When we left our last campsite in Watson Lake, Yukon, we were leaking waste water at a little dribble, but it was a leak for sure. Lucky for us the leak was “grey” water, from our shower and kitchen sink, and not “black” water from the toilet. That would have stopped us in our tracks, entirely.
Instead, we drove to a nearby dump station and drained the little bit of the grey tank that hadn’t leaked out, and then we hit the road to find a pull-off where Tracy could work on patching the tank without endangering other campers (grey waste water attracts bears) or grossing anyone out (just because it’s not sewage doesn’t mean it’s not stinky and taboo).
We pulled down several dirt roads off the Alaska Highway, parked the rig, and walked to check out where we could possibly camp and turn around.
The one we picked is a perfect site as long as you back the whole way down this one-lane dirt road to a tiny, unnamed pond and are willing to spend time right behind the rig only, which, look, ain’t such a bad thing.
Tracy patched the leak, we used the bathroom sink to wash dishes so we’d keep the great tank dry as the adhesive sealed, and now we hope to be good to go.
Problem is, we don’t want to go.
Quiet vs Neighbors
Our next stop in Whitehorse, Yukon, needs to be a private RV park because we need plenty of potable water to test this leak. So, we very reluctantly made reservations. Just looking at the campground map to choose a spot gave us both the heebie jeebies. There are a ton of people traveling up here, yet, in this little pull out, we haven’t seen a single soul in days and don’t want to.
It’s funny: Shana was texting me last night about the chaos in her campground in California, and that prompted me to look up a classic post of mine, To See America, You Have to See Americans. I wrote that short list of things Tracy and I said to each other about our fellow campers exactly three years ago to the day.
I hope that entire family gets poison ivy.
See those neon lights in the woods? That’s where the rave was.
Since then, we’ve camped next to all kinds of people you don’t want as your neighbors. There was the guy who might have had a woman kidnapped in the bed of his truck, or, maybe she was sick? Very hard to tell despite him camping absurdly so close to us in an otherwise deserted campground.
There was the young woman with her many little kids, wandering at dusk on the Mexican border for hours, and all I could do to help was give her a box of Triscuits and a sweater. (This is Shana in the post’s picture; I didn’t take a photo of the woman, really, I didn’t).
But then there was the small child from Vermont who wants to be a wildlife biologist:
Which leads me to remember that it was thanks to camping that I met several lifelong friends.
So, we need to bite the bullet and pull out of here and move onward. Alaska awaits. Once we aren’t leaking.