Teaming Up

Today or yesterday was the start of my second week, depending on whether you count the initial Friday.  It feels like longer than that, I guess because most of the days were so damn long, and the last couple have really felt just So. Far. From. Home.  I'm doing OK, I think - I'm managing my aches, the last 2-3 days have been spending less time on the road in less of a hurry, and it hasn't rained in two days.  So far, so good.

I did my hotel check-in via text from Whitehorse yesterday afternoon, got my door code, and headed for Carmacks.  There, I had a cabin, less expensive than a room in the hotel but still with a full bathroom and a heater that probably worked at some point in the past.  Whatever.  I ran into a couple guys messing with their bikes outside the hotel building, and they pointed the dining room out to me and said they'd be there in a bit.  When I popped in like a half hour later, they were already chowing down at the bar.  What I noticed next was another guy, at a bar in the middle of nowhere a thousand miles from the United States, wearing a Dallas Cowboys hat and looking at me 3 feet away in an Eagles hat. 

That went fine, but I was much more interested in the stories from Wayne and Steve about their travels in Asia, and to Ushuaia, the southernmost point in South America.  We came to the realization that our itineraries were the same for the next 3 days, and suddenly I had riding partners.  This was getting awesome.

We left early, and had an easy day and a great lunch at an old roadhouse on the Klondike Trail on our way to our next overnight stop here in Dawson City, which I have really been looking forward to as one of the highlights of the trip.  It also gives me a well-deserved day off since I managed to keep on schedule to this point and don't need a re-synch day.  I have another one scheduled for Fairbanks when I get back from Deadhorse on the Arctic Ocean.  

Dawson City was the capital of Yukon Territory in the gold rush days, but is still a tiny town that you can walk from one end to another in a few minutes.  It still has dirt streets and wooden sidewalks, and the first casino in Canada that looks pretty much like it did in the 1850's.  I'm going to get unloaded and head over to their bunkhouse while they make a beer run.  Life is good!

Cold Gas

If you've been on a long road trip, you are familiar with the phenomenon of leapfrogging other travelers along the way. You stop for gas or a bite, and then start remembering vehicles with unique bumper stickers, or passengers, or cargo as you pass them again. Here on the Alaska Highway, *everybody* you pass is the same people, because there's only one road and very few travelers. Early on today, I passed an oversized load hauling pipeline looking stuff that had to be headed for Alaska and the oilfields. As I was stopped for a scenery pic some time later, they came chugging by, putting me behind them once again. Not much later, I resumed the lead as they checked their load in a pull-off and I breezed effortlessly by.  This repeated itself a few more times, and at these primitive fuel and supply stops I came to notice a different pheomenon:  The handles to the gas pumps are COLD!  There's no permafrost here, and in most if not all tanks are stanchioned above ground, but July is definitely different around here and that liquid gold apparently never gets warm.

Finally, I got to the lodge where I was to spend the night.  I got my keys, went around back to unload and settle in, and when I headed back around to the restaurant, I found the the pipeline transport crew had pulled in to call it a day as well.

As with most overnights up here, there were a bunch of motorcyclists stopped for the night. There was a 75-year-old lady that reminded me of my mom, but with a her own bike and a sidecar, and another dozen or so riders of all kinds from all places. The two guys I sat near at the end of a long dining table had left the Eastern US like 4 days ago by basically throwing some stuff on their bikes, fueling up, and heading for Palmer, Alaska to watch them launch cars off a cliff on the 4th of July. There are videos of this on YouTube where they basically brick the gas pedals, reach in, and drop 'em in gear with a yee-haw.  All the people at the bottom cheer, yell, spill their beers and shoot the phone videos for us.  But the 4th of July was yesterday, and they still weren't even near Alaska yet. I don't think they ever had a chance.

The story of how these guys spent their previous night is fantastic: Hopelessly low on fuel at 2 am, still light enough to see, surrounded by natives in a village somewhere unknown.  One of them offered to deliver them gas, all of them delivered a serious sense of uncertainty about their immediate future.  The older guy simply didn't have anymore and slumped into a handlebar nap. The gung ho guy almost certainly was a jarhead, and I mean that in the nicest way, but he was broad shouldered, fearless and seemed to have permanently adopted the high and tight haircut. He had been everywhere on that Kawasaki.  He gave absolutely zero fucks. 

His exhausted buddy had decided to tag along on a brand new $50,000 CVO Harley, which was now absolutely covered in crud and likely pitted to oblivion.  He was still notably less enthused at this stage, but happy to have a cold beer and be within steps of a bed.

The next day's ride was an uneventful one to Carmacks, YT, a one horse town in the Yukon where everything you buy comes from the same place, and that's where the rustic hotel is.  As I was getting ready to pull out that morning for the day's adventure, I met a guy and his son doing the same, and the quick conversation with them really warmed my heart.  So cool.

There are only the three land crossings from the Alaska Highway in Canada southwest into the Alaskan Panhandle, and they all lead only to the ocean.  Two other roads hop the 141st Meridian that makes up the main vertical border between the countries.  The Alaska Highway is one.  The Klondike Highway is the more northern, and on that route, the adventurer has the option to take an even more primitive road, the Dempster Highway, to the Arctic Ocean in Canada's Northwest Territory.  I'm taking the Klondike where it branches off just west of Whitehorse, the capital and only proper city in the Yukon, but I'm skipping the Dempster, and will be returned to the Alaska Highway a day or two further west.  I stopped in Whitehorse for some scenic pictures along the Yukon river, and then, warned by overhead message boards, "inquired locally" as to the current situation with the wildfires along the Klondike Highway. The park employee looked at me like I had three heads. I took that as a non-issue and decided to fuel up and roll with it.  For some reason, I did not fill the aux fuel bladder.

60 North

Packed, locked, and loaded, energized by optimism and inspiration, I geared up, tugged my zippers tight against the chill, and set out further into the great unknown, northwest on the Alaska Highway toward the Yukon.

Yesterday, and certainly today, I have really been awash in the reality that I am completely alone and headed further away from civilization by the hour.  It's a strange feeling.  As much time as I've spent out on the road, it's usually been with others, and almost always with Donna.  We've certainly been out in the vastness of nowhere, but I've always felt even heading out of civilization, kind of headed *into* some other civilization somewhere down the road and with someone beside me.  Also, the worst day I ever had on the road was when I was out west on my own, and that stuck with me.  From Dawson Creek, with few exceptions, the only settlements that exist are left over from the camps that served as bases during the construction of the Alaska Highway, and a few that scratched out survival along remote riverbanks.  This is it, man.

Leaving Dawson Creek yesterday, it was a quick ride to Fort St. John, a decent -sized city with an actual street grid and thousands of inhabitants where I had met the guy from Scranton.  From there, cell service is nonexistent and the few dots on the map are nothing more than general stores with an RV campground. The next civilization was 250 miles north in Fort Nelson, a town of 3,500 with a McDonalds, a couple fairly modern hotels, and most services. This McD's is where I thought I'd left my phone prior to setting up camp an hour and a half later.  

This morning, decamped and north(west) bound, I find myself in a rugged, remote, and beautiful landscape, picking my way through the Rockies.

  Critters large and small are everywhere.  As the Alaska Highway arrives at the 60th parallel and southern border of the Yukon Territory, it turns westward and weaves back and forth across the provincial border for a few hundred miles, headed for Alaska.  Along this stretch is Watson Lake, a town of 1,500 and the only one I will see until I get to the Yukon River and Whitehorse

Watson Lake, Yukon was one of those work camps.  It is now famous for its Signpost Forest -- thousands and thousands of them hung from posts, trees, outhouses, and everything else that will hold a screw. This scene was started by an enlisted man with the Army Corps of Engineers detachment, who hung a handmade sign showing the distance and direction to his hometown.  It has expanded to literally acres, and is an impressive sight to see. I was prepared for my visit, and bestowed Coopersburg, PA with its own representation there among the rest of the world.

I'm gaining an hour every other day or so, which I am grateful for as I saddle up, still 3 hours from my destination for the day.  En route, I would be haunted by a little fuel concern, when the first of the two dots on the map between the places I was coming from and going to was shuttered and overgrown. The GPS, set in countdown mode with the 200 mi range I tested to failure before I left, said I was going to be a couple miles short with the fuel I have. The bike, with actual consumption data, predicted I would eke it out by 16 km.  That second dot better have gas.  

Before reaching that second dot, however, I found a welcome surprise at the top of the continental divide in the form of the Continental Divide Trading Post. It had a gas pump in front, which made me happy and took all the question out of it. There was a guy there on a Triumph who asked me a question that I would hear over and over again for the next week or two: "Coming, or going?"

Going. 

First Taste of Camping

Today, I reached the Rockies in northern British Columbia as the weather was easing up. Once arriving at the mountains, which happens fairly quickly, it's a quick ride up into the sky. I had a minor panic when I reached the campground - in bright sunshine! - and stood at the pay station filling out my form, which asks for my license number. I'm used to this drill by now, and have a photo of it on my camera roll, and that's when I reached for my phone and it wasn't there. 

INSTANT PANIC! Klinger, you hopeless idiot. Why do you even try to leave the house?  I can't be trusted with a roll of LifeSavers and here I am trying to cross the entire continent without supervision.  I was in a total panic and at the same time furious with myself.

I went through all seven stages of grief walking back to the bike, knowing it was not going to be there, and wondering if it was still at the McDonald's way back there at the bottom of the hill in Fort Nelson, and if so, did someone turn it in or just take it? Or is it not there at all and never to be seen again? What do I do next?  How can I save this trip?  Should I even try?

I got back to the bike, and looked through everything just to say I did it, when I saw the charging cable leading into the tank bag that had not been there at any time during this trip,  

Instant relief! 

I had forgotten that, knowing I would be camping tonight with no power, I stopped an hour before to plug in the phone and give it a full charge. With that panic behind me, and the fresh half pint of whiskey that I had bought earlier in the day, I began to set up camp in the most beautiful place you could imagine. I said to myself, more than once on this trip, "this is the coolest thing I've ever done." And it was.

Sunrise comes early.  With everything remotely related to food in a bear locker 70 yards away, coffee involved getting fully dressed and a bit of a walk.  The chill and constant wind gave me the perfect excuse to make use of the vestibule of the tent to enjoy my hot cup and breakfast bar, and also made tearing down and packing up a bit of a chore.  But the view, and bright sunshine, and crisp temperatures made it enjoyable and filled me with energy. Light the fires, lift the kickstand, and continue on for a reservation on the Klondike Highway.

Alaska Highway

I knew I was way behind on this, for reasons many and varied, but looking back how far I've come since the time of this post, it's like a whole different world. 

Rewinding to this day, I have two memories from my ride across Alberta to Dawson Creek, British Columbia where the Alaska Highway begins. As the roads get worse, and traffic gets thinner, there are still a lot more vehicles on the road than I had expected due to the fact that there are just so few roads, period. Not a lot of traffic, just not none. And also, a lot of industry is happening here.

I remember how someone in a Porsche watching me navigate the beltways of Chicago on an overgrown dirt bike, dressed up like an alien with 2 gallons of water strapped to my bike and gear crammed everywhere, would have said to his wife, "hey Karen, get a load of this guy." Whistling across Alberta, I looked not at all out of place, with a more working purpose mentality prevailing, and many vehicles wearing that dust and dirt patina, my own included.

The next morning, I picked up a pint of whiskey, and headed off in the rain up the Alaska Highway.  The directions I was given by the desk clerk for the liquor store included the phrase, "down a few traffic lights, right after the pot store."  I suppose for Canadians, and some Americans, that would not be unusual, but to me it stopped me mid-step for a second.  Funny.

Anyway, off I go onto the Alaska Highway, into the wild unknown, zipped up tight in the cold and rain.  The first, and biggest town I will see for a week is Fort St. John.  There, I rolled up under the canopy of a legit gas station / convenience store, and commenced my routine.  As is often the case when on a bike with a license plate from halfway across the continent, I was engaged in a conversation by a guy who had lived in Scranton, PA.  He was proud of his new home, and excited for me, and by the time I was able to say "uncle," he had gone inside to borrow a pen and was handwriting maps and directions to everything I must not miss for the next 600 miles.  I am sometimes too polite, and I spent a lot longer than I wanted to with him being as it's raining, I have thousands of miles ahead of me, and I have to set up a campsite tonight.  I did appreciate the heads up on that long metal bridge crossing, which was a full pucker situation with the rain and fog.

Throughout the day, I was surprised by the change in the makeup of the traffic. Everything was an oil extraction support truck, a camper, or a bike like mine. This continued until reaching the Rockies, when suddenly the oil industry traffic stopped cold. Now, it's just survivalists and adventurers. Not a Porsche to be found. 

O, Canada

Waking up only a couple hundred meters west of the Saskatchewan / Alberta  border, I had a long haul across Alberta and well into British Columbia on Monday. It confirmed another thing I suspected about Western Canada, knowing it was true for the Western United States. You can pretty much tell what longitude you're at by the geography. 105 degrees west looks like 105 west regardless of how far north or south you are. The American Southwest is a desert and red, and Montana is green, but the features are the same. There are no hoodoos in Alberta that I'm aware of, but again you know where you are. 

This is also big oil country. Edmonton is a huge refining and distribution hub; its towers of steel and glass are built from the liquid gold. Cattle on the top and dinosaurs underneath.

Oh, I got stopped for going 117 in a 60, which has never happened to me before. Even when you convert it down from kilometers, 72 in a 40 sounds like a lot.

The rub is kind of it was 110 km/h freeway, with a car stopped on the shoulder for assistance. The law is in that situation, any flashing light, slow to 60. Well, there were two Mounties, and one of them wasn't there to help at all.

He actually gave me a warning for two reasons, the first being that this limit is different between provinces, and it should be displayed on a sign which I could have missed. Second, The ticket would have been over $800! I was super polite and was a good boy from there on out.

The other rub is that I had just gotten done passing a guy on an adventure bike similar to mine. And he must have gotten a good laugh out of it. Oh look at this guy going like hell. Oh look at this idiot getting pulled over.

The wind at the end of this leg was stiff, and relentless. When it started to rain pretty good, the wind was blowing the slipstream from southbound trucks across the 2-lane highway, leaving me to crash through walls of water. That wasn't the most fun. But, it builds character. 

I was in Max Hydro mode, which with this new setup means all ankles and wrists cinched up tight, full gauntlet gloves, and the neck sock over the collar of the jacket, with the jacket zipped to the pants and all vents zipped shut. I had hit rain since early on, and while the suit is watertight, I have had incursions when not fully hunkered down. The equipment was wet at a pee stop in Indiana, and if you're a long-time reader, you know how much I hate soggy balls.

Even in magic future time as I write this a week later, I have still not been in a hammering rain for any length of time. So, yeah, TBD. I did run smack into this scene in the pic below the day before, and stopped to engage said Max Hydro Mode.  There were lightning bolts blasting out of there and the whole 9 yards. Normally that's a deal breaker for me, but I had places to be and, really, how often do you actually hear about Honda riders being struck by lightning?

Much to my relief, I only clipped a corner of it and it was actually no big deal. Onward.