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.