Meanwhile, Somewhere in Canada...

When I was 18 years old, a couple weeks out of high school, my friend Jason and I hopped into my 1990 Chevy S-10 and drove to Alaska. It was (and in many ways still is) the biggest adventure I had ever been on. It took us five days to get there, took us across one continent, two countries, three provinces, 11 states and nearly 10,000 miles - round trip. I could write semi-true stories about the things we saw, did and experienced for the next week and still not tell them all.

But one thing that can't be understated is how rugged it still is. In the U.S., we hop on the highway and drive wherever we want...no biggie. The Alaska Highway and the other highways through northern Canada aren't necessarily highways in the sense we think of them. Sure they're mostly paved, but they're constantly working on them...and often times, miles and miles of driving on large, dusty, two-lane gravel roads. This particular story begins on the drive south, somewhere in north-central British Columbia...

We were on our way home from our long trip to Alaska and after several weeks of perpetual driving, we were getting a little restless and ready to be home. So as we drove through the southern Yukon Territory we decided that we'd just take continuous shifts and drive non-stop back to Iowa. I volunteered to take the first night shift - driving basically straight south through British Columbia towards Seattle - about 900 miles away.

When you're that far north in the summer it never gets dark - but as I drove further south that night, for the first time on the trip it got darker and darker the further I went - to the point that by 1 a.m. or so it was completely dark. Early on in the night, Jason passed out asleep and it was just me, my s-10, French-language Christian radio and the Canadian Rockies. Although it was dark, it really was an amazing drive. The road, at least at that time, was nearly completely gravel - so you had to drive fairly slow. It was a bit like driving through a zoo - I can vividly recall seeing moose, wolves, bears, deer, elk an big horn sheep - all standing on the side of the road.

Then about 5:30 a.m., in the middle of a dense evergreen forest - out in the middle of what can only described as nowhere, it happened. I could instantly feel the flat tire. When you're planning a drive like this every guidebook tells you that you're going to get flat tires along the way. It's recommend that you carry a couple spares a good jack and the tools you need to change the tire quickly - we were prepared.

But one thing I wasn't prepared for was the moment it happened. As I mentioned before, the drive was like driving through a zoo...and as I felt the flat tire and looked at Jason continuing to sleep, I could see them - at least a dozen (and I mean at least a dozen) black bears. There were bears in the ditches, the road, the trees - everywhere. There was some kind of road kill up the road as well as behind us a few hundred yards, and being early morning, I guess it was time for breakfast. I pulled the truck off to the side of the road and came to a stop.

Pulling the truck to a stop woke Jason up...and rubbing his eyes, he asked, "What's going on?"

"We have a flat," I replied. He pulled himself up, sat up straight and peered out the windshield. No more than 50 yards in front of us four black bears sat eating the road kill.

"Are you shitting me? We have a flat...here?"

"Yep." I continued to stare down the road at the bears. I smiled, looked at him - "But no worries, they're more scared of you than you are of them." I reached for the door handle and bolted to the back of the truck.

It was the right-rear tire that was flat. With the speed and efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew we worked together, jacking up the truck, spinning off all five lug nuts, slapping on the new tire, spinning the lug nuts back on, pitching the flat tire into the back and bolting back into the truck.

We sat there for a second. The bears hadn't even moved...although there were now a few more rustling through the ditch. We finished the drive into Prince George, stopped at a gas station and had our tire repaired. Relaying our close call to the old man while he fixed it - he just laughed, muttered something about Yankees and handed us the bill.

Just like that, we were back on the road - only 1,900 more miles to Glenwood.