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.