Distance: 97 miles
What a disaster.
We had a fairly sleepless night. We could hear our neighbor’s radio blaring through the wall, which failed to drown out the sound of their…er…relations. At about 4:30 in the morning, they finally stopped, at which point we gave up and got out of bed since the alarm was set for 5:00.
We let the car warm up for a while since it was –20 F this morning. After filling up with gas, we headed down the highway. Not even half a mile later, the engine began to make very strained whirring noises. This was followed by the horrifying sight of smoke billowing from under the hood. Hans pulled over and the engine died and would not re-start. I was in the process of setting up our LED road flares so we could walk back to town. Hans managed to finally start the car. Very carefully, with the engine sounding even worse, we turned around and limped back to town.
We parked in the lot of another motel and went inside their deserted lobby to figure out what to do next. The subsequent three hours were extremely grim. It was about 6 am, and there was no chance of getting help before the locals crawled out of bed, post-holiday-celebration.
We began to consider calling Hans’ dad to pick us up and tow us back to Anchorage. We began to consider selling the Passport, but what kind of laws are there to import a Canadian vehicle into the U.S.? Could we put our trailer on a barge and fly to Seattle, buy a new car, and then drive to Missouri? Should we scrap the whole move altogether?
Hans tried to start up the car so as to move it out of the middle of the parking lot. This time, there was a loud bang and snap. The serpentine belt had completely shredded.
As we sat in the quiet motel lobby I flipped through the phone book and found three local mechanics listed. There was a Honda-certified shop in Whitehorse, but that was 100 miles away. After failed attempts to call the local mechanics I called the place in Whitehorse (it also offered towing services). A man named Jason answered and I explained the situation to him. He told me that he’d be able to help us out but that it would take about two hours for him to get to Haines Junction and that the towing fee would be $500. I swallowed. Then he suggested that I wait for the local businesses to open before we jump to gun and spend more money than necessary.
By now it was 9 am and the motel restaurant was going to be open in an hour. We decided to follow Jason’s advice and wait.
At ten the monotony was broken when a tall, aging man arrived and opened the restaurant, soon followed by a few early customers. Hans and I sat down dejectedly. Suddenly we realized we were ravenous. The gentleman who had opened the place introduced himself as Richard, and after taking our orders as well as those of the other customers, he set about cooking everyone’s meals himself. Apparently he was the only one working today. Once he had served everyone’s food he settled himself at the table opposite ours, lit up a cigarette, and asked where we were from. We exchanged stories about living in harsh sub-zero winters and he told us funny tales about his dog mushing escapades and hapless tourist encounters, punctuated often with an exclamation of “ho-ly shit!” in a thick Yukon accent, “eh?”
Eventually we got around to our tale of woe from this morning and told him about Jason’s suggestion. Richard advised us to call for a tow to Whitehorse anyway, because of the three local mechanics one was out of town, one had a very sick mother whom he was attending, and the other was completely incompetent and untrustworthy. At these words I consulted my auto insurance pamphlet and saw that I should be reimbursed for towing fees, as well as some of the repairs in the event of a “catastrophic engine failure”. Just to be sure I called my insurance agent in Anchorage. After I told him that it was going to be $500 he said “just mail us the receipts later.”
Elated to have some good news, I called Whitehorse and asked to be picked up. By now it was noon, so we spent the next few hours chatting with Richard, who we thanked endlessly for his help.
It was nearly three in the afternoon when the tow truck arrived, a semi with a large flat bed that the Passport was rolled onto after unhitching our trailer. With the trailer attached to the tow truck, we climbed into the cab with Jason, who’d made the trip with his wife and two kids in tow (pun intended). After a very long and stressful morning, Hans and I both nodded off during the 100-mile drive. When we arrived in Whitehorse Jason dropped us off at the Yukon Inn and told us he’d call in the morning once his mechanics had inspected our vehicle.
After checking in and taking a few minutes to collect our thoughts, we each called our respective families to let them know what had happened. Next, the only thing left to do was find a place for dinner and try not to be upset about our uncertain future.
We could see across town from our motel room window and it looked like the only places open were a McDonalds across the street at a Boston Pizza about a quarter mile away. We sure as heck weren’t interested in fast food but it was 20 below zero. We bundled up and walked along the quiet streets to the pizza place. Our meal wasn’t spectacular but we were thankful for a hot meal and a sense that things might improve tomorrow. On the walk aback to the motel I could not help but laugh at Hans as he slipped and fell so violently that the top button of his pants burst and flew into a snow bank, never to be seen again. Poor Hans. He laughed as well but it did look painful.
The rest of the evening was spent watching TV to take our minds off our predicament.
What a disaster.
We had a fairly sleepless night. We could hear our neighbor’s radio blaring through the wall, which failed to drown out the sound of their…er…relations. At about 4:30 in the morning, they finally stopped, at which point we gave up and got out of bed since the alarm was set for 5:00.
We let the car warm up for a while since it was –20 F this morning. After filling up with gas, we headed down the highway. Not even half a mile later, the engine began to make very strained whirring noises. This was followed by the horrifying sight of smoke billowing from under the hood. Hans pulled over and the engine died and would not re-start. I was in the process of setting up our LED road flares so we could walk back to town. Hans managed to finally start the car. Very carefully, with the engine sounding even worse, we turned around and limped back to town.
We parked in the lot of another motel and went inside their deserted lobby to figure out what to do next. The subsequent three hours were extremely grim. It was about 6 am, and there was no chance of getting help before the locals crawled out of bed, post-holiday-celebration.
We began to consider calling Hans’ dad to pick us up and tow us back to Anchorage. We began to consider selling the Passport, but what kind of laws are there to import a Canadian vehicle into the U.S.? Could we put our trailer on a barge and fly to Seattle, buy a new car, and then drive to Missouri? Should we scrap the whole move altogether?
Hans tried to start up the car so as to move it out of the middle of the parking lot. This time, there was a loud bang and snap. The serpentine belt had completely shredded.
As we sat in the quiet motel lobby I flipped through the phone book and found three local mechanics listed. There was a Honda-certified shop in Whitehorse, but that was 100 miles away. After failed attempts to call the local mechanics I called the place in Whitehorse (it also offered towing services). A man named Jason answered and I explained the situation to him. He told me that he’d be able to help us out but that it would take about two hours for him to get to Haines Junction and that the towing fee would be $500. I swallowed. Then he suggested that I wait for the local businesses to open before we jump to gun and spend more money than necessary.
By now it was 9 am and the motel restaurant was going to be open in an hour. We decided to follow Jason’s advice and wait.
At ten the monotony was broken when a tall, aging man arrived and opened the restaurant, soon followed by a few early customers. Hans and I sat down dejectedly. Suddenly we realized we were ravenous. The gentleman who had opened the place introduced himself as Richard, and after taking our orders as well as those of the other customers, he set about cooking everyone’s meals himself. Apparently he was the only one working today. Once he had served everyone’s food he settled himself at the table opposite ours, lit up a cigarette, and asked where we were from. We exchanged stories about living in harsh sub-zero winters and he told us funny tales about his dog mushing escapades and hapless tourist encounters, punctuated often with an exclamation of “ho-ly shit!” in a thick Yukon accent, “eh?”
Eventually we got around to our tale of woe from this morning and told him about Jason’s suggestion. Richard advised us to call for a tow to Whitehorse anyway, because of the three local mechanics one was out of town, one had a very sick mother whom he was attending, and the other was completely incompetent and untrustworthy. At these words I consulted my auto insurance pamphlet and saw that I should be reimbursed for towing fees, as well as some of the repairs in the event of a “catastrophic engine failure”. Just to be sure I called my insurance agent in Anchorage. After I told him that it was going to be $500 he said “just mail us the receipts later.”
Elated to have some good news, I called Whitehorse and asked to be picked up. By now it was noon, so we spent the next few hours chatting with Richard, who we thanked endlessly for his help.
It was nearly three in the afternoon when the tow truck arrived, a semi with a large flat bed that the Passport was rolled onto after unhitching our trailer. With the trailer attached to the tow truck, we climbed into the cab with Jason, who’d made the trip with his wife and two kids in tow (pun intended). After a very long and stressful morning, Hans and I both nodded off during the 100-mile drive. When we arrived in Whitehorse Jason dropped us off at the Yukon Inn and told us he’d call in the morning once his mechanics had inspected our vehicle.
After checking in and taking a few minutes to collect our thoughts, we each called our respective families to let them know what had happened. Next, the only thing left to do was find a place for dinner and try not to be upset about our uncertain future.
We could see across town from our motel room window and it looked like the only places open were a McDonalds across the street at a Boston Pizza about a quarter mile away. We sure as heck weren’t interested in fast food but it was 20 below zero. We bundled up and walked along the quiet streets to the pizza place. Our meal wasn’t spectacular but we were thankful for a hot meal and a sense that things might improve tomorrow. On the walk aback to the motel I could not help but laugh at Hans as he slipped and fell so violently that the top button of his pants burst and flew into a snow bank, never to be seen again. Poor Hans. He laughed as well but it did look painful.
The rest of the evening was spent watching TV to take our minds off our predicament.
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