have it easier than boaters; a series of openings in the concrete side-walls of the fishway below the bridge, are constructed to allow salmon to work upstream, sheltered from danger.

Near the bridge, we found our way first into the Scuzzy Trading Post, named after the only stern-wheeler that was able to navigate upstream through Hell’s Gate. This shop is a researcher’s paradise with over 300 history books to choose from, and was a perfect place to pick up a shot glass for my collection.

Since the price of admission was included in our tram fare, we also took in the Fisheries Display. There, we viewed videos that portrayed goldseeking endeavors and the early exploration of the canyon, from a different perspective, aboard a white water raft.

Although I found the documentaries interesting, the highlight of the center is the original display set up to see firsthand how a salmon spends its life from beginning to end. This display includes a replica of a fishway filled with live salmon. What irony, after struggling for days to reach the familiar gravel beds where they were born, they spawn and die.

Once we were back on top of the canyon, I just had to have an ice cream cone (one of my most treasured faults) at the Fudge Factory. It didn’t take me long to agree with their motto: Calories are only a matter of the mind, if you don’t mind, it don’t matter.

Later, I stood at the edge of the precipice and marveled at the steep, narrow trail that looked like a descent into the dark place itself, as it wound its way perilously down to the suspension bridge we had stood on minutes before. I wondered if this was part of some original trail that construction workers used. I could imagine men scaling the towering ninety-degree rock walls to reshape them and establish platforms with machinery. I could just see, in my mind’s eye, the canyon-tethered barges below loaded with material to be used in the building of the International Fishway and Hell’s Gate itself, and the Chinese laborers who would line up along the canyon walls with ropes as they literally pulled the Scuzzy through the gate.

There is no official count of how many pets and people have lost their lives in the gorge, or of how many have made it through, but one remarkable tall tale should give hope to anyone who finds themselves in the Fraser River. It seems that a blind cow, Rosebank Rosie, was driven by dogs into the river, and was swept away through Hell’s Gate. She was found standing on a sand bank a week later, no worse for wear.

We camped at the beautiful Canyon Alpine RV Park and Campground that evening, three miles north of Boston Bar. The alpine setting failed to emerge; the tree-limited facility was more of a site for permanent residents in old trailers than for travelers, but we were happy to have a place to stay. Their sites (less than twenty) were numbered at one time but had lost significance since no digits or exact borders could be found. Our site was supposedly numbered 13 and was the last pull-through (actually it was one of two driveways into the park), which seemed rather ominous. A plastic bag covered the sewer drain and no running water was available, however, we were told to hook up to a spigot in hopes that we would receive water to our rig later. Sure enough, that miracle came true, shortly before we retired for the night.

As I dozed off, my last thought was that this drive had been a crucial test of the rebuilt transmission that had to be installed after the motor home broke down in Ellensburg, Washington. We were there for four days, and the service manager of the Ford dealership was gracious enough to let us stay in the rig for a couple of nights, until they actually pulled it into the garage area (along with the cat). Up to that point, Pickles had been getting along well, but was completely traumatized when she had to go through the repair situation: The motor home was tilted up in the front so that the mechanics had easy access (they could practically stand up) to the transmission and all the sundry connections. This, of course, forced Pickles to slide or tumble to the rear of the coach and prevented her run of the place, which up to that point she controlled. Needless to say, she was angry and somewhat paranoid when we finally got the rig back.

Barkerville, British Columbia

Driving north from Boston Bar we encountered some of British Columbia’s famous small towns—all capitals of one thing or another—such as Lytton at the convergence of the Fraser and Thompson rivers. Until an additional takeout site was established in 1988, this confluence was the most famous white water take-out site in Canada. The popularity of disembarking from Lytton has never waned, giving rise to the town’s reputation as the rafting capital of Canada. Had we brought a raft along we surely would have enhanced that reputation, but, at best, it would have been a difficult maneuver to squeeze another floatable object between dozens of rafts belonging to companies trying to launch what seemed like the Sixth Fleet.

The road turned eastward away from the Fraser River and began its narrow winding downgrade into farming country. We passed through Spences Bridge, well known for its locally grown produce, steelhead fishing and townie big horn sheep that gather on or near the highway. I looked for their telltale white butts, but as I learned later, I was looking in the wrong place. Instead of just wandering around town on the day we passed through, they had decided to go to school, the schoolyard to be exact. It seems the sheep have worked out an agreement with the school district to trim the grass while the students attend class. Although, some students are distracted from their studies, the sheep provide a much quieter operation than a grounds keeper using a power mower.

We left Highway 1, and proceeded north on Highway 97 at Cache Creek, a typical small town in British Columbia. The main thoroughfare is lined with dated, mostly brick buildings having large frontage windows, and numerous acacia trees planted at the turn of the century—leftovers from the days when they were no longer needed in the manufacturing of wagon wheels. Just north of town, I saw a large area that appeared to have suffered from one hell of a fire, but as we approached, what seemed to be an area of devastation was actually acres of black shade cloth that looked like funereal shrouds and for a moment gave me the shivers. As we got closer, I could see knurly plants under the dark fabric.

I said, What’s that?

Sharon said, I think it’s ginseng.

Wow! I’ll bet the residents here are extremely virile, if you know what I mean.

Ha, that might be true, but most of the stuff is exported to China.

Yeah, when I was there, the shops were loaded with the man-root along with rhino horn and shark fin.

I had the same experience. The Chinese were obsessed with their manhood, even under the one-child law.

Just a bit south of Quesnel (the gold pan capital of Canada), we pulled into Robert’s Roost RV Park, located on Dragon Lake which, according to its publicist, is known around the world for its trophy sized Rainbow Trout, exemplified by a ten-pounder I saw stuffed and mounted on a thirty-pound plaque on the office wall. The campground is aptly named because it is not only a resting place for campers; it is also a temporary residence for several families of Canada Goose. In fact, the park is at times overrun with geese and goslings that prefer the groomed gardens, well-manicured grounds, boat launch area, and especially RV sites rather than the extensive wetlands nearby. In the tradition of goose-logic, several of the birds welcomed us to our designated campsite with loud honks that sounded like bitching, reminding me that when I lived on a farm in Montana, my uncle considered using geese as watch dogs because they were meaner than any dog on the place. The birds dodged the rig as I pulled in and kept the noise up until I gingerly stepped out, really more fearful of goose crap than of being nipped.

When the geese were not in the water, they traipsed around in the grass in front of our rig. Sometimes the little-uns were almost invisible in the tall grass and concentrated so much on what they were doing they were left behind as mama goose moved on, looking for more bug delicacies.

Pickles moaned, crouched, and stalked about on the dashboard of Big Blue, her favorite observation platform when we were parked. She wanted to get at the geese, but because she was raised as a house cat, she preferred to fret inside the safety of the RV rather than to suffer a face-to-bill confrontation outside.

Besides geese, the full service campground offered such amenities as a playground, a boat dock, a laundry, and coin showers—my first, but not my last encounter. In fact, I was faced with this option in almost every campground in Canada and the Yukon. I hoped that as I stepped into a shower, my coins would not run out before I could soap-up and rinse off. Adding to the drama, almost every timing device was set differently and some were defective (less time but never more). I suspected this was a shortchanging method to save on water and at the same time, make more money for the campground.

The first venture out of Robert’s Roost was a visit to the Quesnel Museum. It was the kind of museum that puts me to sleep if I am alone, but is more tolerable if Sharon is with me. The usual farming, logging, and mining exhibits had my eyes glazing over after about five minutes, and were it not for a spell-casting, haunted rag doll named Mandy, and, believe it or not, an eighty-year-old condom, I would have slept the rest of the day tipped against an exhibit.

Now, Mandy is no ordinary antique doll. Some say that she has been given unusual powers and that strange things happen when Mandy is about. According to rumor, Mandy’s ghastly visage, cracked skull and sinister smile have caused many tourists to run straight out of Quesnel without looking back, and several of them have died since. The warning sign read:

DON’T LOOK MANDY IN THE EYE OR YOU’LL BE CURSED

I didn’t want to have a curse hanging over me for the next three months so I averted my gaze, and quickly moved on to the party hat. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was still serviceable.

Approximately seventeen miles east of Quesnel, on the relatively straight Highway 26, we found the Cottonwood House, a classically restored provincial roadhouse, and one of the oldest buildings still standing in British Columbia. The staff, wearing period costumes, made it easy to imagine a time when dusty, happy travelers alighted from stagecoaches and lined up in front of a registration counter to check in—just as we do today at Best Western hotels with baggage in hand and sometimes with just as much relief.

My reverie was short-lived because Sharon asked if I wanted a cup of coffee. Back in reality, I was reminded of what the registration area had become: a combination of gift shop and snack bar. Stepping outside with a hot cup of coffee and a free goodie in our possession, we strolled about the other structures on the site including a barn, a stable, and a root cellar that looked like a grass covered bomb shelter. We entered an interpretive center full of old-time photos and other historical displays. We looked inside a replica of a cozy guest bungalow with all of the turn of the century trimmin’s, including a rough-cut wooden bed mated to an itchy looking straw-stuffed mattress (known as a fart sack in my Marine Corps days), a wash stand supporting a chipped porcelain basin and water pitcher, and the absolute necessity: a thunder jug.

While we didn’t take advantage of a ride in a vintage stagecoach, I was able to visualize the sensation of bouncing along in the oddly-shaped wooden box on wheels while eating dust. It had to take strong hands and an unflagging determination of the driver to control a team of spirited horses across a wide open landscape, over roads that were, at times, deeply rutted or even washed out, to reach distant outposts that were little more than lean-tos attached to a corral.

While Cottonwood House actually has a given name, most roadhouses were identified only by mileage references such as 70 Mile House, 100 Mile House and 150 Mile House. All of which are stage stops on the Cariboo Gold Rush Trail which originated at the small nondescript town of Lilloet, British Columbia, rather than at Vancouver, a much larger city, some 209 miles to the southwest. The only reason I can think of for this oversight is that the roadhouses were established before the actual mileage measurements and to make the distance to each come out even, they chose to start at Lilloet. Otherwise, they would have been left with places such as 279 mile house and 309 mile house.

Thirty-four miles east of Cottonwood House, we arrived at Barkerville Historic Town, a reconstructed and restored Cariboo Trail gold rush settlement that literally, but not figuratively, is at the end of the road. Barkerville, which is the largest historic town (it never went to the dogs) in western North America, offers 125 heritage buildings and an abundance of living history programs including live theater shows. Period costumed citizens roam the streets and work in the stores, restaurants, and other turn-of-the-century shops. The town includes a bakery that provides 1890s confections; an old time photo studio where you can don costumes of yesteryear and see your photo images produced in the sepia tones typical of the period; a courthouse and St. Savior’s Anglican Church—a cathedral-like wooden structure built in 1869, and still in operation.

Since no vehicles are allowed inside this settlement, except for vintage coaches and wagons, visitors can wander along the dirt streets (but not if it is raining) or on boardwalks that stretch along the building fronts on both sides of the road. Though we managed to stay upright, there is some danger, however, of falling on your ass as you walk the planked pathways of uneven boards and multilevel porches.

If you don’t want to meander like clueless geese on your own, several tours are available including a stagecoach ride; the Guided Town Tour: an in-depth description of the gold rush, Barkerville and its people; the Mysteries of Chinatown Tour, an exploration of Canada’s oldest Chinatown; and a cemetery tour for those who are interested in digging up the past.

We visited the courthouse, which was in session daily, and listened to colorful anecdotes about criminals and infamous characters, and witnessed a trial that ended with usual old west results—a guilty verdict. The proceedings reminded me of the justice applied by Hanging Judge Roy Bean, who, in the 1880s, held court sessions in his saloon along the Rio Grande River in West Texas. Calling himself the Law West of the Pecos, he is purported to have sentenced dozens to the gallows, saying Hang ’em first, try ’em later.

Visitors can pan for gold or even buy a gold mine at the Cornish waterwheel from a couple of entrepreneurs (con men), but save your money, the gold has been played out for over 100 years. However, these guys are convincing, (I saw some people reaching for their wallets) entertaining and informative while demonstrating 1870s mining technology. They delivered their pitch below a large waterwheel and probably the world’s longest elevated sluice channel used to wash gold from the diggins.

For lunch, we had the option of eating at the House Hotel Coffee Saloon or at the Lung Duck Tong Restaurant, but the saloon sounded more like a light snack place, and Chinese food didn’t appeal to either of us so we chose the best place to eat gold rush style. At the Wake-Up Jake Restaurant, we ordered a delicious stew made with lots of tasty beans, or as the miners called them, Cariboo strawberries.

Barkerville is the most complete and genuine ghost town I have ever visited. It is not just a lot of historical remnants found in such places as Bodie, California or some Hollywood version commercially developed in locations like Calico Ghost Town near Barstow, California. It is truly an authentic town that has been preserved exactly as it was in the 1860s, and remains a town of discovery, not of precious metals but rather of a chance to