Friday July 2 Hardin Montana to Rapid City South Dakota
The wind died down during the night and a dewless dry Montana prarie morning meant a quick camp breakdown and fuel up
by 7am. Good windless riding in the morning but heading east means the sun in my face for a while.
I had a choice to make. Safe big I95 south to Wyoming or little winding remote 212 across the Northern Cheyenne
reservation. The thought of 75mph on hot tarmac for the next 250 miles caused me to aim east and take the smaller more
desolate road. This is an extension of 212 south of Billings that the late Charles Kuralt called "the most beautiful
drive in America".
Three villages in the 230 mile shortcut across eastern Montana, Wyoming, and into South Dakota were mostly made up of
small collections of mobile homes, box houses, one pump fuel stations, and maybe a saloon. I'm sure these saloons cater
to the crowd from Sturgis that venture out from the herd each year. The random anti-meth slogans and posters lends creedance
to the stories I have heard about the addictions many First Nation residents suffer and the toll on family and community.
This is heart-breaking as the native people I have met have been helpful, humble, and interested in sharing their story.
These very tough people have gotten the short end of the stick from us immigrants for so long I'm suprised they are interested
in even talking to me.
I had the name of a friend of Dawson Dick that lived in Spearfish and since I was coming right through the heart of that
wonderful little town I decided to stop by unexpectedly and say hello. It was as if they new I was coming. Griz
and his lovely wife Sherry opened the door to their covered porch and brought me in like I've known them all of my life.
Griz and Sherry own and operate a Grizzly Sign and Design Studio, and have both ridden bikes and know the local area
like the back of their hand. Griz asked me if I had ridden the Spearfish Canyon Road. I wasn't sure if I had but
I had criss-crossed the Black Hills on the way up. After looking at the map it was clear that I hadn't. Sherry
said that I had to ride that road. They were very very right. This road winds through the north eastern quadrant
of the Black Hills and although the speed limit is 35mph, you really want to twist the right grip a little more and lean a
little more and smile a little more. It was a good thing for my budget (no tickets) that there were a line of crusier
bikes that had their hands full with the posted limit.
I had intended to be at Powersports motorcycle dealership in time to spoon on a new rear tire before the evening
was done but pulled in fifteen minutes after closing. Keith, the parts manager was closing up and checked
to see if the tire was on the shelf. It was and we agreed to hit it first thing in the morning.
Googling for a campsite I found the Lazy J on top of the mountain over looking Rapid City. Ashley checked
me in and Frank jumped on the humvee golfcart and showed me to a great little tent site.
Supper was at the Colonial House, a well established restaurant where $12 got me a flank steak, salad
with home-made blue cheese dressing, a loaf of home-made cheese sausage bread, and roasted garlic. Take that Canada.
Quite possibly the best meal of the trip short of those from the Atwells, Cannadys, and Pressleys.
Off to bed. Gotta tire up and cover about 500 miles tomorrow.
Night all. Sweet dreams sweetie.
Again the wind was brutal. Fighting the bars and leaning into the wind for three hours is a workout that needs
to be patented. Figure this one out somebody. There's a fortune to be made. "The Ronco dirtbike-in-a-windstorm
body shaper. Call now and receive a free
Thursday July 1 Great Falls MT to Hardin MT
Well it's official. My butt fell off today. Not sure what happened but when I shook out my riding pants it
blew out and skated across the prarie like a plastic grocery bag. I tried a couple of times to step on it but it was
gone in a flash. Just my two hip bones and that little tail thing on the end of my spine. At least the bones have
no feeling. Not sure how long it will take to grow one back.
I took my time at the fifty dollar camp sight. Taking advantage of their pancake breakfast in the Hoe-Down Cabin next
to the Wash Stone Cabin where I did a load of well needed laundry. I wandered over to the Wild West Swimmin' Hole with
slide and streams of water that squirted up from the battlefield that included a fort and water cannon.
RV kids would love this place. Check out is eleven o'clock. I checked out at eleven o'five. Take that!
I gave the bike a good going over before heading up to the river to see the series of falls that gave the town it's name.
Lewis and Clark spent a lot of time here because of the numerous game and to have a base to send scouts out to look for a
good place to cross the mountains. On the way back from the falls, my clutch cable frayed and became stuck in
the cable. I had an extra so a fifteen minute tools-on-the-ground regiment and I was back on the road.
89 south from Great Falls follows the Lewis and Clark path through the Lewis and Clark forest. I bet they were
surprised to see that. What a coincidence!
Long sweeping asphalt through a seven thousand foot pass then a sudden drop to the gorge lay in front of me. After
taking this long way around and knowing this was a short riding day, I decided to see what the little dirt road on the left
had in store. Visiting a topo map showed it cutting off a great portion of the road ahead. About seventy miles
in all, the road was slippery from the small dry round stones that made up the surface. Probably a ball in a rally car
but a handful on a fully loaded bike. Stilll, it was a beautiful ride and put me in shot of Bilings before dark.
Back on the pavement I saw a storm brewing with quite a light show ahead. According to my GPS a small town was
just ahead with the possiblity of some kind of shelter. I was thrilled to see an old drive-in just seconds before the
bottom dropped out. Dry bike under the abandoned shelter and fresh pie on the counter inside. Cell service to
boot!
When the storm passed I met up with a fellow dual sport rider Greg coming from Glacier where he was riding with his friend.
His friend continued up into Canada but Greg had to head back to Nashville to his job as a mortgage officer at Regions Bank.
I was going to camp in Billings but he suggested pushing on to Hardin where he had a reservation at a KOA. I agreed
to meet him there and stopped to look for a quarter inch drive extention to replace the one laying in a dirt parking
lot somwhere in America.
When I got to Hardin, Greg already had his cabin and a pizza I can only guess he picked up on the way. I went down
to the tent city and set up in a windstorm while the lightning played just in the distance.
Greg and I sat on his cabin porch and chowed some beef and jalapeno pizza, swapping riding stories but I needed to log
on and write a little so we bid each other safe riding and I walked back to the tent in the dark. That's when I shook
out my riding pants and my butt blew away. I'm going to miss it.
Good night all. Miss you dearly baby.
))ednesday June 30 Calgary Alberta to Great Falls Montana
Gotta get across the Canadian/American border today. I hear that on Canada Day everything closes and things get
fun. Don't know how much more fun I can take.
Lot's of wind early in the ride. Alberta is like a great big Minnesota. Large farms with larger vistas that
go on forever. The Canadian Rockies are tiny peaks on my right (which happens to be the way I'm leaning all morning)
and grasslands to my left. Interesting fissures in the earth every now and then can probably be attributed to erosion
but I'm not sure.
Just head down riding all morning until I see a sign "Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump national monument. How can one
pass up a chance to see what this is all about.
Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump is the location where Native Americans used to prep for winter by herding buffalo through
cairns to a cliff where they fell into piles to be processed for food and supplies. Ten dollars for entry was well spent.
This sight is on the must see list from UNESCO along with the pyramids, Taj Mahal, and other really cool stuff. The
work that went into developing the sight and ensuring that the info transfered is correct is remarkable.
Cross the border with no issues.
I forget that night actually happens down this low so I find myself rolling into Great Falls well after dark looking
for the Great Falls park and campground. Nice park but no campground. A fellow recommended the local KOA just
down the road so as the time neared ten thirty, I pulled in for a quick spot.
The terribly nice young man at the desk gave me the paper to fill out while he rambled on about the amenities.
The sound of my chin hitting the counter when he told me the fee for a tent site would be fifty dollars woke many in the campground.
No turning back now.
The site was pretty cool with a shelter, granite counter tops, coffee maker, power, water, and locking storage.
The cooking site next to it had Jenn-Air ranges with granite tops as well. Still.
At eleven pm I had set up a tent in the dark and followed the strong smell of clorine across a hedge row and over a fence
to the closed hot tub. I dare them to run me out.
What was an over priced site at midnight turned out to be Disney World in the morning. Check out their website.
KOA Great Falls.
Night night Eli and Emily. Much closer Cathy.
Tuesday June 29, woods south of Grande Prarie to north of Calgary Alberta Canada
Little dew this morning so after a vigorous shaking of everything in the tent and the tent itself to make sure mouse
poop wouldn't make its way to my next camp I loaded and prepared to leave.
Martin's heavy snoring was still flapping his tent as I checked the air in the tires and plugged in the next coordinates...
"mernin...winna coop eh cahfee?" I pondered his offer for a few seconds before fiending bad hearing and asking
him to repeat himself. "cahfee, winna coop eh cahfee afer ye goo?" Ah coffee!
Thanks Martin but no thanks. It interrupts my first 200 morning miles before I'm somewhere that doesn't require
a shovel to take a break.
We bid our safe ride farewells and I turned back up the rocky road to the Alaska Highway.
A quick stop in Grande Cache for fuel and my standard question "so what's this town famous for?". The lady behind
the counter responded "why the Canadian Death Race?" Apparently the Death Race is a 125k foot race that crosses rivers
and has a 17,000 foot elevation change. Much of the course is above 4000 feet.
I don't think I want to compete in anything that contains the word "death".
Martin pulled in for fuel as I was leaving. He is taking the western path back down the Icefields Parkway, my route
north, as I peel off east to continue down 40 towards Edmundton Alberta.
I soaked up the changes in topography and geology for the next 200 miles. Things flattened out a bit to reveal
a Minnesota like terrain with large grain bins and fields of unknown crops in every shade of green.
Clouds of all shapes and sizes filled the growing sky. Bob Ross must have been on weather duty today in heaven.
He used all of God's titanium white and phthalo blue on these monsters balancing them softly on the magic pane of glass suspended
a few thousand feet above terra firma. Bob pulled out his big brush to smear the bottoms of a few into the ground.
These pockets of rain stayed just to my right or left for miles. It was as if the road was being built quickly
in front of me by a crew that forgot their raincoats. My luck ran out just east of Edmunton.
While zigzaging south and east to avoid the big city, I found myself entering a large dark void. What started as
sharp peppers of rain suddenly turned to strong winds and small hail. Then large hail. Then rain so hard traffic
could not proceed. I don't mind the wet but when the lightning started popping around me I had to bail in the other
direction. There was no shelter anywhere so moving was the only way to escape the brunt of the storm.
This storm didn't burn itself out like most do but this one settled into a steady pour. I turned at the next road
that had a sign restaurant and four more turns led me to the town of Winfield. Three farm related stores, a small park,
and a smaller building with a dry front porch and simple sign that said "Restaurant" drew me to the side to leave the bike
to suffer the elements and rush to the porch to shed several wet layers. A cup of coffee and slice of pie later it looked
like the worst of it had passed. I wanted to put in a few more miles to look for a dry place to camp but the farther
south I rode the wetter it got.
Bluebird Motel- Way off the beaten path but $36 per night with wi/fi. And so I finish another day wimping
out in a roadside roadhouse with a shower. I can handle being a wimp. Hope my account can.
Hope to make the Montana border tomorrow as Canada Day is July 1. The whole country shuts down.
Night night Emily Rose and Eli Beckwith. All my love Cathy Jean. :-)
Monday June 28 Fort Nelson BC to somewhere south of Grande Prarie
Fort Nelson being the hub of industrial BC is not a place to hang around sniffing the air and taking in the surroundings.
A quick Powerbar and water and I'm heading south.
Yesterday's ride throught the lower Alaska Highway was refreshing and made it easy to put in a lot of miles. I
hope for the same today.
Early on the Alaska Highway gets back into the routine of lots of space between small villages. The scenery begins
with long spanning vistas but quickly immerses the traveler deep in the gorges and peaks of the Canadian Rockies to the west
of the main road. A spitting rain keeps the camera away for all but the most handsome photo ops but stopping every now
and then to listen, smell, and soak was the order of the day.
I didn't see the number of animals today that I did yesterday. I think the span up to Ft. Nelson had the most animals
per mile of anywhere on my trip to this point. At one point I quit even looking at the buffalo. The first was
a brake grabber. The next was a few together then a herd. Then they were everywhere. Not very fast though
so no issues with hitting them as long as you prepared for each turn.
At Dawson Creek, not to be confused with Dawson City where I was based the previous week, the "Mile 0" for the Alaska
Higway sgn was promently displayed in several places in town. A quick sandwich and stop at the Polaris store for oil
and a borrowed pan resulted in a quick service and the begining of the next 200 miles.
At 9:30 I noticed a dirt road that left the highway and dove down a bank towards a river. As many times in the
past few weeks, this would provide a place to bush camp. The prettiest places to camp so far have been these unmarked
logging roads or goat paths off the main road. I started a small fire, set up camp, and consumed a pot of chef-boyardee
lasgana and meatballs. A quick look around for bear signs and locking up the washed pans and extra food
in my top box I heard the sound of a motorcycle coming. It had to be a fellow ADV rider as it was quiet and could
make it down the stoney rutted road to my camp.
The mad Irishman Martin whom I had met at our camp in Dawson City popped his helmet and joined my by the fire.
Martin came to the states a few years ago from his farm in Ireland near Cork and works in San Francisco. He and
I had hopscotched each other back down the Alaska Highway. In his thick Irish accent that took a while to distill, he
was quick to offer a beer from his heavy stock in his seemingly bottomless side case. In spite of being ready to
hit the sleeping bag, I accepted his offer for one (to his five) and we talked until midnight about tractors, farming,
engines, politics, and his plans to possibly move back to Ireland and start where he left off.
I saw the first stars, and near darkness, that I had seen in a few weeks. It's amazing what a thousand miles
of latitude does for normalizing my biocycles.
At three am I thought I heard something walking around outside my tent and discovered what I thought was a large moth
flitting around the mesh inner layer. I rolled over and went back to sleep only to be awakened an hour later by the
critter. Fishing around for my cell phone to provide a little light I found a small mouse clinging to the bug screen
looking for a way out. He had already chewed a thumb-sized hole in the corner of the tent. I zipped
open the door and he scurried out. I don't eat or drink in the tent so he must have been disapointed. The
next morning I saw where he had left little presents around the inside of the tent. That rascal must have
walked all over my sleeping bag. I shook everything out for a long time.
Look for me soon guys. Love you babe.
Sunday June 27 Teslin YT to Fort Nelson BC
I noticed last night that rain would be moving in early today and I didn't sleep well listening for the first drops.
They arrived at 4pm so I jumped up and packed the tent while it was somewhat dry. 15 minutes from opening the tent door
to having a loaded bike.
The fuel pumps didn't open until 7pm and I wasn't going to wait in the rain. I had a half of a tank and a full
1 gallon jug onboard as well as the standby liter mounted on the crash bars. That should be more than enough to get
me to the first fuel opportunity- Swift Creek.
I rode slower than usual because of the amount of wildlife about at dawn before, with the exception of a few brave souls,
disappear into the woodland. 150 miles of desolation later I saw a sign "Swift Creek" with the international symbols
for fuel, bathrooms, and food. Another sign covered all of the above. Closed. Forever.
Quick calculations of the remaining fuel indicated that I could proceed at 30mph and make the next fuel stop on my list.
I hope they are open on Sunday. I didn't have enough to make it to Watson Lake so I might be knocking on camper doors
for handouts.
While puttering at moped speed along the rainsoaked tarmac in pretty rough shape, I caught a glimpse of something to
my right and upon turning saw a large bull moose running somewhat along side.
When you scream like a little girl in a full face helmet it hurts your ears. My camera is stored in the dry safety
of my tank bag so the best I could do is grab a handful of brakes and watch him turn to look at me then scoot off into the
brush. Wow is he big. I remember he was looking down at me like I was a toy.
I put the last liter of fuel into the bike at Cool Creek. Just around the next bend, at 7am, a new service station/cafe
had just opened for business. The leathery lady that was unlocking the pumps said I was wet and to quit hugging her.
She offered hot coffee as an alternative to her affections. Works for me.
After one of Friday's leftover muffins, strong coffee and all fuel containers filled to the brim, I entered the lonesome
road and continued the same half-throttle pace to see/avoid the critters.
Watson Lake with it's now familar sign post forest was the next stop. I fueled up again and was quite proud that
I had covered 250 miles and it was only 9am. Another cup of muddy coffee and I was on my way to Liard hot springs.
They were another 180 miles ahead but I thought that would be a good half-way point for my day and a dip in the springs might
get the chill out of my bones I've been feeling all morning.
I couldn't help but to think about the record highs the folks back home have been experiencing for the past couple of
weeks. I don't think I've seen a high above 62 since I left home. Most mornings have been from freezing to about
40. I get the metric temperature thing just fine. 0 is when water freezes- 100 is when it boils. It's just
the numbers in between that gives me a headache when trying to compute. It's not as easy to translate as distance or
volume.
With the pungent loamy smell of the deep forest amplified by the rain providing a contrast to the dry absence of smell
from the "high desert" of the far north, I pressed on south east. The random album selection logic of my gps/mp3 player
chose for me Charlie "Yardbird" Parker's One Night in Birdland. Good choice. Smooth bebop and smooth showers.
This followed by the Cowboy Junkies Trinity Sessions and Aretha.
I like the serendipity of random music choices when I ride. It's a soundtrack of the trip not dictated by me and
is a surprise. As much as I love being amazed by the views that unfold before me on a motorcycle, I smile at the choices
my mp3 player makes from my 650 albums as I ride. Sometimes.
When I was crossing the high mountain pass followed by John in a rental car to Ennis Montana, the Austrialian lady that
gives me directions (I reckon she's the one that chooses the music) pumped the Beach Boys into my helmet. This while
I was being pelted by sleet and freezing rain in very very cold conditions.
The Australian lady had a little fun with me in Gillette Wyoming. Gillette is cowboy land. When I pulled
into a little gas station/horse tack shop to refuel, Hank Williams Greatest Hits was playing. Alrighty then. When
I removed the headphone jack to pump the fuel, the Australian lady had a little fun with me. When I unplug the headphone
jack, the music comes out of the GPS speaker. She chose a song from a compilation of show tunes from a play that Cathy
and I saw. Just as I began pumping gas, Liza Minnelli burst out in "Ring Them Bells". The cowboys glanced over
at me for another look.
I fully expected them to break out into a Busby Berkley routine- arm in arm with a grace reserved for the stage.
I was three menu layers from the stop button or volume control at the quickest.
Lots of buffalo on the roads today. Those are big like moose but with fatter heads and shorter legs. The
little ones are cute.
I saw so many bear that I didn't even slow down to take a closer look. I do still wave at them though.
Three hours from Watson Lake, I pulled into Liard hot springs. The rain stopped. Just like that. What
to wear....hmmm. I chose a pair of nylon pack pants that the legs zip off. The guy from Georgia that pulled up
on a Harley behind me decided his red BVD bikini briefs would work just fine. As far as anyone was concerned, he was
the only one at the springs.
A ten minute walk down a board path led me to a kidney shaped natural pool about 125 feet long and 25 feet wide.
The upper end was where the hot water (enought to boil an egg) entered the pond so the closer you got to it the hotter the
water. I started with the side that the old ladies and men with heart conditions were paddling around in. I moved
quickly toward the hottest part until I began feeling like a shrimp. I was certainly the whitest person in the water
having been in full bike gear for three weeks. My face had a nice racoon tan from the face shield and sunglasses.
Now I was turning a nice translucent pink all over. Tartar. Done. I moved back down with the old ladies.
The guy from Georgia must have left. Everyone is talking again. Only a dozen or so folk in here this morning.
As I was leaving a school bus pulled up and they were off in a sprint down the long wood path for a certain cannonball.
That will give them the old folk something to shut up about.
Three hundred more miles through the Canadian Rockies on the Alaskan Highway finished my day. One $15 dollar hamburger,
five gallons of $1.79 per liter fuel at the only stop for 200 miles in each direction. I hope they choke on that money.
More expensive than what I paid on the Dempster Highway.
The last provencial campsite in the Rockies was cold and wet so I pressed on the next 50 miles to Fort Nelson.
Hopefully they will have another site near town.
Not going to happen. The "town" sites were full. Sites for 100 miles are full. I started checking motels.
What is it with this town...Almost all motels are full and those that are not are terribly pricey for the dives most of them
are. Even the Motel 6 wanted $150 for a room. I had to ask the guy at the counter "why"?
Fort Nelson is experiencing it's annual seasonal influx of workers for the logging and gas field work. They fill
the campgrounds with their RV's, tents, and pick-up trucks, and even rent motel rooms for the season. They can charge
these prices because of the healthy wages paid these workers.
I got a ground room in a six unit building in the parking lot of a tire store for $75. A budget buster. Dried
Thai noodles for me this week.
But it does have fast wi/fi so here I am- catching up.
1% Chocolate Milk and a weird Canadian candy bar for supper tonight.
Goodnight Emily and Eli. Hug mom for me. Cathy, pretend it's me with a shave. Love you.
Saturday June 26 Dawson YT to Teslin YT
While Dave retrieved my spare tire from the campsite we occupied earlier in the week, I loaded the mule and bid my farewell
to old friends and new. Larry Correll, whom I met in Asheville last year and keeps a home there and in Venice Florida,
was heading in a round about way home on his GS. Dick VanNostrom (sp?), previous owner and man about town was sweeping
the road back to normal.
Dave decided to go back across the Top of the World road and visit southern Alaska on his way back to Boone via California.
I've only known Dave for a week but we've quickly become friends. He's quite a character and a hell of a lot of fun.
Dave, you've been a great wingman even though you fly a c-130 transport :-).
I wanted to get to Teslin YT and the cheap wi/fi campsite I used on the way up. I arrived to find the campground
full and after pleading with the proprieter got a site between holes 3 and 4 in their putt-putt course.
Just lots of miles and the expected roadside wildlife show today. Early to bed as the wi/fi was being used by so
many people I couldn't get access to the blog.
I'm ready to hear English as a first language and use money that doesn't look like I stole it from a Monopoly game.
I have to go through my receipts each day to make sure I didn't wad up a fiver as trash. They have no singles only "Loonies",
a dollar coin with a loon on the back, and "Toonies" a two dollar coin that looks like a cookie.
Nighty night kids, be home in a couple of weeks baby. Love you.
Friday, June 25 Dawson and local attractions
One of the locals said that when the Harley Riders come to town the bars and gift shops get all the money. When
the BMW or ADV riders come to town, the museums and campgrounds get all the money.
While a sanctioned run started near noon today, dozens of us decided to take in a tour of the No. 4 gold dredge just
outside of Dawson.
After the Klondike gold rush subsided because the easy gold was "panned" out or the diggers weren't getting the stuff
out at the pace needed to sustain the effort, dredges were brought in to rip up and automatically "pan" the earth to a few
feet below bedrock. This process leaves huge piles of rock that when viewed from air looks like the pattern of
a brain. These dredges, up to four stories in height, are floated in a pond while a chain of large buckets dig back
and forth to a depth into the bedrock dozens of feet down. When all of the earth within reach of the bucket chain is
panned, the dredge is moved a few feet to begin the process again. A map showed where the No. 4 dredge started back
in 1910 and where it wound up in 1959. Facinating mechanics and amazing process for steampunk technology.
Many of us rode up to the Dome. This high mountain above Dawson allows a 360 degree view of the town, Klondike
and Yukon rivers and three mountain ranges in it's periphery.
Back in Dawson, a steak dinner at the Palace Grand Theater awaited us. The Palace Grand is one of many buildings
built during the gold rush. One of the historians in town said many of the local dance hall gals would dance with
a miner for $1. That's $720 in today's money. I saw an old menu that listed a bowl of soup and bun for $5. That's
enough in today's money to buy any one of our cars.
After the dinner the serious games begin.
Slow drag racing down main street. Who can drive the slowest without touching their feet down while staying in
their lane.
Tight slalom. Ride feet up through traffic cones .
Rider on back tries to take a bite of a hot dog hanging from a fishing line.
A paper plate is placed in the middle of the road. A rider is blindfolded and tries to stop with his/her
front wheel on the plate.
You know, high brow stuff like that.
At midnight the big finale. All the bikes line up on mainstreet for a group picture and the official "Dust to Dawson
2010" decals are presented for all that participated.
Dawson was then quickly turned into the ghost town it was in the 60's.
Dawson is well worth a visit for the history, local hiking, local color, and stunning scenery. Bring your wallet
loaded because like the rest of Northern Canada, the prices reflect the transportation involved for both durable goods and
consumables. Expect gas to be $1.40 per liter (3.78 liters to the gallon). You do the math. RVs are everywhere
and come from everywhere.
My plans initially had my northern run happening in Alaska but with my schedule I chose the Yukon and Dempster road instead.
After talking to others that went up the Dalton in Alaska, I'm glad I chose this option. The Dalton was busy, dusty,
muddy, and miserable all at the same time. Tomorrow means loading up and pointing South. My trip is half complete.
My real destination is home. That's where my gold is.
Goodnight E and E. Love you C
Thursday June 24 Dawson YT to Chicken Alaska to Dawson YT
A mosquito made her way into my tent last night. I didn't swat this one before going to sleep. This morning
she was propped up on her elbow on my duffle all fat and smiling at me. For a moment I felt unfaithful but came to my
senses and whacked the snot out of her. Ugg.
A fellow ADV rider said there wasn't a single mosquito in the Yukon. They are all married and have very LARGE families.
The guys are riding from Tok Alaska today across the Top of the World road, a mostly gravel road in varying conditions
with a few mystifying strips of pavement a few hundred feet long on the Canadian side. The road is 190 miles long
with the town of Chicken Alaska somewhere near the middle. Dave and I decided to meet the bulk of the gang in Chicken
and ride back with them.
Light rain fell early but soon blew away. The road winds up to follow the highest ridges in the glacial mountain
range and is the third farthest road north second only to the Dempster (we traveled that Monday to the Artic Circle) and the
Dalton north of Fairbanks.
The contrast of the Blue Ridge like mountains and the rocky monoliths of the Richardson Range is evident from the first
vista. This road is more like a unkept dirt version of the Blue Ridge Parkway but the views go on for hundreds of miles.
Each curve unveils a new powerful set of peaks and gorges. This road was the original route to Dawson for Macenzie River
traders.
After the 500 mile ride on the Dempster, the 50 mile ride to the boarder and 50 more miles to Chicken seemed elementary.
The Canadian/American boarder is the most northern and most remote in the system and judging by the attitude of the American
customs inspectors, it doesn't pay enough to live in this high cabin and ask the same questions over and over.
Chicken Alaska consists of a small restaurant, liquor store, tavern, and gift shop. They are somewhat under
the same roof. A log post office sits just up the road with one employee that is post master, pilot, mail deliverer,
and stamp licker.
Many of the riders, male and female, were already in Chicken when we arrived. Susan owns the businesses in Chicken
and lives there year round. She depends on the summer months to make a go of it for the rest of the year and by the
looks of traffic, she's doing fine. Two of her three kids help her there. Chicken Air supports mining and sports
in the area as well.
We started back east on the TOTW highway spacing out enough to avoid breathing the acrid calcium coated gravel dust from
the folks in front. About 45 miles east of Chicken, a few old log buildings with a "best coffee in Border Town" sign
out front turned out to be the new business of a gentleman and his son. They have a lot of work to do and as the
only residents of "Border Town" need to venture into the big city of Chicken to find a suitable bride for junior.
Dave had a reservation at the Downtown Hotel offered weeks ago to split it with me as the place was full for
the D2D gathering. This is a treat. We parked the bikes along the wood plank sidewalks on the dirt
streets of Dawson next to dozens of other bikes with plates indicating the owners came from Alaska, Florida, Canada, Texas,
and North Carolina. Many other states and countries were represented but there were no trailers hauling in these
bikes. Many, like ours, had a fine cement coating from runs up the Dalton or Dempster highways. All
were bestickered with badges of passing from all over the world. Most were high mileage and more were vintage.
Thursday night consisted of wrenching, story telling, reminising, and fabricating parts to get them to the next
milestone. Several fellows were in their seventies, others were teens. All were dirty.
Tomorrow is the big event. Dual sport games, banquet, local runs...
Tonight I sleep in a bed with drapes to block out the everpresent sunlight. OH...A shower that doesn't
require skipping back to the tent with wet dirty feet. Luxury.
Good night Emily, Good night Eli (thanks for taking care of the heavy lifting for me), All my love my love.
Wednesday June 23 Dawson Break
The patter of the rain on the tent this morning was welcome. It gave me the OK to roll over and go back to sleep.
The ride down from the circle must have used all of my muscles because they were all whimpering.
When the frequency of drops slowed to a dogeable dribble in the late morning, I fumbled around for my "townie" clothes
and water bottle. Other dual-sport riders were starting to trickle in for the annual D2D (Dust to Dawson) gathering.
This is its 19th year and has grown to about 150 riders from all over the country. It started with some friends riding
from Ancorage to Dawson across the "Top of the World" road. It now includes a stop by a tree for a memorial service
where a fellow rider lost his life several years ago.
Dawson City in the Yukon Territories, on the Yukon river was a fishing village for the Tr'ondek H'wechin tribe before
the Klondike gold rush. 40,000 people lived there during it's heyday- more than in the whole providence today.
The local historian said San Francisco and Seattle were both built as support for Dawson.
Of course Robert Service and Jack London both spent time here and wrote much of their Klondike themed stories and
poems here.
A few of us from the camp walked into town and up to the cabin Robert Service occupied in time for the period dressed
parks representative to go over the Service's history and read some of his poetry. We sat in the drizzle and after
thanking the parks rep, wandered around town until we found a tavern with a small tv hosting the Cup games.
A much needed rest day that ended with a walk back to camp and a deep nights sleep. Sorry nothing exciting happened.
Night kids, Love you muchly Cathy.
