Lovely Day for a Motorcycle Ride

Maids, front desk personnel, people in the lobby, everyone I hear is talking about how crappy the weather is this morning. Rain and 14. I'm a runner, kilometers are second nature to me, I just flip the switch when I'm in Canada. Celsius, meh, not so much. And the conversion isn't a simple multiplier like, say, kilograms. All I know is 35 is damned hot, 30 is a nice day, 25 is starting to get nice. 20, ehh, could be nicer. 14? I don't think "nice" or "hot" get used to describe it. I've ridden in worse this trip, so I'll get the electric liner out and my on-sale goose down vest that I'm *really* starting to appreciate.

Yeah, I think that's me where the little pointer is at. <voice=deadpan>Hurray.</voice>

A Pigeon Heads Home to Roost

A quick one today because the road today was quick but not all that interesting, and because I've laid down almost 700 miles. I have now ridden the length of the Alaska Highway, save a teensy piece between Watson Lake and Nugget City. Meh. I'm sure 30 or 40 years ago driving the AlCan was a challenge. Now it's all paved except for the construction zones. Sure, the section between Destruction Bay and Beaver Creek (at the U. S. border) gets a little bumpy from the frost heaves, but it's hardly worthy of the "I Survived the Alaska Highway" stickers and t-shirts I kept seeing.

Thanks to being surrounded by mountains last night, it actually got a little dark. Being further south helps, too, I'm sure. But Ol Sol managed to claw his way back over the mountains no later than 5:45 this morning, because that's when the light woke me up. Which is good, because that means an earlier start. Some coffee and oatmeal, and it's go time.

But not before the campground dog makes his morning rounds. He's got a few years on him, so he wasn't in any hurry to head up the hill to my tent, but I was content to wait. Some scratches on the head, then off he goes to pee on the tree he peed on last night, and on his way.

Meanwhile, while I was sleeping I suppose, the goat family walked 50 miles down the road to bid me farewell. 

Or maybe they're distant cousins of the ones I saw yesterday. I pop up over a rise, mid-corner, and there stands Mama Goat in the middle of the road. Mama was in no hurry to move, so I went around and parked. Baby mountain goat was cute, as cars would go by he'd leap over the guardrail. Then as soon as the car went away, he'd leap back over the rail and go lay down by the road.

Speaking of goats in the road, wouldn't that be a cool GoPro video? Sweeping corner, pop over the rise and there stands a goat? Bro, that would be so awesome! Good thing I had it recording. When I got off the bike, I looked at it to make sure it was running, maybe give it a little wave. It sat there doing nothing, not recording a thing. I swear, if it weren't for the fact that fish could probably do with fewer heavy metals in their diet, I'd throw the damned thing in the river. Short of buying GoPro's $80 remote, there's just no way to be sure of the state it's in. Dudes, I have the most gnarly videos of the bike parked at a gas station and me downing a Gatorade.  It goes on for like ten minutes like that! It was epic! I do have a solution, but it involves the camera, an iPhone, a Pebble smartwatch, all connected wirelessly. And not just a single wireless protocol with, say, Bluetooth running the show. No, part of it uses Wifi (GoPro to phone) and part uses Bluetooth (phone to watch). Oh, yeah, let's spend my vacation fiddling with all that. I did it exactly once. I'd rather do without vacation videos that I'm never going to watch.

After leaving the mountains, it's a short jaunt to Fort Nelson, BC, and civilization starts shortly after that in Fort Nelson. Civilization, yuk. Stoplights, and traffic, and strips malls. It's odd coming from nothing but work camps, towns with populations of 37, and gas pumps with mechanical counters to...this. But civilization also brings a Tim Horton's, so there's lunch.

21 miles before finishing off the AlCan, I go 10K out of the way to see an old section of the original highway. There's a timber bridge there that was built with the original highway. It goes over a big river gorge, and it's curved; kinda cool. 

Then it's back to BC 97 to lay down some miles and get a picture at the AlCan sign in Dawson Creek.

I told Katherine on the phone tonight that she didn't miss anything by not going to Dawson Creek last fall. Not a bad town, but nothing exciting, either. A nice woman with her daughters snaps my pic in front of the sign. She and her daughters are from Montana, and they're heading up to the southern peninsula of Alaska. I hope the good weather holds for them.

If you see grain elevators, you can be assured of two things: the road will be boring, and it will be fast. Just the thing to lay down miles and put a bow on this trip.

It seems that on every solo motorcycle trip, Jimmy Buffet's song _Come Monday_ comes around on the playlist toward the end of the trip, about the time I'm missing my honey. The lyrics seem so fitting about that point in any trip, just like today. I might not have spent "four lonely days in a brown L. A. haze", but I do "just want you back by my side". Lovely song, always brings a tear to the eye at just the right time in the trip.

I considered gassing up in Prince George, then heading a few more miles down the road to a primitive campsite, throw the tent and sleeping bag down for some zzzzz's, then kickstand up a bit after dawn. But as the rain comes down, I consider that a motel can get me an even earlier start. That's my excuse, it's all in the interests of saving time. A Sandman *and* an attached Denny's? Sold.

I didn't think I'd be home on Friday, but as I was doing the math last night I figured I could if I pulled a couple of 600-700 mile days. Time to go home to the lovely wife that bailed me out when I needed it, and otherwise made this trip possible. I'll be home tomorrow if all goes well, and can spend the weekend with her before she leaves to visit family. I love you, Katherine, and miss you very much. I have eagle's wings now, and I'll fly home soon.

Plenty of Light

I counted three flashlights of various kinds in my luggage. What the hell was I thinking? I haven't seen true darkness in over a week.

A Hidden Gem

(Apologies for what I am sure are a bunch of typos. I'm in my sleeping bag using the iPhone on-screen keyboard to type this.)

Earlier to bed and earlier to rise this time. I put the Kindle down around 11, and actually made it to 5:45 before my eyes popped open. I briefly considered just getting up, but I wasn't in that much of a hurry, and there was another motorcyclist camped right next me. I figured there was no need to disturb him, so I went back to sleep. I worried needlessly as he'd been up for a while, wondering if he was disturbing *me*. Regardless, I was still on the road by 8:00.

Now the 200 miles of dirt starts. It was great dirt, though. Hard-packed dirt, and on it I can keep a good clip. I was going to gas up in Faro, but I figured I'd get on the road, then gas up 60K down the road at Ross River. Had I known it was 10K off the highway to get to Ross River, I would've filled up on Faro. Meh, no matter, it's a nice ride up there.

Back to the Campbell and on to Watson Lake. The Campbell Highway is a lonely road early in the morning, but the wild flowers along the road make nice companions

I stopped at a rest area for a pee break and to look at the view of the lake. 

As I'm standing there, I talk to a couple in an RV. I've been doing a lot of that up here, standing around talking to people. Sure, I've left campgrounds three hours later than I wanted to because I was standing around jawing, but what's the point otherwise? So I can run to the next dirt road, to the next photo op, to the next gas station so I can fill up and get back on the road? I think the bike attracts a lot of that, if only because it's so dirty. The big Beemer got a bath in Fairbanks, but it's already filthy again. Plus, I guess it does look kind of loaded for adventure. Of course it's not all about me, so I do make a point to ask folks how their trip is going, too, even if they're in an RV. And frankly I wonder if it isn't harder in an RV. Sure, stick to the paved roads and you're just going for a drive. But once the pavement ends, I'd rather be on a bike. My bike is built specifically for such silliness, I can stand on the pegs over the bumpy bits, and if it gets too rough I push a button on the handlebar to say "make it softer, please".

The RV couple asked how the road ahead was, as they were traveling the other way. I told then it was fine, with the caveat that my bike is likely better on this stuff than their RV. Another 60 miles down the road it becomes clear why they asked. It's tougher now, with baby-head rocks sticking up above the dirt. Still, it's not all that bad, and the bike smoothes it out just fine.

And then, maybe 20 miles outside Watson Lake, I come across the worst road construction area of the entire time I've held a license to drive. The "flagger" comes out of her truck as I approach. I put "flagger" in quotes because she has no flag or sign of any kind. Should I stop? She's not motioning me to do so. Eh, I guess I'll stop just in case.

"Do you have flashers?"

"Hmm? Umm, yeah."

"Could you turn them on so the heavy machinery can see you?"

You mean to tell me there's heavy machinery that could run me over, and no pilot car? Umm-kay.

First, the dirt has been pounded to a fine silty dust by the machinery. Next, there are ruts dug by the tires of other vehicles. This adds to the fun because if I have to cross those ruts, the front wheel will want to stay in that rut and I'll have to fight my way out... across the silt that also wants to suck at my front wheel. To top it all off, it's not entirely clear where I should go. It's just this big plain of pounded dirt with orange makers scattered about seemingly randomly. At one point, as I'm trying to navigate with two giant earth movers coming at me on both sides, I'm actually yelling in my helmet "WHERE THE HELL DO I GO?" And I can't slow down because a bit of speed is all that keeps me upright in this crap. In the middle of all this I began to think that after all of these thousand of miles this trip, this is where I go down. And for some strange reason I was comfortable with that idea. I've never been down at anything more than a walking pace after all these years, and only then in an off road class where I expected to fall over (else I just wasn't trying hard enough). But I'm in second gear, so I'm not going all that fast. I'm wearing an armored riding suit, and if I fall off I land in soft dirt. Picking up this loaded pig is going to be a bitch, but damned straight one of those highway workers is helping me. Assuming the earth movers don't get me first, that is.

But I stayed up. The off road class, all of those miles down the Dalton Highway, the road to Eagle, 180 miles of dirt on the Campbell, it has all led to this. I don't have to think about the steps anymore, I just do it. Stand on the pegs, squeeze the tank with my legs, stay loose on the handlebars. When the thing I want to do most in the world is snap the throttle shut, that's the time to give it a little gas. And when the going got really gnarly I didn't have to fight my instincts to let off the gas, I gave it a little twist instead, and I was confident in doing so because I knew that was my best chance. And you know what? It works. All that stuff taught in the class, all the stuff I've read, put it all together and it REALLY works. Even if it doesn't, it's better than the alternative, because if I'd gotten scared, gorilla-gripped the handlebars, and snapped the throttle shut, I guarantee you I would have been lying in the dirt.

But I swear, it was indescribably bad. Not just the horrible surface, but the complete lack of any direction what so ever, with giant machinery moving about seemingly at random. Even in Canada this has to be the stuff lawsuits are made of.

Watson Lake at last, and it's time for a photo of the world famous signpost. Great googly moogly, it's a signpost *forest*. I get a pic, and then I'm out of there. Way to kitschy for me.

I decide that I'm not going to do the remainder of the Alcan and just go back the way I came. I'm running out of time, and it looks longer down the Alcan. But as I fiddle with the mapping software over lunch, it looks like it would only add an extra 150K. Alright, what the heck, let's do it.

Oh, man, I'm so glad I did. At first it's more of the same ol' northern BC highway: fast, with occasional periods of fast sweeping corners. And the signs warning of bison on the road weren't kidding.

 But then I come into a provincial park in what I later figure out is probably the northern Rockies. It's the most awesome provincial/state park ever. It rivals national parks for scenery. And they have goats to greet you as you enter the park.

As I approached the goats, I killed the engine and coasted up to them. They didn't seem too concerned. They didn't even move. Baby goats were just lying in the sun by the side of the road, not a care in the world. I snapped some pictures and got some video on the phone. Because, damn that GoPro eats batteries and it was dead again. I need to either get a second battery or wire it to the bike's power. Or maybe just quit fiddling with technology in a weak attempt to capture panoramic views in a bottle, and actually look at the scenery.

I'm willing to do a primitive provincial campground, but it's still a little early and I want to knock off some more miles. Another 50K after the park, and I spy an RV park. This near such a lovely area, it's probably pricey, no WiFi, and not really catering to tents, but it's as good a place as any to stop for the day. 

It turned out to be probably the best independent campground I've ever stayed at.

For comparison, two nights ago I paid $12 at a Yukon provincial park, which had no showers, I pooped into a hole in the ground, and the water turned my pot brown. Not that I'm complaining, all I need is a flat patch for the tent, and I boiled my water thoroughly (a little rust and dirt won't kill me, but germs can be unpleasant). I just want to set a baseline.

Here, $12 got me a tent spot, there were showers, WiFi that's not much to write home about but it works, and I couldn't ask for a more lovely setting. There was even a dog for me to pet.

Crack-o' (figure of speech; dawn is still probably 3:30 a. m. here) and on the road early tomorrow. My missives from here to Saturday will likely be few and short. It's time to flip the "Iron Butt " switch to it's "on" position and get myself home. I leave you with a small glimpse of my accommodations for the night. As so often happens, a picture won't do it justice.

Good Fortune Awaits

Up at eight this time, having had the first good night's sleep in a long time since my tent is buried in trees and the constant daylight is a little more muted. I spend time fixing my stove that has been an otherwise maintenance-free servant for over 15 years. I spend time talking to the third RV owner since last night, talked to the other bike rider next to me. Before I knew it, it's 10:30. So much for an early start. By the time I wait for the ferry crossing, it's 11:00 before I get rolling out of Dawson.

From here it's on to Whitehorse and coming back the way I came for a bit. But someone had mentioned the Campbell Highway. Never heard of it, haven't done it, okay then.

I get to Carmacks, YT just past the Campbell Highway turn-off and stop for lunch. I haven't had a shower since Deadhorse and I'm running out of clothes. I would have taken a shower in Fairbanks if Jared and I hadn't sat and drank coffee until 11:00 a. m. telling stories. I look at my iPhone campgrounds app, and all I see down the Campbell are primitive campgrounds with no showers and no laundry. Nah, I'm going to go to Whitehorse and clean up.

After a delicious lunch, I decide "fuck it". I came up here to ride roads, so I should go ride them. The bears won't care how I smell. So it's down the Campbell with a stench blowing behind me.

Speaking of bears, not 2 clicks down the Campbell and there stands baby bear at the side of the road watching me go by.

I'm at about my limit for my day, so I'll stop in Faro, YT and see what's there, then find a campground. Wait a minute. Do my eyes deceive me? It says there's an RV park and laundromat not 10K down the road. Oh, man, that worked out well. So as I type I'm clean again and waiting for my laundry to dry.

Eagle, Alaska

In Chicken the night before, the proprietor of the mercantile/liquor store/bar/cafe asked if I was going up to Eagle, AK. "I suppose not, since I've never heard of it."

"Oh, you have the time, on *that* bike, you have to go. It's like this", she says as she makes back and forth motions with her hands. "You'll love it."

Alright, I'll add that to the list. And bright and early at 7:00 to pack the bike and head up to Eagle. Coffee first, though. Susan, the proprietor, had said to knock on the door of the cafe if I wasn't too early and she'd fix me up with coffee. As I walk down, titanium coffee cup in hand, an RV camper says, "they don't open until 7:30." I just nod. You see, I'm "in" with the owner.

I knock, Susan opens, I walk in. "I think it's a little weak", she says, "try it and let me know what you think." Yeah, it's a little watery. She said she'd run it through the grounds again. I tell her I'm heading out, and thank her for her hospitality. "You still owe me $2 for the coffee, though." Fair enough.

Up the dirt road, and to the turn off for Eagle. Meh, it's 65 miles of dirt, and then 65 miles back since it's the only road in and out. I think I'll just skip it. A half mile later, I ask myself what the hell I'm doing out here if not to see where a road goes. That's the whole reason I went to Deadhorse, isn't it? To see where the road goes? Screw it, I'm going. 

As I turn the bike around, I do all the right things, swivel my head in the direction I want to go, ease the clutch out and turn the bike...and discover I'm in neutral. So there I am, sideways and taking up the entire lane, pointing such that I have a bit of difficulty getting the bike backed up. Thankfully the road has zero traffic at that hour, and finally succeed in heading to Eagle.

And thankfully I did. A month ago this road would have scared the shit out of me. Random gravel, tight and blind corners, 200 foot drops to the river below with no guard rail. But that was a month ago. I've since taken an off-road course and ridden the 830 miles of the round trip to Deadhorse, so my confidence is way up. Instead of the white-knuckle ride of terror it would have been not 30 days ago, it's a hoot.

Eagle, AK: not much to say. The public library, which is run by volunteers and open two hours a day, has WiFi. So I catch up on mail, sent a few texts, send off the blog updates. I notice two guys across the street working on a shed, so I ask them where to get a cup of coffee. They tell me, then like so many conversations I've had this trip we talk about where I'm from, where I've been, and where I'm going. One guys's wife, Geraldine, has a father that helped build this road. Before departing, Geraldine's husband tells me, "watch out for bears on the way out." I think, "oh, the cute little black bears I've been seeing?"

"Those grizzs will just come right out in the road, and they're fast."

All I could think of was Bill Paxton in the movie _Aliens_ when the dropship crashes in a ball of fire and screeching metal: "Well, that's just great, man! That's just fuckin' great!"

I get my coffee, swing by Fort Egbert, and then head on out. I never saw any grizzlies. I did see Mama Moose and Baby Moose in the middle of the road shortly after leaving town, though.

Now that I know the road holds no surprises, I am tearing it up. Experienced dirt riders would laugh at my pathetic slowness, but for me I'm flying. Kick the tail out with the throttle in the corners until the traction control says, "that will be enough of that, Mr. Stewart" and just doing stuff I wouldn't imagine when I bought the bike.

On through the easiest border crossing I've ever had and onto Dawson. I figure I'd take the ferry across the river, grab some dinner and find a place to camp. As I coast down to the ferry, I see two guys waving at me, pretty enthusiastically actually. Either they're big BMW fans, or just friendly folk. As I wait in line at the ferry, it's Chris and Virgil again that were waving. Small world, sure, but this is pretty weird. I ask them where they're staying, and they're at the public campground that I just passed.

Instead going to town for supper, I just eat out of my panniers. Freeze-dried lentils and rice, and fire-roasted vegetables. Works for me. After supper, I wander down to Chris and Virgil's campsite, made obvious by the bikes that I'm now seeing for the third time this trip. I end up hanging out until midnight swapping stories. Well, listening to their stories is more like it. My stories are still kind of lame. But they're stories have me in stitches. Virgil riding down a trail until it gets so narrow that he can't turn the bike around, so he gently lays it on the ground and spins it around on the cylinder head (BMW flat-twin cylinders stick out to the side). His buddy Chris is apparently the nuttier one of the bunch, and he has more gnarly stories complete with pictures of his bike in places I'd never dare go. Of course in the course of the stories, bikes end up on their sides, body parts get dislocated, body parts get put back into their proper places using bungie cords and some pulling ("my thumb was pornographically long"). I should have been in bed long ago, and I'll regret this, but it was well worth it.

Remote and Unconnected

I apologize to the three people that are reading this for getting the posts so backed up. This is the first time since Prudhoe Bay that I've had a data connection. (Could have found a Starbucks in Fairbanks, but didn't feel like taking the time.) And just where did I find this connection? Outside the public library in Eagle, AK. Look on a map. It's the last place in the U. S. I'd figure to get connected. Hell, the phone says I've even got a T-Mobile connection. Go figger.

The Road to Fairbanks

The ride back to Fairbanks is going to be (say it with me) awesome. I have a delicious breakfast in the hotel cafeteria, eggs and potatoes, a big bowl of fruit, and wash it down with coffee and a huge glass of orange juice. A bit cloudy, but it's 47F when I load the bike up. Fairbanks is supposed to be 70F or so. I could actually do this in one shot.

One the road, and through the construction. Did the road suddenly get better overnight? Nah, I guess now that I know what it's like, it's not so bad. Traffic's not bad, either, at 7:30 on Saturday morning. A few trucks here and there, that's it.

Not much to say, it's basically a repeat of the way up. The big, scary pass is now a dry gravel road and it's a balmy 39F up there. If I called up with my credit card at the ready, I could not have ordered better weather. I've gotten really lucky, and I know it. I've heard tales of what that road's like if it rains, which it frequently does in Alaska. I could still do it on the tires I've got, but it would be two days each way, and they would be looooong days.

Here, let me dig up some more pics of the mountains. Remember, they won't even come close to doing it justice.

Over the pass and onto Coldfoot for gas and something to eat. I'm making amazing time, but one-shot still seems ambitious. Especially when I take such time to stop at the Coldfoot visitor's center. Keep in mind that Coldfoot used to be a mining town, that finally ran out, then it was a work camp for the road builders. That ran out, too, when the road was finished. Now there's some metal buildings that have rooms for rent, a lonely couple of gas pumps, and a restaurant. None of it looks all that fancy. But I pull into the center's parking lot, and wow. It's as nice a building as you'd see at any national park (it's run by the Bureau of Land Management, and the Parks Service, I think). They have interpretation, and pretty girls working there for the summer. There's a trail to the old Coldfoot cemetery. If there are grave markers, I can't find them. But they know it's where those that froze to death are buried some 100 years ago.

An hour at the center, and it's back on the road. I don't need gas as I pass Yukon River, so on I go. After a while, 120 miles out of Fairbanks, I need a break. I pull up and see someone next to a Triumph. Small world, it's Jared again. He only made it to the Arctic Circle. He's having trouble with his bike. I refrain from making jokes about Triumph motorcycles of old and their reliability, as now is not the time. The bike runs, but not well enough to risk the ride to Deadhorse. I tell him that except for the Brooks Mountains, he's not missing much. He's taking a break to let the bike cool down and quit acting up, so we hang out for a bit.

Jared proceeds to tell me one of the most hilarious stories I've heard in a while. Because of discretion and the fact that this is a family-friendly trip report (fuck, yeah) I'll refrain from details. But he had me bent over with tears coming down my face it was so funny. I'll just say that it was like a Terantino movie, and I'm waiting for the part where someone pulls out a 9mm handgun, ready to pop a cap in the ass of some muthafucka.

After an hour or so, we climb back on and agree to ride to Fairbanks together and figure out what to do from there. Me, I'm camping, but I don't think Jared has made up his mind yet. Blasting on to the big city, we stop and get the pic of the Dalton Highway sign that I missed on the way up.

Back on, and let's put a bow on this thing. We roll on into Fairbanks, and the first stop is the car wash to get the Dalton Highway off the bikes. I think I'll be digging Dalton Highway off my bike for years to come. You know, doing some little maintenance task I haven't done in a while, and "why in THE hell is THIS so dirty? Oh, yeah. Ahh, memories." $12 worth of quarters later, and mine is as good as I'm willing to get it. Jared has his looking almost showroom new. Granted, he didn't ride the really gnarly parts, but still...

Before:

After:

After we wash up, Jared says, "I have chain lube if you need it."

"Dude, it's a BMW."

"Oooooh, Mr. Hoity-Toity with his shaft drive."

Now, I meant no offense. It's just that for about the first 90 years of BMW's existence they made nothing but shaft drive bikes. It was kind of a joke. But Jared doesn't know BMW's history, so he might not have gotten the joke. I apologized and explained, and he said he took no real offense. But that would become a bit of a running joke about the snooty BMW riders.

Camping later, supper first. The closest IHOP is 238 miles away, so Denny's it is.

Setting up my tent, and Jared comes over, looks the tent over and asks, "is that one of those fancy BMW tents?" Smartass. We'll get along just fine.

Sleep. Sweet, delicious sleep. It's hard to believe, as I sit in a campground with nice spots, hot water, and surround by civilization, that just sixteen hours ago I was as far north in North America as a road will take you.

The Road to Chicken...Alaska, That Is

A hoity-toity BMW motorcycle and its matching hoity-toity "BMW" tent in Fairbanks

This is as close as I'll get to "midnight sun" this trip. Sun's not actually up this far south, but close enough. Taken at midnight on the dot.

Not many pictures today, and not a lot to say. I've done most of what I rode today on the way up, so I was just going to hammer it through to Tok, hit the Taylor/Top of the World Highway to Chicken and on to Dawson City, YT.

I did get a picture of the flowers I've been seeing along the side of the road from Fairbanks to Deadhorse.

I turn off for the Taylor Highway, and hmm? When does the dirt start? So far it's the Alaskan version of the Blue Ridge Parkway in NC and VA. Paved, with sweeping corners, and along the top of a ridge with great views.

The dirt starts right before Chicken, AK. 

I'll stop and get a picture, eat something, and move on to Dawson City 100 miles away. I get my pic, pick up some stickers for some kids of friends, get my food. As I walk back to the bike, I strike up a conversation with a guy sitting in front of the store who has a stringed instrument that looks a lot like a mandolin, but it's missing one set of double strings. I ask him what it is, he tells me, and I've now forgotten. It's used in Russian folk music. If you've watched the movie _Doctor Zhivago_, you've heard it, and if not I'll bet you'd still recognize the sound.

As we're talking music, the proprietor comes out for a sit. Chatting goes on, and the more I stand there and listen, the more I'm convinced I'm going to just stay here for the night. Tent camping is free, and I see a spot. But I also noticed signs for a cabin. What the hell, how much for the cabin? Well, they had a music thing going on this weekend, and it hasn't been cleaned yet. She's exhausted from the goings-on, and doesn't want to clean it. I don't care, I just don't want to set up the tent. All I need is a roof. It's normally $75. I tell her I'll meet her half way. She asks how $30 sounds? Sounds good. She says to look at it first before paying. There are no sheets on the bed, but I'll just put my sleeping bag down. I tell her it could use some sweeping, and there are no sheets, but it doesn't matter to me. Okay, how about $20, she says. Look, I'm not picky, She said $20, I said $30, how about you take the $28 I have in my wallet? Hell of a negotiator, I am.

So here I sit outside my $28 cabin, finishing my report. Now it's time for sleep in a cabin with no curtains where the sun doesn't completely go down.

Deadhorse: The Details

With 300 miles left to Deadhorse, it was time to get up and finish this off. And get up I did, considering that my body clock just keeps going backward and backward. If the sun bothered to go down, it didn't try very hard. So up and at 'em it was, at 5:30 in the morning. Since I was up so early, I took the time to make some coffee and enjoy some delicious freeze-dried eggs. I've never had them (not a big fan of eggs in the first place, but I eat them anyway for protein), so let's see how this is. First, they're scrambled. Of course they are. How the hell you'd freeze-dry "over easy" I have no idea, and neither does Mountain House (makers of fine freeze-dried camp foods). Pour some boiling water in the bag, let sit for ten minutes, and breakfast is served. Ya know, not too bad, actually. As I'm eating them, I flip the bag over and check out the nutritional information. One-hundred and sixty six percent of my USRDA allowed cholesterol. Yowsa, no wonder they're so tasty. I'll run when I get home, or something.

On to Coldfoot and get that last dribble of gas before the 240 miles to the next gas station. The distance won't be an issue, as I have about a 340 mile tank range as well as 0.75 litres in the can on the pannier. I get some stickers while I'm there, an Arctic Circle sticker and a CBX sticker that represents the call sign for the Coldfoot airport. Not that those stickers will ever see the side of my panniers, as I'm not a twelve year old girl doing scrapbooking. I mean, do what you want with your own panniers, but it's just not me. If you care where I've been, you'll ask.

The next 20-30 miles out of Coldfoot are paved. The Dalton, she's a strange one. Why this section is okay to pave, but not the remaining 220 miles, I have no idea. I get that most of the road is dirt, because dirt survives harsh winter better. But why bother paving at all?

After the pavement, the "real" Dalton Highway seems to begin. A little rougher, a little more gravel in spots, and mostly more randomly changing road conditions. One minute pavement, then "whoa", a big section of gravel mid-corner. Or smooth dirt, then the road is covered in wet gravel. Or the road grader just went through, that kind of thing. Keep one's wits about you and it's fine. Assume that it's a road maintained to Federal highway standards and you're going down.

A ways north of Coldfoot comes Antigun Pass. This, other than the construction shy of Deadfoot, is the one big variable for the ride. It had been snowing just a day ago, and probably last night. A guy in a minivan coming back from Deadhorse said, as we were at the gas pump in Coldfoot, that it had been plowed and was fine. Not to worry, then.

The pass comes up as a bit of a surprise. You saw the pictures in the last entry. So I'm looking at what you saw in the pictures, amazed at the big, snowy mountains ahead. Then I saw the road snake up into those big, snowy mountains. Ruh, roh. It looks positively scary. Pictures can't do it justice, and neither can my writing. It just looks...intimidating. I head on up and it gets even more intimidating. Snow from peak right to the road. But the road is clear, if wet and somewhat slimy in spots. It gets steep for a bit, the tires biting for traction, and the traction control even kicks in once or twice. I'm up on the pegs, putting weight over the front wheel so it tracks straight and true. Around the summit of the pass, I pass the road grader. Thank you *so* much for being out here and making this road passable.

It's 28F, I've got the electric liner turned on, the electric gloves cranked up *and* the heated grips on max. I've got cold hands anyway, but the gloves heat the tops of my hand and the grips do the palms. My hands are fine, but after a while even the electric liner has trouble keeping up. 

I want to get a picture, but there's nowhere to pull off and even if there were I saw signs on the way up saying "Avalanche danger, do not stop next five miles". I do see a pull out with a "Avalanche Safety Zone" sign, so I figure that's as good a place as any to get a pic. This is the worst part of the pass. The pull out is wet, it's got deep tire ruts, it at one time probably resembled dirt. Right now it's wet, slick slime and I'm fighting to keep the bike tracking straight. I don't dare try to get off and back on in this slop, so I take pictures from the saddle of the bike.

I head back down, ever so carefully, and the road starts to level out. Before me is the Brooks Mountain Range, covered in snow and beauty. I've had motorcycle wheels in 49 of the 50 U. S. states, and a lot (if not most) of Canada. I thought I'd seen all that North America has to offer. But I'd not seen this. Maybe it was the cold, maybe it was happiness of making it over the toughest mountain pass across which I've ever ridden a motorcycle, or maybe it actually was the shear beauty of it all. But I cried at the sight of it. I cried for miles. Ever see the movie _Contact_? Remember Jodie Foster's character? "They should have sent a poet." I get that now. And all I could ask to make it better was that Katherine were with me to share it.

Here I am looking at one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen, able to afford and riding a piece of the finest two-wheeled machinery German engineering can produce, backed by a wife who just let's me pick up and take off for two weeks to do crazy shit while she holds down the fort. Let the so-called 1% have their money. Mitt Romney and Warren Buffet never rode a motorcycle to Deadhorse, Alaska and probably never will. They're missing out. I, yes I am amongst the most fortunate in this world.

I'm not a poet, so you'll just have to go. Do what it takes. Don't do it in a car, don't take a tour bus, ride there. Don't know how to ride? Take a course. Don't have a bike? Buy one. Can't afford a new BMW? Buy an old Honda C90. It's been done, they have hilariously entertaining YouTube videos of their trip (well worth a view even if you care nothing about crazy motorcycle rides). But do it. Do it before you're too old, and do it on two wheels.

Preferably your two wheels have an engine attached. But that's apparently too easy for some. As I move on toward Deadhorse, I see something in the road ahead. Too small for a truck or even a car. A moose? As I approach, it's a group of a half dozen cyclists coming from Deadhorse. I repeat, I am not an adventurer. I have 125bhp under my ass. Every ounce of weigh I add to the bike is barely noticed with such horsepower on tap. A good cyclist can maybe produce 3/4 of a horsepower, and that for only five minutes. There is nothing, I repeat nothing, between Coldfoot and Deadhorse. Pull outs and pipeline access, that's it. No place to buy a Gatorade, not campgrounds. Nothing. So these folks, still almost 200 miles from Deadhorse, had to be just plopping down a tiny tent by the side of the road at the end of the day, eating and drinking whatever they can carry with them. I've been sleeping in the finest tent that Hilleberg can make, but at ten pounds no cyclist would carry one. Others might view my accomodations as primitive, but these riders would probably kill, or at least seriously maim, for a night in my tent.

Not much to say from here. I saw the last of the pavement at Coldfoot, save for one small section. And then, 20 miles from Deadhorse, the flood reconstruction begins. Oh, no, here we go. If you saw the pictures on the Alaska DOT's Flickr page (go look now), the road was not just washed over with water, it was GONE. Washed away, nothing but a ditch left. And the condition of the road now? It's what I thought the entire Dalton Highway would be like when it was in good shape.

Maybe I set expectations too low. But once I got my "Dalton legs", I was cruising 50, sometimes 60 mph a lot of the way out of Coldfoot. In the construction zone I had to slow to sometimes 20, but it otherwise just wasn't that bad, or at least not as bad as I thought. A huge shout out to the Alaska DOT. Those folks must have been busting some serious ass these past few weeks, and it showed.

Unless you work for an oil company or drive a truck, you have no business being in Deadhorse.The only touristy thing in Deadhorse is the general store where you can get the obligatory picture in front of the "End of the Dalton Highway" sign, and get some stickers and shirts. I get my picture, handily taken by Mario, one of the riders from Mexico. As we're finishing up, a lady asks where we're from and then apologizes for the state of the dirt streets in town. Apparently Deadhorse got flooded as well, and the streets are just now getting fixed. I don't mind, but she has reason to apologize as some parts of the streets are kind of scary with thick, wheel-sucking gravel.

On to find the only gas station in town, then on to the Prudhoe Bay Hotel for the night. You heard the story last entry, I pay my $160 for my closet-with-a-bed, get stuff off the bike, take a shower and get ready for what will be the most delicious supper I've had in days.

I normally grab the panniers off the bike and take them to my room. There is no way in hell I'm dragging what are now nasty, mud-caked aluminum boxes through their hotel, so I grab what I need and carry it in. Everything I touch that has been on the exterior of the bike makes my hands dirty. Everything. Even just opening the pannier lids leaves dirt spots on my fingers. It's a hard life up here, and I'm up here in summer sun. What started out as adventurous with everything so dirty and adventury looking is now starting to get annoying. If you wear shoes that have seen the exterior of the hotel, the hotel makes you put booties on in the entry way before entering. Perhaps it becomes just routine after a while if you live and work here, but I just want to get to my room.

Shower, supper, a call to the awesome wife, then it's time for bed in preparation for what might just be a one-shot trip back to Fairbanks. The weather is supposed to be good (60F in Deadhorse the next day, says the report), and the road was far, far better than I expected. We'll see.

Oh, in case you're wondering in preparation for your own trip, the Prudhoe Bay Hotel has what is probably the best hotel WiFi I've ever experienced. Go figure.

Deadhorse

Long day, and low on battery. I normally charge my battery pack that I use to recharge all of my devices by plugging it to the bike during the day. Today that plug was used by the electric gloves. So a photo dump with brief descriptions, then more later. And yes, bringing a 110V USB charger would have been a damned fine idea.

Me, sporting my bitchin' on-clearance goose down vest.

Look, people, if you're going to walk your dog around the Arctic Circle campground, please pick up after it. Wait a minute...this just in: it's not dog poop. (Moose poop, I'm pretty sure.)

Two things that don't suck when you're at the Arctic Circle: a BMW R1200GSA and a Hilleberg tent.

Me, the bike, and the Alaska Pipeline.

Coldfoot, AK

In the vicinity of Atigun Pass. 28F, which is why I can't charge my phone.

Somewhere along the pipeline

I promised no more bad jokes about female motorcycles. I never came close to using the spare fuel, BTW. I had 160 miles left when I got Deadhorse. I'll keep it full in case someone else is in trouble and just give it to them.

End of the road, folks. The two other GSA bikes just like mine belong to to two guys from Mexico.

What $169 buys you at the Prudhoe Bay hotel. The lady at the desk said the price, described the room, then paused. "Are you fine with that?" I guess she was waiting for me to blink or something. Look, I wasn't expecting the Hilton.

Must save battery to call my lovely wife. More tomorrow.

Arctic Circle

Today's goal was the Arctic Circle. My new riding buddy and I had decided to make that the day's end and camp at the campground. Unfortunately I received a text from Jared over lunch that said he had some trouble with an item that had shipped to the trading post in Tok, as well as not being able to get a tire until tomorrow. I know how it goes, but I'm a bit disappointed. Jared's a nice guy, and I looked forward to hanging out with him. I also was hoping to have a companion down the treacherous Dalton Highway. I also worried about Jared a little. With so little riding experience, will he be okay? Myself, I'm a big boy and have been pulling stupid stunts on motorcycles for a long time. I'll make it one way or another. I can get myself into trouble and I can get myself out. Or I'll text Katherine on the sat comm to get me out of said trouble, whatever works.

But Jared's made it this far, and for all I know I'm not giving him enough credit. He said he's into hiking and outdoors stuff, so I'm sure he knows when it's time to turn back.

Gas in Delta Junction, lunch in North Pole (no, not that one, the town in Alaska), and on to Fairbanks. I need bear spray and freeze-dried food from REI, and a t-shirt from (as far as I know) the most northern BMW dealer in North America. Ooh, REI has goose down Patagonia vests on clearance. Score! That sucker is going to feel nice in the tent further north, and will work well over my electric liner on the bike.

The BMW dealer was amusing. They also carry Harley-Davidsons (I promise to be nice today since I had the loudest bike in the campground last night). Guy asks me what I need. "Just a t-shirt.", I say. I didn't say for what brand. He takes one look at the Aerostich riding suit and never hesitates when he says, "BMW shirts are over there." Gawd, we all have uniforms, don't we? Harley folk in their pirate outfits, BMW riders, et. al. in their fancy nylon suits so they don't get wet on their way to Starbucks. (And don't think me so arrogant that I don't put myself in the latter category. Those parking lot speed bumps are so treacherous that I need that $300 skid plate.) There's a metaphor in their somewhere.

Why didn't I just buy a shirt on the way back instead of dragging it all the way to Deadhorse and back? Umm, yeah, good question. It would have been even a gooder question had it occurred to me while I was at the dealer, not after.

I didn't look for a new front tire. Screw it, the Wobblin' Goblin on the front will get me down the Dalton and back home just fine.

Purchases made, let's do this thing! The rough pavement begins soon after Fairbanks. It's not bad, though. Then, the Dalton Highway. Oh, my god, oh, my god, oh, my god, how bad will it be? Rocks the size of baby heads? Horrible truck traffic that's been backed up for three weeks? I'm a little nervous.

For the first ten miles or so I'm getting my legs. I follow a semi for the longest time because, even though he crawls up the hills, I don't want to get in the way on the downhill while he tries to get momentum. I don't think he'll run me over or anything, but I don't want him to have to touch the brakes. This road belongs to trucks who bring supplies and equipment, I am but a guest on this road. 

After a bit, at the top of a hill with a pull off, he slows way down and even hits the brakes. Is something wrong? Should I go around? Go around I do, and it becomes evident what he was doing. He knows the road, and he knows that even a scared Dalton newbie like myself can open it up from here on out. He knows I won't get in the way. 

I'm flying now. A consistent 45 mph at first. Then 50, then try 55 for a while. Oh, it's still dirt, but it's relatively smooth, with little actual gravel and no baby-heads. It's paved in spots, but I prefer the dirt. The pavement doesn't survive winter well, whereas the dirt is easily fixed with a grader if it gets rough. 

Yukon River does have gas, right? I left Fairbanks with 240 miles left on the tank. I haven't seen a gas pump since. I could still make Coldfoot...barely. Yukon River does have gas. That gas costs $5.50 for every gallon I put in, and I smile as I'm pumping it. (For historical comparison later, premium in Seattle is about $3.89 right now.)

The road is so awesome. The BMW is so awesome. It's made for stuff like this and it is eating it up. Maybe it gets rougher later on, but right now I'm maintaining 55mph on a dirt road, something I wouldn't have imagined myself doing a year ago. I'll need two things in Coldfoot tomorrow: gas, and some sandpaper to get this smile off my face.

And Jared? Jared will be fine. His Triumph, like my BMW, is built for this. For him and for myself, I worried needlessly. Tomorrow is going to be so awesome. But first I must sleep, with sun blazing away at 10:30 at night. I've been told the sun will barely touch the horizon tonight, disappearing only because the mountains will briefly get in the way.

Oh, yeah, saw a moose in the middle of the road on the Dalton. Way cool.

 

Alaska!

After "the ordeal", I was going to treat myself to sleeping in. Sadly, the Harley-Davidson owners parked next to my room didn't feel the same. Ya know, those things come out of the factory quiet. Oh, you didn't know that? Probably not, because nearly every yahoo that buys one feels the need to announce "oh, did you know I own a Harley?" by putting loud pipes on them. Yes, it's illegal. No, no one ever writes tickets for it. All that noise, and it still only puts out 90bhp? Sad, that's what it is. I've had more than one person comment about my bikes, "it's so quiet". No, it's not, but it's as loud as it's supposed to be. In comparison to the man-child's Harley, I guess it is quiet, though. So all of us on two wheels get painted with the same "asshole" brush. When you fuckers aren't allowed into Glacier National Park anymore (oh, it's coming, look it up) I'm going to laugh my ass off.

No matter, I roll back over and snooze until 7:30. That's sleeping in enough. Since I was just throwing shot (no, autocorrect, I typed "shit", I meant "shit") into panniers after "the incident", everything needed to be rearranged and repacked. But first, a doughnut and egg sandwich from (say it with me) Tim Horton's. Munch on that while I pack, and it's on the road at the crack of 9:30. I need a hat/tucque, some more tire plugs (oh, I'm paranoid now), and bear spray. Wal-Mart had the tire plugs. No hats? No, they don't have any winter stuff. Eh? It was 42F last night. Winter never ends in the Yukon if you ask me. But store staff referred me to Canadian Tire next door. A tire shop...for a hat? Ooookay, then.

Canadian Tire is awesome. They have useful stuff. Like hats and bear spray. And a bunch of stuff I don't need at the moment, but noted for later.

I'm the parking lot, as I'm putting in my tire balancer/flat prevention fluid (paranoid...or prepared?) I run into Chris and Virgil again on their BMWs (with their quiet stock exhaust systems). I ran into them several days and a thousand miles ago. Small world, eh? A kid (when you're my age, even a full grown man under 40 is a "kid") comes over wanting to borrow an 8mm Allen key to change the oil on his Triumph. ("I see all these people up here on BMWs, and what did I do? I bought a Triumph.", he said.) My toolkit's out, I've got one, here ya go. He comes back, we all chat, and it turns out the full-grown man Jared is going to Prudhoe Bay, too. Hey, maybe I'll see you out there. We all leave separately, and I roll out at 11:30. So much for gettin' that worm.

(And who the hell is running leaf blower, or whatever, in a campground at quarter to goddamned midnight? I know it's still light out, but yeesh. Sorry, back to our story.)

Ah, the AlCan has saved the good stuff for today. Here, let me illustrate with some juvenile humor.

My girl, Ms. BMW, oh she's a dirty girl:

And I'm just the kind of dirty boy to show her a good time.

I'll ride her like...okay, I'll stop now. For reference, the gas can and bottle on the right used to be red. All in all, the AlCan still isn't that bad. If you're on a bike, that is. I set the electronic suspension to "soft", set the cruise control and just glide over the frost heaves, rarely slowing down much. However, it seems like it would be awfully hard on RVs, or even a car. I saw a lot of trailers bottom out when I was briefly behind them.

I was going to get a pic of the obligatory "welcome to Alaska" sign. But by the time I got there I was caught in frog-strangling rain. All I wanted was to be under the awning at the U. S. Customs stop. So no pic. Trust that I am, indeed, in Alaska. And of course the rain stops as soon as I hit Customs.

I thought about making Delta Junction today, but in a rare display of wisdom and common sense I camped at a nice campground in Tok. I walked over to the restaurant in Tok and spy a Triumph. Could it be? I walk in, and there's Jared from the Wal-Mart parking lot. We wolf down some supper (holy crap, that's a medium pizza? Entire villages have been fed with less.) and agree to ride the Dalton Highway together. Safety in numbers, and stupidity loves company, or something. We'll ride separately tomorrow, meet at the Arctic Circle campground tomorrow evening, then assault Prudhoe Bay together the next day. Jared's been riding motorcycles for all of, get this, a year and a half. Kid's got balls, I'll hand him that. That, or doesn't quite know enough to have any idea what he's in for. Whether he knows it or not, he could use an experienced partner. And I'd like to have someone along as well, 'cause hell, I'm sure no expert.  It's going to be so awesome.

One more pic before I go to sleep. My dirty girl (I promise, last time I beat that joke to the ground) in one of many construction areas, waiting on the pilot car.

Whitehorse and a Flat Part 2

After leaving a rest area along Highway 1. Or is it 97? The road is in Yukon Territories one minute, in BC the next, then back to YT. Well, anyway, I pull out of the rest area, and about 3 miles down the road the tire pressure warnings are lighting up the dashboard like a set of high-dollar driving lights. "Meh, it's just being a worry wart. I lowered the pressures to see if it would make the Continental TKC70s suck a little less. I didn't think I lowered them that far, though. I'll air them up next time I stop." The pressure reading said 32 front, 35 rear. Eh, that'll get me there. Then the rear dropped to 32, to 28, to 24, and by the time it got to 20 I was at the side of the road.

I have a plug kit, I have a pump. It'll be going in a jiffy. Except the Progressive Suspension tire repair kit kind of sucks. The reamer is also what you use to push the plug into the tire. How does it not puncture the plug? I imagine that it does. Maybe that doesn't matter. What does matter is that the plug style is kind of funny. For a small hole, I have to wonder how well it would go in. ("Shut up, Beevis!") Anyway, I didn't like it. It also didn't fix the leak. Now to be fair, the boot plug that we'll try later didn't work, either.

Alright, no workable tire fixing solution, what now? There's no cell service, and the next town ain't walking distance. Out comes the DeLorme InReach sat comm unit to text the wife to call BMW roadside assistance that you get three years of when you buy a new bike. In the mean time, there's no road shoulder to speak of, and the ditch isn't very inviting. I'll go back to the rest area and hole up there. I inflate the tire until the pump can't keep up with the leak, through the pump in the saddlebag as quickly as I can, and ride slowly. I ride until the PSI reading on the dash drops to the low teens, I pull off, reinflate, repeat. It takes me an hour to go five miles back to the rest area.

Once back to the rest area, Katherine finally gets back to me. AAA, whom she called first, will send a truck in the morning. Fine by me, I'll set up the tent and make myself comfortable. After all, there are worse places to be stuck.

Since AAA only covers the first hundred miles, Katherine tried BMW roadside assistance, as they cover the whole thing.

If I give you two numbers of high enough precision, it's possible to pinpoint within a few hundred feet where you are in the world. We call those latitude and longitude. Take those two numbers and type them into Google Maps or any variety of mapping apps, and the dot will zoom to exactly where those two numbers represent. BMW's roadside assistance was given those two numbers. BMW's roadside assistance couldn't find their ass from a whole in the ground. Katherine said she was talking them through how to use Bing maps (and failing, apparently). This went on for over five hours.

Of course, it's not like BMW has people sitting in their Berlin office waiting by the phone. No, I can almost guarantee the service is contracted out. But holy shit, if your whole business is based on contracting with car and bike makers to offer roadside assist, one would think you'd train your employees to know what to do with a lat/long, and how to use a fucking map.

When Katherine finally goes to bed around midnight, the truck is supposedly on its way. "Six hours", they say. I set an alarm for five a. m. so I can get the tent down and be ready when the truck gets here.

Six hours come and go, and I get a decent bit of sleep. No truck. I have plenty of time to ponder the lovely view. 

Katherine has now been in direct contact with the towing company. Oh, the truck had trouble with blah, blah, blah, but he's coming. 11:30 in the morning, the truck shows up. Twelve hours after he supposedly left. A really good athlete on a bicycle could have ridden from Whitehorse in that amount of time.

We get the bike loaded, and our journey begins. Nice guy, the wrecker driver. Neve did get his name, but he's a big, lean guy that could snap my twiggy self in two. Or he could be really handy at loading a dead bike on a trailer as well. He chose the second option. With three hours to kill, we talk. I tell him I had a friend years ago, owned his own wrecker, and how I understand it's a hard job. Jimmy used to get paged (hey, it was a long time ago) in the middle of the night to go drag someone out of a ditch. My driver says something about, "yeah, I don't go out in the middle of the night unless I have to." Then he says something I don't remember exactly, but something along the lines of "...so after talking to Capital Towing (for whom he works), I figured it could wait until morning", or something like that. He never left at midnight, he was never looking for me at 5 a. m. He probably didn't leave Whitehorse until eight, and never had any intention of doing otherwise. I don't blame the driver, I blame the person Katherine had been talking to. Just set expectations, and if it's going to be late morning, tell me. I've got nice shelter, food, and water, I truly don't mind. What I do mind is getting up at five in the morning, tearing down my shelter, for no reason.

I listen to the driver's tales of life in the Yukon as a wrecker driver. He asks about places I've been and places I'm going. He tells me about going down the Dempster Highway in winter to retrieve cars. "So, about how much would it cost to have you come down the Dempster to Inuvik to retrieve me, and bring me back?" $5-6K dollars, I'm told. When it's 40 below with snow on the road, that sounds like a bargain to me. Hell, I wouldn't do it.

We finally arrive in Whitehorse, and the driver is going to drop me at the Yamaha dealer to see if they have a tire. If not, he'll take me to the next bike shop, and basically drive me around until we establish that the issue can be resolved. Just as I get out of the truck, Katherine hits the sat comm to say that she called and they have one. I go into the shop and confirm. It's not exactly the right size, but I know others on the web say they use that size when the tire they want doesn't come in the factory-specified size, and it is said that it works fine.

The bike is unloaded, and so that the shop doesn't have to take a bike off a rack to get me in, i take my own wheel off in the parking lot. No biggie, on a BMW rear wheel it's five bolts and five minutes. The shop doesn't want to put the incorrect size on, so they're going to try a boot plug installed by a local tire shop. After an hour, the tire is back on the wheel...and it won't hold air. Wrong-sized tire it is, then. While I'm waiting, I buy a better plug kit.

24 hours after it all started, I'm back on the road and on my way to the hotel I booked. No tents for me tonight. I'm only 90 miles away from where I wanted to be, so I didn't lose a lot of time, and I have a story to tell. I spend two hours on the phone with my awesome wife who spent the better part of a work day on the phone dealing with incompetents, just make sure it's being taken care of. We "adventurers" don't do it alone, we all have support networks we can rely on. You can pack every tool you own, but sometimes it just can't be fixed at the side of the road.

I don't fool myself. I'm mostly self-sufficient on the road, but I rely on modern conveniences.You think Edward Shackleton just pulled out the sat phone? "Her Majesty's Ship Owners Association, how may I help you?"

"Yeaaaah, my ship's stuck in some ice. Can you send a tug? Maybe an icebreaker? Oh, wait, those haven't been invented yet, have they?"

"Yes, sir. Where are you located?"

"Somewhere near Antarctica. Look for three masts sticking up, it's about all that's left."

No, Shackleton and his men were on their own, and no one was coming. That's an adventurer. I'm a tourist going to places I don't need to be, with a ripcord to pull when it all goes wrong.

My last act for the evening is to get a picture of the lovely sunset in Whitehorse...at eleven thirty at night.