Harleys, Gold Wings and Bitches

Dease Lake is, we were told by a friendly waitress in Smithers, the biggest place on the Stewart-Cassiar highway and worth stopping at. She was right, it is the biggest place for miles around, but that’s not to say that two stores, a gas station and a hotel makes home for many people. From my calculations there were more moose turds than living souls, but perhaps we weren’t looking hard enough. As we signed into the hotel a couple of Harley riders chatted with us about their adventure to Alaska. They said it rained the entire time and that road conditions were pretty miserable. Superciliously we gave their baggers the once over and immediately understood why they hadn’t had any fun. A big heavy cruiser is simply the wrong tool for the job out here. One of the men pointed to Verity and Lily and said, Those your bikes? You guys won’t have any trouble with them. I reconsidered my earlier criticism and decided that perhaps their state of dejection was related more to their having to head home to their wives and work than their choice of motorcycle.

Whitehorse is about 400 miles northwest of Dease Lake, but the road, we were assured by our server at breakfast, ‘is really crappy.’ So bad he’d bent a wheel rim as his car crashed into a pothole in the middle of the road. And they’re doing all kinds of roadworks up north of here, I'd never attempt the same drive on a motorcycle, he assured us. Our conversation had a whiff of grockle-baiting about it. There is no shortage of tourists on motorbikes passing through town at this time of year all asking the same questions, so why not tease them a little? 

Despite a cool, foggy start, the day quickly became glorious. The landscape flattened out onto a high, wet plain. Water ran everywhere as evidenced by the undulating road criss-crossed by culverts and flanked by drainage ditches. Copses of birch, like those in Siberia, were interwoven with the conifers. A forest fire had blown through at some point in the past few years, leaving eerie toothbrush strands of tree trunks in its wake. While not quite whoops, those big dips riders enjoy so much, the bumps in the road livened things up. Where caravans and cars had to slow down, we were at once sailing over the cracks and soaking up the rough ground without issue and made good time. 

At Junction 37 we refueled and turned left onto the ALCAN. Pausing a couple of hours later for soup at the Yukon Motel & Restaurant in Teslin, we were seated next to two men, one in his 30s the other in his 70s. Both had just returned from a 10 day kayaking trip on the Yukon River. The old man with his bright eyes and impressive white beard was as gregarious as his partner was taciturn. He recounted tales from his life as an adventurer, gold panner, traveler and entrepreneur. With his wife, he told us, he rode for three years across the country on a six cylinder Honda Gold Wing, towing all their worldly goods in a small trailer. No spring chickens, they one day pulled into a gas station where a gang of Harley riders was busy filling up. Trying to negotiate the gravel he felt his left knee lock up which meant he wasn’t going to be able to deploy the kickstand in time and would drop the bike as soon as it stopped at the pump. Through their intercom his wife said, Don't worry dear, I have this! Anticipating disaster, the bikers watched the scene unfold in silence. As the old man brought the big bike to a standstill his wife leaned forward and pushed the kickstand out just in time. Impressed, one of the bikers turned to his buddy and said, Man! I wish my bitch could do that! His wife roared with laughter! And we had our first belly laugh of the trip.