While there have been books written about this concept before, and even titled similarly, this blog article is about the most modern and recent of these major migrations from homeland to the unknown.
The original exodus is a Bible story about how a group of more than one million people (603,550 men about the age of 20, and the rest being women, children, and the elderly) left Egypt and had to live in the desert for four decades. All told, the population of that storied migration was estimated to be between 2.4 and 3.5 million people. The one I wrote about in my series was not much bigger…
My exodus started here in America. Other peoples around the world have had their own for various reasons, and now this here is the telling of mine. My reason for beginning such a daunting chapter of life? There was no hope to thrive, or even for survival, in the self-professed ‘great’ places from which I had come.
In my series of novels, the protagonist sets out on this same exodus in September of 2012, passing through Canada and other lands that October. In real life, I followed the same route for the same reasons, making preparations in September and starting the dangerous drive as October became November; everyone is advised never to attempt this route after the 1st, and I was nearing the 31st –without any winter tires or tire chains. I delayed my inevitable, destined, and foretold departure as long as I could due to new bonds I hadn’t expected to form while up that far. It was the right decision, as I have come to see in many ways. (And just a couple months after he disappeared along that lengthy route spanning continents, the Rapture began, and you can find out why when you read my books.)
I drove through the forests and mountain passes, from glacier to glacier, until all the mountains were covered in white, and all the rivers frozen over. The temperature dropped below freezing, and I saw the ‘blood moon’ rising on a cloud-lined horizon. There was a meteor shower that went with it.
The temperature rose again as I drove down the other side of the mountains into the plains north of Valdez. The road had so many curves, bumps, and ice holes that I had to slow down from 70 to 30 at times. I arrived in Tok (pronounced “toke”) late at night, tended to a flat tire, and mentioned my loved ones in my prayers.
The next day, I did a little more work to complete my second book (yes, even working on them amidst this long and daring drive, just as I’ve always made time to work on such important creations ever since my time driving military vehicles around the deserts of Iraq), and then it was off to the Canadian border and down toward Vancouver. This is a 3-days drive through the Yukon Territory to the province called British Columbia. I thought of a few special people in particular the whole way. Their kind has always been my greatest fuel and medicine.
Pickhandle Lake was one of the first really open, light blue, and beautiful bodies of water I drove up to. I got out to rest my feet in its pleasantly chilly waters, just as I always do with such magical lakes, streams, waterfalls, and ponds. Several types of birds not far from there flew over to my car to see if I had food (Magpies just like those in Montana being the one I recognized), and we talked in their various languages. I hope I said only good things.
Destruction Bay was a favorite rest stop from my drive up to Alaska about five months earlier, and just along its southern curve I got out and took time for a side adventure; I hiked to a boulder-strewn ruin that caught my attention. It had an ancient staircase evident on the biggest of the boulders. There were a few small woodland areas with thin canopies around the bass of that boulder’s tall hill overlooking the bay. Moose bones and the remains of a campfire bench were within walking distance, and there was a medium to light-green moss on most of the rocks beneath the canopies. It looked like the hidden gateway to another fairy or elven world.
Whitehorse was next; it is a big town in the Yukon Territory (and that province’s capital), and one I was invited to for test-driving some Russian-made off-roading vehicles that you wouldn’t believe; they can drive over just about anything, roll over, and even paddle through collapsing river ice as easily as normal cars handle normal roads. There are many things to do in Whitehorse, and nearly all the traffic of Anchorage to match. Next time I think I will just fly in to this one, as the drive was already a long one at this point, and I’d rather be in the air, whether by helicopter, plane, wing-suit, jet-suit, or saucer.
Speaking of Whitehorse, it is said that there are no coincidences, and in an ancient legend… Odin returns to the Earth on a white horse to pass judgment and reconquer the lands to free them from a terrible scourge. I spotted a statue of his eight-legged horse, Sleipnir, not far away, and remembered how so many people had thought me a reincarnation of him or his son, Thor, and my Inisfree an obvious New Asgard. How curious it is that I am seen as them, and that I was returning to the normal earth, literally on Whitehorse, with wise judgment soon to be passed, freeing those who witnessed it from precisely a terrible scourge. Whatever the case is, though, that just happened, and it has me both thinking and smiling.
I got a message on my phone about where the aurora was expected to be back in the lands from which I’d come, and north of Tok, all the way up to the Arctic Circle, came up. I still smile every time I think of or have business in Fairbanks, the biggest town up there; I will always hear the voice of a lovely young lady, fellow deity, and dear friend of mine calling it Fairybanks that one day at her dinner table. I will start calling it the same. (And now it occurs to me that the aurora hasn’t happened where I’ve been, not out of bad timing or luck, but because, perhaps, my passing is one of the things which stirs it; when I get moving again, it, sure as ever, lights up right behind me. The atmospheres of my expedition spots always have reacted in that way, whether by lightning, shooting stars, or high winds.)
Saw the sunset reflected on the water of Teslin lake, and of course smiled at its similarity to another new and dear friend’s name. There are actually a few things out this way by that name. Now I’m curious about its origin. It keeps coming up, and so frequently in this chapter of life, so it must be worth investigating.
Got gas in towns that weren’t even on my maps; not just the gas stations, but the roads and buildings themselves. The map showed nothing at all off the highway. Maybe they wanted it that way. The Yellowstone Club and Telos certainly did.
Then there was a stretch of the highway around a curve that was half underwater; the pond or stream alongside it had filled up too much and overflowed past the shoulder barriers. A road crew had started blocking it off but looked like they didn’t have any way to clear it up. It got me thinking about a city-services vehicle design I’ve been working on for the city in my books.
Unpaved waves were what the highway then became on my way farther south to Bell 2 (‘Bell II’ on the maps). It was all gravel or hard dirt, no shoulders, no signs, and nothing but the trees to let me know where its edges were. Surrounded by that much forest, and not even able to see more than one or two stars, was a pretty cool and humbling feeling. I wouldn’t want to drive this stretch of the ALCAN (Alaska-Canada) highway again, though; way too long, narrow, and remote for me, and I had to slow down at the top of each hill to not slide out of control when it got slick, and speed back up on the downward curves so I had enough momentum to safely coast to the top.
Not a vehicle was in sight for hours between Bell 2 and Whitehorse now a hundred miles behind me. Every now and then I would pass a lone truck hauling something through the dark. We’d take turns flicking our high-beams off and back on, both of us likely breathing a small sigh of relief that the other’s presence meant a fairly decent chance at being noticed for rescue. With no signal or services out this far, everyone is completely dependent upon passersby for whatever they might need.
Drove all night to stay ahead of a blizzard. It quickly occurred to me that if I didn’t, my car made for city street commutes would very soon be useless way out here, its tires not at all able to handle how slick the unimproved roads would become. I watched as the highway began to narrow under the growing shoulders of snow and ice; it was disappearing right in front of me. The flurries came down so thick that I could only use normal headlights at times. Every time I heard it rain, even if I was trying to sleep, I got up, checked all my gear, and drove on, always keeping ahead of the storm before it dropped the temperature down enough to make the rain turn to snow, and the snow stick to the road.
Woke in the Native village called Iskut, thanks to a polite gas station worker honking a couple times in his suburban out front after I’d slept in past my alarms, and drove out from its school gym parking area to a sunrise lighting up the frosty valley. Taking a break to eat, change clothes, and answer the call of nature, I then checked all my critical gear and got back on the pavement. That slow-moving blizzard, I knew, was catching up to me. Every nap was a calculated risk.
Kinaskan Lake was a mirror, it was so calm, and across its wide expanse was a tall tree-line holding right up to its short cliff-like edge. I looked across to those evergreens and smiled at the many potential campsites there, wondering about what creatures might call them home. What all was out here? Human towns were so few and far between, so small and simple, and likely so unaware. The forest of this part of the world was just too big for anyone to really know. (And I’d been daydreaming about my sweet werewolf lady, Elena, because of these things, ever since the border and the rising big moon.)
Trees twice as tall as ones you see across Alaska are here. Soon, I’ll be where the trees are 10 times taller, if you can believe that. The forests of Washington, Oregon, and northern California are worth a Google search until you can get down to them. Redwoods and Sequoias are the tree and forest names to search for.
Big waterfalls are all along the highways out in that one state, too; the pass going west to east away from Seattle-Tacoma (locally: ‘Sea-Tac’) has so many of them that it’s a wonder they don’t cause more flooding or accidents. I’ll likely take that pass if I end up choosing Washington State as my new university. I only know a few friends out that way, so I’ll have to make some more. On a road-trip this epic, of course (a real-life exodus), the right ones are sure to finish gravitating toward me in perfect time.
Earthworms the size of snakes are in the peninsular mini-rainforest west of those cities. They are the ones featured in blogs and documentaries. Farmers and other citizens hold them up with garden tools, or drape them over their hands and arms to show just exactly how big. Every last one of their photos looks Photoshopped.
Huge cities with more people in each than there are in all of Alaska are the norm down in some of these states, and they certainly make me miss the quiet of my Alaskan homestead outpost. I’ve always been drawn to the cool, quiet, spacious forests; I’ll have to set things up so that I am living and commuting from such a place, spending as little time on campus in downtown areas as possible. If I had my way, I would live in my own community, and open up a portal to go to class at the universities each day. We’ll see when I can make that work out.
All in all, I’ve just driven 3,000 miles of the Pan-American Highway’s 19,000 stretch. In one week, without notice, I was able to –alone– complete about 1/6 of the entire American Exodus route I wrote into being in my stories. That’s a pretty big accomplishment, and I’m looking forward to the coming legs. Its completion; at Ushuaia, is fast approaching. (And if you know my saga’s story-line, you know what that means.)
