Marian Call totally schooled the Al-Can last month.

I say "schooled" because I have driven the Al-Can before, from south to north. And that time it schooled me. On my first trip, in a trusty old Toyota, I encountered up close -- and I am not making this up -- black bears, bison, wild horses, scary big hail, lightning striking the ground VERY nearby, an earthquake, an automotive failure that trapped me in Fort Nelson for three days, and 700 miles of driving through wildfires with suffocating smoke. We saw flames on the shoulder frequently. The inevitable conclusion: Canada hates me.

Last month's trip featured fewer natural disasters per province, but it was dramatic nonetheless. Because this time our heroes struck out on a 2000 mile drive in a 40-foot vintage converted bus, which was actually a spaceship called the Millennium Tortoise, and that ship was towing a beautifully battered, unbelievably dirty Alaskan Jeep that can fly, also known as Shuttle One (or, to its friends, Trogdor). Troggie added nearly 15 feet to our conveyance.

It was the Tortoise's maiden voyage with its stalwart crew, Marian Call and the Independents. I captained the bus fearlessly -- timidly, actually -- well, in abject terror, if you must know. Security detail, espionage, and drums were handled by Colter "Dave Lister" Lemons. Wil Wheaton was unavailable, so the shy yet brilliant child prodigy was played by Jordan "Six Cookies" Shindle from Anchorage. As was the guitar. Husbandface was both our comic relief pilot and our genius mechanic (a leaf on the wind in a layer cake dress). Lt. Cmdr. Zippy navigated and kept the ground squirrels in line.

And what crew is complete without a helpful and cheeky little robot? That's right, the Rescue Toaster was with us every step of the way to pilot Shuttle One while we towed it. No, seriously. We have a robot. A real robot. Not a toy model or a speak-n-spell. We'd be sunk without the Rescue Toaster.

Our heroes set off from Anchorage the day after a triumphant going-away concert, the sort I wish I could do all the time. I love the band I played with that day, and I'm deeply upset that they don't all fit in my coat pocket. But I'll be back to play with some of them in Anchorage again before long. (We got good video and audio of the show, so enjoy the live cuts and video.) We had a going-away party at which we played 4-on-4 foosball, googled Yule Log videos, and drank our delicious Alaskan beer with good friends for the last time in a while.



We set off the next morning eagerly after a long trip to Costco and the usual leaving-town stress. I walked downtown Anchorage in the crispy fall air and cried a little. After we drove out, though, with a bathtub full of ramen and Rock Star (ugh), we were eager and adventurous. Jordan celebrated the beginning of the tour, and his newfound freedom from his folks, by eating six huge Great Harvest cookies and skipping dinner.

The first morning on the road we woke up to snow. Bad. Drive faster.





But our valiant crew could not drive any faster, because they were in the freakin' Yukon, and the Yukon will have its way with your vehicle. It has a reputation to live up to, after all. When you're driving north, the Yukon is the final boss. Driving south, though, you hit it first thing. We were bumped by frost heaves, bruised by potholes, tilted by sinkholes, and occasionally terrified by huge cliffs without a guard rail. The Tortoise probably averaged 50kph throughout the province, with snowflakes hot on our trail. British Columbia was better. But answer me this: what right has Canada to make its provinces so stinkin' big? A body needs state lines every now and again to hold on to the illusion of progress.

We played to a number of empty cafés and full bars, and most importantly, we learned where to play and who to talk to when we come back again. It takes guts to play to an empty room, or to a full room of drunk people. But this trip was largely reconnaissance, so that's what I expected. Because you just can't book a tour of the Al-Can online. It went really well, and the next one will be much better.



There are some terrific towns and terrific venues, though, and I look forward to revisiting them. If you're planning your own Al-Can trip -- don't stop in Fort Nelson. Just skip it. Fort St. John and White Horse, however, are about the coolest remote cities I've ever seen. They have sushi and chocolatiers and organic bakeries, along with an incredible music and arts scene. And Los Angeles, I'm sorry, the raggedy-ass nightlife in White Horse YK kicks the firm, tanned, liposuctioned butt of your nightlife. In the Yukon the bars don't close and the whole city comes out to play starting at midnight on a Wednesday.

But to in order to spare you a blog the same length as our 8-day drive, here's the summary:

We were soooo slow...How slow were you? ...our bus got passed by a house.

The road was soooo bad...How bad was it? ...the Tortoise bottomed out on a frost heave. That's a feeling you don't forget.

The bumps were sooo bumpy...How bumpy was it? ...my printer/copier decided to swan dive onto the floor. Four times. It nearly took out a typewriter once, in a fit of kamikaze post-modernist metaphor.

The driving was soooo intense...You know what to ask. ...it was so intense we passed several RV's in varying states of -- not disrepair, but total destruction. One couple appeared to be preparing to abandon a new fifth-wheel 300 miles from anywhere because it was so bustid.

The trip was soooo remote...How remote was it? ...the animals were unafraid of the other cars we saw on the road. All three cars. There was enormous and extremely gory roadkill all along the way -- bears and moose and wolves and bison inside-out and such. Thankfully the live animals turned tail and ran like hell when they saw our spaceship.

The trip was sooo long...How long was it? ...Eight days of driving. That's all of Firefly, BSG S1, Flight of the Conchords, and a season of Arrested Development, plus lots of free time for reading Fables and listening to Joanna Newsom and St. Vincent.

The jokes flew soooo thick and fast...How thick and fast, exactly? ...189. We stopped saying "that's what she said" and just started counting.

The car got soooo dirty...How dirty was it? ...190. When we finally arrived in Seattle, our Jeep could part traffic by virtue of its totally authentic, totally badass dirt overcoat. I've never been able to merge so easily around Pike and Pine.

And our bus is SOOOO big...How big is it? ...well, I'll tell you.

In Quesnel, B.C. (pronounced Qwuh-NELL for those of you scanning iambs), we decided to get a hotel so that we could actually shower. The hotel in question had a large RV/truck lot behind one of the buildings. Trouble is, the hotel clerk was unclear as to how we should get to that parking lot. And our pilot took a wrong turn.

How wrong was the turn? Well, about halfway through the turn, we heard the terrible crunch and gunch. The noise I'd been fearing for the entire drive. We hit the corner of a tall fence. And kept hitting it. And kept hitting it. The sound wouldn't end. It was like Galaxy Quest. We totally obliterated the corner of the fence, and when we finally could stop and get out to assess the damage, we saw the whole length of it leaning out at an impossible angle. EVERYBODY PANIC.

Thankfully no small children or puppies were injured, and though the Tortoise was a little uglified, it was OK. The hotel manager was shockingly relaxed about it, and did not inflict undue bodily harm or financial ruin upon us. No solicitors were phoned. Upon closer inspection, the fence itself turned out to be decrepit, rotten, and near the end of its life anyway. We concluded that it was, in fact, a mercy killing. Which is how my husband came to be known as Captain Kevorkian, and how the Tortoise earned its slightly tougher street name: the Quesnel Destroyer.

After living with three smelly guys and one smelly captain for a week or two, the bus was sooo messy when we arrived in Seattle...How messy was it? ...Nine. Hours. At. IKEA. Problem solved.



In Seattle we played two triumphant, crowded, awesome shows, at the Green Bean and Café Racer, that made everything feel worth it. Then we had to send Six Cookies back home to Anchorage, because of some nonsense about "finishing high school" that none of us could quite get our heads around.

But he'll be back for the sequel, never fear...in which Captain Kevorkian, Marian, and the Independents take on Los Angeles. Showing right now at a hip LA café near you!

(Seriously -- come out and catch a show in LA! I want to meet you. I'm playing at the Derby, the Talking Stick, Café Cordiale, and more.)

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Hypothetical schedule for the rest of winter, since it's hard to keep track of us...
Now thru Thanksgiving: LA
Thanksgiving thru Christmas: Seattle
Christmas thru just after New Year: Mendocino/Eureka/Arcata, CA
January-February: Seattle, with a trip back to Anchorage
March-June: drive all around the Western US until we run out of money, wind up back home. The route might or might not be: WA, OR, CA, AZ, NM, TX, NM, CO, WY, MT, Alberta, BC, Yukon, Alaska.