To spend an extra day at Chicken was to give up on my dream of seeing the Yukon, a river whose name rings of adventure. The road to Eagle on its banks was too rough to risk my rental car and my suspect mechanic skills on. Feeding my disappointment breakfast at the only restaurant worth its name in Chicken was where I saw them come in. A few dozen cars, vintage and classic machines driving there from New York on the far away East Coast. Most excited to see them was the restaurant dog wearing his “I am diabetic. Don’t feed me.” T-shirt and I came a close second. The entire idea of Chicken being an isolated location was challenged by such an arrival of dust and engine rumbles. But to see such a crowd – a 1916 Lancia, a 1920s Bentley, Jaguar E-Types, classic Porsches amongst others – show up out of the blue in the middle of nowhere had its surrealist value. Also a deeper happiness about how these vehicles had committed to a life on the road and were not lost to a life of shininess and garages (and ultimate sadness).
[Part of the Series: Notes from the Last Frontier]
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