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So we are now calf deep in mud and the mosquitoes are drilling holes through our jeans
and I am so miserable I am using the f-word in relation to how much I want to be off this
damn track - Dempster HIGHWAY to be specific.
Why on earth do they call these dirt tracks “highways?” Don't highways have to sport
centre lines or dividers or streetlights or asphalt? Does a load of muddy gravel dumped on
an endless swamp make a highway?
Oh well. The fellow started up the motorcycle and damn if the thing didn't rev to life. In
the meantime another fellow with a truck had stopped by and he loaded the guys gear in the
back. Thanks goodness because after sliding down the cliff into the river it was a covered
in muck and I was not crazy about the idea of taking it, never mind the rider with his mud
soaked, dripping clothing inside the van. But the biker, who was on a road trip from Cali-
fornia, mounted his bike and we all drove the rest of the way to Eagle Plain, the closest
thing to civilization in this part of the world.
So here we are at the roadhouse - hot food, hot showers and the sun is once again blazing
bright and blue. The mossies are back in full strength - my little bug hut keeps them out
and me in so I am cool with them giving it their best. Another gorgeous sunset. Man this
country has schizophrenic weather patterns.
In the morning we set off for Klondike Junction. It was a relatively calm day - no rain.
Quite a bit of cloud but it cleared time and again so we could see the scenery. Not as dra-
matic as the northern half of the road but interesting just the same. The terrain changes all
the time, at one point rolling plains at another granite rock hills.
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