The Adventure Continues

You can now follow us on our new web page Aleta.Life. There you can find our continuing story as we sail around the world. Thanks for reading!

The Perfect Vehicle

We headed south along the Icefields Parkway through some of the best mountain scenery on the entire planet. If there was one reason the border between Canada and the United States was set at the 49th parallel, this was it. The British simply wanted to keep Jasper and the rest of the Canadian Rockies all for themselves. From the relative flatness of Hinton, we plunged headlong into the Athabasca River valley, completely dominated on both sides by huge thrusting mountains, layers of pinnacles and glaciers peering down into the waters. A 100 mile radius of the earth appeared to have at some point swollen up from inside its liquid mantle and pushed towards the sky, where it cooled, the magma splitting itself in two raggedly beautiful lines through which glacial waters now meandered south. Like a broken pie crust a child has dragged their finger through in search of fruit, the nearly vertical rock faces above us fell back much more gently away from the highway. The road ahead was full of big sweeping turns, along with a few tight hairpins, for almost 200 miles.

At the top of the Sunwapta Pass the temperature dropped a good 15 degrees and the weather threatened to close in. We paused for a photo op of the Athabasca Glacier at the Icefield Center and then pressed on for Lake Louise where Carol was growing impatient. Arriving a couple of hours later than we had planned, the road lived up to every hyperbole tourist magazines have heaped on it over the years. It was simply stunning and a great close to our fantastic journey. Carol was wandering in the car park near the local supermarket and about to leave for something better when we pulled up. After a cup of coffee, a short visit with a young woman who was adventuring with her Ural and her dog (in the sidecar), it was time to bid farewell and draw an end to the guy’s trip. With the weather closing in Sledge was keen to press on to Calgary for a new tire and start his journey south. As it was he missed a freak snowstorm that hit the Alberta plains by only 24 hours.

As a rider I started the trip with a lot less confidence than I finished it with. There were days that Sledge would take off at his own pace for a time and I’d trail behind conserving gas or daydreaming or simply hanging back from the dust cloud he’d kick up. The vast open spaces on our journey meant we never really lost sight of each other, even when we might be a few miles or more apart. Our direct, straight route meant that we were never at much risk of losing each other for long, anyway. And as I followed along, Sledge was also teaching me. Like learning to ski, it’s often easier to follow the instructor’s line than to have to figure out one yourself. Then you can use those spare cerebral cycles to focus on technique. But perhaps what I was feeling at that moment was better stated by Melissa Holbrook Pierson in her treatise on motorcycling, The Perfect Vehicle:

“When you go [motorcycling] with someone else, you are in for either the ride of your life or series of greater or lesser annoyances. Riding together is like dancing, and when you are hearing the same music and same beat in your blood, you can communicate without words, anticipate every stop, start, fluctuation of desire, speedup and slowdown. When you are not, your partner keeps knocking your knee with his until you can’t hear the music anymore, and even your motorcycles seem misstated, with the one the lead invariably digging in at a cruising speed that is exactly the one at which the bike behind aches to change gear. You might as well ride alone in that case and stop for lunch when you want to.” 

There was never a time that I felt we were completely out of synch. Verity, Sledge’s BMW F800, and Lily, my Triumph Tiger XC, were well matched and they danced, sometimes together, sometimes apart - but always to the same songs. Watching Sledge pull out of the car park and head towards Calgary was tough. He’s not quite, as Natalie Merchant once described Jack Kerouac, "a hip flask slingin’ madman", but he could be, if he wanted to. As a traveling companion Sledge is as easy you could want, as long as you follow this rule: be there for your friends. South America was where we were originally headed, but I’d postponed that part of the trip and I knew it was going to nag on both of us over the coming months. Plus we’d covered Alaska and the northwestern corner of British Columbia far quicker than either of us would have liked. We’d stretched our bikes and ourselves, a bit, and started writing a book, or at least the first couple of chapters of a story that’s as yet unfinished.

Heading for the Hills!

It was determined that we should both get new rear tires - if at all possible. Our bikes, Verity and Lily, are similarly spec’d and that meant we shared common tire sizes. The local Yamaha dealer makes most of its profit by providing mediocre service at a staggering price to twits like me that should have changed their tires back in Alaska. With nearly a thousand miles to go and a not much time to do it in, Sledge magnanimously said that I should have the last available tire in Prince George (yes, we called all the motorcycle shops), an overly inflated Metzler, and he’d burn off what was left of his Heidenaus and get sorted out in Calgary. When all the work was done and a king's ransom paid, the improvement in Lily’s handling was dramatic enough that even I noticed the difference. Once the new tire scrubbed in, we had no problem keeping up an athletic pace for the rest of the day.

We were on schedule to rendezvous with Carol on Friday in Lake Louise and that meant reaching Alberta and the north end of the Jasper National Park today. I’ve said this before and at the risk of repeating myself, there’s still something magical about things you’ve read about in books or National Geographic as a kid and finally seeing them in real life, like the Eiffel Tower or Jerry Lewis (okay, Jerry was even shorter than I imagined). Mount Robson stands guard on the Yellowhead Highway at the mid-northeastern border of British Columbia with Alberta, and it is simply breathtaking. In part because it is the most prominent mountain in North America, a technical term that means it’s as sheer a rock face as there is in this neck of the woods. It’s simply a mind bogglingly, massively vertiginous slab of granite that only about 10% of climbers who try reach the top of. And even though it's set back a long way from the highway, it still glowers over you menacingly.

With the appearance of the mountains came scores of tourists. More humanity than we’d seen in one place for weeks, including that bustling metropolis Prince George. This being Labor Day weekend the area was thick with rubberneckers meandering around in their hired RV’s and Sport Utility Vehicles. We had to keep our wits about us as drivers were wont to suddenly slow down to view some preternaturally beautiful natural sight. Roaming animals caused the most frequent problems - a mountain goat popping up here, a black bear pushing through the brush there. Cars would pull up sharply, brakes squealing as the driver reached for a camera and smacked their children’s iPhones from their busy little fingers as they were commanded to "Look!" I digress.

Plowing on towards Jasper we had no real plan other than to find accommodation for the night. We toyed with the idea of camping, but as this was the last evening of the guy trip we opted for a hotel and a pint of bourbon in Hinton, Alberta. It would add 50 miles and a double-back to the trip south in the morning, but there simply wasn’t any choice for less than $350 apiece. I will say, though, that other than it’s place at the very ragged edge of the Great Plains, Hinton is unremarkable. I’ll leave it at that.

Ay Chihuahua!

Highway 29, also known as the Don Philips Way, is the road less traveled out of Fort St. John. It follows the Peace River along its tall bank through rolling farmland that made a pleasant change from the endlessly identical evergreens that had followed us all the way from Tok. Sunshine and clear roads and nary a car in sight, we had nothing but wind in front of us (not to mention a little in back) and were determined to enjoy the day; which, despite a few long waits for roadworks, we did.

Our objective was Prince George a mere 455 kilometers away, only a half day’s ride even with our scenic detour. Prince George, originally named Fort George by the The North West Company and named for Mad King George (the III), is known as British Columbia’s “northern capital” - even though it’s technically south of the half way point north. (Get on with it! - ed.) Lying, as it does at the nexus of the Fraser and Nechako rivers there is a great deal of backwoods stuff to do like canoeing, fishing, camping and hunting - none of which we did. For some reason at its outskirts I was reminded of Reading, a town in Britain with a particularly combative third division football team, around 1980 - a good place for a pint and a punch up on a Saturday. Now, however, Prince George looks over-policed. The pubs in the center were closed or transitioning to more upscale coffee and cocktails. There are signs of creeping hipsterishness intent on making things a little more livable (if that’s not a contradiction in terms).

Having gotten fed up with the industrial accommodation in chain motels we figured we’d give AirBnB, the house sharing site, a shot. It’s really easy to be cynical about mankind, or worse scared of it - especially if you’re prone to watching television news. For all my worldly adventures in the past few years, I never cease to marvel at the trust people place in their fellow human beings. As individuals we are all really just folks wanting to get along, even when getting along means that we have to share our lives with others. AirBnB taps into this fundamental trait and brings together people that need a bit of extra cash with travelers wanting something more personal. Laura and her daughter Teegan hosted us, along with their dog Diego, a chihuahua, who barked at me then jumped in my lap as sat I on the sofa writing my trip notes. We both quickly fell asleep. The sharing economy is a real thing and I’m not entirely sure where it will go, but long may it continue.

Civilization - Ho!

It took some getting used to, the distances up there. After a leisurely start, with another turn around the hot springs, we pointed our noses south and made our way to Fort St. John, some 430 miles away. We paused for brunch at the Northern Rockies Lodge, which was truly some kind of hunting lodge for rich weirdos. There was not a soul around and we had the dining hall of the big log cabin to ourselves. It was hard to tell if it was simply the time of year, or if hunting lodges of the far north had finally seen their day. None of the ones we’d seen thus far were doing great business. Rather than dwell on that, we filled our our stomachs and our gas tanks and continued on our way. 

The engaging curves and sweeps through the mountains, along with the occasional herd of buffalo, kept us occupied. To keep the blood flowing and our legs from cramping, Sledge and I would stand on the pegs for several miles at a time. That meant slowing down a little, but just a little, as we leaned into the headwind. Nothing seemed too risky on Lily now - she and I had learned enough about each other’s strengths and weaknesses that there weren’t any surprises, just increasing confidence from knowing what to expect. Lily’s rear tire had formed a chine, a hard angle where there used to be a smooth curve. That made cornering about as much fun as balancing on the edge of a shoebox and, even though the roads were solid chip seal, her back end would squirrel around as though we were on gravel. Sledge predicted I wouldn’t make it home on the tire and I reluctantly agreed. It didn't help that Verity’s rear tire was only about 500 miles better off. 

By mid-afternoon and in a downpour we finally rolled into Fort Nelson, the first real town we’d seen since Whitehorse. Five miles outside the city limits the heavens opened and every idiot behind the wheel of a car slowed down enough to ensure we got as wet as possible. We finally pulled over at the local Boston Pizza restaurant and got a bite to eat while we waited for the squall to move through, which it did, leaving acres of sunshine in its wake. 

I wish there was more to write about Fort St. John, but there’s not much to tell. It’s the hopping off point for every frikkin’ fracker in a 500 mile radius, which only means accommodations are twice the price they should be and the food is crappy. And that’s about it. But after a couple of epic days riding we’d finally reached the first vestiges of civilization and we celebrated by putting a serious dent in a bottle of Woodford’s. Jim Beam can kiss my patootie. 

A Soak in the Woods

We had just finished a 500 mile ride out of Haines Junction that included a quick stop in Whitehorse for breakfast and for Sledge to buy a new pair of boots. Back on the AlCan we blew by the turn to the Stewart-Cassier highway and carried out on along highway 97. As soon as we crossed into British Columbia it felt like we were on a long downhill run. The densely forested landscape widened and opened up ahead of us. The highway’s broad verge was a drive-by zoo of the local fauna. We saw several buffalo, one of whom sat at the side of road watching us go by. He had leaned his huge head on his front leg like a barfly waiting for his next round of beer. Lots of  black bears, mostly juveniles, poked their noses out of the woods in search of berries, plus for the first time we saw a couple of elk. It had been a long, but satisfying day of riding. The scenery had changed constantly and we had a much better appreciation for the vast, mostly uninhabited area that is northern British Columbia. 

In the late afternoon’s light we stopped by a bend in the Liard River and were presented with a wonderful view of what life was like on the other side of the trees that had lined the road all day. By then we were more than ready to pitch camp and make our way to the world famous Liard Hot Springs for a good soak. It was now late enough in the season that even after a leisurely dinner we were still able to snag an official BC campsite - albeit one of the very last available. 

“Have you seen a bear? We’re looking for one,” inquired the young ranger in the driver’s seat of a Clubman golf cart. “No,” we replied. “Well, we think we know which one he is. He’s been hanging out for a while now, looking for food. If you see him, just make a bunch of noise and he’ll most likely back off. Just let us know.” At that moment I finally understood how Bill Bryson felt about meeting bears in the woods: “My particular dread--the vivid possibility that left me staring at tree shadows on the bedroom ceiling night after night--was having to lie in a small tent, alone in an inky wilderness, listening to a foraging bear outside and wondering what its intentions were… What on earth would I do if four bears came into my camp? Why, I would die, of course. Literally shit myself lifeless. I would blow my sphincter out my backside like one of those unrolling paper streamers you get at children's parties...and bleed to a messy death in my sleeping bag.” ― Bill Bryson, A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail 

Liard Hot Springs is one of those monuments to all things positive about governments and society. Here is a well cared for public good that in a private setting would cost hundreds of dollars to enjoy. Located as it is in a remote part of the backwoods, it was neither overcrowded nor dirty. There is a long boardwalk over a swamp that leads out to a small amphitheater built up on one side of the springs. The slightly sulfurous waters ranged from really very hot at the point it enters the long wading pool, to pleasantly cool once it passes over the weir and joins a natural stream. Relaxing in the mineral rich waters I felt like one of those Japanese monkeys and life was really pretty good at that moment. As I floated on my back looking up at the dwindling light, I imagined that this kind of bathing was a worthy form of exercise. Which it is. 

One Tok Over the Line

Free camping sometimes comes at a price. In Alaska that price is your donation in blood to the local mosquitoes. By this time we were pretty sanguine about the whole bug thing and skilled enough at decamping that we kept most of our sanity. The only local gas was in Glenallen, about 20 miles south. There we refueled and recaffeinated and doubled back towards Tok (pronounced toke). The Tok Cutoff Highway runs alongside the Copper River in the shadow of the Wrangell mountain range. It sounds cliché, but each valley we rode through brought something different for us to admire. The Wrangells are big, hairy mountains with lots of glaciers and pointy bits that make them spectacular. Lying in the Wrangell-St. Elias National Park, the largest in the US, these tall mountains are situated in the armpit of Alaska where the weather beats up the land year round. 

Our barman from the night before had warned us about the road to Tok. Years of rebuilding after a major earthquake rolled through the region had meant serious traffic delays. But not to worry, it’s in pretty good shape now. Once again we were glad to be on bikes as the rough road would have had us bottoming out a car's suspension. The rolling ground reminded me of the times my mother would set the dining room table for company. She’d flip a long, linen tablecloth and it would ripple across the hard wooden surface before it settled smoothly into place. Along this road, though, the ground never settled back down and we rode the standing waves like surfers. 

Tok is the first and last town on the US side of the border and we had camped for a night when we arrived. The highlight of our stay at the Sourdough Campground was real reindeer sausage and sourdough pancakes. On our return leg, we paused in town only for a quick lunch and more gas. As we ate, we debated briefly if we should head across to Dawson on the Top of the World Highway. All the riders we'd met who had done it recommended the detour, even the Harley and Goldwing owners. Eventually, we decided it would take too much time, besides which we needed to keep some things in reserve for our next visit. We then pointed our bikes east and retraced our steps towards Canada. As soon as we crossed the border two moose, a doe and her calf, wandered across the highway giving us a nice photo op. The grey weather closed in for most of the rest of the ride to Haines Junction where we pulled in for the night. That made it about 430 miles for the day. Our bodies had finally adjusted to the long distances. 

"I'm done with this..."

Denali National Park’s headquarters was crawling with tourists fresh off the boats. Given that we now had a rendezvous in a few days, we decided that we’d done justice to the giant bronze moose in the museum and headed south and east along the Denali Highway. It was as well we did, for as a road this ribbon of dust and rocks gave us the finest views of Mount McKinley we could have wished for. Opened in 1957 the highway stretches for 135 miles between Cantwell and Paxson and for us was how we were going to shave off a day’s riding. According to Wikipedia, the highway is poorly maintained and closed from October to mid-May each year. The recommended speed limit is 30 mph. But that’s for four wheeled, caged drivers with no ground clearance. If you have the right motorcycle you can knock it out in about three hours of glorious dirt track riding alongside some of the most stunning scenery Alaska has to offer. The long wide valley stretched out under the snow covered peaks of the Alaska Range, the highest in the world after the Himalayas and the Andes. Thankfully there were few cars in the dry conditions and I let Sledge ride ahead so I could avoid his dust. The late afternoon light finally warmed up as we turned due south through rolling fields of grass covering rounded hills. The last five miles of the highway are paved and I was confident that we’d find gas at the end of what must be a major traffic artery. We arrived in the gathering darkness to an abandoned lodge and some busted up gas pumps. All that was needed was a dust devil, a rolling tumbleweed and a harmonica’s wail to complete the scene. Perhaps a rattlesnake sound effect to fully tie things off. Thanks to the wizards of Wall Street the complexion of Alaska’s tourism industry has changed greatly in the past five years. Hotels, gas stations and lodges all closed thanks to a combination of the recession, sky high gas prices and the growth of drive-by tourism fostered by the cruising industry.

There was nothing for it but to head south towards more civilization. Route 4 was our only option, but at least it was twisty, well paved and pretty. The road traces a high bluff alongside the Gulkana river giving us a great view of the valley. At the junction with Route 1 we turned left towards the Gakona Lodge and Trading Post. There we sidled up to the barman and inquired if there was accommodation available or space to pitch a tent. We could have a room for about $100, or camp for free out by the old barn. Free sounded like the right price and we ordered a round of beers before we changed for dinner. 

As we made smalltalk our host mentioned he had a motorcycle for sale; that a guy about my age had pulled his bike up to the lodge a couple of weeks ago, walked into the bar and announced, “I’m done with this shit!” He proceeded to write down his name and address on a card, hand over his keys and said, “If anyone wants to buy my bike, that’s the number to call. I’ll make them a great deal!” And then he left. A little while later Sledge and I walked outside and looked over the bright yellow Suzuki V-Strom 650 standing in the long grass. We briefly considered how we’d get it home and finally decided the costs of flying up and riding back in a year’s time would be more than the bike was worth, even if we got it for free. With that we were left wondering just what the hell happened to its owner...

Andy, Sven's Hostel and Into the Wild

When we first met Andy on the road heading north I assumed that with her big white Ford F-350 and air of self-confidence she was an oil company executive on a mission. Perhaps there had been an case of sexual harassment out at the rig and she, as VP for HR, was going to sort things out. Had that been the case I would not have wanted to be at the wrong end of the issue. But it turned out Andy is a peripatetic adventurer criss-crossing the continent in a yellow Mini Cooper (the pickup was only a rental). This week it was Alaska and her goal the furthest point north she could get. Why was she constantly on the move? Why the hell not? Life’s too short! Over breakfast with her in Deadhorse, Andy suggested we try out a hostel she’d found in Fairbanks and we said, Sure! Sounds fun! We agreed to meet there the following day. 

Sven’s Basecamp Hostel is run by Sven. Sven who escaped from Switzerland many years before and wound up managing a tidy set of cabins and standing tents for all kinds of vagabonds. The campers were a cross-section of Alaska’s tourism industry. A set of students and their professors turned up on their way to the Brooks Range for some research. There were several German couples on long-distance expeditions across North America. A group of motorcyclists that came and went en masse. They looked like a tour group. They were far too clean and still carrying stress hangovers that indicated they hadn’t ridden up the AlCan, but instead flown into Anchorage a couple of days earlier. We felt smug and manly with our filthy motorcycles and their lower 48 license plates. The bikes were so dirty that we spent over $20 each at the local spray and wash trying to get the crap off of them. The worst part was soaking off the calcium chloride that’s used to seal the Dalton Highway’s muddy surface. Any time it rains the calcium kicks up in blotchy welts that dries instantly on any hot surface. The exhaust pipes got the worst of it and in the end it took me two days of deconstruction, soaking and gentle washing to get them clean again. 

Later that afternoon Andy gave us a quick tour of her Mini with its expensive Italian tenthouse suite. It was pretty cool and for a traveler on a budget a great way to comfortably avoid hotels. Slowly the small contingent of 20-something itinerants swelled and I began feeling my age and more than a little wistful. After dinner a couple of them played quietly on their guitars for a bit as the last sliver of moon rose over the late purples and oranges of twilight. Out in the back forty a bonfire was lit and we passed the Jim Beam around until it was gone and the wood had burned down to embers. 

The next morning woke us clear and cold with a heavy dew. After breakfast we headed south along the high ridge that runs out of Fairbanks towards Denali. Low clouds clung to the wet road for the first hour or so. The only interruption came as Sledge pulled off to look for the plug end of my tool tube. A tool tube is a homemade tool holder comprising a 4-6” diameter PVC pipe cut to length and hung, somehow, from the bike’s frame. Every design I found recommended a retaining wire for the compression plug that seals it shut. My implementation came up just short enough for us to have to bugger about in the weeds for 10 minutes looking for the lost cap. Which, thankfully, Sledge found. 

Just north of Denali National Park is the turn off for the Stampede Trail where Christopher McCandless famously walked into the wild. Well, kind of. Chris wandered 20 miles up the trail in early spring until he found an old Fairbanks City bus (63°52'05.9"N 149°46'08.4"W) that he made home. He then promptly spent the next three months starving to death. Jon Krakauer, of ‘Into Thin Air’ fame, spins a good yarn and became fascinated with how McCandless met his maker in this bit of wilderness at such a young age. Krakauer’s book ‘Into the Wild’ made McCandless famous and a film by Sean Penn made him a household name. Today pilgrims from all over the world wander up the trail searching for the Magic Bus, some pausing to drown in the Teklanika River along the way. Which I guess is the kind of sacrifice pilgrims are expected to make. You can avoid all that silliness by heading a little further down to the road to the 49th State Brewing Company in Healy. There you’ll find the replica bus that was used in the movie. Inside, the cab is lined with a depressing series of McCandless’ self portraits that show him wasting away to his pointless demise. It was a great film, though. 

We were riding, not drinking. So after a few selfies we hopped back on our bikes hoping enjoy all the splendors Denali had to offer. Did I mention it was now warm and sunny and a really good day to be alive?

Fairbanks - Out and Back

We bookended our trip up the Dalton Highway between stops in Fairbanks. On our way up we decided to take a breather and see what could be done with my bouncing front tire and what the city might have in the way of decent beer. For the first problem we stopped by Adventure Cycleworks, as recommended by the ADVrider website. Up a winding unpaved suburban street and around a few potholes we found Dan, the garage’s affable owner. With his long hair, beard and wireframe spectacles Dan looks every inch the biker. As he set to working and chatting it soon became clear that his shop was the first and last outpost for dozens of motorcycle adventurers heading up to Prudhoe Bay. He’s seen them all, from over-equipped middle aged guys out on their ‘find themselves’ tour to boy racers ready to smear their bikes into a rogue moose at high speed. Watching Dan work was a pleasure. As a skilled technician his is clearly a labor of love. All his most commonly used tools were within arms reach. Without a wasted movement he had my front tire off its rim and the replacement seated and balanced in 30 minutes. While he worked, he gave us some history of the area, the Alaska pipeline, and what to watch out for on the road north. “Ground squirrels. Little bastards will knock you right off your bike if you’re not careful. You can’t miss ‘em, they stand by the side of the road and won’t move. Just straight leg them out of the way.” It’s not an easy thing to admit, but I almost looked forward to a little squirrel polo. 

Finding decent beer proved no hardship, either. The Midnight Mine was appropriately dark and smokey, but served a variety of local brews and free burgers. Fairbanks looks a little down at heels in the summer, like someone took off it’s shirt only to reveal a bad case of impetigo. We were happy to be leaving in the morning. 

The round trip from Fairbanks to Prudhoe Bay is roughly 1,000 miles. That figure is a little mind-boggling written down, if only because the distance looks so small on the map. Such is Alaska. My new tire scrubbed in on the first 100 miles of the trip and things seemed to be going fine until just outside Coldfoot when Sledge pulled over to adjust his chain. Together we looked it over and checked the tension and all seemed to be in its proper place. Then Sledge had to do the same thing again near Deadhorse when the chain worked itself loose for the second time. Finally, on the north side of the Atigun Pass Sledge lost his patience with the slapping chain completely. In short he order adjusted the tension, test rode Verity around the lay-by, dumped her, picked her up, kicked her, then readjusted the chain a second time. Watching other people behave the way that I would in their situation is, for me, the essence of comedy. It was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud. Given Sledge’s dark mood, not to mention his sheer size, I contained myself and even resisted the urge to video the whole scene. 

Back in Fairbanks after just four days we returned to Dan’s garage and Sledge explained the problem. “Want a new chain?“, Dan asked. “Should get some sprockets, too.” “If that will fix it, absolutely!”, Sledge replied with quiet determination. An hour later Verity had become in Sledge’s words “a new bike.” With that the clouds parted and cleared the way for blue skies and open roads.