Call of the road, Name of the Highway

I have always been a sucker for highways that have names. I don’t mean those number s that are rigidly imposed according to some arcane system, like I-5, or Interstate 80. No, I mean those roads that have earned their names in some way, okay, like Highway 66—“get your kicks on 66” and many people se do. I mean those roads whose names show you that the road itself is the destination, not just the fastest way to get from point A to point B. In California, of course, there is the Coast Highway that from time to time just shrugs its shoulders and slips into the Pacific Ocean, defying all engineering brilliance to keep it from slipping down the cliff. Close to home, our favorite is the Edison Lake Road, so sly and devious that I treasure my “I survived that Edison Lake Road” coffee mug. Now both car and FunFinder sport bumper stickers proclaiming, "I survived the Dempster Highway!!” (Honest, two exclamation points.) The renowned “Top of the World Highway” was tame by comparison and thus no bumper sticker or mug to commemorate it.
Now that we have driven both the North Klondike and the South Klondike, from south to north, we felt ready to resume travel on the granddaddy of them all—the Alaska Highway, more familiarly called the Alcan. Only briefly, however, for we have been seduced by the sound of the Stewart Cassiar that will connect us to the Yellowhead.

More prosaic folk might report that we are using Provincial 37 to Highway 16, and that is true, too. But in the quiet of the afternoon, beside a tranquil lake ringed with pine and spruce, with only a family of loons for company, we rejoice that we are following the call of the Cassiar to the Yellowhead, and yonder.