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Saturday, June 16, 2007

You guys that followed along with me last summer know how much it meant to me when I finally reached Cape Spear NFLD. As important as that was to me at the time, it in someways pales in comparison to what I just did here in Dawson City.

Thanks to a wonderful couple from Prince George B.C., who share an interest, I just returned from visiting Robert Service's Cabin. No matter what else happens on this trip, in general or to me personally, this is the highlight. I won't go on, but you all know of my feelings for his work.

So here, in no particular order, are some pictures of where he did a lot of his writing.

The cabin, or in my mind at least, the Shrine.

His desk

His typewriter

Ol' Smiley

Just a shot along an outside wall.

I have so very many more pictures from Dawson, 44 today alone, to show you some of the history here, but I just wanted to share these few now. What a day it's been for me, with oh so many more to come.

Getting to this point of the trip has been a joy, but truthfully I would have gone through hell to stand on that porch. He, and his writings, have touched my life in so many ways. For example:

The Men That Don't Fit In

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.

See you all in the morning before I head across the Yukon River on the ferry to the campsite.

Trucker Bob Image hosting by Photobucket blogged at 8:19 PM

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