Muncho Lake to Pink Mountain

Cool to begin with, warming later, but a little overcast and hazy. Massive electrical storm in the evening with very heavy rain well into the night - except there still wasn't any night.

Then our road winds its way along the Toad River valley, the road almost next to this turbulent river for much of the way. Mountains tower either side of us. The Alaska Highway is making its way to its highest point, at Summit Lake, at just over 4,000 feet. It becomes increasingly chilly as we snake our way up. But not to worry, they'll be a nice hot cup of coffee when we reach the top. Hopes dashed when we find that Summit Cafe looks like its been closed for months. So we press on, now descending high above another massive valley, the Tetsa River valley, where far below we can see dozens of mini rivers racing through the gravel, boulders and other debris. Presumably, these all merge into one raging torrent in the spring.

Tetsa River
Out of luck at Summit, but in luck at Tetsa River Outfitters.This ramshackle roadhouse was a delight. The petrol pumps outside were so old that there was an ancient handwritten sign attached to them advising prospective purchasers that they should double the shown price to get the price they have to pay.

We entered the two storey log cabin by way of a rickety door and entered a dimly lit world of mayhem. The wife clearly ran the show while husband Cliff - wearing classic Canadian check shirt and jeans - exuded charm (and admirable patience) on the punters until instructed to do some chore by his barely tolerant partner. I caught sight of Mrs. as I walked through the door, she rushing in with yet another plate full of glazed cinnamon buns which seemed a trifle unnecessary as there were at least a dozen fully laden plates of the things already taking up all available level surfaces. Thus glaze buns rubbed shoulders with T-shirts, woolen jumpers, furry Eskimo leather slippers, books and postcards. She was serving customers buying gifts, topping up stock, attending to people - including us - who were seeking refreshment, and holding disjointed conversations with customers and Cliff. I sat mesmerised by this chaos for perhaps twenty minutes, unaware that amount of time had passed. Pinter couldn't script a play to better the scene I had just enjoyed. And the buns were delicious, far better than those so-called world- famous ones at Johnson's Crossing.

Jeff 23.06.04