The following is a transcript of an audio recording found labeled “February 16, 2019, Dawson City Yukon Territory - Rose Carson”
-–
Yep, I heard you Tom. I remember Kilometre 666 well. Why are you asking? Yeah, I worked for highways back when that all happened. I don’t know that I really want to talk about it though. It wasn’t an exciting story, and every time I hear Brad going off about how it’s haunted and so exciting, I want to spit. There wasn’t a moment of so-called excitement that wasn’t also a moment where I thought I was going to shit my pants and die. Fuck’s sake. But okay I’ll tell you what I remember and you tell me what you think about whether or not that shit was exciting. Yeah you can record I guess. But don’t think I’m going to clean my shit up so you can have some sort of cutesy family story. Ain’t nothing cutesy about any of this shit.
Kilometre 666 was always having trouble. You can have two farts and a free guess why. With all the horror stories coming out of the 40s when they built the damn highway I can’t believe how many people live out that way. For fuck’s sake they built a damn gas station right there. And I remember when I moved out to Dawson in ‘78 - those were the absolute damn best days when beer was a buck and nobody gave a shit who you were - and there were still a few of the fellas that worked on the highway kicking around and oh boy. They had a haunted look. Not all of them. Remember Willie? What the fuck did we call him again…oh yeah Old Sour Kraut. His real name was Wilheim, and after the war he came to Canada. Talked right freely about what happened there, about how he seen the craziest shit orders coming from those SS officers, and how he hated every minute of it. Poor man was just trying to run away from all them memories, but he still talked about them. But I only heard him talk about working on the highway once. And the look in his eyes…well fuck me that was a look I’ll never forget.
I was hot shit back in ‘78. I was still working the Pit back then - both sides but mostly the Snakepit, and that’s where I liked it. You wouldn’t believe it looking at me now, but back then I was quite the piece of ass. I wore my hair long and my shirts tight, and you better believe that I made those tips flow like water. Cash, nuggets from the creeks, and the occasional marriage proposal. Randy old miners. Somehow the place just felt right. You’d get Harry and the boys jigging up a storm on Friday nights, and the place was lit up with booze and laughter. Every once in a while I’d join in for my own fun, but fuck if I didn’t prefer to be back behind the bar, flirting my ass off for tips and occasionally sampling what came through town.
It was a quiet night in…oh ‘82 or so when Sour Kraut came in. We called him that because he was a big German who’d come up in ‘53 to work on the highway, and he never made it past Dawson. Gold fever struck him hard, and seeing as how he wasn’t really military, he didn’t have to stick around. The first winter I guess must have disillusioned him, because he wouldn’t stop griping about how cold it was. That’s when the locals started calling him Sour Kraut. The nickname stuck, but so did he. He’d come in and would chat me up occasionally over a never-ending tumbler of rye. His stories were always the same - what his best haul had been in the summer of ‘67 , the time he scared a black bear so bad it leapt (he always swore this was true) higher than he was tall, and memories of when he was a boy living in Hamburg. He laughed a lot, and tipped well when he was able to. I always called him Willie,
Anyways one night he came in, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. It was the dead of winter, and that time of year is always hard this far North. It’s cold, it’s dark, and it’s quiet. Most people can handle two of those three factors, but you put all three together and you get some fucked up moments out of people. I remember when Gary Wachowitzki was found rambling in the dead of winter wearing only his boots and a long coat. Kept yelling about how there was something in his cabin, but he’d killed the fucking thing. Turns out he’d shot his cat and smeared that poor animal’s guts all over the place. He was never totally right after that, and when he disappeared after the spring breakup all of us who knew him couldn’t decide if we were relieved or worried.
But fuck I’m getting off track again. Old Willie comes through and he’s looking like shit. He’s always been just another dirty fuck who’s only interest was working his claim, but there seemed something particularly…shit I don’t know…askew? He’s out of sorts. There’s some sort of fucking look in his eye. Haunted or some shit. And he doesn’t say nothing, he just plops himself down right over there at the bar and gives me the two fingers for a double. He took that drink from me and gulped it back so fast I thought he’d choke on it. He didn’t even have to ask me for another. I was honestly worried about him. Willie was a sweet man, and his stories were repetitive, but he had a good shine about him, he tipped well, and he never grabbed my ass. It wasn’t until he had finished his second double that I asked him how he was doing, and to this day I wish I fucking hadn’t.
“Rose,” he says to me, “Rose I can’t sleep. It happens now and again, but it’s this fucking time of the year, and I am stuck in memories I can’t get rid of.” His accent was thick as shit, but his English was pretty good. He’d been in the country some forty years at that point, and had no issue speaking English. I had even heard him rumbling out some French at a couple of the francos who came up to mine. I couldn’t tell you if he was any good at the French, but I understood every word he told me in English except for one.
“Remember how I came up? Back in ‘53. I was hired to come up and work on the highway, and it was good work, and I had an adventurous spirit back then so I figured, why not. So we slogged through the mud and the forest, and the damn bugs. It was hard work, and we had our share of incidents. One man, Pierre, who had been hired on at the same time as me broke his leg when a tree fell on him just past Stewart Crossing. It was haunting to hear how his screams echoed through the valley. He didn’t come back. And he wasn’t the only one. There were medics there, but if you broke something you had to go back to Whitehorse. But there were fresh bodies coming up every few weeks so we kept making progress.
By the time we got to Kilometre 666 we were exhausted but triumphant. The end was so close we could taste it, and we were able to set up in Dawson instead of wall tents and camps along the highway. Quite a few of us went over the top the first few nights we were in Dawson. There were people there, and liquor flowing free and beautiful women and we had ourselves quite the rumpus. I remember the first morning after we set up in Dawson. We came right here to the Pit and shook the roof with our celebration. Curly was running the place back then, and it was the place to be.” Willie looked around, smiling for the first time since he had come in. It looked like the whiskey had taken the edge off whatever mood he was in, “It still is the place. Not different in the slightest.” Then he shook his head and that haunted look comes back to him.
“The next few days we worked our way up to Kilometre 666. It didn’t seem any different than any other stretch of woods, but some of the men started complaining. Said they were seeing eyes looking at them in the woods, and heard something whispering their names behind them but when they looked around there was nothing there. Almost fifteen men quit the same day. We all thought it was just assholes wanting to go and drink themselves stupid in town.
But I don’t think that any more. We hit Kilometre 666 the afternoon of September 19th, 1953. I was helping lay the road down, and man I tell you, while most days were back-breaking slogs, September 19th felt like it was a hundred times more difficult. The flies attacked us with ferocity, and the mud churned up by the heavy equipment sucked at our boots, making it more difficult to take steps than ever before. I was sweating like a dog before noon. We were working 12 hour days too, sometimes longer. With winter approaching, and so little road left to do before the finish, we were being driven hard to finish the highway. So we started before dawn and finished after dusk. But we felt it - the end - and so we pushed and strained harder and harder. And we made it through the day.”
Willie’s voice had cracked then, and he looked like he was going to cry. That fucked with my head - Willie wasn’t ancient, but he was getting up there, and these old fuckers never cried unless they were boozed to the gills, and old Sour Kraut wasn’t even close to that liquored. But he steadied himself and kept going, “See, it wasn’t until the nighttime came that things went wrong. We were getting pretty close to quitting time, and it was past sunset. We had the big lights set up but there wasn’t much illumination. It felt like the light was struggling to cover half the area that it usually did, and all of us felt it. And I could see it in the unease around me. The other men, big guys full of bluster and beer, they seemed to shrink away from the shadows. Then, we heard it. Scratching sounds coming from all around us. Not like the scratching of a mouse, or the sound of a cat dragging its nails across wood. It felt deeper, like something piercing the trees with huge sharp claws.
All of a sudden a huge bird landed on the truck closest to most of us. It was a raven, but nothing like I’d ever seen before. Ravens are already big birds, you’ve seen them perched on the rooftops. Watching cleverly for food and God,” (‘cept he didn’t say it with the ‘d’ like you and me would, he said it like “gott”, but never mind that. I ain’t gonna try to make that accent happen), “God knows what else that they want to take away with them, this one was huge. It was larger than eagles, larger than dogs - in fact, if somebody had shown me a bird like that I would have laughed and said that was impossible but it wasn’t. It was a huge bird staring down at us with baleful eyes that seemed to illuminate from within. Yeah it was reflecting the light off the lamps, but there was something else. A dirty fire from within, and I don’t know how I knew it, but as that bird looked around at all of us, I could tell when it looked directly at me and it made me feel filthy. Suddenly it spread its huge wings and to a man we all gasped and screamed with shock and fear. Underneath the massive wings, there was something moving and writhing crazily. It made me sick just to look at them. Not only that, they had a heat to them. I don’t know how anything that’s 25 feet away could emit a heat that I could feel on my skin.
It flew at us all of a sudden, claws aimed and all that writhing mass swirling around. I ducked and I’m glad I did, cause it soared right over me and latched on to Harvey, one of the foremen. I peeked up from where I had fallen to my hands and knees to see the giant bird drilling into Harvey’s face with a ruthless intensity that terrified me. There was nothing chaotic about it, even in all the screaming and flailing and flapping. That bird was on a mission, and it’s mission was to eat right through Harvey’s face and it did. He went down with the huge bird clutching at him, talons and claws ripping through all of that thick denim he was wearing like it was paper. The writhing darkness had also taken hold, and I could see something that looked wet and slimy prodding its way into the open wounds and orifices of Harvey’s face. I don’t know how long it took, but none of us moved a muscle until that hellbird had finished its grisly meal. It wasn’t fear that froze us there, but some sort of invisible command that made us feel like we wouldn’t be able to look away if we wanted to. And then it looked up at us and we all flinched back under that hot glare. We were all frozen there like stone, waiting for the bird to pick us off one by one and feast just like he had feasted on Harvey, whose face was now unrecognizable. There was a hole where his face had been, and even the bone had been completely demolished. He was oozing blood but in the darkness and the light of the loader lamps it looked black. It was a foul sight.
We all thought we was going to die that day. That bird had torn through Harvey like it was a helpless little prey animal, and we all knew in our very soul that there was nothing we could do against that bird. But it just stared at us for what must have been the longest moment in history. And then it spread its wings and launched up, taking what was left of Harvey with it in its claws. It took him, the Nachtkrapp, and we never found his body. Not a trace of him was left except the blood mixed in with the mud of the road. None of us moved still for at least another 5 minutes - we were all just staring at the blood soaking into the upturned earth, and then it was almost like a gunshot went off in all of our minds. We all scrambled to get out of there as quick as we could. It was full dark by then, and we found out when we got back to town shaken and full of terror that it was close to midnight. Midnight. It made no sense because it felt like it had only taken a few minutes for everything to happen, but I feel like that bird had a spell cast on us. It held us as long as it wanted, and sometimes when I think about it like I did last night and this morning and this afternoon, it’s like there’s memories creeping around the edges, and I feel like that bird spoke to me. It spoke to me in my mother tongue, and it made me recall to it all of the worst things I had done in my life, and just like it had feasted on Harvey’s flesh, it feasted on my suffering and my pain,” He paused for a long minute, then looked up at me.
I had no idea what to make of this. Willie was a good man, graying around the temples, and I didn’t give a fuck what any of those assholes said behind his back about him being German and serving in the war. Willie was a good man, and he had proved himself time and again to be a good man. But the way he had said that last bit made me wonder what had happened that he left his home and ran all the way out here to the loneliest scrap of earth he could find. But I would never know. Willie down his glass of rye, left a bill on the bar, and left without a further word. He was found two days later. He put a shotgun up against his face and blasted it. Young Johnny, who found him, said that it was like there was a hole where his face used to be. For weeks after I was tormented with nightmares of him and Harvey, a man who I had never heard of before, never seen and would never hear of again staring at me out of the corner of my room with nothing but a gouged out face. I even woke up in a cold sweat when I thought I heard Willie and his deep German accent calling out my name, but there was nothing there. About ten years ago I was remembering Willie telling me that story and I remembered that word - nachtkrapp - and I googled it. It’s a German legend - the night raven. It eats children by ripping them apart. Gave me the fucking chills, I tell you.
Fuck me, I’m dry again. Pour me another one. Tom, and I’ll keep going. Yeah yeah, I know you want to hear about my time on Kilometre 666. Well that came much later, in the early ’90s. By that time the road was very nicely developed, I was no longer hot shit and I’d learned me a trade or two. Remember when I threw around with Lucky? Yeah yeah you know the one that miner up at Kelly Creek. I don’t know why we called him Lucky, except for maybe that he got to take in with me. I was still tending the Pit full time, but my feet were getting restless. Lucky and me took up, I suppose out of a sense of boredom on his part, and a sense of restlessness on mine. He was hot shit, and a great screw. I decided to go work with him full time on his claim, and for four years, that’s what we did. During the summers. I’d work with him breaking my back out on his claim, listening to him bitch about all the dredges that had come through and taken up all the gold, and in the winters I’d tend bar and he would drink through everything we’d made that summer. We should have been rich. Gold kept on going up, but we kept on spending. Don’t get me wrong. I was as fucked up as he was, and I loved every single second of it. Even the winter in ‘89 when we started beating on each other for no other reason than boredom. Course that was no good, and we had to stop at it pretty quick because we both realized we’d gotten ourselves way too deep. Lucky left, pulled up stakes at his claim, and I came back to the Pit with a broken nose and a few more skills. He taught me how to run a loader and a bucket, he taught me how to repair the truck that was always breaking down, and had to operate all the gold mining equipment.
I fancied myself quite the handyman, and boasted of it to anybody who’d listen. Somebody did listen- Jack Kensington who was running a maintenance operation in the early ’90s. He’d fix just about whatever the fuck and any other odd job you needed. Need to sweep a chimney? He’d do it. He wouldn’t do it well, but he’d do it. It. Need a couple cords of wood chucked? He’d come and buck it for you by hand and charge you up the nostril for it. I don’t even understand where he got this fucking idea, most everybody was so fucking self-sufficient. But there were gaps, elders, people who were put up with broken bones, people who are too fucking stupid to figure out how to do shit on their own, newcomers not used to what a real Yukon winter would do to your shit. That was where he made his living, and it was enough that he needed to hire help. He had me and another guy Travis working for him doing odd shit.
By the time the ’90s rolled around, there were some fucked up rumors. Of course it was all very hush hush, and I highly doubt that anybody spoke of it out loud. We were all worried of being heard by whatever was out there. Some people said witches control that part of the highway, some people said it was cultists or Satanists, some people thought it was fairies. I don’t know what the fuck it was. Willie’s story had never left my mind, and though I had tried to convince myself it was just a ramblings of a drunk barfly I never quite could.
We were hired by a widow whose husband had been working a placer mine somewhere out in the hills, and had died trying to strike it rich. Turned out he was heavily in debt as he had a gambling problem and had spent most of his nights at Gertie’s trying to make his fortune there. He had a heart attack, and the debts were so much that the widow had to sell their home in town and the only place she could find was a dilapidated little shack out on Kilometre 666. If I may say bluntly she was a complete fucked up wackadoo. Even when her husband had been alive, she’d been odd. Maybe it was all the stress of dealing with a man who loved cards more than he loved her. Maybe it was the fact that she’d never had any kids to keep her busy. Whatever it was she was always mumbling to herself, and on a couple different times had actually hissed at people when they tried to approach her. But Dawson is full of weirdos and we try not to judge. As you know. I personally thought she was batshit crazy, and avoided her as much as possible. But Jack didn’t give a flying fuck about any of that. The widow had been trying to get in and out of town in a beat up little shit truck that wouldn’t go anymore and as I knew a little bit about engine repair, he sent me out there to help her out. It didn’t even register with me at the time where I was heading. I got there late afternoon, nursing a hangover from the previous evening at the Pit - off shift mind you - so I wasn’t paying much attention to where I was. I got in there and could see that she’d fucked up a few of her hoses, and was trying to figure out if I could cobble something together super cheap for her when all of a sudden. I heard a scrabbling sound coming from behind me.
Well I just about fucking jumped out of my pants, and I turned around expecting to see some sort of shit like a bear or moose or a fucking wolverine if I was super unlucky, but there was nothing there. This was in the middle of summer too, so it was bright as shit and the sun wasn’t going to go down anytime soon. It still felt to me like there was a shadow between the world and the sun and I was standing in it. After a few minutes of looking around anxiously, I decided that it must have been my imagination and went back to fixing the truck. As it happened. I was able to patch things fairly simply with the tools I had on hand. So I was diving into the engine. When that scrabbling sound happened even closer to me. I fucking jumped, I tell you. It sounded like it was coming right beside me to my left, and only a few feet away. There was nothing there. But as I was looking around I swear I heard something giggle. It was a nasty mean little giggle, and it made my skin crawl something fierce. This time I picked up my biggest crescent wrench and I went looking for it. I walked away from the truck. Underneath it looking around behind trees. I even went over to the widow’s wood pile to check behind there but there was nothing. I was just about to head back when all of a sudden I heard that giggle and that scrabbling noise coming from right above me. I looked up and something fell on me from the tree branch above.
To this day I have no fucking clue what it was, but I remember the way my body revolted against the feel of it. Wasn’t slimy or wet. It was dry, dry like the skin of a lizard that’s been baking in the desert heat it’s entire life. It shouldn’t have felt so wrong yet it did. It felt like it was grabbing at me as it crawled down my body and I got to confess. I screamed like the girl I am. I was pretty grateful. Jack and Travis were back in town and didn’t see me squealing. I never got a good look at it, by the time it had stopped crawling on me and I was able to collect myself. It had gone. I was too fucking spooked. I didn’t even grab my tools, I just bolted back to my truck and fucked on out of there. Took quite a bit of begging but I convinced Jack to go out and finish the job for me the next day. He berated the shit out of me for leaving my tools, even more than not finishing the job, but I didn’t fucking care. When I’d gone home and looked at myself in the mirror I could see the trail of where that fucking thing had touched me. I could track its trail down my body by the huge hives that had riddled my body everywhere the skin of that thing had touched me. I told Jack I’d had an allergic reaction, and he believed me I suppose. He never mentioned seeing anything weird out there at the widow’s place when he finished fixing her truck.
After that I did my best to avoid that stretch of highway. It wasn’t hard as I didn’t work for Jack much longer - asshole had a temper on him like you wouldn’t believe and I quit one day when he lost his shit over a misplaced set of Allen keys. I liked tending the Pit well enough so I did that in the winters and worked out on placer mining operations during the summer. I drank, and messed around. Eventually I got together with Brian, and he and I have been going at it ever since. About fucking time I found someone who could handle me too. Now that I’m old as shit and fat as fuck nobody wants to have anything to do with this. But Brian and I get on, and he’s a good man. Sometimes a bit lazy but what man isn’t, eh?
The last time I saw anything on Kilometre 666 was ‘bout four or five years ago. I got myself quite the offer with Jess Farley who works for YG Highways. She told me that I should apply on a job running heavy equipment during the winter clearing snow, so I did, and I got it. I would work whenever the snow landed, in my heated cab by myself with just a radio, going up and down the highway scraping clean whatever snow didn’t get blown away by the wind. Sometimes I’d see the gravel trucks coming by and we’d give a wave if we could, but never really saw much of each other. So I’m called up one afternoon, and I knew it was coming - the snow had been going steady and strong all the previous night, and it wasn’t that usual Yukon snow - no this was thick, wet, and heavy snow. The kind of snow that makes slush and bogs down cars, and sometimes even four wheel drive trucks have a hard time getting through. It was an unusual snow, but you know what I think about all that with the weather changing every year. It’s getting wetter and warmer. Ain’t like it was in the 80s, and never will be again.
But fuck if that isn’t the point. I was called for the night shift, and so I grabbed a nap and got my ass out to the yard for 6 PM. Once the loader was warmed up I was told to head south and start clearing from the rest stop out past the Dempster and start working my way back. So I trundled out there at the leisurely pace that all loaders seem to go at, and made my way down. There were other loaders on the road, and trucks. Pat and Art were already working their way south from Dawson and we would meet them somewhere in the middle I guess. Fucking bureaucrats deciding how things needed to be cleared never made any sense to me. But off I went and started working. It was a pretty decent pace actually, and while the trucks were going back and forth from the snow dumps I’d get to pushing snow around, into the middle of the roads so lanes of traffic could get through and for ease of loading it into the trucks.
I don’t know what time it was when everything all went down. I was in the zone pushing snow around and had lost track of time. It’s weirdly calming, all you have is the muffled noise of the engine and the scrape of metal on snow, ice, and pavement coming through your ear muffs, the warmth of the engine and the hot air blowing in the cab, and the vibration of the loader. It’s very soothing and not a bad way to spend a winter’s night. So I didn’t notice where I was until it was too late. All of a sudden, my loader just stops. Doesn’t power down or nothing like that, just stops when I’m right in the middle of lifting a bucketful of snow onto the pile I’ve been pushing away at for the last twenty minutes. I’m cursing like an asshole on fire trying to figure out in the ever loving hell was going on when I heard it. Outside of the loader the wind had been blowing hard, as it tends to do. That northborn wind pushes through the open channels of the road and sweeps through everything, and it sounds like a whine. You get used to it and tune it out. I could hear two new sounds now. One was the rumble of a truck coming to haul up snow back to the snow dump. I heard that at the same time as I saw the lights of the truck emerging through the blowing snow. The truck had trundled up about 20 feet away from me and was also just sitting there. The second sound I heard, sounded like a high pitch crackling.
All of a sudden, my bucket drops. Now buckets ain’t supposed to do that - they’re hydraulic and should stay in place, but this bucket comes down like a rock, and boy when it hit the ground I jumped. Fuck, not going to lie I shrieked. But when I saw them, I stopped yelling real quick.
They were dark, but I don’t know what color exactly - the snow was blowing and the lights of the loader weren’t penetrating very far, so fuck’d if I know what color they really were, but they looked like they could have been grey, or some sort of blue-green-black mottled. They were little too. Smaller than your little one. How old’s she now? 10? Maybe half that size. And they looked…wrong. Their limbs were normal ish looking but they had these long sharp looking fingers that were way too long. There were over a dozen of them who came up between me and the snow truck, and every time one of them looked over at me their eyes glowed in the headlights like cats eyes. They were so big too. Fuck they gave me the creeps. And then I started to figure out what the noise was. Those hands were picking and scraping at the ground, and the sounds of their scrabbling fingers somehow were loud enough that I could hear them, even over the wind and through the closed cab.
Fuck sakes Tom, I’ve never been so scared in my life. I’m not even a little ashamed to tell you I pissed myself, and I didn’t even notice until after. My mind felt frozen, and all I could do was look back at those unblinking glowing eyes. I think that’s what saved me that night, because I just couldn’t move.
Those weird little fucking things were coming towards me with their long moving fingers when all of a sudden I see the truck door bang open and the driver, who I recognized as Rick - you knew Rick Henderson - come flying out. I think he thought that he was going to make a run for it. Well the noise makes them all swing around and they were on him. I mean fuck Tom, I’ve never seen anything move that fast. And Rick is screaming his fucking head off, and those fingers are digging and I can see their mouths moving and ripping at his body, and I think I was screaming too, but I don’t fucking know anymore.
That moment felt like an eternity. The dark shining blood on them fuckers was glistening like oil in the beams of the loader making it look like there was snakes all over Rick. Then, it was over and they’re all back to looking at me. Only now those eyes aren’t the only thing that’s shining and I can see the blood splattered all over them, and Rick is laying there, or what was left of him. And they start moving towards me, and I’m still just fucking frozen there realizing that I’m about to feel those long fingers digging into me and I’m thinking about Lucky for some reason - the first time he hit me was while we were fucking, and damn if he didn’t finish inside me that time because he slapped me across the face while he was railing at me and we stopped and looked at eachother for a long second and then we were fucking harder and I came with his hands around my throat and my pussy squeezing so hard I thought I was going to push him right out of me, and there was nothing but animal drive pushing us together, and that’s what I felt like at that moment. An animal. Only with Lucky we were both of us predators, and in that moment in the loader I was prey. If I’d have been prey with Lucky he would have ripped me apart, but that moment I survived and I knew that was my one free pass. I was going to be ripped apart and eaten by those little fuckers and their weird unblinking eyes.
And I’d just about resigned myself into it when they all froze and looked past me and then bolted back out into the night. And then just as I heard the sound of the truck coming up behind me the loader engine suddenly roared back on and I screamed again, and I didn’t stop screaming. That’s how the other truck driver found me - I think it was Bob Richards - screaming my head off, my pants pissed, and Rick dead and mangled on the road. They took me to the hospital, and they took Rick’s body back too. The RCMP took my story and didn’t say nothing like I was crazy when I told them what happened. We all knew the weird shit that happened out at Kilometre 666 but who would fucking believe us. The official report said that it was an animal attack, and that Rick had probably gotten out of the truck to take a piss when he was attacked by a bear who’d come out of hibernation, and that I’d had a hysterical reaction. We all knew the truth, but like I said. Who would believe us.
I don’t drive out of town anymore. Don’t need to with Air North flying through, though. I get out once a year to the city and have a drink with my buddies at the ‘98 down in Whitehorse, do some shopping, and catch up with folks. Then I fly right back. I won’t ever go down that highway again. And you shouldn’t either. You may never see a thing - I know I drove that highway enough times to know that it is mostly just a harmless little piece of asphalt. But I wouldn’t risk it.