Tok, Alaska, is the first settlement you encounter once you reenter America after crossing the northern border of the Yukon. We toasted the end of our successful journey up the Alaska Highway with Lattes and Haagen-Dazs in the shadow of a great grizzly bear frozen in an immutable growl. The adventure had quieted a dream for all of us.
The highlight had been our stopover at Laird River Hot Springs Provincial Park in British Columbia. This extraordinary natural hot tub (about as big as an Olympic-size pool) can soothe the pants off the weariest road warrior. And unlike many other mineral springs within park boundaries this place hasn't had its character castrated in the name of improvement. A long wooden boardwalk delivers you across otherwise impassable wetlands to the sub-arctic oasis nature disguised as a rainforest. The main pool has a hot end and a scalding end with temperatures ranging from 108- to 128-degrees. Thoughtfully situated wooden benches beneath the water allow for serious soaking.
Although it had rained during much of our journey and low clouds often obscured the glacial peaks, we found the scenery had more than satisfied our senses. The colors and textures here were different than any place we'd ever traveled. Rich green spruce trees thrive among the olive green poplars, which look exactly like the pines you find in a hobby store. The mountains were varying densities of smoky blue as they faded into the distant skyline. Water is abundant here, and the lakes hold minerals shed by the melting glaciers that cause them to reflect brilliant aquamarine. To further brighten the mix, magenta Fireweed lined the highway from beginning to end.
In addition to the motorhomes, we shared the highway with an abundance of motorcycles (there were more motorcycles than passenger cars). The riders we met were on all types of bikes but none were about show. Function outweighs fashion on the Alaska Highway. The conversations we had beside the great road always involved three main points: your point of departure, destination and how much time you had left to live by the map. We met riders from as close as Seattle and as far as Stuttgart, and all were invigorated by their quest.
We left the Alaska Highway at Tok and turned west on the Glenn Highway toward Anchorage where Evans' wife Karin and photographer Groover had flown in to meet us. The road doesn't officially end until you reach Delta Junction, 108 miles north, but we would sneak this section in on the ride home. It would feel good to tell our story, but the three of us knew that what we'd come to understand about the distance could never be fully conveyed.
The Alaska Highway is a very long two-lane back road that skirts modern reality. It's perhaps the only way to absolutely experience what it must have been like to set out 60 years ago when our mainland routes were lonely, meandering affairs. In comparison, our precious Route 66 is nostalgic nothingness -- an idealized frontage road cowering beside a major interstate.
The Alaska Highway is the real thing. It's that bit of uncertainty and pinch of grit which season the most memorable adventures.
Jamie Elvidge gets email at Jamie.Elvidge@primedia.com
DALTON HIGHWAY: A RIDE TO THE ARCTIC OCEAN
At about 9:00 p.m., as we rolled into Prudhoe Bay, the northernmost point on the continent accessible by road, I tried to muster up the energy to care. Twenty miles outside of town, fog rolled in, and the temperature dropped to single digits once the wind chill was factored.
We'd just ridden 480 miles in two days over some of the roughest gravel roads I'd ever encountered. To make matters worse, the gravel in town was deep and soft, threatening to trip us up within what would been sight of our hotel if not for the fog.
Two months earlier at the Honda Hoot, Mansoor Shafi, owner of Roadgear, infected me with his enthusiasm to ride to the Arctic Ocean. Never mind that we would have to take a van ride across the oil fields for the last couple miles. Our goals were twofold: We wanted to ride north until we ran out of continent, and we wanted to see the sun dip below the northern horizon for a mere 23 minutes. (For more than 70 days each summer, the sun doesn't set in Prudhoe Bay.)
For weeks, friends and coworkers -- even my wife (who made me promise to come back alive) -- kept asking me why I wanted to attempt such a trip. Riding a cruising tourer on roads known for their roughness certainly wouldn't be much fun. I had no real response to their queries except saying that I didn't want to get as far north as Fairbanks without seeing the Arctic Ocean.
The 414-mile Dalton Highway, originally called the North Slope Haul Road and since shortened to the Haul Road by the locals, was built in a mere five months in 1974 to facilitate construction of the Alaska Pipeline. At its peak usage, more than 350 trucks traveled the road daily, carrying everything from food to the fuel. Now, according to a retired trucker we encountered, the traffic has dwindled to about 50 big rigs per day. Traveling north from Livengood to Prudhoe Bay, the Haul Road passes through four distinct Arctic Zones. From Fairbanks to Coldfoot, the stunted spruce trees characterize the boreal forest. The Brooks Range rises up as the highway climbs to the 4800-foot Atigun Pass, Alaska's highest. The North Slope carries the road beyond the tree line to the endless views across the tundra.
Finally, the Arctic Coastal Plain flattens out and conspires with the flattening of the Earth's curvature to give the broadest vistas possible on the planet.
Sounds pretty nice, huh? Well, the Dalton offers minimal services and no medical facilities.
Is your fuel range less than 244 miles? Better carry extra gas from Coldfoot to Prudhoe Bay.
Have an accident? Towing will likely cost more than five dollars a mile from where the driver pulled out of the garage. And don't even think about getting hurt.
The midway point of the trip, Coldfoot, bills itself as the world's northernmost truck stop, and for much of the time since 1974, its business was primarily truckers. The cafe was constructed from the crates used to carry the Pipeline's insulation. Now, travelers fill the Slate Creek Inn or park their RVs in the campground. Tent campers can stay free of change, so at the end of the first day of our journey, Mansoor and I flopped down between two abandoned machines left over from building the highway. The cafe's food is tasty, which is good since it's the only option for miles.
On the second day, on the northern edge of the Brooks Range, about 2.5 hours outside of Prudhoe Bay, I took a run along a ridgetop access road for the pipeline while Mansoor slept next to his motorcycle. The air was crisp, in the mid-60s. The view across the tundra was unsullied by little except the snaking pipeline and the Haul Road. As a young buck caribou mirrored my path about 50 feet away from me for about half a mile, I decided that the Dalton's difficulty and dangers were overrated. The rest of the trip would be a breeze.
Thirty minutes later, cresting a hill at about 55 mph, I saw a full-grown buck caribou trotting up the road in the oncoming lane. As I applied my brakes, he tried to run off my side of the road. With the Electra Glide slewing in the gravel, I swerved towards the side of the road. Thankfully, the caribou realized he wasn't going to make it off the road and turned away, allowing me to pass him close enough to touch him. Not that I had time, since my trajectory sent me plummeting down the ten-foot embankment.
Visions of broken bones flashed through my mind as I wrestled the Harley to a stop. If the embankment had been loose gravel instead of hardpack, this story would have a markedly different ending. I put my head down on the tank, closed my eyes, and was left with a distinct memory of the hairs on the inside of the caribou's ear.
The caribou incident and a dicey, 20-mile section of soft gravel took their toll. When we arrived at Prudhoe Bay Hotel, I was toast. Since the fog blocked the sunset, I ate dinner and went to bed.
Prudhoe Bay is little more than a supply depot for the oil field, offering little of interest to tourists. So the next morning, Mansoor and I took the van tour of the Arctic Ocean before starting back towards civilization. The ride back was beautiful and uneventful. For some novelty, we camped in a campground right on the Arctic Circle.
Would I attempt this ride again? Definitely. Would I recommend it to others? For brave souls who thrive on doing things most people find illogical, this is a must-do trip. For others, the scenery alone is worth the hardship. You might even get to see the hairs inside a caribou's ear.
Maybe the Haul Road ride was too much for Evans Brasfield, since he has since left the plush life or a Motorcycle Cruiser staff editor to be a freelancer (and a father). He can be found online through his web site.
HOW TO RIDE THE NORTH COUNTRY
The journey to Alaska is the only destination left in America guaranteed to thrill your thermal pants off. All it takes is time, money and ambition -- although not excessive amounts of any. It's a perfectly doable dream that delivers enormous satisfaction.
We rode from Washington State to Anchorage in five days, putting in 350 to 400 miles per day. While it's physically possible to explore almost every mile of Alaska's ridable road surface in five energetic days, it really deserves at least a full week. Plus, you have so much daylight during the summer you can easily pull longer-than-average days.
We chose to ride the Alaska Highway both ways, but you can board a ferry with your bike at one of Alaska's many ports and easily shave three riding days off your return trip. It'll be an expensive day-and-a-half though. You'll pay a tariff for the bike -- which is upward of $200 if you depart from points near Anchorage -- plus your own admission, which is only slightly less. If you want a soft bed onboard you'll pay from $200 to $600, or you can pitch a tent on the windy deck of the ship for free. Food and beverage service is not available on all vessels, so be sure to check beforehand. For ferry schedules and information, call (800) 642-0066 or visit the Alaska State site.