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.