We weren’t quite sure if it was a cop car. We slowed down but carried on. “It’s turning,” I said to Henry

We got to sleep all right but staying asleep was a little more difficult. At regular intervals trains passed. They seemed to be just on our doorstep and waiting until they reached us before letting off their loud and mournful whistles, the mountains that were close echoed the sound, which made it go on for ever.

In the morning in glorious sunshine, we got a proper look at those mountains that rose so close to us. We could hardly believe them.

Last night they had been shrouded in mist and rain. Today they were standing clear and bright. They went straight up into the blue sky. We were almost too near to see the tops.

This was to be our introduction to the incredible journey up the Alaska highway.

I have to admit that for the first day or two as much of my attention was given to the white line on my side of the road as to the quite magnificent scenery of mountains, canyons and rivers.

Magnificent

“You’re too near the white line,” was my constant cry. Henry would pull over a fraction. All the way up, the road had a sloping shoulder if not a precipice at my side. If the camper had gone too far to the right it would have been well and truly stuck, if not worse.

Henry’s problem was that juggernauts kept passing on the other side with what seemed like inches to spare and we had very limited vision behind.

By about the third day I began to relax and enjoy this truly magnificent Alaska trail.

Once we got out of the spectacular Fraser Canyon country with its rivers, lakes, gorges, mountains and trees, we drifted into the Caribou. Here the scenery was completely different.

It was ranch country with a lot of horses around and the occasional attractive ranch house, still lonely but full of interest. The road was good, the sun was shining, we were happy.

I had taken an anthology of Canadian poetry, chosen with the help of our friend Gordon in Victoria. “All the best Canadian poets from early on,” he’d told me. I’d promised to give a talk on Canadian poetry in England when I got back, before realising I didn’t know all that much about it.

For me, the long days with Henry at the wheel (I never plucked up the courage to drive the thing) were spent just watching and being thrilled by the spectacular scenery.

From time to time I would nod off or read poems that often related to the wild terrain we were passing through. And there was that white line.

The second night was spent parked at the water’s edge of a lonely and still lake, in a camping site with no one else there but us. It had a fresh and primordial feel to it.

The grass was fresh green, the trees were all coming into leaf, Spring birds were singing and as the spectacular sunset faded there arose a cry I knew of old. From across the water the eerie mechanical laughter of a Loon.

Next day we took a detour off the Alaska trail on a secondary road that looked as if it would be a more direct route to our destination for that night. It was a beautiful road and very scenic. We rounded a bend and suddenly a school and a 30ks sign. We were driving faster than that.

Flashing lights

I shouted to Henry, I knew he hadn’t noticed. Too late – a mountie’s car sat at the side of the road, a spider waiting to catch flies. The signs had just been put up. Would they be obeyed?

We weren’t quite sure if it was a cop car, slowed down but carried on. “It’s turning,” I said to Henry. “Perhaps it’s nothing to do with us. We’ll soon know.”

I expected it to draw in front of us with flashing lights at any moment but no, nothing, and then I heard the sirens. Henry being a wee bit deaf didn’t hear them.

“Pull in, Henry,” I said, “or we will be in trouble.” Henry veered into the side and stopped. We didn’t have to wait long. A mountie was at our window.

“You guys not see me behind you?” “No,” said Henry politely and truthfully and explained about the mirrors. They weren’t our fault. We had tried to extend them further. They were at their fullest reach.

The mountie examined them, saw our problem but said little about that. “You guys realise you were exceeding the speed limit for a school zone?”

Henry apologised and said he did not. “Where you guys from anyway?”

“Scotland.” Whereupon we were told of his Scottish forebears and a lot else besides.

At one point Henry said: “It seems we took a wrong turning coming this way.”

“Not at all,” said the mountie. “You took the right turn. This is the most scenic route in all of Canada.”

He let us drive on after about an hour of chat. Very kindly let us off with a warning. “I could fine you $150,” he said. Instead he gave us his card. “Just you be careful. You guys are kinda lucky. You’ve got the road up north kinda quiet this early in the season. Next weekend, all sorts of vehicles going up north after winter.”

In the end I was glad we did take the detour because we hadn’t driven very far from the township when I saw my first bear.

I couldn’t quite believe it. It was very black and running down a precipitous and greening mountain side just as casually as a cat would cross a carpet.

Next day we started off to cross Steamboat Mountain. “What a picturesque name,” I said to Henry once we got under way. “I remember it of old,” he said. “Always rather an obstacle to get over in the old days but it should be okay now.

Mystery

“This road has changed. I just don’t recognise it. It was truly just a trail 40 odd years ago. Now it’s a good modern road and used a lot, by the looks of it.”

He was wrong about Steamboat Mountain being easy. I wondered why it was called the Steamboat but as we approached it became not quite such a mystery, a thick mist that could have passed as steam enveloped most of it.

Heavy rain came on and there was not much traffic as we began to ascend. The road was steep with lots of bends and the surface was greasy. As we climbed, with one or two cars in front and one behind, things got worse and worse. The road was under construction but today all equipment was abandoned.

The rain lashed down. At one point flood water had completely washed away the side of the road – there was just enough room to pass. I closed my eyes. It was terrifying. I forgot all about the white lines after that, they became insignificant.

We followed my leader down that great mountain. There was nothing else we could do other than go on. At the first opportunity we stopped at a rest area. Our camper was unrecognisable.

Where was our beautiful new gleaming cream van with the blue Rocky Mountain scrawled across its high top? It now had a thin layer of mud all over.

More tomorrow.