I think I'm going to make this a Friday thing.... Wanderer's 3
CHRISTMAS IN ALASKA By Rick Sieman
Welcome to the good life of Carl and Emma. Carl, a retired Navy Chief Petty Officer, drives a huge four-wheel drive Suburban all over the country to explore off-roading areas. The Suburban, nick-named The Whale, is loaded to the max with every goody known to man. Emma, a very patient lady, tries to keep the short-fused Carl out of as much trouble as possible.
When we last left them, they were extremely stuck in the mud bogs of Davis, West Virginia. We join them as they're driving across Texas, with no particular destination in mind.
***
"Well, dear ... whattaya say we head out to California and spend Christmas camping out in the middle of the desert where there's no stupid snow?" Carl expertly spat a wad of tobacco out of the window of The Whale and banked the plug off a yellow road sign, just a hair off dead center, at the same time adding yet another brown stain to the flank of the Suburban.
Emma fixed Carl with one of those stares that showed she meant business. "You know, Carl, there's one thing I've always wanted to do during Christmas time, and that's visit Santa's Village up in Alaska."
Carl chuckled. "Ain't you a little old to be believing in Sandy Claus, Emma? I found out about that bull before I started shavin'!"
Emma sniffed. "I'm not talking about kid stuff, Carl. There really is a tourist place you can go to. I saw it on one of those travel shows on the TV a few weeks ago. They actually make toys and things there that you can buy and there's a restaurant and a hotel. Just think how nice it would be to spend Christmas eve there, with all the elves and such, by a huge decorated tree!"
"Sounds like a waste of time to me. And who would want to spend Christmas eve surrounded by a bunch of midgets wearing pointy hats?"
Emma sighed. "Well, I surely would have enjoyed going there. It's like being a kid again. But it's just as well. Apparently the road that goes back into Santa's Village is a real bad one. It's supposed to be bad enough in good weather, but in the winter, they recommend that only highly experienced off-roaders with excellent equipment attempt the drive. Most folks just fly in."
A smile creased Carl's face. "Fly in, huh?" Must be a bunch of wimps up there in Alaska. Ain't much that can stop a 454 engine hooked up to 35-inch Mudder tires, now is there?"
"Now, Carl. Maybe it's not such good idea after all, What with that nasty old road ********** in the dead of winter. Guess my little dream will just have to be put on the back burners of the stove of life."
Carl stuffed a fresh clump of chewing tobacco in his mouth. "Well now, Emma, maybe old Carl here can answer those girlish dreams of yours. One way or another, I can get The Whale up any road, regardless of the weather. Only thing is, let's just spend one night there and get back into civilized country in time for me to catch the Super Bowl. I got good tickets on the 40-yard line."
Emma gave a secretive smile. "Oh, Carl. You're so brave and I know you won't get us stuck like you did in West Virginia and Delaware and Florida and Pennsylvania and upstate New York and North Carolina and ..."
"Put a lid on it, Emma. I get the message."
They rolled along at exactly two miles per hour over the speed limit, the mighty 454 barely working as it hauled the mass of The Whale down the ruler-straight empty Texas highway. The strains of Willie Nelson filled the interior of the plush Suburban, through sixteen speakers.
The sound of squealing tires had Emma digging her toes in the thick carpeting, and before her eyes were focused, Carl had the Suburban stopped on the shoulder and had leaped out of the drivers seat. He stood at the base of a road sign with both hands on his hips, and stared up at the sign in obvious awe.
Emma got out and joined him. "Carl, what's the matter? You look like you're in a state of shock?"
"Lookit this, Emma! It's a brand new sign with no bullet holes in it! They musta just put it up. I betcha I've driven through Texas a hunnert times and I've never seen a sign that wasn't full of bullet holes. Get your Instamatic out and take a photo of me next to this landmark."
"OK. And then what?"
"Then I get one of my guns out and put the first hole in it before somebody else beats me to it."
"Carl, when are you going to grow up? I swear!"
"Hey, I'm not the one who wants to go see Sandy Claus."
***
Carl and Emma eventually reached California, and drove North along the coast, staying as always, two miles per hour over the speed limit. The Whale handled surprisingly well, considering that it had three gas tanks, two air conditioners, a TV satellite dish on the roof, a generator, two roll-up awnings, trail bikes hanging on each end and, of course, a boat lashed to the roof.
They passed through California and once again marveled at the heavy woods of Oregon, and the staggeringly beautiful landscapes. Washington also offered its own particular brand of visual treats, even though it rained most of time and was very cold, bordering on snow.
It did snow in Canada, but lightly, and not enough to build up on the roads. The highways got lonely and traffic was sparse as they drove through the mountainous areas of British Columbia toward the Yukon Territory. Highway 97, the famed Alaskan Highway, took them north past Kluane and Burwash Landing and shortly after, they crossed the border into Alaska. Even though it was cold, there was very little snow on the ground and they stayed comfy-cozy in the spacious cab of The Whale.
Here, they picked up Highway 2 - a great road - into the heart of Alaska and then swung north on Route 6. The terrain got meaner looking and the weather colder. Emma got out the brochure for Santa's Village and gave Carl the appropriate rights and lefts, until finally, near the northern part of Alaska, they ran out of paved road and saw the sign that ominously read, "Santa's Village, 41 Miles. Unpaved Road. Travel At Your Own Risk!"
The road was nastily, rutted, slick with frozen patches of ice, and studded with tire shredding rocks. Much to Carl's credit, he piloted the huge Suburban with skill and grace, and three hours later, arrived at the entrance to Santa's Village, one very tired off-roader.
and power to you! 
