Sign Post Forest
I remember reading about an old Ripley’s Believe It or Not competition when I was younger. The challenge? Find the most bizarre item you can send through the mail without any packaging or labels. The address had to be written directly on the object.
If someone could persuade the mail clerk at their local post office to accept their item, they had just entered the competition. The only strategy was picking the perfect item. Anything too large, annoying, or fragile could be rejected at any point along the way—and many were. Still, dozens of weird and wonderful items defied the odds and made it to Ripley's headquarters in Orlando, Florida. Among the quirky treasures were a bowling ball, a traffic cone, a tree branch, a prosthetic arm, and more.
I thought of this competition constantly walking through the trees of northern Canada in The Yukon Territory’s infamous Sign Post Forest.
I was standing in one of the most anticipated roadside attractions on the vast Alaskan Highway. In the forest, signs from around the world are hung by visitors, showcasing their hometowns from every corner of the globe. Entries range from genuine street signs, to license plates, to hand-made flags fashioned from tent canopies. Messages in every language represent the most unusual melting pot in one of the most unexpected places.
As implausible as the location for such an attraction, its existence in Watson Lake, Yukon has served as a respite for tired and homesick adventurers for decades. After the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the construction of the Alaska Highway, or Alcan, hastily became one of the most ambitions engineering projects in history. The US was alarmed by the threat of Japanese expansion and the potential for invasion of Alaska, deploying thousands of soldiers to work improbably harsh conditions.
Yukon Archives, W. Al Turner
One of these soldiers was Private Carl K. Lindley, who in 1942, was asked to repaint a damaged signpost indicating distances to nearby camps. Wanting to give the repair a personal touch, the homesick Lindley added a sign pointing towards his hometown, “Danville Illinois - 2,835 miles”
This gesture sparked a chain reaction, with dozens of homesick soldiers adding their own hometowns to the post. Decades later, the forest has amassed more than 85,000 signs.
As impressive as the collection itself is, I couldn’t help but marvel at the untold stories behind some of the individual signs as I wandered through the woods. While Watson Lake is more accessible than other parts of The Yukon Territory (like its neighbor the Arctic Ocean), it is still far from convenient. Adventurers from around the globe have braved the same isolated roads, converging at the same unique spot. The sheer scope of the collection is astounding, but pondering how an 8-foot highway sign from the Autobahn made its pilgrimage from Germany is truly remarkable.
While anyone can contribute to the collection, participants must take on the role of postal worker themselves. While there is still strategy in picking the perfect sign, the sheer magnitude of the journey makes every choice large, fragile, and annoying at once. Undoubtedly, some passengers had to duck for thousands of miles as the sign bounced against their headrests. I imagine some highway signs were cut down and reassembled in the woods like jigsaw pieces.
Of course, that is probably the most alluring aspect of the forest. Any trip to northern Canada is as much an adventure of logistics as it is one of distance. For those who brave the journey, rarely seen gems abound.
I hadn’t done myself any favors on our pilgrimage north. We opted to drive a Toyota Camry to Alaska, stopping at the many roadside attractions along the way.
In Alberta, we stopped at the World’s Largest Beaver, which to honor Canada’s beloved pop star, is affectionately named Justin Beaver. The monument is an ode to the genuinely impressive beaver prevalence in the area, where further north, the World’s Largest Beaver Dam rests in a category of its own. The dam, built entirely by beavers, has a perimeter two kilometers long.
We visited The World’s Largest Lumber Jack in British Columbia and stopped at four establishments claiming “World’s Best Cinnamon Bun” (Tetsa River Services in BC is the winner - hands down). At a certain point, the attractions begin to fall under a similar category, “World’s Most Northern Falafel”, and “World’s Most Northern Blockbuster” (and certainly the most resilient).
Before we left on our trip, we ignored so many warnings about spare tires, snow tires, tire plugs, and tire chains that we hardly noticed when people warned us about windshields. In the early Spring, temperatures were still frigid at night and loose rock along the highway was a quick recipe for trouble. The Alcan cracked our windshield while we were still on our first tank of gas.
We camped the first night only to realize we were sorely outmatched by the cold. As spring crept closer, we crept further north, negating any warm weather gained behind us.
The Worlds Largest Lumberjack (25’) was destroyed by fire in 2019
Eventually, we abandoned camping all together and opted to sleep in the car. We would blast the heat for a few minutes, and then slip under a mound of blankets before shutting off the car, often awaking in the middle of the night to start the process over.
On our first night in the cramped Camry it dawned on us that we were approaching the land of midnight sun. The tent had served an important purpose, it blocked out the sunlight. The next night, I took a heap of tarps, rain covers, and tent poles and built the tent around the car. My razor sharp survival skills kicked in just before bed, and I carefully crafted an opening for the tailpipe.
Our windshield continued to be the biggest problem. Every night, Katie would forget about our precarious sleeping situation, and she would stretch her legs out from the front seat, only to push against the windshield. I would awake to the sound of splintering glass, roll over, and fall asleep again.
The next night, she would zip the sleeping bag all the way up like a mummy, only to break free in a frantic fit. One night, we theorized, she put on hiking boots in her sleep just to kick the windshield harder.
It was a week on the highway before we made it to Watson Lake. There are no signs along the Alcan that say “Welcome to Yukon”. As a matter of fact, there are few signs within miles. I knew we were getting close when I saw “Welcome to Central Park” peak out from behind the trees. Or the classic “Hell Is Real” re-homed from an Iowa cornfield. It’s possible that half of all stolen street signs in the world have ended up in one forest.
Our visit in Watson Lake was as remarkable as we had anticipated - made possible by the ingenious creativity before us. I remarked at Route 66 signs and elevation markers that formerly adorned the tops of mountain summits. I applauded the many travelers who fashioned creations from floor mats and hubcaps.
Dozens of wooden posts, which were erected to protect people from placing signs directly on the trees, were filled from top to bottom with license plates. Many are old, antique plates representative of every location imaginable. Still, many are not. A closer inspection found a handful that appeared brand new, with tags intact.
I’d like to imagine the decision visitors made when they became aware they had brought no sign, they had no supplies to craft one, but they couldn't help leave their mark. I pictured concerned family and friends pleading with them as they boldly unscrewed the plate on their vehicle, and I imagine they felt know regrets as they affixed it proudly amongst the trees.
Katie and I found ourselves in this very position. We had anticipated the stop before we had even left home. Yet, we brought nothing. We thought it would be fun to find a sign along the way. Not a road sign per se, but a street pole one. We pondered many options on our trip - an old campaign sign, a lost dog, more than one yard sale. We always assumed there would be a better one. Then the signs stopped completely, probably because they had been adopted by other procrastinating travelers.
I briefly considered unscrewing our own license plate, but knew it would be pushing our luck. Our windshield was barely functional, and Katie seemed hellbent on finishing the job. With a windshield that was probably illegal, and a Camry that had already been the subject of one police search, I played it safe.
There was no denying that we were as ill-equipped for the sign as we were for the cold. After scouring the car, we settled on a photo—a picture of us from our first wedding anniversary. We found an empty spot, not in prime real estate, but low to the ground. These spots were plagued by snow drifts that buried the bottom signs every winter, and carried them away every thaw. We knew our contribution wouldn’t last, but few things last long in northern Canada. Our offering was a fitting symbol of our entire pilgrimage—unprepared and wholly outmatched. On the Alcan, the elements always win.
Most people who leave the forest return to the very location they paid homage to. For Private Lindley, it wasn’t until the end WW2 that he got to come home to Danville. Ironically, his first civilian job was at a sign-printing shop, where he worked for 30 years until retirement. After his passing, the city built a replica Sign Post Forest in downtown Danville. The first sign, a gift from the Canadian Government, reads "Watson Lake, Yukon - 2,835 miles."
Katie hanging our “sign” in Sign Post Forest
Locations mentioned:
Sign Post Forest | 60.06335, -128.71407
Worlds Largest Beaver | 55.20407, -119.42315
World’s Largest Beaver Dam | 58.27224, -112.2521
World’s Largest Lumberjack (burned down in 2019)
World’s Most Northern Blockbuster (closed down in 2018)
World’s Best Cinnamon Bun (Tetsa River Lodge) | 58.65252, -124.23578
Danville, Illinois Sign Post Forest Tribute | 40.12813, -87.62978
