Tok, Alaska

1

They call Route 66 the Mother Road, but that seemed to Erik like a fanciful anachronism. It just went from Chicago to LA, and it was decommissioned in 1985 anyway, the year of his birth. How about Route 90? It started in Boston, the town where they say the roads followed the paths of meandering cows, and ended all the way in Seattle, 3000 miles away and three hours earlier. He had picked it up just west of Cleveland and taken it to 94 and eventually Route 2 into Canada. He had followed the path that he'd obsessed over for years, studying the blue and red lines in his father's book of maps, imagining what it would be like to forsake the Interstate through North Dakota and Montana, choosing instead to take the ancient Route 2, completely flat and straight, driving as fast as his car could take him except to slow down through the occasional town. Now he was on Yukon Route 1, approaching the border of Alaska. Alaska! The land that he had dreamed of for countless days and nights, longing to be free at last. Free from the burden of housing and food and money. The sun was low in the sky as he drove west, and he reached his hand out onto the empty passenger's seat for his sunglasses and put them on. The mountains in the distance took on an orange fiery glow. Rounding a curve, he could finally see in the distance the customs station. A week of all-day travel had led him through the northern plains of the United States and up through the Canadian Rockies, taking roads that were at times paved with nothing but gravel. But he had finally reached his spiritual destination, and he pulled up to the booth and stopped. The driver's window didn't work, so he put the car in park, opened the door and stepped out.

"Hello, sir."

"How are you doing today?" The customs officer was a large man with a bushy black moustache, and he spoke in a curious drawl.

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Where are you coming from?"

Erik smiled. A week earlier he'd woken up at 5 am in Park Slope, Brooklyn, sneaking out of his father's brownstone, and walking down the iron stairs with the bag he'd packed the night before and a wad of cash, about $1000, in his back left pocket. He'd sat in the dark blue 280 SE Mercedes-Benz he'd spent a year saving up for, put the key in the ignition and turning it, and driven away in that beautiful dawn, knowing his father would see the note he'd left:

"Dad,

By the time you read this, I'll be gone. Sorry to head out suddenly, but ever since Mom died my heart has been stuck in the same place. Yesterday I went to work and told Barbara it would be my last day. I know you'll understand. You once drove from Queens to Guatemala. This is no different. I need to set out for a new horizon. Please don't worry. I'll be fine, and I'll write you.

Love,

Erik"

"New York City," he said.

The officer looked at him in mild disbelief. "New York City. You've come quite a ways, young man. Can I see your identification?"

Erik returned to the car and opened the glove compartment to grab his wallet. He pulled his driver's license out of the wallet. He paused for a moment to contemplate the ID. The driver's license said, "Erik Daniel Schmidt. Sex: M. Eyes: GY. Ht: 5-10. Issued: 5-20-03. Expires: 5-20-06." He handed them to the officer, who examined them briefly.

"All right. Be on your way now." He smiled politely at Erik, who got back in the car, shut the door, shifted into drive, and drove into Alaska, the final frontier, the object of his longing. He saw a sign for Alaska Route 2 and then one that said, "Tok 74." Tok was the crossroads of the state. From there you could head northwest to Fairbanks or southwest to Anchorage. Anchorage was his destination. He didn't know what he would find there, but for now he planned to stop in at a motel in Tok for the night.

The sun had now completely set, and he took off his sunglasses, finding himself relieved to view everything in its natural light again. He reached over with his right hand and rolled down the passenger window, letting the night breeze fill the automobile and hit his face.