Fort St. John – No Dealing
Broken Foot (could be my Indian name, huh?)
The foot hasn’t been giving me too much problem. Though I do feel like a gimp when I have dismount ole “Doc” and hobble to fill the tank, grab a snack or simply to try to get a good photo. But spending most of the day seated on my steed, the foot doesn’t get much activity. That’d be staying off of it. Just got to be careful to cruise to a stop without dropping into neutral and planting the “left” foot on the tarmac.
If I had twisted and broke my right foot I’d still be in Seattle nursing my wound and wondering if I’d ever make to Alaska before the sun goes into hibernation and the temperature starts dropping. You see the kick stand is on the left side and righting the bike after stopping for any reason requires putting my 500lb beast upright and ready to roll — impossible with my right foot.
Onward Up The Alcan
Fort St. John is a non-descript settlement that sits about an hour North of Dawson Creek. With most of the access road and driveways of the commerce centers all dirt and gravel it makes for a dusty and dingy place contrasting immensely from the beautiful wilderness that surrounds it. I find what looks like the cheapest motel in town and getting the girl to recognize that I had entered the motel office which is connected to the living room of her home was a slight chore. Getting her to look into my eyes even tougher. GI guess those eyes only look at the television and judging by her attitude she was rather upset I pulled her away from it. I sign my credit card slip and notice the warning sign sitting above her head:
Anyone caught dealing drugs will be reported to the CMP.
She tossed me the keys for one of the rooms that is simply an annexed trailer, I putted my steed to the door and unloaded my gear. Just as I was about to lay on the bed for a 10 minute vertical peace and my daily dose of staring at a celling while reviewing the day’s ride a white pickup with a dual cab pulls into the driveway grinding to a stop and sending a puff of dust my way. A woman in her thirties had both hands tightly gripped at the very top of the steering wheel, a young girl pressed her nose to the glass of the rear door and then turned away and a gentlemen long and lanky steps out of the passenger door and walks past six or seven rooms to room #5 and starts banging on the door.
My room is in a separate building with only three units but is perpendicular to the main motel rooms. In front of each of the rooms to the right of the door sits an empty can of Folger’s coffee. Some have a resin chair sitting next to these cans. The man bangs on the door and barks out someone’s name. This goes on for about 15 minutes. He leans to the screened window and says “Get up and open the door!”
Five more minutes pass and he walks the length of the motel hoping to figure a way into the back of the room, but fails. He hops back into the truck and the lady peels off sending another cloud of dust my way.
This place is strange.
Five minutes later I’m lying in the bed I hear a vehicle pull up and more knocking. It’s the same guy, woman and young girl. Ten minutes pass and the door opens to room 5. Man goes in. But man never comes out.
Across the street at Egan’s it takes three efforts to get my paper thin steak cooked medium rare. While patiently waiting for the food I wonder why in the middle of BC on the Alaskan Highway in a wacky town does this restaurant sport an Irish theme. Looking at the menu there’s nothing Irish on it — where’s the stew? Haggis anyone? Before I leave Jody, my waitress, invites to a pancake breakfast at her church on Sunday.
Sorry. Gotta get out of here.