An orange sea kayak sat conspicuously on the town beach of Galena, Alaska. “That must be Gin’s,” I thought. As I walked toward the town store, there she was, a young woman in rubber ditch boots and Kokatat paddling pants. She’d started from Whitehorse on May 31st, and was on pace to be at the ocean by July 31st. She had no motor, or any of the comforts that came with it. She’d been stuck in the same windstorms I had, camped at some of the same beaches. She represented all those Yukon River travelers tougher than I; the ones who paddle canoes, kayaks, paddleboards, and packrafts down this lonely wide waterway. Gin would be a source of inspiration for the remainder of my trip.

Gin’s new friend, Arlene, was shuttling her around town, and supplying her with fresh garden vegetables. When I asked Arlene about gas, she immediately called her sister who lived at the next village downstream. “She’ll have gas for you,” Arlene promised as she clicked off her phone. Three hours later, I ambled up to the house she’d described in Nulato, Alaska, empty fuel can in hand, in a light rain. Arlene’s brother-in-law Charlie filled my tank from his own 10-gallon jug. “I wish it would just stop, or really rain,” he said, squinting at the sky.

A couple days later, it took me three tries to find a camp without a miasma of bear tracks, and still I failed. I rationalized my decision to stay, believing I’d only be there for 10 hours or so. I was there for three days.

The wind had returned, and the river was a messy chop. To go out in those conditions was courting disaster. And so I stayed—forced layover number two, 8 days after my fourth of July humbling near Fort Yukon. I had to reminisce, of sea kayaking in Patagonia a decade ago. Then, I had the company of four others, but we were nearly out of food. This time, I had plenty to eat, but only myself for company, and I was grumpy company. I wasn’t sure which was better, or worse.

At 4 am after my third dusky night on bear track beach, I awoke to glassy smooth water—go time. It was a pretty morning, in a gray misty sort of way. Every hour or two, I stopped to boil water and pour it into a plastic mug—my hand warmer. Despite four base layers, a drysuit, a raincoat, and two hats, my hands still went numb with cold. Fortunately, there were mandatory village fuel stops; Kaltag, Grayling, Anvik. Sometimes there were other souls shuffling about the puddled streets. Sometimes there were not.

Arriving at the village of Holy Cross was a turning point. For one, the place actually seemed inhabited. Also, there was supposedly a lodge there. It turned out to be more of a community shelter, but it felt five-star to me. I didn’t care if eleven different shampoos lined the walls, it was my first hot shower in 32 days, following a nearly hypothermic 12 hour push. This whole Yukon source-to-sea thing, suddenly, didn’t seem like such a terrible idea.