As some of you folks are coming up the Alcan this summer, we thought we'd 
recount our adventure.  It started out with a bottle of red wine and one 
too many episodes of Northern Exposure.  The subject of Alaska came up, 
and being thoroughly disgusted with California, we decided to move to 
Fairbanks sight unseen. One month later we quit our jobs, had a garage 
sale, sold our Dodge Colt, and headed off to Alaska in our two 
Volkswagens:  a '66 Bus and a '63 Bug towing a very heavy trailer. Both 
vehicles were loaded to their roofs with our belongings and our 2 cats, 
and our trailer was filled with our necessities (a waterbed, dresser, 
spare engine, drill press, etc.) The fact that it was December didn't 
phase us a bit.  

The first part of the trip was fairly uneventful.  We hit our first snow
of the trip at Mt. Shasta.  It was in the 20's (that's +20's), and it
seemed really cold at the time.  We encountered a more serious snowstorm
near Williams Lake in Canada.  The rocker panel under the side doors in
the bus is nonexistent.  This created our own personal indoor blizzard. 
The snow blew up into the bus, covering everything we owned (including our
cats.) Nothing a little cardboard couldn't fix.  Unfortunately, duct tape
doesn't stick when it's cold. 

We plowed on just fine for a few more days, and then it was Christmas 
Eve.  Time for gathering with friends and family in a warm, cozy home 
while drinking hot toddies?  Not for these adventurers!  Time to blow out 
our first trailer tire.  First in a series of four such escapades.  
Pulled the tire off the trailer, drove 40 miles up the road to the next 
town (Toad River), got it fixed, and drove back.  We continued on to Toad 
River together, where it blew again.  By this time, it was 7pm on 
Christmas Eve and everyone was closed.  Did this phase our fearless duo?  
No!  Time to heat up some beanie-weenies and call it a night.  By the 
way, did we mention we were camping?  Yes, camping.  In December.  In 
Canada.  In a not-so-well-sealed bus.

Woke up on Christmas day and couldn't find help in Toad River.  So, 
pulled the tire off the trailer, drove 35 miles up the road to the next 
town (Muncho Lake), got it fixed, and drove back.  (Deja vu?)

We made it to Liard Lodge by Christmas evening.  If you have a chance to 
stay here, do it.  It's run by very friendly people who fed us a 
wonderful Christmas dinner, free-of-charge.

The next day, Boxing Day, we only made it as far as Watson Lake.  We 
splurged and got a hotel room, with high hopes for making good distance 
the next day.  We woke up to our third flat trailer tire.  While waiting 
for this tire to be fixed, we were approached by a nice gentleman named 
Bill.  Seems Bill's Subaru had broken down, and he needed a ride to 
White Horse.  His Dad, a pilot, would pick him up there and fly him on to 
Anchorage.  We decided sure, what the hell, there's always room for one more.

We cleared a tiny spot for him in the bug, cleared a tiny spot for his 
luggage in the bus, and were on our way again.  Till we reached 
Rancheria, where we intended to stop for a quick bite to eat.  
Unfortunately, one of our cats intended to stop for quite a while 
longer.  4 hours to be exact, trembling under a shed, while we searched 
for him.  During the search party, we took the bug and trailer out on 
some side roads trying to find him.  Yep -- you guessed it -- flat number 
four.  (Bill, who helped us search for the damn cat, didn't seem to be 
well-prepared for the cold.  Not nearly as well-prepared as you would 
expect from someone who'd grown up in Alaska.  We didn't think much of it 
-- maybe he just had hearty Alaskan blood.)

Fixed the flat, found the cat.  (Hmmmm, almost sounds like a line to a 
song.  Joel? ;-)  )

We pressed on to White Horse.  By then it was about 
2am, and we were slowly cruising the streets in search of a motel.  
Must've looked kinda suspicious, because we were pulled over by the Royal 
Canadian Mounties.  (No, they weren't mounted at the time.  They were 
cruising in style in Fords.)  When they heard we were looking for a warm 
place to stop, they pointed us towards a doughnut shop.  Some things are 
universal.

After dropping off Bill and his luggage at the doughnut shop, we found a 
place to sleep for the night.  We made Alaska within a couple days and 
settled into the Fairbanks life.  End of story, right?  Well, not quite.

Two months later we received a call in the middle of the night from the
Alaska State Troopers.  It seems that they'd found a fellow who claimed to
be Thomas H. Johnson and was working as a commercial fisherman in Sand
Point.  "Bill" aka John Skarsvog had snagged Tom's birth certificate out
of the bug's glove box and set up his own separate little identity in Sand
Point.  Bill/John/Tom was an escaped felon/mental patient from Michigan
who had stolen a Subaru and tried his luck in getting to Alaska.  His luck
held out, thanks to this travelling twosome. (Kinda explains the lack of
cold weather gear, doesn't it?) And the luggage?  No less than a stolen
AK-47.  Guess the Royal Canadian Mounties would've liked to have known
about that.  The Alaska State Troopers informed us that Bill/John/Tom was
being extradited to Michigan, and they'd send along the birth certificate
to us after it had been used for evidence. 

End of story?  Well, not quite yet. . . .

8 months passed.  Tom, finishing up his shift at the Fairbanks Airport at 
midnight, headed for home.  Who should decide to pull him over but the 
Alaska State Troopers?  They very cautiously approached the bus, and 
asked Tom if he had any aliases.  The correct response is not "chuckle, I 
bet you're thinking about John Skarsvog!"   Nope, definitely not the right 
response.  Unless you get a thrill out of being arrested at gunpoint and 
toted down to the Fairbanks Correctional Center.  Seems to be that the 
Alaska State Troopers forgot the minor detail of clearing Tom's name out 
of the computer.  The fact that he and John Skarsvog were the same 
height, build, and coloring didn't help matters much.  He sat in the 
pokey for about two hours while they called him "John."  Not a pretty 
picture.  Finally, accepting the fact that Tom did not share the feature 
of being covered in tattoos, the Troopers let him go.

End of story?  Certainly hope so!

Tom and Sharon