Fifty years ago this morning I got my first look at Dawson Creek. Arriving off the Hart Highway's miles of rugged wilderness to see before me, spread out on gently rolling hills, a small city with grain elevators spaced along a railroad - it seemed that I had taken a wrong turn and ended up back in Nebraska. That feeling ended within a few miles, as I crossed the curved wood-decked bridge over the Kiskatinaw River and found myself surrounded by spruce forests once again. Fort St John back then only knew oil as something that had to be dumped into the crankcase of vehicles to keep their engines turning. Where Wonowon sits now was Blueberry Camp in January 1962, and marked the end of pavement northbound, with the exception of a short 4 or 5 mile stretch at Whitehorse, until back on U. S. soil at Mile 1221. A couple of months ago I ran across the logbook used on that trip and chuckled once again at the entries. Filling the gas tank on the little Mercury S-22 two-door never took over $5.00. That was with the Imperial gallon, which equaled 120% of the U. S. gallon. Some fill-ups were on the order of $2 - $2.50. In Dawson Creek, the streets on the outskirts of town were literally paved with the carcasses of snowshoe hares. You could feel the tires bouncing over them. As a newcomer, I assumed this was an annual winter occurrence, but an article later that year in the Alaska Sportsman (still published by short, rotund Emory Tobin in those years) mentioned that an historic glut of the critters was the reason for the furry pavement. In those early years, lodges and roadhouses were spaced fairly regularly every twenty miles or so, it seemed. And they all stayed open year around, as the proprietors lived in their own accommodations, not closing down and heading for a warmer city down south, as they do today. At every stop one could hear the lively exhaust pop-pop-pop from a single-cylinder Witte, or the 900 hz buzz from a Lister, providing the limited electric lighting that a commercial operation demanded. North of Watson Lake the highway twisted and turned as though it could not make up its mind which way to go. This section might also have contributed to the doubts expressed by this poem, reportedly written by an Army sergeant working on the construction of the historic road "'The Alaska Highway winding in and winding out fills my mind with serious doubt as to whether 'the lout' who planned this route was going to hell or coming out!" Back in its early days, most every one who lived along, or traveled the road, had at least heard that one, or even memorized it. As inmate Wheeldog and I reminisced together a few months back on another forum, "It ain't yer granddad's Alcan any more".