Day 10 -- Tok, Alaska, to Fairbanks, Alaska

Finally! Fairbanks! The conclusion of my quest. The answer to my 10-day question. No more packing my stuff in and out of my car. No more fumbling with maps at stoplights. No more driving through suburban neighborhoods hitting “refresh network list” continually until I find my victim, usually named linksys.

At the end. Finished.

Now what the hell do I do?

My morning in Tok was rather frustrating. I had to get some laundry done (no underwear or pants left), but I had no cash, having cleared my wallet before entering Canada. Since Tok was a ghost town -- like most Northern highway cities in September -- all the ATMs were dry. With no coins, I slumped back to the laundry room, scooped up the clothes I had left there and trudged toward the door.

But luckily, the manager of the hotel was doing his final load before skipping town. He stopped me and handed me $4 in quarters. “I get it all back anyway,” he said.

His name was Dell. He moved to Alaska to help construct the pipeline, and now tends to the hotel and spends his winters hunting from his cabin outside of Delta Junction. That’s the kind of thing you can do up here: live off of whatever you hunt. No wonder there are few taxes. There certainly aren’t the resources to track down anyone who wants to go missing in this vast of a state.

I left for Fairbanks at about noon. I called the desk chief, who was on vacation, and she gave me the phone number of the sports editor, Bob. I was set to crash at his place until I found an apartment. Somehow, I turned a 5 into a 3 while writing down his home number, so I arrived in Fairbanks with only the address of the newspaper office and a vague memory of a map of the downtown area.

That was good enough to get me to the News-Miner, which was closed. They don’t print on Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas or Memorial Day, which means that newsroom employees get the day before off. Yup, 30 minutes here and already things have drastically changed; Dec. 24 is my new Christmas.

It was sunny and about 75 degrees, so I pulled off my sweatshirt and roamed around the immediate area of the building, inspecting the local bars that would likely become my regular 2 a.m. tune-up.

I caught a glimpse of someone walking into the paper from across the street, and flagged him down when he got near a window on the first floor. It was probably a janitor, but I was running with an exploratory spirit.

It paid off. He was Eric, the business writer. Every newspaper needs someone present at all decent hours. Eric had pulled the short straw and was stuck in the office, just in case something explodes or the mayor is shot.

He didn’t have Bob’s number (it turns out he has no cell phone, either), but he did have an address. He jotted down some directions in reporter scribble, gawd-awful chicken scratch I couldn’t have deciphered four years ago, before I begin writing like that myself.

Bob lives about seven blocks away from the News-Miner and about five from the downtown area. This area somehow maintains a well-to-do suburban appeal despite its location. I parked out front (Eric’s description of “a jungle of a front yard” was spot-on) and tried the doorbell. No one. I knocked. Nothing. Looks like I’d just have to wait for Bob to come home.

But then I heard a noise from inside. A shower. Good, I thought, at least he’s home. I took a walk along the nearby Chena River to kill time until he was out and dressed.

But en retour, I saw a car backing out onto Bob’s street. Was it the same car I had seen in his driveway? Looked like it, so I began frantically waving and running (this is the second time that day I had done it, and I was somewhat worried it would become my signature move). No avail. The car turned down Fourth Street and I tried knocking once more, but the house was certainly empty this time.

I camped out in my car with the windows down and passed time by writing the Tok part of this post. A 50-something man ambled by the car, walking in a swerving manner. I paid him no attention until he picked up some trash from Bob’s yard. It was him.

To say that Bob a local legend is putting it mildly. Robert Eley is pronounced just like Robert E. Lee, so anytime you forget his name, you can just ask for “The General,” and most locals will know who you’re talking about. He’s been on the city council, run for mayor and collected a mental dossier on nearly every resident of metropolitan Fairbanks. These days, he’s content with just being the News-Miner’s sports editor, operating the city museum and frequenting The Big I, Fairbanks’ most popular bar -- where you can order a “Bob Eley”: 50% vodka, 50% pink lemonade and a twist of lime.

He greeted me with a smile and a lazy-eyed grin, confessing he had just returned from a bar and was a little tipsy. Fine by me. He was head of a four-person sports staff whose coverage area was more than a million acres. This makes days off quite rare, so spending an afternoon with a few cold ones is warranted.

He took me inside and made a grand gesture toward the living room couch. “This is where your new life begins,” he said. He’s seen many new lives begin in that spot. Crashing at Bob’s is a News-Miner rite of passage.

We shot the breeze for a while as he picked carrots and celery from his garden. Yes, that’s right: Produce does grow up here. In fact, the veggies that can handle the all-light days of summer sprout quickly, and anyone with a garden can render a years worth of crops in three months.

We were talking next to a patch of fireweed that stands about 10 feet tall. Tour buses frequently drive by, as it’s the best example of fireweed in town. I din't belive him until one drove by.

We got dinner at Big Daddy’s Bar-BQ. I didn‘t want my first meal here to be something I could have back home, so I ordered the halibut fish ’n’ chips. Bob teased me, but I didn’t care. I figured I’ve had better barbeque somewhere in the South anyway.

After dinner, we headed to The Big I, the pub Bob had just retuned from. He bought me black & tans as we gave each other our biographies and waxed poetic about the upcoming NFL season.

We got home at about 1 a.m., and a fellow copy editor had left a message inviting me to a bonfire. It began with "Josh? Josh? Jo-osh? Josh? Are you there Josh? ..." And there I was, half-asleep, mostly drunk, hearing my name repeated 11 times. I laughed for about 10 minutes.

The last 10 days had caught up with me. I’ve never slept so well on a couch.