For Anyone Who Thinks Washington Heights Is Far North

New York City is an exciting place to live but we all have dreams of going on an adventure once in a while (and we don't just mean going to China Town). That's why we are excited by the newly created blog, The Last Frontier Girls, which features several friends of the Loser's Guide on their road trip to the northernmost stop on the American highway: Homer, Alaska. On the way, they drive through small towns in Canada and Alaska, like Chicken (population of 8), panning for gold, gambling in the early afternoon, watching midnight baseball games in broad daylight and other general merriment that can only be found in the Great North. Here is an excerpt from their last day in Canada before crossing back into the United States via the more low-key Alaskan border. For more on their exciting trip, check out their blog: thelastfrontiergirls.blogspot.com

We got off to a bit of a later start the morning after our gambling/golfing/salooning adventure as can probably be expected. We had planned to cross the border early, putting the chapter of strange Yukon towns and cute Canadian accents behind us; however, we decided to take one last ferry ride over the river to say our final good-byes (ok really just to get food). Lucky for us it turned out to be First Nation Day and we soaked up some sun while enjoying free fried dough and watching little kids trying to jig. A note here, it became obvious that my unique style of dance can now be categorized as children trying to jig. Pressley, one of the young jiggers, seemed to be too preoccupied with his cookie to jig, clearly he was our favorite.

During this time I found $2.50 Canadian money and reasoned (quite logically I think) that the only thing to do with it was to head back to the casino. We waited until 2 p.m. when the casino opened and were the first ones there along with the serious gamblers. We deposited the quarters into what was once thought of by us as a free money machine and our quarters were lost in the endless abyss, reunited with the quarters we had deposited the previous night in what I can only imagine as some giant quarter orgy.

Anyway, soon enough we were off along the dirt road aptly named Top of the World Highway. Because of the winding dirt roads it took far longer than usual to cross the short distance, but at last we approached the flapping American flag. The border consisted of a single dirt road passing a small wooden cabin and a single customs officer. We were home, or at least somewhere where we could no longer respond to the question where are you from with, “The States.”

Read the rest of this post here.