the journey of river chickadee
by robin brown

When we heard that Robin Brown (whose email is "riverchickadee") was about to load up her belongings and her 11-month old Australian shepherd Kootenay in Fairbanks, Alaska and head to Weaverville to study massage, we thought it would be interesting to follow this pre-Western North Carolina woman on her journey. So many of us have left behind all that was familiar and headed for WNC and the unknown. What follows is PART TWO of a series of emails to her friends as she heads towards her new home.

January 28, 2004
Leaving Alaska, -40 deg F.

It seems so fitting that it should be this cold on the day I leave town.
I have detested the cold this year more than ever before—maybe because I have been anticipating this departure. Negative 40 Fahrenheit is not unusual for this time of year; in fact, it should be routine for me after living here for 18 years. I do know how to deal with it. It’s just not fun anymore. I am decked out in my Carhartt insulated coveralls, wool felt pack boots, light gloves, stocking cap and jacket for driving. My parka is stashed behind the seat for quick access. I am warmed at the thought of leaving this behind.

Ice fog hangs over the city and hovers over the roads and highways like a veil as we begin our journey. Frozen mist acts much the same as unfrozen mist. This morning it hangs in the air and has covered everything with a thin layer of ice. It makes driving visibility very poor, but I know it will improve when we clear town and traffic… and civilization. I am following my Uncle who is driving his truck and pulling my trailer. He will be traveling with me as far as Montana and I am grateful for his company. So much could happen on this long remote highway in the dead of winter—a flat tire at the wrong time or place could become a survival issue. I drive through the dark with my little Australian Shepherd pup, Kootenai, sleeping on my lap. Somehow I knew it would be just Kootenai and me.

Just an hour ago I was walking around my truck in the arctic cold and dark with a head lamp on, checking all the tie-downs on my roof rack and making sure everything was in its place. My two canoes and two bicycles are up there and before it’s over, will have traveled over 5500 miles. It is so cold that the defroster in my little Ford Ranger can not keep the side windows clear. I have slipped a piece of cardboard up in front of my grill to help the radiator hold its heat. The windows are frosted with the traces of whatever touched them last. I have labeled the passenger side window, “Kootenai’s Nose Art.” It’s quite a beautiful palette of nose smudges arcing this way and that over a background of smooth streaks, testifying to Kootenai’s curiosity layered over my last window washing job. The morning sun shines in through this icy art giving sparkle and beauty to what used to be puppy snot! This ice, by the way, is on the inside of my windows. The outside air warms a little with the rising sun and Kootenai’s Nose Art melts away to a deceivingly clean window, only to reappear again when I drive into a colder pocket of air.

I am actually going! I am actually moving down the road with all my earthly belongings, toward my new life. Outside, the wind howls strongly, pushing on my truck and I anxiously watch the bow of my canoes for signs of movement and listen for the sound of flapping straps or a bike falling off my rack. Everything stays put. I can’t help reflecting on what I’ve left behind, and those thoughts make up most of my day as the white Alaskan landscape rolls by. I do not even put on the radio or any music. My thoughts are enough. What I’ve left behind are not things that could be loaded in a truck. They are friends, a job and a husband of 14 years. I’ve also left everything that is familiar to me: roads, trails, rivers, libraries and grocery stores! For the next phase of my life I will be continuously finding my way in unfamiliar territory. I see the wind blowing snow up the side of a bare mountain and it sprays into the sky on the other side like a beautiful white horse tail. Its’ bright white smooth slopes remind me of days playing in the mountains, camping and skiing on the glaciers. I am leaving behind the most remote places in the United States and going to where there are more people, a lot more people. I tell myself I am free, but still can’t seem to feel what that means. I continue down the road in silence, my puppy’s chin resting on my leg.

We cross the border into Canada without incidence, reporting both on the U.S. side and the Canadian side. No, we did not bring any beef products with us. We are only traveling through. Stopping for dinner in Beaver Creek, Yukon Territory, we decide to stay there for the night. It’s just too cold to push on and take a chance on having a problem when it is so far between towns and services are mostly closed down for the night. I’ve learned that things just break when the weather is this cold. Dealing with it is more than just inconvenient, it is painful and can be life-threatening. Kootenai’s Nose Art is back. Amazingly it has disappeared and reappeared all day, like a slide show with only one slide that smoothly fades in and out. We see a rabbit as we drive to the hotel and Kootenai makes a few modifications to her masterpiece.

We pull up to our hotel and plug in. Our trucks, like most Alaskan vehicles, are equipped with an engine block heater, an oil pan heater and a battery blanket. In this weather, we have to plug them in or we will not get started in the morning. We haul our stuff into the hotel and carry in our food and anything that we don’t want frozen. I leave Kootenai for last. We have a routine. I put her polar fleece booties on her along with her reflective vest and we go for a walk in the dark. She is so happy to be out of the truck. She has grown a warm winter coat, but still amazes me that it seems to be enough. She shows no sign of feeling cold, just puppy eagerness possibly encouraged by the scent of a rabbit. She inspires me to deal more cheerily with the cold. Tonight she will sleep on my bed. We both enjoy the closeness. Outside, the temperature has dipped to -55 deg. F. I am warm in bed now, with Kootenai lying on my legs. I have taken care of everything that needs taken care of. I feel content. The first day of my journey has come to a close.

Robin Brown
Aka riverchickadee
Ponder Creek, NC