I wish I had a webcam on my helmet so I could share this ride... The Klondike Highway north from Whitehorse to Dawson is magnificent and remote. I rode for ten or fifteen minutes at a time without seeing another vehicle. The weather was good when I started out, sunny with clouds, warm-ish, dry pavement, perfect riding conditions. Within an hour, though, the clouds had moved in from somewhere over in Alaska and my knuckles, knees, toes, and nose began to freeze. Had I left ten minutes earlier, I'd have been riding in heavy downpour most of the way. As it was, the pavement was wet and the black cloud that had dumped had moved east.

A beautiful lone wolf ran out in front of Henk and into the ditch beside us. I got to thinking that if I happened to go off this lonely narrow two lane road, I could easily disappear into the ditch and not be found for days...left for the wolves. I suppose that's one way to go. I've always thought the most efficient way of dealing with human corpses would be to hang them in trees and let the ravens and eagles devour them...

I read the Saturday Vancouver Sun on Saturday night in Whitehorse. There was a story of Luna, the killer whale in Nootka sound, who has actually become a bit of a danger and a nuisance, "playing" with small boats in his bid for interaction with their humans. A couple of scientists are offering to give him a human family until his pod comes by and takes him "home." Daniel Quinn has a theory that other animals are beginning to become self-aware. (Why wouldn't they? Where did our self-awareness come from?) It sounds as though this orca is more self-aware than some humans I know, and more social...

I'm camped across the river at the Yukon River Hostel, "Canada's most northern hostel." The owner said that if someone else goes and builds one in Inuvik, he'll scream, then change his sign to read "one of..." He's from Germany, "I was lucky enough to run away," and has built a very very funky place. It consists of several shared cabins and a few private ones, a lovely campground looking back across the river at Dawson, and a wood-fired bath. I went for the wood-fired bath. When I left Whitehorse, the campground showers were not working, so I was a filthy frozen mess when I arrived.

Greg, an adventurous high school teacher from San Francisco who'd kayaked solo from Alaska, showed me to the bathouse and explained how it worked. First, you have to chop your wood, then you light a fire in the stove below the barrel of water, then you wait half an hour for the water to heat up, then you mix it with the cold to get just the right temperature, then you stand in the bathing area and ladle the warmed water over you. Mmm.

It really comes down to: How badly do you need to bathe? I grabbed a saw and started in on a log. A gentleman bmw biker held the log for me as I sawed. Someone said, "You're holding the saw backward." Oh. By the time you've sawed a log or two for the fire, you need a bath!

I finally managed around midnight to have a very luxurious private bath in the wood-warmed bath house. I couldn't help thinking, though, what a romantic ritual that would be for two. A new requirement for my dream home in my dream life.

I woke up this morning (yup) to the chorus of the young couple in the tent next to mine having sex. Half an hour later, all the guy could say was "Oatmeal! Oatmeal!" His girlfriend went off to chop some wood to boil some water and I came out and winked at him. "Pretty good stamina for a young buck just out of high school," I said. "You think so?" he asked, proud of himself. "Yeah," I said. "But you should always, always, make sure the woman is happy before you finish. Makes for good harmony in the home (tent)." "Thanks for the advice," he said. Ok, I didn't actually see the young lovers when I finally got up around 10.

Dawson City is about as far away from Toronto as I'll be able to ride. I can feel the ropes that hold the hooks pulled taut like a bungy cord. This is the place where I usually snap back into the same old patterns only to start again. It's difficult being this far away. I miss my kitty. And I miss Ron. Ron's having a hard time moving on. I thought he was the lucky one, staying in his place where a whirlwind of business and activity takes place daily and he gets to sleep with Willow Green Eyes and life goes on as before. But he emailed yesterday that he feels as though a light has been snuffed out. I think, perhaps, he's been thinking until now that I'd be back. Why wouldn't I? I've run away from home before, six or seven times, only to return.

I remember running away from home when I was 11 or 12. I packed a lunch of crackers and cheese and hit the woods. I went for a skate on a pond and when it started getting dark, I got scared and ran home.

"You're so brave!" I keep hearing this over and over on this trip. But really, it's not true. I'm still that scared 12-year-old out in the woods contemplating running home when it gets dark.