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The Al-Can for Angus and Me (Inspired by "The Cremation of Sam McGee" by Robert Service) by Scott Leadingham January 17, 2007 The northern folks have seen strange blokes, but the strangest they ever did see Was that time near fall, when we drove it all, twas the Al-Can for Angus and me. The Al-Can, they say, runs a very long way from BC, the Yukon, to AK; At Dawson Creek drive west toward the peak of Denali, it should take several days. Now Angus and me were friends, you see, from our days of Scouting's allure; We'd battle and toil from camps Summit to Boyle, but now Bonaparte staff to be sure. We'd tripped before to the southern shore of Cali's S.D. and L.A.; From the Vegas strip to the eastern tip of the country we'd been, we could say. It seemed such a sin that we'd never been to the north, the last great frontier; As we loaded his car I could feel from afar, Alaska, its biding from here. Four nights had gone past when we entered at last, the Canuks were now well behind; To Anchorage we pointed, tired, disjointed, but refreshed with Klondike peace of mind. Friend Alex we sought, with whom we had taught on the shores of Bonaparte Lake; A Scout through and through, Alaskan bred too, us to his home he did take. Still northward we went, Mother Nature hell bent on drenching our spirits with rain; No longer we joked, we were thoroughly soaked, playing backgammon just to stay sane. Sunlight of the 'morrow brought only more sorrow, as the trusty Escort wouldn't start; To our rescue, a dame, one Beth Watson by name, a friend who worked in the park. Now Beth-o was sickly, she told us right quickly, She didn't quite feel up to par; The rain clouds still loomed while up river we zoomed in jet boats to pan gold on the bar. For three days we'd stay and look up in dismay at Denali all covered in cloud; It seemed to us then we were unlucky men as no vista emerged from the shroud. The fourth day still dreary, we approached with a query, "Will that darn thing ever come out?" We dared to explore the vast tundra still more, and by mid day the mount had lost clout. Near six in the eve' we'd grown the more peeved, for it seemed the mountain would hide; When at once the clouds lifted, the shroud had been shifted, twas Divine Providence we'd decide. In all of their glory stood Denali's tall stories, the highest point in all the land; We sighed in relief, the sight beyond belief, you must be there to understand. We left in a haste off to Fairbanks in search of dry lodging to stay; No pity was found in that pathetic old town where mediocrity seemed to hold sway. Out of that town we sped on down, back south, we'd stay on our own; The bugs made us quiver by the banks of Tok River, but tomorrow we were heading for home. By morning it came to be just the same, a sight we knew all too well; The clouds in a cluster, more rain did they muster, we drove as if flying from hell. To Yukon we fled, we thought we'd been bled of the shackles of Alaska's bad weather; Surely, we thought, the Yukon had brought a promise of skies that were better. Alas it would be that Angus and me found no such escape from disdain; As Laberge we passed Angus asked if Sam McGee would have minded such rain. When BC we reached the heavens had breached all the power and force they could gather; To stop and camp then was priority ten, keep driving all night we would rather. By sun-up next day we'd come a long way, driving the Al-Can most all; Far from refreshed, we'd been put to the test, slightly soaked, we were done with our haul. The northern folks have seen strange blokes, but the strangest they ever did see Was that time near fall when we drove it all, twas the Al-Can for Angus and me. About the author: I was born in Coulee Dam, Washington, a product of government employment at the foot of the Grand Coulee Dam. Forced against my will to join a Cub Scout den at the age of 8, I was quickly sucked into the culture of sharpening pocket knives and making really bad arts and crafts. Apparently the brainwashing took hold, and I continued into Boy Scouts, reaching the rank of Eagle Scout at a respectable 15 years of age. My parents tried their best to shove the outdoors down the throats of my brothers and I, but it was my experiences in the Boy Scouts of America that solidified my love of nature. At the age of 16 I went to work at a summer camp. In many ways, I've never left. My dear friend Angus and I worked six summers together at Camp Bonaparte, having equally interesting experiences after camp as during. For a while, we'd developed a tradition of taking road trips after camp, an observance that has become harder as the ties of "the real world" pull us in opposite directions. One such road trip came after the summer of 2005. We packed up Angus's trusty Ford Escort and made a break for the great white north, destination: Denali National Park. The poem above describes our time battling Alaska's cranky weather patterns. It is written in the style of Robert Service, perhaps the most underrated poet in recent memory. Writing is a hobby, something that will probably never materialize into anything further. In 2006 I graduated from Central Washington University with degrees in political science and public policy. Currently, I am a graduate studentin public affairs at Indiana University. There is a far off goal to work for NPR or become the next Al Franken or Dave Barry. Yes, far off indeed. | | | |
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