Ever since the Memorial Dinner for Beverly last November, I’ve known that I’d be taking two trips this summer to Minnesota, and within three weeks of each other at that. In August there’ll be the 50th Reunion of Beverly’s High School Class of 1955. We keep up regularly with that circle of friends, and this year I wanted to represent Beverly at her 50th. But since Beverly’s college friends are the same age as she was, they will also be having 50th high school reunions, although in September. If I want to get together with these college friends, including someone from Alaska I haven’t seen in 35 years, it will require a second trip, which I’m pleased to take.

But the story gets odder. As part of the August trip, I’ve decided to fly from New York to Minneapolis—via Alaska. And, of course, thereby hangs a tale.

Seeing North America   I know I’ve already mentioned this some time back, but it needs repeating here. In the late 1960’s, although we had already taken several major trips since we got married in 1962, including travel and study in Mexico in 1966, we decided on two things. We were going to embark on a three-summer program to see North America, all the US and Canada, and secondly, we bought a Volkswagen camper to do it in. This was not a motor home. It had no toilet facilities, a simple gas burner, and you had to pick up ice every day or two for the ice box. But it was luxury for us at the time, staying overnight in national forests and parks, and other adventurous, although less idyllic places. In 1968 we went West, winding through the western US and Canada. In some ten weeks we covered—it’s in Beverly’s diary—12,383 miles. In 1969, it was the East. We looped up first to New England and Eastern Canada, then swung south through central Pennsylvania for a huge swath through the South. In some eight weeks we covered 8,718 miles.

By 1970 we had seen most of what we wanted to see, but getting to Alaska and Hawaii was special. We worked it this way. We drove to Minneapolis, and sold the camper with the help of my in-laws. After visiting there, they drove us to Canada. We asked them to purposely veer a bit out of the way in order to cut through North Dakota, since it was the only one of the lower 48 states we hadn’t been in. We pulled over to a roadside picnic table in North Dakota and Beverly and I did a little dance to celebrate # 48. Crossing into Manitoba, they dropped us in Winnipeg to take the Canadian westbound. We changed in Jasper, and took the Skeena to Prince Rupert, where we took one of the Alaska ferries up through the Alaska panhandle, stopping along the way. This route between islands and along the coastal mountains is called the Inside Passage, since it’s protected from the open Pacific. At Skagway at the north end, we were to take the famous White Pass and Yukon Railroad to Whitehorse, the capital of the Yukon, where we would later fly to central Alaska to see sights, visit our friends (that I’ll be seeing again in Minnesota in September), and then complete our trip to Hawaii and home to New York.

It was a full summer again in 1970. It was enjoyable. It was almost perfect. But not quite.

Sitka   Sitka, under the name “New Archangel” had been the capital of Russian America. Although most of the towns in the Alaskan panhandle line up in a row along the Inside Passage so that the Alaska State Ferries and cruise ships can weave in and out between channels and islands and visit them sequentially, Sitka lies on the west (Pacific) side of Baranof Island, which itself is somewhat off to the west of the Inside Passage. We had wanted to see Sitka. We didn’t.

In my mind’s eye (that notorious liar) we had just decided we didn’t have time and didn’t try. That’s what I’ve remembered over these 35 years. But opening Beverly’s travel diary for that year, I was surprised to see what really did happen. She writes that on July 11, 1970, we were indeed on a ferry to Sitka, hoping to get to walk around town a bit for the hour or so while the ferry stays in port, but first, the tides were particularly low, and the ferry didn’t go into town. It seems it docked some ten miles out of town, and at that, only stayed a few minutes, for people to hop off and on, and then off it went again. But in any case, we did not see Sitka.

I remember in the last couple of years being at one of the wine tastings at the Merchant’s House Museum and striking up a conversation with a young man, a Native American, who was from Sitka and was working in New York. I remember pumping him for information, and found out that historic Saint Michael’s Orthodox cathedral had burned down some years ago, but had been rebuilt. I wanted to find out then what I could about Sitka. I still do.

Skagway   If the Sitka problem was bad, the Skagway problem was worse. Skagway lies at the northernmost end of the Alaska panhandle, and is the gateway to the Yukon. There are fascinating stories to talk about here. I have a lot to say about this later, but in 1970, our train ride on the historic White Pass & Yukon Railroad fizzled out. As I recall, based on our reservation, we had gotten a letter from the railroad before we left home saying that they were on strike, but we hoped for the best. Yet when we were there, the strike was still on, and the progress of our trip was in danger. As it turns out, the railroad paid for a charter plane—the indignity of it: a plane—to fly the railroad passengers over the White Pass to Whitehorse. We missed the fun of the train, the land trip over the pass, the trip through the Yukon before arriving at Whitehorse. Beverly’s diary also pointed out something I had forgotten. Skagway was fogbound that day, and we had to sit around all day, totally bored, until it lifted and we could fly in the late afternoon. It was not a happy part to the Alaska trip.

Then, in 1982, I found out that the railroad had gone out of business and closed down when the mining industry collapsed, so I figured that was the end of it. (Good news—it started up in 1988, but more on that later.)

I have had Sitka and Skagway in mind for 35 years now. When planning this year’s Siberian rail trip, I considered somehow going from Vancouver up to Alaska, but the trip was already long, and didn’t need any more extensions. Seeing Sitka just before going to Russia would have been quite appropriate, but it couldn’t happen.

The crowning event came on the QM2. Speaking with ferroequinologist Bob about rail travel in general and narrow-guage trains in particular, he brought up the famous Durango-Silverton rail trip in Colorado, which I had heard of, but had not been on, and then he innocently asked: “But you’ve been on the White Pass & Yukon, haven’t you?” I put two fists together and jokingly feigned plunging a dagger into my heart. “Bob,” I said, “you’ve just asked the wrong question”. Or maybe it was the right one.

When I presented the Cyrillic alphabet, my question was to the worthy reader: “If you’re not going to learn Cyrillic now, they when?” So I took my own advice. If, after 35 years, I don’t go back to Sitka and Skagway now, then when? So, this lengthy exposition goes back to the fact that I’ve added a quick trip to Alaska before the August Minnesota trip. If I’m already going halfway across North America, I’ll go all the way. Also, August is better than September, since the exact rail trip I want is seasonal and it won’t work for me to go in connection with the September Minnesota trip.

Engineering Landmarks   As I started researching the WP&YRR with contemporary computer tools, I found out that in 1994 it had been named an International Historic Civil Engineering Landmark, joining the likes of the Eiffel Tower and Panama Canal. That was just a pleasant thought until I started researching the Göta Canal in Sweden, which I plan to cruise on next summer. Curiously, in 1998 it was also named an International Historic Civil Engineering Landmark. I got the feeling I was onto something here. Further research shows that the American Society of Civil Engineers (ASCE) has started this designation program to highlight contributions in the civil engineering field over the years. At first I thought it could be dry as dust, and maybe you’ll think just that, but actually, I’ve found it quite interesting, especially regarding railroads and canals, which are of most interest to me and is how I came across the Landmarks list in the first place.

The list goes from the extremely obscure to the very famous. Most of the well-known buildings, bridges and tunnels you’ve ever heard of are probably on it. The Mason-Dixon Line is on it. I’ve picked out an admittedly extremely subjective selection of some of the ones that are of interest to me.

In the New York area, the Holland Tunnel (1927) is included since it was the first tunnel for auto traffic. Newark Airport (1928) is there since it had the nation’s first hard-surface runway, and was the airmail terminus for the eastern US. The Tennessee State Capitol (1845-77) was the only state capitol on the list. The Stone Arch Bridge in Minneapolis (1882-3) is included, originally a railroad bridge and now a pedestrian walk across the Mississippi. The Roebling Bridge in Cincinnatti (1866) was Roebling’s prototype for the Brooklyn Bridge. The Johnstown Inclined Plane (1891), a funicular, is on some versions of the list, which occasionally are spotty in their completeness.

Other canals on the list are the Erie Canal (1825); the Cape Cod Canal (1909-14), which, when later widened, became the widest canal in the world. The Chesapeake and Delaware Canal (1825-9), which cuts through the Delmarva Peninsula to connect Baltimore and Philadelphia, is the only 19C canal still operating as a major shipping route.

There are four rail Landmarks I want to mention. In 1999 Beverly and I went to see the Allegheny Portage Railroad (1834) and Horseshoe Curve (1854), both near Altoona, Pennsylvania. We went because they looked interesting, but I didn’t know they were Landmarks at the time. Together, they altered my perceptions of travel in the entire northeast. I’ve been planning to write them up, and will do so in the near future.

Finally, I found on the list two Landmarks I have not travelled on, and will plan special trips to do so when time allows. One, in Colorado, is the Durango-Silverton Branch of the former Denver & Rio Grande Railroad (1882) that I’ve heard a lot about, including from Bob on the Mary. The other is the Mount Washington Cog Railway (1869) in New Hampshire. We once drove to the top of Mount Washington and saw the train waiting there, but never traveled on it. It’s now also on my to-do list.

Alaska & The Yukon   There are some places that you always think of together in your mind, or instance, Spain and Portugal. There they sit on the Iberian peninsula, off by themselves, way down in the southwest corner of Europe. You can’t leave Portugal by land, car or train, without going through Spain. There is a sort of symbiotic relationship between them.

In my mind, there is a similar relationship between Alaska in the US and the Yukon in Canada. Most of the population of Canada is in the south; the vast majority of Canadians live within a couple of hundred miles of the US border. The north, all across Canada, is populated, but very sparsely. And yet, up there in the northwest corner of North America sit Alaska and the Yukon right next to each other. The Yukon remains a Canadian territory. It’s population still isn’t big enough to make it a province. Still, the Yukon to some extent has a symbiotic relationship with Alaska. If you want to drive from central Alaska down to the Alaskan panhandle, say to take the Alaska State Ferry, you can’t go directly, since mountains prevent any roads between them. You have to drive into the Yukon first, then back into the Alaskan panhandle.

I’ve always thought it helps people visualize geography when a map isn’t available by using “hand puppets”. Make your left hand into a fist, with the thumb pointing to the lower right. The fist is central Alaska, with Siberia off to the left. The thumb is the Alaskan panhandle, consisting of islands along the coast along the Inside Passage, with the Coast Mountains separating it from British Columbia in Canada. Sitka is here, along with Juneau, the capital of Alaska. Now picture a triangle wedged in between your thumb and fist. This is the Yukon, but it lines up along your fist and doesn’t quite reach the side of your thumb. This is because the northwesternmost part of British Columbia is in between. In this area of BC is where the headwaters of the Yukon River are. Once it flows into the Yukon Territory, it becomes navigable at Whitehorse, which is precisely why that city developed there. It flows north to Dawson City in the Klondike area, then west into Alaska, where it meanders, at one point just kissing the Arctic Circle, and eventually emptying in Western Alaska, opposite Siberia.

The Klondike   As I’ve considered the situation, I find it surprising how similar the difficulties of access were to the two gold rushes that took place in North America in the 19C, that in California in mid-century (1849), and that in the Klondike in the Yukon just about a half-century later, as the century was ending (1898). Those rushing to the goldfields in each case had a choice of three routes, a water route, an overland route, or between the two, a water-and-land route.

The Forty-Niners going to California from the east coast could try going overland across the US, but this was arduous in the pre-railroad era, and susceptible to Indian attack. They could also take the water route around South America. This took a long time (and they were in a hurry, after all), was expensive, and was dangerous because of the bad weather conditions often found going around Cape Horn. Between the two was the water-and-land route: sail to Panama on one ship, go overland the short distance across the isthmus, then sail on on a second ship to California. The catch here was the high susceptibility of succumbing to disease on that short overland stretch in Panama. Eventually, building the Panama Railroad that Beverly and I rode on last year was an improvement (still only 55 minutes coast-to-coast). It was an improvement in speed, but in those early years, disease must have remained a problem. Finally, building the Panama Canal next to to the railroad many years later was only possible once the disease problem was solved. Nevertheless, back in 1849, people made it to California one way or another. There is no doubt that San Francisco would not be the important city it is today without the California gold rush, or indeed much of northern, and even all of California might not have developed to the extent it has. The gold rush was also a strong impetus to eventually build the first, and subsequent, transcontinental railroads.

Parallel to that situation were the so-called Routes of ‘98 to the Klondike, also three in number. The overland route once again was just as difficult, swinging from the eastern US and Canada up through British Columbia to the Yukon. It was total wilderness, extremely difficult, and even more dangerous in the winter weather of the North.

[First side comment, on rail: by this time, railroads had crossed the continent, but none ever swung north, connecting to the Yukon or Alaska. The topic has arisen, even to someday build such a railroad beyond Alaska, in a tunnel to Siberia (standard guage to broad guage problem!!!), but nothing has ever come of it. It would be very practical for all the freight that comes across the Pacific in ships now, although less so for passengers, but going by rail around the world from New York to Southampton without having to fly the Pacific is a pleasant dream.]

[Second side comment, on highways: in 1942, a mere four decades after the Klondike gold rush, the Alaska Highway (at one point called the Alcan Highway) was rushed through in just an incredible eight months, in order to gain land access to Alaska during World War II. It runs from Dawson Creek in British Columbia for 2500 kilometers through the Yukon and on into Alaska. The worthy reader will not be surprised that the Alaska Highway has also been declared an International Historic Civil Engineering Landmark.

In my mind’s eye (that liar) Beverly and I have started to plan, but then cancelled, only three trips. I once researched flying to a number of places in South America, then dropped it. At least we finally circumnavigated South America last year. Then, we made detailed plans to see all corners of the Dominican Republic. We both got only as far as seeing Puerto Plata on the North Coast. At least, last December, I got to see the capital, Santo Domingo, and no longer feel I need to go see a lot of resort areas. Finally, we made very careful plans to drive the entire Alaska Highway for our second visit to Alaska. We wisely abandoned those plans, since it would have involved driving first from New York to British Columbia, then up the Alaska Highway to Alaska, and then BACK! Also at that point, I understand there were still long gravel sections of the highway, since upgraded, which would have caused damage to windshield and paint job, to say nothing about long stretches between gas stations, and room and board. It was a nice dream, but—I’m going to drive a (miniscule) ten-mile stretch on it next week!]

The second Route of ’98 was the water choice. Rails had long since reached Seattle and Vancouver, from which you could take a ship to the far side of Alaska, opposite Siberia, enter the mouth of the Yukon River, and slowly sail up the river through Alaska. Shortly after crossing the border into the Yukon, you reached Dawson City and the Klondike. (Don’t confuse Dawson City with Dawson Creek, above.) Note that this route goes upstream on the river. Once again, the water route was long, slow, and expensive.

Most people chose the middle route, in between the two others. This third choice was, again, water-and-land. One again took a ship from Seattle or Vancouver. (One should appreciate the importance of Seattle for connections to Alaska. To this day, the Alaska State Ferries leave from Washington State, and most air connections involve a stop or change in Seattle.) The ship would get you up the Inside Passage to Skagway (or its former rival, Dyea. More later.) That was the easy part. You would then hike over the mountains via either the Chilkoot Pass out of Dyea or the White Pass out of Skagway. Once having walked into Canada you hiked to where the Yukon River became navigable (where Whitehorse developed) and took a boat, this time downstream, the 335 miles to Dawson City in the Klondike, presumably meeting there any ship that might have come upstream on the water route. This entire route is even more difficult than it seems, and I still have stories to tell.