After prematurely leaving the less-than-desirable accommodations at the Chena Hot Springs Resort, I headed down Highway 2 toward the Tok RV Village in Alaska to relax for a couple of days.

About two hours outside of Tok is Delta Junction, Alaska, which is the end of the infamous Alaska Highway. For me, however, it was the beginning of my journey down this storied, remote stretch of road.

Back when Alaska was still a territory, there were arguments over whether a road could be constructed to link the lower 48 states with Alaska. In 1930, it was determined that building such a road indeed would be feasible. The primary driving force was to allow military outposts to be set up along the way to provide military supplies and aircraft to Russia though the 1941 Land-Lease Act. (Fun fact #1: the United States purchased the territory of Alaska from Russia in 1867 for $7.2 million).

Then, when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, the United States realized that it needed to amp up its efforts to protect Alaska and guard against a potential invasion through Alaska to the lower 48. (Fun fact #2: the Japanese also bombed Dutch Harbor, Alaska on June 3-4, 1942. So the United States’ fears of invasion and attack on Alaska weren’t hyperbole).

Consequently, construction of the Alaska Highway (a.k.a. the “AlCan,” short for Alaska/Canada Highway) began on March 11, 1942. (Fun fact #3: the AlCan Highway also was used as a corridor for two other wartime projects - the Canadian Oil Pipeline and the Alaska Military Highway Telephone and Telegraph Line). It was constructed by 11,000 soldiers in the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, which included about 1/3 of African American soldiers from the newly-formed Negro Regiments.

The most impressive fact of all though, is this: the massive undertaking of constructing the AlCan road through the wild and harsh lands of Canada and Alaska took merely 8 months and 12 days! Construction to fix a pothole in Denver takes longer than that nowadays!

The road didn’t open to the public until 1948 when tour buses started taking people to the last frontier of Alaska. And, since its official completion, the length of the highway has changed due to construction and re-routing. There are several discrepancies between the original length, with reports ranging from 1,500 to 1,600 miles. And, interestingly, there are different accounts how long the road is now between Dawson Creek, British Columbia, Canada (the official start of the highway) and Delta Junction, Alaska (the original end). According to Milepost (the most in-depth account of every mile of every major road in Canada and Alaska), the distance today is 1,387 miles. That’s what I’ll go with.

The highway starts in Dawson Creek, British Columbia (no relation to the show Dawson’s Creek), and traverses to the north and west into the vast and wild Yukon Territory in Canada, and then into Alaska, where it becomes Highway 2. The official terminus today is in Fairbanks, Alaska (which makes the entire AlCan roughly 1,460 miles); but, originally it ended at Delta Junction, Alaska.

And to make matters more confusing, there’s an “Historic Mile 0” marker in Dawson Creek and a current “Mile 0 marker.”

However you measure the length of the AlCan, one thing is true: this is not your typical highway. If you think it’s basically like driving across the United States, think again.

The AlCan is more like a secondary, less traveled road that you’d see in the lower 48.

Parts of the road can be closed at anytime due to weather.

It passes through remote areas. You may go for 100 miles or more in between services. And you may go for days without any cell service. So forget about your navigation system - just get on the road and drive in the direction you need to go. The good thing is that you won’t get lost.

But, you may run out of gas if you don’t pay attention. During my entire trip, I developed the habit of topping off my gas at nearly every gas station I pass (with one exception - if it’s been only 15 or 20 minutes since my last fill-up). Some people get cocky and try to push it, or maybe they don’t realize how many miles per gallon they’re getting. So in various Facebook groups and websites about the AlCan, you see stories of people running out of gas because they tried to push it, or coasting into gas stations on fumes.

And although every station I stopped at did take credit/debit cards, you can’t always count on that because their electronic systems can be down. So, it’s important to carry cash as a backup. Also, many gas stations are full-service, so you can’t pump your own gas. If you roll into one of those late at night after they’re closed, don’t expect to be able to get gas. To that end, it’s also a good idea to carry extra gas in a Jerry can. (I wasn’t able to because I didn’t have room for a gas gan anywhere).

If possible, you also want to avoid driving at dusk and dawn because it greatly increases your risk of hitting a gigantic wild animal like a bear, moose, or elk . . . or even a bison in the Yukon. Any and all of these animals can be seen frolicking alongside the AlCan at any given moment.

Oh, and let’s not forget about the relentless and ongoing road construction. Although the AlCan is paved, there are numerous construction projections at any given time to continuously upgrade the road. (Remember the war zone of potholes and road heave I described between Destruction Bay, Yukon and Tok, Alaska when I was driving into Alaska?). These construction zones are often large stretches of loose gravel, many of which require you to stop and wait for a pilot car to guide you through.

On the plus side, there are abundant pullouts and rest areas to give you a break from the stress of driving.

And the other thing I loved about the AlCan is the courtesy of other drivers. It’s expected on the AlCan that if someone is behind you, you signal, slow down, and move to the right so that they can pass you. (A courtesy that seems lost on most Americans traveling on U.S. roads).

So, with that background, maybe you can understand why I was a little nervous about starting my 1,387-mile journey down the AlCan when I saw the terminus sign at Delta Junction. I wasn’t as nervous as I was about driving the Cassiar. In fact, my successful and beautiful drive along the Cassiar helped calm some of my worries about the AlCan.

I spent two glorious nights at the lovely Tok RV Village in Tok, Alaska (about 90 miles west of the border), which now feels like home on the road. The staff is friendly, the facilities immaculate, and the vibe right up my alley. There’s a path through the trees to a fabulous coffee shop with crafts and artwork from local artists; a long paved bike trail through town where I could walk Winnie; and a convenience store and outdoor store right across the highway. I couldn’t have been happier. I spent all day relaxing, writing, doing laundry, walking Winnie . . . just being.

After this recharge, I hit the AlCan for four days . . . back across the border into Canada and along the shitshow, warzone-like conditions of the AlCan toward Destruction Bay. Except this time, I gave Winnie lots of her “happy meds” so she was blissfully unaware of the jarring, jolting, and bumping instead of panic-panting in the backseat.

Once we passed that god-awful section of the AlCan, the rest of the journey was surprisingly pleasant. We camped at two lakes: Congdon Creek and Teslin Lake, both of which were the typical crystal clear Canadian lakes to which I’d grown accustomed. I walked Winnie along the beaches; watched the vast, peaceful sunset over the mountains; and splashed fresh, cold glacier water on my face.

I stopped at a town called Watson Lake and saw a weird and mesmerizing Sign Post Forest where people left license plates and all kinds of signs - from homemade signs to highway signs. I could have spent hours wandering through this bizarre forest and still never have seen every sign there.

Somewhere along Kluane Lake (the largest lake contained entirely in the Yukon), as I was marveling at vastness of the lake, I looked to my left and saw a perfect rainbow splashed across the mountain backdrop.

Further down the road in Yukon Territory, I came across three separate herds of Wood Bison. These large, powerful animals were reintroduced in the 1980’s to help recover an endangered population, and it’s quite common to see them on and alongside the AlCan as you’re traveling through the Yukon. And when several large bison are standing in the middle of the road, you have no choice but to pull over and hang out in your car (taking photos).

After getting screwed out of the relaxing hot springs at Chena Hot Springs “Resort,” I’d changed my plans to stop at the Liard Hot Springs Provincial Park. Several folks had raved about the park and hot springs, and it sounded like just what I needed after several days of driving. It was worth the wait.

After getting camp set up at the park, I wandered to the hot springs. I strolled along a 750-meter boardwalk through the woods and wetlands down to the hot springs, where there are several signs to be alert of bears. When I reached the natural hot springs, I was in awe. The hot spring pool was like something from a mythical fantasy movie. Steam rising from the hot water, surrounded by natural vegetation, with water so clear you could see the rocky bottom perfectly. There was a lovely changing room, platform, and steps down into the pool . . . along with a warning sign that moose sometimes frequent the springs.

I waded in, found the hottest spot I could tolerate, and leaned back to float.

They recommend that you only spend 20 minutes in the hot springs.

I was in there for an hour and a half.

It felt so damn good.

Some parts of the springs had little pockets that were so hot I couldn’t take it. There also were currents of cool water circulating on top. So I could wander around and find the right mix of hot and cold water that I could swirl around in. I sank down to sit on my knees so I could be submersed up to my neck. I floated on my back, looking up into the towering trees and blue sky.

I was in heaven.

I felt relaxed . . . finally.

Thoroughly soaked in the smell of wet eggs from the sulphur springs, I made my way back to the trailer as a bright pink and orange sunset was forming.

The next day was the final push - about 8.5 hours - to Dawson Creek and the end of my AlCan journey.

It was also August 31 - what would have been my mom’s 68th birthday.

After talking to some folks at the hot springs who were taking their time on their drives to stop and see things, I decided to break up the 8.5-hour drive by seeing some sights along the way.

In the back of my mind was my grandpa’s voice and my favorite saying of his . . . a saying that his grandpa used to say to him: “Sit down and wait until your hurry’s over, because before you know it, in the blink of any eye, your life is over.”

For most of my trip, I was hurrying . . . hurrying to get to the next place. Hurrying to get camp set up before dark. Hurrying to see all the things I wanted to see. Hurry, hurry, hurry.

And in all that hurrying, I was missing so much. And it was exhausting.

So I took the other travelers’ - and my grandpa’s advice - and slowed it down on the long drive to Dawson Creek.

I took my time to stop and see things to help me celebrate my mom’s birthday. Things that I know she was seeing right there with me.

We stopped at a mineral lick with some cool hoodoos where there were supposed to be a lot of sheep. l didn’t see a single one, but the view was cool.

We stopped at some other viewpoints on the jaw-dropping drive along Muncho Lake Provincial Park, where it was raining and misty - the perfect backdrop to the lake, river, and mountains that lined the drive.

It was a lovely way to break up the long ass drive.

Finally, just after the sunset, we rolled into the Northern Lights Campground in Dawson Creek, where I immediately ran to the shower to wash off the persistent wet egg smell from the hot springs that had been lingering in my hair and on my skin.

Freshly showered and enjoying some dinner and a Yukon Brewery beer outside on the picnic table, I stared up at the sky. Just then, I saw a gigantic shooting star race across the sky.

“Thanks, mom,” I whispered, “and happy birthday.”

Thanks for keeping us safe. For getting us this far. For helping me navigate two notorious highways - the Cassiar and AlCan. For the many privileges I have that have allowed me to make this trip.

And for reminding me to slow my roll . . . to sit down and wait in those moments when I feel the “hurry, hurry, hurry” rush in. To take the time to marvel at a stunning lake, or a well-placed rainbow, or some bizarre sign forest.

As I reflected back on my AlCan journey, I felt a wave of sadness come over me.

Now, I was turning back toward home . . . back toward the border . . . and gradually winding my way back to Colorado.

I was almost five weeks into my journey. It paradoxically felt like I had only just begun my trip, but that places like Flaming Gorge and Rainier were a lifetime behind me.

As I’ve said before, time is a weird, bendy thing . . . and no matter how much you try to hurry, hurry, hurry, one thing is for sure: the amount of time that you think you do or don’t have is all in your head. Time is a construct that we humans have developed to make sense of our world based on the rotation of planets around the sun . . . that’s all.

We made up “time” to get places . . . to make appointments . . . to mark how long we’ve been here and how much longer we think we have.

But there is only ever one moment . . . that’s it. You can try to mark that moment with hours, minutes, or seconds, but that’s just your human mind trying to put some parameters in place.

Think that’s weird? Well, consider this: if you and a friend have the exact same watch, and your friend is on an airplane and you’re on the ground, your friend’s watch will run ever-so-slightly faster than your watch because of gravity. “Time” is different in the air than on the ground.

There’s actually no way to break up this ever-present moment, no matter how much we try.

The present moment is constantly evolving into the next, and the next, and the next.

It has no beginning, no middle, and no end.

It only has now.

So, at the risk of sounding like Eckhart Tolle: be here NOW.

Be present in the now and for the now.

Stop and look at weird Sign Post Forests, mineral licks, rainbows alongside the road, bison who wander in front of your car . . .

be in the now by looking at the zillion stars in the sky.

Like my grandpa said: Sit down and wait. And I say, wait in the now. Not 5 minutes or 5 months or 5 years from now or in the past. But right here, right now.

In this moment . . . and this moment . . . and this moment.

My time on the AlCan was a weird, bendy thing. Some days the driving seemed to take forever. Others, a long day’s drive seemed to fly by. However time seemed, it was all in my head. It was whatever I made it.

So with that, here’s this installment’s Trail Mix:

Lessons learned:

• Whether you believe in “a God,” Divine Spirit, whatever you want to call it, or nothing at all, chew on this: there is shit going on all the time, in and around you, that you’re either not aware of or, if you are aware of it, that you can’t make sense of. Your perceptions and senses are vastly limited. You simply do not see, hear, taste, smell, feel, or even know everything. Not even close to everything. When I looked to my left along the AlCan and saw a beautiful rainbow splashed across the mountains, I could easily have chalked that up to nothing more than the science of what a rainbow is. When I looked into the night sky at the Northern Lights RV Village on my mom’s birthday and saw a shooting star, I also could have chalked that up to coincidence. But how does seeing these things as “coincidence” help me? To me, when we are willing to automatically dismiss things as coincidence or “just science,” we’re coming from a somewhat jaded and myopic view. For example, you can explain to me the science behind why rainbows appear, but can you explain where the tiny subatomic particles that make up water and lightwaves come from? Science can’t even explain where these tiny particles come from. We keep discovering smaller and smaller subatomic particles all the time. But where do they come from? And how am I actually able to perceive a rainbow? Again, you can tell me how my eyes and optical nerves work, but where do all of the tiny particles that make up my physical body come from? And how do they know what to do and how to act in ways that allow me to see? To me, these are the great mysteries and miracles of life. And to say, “well, science just hasn’t evolved to explain everything yet,” puts you in a very narrow and shallow mindset. It doesn’t leave open the possibility that maybe - just maybe - we’re not meant to explain everything. We’re not meant to know everything. Because if we did know and discover all there is to know and discover, what kind of life would that be like? There would be no great mystery. No miracles. No continuous evolution. To me, there is a greater animating force that we can’t perceive - not directly - that’s running the show behind the curtain that we will never be able to fully pull back. And I’m ok with that. I’m ok with mystery and uncertainties and the unexplained. Are you?

• The stories that you tell yourself - which are based on your very limited perceptions - can limit you in ways that you aren’t even aware. During this trip, I’ve done a lot of examination of the stories I tell myself. About everything from time, to my abilities, to how other people are behaving, to what I believe is possible. And, at the end of the day - even if you have a story that is steeped in science - it’s all just one story. Even science - as much as I believe in science - is only ever the best theory, a.k.a. story, that we have at any given time. Science evolves, and so does the story that science tells. So, the more we can be aware of the stories we’re telling ourselves and that others are telling us (society, culture, family, church), the more we can wake up. It doesn’t mean that you necessarily have to change your story. But if a particular story isn’t working for you, then you need to first become aware of it before you can start telling yourself a more supportive story. To that end, please take a listen to this meditation that I recorded along the shores of Congdon Lake in the Yukon Territory.

What I’m listening to: I listened to a lot during my drive along the AlCan, but the one thing that stands out the most is a fantastic episode from The Rich Roll Podcast with Susan Cain: The Great Ache That Binds Us. A former corporate lawyer turned author, Cain’s most recent book, Bittersweet, is a New York Times Bestseller. In this captivating interview, she discusses her 7-year journey to better understand melancholy and show why a quiet state of being “paves a true path to creativity, connection, and transcendence.” Seriously . . . this is a game changer!

May you stay safe and well . . . and watch for the next installment, where I’ll be wrapping up my journey!