I had spent the morning hiking uphill through an old pine forest.  My route mimed the path of powerful Redearth Creek, a turquoise-colored torrent rushing noisily beside me.   Everything was soaked from the rain that had besieged the area for the previous few days. The muddy trail was a testament to that, but so was the lush green moss carpeting the nearby forest floor.

At the end of my 14 km trek — not particularly taxing, even with 440 m of elevation gain — I came to Re14, the Banff National Park backcountry campground that would be my home for the night.  Like everything else, the campground was saturated.  The area where the park service had set up bear cables was particularly muddy.

Fortunately, there was a small somewhat-dry spot beneath the boughs of three giant lodgepole pines.  There I set up my Tarptent-brand, um, tarp tent.  Then I ventured out to explore nearby Shadow Lake.

Almost immediately after I left the campground on the trail, I stumbled into Shadow Lake Lodge, a collection of a dozen beautiful log cabins in a clearing in the forest.  Glacier-topped Mt. Ball loomed large, dominating the westerly view.  The map had indicated the presence of a lodge, but it offered no other details, not even a name.

The main building at Shadow Lake Lodge

A couple of day hikers were munching on a snack at one of the lodge’s picnic tables.

“What is this place?” I asked.

“Talk to the girls inside the main building. They’ll tell you all about it,” came the reply.

And so I did.  Amy (from Australia) and Yana (from the Czech Republic) explained how the lodge had been in operation since the days of the railroad almost a century earlier.  They told me how they had just opened for the season, so there were not yet many guests.  They invited me to try the lodge’s afternoon tea service.

Yes, afternoon tea.  Despite being in a location that required all guests to make the same hike I had completed that morning, it was not so remote as to be uncivilized. In fact, the lodge provided breakfast, lunch, and a multi-course dinner to the guests staying overnight, in addition to the tea service.

I wasn’t staying at the lodge with its fancy wood walls and roof; I was roughing it, darn it. Thus, afternoon tea cost me $15, but that seemed reasonable for such an extravagance in the backcountry.  The spread was impressive: imported cheeses, various cookies, scones, grapes, vegetables, dip, salsa, chips, apple tart, lemonade, and, of course, tea.  All of the pastries and cookies were baked on site from scratch, so the building itself smelled great.  Okay, maybe the tea service voided my “roughing it” credentials for the day.

The spread at Shadow Lake's afternoon tea

The awkward part about the experience was the lack of other people.  I was the only customer at the tea.  That left me feeling guilty about both not eating much and as well eating as much as I did.  I figured I had to try at least one of everything, but that still left enough food for a dozen non-existent people.  My inner Minnesotan was tormented.  Seemingly sensing the situation, Amy gave me a plastic baggie and told me to take some cookies for later; I happily obliged.  The Minnesotan was mollified.

Kind of lonely...

While I was sipping my second cup of tea and munching on my third helping of goodies, a day hiker came by and reported that he heard several whistles while hiking along Shadow Lake, which was located about 1 km from the lodge. He wasn’t certain that it was a human, but he knew that whistles can be distress signals, and he thought it best to inform somebody rather than let it slide.  That somebody ended up being Amy.

Here’s the thing about Amy: great person, but not exactly experienced in the backcountry.  She had come over from Australia three weeks earlier, seen an ad in the paper in Banff advertising the job at Shadow Lake Lodge, and taken it.  Despite the remoteness of the lodge, backcountry experience in the Canadian Rockies was not a prerequisite for the position.

She wisely decided to defer to the park warden on the matter of the whistling.

The lodge didn’t have a normal telephone, but it did have an old autopatch-style radio telephone.  Amy tinkered with it for a while, but she was having trouble getting it to dial the park warden’s number.  I wasn’t much help beyond offering words of encouragement.  The other staff were all away from the cabins on hikes or something, so it was up to Amy to figure it out.  She briefly considered using the lodge’s Iridium satellite phone, but the phone reported the account being invalid (huh?).  My Globalstar satellite phone would have been another option, but the next satellite pass for its operation was 25 minutes away.

Tea and tart

After 15 more minutes of screwing around, Amy finally figured out the correct sequence of DTMF tones and timing to dial the park’s number.  She related the account of the whistling to the warden.  Much to everybody’s relief, the warden said that it was almost certainly a marmot, not a person.

According to him, marmots make noises that can sound strikingly similar to those produced by artificial human whistles.  Amy and I were surprised by that, so we keyed up a Youtube video of a marmot whistling. (Despite a lack of phone service, the lodge had high-speed internet access, most likely via satellite.)  Listen for yourself.  Imagine hearing just a couple of those bursts, perhaps each for a slightly longer duration; do they not sound at least a bit human?

Later, I went for my own hike along the shore of Shadow Lake.  I got drenched by the restarted rain and chilled by the temperature at altitude; snow dotted the ground beside me. I was enjoying view of the stoic  turquoise waters and the huge glaciers feeding them when I too heard a whistle in the woods.  It was clearly a marmot, but still, the resemblance to a human whistle was enough to make me holler out “Hello! Is anybody there?”  The gentle patter of raindrops was the only reply.

I munched down a cookie and hiked back to my tent.

The view of a ridge near Mt. Ball from camp the next morning

I figured I should check Alaska off of my hockey list while in Fairbanks.  The only other option in Alaska with ice would have been Anchorage, and that would have necessitated a mad dash from Denali NP to the city in time for a weekday lunchtime game.  Thus, I found myself at the Patty Ice Arena on the University of Alaska-Fairbanks campus Thursday evening.

I had learned my lesson in Calgary, so when I called ahead for the Fairbanks pickup game, I made sure to ask about reservations for goalies.

“It’s first come, first served,” said the rink attendant.

“Even for goalies?”

“Even for goalies. The last few sessions, we’ve only had one show up, so it shouldn’t be a problem tonight.”

“Great!”

I showed up about an hour early and took my time getting ready.  Another goalie showed up about 15 minutes later.  Then 5 minutes after that, a third goalie arrived. “No problem,” I thought, “We’ll just rotate, and we’ll each still get about 40 minutes of ice time.” Then the fourth goalie showed up.

Judging by the changing room banter, most of the guys had been accepted to or were trying out for junior hockey teams.  None of them could legally drink, and a few weren’t even of the age of majority, so I was the oldest by nearly a decade.  Awkward.  Not only that, but the other goalies spoke in a way that implied them to be at a similar level of skill to the skaters, so I was apprehensive about being totally shown up.

We took the ice, and after a non-existent warm-up, the game began.  It took me a goal to figure out that the teams were essentially “colors” versus “grays.”  It was confusing as all get out to discern between the guy wearing navy blue and the guy on the other team wearing black.

Among us four goalies, we decided to rotate on every goal.  Specifically, a pair of goalies took each end, and whenever the goalie on the ice at one end let in a goal, that goalie would go to the bench and his partner would come on.  Sounded reasonable.  I just hoped that my shifts wouldn’t be embarrassingly short.

It turned out that I had nothing to worry about.  You know how nobody plays defense at drop-in games?  And you know how 2-on-0s are nearly impossible for a goalie to stop when they are executed correctly?

Yeah.  All four of us goalies got lit up.  We were rotating so often that we started rotating only every other goal, and even then we got only a minute or two on the bench before heading back out.  I felt like a skater going out for shifts.

I did make a number of solid saves.  A couple of aggressive poke checks worked out, too, so it wasn’t a complete embarrassment.   And when I did stop some of those numerous breakaways and 2-0s from the hotshot youngsters? It was a great feeling.

Next hockey: Whitehorse, Yukon in a week and a half.  With luck, one of these times I’ll be able to write about how I got a “shinny shutout” instead of how much of a sieve I was (haha).

I was at the excellent Baked Cafe in Whitehorse a few days ago when I noticed this bit on their menu:

Oh wait, that’s pretty blurry.  Darn camera phone in low light.  Let’s fix the blur and try again:

As you can see, it’s an extra bargain when the temperature is below -30 degrees Celsius (-22 degrees Fahrenheit).  That threshold was met 26 times during the winter of 2010-11.  Good days for hot drinks, if you ask me.

I woke up in the morning of my first full day in Fairbanks with a fever, a sore back, and a tight chest.  The symptoms made my foggy mind briefly consider “pulmonary embolism,” but since it was more of a dull pain than a sharp pain, I pushed the fears out of my mind.  I figured I was just sore from a rough night due to the endless sunlight and the somewhat uncomfortable bed.  I made a token attempt to get going for the day but soon decided that more sleep was in order.

When I finally got up a couple hours later, I noticed there was a voice message from an unfamiliar number on my cell phone.  It was from a woman named Marcy who said that she had found something I had lost and was wondering if I wanted it back.  Out of it as I was, I thought she said she had found my “black Sterno,” as in alcohol-gel cooking fuel.  I couldn’t figure out what that meant, so I started digging through my belongings.  I was trying to find something that was both missing and would have enough identifiable information to facilitate a return attempt.

My computer and cameras were all accounted for, so I went to Sam and started looking through my other luggage.  I was sitting in Sam’s passenger seat, digging through the glove box, when it struck me: I was missing my beloved black Moleskine notebook.

It all made sense: the notebook had my name, phone number, and email address on the title page.  I vaguely recalled putting the notebook on Sam’s roof the previous evening, but I didn’t remember taking it down again.  And the voice message?  Marcy wasn’t saying “black Sterno,” she was saying “black steno,” as in notebook.

Was I ever lucky that my notebook had been found and that somebody was trying to return it to me!  Just one problem: Marcy hadn’t left a call-back number, and the number saved on my phone went to some sort of PBX system, so I had no way of getting in touch with her.  I had to hope that she’d call back or email.

She did both, and soon I was on my way to meet her on Fort Wainwright, the US Army base near Fairbanks.

Marcy was a smiling manager working for one of the civilian contractors on base.  She told me that she had noticed my notebook sitting on the road, stopped, and picked it up.  She had flipped through it and decided by its contents that somebody would want it back.  I think she described the doodles within as looking “like something one of my sons would have done.”

She returned the notebook to me and graciously refused to accept a reward.  I thanked her profusely and went back to assess the condition of my notebook.

It was clear that it had been run over by at least one car; the tire tracks professed as much.  Despite that, everything was intact.  The cover was in good shape, no pages were missing or torn, and the mechanical pencil was still inside (albeit broken).   Yes, some of the pages were wrinkled, but that didn’t affect usability.

A nice tread mark on my Moleskine notebook.

I was impressed by the durability of my Moleskine notebook.  For those keeping track, I had complained about the poor quality of my previous soft-cover Moleskine, so the one that eventually got run over was the replacement that the company sent to me.  That newer one certainly seemed to hold up well.

Marcy’s kindness touched me.  To think that she actually stopped, retrieved my notebook, and went through the effort of getting it back to me was very moving.  And the notebook itself? Well, it pulled through well enough that I intend to continue using it until it’s full.

Now if only the stiffness in my muscles would go away…

I don’t recall precisely where I heard the assertion, but I was under the impression that a sort of informal competition existed along the Alaska Highway with regard to cinnamon rolls.  Since I really like cinnamon rolls, it seemed only natural that I try to sample as many of the rolls along the road as possible.

Well, it turns out that I had bad information.  I found all of 3 spots along the nearly 1500 mile route selling cinnamon rolls, a disappointing 500-miles-per-roll ratio.  I admit that I might have missed a few, but I made a point of stopping at all of the little holes in the wall advertising fresh baking, so I can’t imagine I’m off by much.

Fortunately, two of those spots had some of the best cinnamon rolls I’ve tasted.

I was feeling pretty glum about Sam’s sprained ankle when I ran across the first.  About 50 miles north of Fort Nelson, British Columbia, I started seeing signs along the road advertising “amazing” cinnamon rolls.  Clearly written by a Trekkie, they said things like “Reduce to impulse from warp” and “Prepare tractor beam” in relation to the cinnamon rolls.  They had me at “cinnamon rolls.”

After half a dozen signs, I finally reached the home of the self-proclaimed best rolls on the Alaska Highway: Tetsa River Services.  The little business was multiple things: cafe, gas station, campground, and cabins, all nestled between the Tetsa River and the Alaska Highway in the shade of some very large hills.

I pulled in past the 1970s-era gas pumps, one for regular unleaded and one for diesel, parked, and walked into the office/cafe/bakery.  My mission was twofold: secure a campsite for the night, and procure one of the heavily advertised cinnamon rolls.  They were near closing for the night, but fortunately one of the rolls remained.

The family that ran the business caught me a bit off-guard with their hospitality.  The daughter manning the store register was polite and reserved, with a bit of a western drawl.  She handled the cinnamon roll reverently as she gave it to me.  Likewise, the mother and father were exceedingly polite.  The father, a big man dressed in flannel and jeans and afflicted with strabismus, earnestly encouraged me to join them for their fishing derby’s steak dinner, an overture which I politely declined.

Really, everybody at the campground was great.  I suppose that one could label them “redneck,” but I use the term only to facilitate description and certainly not in the pejorative.

I set up my tent and then dug into the cinnamon roll.  Wow.

Tetsa River Services cinnamon roll, still wrapped

Maybe it was just the fatigue of driving several hundred miles that day burdened with the stress of the tire problem.  Maybe it was the remote location.  Maybe it was the hinting from the advertising.  Regardless, the cinnamon roll from Tetsa River Services was one of the best I’ve ever tasted.  Maybe the best.  Previously, I had considered Isles Bun in Minneapolis to have the best cinnamon rolls in the world, but I think the crown must be passed, especially since the Isles Bun offering relied so heavily on the quality and quantity of its cream cheese frosting.

If you’re ever in northern British Columbia about 50 miles outside of Fort Nelson, stop at Tetsa River Services and try a cinnamon roll.  The $5 price is wholly justified.

Now, if you find yourself a bit further along the Alaska Highway, there’s another exceptional offering to try.  I’m not sure of the name of the place — there was no sign, there was no mention of them on the internet, and the best description I could find was “where the old Pine Valley resort was.”  I can, however, provide this outdated Google Streetview link to the location of the self-described “bakery and creperie”  Roughly speaking, it was located about 10 miles south of Koidern, Yukon on the Alaska Highway.

Run by a nice francophone couple, the bakery seemed to be well maintained.  In fact, it exuded pride.  Most of the stores and restaurants along the Alaska Highway are run-down shells of their former selves, with dirty floors and everything done on the cheap.  This place was different.

For example, the bathroom was spotless.  So were the tables.  And the details for the products were similarly attended to: the to-go coffee cups were thick paper like you’d find at Starbucks, with high-quality lids that fit tight — something worthy of acclaim after dealing with the Styrofoam cups and poorly fitting flat lids that one encounters at most stops along the Alaska Highway.  Although there was a bit of a language barrier, I think I managed to convey how much I respected their high quality standards in the middle of the Yukon.

I purchased a cinnamon roll and coffee and dug in.

Amazing.  The cinnamon roll was of the style similar to what’s widely sold at Panera, but the execution was far superior.  The bread was flaky like a croissant.  The levels of cinnamon, sugar, and frosting were all balanced nicely.  The interior of the bread was neither too dry nor too moist.

Cinnamon roll from the unnamed bakery/creperie in the middle of the Yukon

It was an excellent cinnamon roll.  I generally prefer more cake-like rolls, such as the one from Tetsa River Services, so I won’t declare this one the absolute winner, but I appreciate the skill involved in its creation.   It certainly was a beautiful roll.

There you have it.  There weren’t many cinnamon rolls to be had on the Alaska Highway, but a couple of the ones available were world-class.