Experience and knowing the value of what you have

The drive from Tok to Palmer has to be one of the most beautiful in the world. It’s funny; I never really noticed it when I was living here, even though I have bounced over these frost heaves many times. It might have been that I was a particularly oblivious youth, or maybe there is such an abundance of stunning scenery in Alaska that it never sunk in that this specific installation was remarkable.

The caribou that skitter across the road in a brilliant foray of fear and an awkwardness seldom seen in nature are a nice touch as well. There are hundreds of them, and I am convinced they hide in the bushes until they see out-of-state plates, and then burst onto the road dribbling urine and daring each other to cross immediately in front of speeding vehicles. They then do so with a level of terror I have not seen since I was last in a middle school hallway. It all seems quite avoidable on their part, but it does make for a remarkable show.

From Tok, the road heads straight toward Wrangle-St. Elias Park and then breaks right, following the Copper River as it makes a slow arc around the massif. The snow-covered mountains reflect the sun perfectly and the steam rising off of the Copper River frames the scene in an otherworldly way. The mountains creep closer to the road as you pass Eureka and the colors of Sheep Mountain are stunning against the deep blue sky. Matanuska Glacier soon lumbers onto the scene and the rolling black glacial moraine contrasts with the blue of the ice perfectly. The twisting Matanuska River finishes us off and as it spills out into the Valley, glimpses of Pioneer and Matanuska Peaks welcome us home. The drive is magical.

The whole scene oddly reminds me of a trip I took to Jordan this past December. One of the staples of my VCR-enriched adolescence was frequent viewing of “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.” For the uninitiated, the movie culminates in an unforgettable scene in which pre-CGI “invisible” bridges are crossed and evil is bested. The filming of this climax took place in the ancient city of Petra, which is now in present-day Jordan. I learned that this backdrop was a real place embarrassingly late in life and when I did, I made a covenant to myself that I would one day go there.

I was presented with an opportunity to do so when my wife and I were visiting Israel. I studied the maps of the region carefully, noting that our rental car could take us as far as Eilat, an Israeli resort town on the Red Sea in the south of the country. From there we need only to cross the border into Jordan, catch a cab for the two-hour ride to Petra, see the site, catch the cab back to the border and return across to Israel. It was a simple and foolproof plan, I noted confidently to my wife.

We arrived in Eilat after a long drive past the Dead Sea and through the Negev Desert. We exchanged some Israeli shekels for Jordanian dinars and quickly determined that Eilat had all the charm of off-strip Las Vegas. We awoke early the next day and made our way to the border. The crossing looked similar to many other slightly militarized borders, but we were shocked to receive a $50 fee from the Israelis in order to leave their land. We walked across the mine-strewn no-man’s land between the two countries, and the urge to take a picture was stronger than the message from the warning signs not to do so — fortunately my wife’s chastising once again proved mightiest and the border guards were denied an excuse to rough me up.

We snaked our way through Jordanian customs, waking people up in deserted offices for them to arbitrarily make photocopies of our documents, stamp things and take our money. All told, we paid about $30 for our visas — at this point I began to worry that the money I had exchanged the night before might not cover everything. I had planned out the budget for the trip weeks before on information gleaned from travel websites, and then tripled the amount thinking this would cover any contingency. So far, the fee information on the Internet had been very, very wrong.

We slipped through the Jordanian side and I was relieved to see a column of taxis waiting. My trusty Internet sources assured me that I should pay about $50 for a round trip to Petra. I steeled myself for some hard-nosed bargaining, making a quiet oath that I would not pay more than this sum and approached one of the drivers. As I grew near, he pointed toward a tall, dark haired man in a leather jacket. This was bad news for my budget. The taxi drivers had organized. There would be no pitting driver against driver with this lot, they had one negotiator and he was undoubtedly well-practiced and had a firm understanding of our childlike vulnerability. Someone once told me that the first person to speak in a negotiation would invariably end up losing, and I quickly decided on applying this tactic as I approached him. He greeted me in Arabic and grasped my hand firmly.

“Um … we need a ride to Petra.” I stammered, before he could say anything further.

“That will cost 70 dinars.” Mother of pearl, I thought, that is twice what it should be.

“I will pay 30.” I confidently stated.

“No, you will pay 70, each way, or you will remain here.”

Not what I had hoped for. One hundred forty dinars was equivalent to about $200. That would break the bank.

“Oh come on, I have read that this ride should cost 35 dinars round trip.”

“It once did my friend. Now it does not. You are free to walk.”

He had me and he knew it. I reluctantly paid him half the amount up front, as scenes from Indiana Jones streamed through my head.

Our cab driver was wonderful. He effectively spoke no English, but repeated English words from songs he had heard, which had the comical effect he was aiming for. The Arabic music screamed through the radio as we flew past Bedouin camels and tents and some very impressive mountains. He called his wife on his cellphone and she explained in broken English that he was a very nice man and he was happy to be driving us. She also noted that they had a newborn baby named Geiss, whom she put on the phone as well. Talking to Geiss was exactly as you would imagine speaking to a newly born baby would be.

We arrived at Petra (after stopping for some mint tea from a tent on the side of the road) and told the driver that we will take about four hours to visit the site. We found the park office and, of course, the ticket prices were not as the Internet confidently stated they would be. There were multiple tiers of ticket prices, the highest being for day-trippers like my wife and I. The tickets were 90 dinars each, meaning the four hours would cost us more than $250.

Now, I feel I should point out that Petra was truly one of the most amazing things I have ever seen in my life. The access to the site was incredible — climbing through the ancient ruins and navigating the canyons stands out as a high point of my time on this planet. The Jordanians clearly had this figured out. They knew that they were sitting on a stunning bit of history and geology and that if you made it this far you certainly were not going to turn around without seeing where Indy thwarted the Nazis once and for all. I had spent an absurd sum on this day trip and despite my regular frugality I have to say that it was worth it.

This all brings me back to the drive from Tok. Here we have a site that is just as amazing as Petra — albeit very different. It fills the viewer with the same wonder and awe and allows for the same exuberant feeling of exploration. I now know, however, that I have never appreciated the value of Alaska’s striking beauty. I have never been asked to pay $530 for four hours in this state, but if I had never experienced Alaska, I would be foolish not to. Don’t get me wrong, I am not suggesting that we set up fee stations for folks as they cross the border (what an idea though, what are people going to do, refuse and drive back through Canada?) but my time in Jordan has forced me to see for the first time truly what a stunning place this really is, and appreciate it all the more as it is free to be appreciated by anyone and everyone.

And look at that, I have written this entire column without a joke about how Tok may have gotten its name.

Pete LaFrance grew up in Palmer and has moved back to the area after a number of years living abroad.