Retro Post: The Denali Highway, AK
November 6, 2009
The Denali Highway. If you're lucky enough to have clear skies, expect big views of Mt McKinley, the highest peak in North America.
This was the Alaska I'd come for. Wilderness, emptiness...
...and long summer days with barely a few hours of nightfall.
And with only a handful of vehicles each day, it felt good to have it to ourselves.
While I rest up my hand (which I fractured back in Montana), I’ve had a dig through some posts I never got round to finishing, including this one, from the Denali Highway in Alaska – way back in July.
So here it is.
Most folks ride their bikes from Fairbanks to Tok following the ALCAN – the Alaska Canada Highway. We diverted south to pick up the Denali Highway, which, until the paved Parks Highway was opened, was the only way to reach the Denali National Park. With a tarmac alternative to shuttle up the tour group crowds from Anchorage, nowadays it’s often overlooked. In fact, the word highway is something of a misnomer; it’s little more than a remote gravel road cutting through the mountains.
To get to there, we followed the Parks Highway south from Fairbanks. The forest fires raging around the state cast an unearthly morning light and threw the mountains into haze.
One the one hand, Alaska teems with all but untouched, natural beauty. On the other, it's an overgrown, junk wasteland...
...where strange Frankenstein machinery lie dormant in the summer months, waiting to be kicked back into life come the depths of winter.
Many move to the state for its non-intervenionist government; they prefer to be left to their own devices, as seen by the proliferation of Keep Out/Private signs in the unlikeliest of places.
This seemed to be a popular junction with boy racers, though the freshly cut flowers by the signpost lent a more sombre feel to the scene.
I love the spontaneity of travel. As chance would have it, our ride coincided with the Anderson Bluegrass Festival, where we camped for the night. Despite Alaska's vast size, its communities are close knit, and we bumped into many of the people we'd met on our travels, hundreds of miles away. Like the 'Man with the Handlebar Moustache and Short Shorts', from Deadhorse. And Dinky Dave, who's driving round the world in his Mini.
Alaska's bible belt.
As time was short, we didn't head into Denali National Park itself, though even the scenery from the main road was magnificent.
There's a real backwater feel to much of Alaska; little gems like this timewarped grocery store are waiting to be unearthed.
Riding at the tail end of the season meant the roads were quieter, now that the RV brigade had migrated south.
Camping opportunities were good. This spot was recommended to us by fellow tourers Nick and Leil, who had paused in their bicycle travels to work in a roadside restaurant, trading their tent for a makeshift trailer with spectacular views.
At Cantwell, we turned off the Parks Highway, and were greeted by a clear band of snowy white peaks - the McKinley Range. Numbers-wise, 6194m Mount McKinley, or Denali as it's known to native Alaskans, may be small fry compared to the high peaks of the Himalayas. But the fact that the surrounding land lies at just 600m means its actual rise is considerably higher than Everest
After a few hundred kilometres of tarmac slogging, it was good to be back on gravel again.
The road is 135 miles long, and takes 2-3 day to ride, so we loaded up on supplies at a motley gas station. There, an old timer had surveyed our bikes and was clearly underwhelmed. 'When I was eight, we'd ride 50 or 60 miles and camp. We didn't have none of them fancy machines, just a Schwinn with a basket. That was seventy years ago!' He glowered at us, then smiled, and tore off on his quad.
Lunchtime. Life is good...
Another day, another bullet riddled signpost.
Pitching the Megamid in the woods.
Crossing the Susitna River. Parked up on its banks, we met a French family in a Land Rover who were travelling round the world. They invited us to coffee and biscuits and their son, who was training to be a circus juggler, gave us an impromptu show.
There are no grocery stores along the Denali Highway, but there's a gas station and the characterful Sluice Bar. Wallpapered with dollar notes, each bill is marked with the contributor's journey details. If you're visiting, mine is on the right hand wall near the top...
With fires raging all over Alaska, views were a little hazy at times.
A porcupine! Perhaps the sweetest, yet ugliest creature I have set my eyes on.
Corrugation, animal tracks and quad tracks...
By the time we made it to the Tangle Lakes near Paxton, our smoky skies had given way to stormy clouds, bringing with them a deluge of rain that seemed to tail us for the next week.
That day, we made it, cold and drenched, to Meir's Lake. There wasn't much more than a few husks of rusting cars, and an old fashioned diner and a dilapidated campsite that had just been bought by a German lady. She served us up a nice, cheap bowl of Chili con Carne, and warmth coursed once more through our veins.
By now, we were close to Canada. From Gakona Junction, there was just a couple of hundred more miles to go...
We didn't stay here. But (no offence to Dan) it would have been a wonderful place if I'd been in romantic company. It's a beautifully converted Russian log cabin from the early 1900s, at Read Eagle Lodge in Chistochina. We camped there, availing ourselves of the immaculate, piping hot shower block, and were treated to marshmellows on the fire that night. In the morning, we tucked into an all-you-can-eat $5 breakfast - freshly made muffins, delicious hash browns, fruit, yoghurt, toast, cereal. We ate and ate and ate. I'm not sure if cyclists are good business...
A moose! What a bizarre looking creature it was too. Along this stretch of road we also saw a beaver building its dam.
A couple of days later, we emerged at Tok, back on the Alaska Canada Highway... Following the road less travelled had proved to be excellent advice.
The Panhandle
August 26, 2009
- Storm-shrouded glacier views on the Alaska Marine Highway.
Alaska is a diverse and an unusual looking state; ball up your right hand hand, outstretch the little finger and you’ll have its general shape. Since vast chunks of it are unreachable by land, Dan and I didn’t take much persuading to take a break from cycling to travel the Alaska Marine Highway and explore the waterways of the South East (that’s the thin bit that extends along the bottom of the wrist). The only way to reach many of the waterlocked settlements here is by boat or plane – an excellent excuse if ever I heard one.
At times, the forest comes down right down to the placid sea.
Negotiating its way through the narrow passageways of Alaskan fjords, the state-run ferry links one settlement to the next as it makes its way sedately south to Prince Rupert, in British Colombia, Canada. It’s a long and unexpectedly epic ferry ride – past migrating whales from Hawai, around occasional shards of floating ice, beside thick, sheer boreal forest (part of a swathe that runs right down to that runs all the way down to California), and beneath vast, overhanging glaciers.
The Medenhall Glacier flows 12 miles from its source, the Juneau Ice Field. This is the view from the car park...
After our endless weeks of burnt blue skies, we’re now experiencing more typical Alaskan weather. The sky’s a porcelain white edged with inky black, tempestuous clouds. In this light, the overhanging glaciers reflect a baby blue cast and the forest shimmers a damp, deep green. When it rains, rivulets race down the window panes, and the ship lulls gently from side to side. Every once in a while, the captain makes an announcement and we scramble onto deck to catch a brief sight of a school of porpoises diving alongside the boat, or a humpback bob to the surface, take one enormous breath, and lunge back down into the abyss once more, with an almost lethargic, magnificent flick of its tail.
Sleeping arrangements on the ferry is a pretty relaxed affair – if you're on the standard ticket, costing a very reasonable $160 from Hanes to Prince Rupert, you can even pitch your tent on the roof when the sun is shining, or lounge on the deck chairs. Bodies lie contorted all over the various floors, and everyone picnics the days away.
Each settlement in Alaska’s Panhandle, as it is known, has its own character, influenced greatly by both its native and European history – in Petersburg, for instance, the local newspaper was still printed in Norwegian until 1966.
St Michael's Cathedral, a replica of the original Russian Orthodox Church that was destroyed in a fire, gives Sitka a distinctive skyline.
Over in Sitka, home to fur trading Russians for over a century before Alaska’s sale to America, we stayed with Alexei and Chloe. I met Alexei, an LA-born physio therapist, on the Bristol-Bath cyclepath last year – he was heading over to France to watch the Tour de France. Alexei and Chloe have both lived in Sitka for several years and while chance seems to bring outsiders to this state, it takes a certain kind of personality to keep them here. As far as I can see – aside from the various native populations – there’s those who arrived looking for work in the oil heydey and stayed, there’s ‘rednecks’ drawn by a love of hunting and a relatively unobtrusive state government, and there’s progressive greenies. Despite the fact that Alaska is made up of these often opposing groups of people, there are common ties between them. Each seems drawn by Alaska’s intrinsic connection with its wilderness and the challenges that this brings, by its small communities, and because it offers a chance to escape the normal pushes and pulls of the lower 48s – the rest of the US. Even if such a brief (summertime) visit allows me only to scratch at the surface of this vast state, I can definitely see where they’re coming from…
When a high tide combines with heavy rainfall, the rivers and streams run dark with salmon on their exhausting journey to their birthplace (guided by unfathomable inbuilt navigation), where they spawn and die.
Alexei took us on an impressively in depth tour of the many facets of Sitka that filled my brain with about as much as it could handle. We stood on bridges and marvelled at streams literally teeming with salmon, slipping and sliding over one another, making the most of the heavy rains to fulfill their natural instinct and return to their birthplace to spawn.
The interior of the Russian Bishop's House, built in 1844-1846. Most of the furniture is original, or like the wall paper, perfect replicas sourced from Europe. Bishop Innoventii (later canonized Saint Innocent of Alaska) was a man of the book, as well as being a carpenter and a linguist - he translated parts of the bible into the local Tinglit language, which he spoke fluently.
In the centre, we wandered around the old Russian Bishop’s House, a lovingly restored showpiece, originally built in Sitka spruce in 1843 for Russian Orthodox Missionaries.
Totem poles, carved from spruce, are public records of identity and clan pride - a record of ancestry, or of a legend or historic event, or a memorial. I liked wandering around the Totem Trail and experiencing the poles in their natural setting, changing with the light, or rain, or time of day. Traditionally, the poles deteriorated naturally into the earth with the elements.
And there was time to enjoy the peaceful sanctuary of the Totem Garden. Here, Tlingit baskets are still made dyed with hemlock bark and blueberry juice, battle masks depicting ravens are still hewn from wood by the resident carver, and a swathe of forest is interspersed with tall, impressive totem poles chiselled from spruce, each of which tells a story of its own.
Just down from where they lived, we visited the octagonal Sheldon Jackson museum in the old college campus to the east. It houses a real gem of a collection, including drawer after drawer of immaculately presented insights into native Alaskan culture. Like a turn of the 20th century camping shop, there’s an array of indigenous kayaks, cold weather clothing and even dry suits, each intricately made with seal fur, skin and stomach lining in lieu of today’s Goretex.
Of course, we paid homage to the local bike shop, Yellow Jersey Cycles, whiling away plenty of time Talking Bike (and that’s after Alexei and I had been up till 4.30am the night before discussing the various merits of tyre choice), and I even managed to squeeze in a grounding yoga class.
From salmonberry jam, to huckleberry scones and rhubard pies, we ate like Berry Kings in Sitka.
Alexei and Chloe have taken over the baton of incredible Alaskan hospitality we’ve been lucky enough to receive. This last week, I’ve been getting way too used to eating fine food – fresh salmon, vegetables from the garden, rhubarb pies, huckleberry scones… Too good!
I’m also learning about the complexities of hunting, and the divide between subsistence hunting (understanding where your meat is coming from, respecting the animal and using every last part of it), with the more brash (and to me) pointless pursuit of trophy hunting. If you get the chance, check out Eating Alaska, an interesting documentary which comments on this, in which Chloe features. As well as having taught in a remote Inupiat village near Kotzebue for four years, Chloe knows Northern Alaska surprisingly well. Despite her slight build, she’s worked as a hunting, fishing and climbing guide in one of Alaska’s most remote and challenging regions – her clients have included an apparently dwarf-like Steven Seagal and fly fishing-engrossed Jim Carrey!
Our fine food was washed down with wine, after an appropriate toast to 2 wheels.
Chloe and Alex are part of a group of friends who grow their own vegetables and berries; each concentrates on particular varieties, then they swap food amongst themselves as they need it.
A bead and patching expert, Chloe also sourced some fine Alaskan examples for my pannier customisation project – a decorative button made by one of the grandmas at her village, and an offcut of seal fur used to make their clothing.
The next stage of the trip is on my lonesome, as Dan is heading back to Montana. The ride from Prince Rupert to Banff is some 1500km long, and one I need to cover relatively quickly before the onset of autumn. Soon, the snows will start to fall, most likely as I make my way along the Great Divide Mountain Bike Ride. The break’s over – time to get back on the saddle…
Thanks guys for your wonderful hospitality - until the next time...
Back in Alaska
August 21, 2009
One of the old cars still bumbling around rainy Haines..
After our relatively brief forray in the Yukon, we’re back in AK, Alaska. For now at least – within a week, I’ll be in Canada once more, heading to Banff, while Dan returns to his studies in Bozeman. Over the next few days we’ll be sailing our way down the western sliver of Alaska, a watery, mountainous passage, home to migrating whales and small communities that can only be connected by ferries – the Alaska Marine Highway – or by air.
Old pickup + fish = Alaska
First stop is Haines, a funky settlement with an appealingly scruffy and lived-in vibe, lined with quirky, storm-faded wooden buildings and fronted with its own little harbour. It definitely feels like Alaska. The rust-streaked, beaten-up pickups are back, debris is piled high in the yards, and everyone seems suitably bearded or outdoorsy or weathered. Overcast skies and drizzle has denied us of seeing it at its best, though even through the veil of mist, the vast baby blue glaciers that bulldoze their way gently between the mountains exude silent drama.
We’re also been invited in a great little home too, friends of Sitka-based Alexei who I met cycling in Bristol. Marnie is from Southern California but moved way up north to work as a physio four years ago; she’s plied us with fresh vegetables from the garden, and even given us a jar of blueberry jam and some packs of freeze dried salmon for the days ahead (the gadget to do this is pretty nifty, effectively a kind of food laminater).
There’s a cool community here – I’ve managed to get a much needed yoga class in, and this evening a bunch of her friends came round for a delicious harvest feast of salads and pies and tortellini and bakes.
Haines is squeezed in on a peninsula between the Chilkat and Chilkoot inlets, and was once an important stopping point on the pack route to mining areas around Whitehorse. These wooden buildings front a grassy common that is known as the Fort, and were home to Alaska's first permanent army back in 1903.
It’s certainly much more my scene that the Gold Rush-themed Disneyworld of Scagway, where several cruise ships the size of small towns muscle in each day, looming surreally on the skyline, vying for as much attention as the glaciers themselves.
Who would have thought that it of remote little Skagway, population 862?
Perhaps we'd got it all wrong... Perhaps these gargantuan floating buildings were the way to travel...
The descent to Skagway is a good one though – fifteen miles long, a smooth tarmac road wraps tightly round the mountains as it spirals ever further into this dangly finger of the States. Just watch out for tour buses, which seem to abruptly materialise in droves on the Canadian border, shuttling around armies of cruise ship tourists like a military deployment.
Crossing the border, again! This time back into Alaska.
The odd tree poked out of the ground, looking lost and out of place amongst the rolling tundra and rocky outcrops.
The ride across the border was characterised by a sometimes soul-destroying headwind, blustering through this region of glacial lakes and high tundra. The skies cleared briefly in Carcross, a hamlet between Whitehorse and Skagway, so we made the most of the break in the weather to head out on a mountain bike ride. A good move, as the area was said to offer one of the best descents in Western Canada…
How's that for a view? And thus began a thirty minute, white-knuckled singletrack descent...
We’d heard the trails here were world class – in fact, Carcross and Whitehorse are touted to be the next big thing in Canadian mountain biking. Luckily we bumped into a group of riders who drew us a map of a massive cross country loop; aptly it was on the back of a beer carton.
Our beer carton map. Not to scale.
The climb followed loose, scrabbly wagon roads that once linked the turn of the 20th century silver mines scattered around these parts.
A few skeletal remnants are still strewn around, lonely and eery amongst the treeless tundra. This mine was closed down as late as the 1980s. Up on the summit, we finally spotted some caribou in the distance. Yey!
It was a climb alright. Downhill riders get an uplift to the top. We did it the old fashioned way.
The general store in Carcross, which serves up particularly tasty $2 muffins – perfect fuel for the ride. Carcross is home to the Tagish First Nation and aside from the odd tuft of grass sprouting between train rails like unruly nose hair, it’s immaculately kept.
If you time your visit not to coincide with one of the tour buses, it's almost like you've stepped back in time.
We camped beside Bennett Lake. A strong prevailing wind whipped up a pounding surf and contorted the tent like restless sleeper all night.
Mineral deposits in the glaciated lakes give them a turquoise tint.
The track was steep and rough going but big on scenery. There's a whole network of these kinds of trails around, sometimes dead ending at old mines perched on rockfaces.
As a beam of light pierces the cloudcover, Dan takes a breather to soak up the views. Then it's down, down, down...
Now it’s time to sit back and enjoy the (ferry) ride…
Into the Yukon: Tok to Whitehorse
August 17, 2009
Once the porcelain sky had ruptured and the rain had finally cleared, the Canadian section of the ALCAN proved to be nothing short of stunning. Being so late in the season, it was surprisingly free of Monster RVs too.
First impressions? No bullet holes in the road signs! The roads weren't as good as in Alaska, but it was good to see more efficient, European-sized cars around.
Late afternoon in the Yukon. Not a bad place to be when the sun is out...
Road touring doesn't get much better than this.
We’ve now arrived in Whitehorse, which at 22 000 people or so, is the Yukon’s largest settlement. While the setting is idyllic (its local singletrack comes highly recommended by Alaskan riders), Whitehorse itself sprawls out far beyond it’s charming 50s-fronted downtown, with the delights of McDonald’s and Wallmart rearing their corporate heads in welcome. Not that we had much time to take it all in. No sooner had we arrived and tracked down the organic bakery, than we were invited for dinner and a place to rest our heads with Marlynn, a French Canadian who’s lived here since the late 80s. There, we feasted on a delicious homemade dinner (real food and wine!), with her environmental educationalist/folk musician husband Remy, and their biking skiing outdoorsy kids. We were also joined by Parisian Sibylle, in town researching and interviewing for a UN film on climate change; our touring bikes had caught her eye as she’d done her own year long bike ride some 10 years before. Sibylle’s last project, 6 Billion Others, was with the incredible aerial photographer Yann Arthus Bertrand.
The St Elias range, home to the largest national park in North America.
Its about 660km between Tok and Whitehorse along the Alaska-Canada Highway (the ALCAN). After the roller coaster of the Dalton Highway, the ride itself was refreshingly easy going, paralleling the mighty St Elias mountain range almost all the way here – a long string of jagged, snow capped peaks rising high above the broad valley floor, nurchuring some of the biggest glaciers outside the polar regions. Plans for the ALCAN were long in the pipeline, but the Great Depression of the 30s put them on hold. It wasn’t until the attack on Pearl Harbour in the WWII that construction went ahead, with the highway completed in 1942 and running at over 2200kms long.
The Three Bears in Tok was one of the best stores we've came across so far - or maybe we were just hungry. Several of the roadhouses on the way to Canada's Haines Junction have shut down for the season, or for good (blame the economic climate and the Monster RVs), so we loaded up on no less than 47 trail bars to keep us ticking over.
To be honest, we weren't too sorry to be leaving RV and tourist-trinket-Tok. With the caribou season coming up, hunters were swarming all over the town.
A bunch of the pickups were pulling these little quads, complete with bolt-on firepower and mini trailer for hauling out their kills. I can completely understand subsistence hunting (after all, how natural is it to buy a slab of pre-packaged meet from an enormous supermarket), but the concept of trophy gathering escapes me.
Here's one they got earlier. Why the long face Mr Moose? Perhaps it's because I got shot, stuffed, and now I'm spending the rest of my days in front of this crappy tourist shop.
We’d toyed with the idea of spending a rest day in Tok, but despite our tired legs there wasn’t much to keep us there; a rain storm that lashed down on the tent gave us a good excuse to lie in. Back on the road, we made the most of the strong tailwind to head onto to Northern Junction, were we met a group of 40 young riders from Texas, who’d ridden their road bikes from Austin in 70 days to raise awareness and cash for a cancer charity – on apparently the world’s longest annual charity ride. Texas to Anchorage is a long, long way and amazingly, most of them had never really cycled before, having bought bikes for the trip.
The sun came out for our crossing into Canada, complete with Simpson Clouds.
Last chance to stock on some wholesome American food (long life Danish pastries).
From here, it was just a short hop across the border, crossing into the Yukon at Canada’s most westerly settlement, Beaver Creek. Mountains loomed close to the road, covered in forest like a pelt of winter fur. And it certainly feels like winter is drawing closer. The morning were fresh and chilly, and the days were becoming shorter – from an average high of 21 hours of sunlight a day in June, the Yukon dwindles to ‘just’ 16 hours in August.
The official border line - we had lunch in Canada. Apparently the divide between the US and Canadian border is the longest undefended border in the world.
With so few places to resupply, almost every cyclist travelling the ALCAN will end up stopping in at Jim and Dorothy’s roadhouse, and probably the vast majority will have had a pretty bizarre experience. A cantankerous yet endearing old couple (the moment I walked in through the door, they recounted how they’d lambasted a German cycling couple just the day before for dripping water on their carpet), they’ve lived in the Yukon for some forty years, and their shop is a confusing accumulation of knickknacks and brickabrack – rocks, decorative spoons, stuffed toys, 2nd hand books, popcorn, paintings. You name it, you’ll find it.
Just a fraction of Jim and Dorothy's lair. I particularly liked Dorothy's gold-sequined sun cap, but was too fearful of her to ask to take a picture. 'Where do all the rocks and fossils come from?' I enquired, gesturing towards the random piles perched precariously on every available shelf space. 'A box under the table', came Jim's reply. 'Which comes out of my mind,' he added, as if by way of explanation.
Apparently their satellite dish was painted by the Yukon Elvis - 'looks like Elvis, sings like Elvis, paints like Elvis.' Just as she was warming up, feisty Dorothy interrupted our conversion to leap out of her chair with age-defying agility, and yell at a couple whose dog she suspected had peed on her vegetables.
After several days of rain and overcast skies, the sun lifted our spirits and showed the Yukon at its best. The road conditions were fairly flat, allowing us ride up to 70kms by lunchtime. These days we’re getting early starts; we’re generally on the road by 8.30am, giving us plenty of time to chill out at lunch, take breaks and stop for photos, and still cover 120-130kms a day.
Kluane Lake, the largest in the Yukon, traditional home to the Kluane First Nation.
Its waters shimmered a glassy turquoise.
The steep side mountains rose up sheer and dramatic around us. As the tourist blurb goes, Yukon: Larger than life.
In Destruction Bay, we caught up with Dave1 and Dave2, both of whom we’d met on the Haul Road. Dave1 was contemplating whether to buy a can of ravioli for breakfast, but settled on a pint of milk, which he gulped down before setting off again. Dave2 was already long gone – he’s planning to be in Argentina in a year, so doesn’t have too much time to sit around and chat. Good luck to you both – hope to see you on the road again!
After a short climb, a fast descent fed us past Mt Decoeli.
We’d planned to push on all the way to Haines Junction, but Dan spotted a trail leading down to Sulphur Lake. Too good to resist. So with 125km on the clock, we pulled in for the night.
Food after a long day in the saddle tastes good. Food with a good view tastes even better.
A peaceful spot to start the day.
A Swiss couple had the same idea, and parked up their funky, late 70s GMC campervan.
Lush! We admired its browny brown interior, including thick brown carpetting and ever-so-soft, puckered brown roof lining, as classy as travelling 1st class in a 70s plane, no doubt.
The next morning, we joined the highway for the last stretch into Haines Junction.
Haines Junction came and went, a scenic, tranquil settlement surrounded by mountains, just a flightseeing tour away from Mount Logan, Canada’s highest peak. As you’d expect from its name, there’s not much to it. Turn left, Alaska. Turn right, Whitehorse. Best of all, its bakery was in a league of its own, with wifi access, platters of cheap Day Old food and a bohemian air. There, we met William, a quietly spoken individual also heading by bike to Latin America. William had a slightly sorrowful expression; the last couple of weeks of riding alone seem to have taken their toll on his spirits. By his own admission, he also needed to get in shape. He’d only planned the trip a month before leaving, and had already shed 35lbs from his 255lb frame.
I always enjoy the instant connection with other tourers – we’re all experiencing similar highs and lows, sharing the same joys and frustrations that come part and parcel of bicycle touring. We suffer on the climbs, lament the headwind but draw inspiration from the beauty of the surroundings and the perfect pace that bicycle travel affords. Among others, we met a Dutch couple on Santos bikes, and fell into easy conversation, swapping notes and experiences.
Soon after, we encountered the once dripping-wet German couple who had so infuriated zany Jim and Dorothy back in their roadhouse. Although I didn’t have much of a chance to get to know the real Harold, I could see why he might rub some people up the wrong way. Hours and hours on the road can sometimes impinge on social skills. Striding over towards my bike, he looked with obvious disdain at the suspension fork.’ No’, he said, tutting noisily and grimacing openly, ‘this is no good.’ On the whole, I actually agree with him. Suspension forks aren’t designed for touring and running fat tyres and a rigid fork is often the best and most reliable option. But it did seem an odd way to introduce yourself. ’It’s nice on the corrugation and useful for mountain biking. Works for me, ‘ I added, which it does. ‘Hm. Each person has their own way’, he finally conceded, despite the obvious folly of such a concept. Tourers can be a strange bunch… and I include myself in this, naturally…
From Haines Junction, we escaped the culinary clutches of the bakery by late afternoon, camping some 50km down the road. The last push to Whitehorse was eased by a soundtrack of storytelling from The Moth and This American Life podcasts on the MP3 player – if you haven’t heard any of these before, they’re well worth downloading.
Along the way, we past Canyon Creek Bridge, built in 1903 during the big gold rush that lead to the construction of the wagon road to Whitehorse – out of which, in turn, sprung the roadhouses and communities though which we were passing. On and one we pedalled, through the Takhini river valley where the waters run rich with salmon and the coastal mountain range to the south gives way to the uplands of the Yukon Plateau.
The Yukon River has always shaped human life in the territory, from natives to Russian fur traders to gold prospectors. Sternwheelers like the SS Klondike journeyed from Whitehorse to Dawson City, carrying lead ore. In days before miles per gallon, it burned through two cords of wood per hour (a cord is an old english unit, a 4 by 4 by 8 foot bundle of wood) taking 36 hours downstream to get to Dawson City, and 4-5 days back again, navigating treacherous rapids along the way. The gas guzzlers of their time.
Our friendly tailwind gave us a helping hand, almost leading us right to the bakery where Marlynn welcomed us into her home with real generosity and spontaneity. And so it is that we’ve now spent the best part of a few days treated to wholesome food, a warm home, family life, movies, live music, clean clothes and great conversation. Nat, one of their three sons, even took us on a chilled out ride around the local trails, a spider’s web of flowy, rooty singletrack (like the Blues Brothers trail), the perfect compliment to a couple of weeks of loaded touring.
This evening, Dan has rustled up a trifle for desert (after our lovely salmon dinner) by way of thanks, as we prepare ourselves to finally leave this wonderful family and take to the road once more.
Dan, preparing his culinary delight - the Aussie version of an English trifle. It went down a storm.
Marlynn, Remmy, Nat, Miguel, Nico and Dan. Thanks guys for your amazing hospitality.
Within a couple of days we should be back in Alaska, overnighting in Haines (not to be confused with Haines Junction, on the Canadian side), ready to bob our way along the Marine Highway to Juneau, Sitka and beyond.
Tik Tok
August 9, 2009
About to leave tarmac and turn onto the gravelly delights of the Denali Highway.
We’re arrived in Tok, just 92 miles from the Canadian border. Our tent is pitched beside an airfield and this morning my alarm clock was the loud buzz of a light plane – akin to someone running their thumb along a giant comb right by my ear – taxiing along the scruff of land that marks the runway. Well, it’s a change from the lower pitched but more pervasive buzz of a mosquito…
Born from a construction camp setup in 1942 to build the Alcan – the Alaska-Canada Highway – today Tok doesn’t feel like much more than a sprawl of RV parks, tourist trinket shops and gas stations, each a tell tale car-friendly few hundred metres apart. If you’re not in one of the goliath RVs passing through, chances are you’re here to hunt – almost every other pickup truck (the favoured mode of transport in Alaska) seems to be pulling a quad destined for the bush. Accessories include oversized, camouflaged gun cases bolted to their sides like gunslingers rocking into town, and mini-trailers for dragging out the hefty kill – a droopy nosed, 1000lb plus moose, most likely. Tellingly, I don’t see any yoga classes advertised in the local grocery store…
We could have less than halved our mileage and been here days ago, but as usual, we’ve followed the advice of our Alaskan friends and taken the ‘back way’. Out of Fairbanks, we rode the Parks Highway towards Anchorage (stumbling apon the mellow Anderson Bluegrass Festival), before tuning off onto the far quieter, more scenic and gravelly Denali Highway. Linking this with the Richardson and the Tok Cutoff acrues another 750kms on the clock, bringing our tally to around 2500kms or so.
Tok marks another night in the tent, which means we’ve yet to feel the comforts of a bed since arriving in Alaska. (it also marks my 6th shower in almost 5 weeks, a statistic I’m misguidedly proud of…) Unfortunately, our almost unblemished record of hot, beating sun has finally been broken, as we’ve hit some heavy weather, with driving rain permeating waterproofs and drizzling down necks.
As usual, following the road less travelled proved to be excellent advice. There’s plenty of stories, pictures and videos to post (like the bar completely wall-papered in one dollar notes, quill-covered porcupines and crisp views of 20 320 ft Mount McKinley) but these will have to be saved until we find somewhere with a better internet connection.
After a good feed last night at Fast Eddy’s (the namesake of the character in one of my favourite films, the Hustler) we’re now ready to follow the Alcan. Next stop is Hanes junction and Whitehorse, before we turn south to Alaska’s panhandle, resting cycling legs to pick up ferries along the Alaskan Marine Highway, through Juneau and Sitka. More soon, hopefully.
Running the Haul Road (part 2)
July 31, 2009
Even the smallest settlements in Alaska's Interior have a little airfield, their lifeline to the outside world.
After our big evening feed in Coldfoot, it was time to move on. That is, after a belly top up at the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet (muffins/pancakes/fruit/yoghurt/toast/eggs etc), and some careful, sleit-of-hand food smuggling for the road.
Thanks to those at the incongruously grandiose visitor centre for helping us plot the next few days of camp spots, and for the presentation they put on every day at 8pm – in our case, it was on the natural remedies found in the Alaskan Interior.
The road ahead is always a mystery, and it’s easy to wind yourself up with worries and concerns. Wirh everyone making a big fuss about how conditions crumble from Coldfoot on, and with the rollercoaster ride we’d experienced a few days before, we weren’t sure what to expect. But as if often the case, it’s amazing how perceptions vary – in fact, it was an easy going day, shrouded by low clouds and drizzle as we pulled into camp.
Just as we were beginning to lament the lack of wildlife, a grizzly and her cub came bounding towards us in the rain, thankfully turning away when we broke in a noisy, caterwauling sing-song. Heading up a nearby hill, the two of them kept turning around and standing up to get a better view of us, and then disappeared into the mist.
We detoured to quirky Wiseman, a century old log cabin village on the Middle Fork of the Koyukuk River. Home to wizened old trappers, various animal pelts and coats were draped out in the sun, along with totem poles of caribou and moose horns.
And well as the obligatory old pickups rusting into the earth.
And an impressive collection of hooves stacked up like tindersticks.
Novel. A roof made out of gas cans.
It’s always good to meet cyclists coming the other way on a tour, so when we bumped into Dave, riding down all the way to Tierra Del Fuego, we swapped notes on what lay ahead. Then the climb began to conquer Atigun Pass, our doorway to the North Slope.
The climb begins. Actually, to those who have experience Alpine or Himalayan passes, it's not too much to worry about.
The beginning of the pass, at mile marker 235, is also the end of the treeline. Sadly, the 287 year old Last Spruce was hacked at by vandals a few years ago.
The last couple of miles were pretty steep, rewarding us with a blinding descent on the other side. You can see a bit of it on the video here.
Descending down from the Atigun Pass, Alaska's highest highway pass (4739ft).
Happy to have reached the top of the pass. My beard is coming on nicely, if I say so myself.
The transformation on the other side was breathtaking. Not a tree in sight; rolling tundra, craggy mountains and of course, that pipeline wending off into the distance.
The majestic, barren North Slope.
It's not easy to get lost. Just follow the pipeline.
Just when you think you're alone, a truck thunders past.
The Santos is holding up really well. No problems to report, which is just the way I like it...
The dirtpack here was perfect, with a nice tailwind to propel us along too.
It was a different story for these guys from Bend, Oregon, heading south.
Bodies of water glinted in the late afternoon sun.
We pulled over at Galbraith Lake, set back a few miles from the highway. In the late afternoon light, is was particularly enticing, with an impressive backdrop of a glacier bulldozing its way down the mountain.
A headwind buffeted us on our way to the lake, but it was well worth the detour.
Official campsites likes these are useful when there's no trees around as they have bear-proof food boxes.
We bumped into Jodie and her hiking group, who donated a loaf of bread and a couple of pounds of turkey slices. Ever-hungry Dan's eyes lit up. Then we sat around their campfire drinking Australian wine and eating Smores - gooey marshmellow and melted chocolate on biscuits. Hmmmmm.
We’d been told about the mosquitos who frequent these swampy lands, but so far the numbers hadn’t reached the ‘biblical proportions’ one local had forewarned. Travelling towards the end of the season is a good move – apparently a couple of weeks earlier, they’d been following everyone around like an aura, clogging up eyes and diving down nostrils even as you ride.
Still, Daniel wasn't taking any chances, donning his face mask and mozzieproofs - clothes that can withstand their tenacious attacks.
Bring it on, punks. Alaskan mozzies are a kind of superbreed of the mosquito world, with their own antifreeze that keeps body fluids liquid even when the ambient temperature is well below zero. The females don't even need blood to lay eggs, though it doesn't stop them having a go. In the daytime, they bask in the cup-like shelter of flowers for warmth.
In a land where the sun rises for barely a couple of hours in the winter and the summers are short, it’s all but survival. Plants eek out every available beam of light and heat. The Artic Blue Butterfly angles it wings to direct heat onto its abdomen, and the Mustard White flies low to conserve energy. Where elsewhere their lifecycle from egg to adult might be a month, here it’s a couple of years. Plants reach dward proportions and seem to grow in slow motion.
100 per cent DEET. A necessary evil in Alaska. Keeps the mozzies at bays, and will melt your watch too.Without it, expect your evenings to be spent practising the 'Alaskan Wave'.
Soon, the Brookes range pettered out of view, and we were left with the last slog: miles of rolling tundra, and a biting-cold headwind blowing straight of the Artic. Trucks appeared on the horizon like ships on a gently swelling sea.
Our campspot at Happy Valley. It looks scenic enough. Behind, there's a road crew camp, a helicopter and piles of gravel. Alaska!
Happy Valley sounded a lot more appealing in name than it was reality – a workers camp, with a helicopter for refertalising the tundra after the construction of a winter ice road, mountains of gravel for resurfacing the highway, and dozens of trucks parked up for the night. But our warm welcome there made up for the setting, and the campsite we were pointed to by the river was idyllic. Like many Alaskans, foreman Ed had an old school bus amongst his collection of delapitated pickups,, which he’d painted gunship grey after being ticketed by the police – apparently Chromium Yellow is patented on school buses by the state! Every May, he hauls up 10 000 pounds of supplies to run the camp.
A real end-of-the-earth feeling. The last fifty miles or so were pancake flat and almost bolt straight - straight into the wind. The little blip there is Dan struggling on.
Emotional. 20 miles to go. Bumping into Jodie again, we found out that the fabled Prudoe Bay Hotel buffet ended in an hour and half, throwing our carefully planned arrival into complete disarray, and forcing us into a hectic dash for the finish line.
20 miles out, I started to practise my jubilant wave. But like a Tour de France rider who’s attacked too early, legs were starting wobble, just as the wind really blustered.
But with 10 miles to go, arrival is innevitable, whatever the world throws at you. The wind-down should be a carefully calculated affair, with food whittled down to the last munch on a Cliff bar, leaving nothing in the panniers, like a game of scrabble. Revel in the last few hundreds metres of cruising into town in time to find somewhere to stay, and bask in the contened glow of having arrived. This is our moment. In the bike tourers mind, we are the coolest things to have hit town: caked in dust, battle hardened, hardy-souled. (Of course, the reality, once we survey ourselves in the mirror, is generally a whole lot different. We’re just more dirty, grimey travellers passing through…)
We've arrived. Exhausted after our Last Battle with the headwind, just a few moments later we were tucking into dinner.
Don't expect much of Deadhorse, home to oil workers, machinery, bears and caribou.
Various crazy looking machines were parked up around the site, and the air was filled with the drone of generators and diesel engines.
Budget accomodation. With the hotels costing upwards of $150 per person a night, we opted the delights of a container to shield us from the arctic wind.
In Deadhorse we met Koko, a Japanese tourer 3 year and4 months into his world trip. 2 more years to go...
Kindly, Annie and Jim at Carlisle shipping sorted us out with a ride back to Fairbanks. Which was an experience in itself! Bill and Mike were the real deal, and the 13 hour journey was great. Dan and I were in two different trucks, and their banter on the CB radio (generally about Harleys) was priceless.
280lb Texan Bill was a real character. He's been running the Haul Road on and off for nearly 25 years. He's worked as a rodeo rider, a ballroom dancing teacher, and used to have a 23 ft Burmese boa constrictor (called Morticia) that travelled with him in his cab, as well as a clutch of some 40 guns at home. It was eye opening to see life from being a truck window, and we chatted away throughout the journey. Thanks guys for a great lift!
Back at last, after an epic ride.
Phew. Now it’s time to head south, and finally travel in the ‘right’ direction!
Running the Haul Road (part 1)
July 31, 2009
We’re just back from our 9 day, 500 mile journey to Deadhorse, the most northerly point you can ride to in the Americas (the last 8 miles is BP’s private road to the Arctic Ocean).
It’s been an epic trip; following first the Elliott, and then the Dalton Highway. Completed in 1974 in a hasty 157 days, this 414 miles stretch of rough, remote road serves the Alyeska pipeline, providing a year round means to deliver diesel, machinery and food to the oil fields on the Prudoe Bay – via the 18 wheel trucks who ‘run the Haul Road,’ as it’s been coined.
The Haul Road runs beside the Trans Alaskan pipeline for much of the time.
It varies from tarmac to hardpack dirt, gravel and mud.
The Alaskan Interior is an unrepentant place, and its sheer size brings with it a true sense of wilderness and isolation not often experienced, wherever you might find yourself in the world. Although the road itself is quiet enough, what you need to remember is that the real expanse is on either side, where there’s simply nothing but swathes of pipecleaner-like spruce forests or barren, rolling tundra for hundreds and hundreds of miles. The few settlements that exist can only be reached by light planes in the summer, or snow machines in the winter.
Come winter, it can get a touch chilly in the Alaskan bush. We had record highs of 92F though.
In the depths of winter, water is dispersed along the highway to create an ice road; temperatures regularly hover around the minus 50F mark (that’s -45C) and have even reached minus 80F. So with the exception of a few crazy japanese travellers who revel in hardship (we heard of one who had walking the Haul Road in the winter, completing a 5 year journey from Tierra Del Fuego), the summer is definitely the time to be here. Like a pilgrimage, each year it draws a few dozen riders beginning or ending their epic journeys across the Americas.
We’d already been forewarned that there’d be very little in the way of supplies. No grocery stores for 500 miles; that’s a long way. Organised, well-researched tourers have food drops mailed ahead to a tiny settlement at the halfway point, Coldfoot. Others, like us, simply loaded up for 10 days on the road…
10 days of food for two hungry cyclist = a lot of weight. Our secret weapon was peanut butter; rations included half a pot a day between us.
Black gold, discovered in 1968, is the raison d'etre of the Haul Road. Although reserves are depleting, the area still big business, with the controversial possibility of extracting natural gas too. At the moment, the pipeline provides about 700 000 barrels per day, or 15 per cent of US oil. It's 800 miles long, and transports the oil to the nearest ice-free port, Valdez.
The first 85 miles along the Elliott Highway eases you in with near perfect tarmac. Then the fun really starts: the Dalton Highway.
A generous shoulder to ride along makes riding pretty relaxing, until the hills kick in.
At times, the hundreds of forest fires burning in Alaska cast a smouldery haze across the landscape.
Yep, not too many people live around here. But those that do have a good sense of humour.
Some fellow cycle tourists, Rene and Josh, recommended stopping off at the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Artic Circle Trading Post. A good call, as not only did it sell delicious 1 dollar muffins, but it had a nice grassy patch to camp on. Joe Carston, its owner, welcomed us in with free coffee (‘When people come to your house, do you charge them?’). A natural raconteur, he likes nothing more than chewing the cud with tourists who stop in on their journey north.
An unexpected, muffin-rich oasis on the Elliott Highway. The Artic Circle Trading Post is run by Joe, a jovial, silver-beared individual hailing from Minesotta. He's been here for 35 winters, having originally been drawn to Alaksa, like many others, to work 7/12s on the construction of the pipeline - 12 hours a day, seven days a week. Hard work, but a good earner.
He and his wife have adopted eighteen kids over thirty years, not forgetting the five children of their own. An old 1971 long wheelbase Checker wagon (of NY taxi fame) was parked up in the yard, once used to ferry his extended family on holiday. It was the perfect spot to stash food away from hungry bears.
Apparently these furry creatures like nothing more than snacking on toothpaste, so don't forget to leave that outside too.
In fact, we became experts in using the local furniture to hang food away from prying paws - in this case using a service road gateway leading to the pipeline. Even those devious tree-climbing black bears can't get up these.
From the Trading Post, it was just 20 miles to the start of the Dalton Highway, and it welcomed us immediately with loose gravel and unfeasibly steep climbs.
Goodbye pavement, hello gravel.
Pull over and hold your breath. Actually, the truck drivers were surprisingly tolerant of the cyclists who struggle along a road that's very much a workplace for them - slowing down and giving us plenty of space.
We followed the cyclist’s etiquette of pulling over for these goliaths of the road, and they in turn gave us (for the most part) as much room as they could. We could hear them for several minutes, far into the distance, before they finally thundered past, a grapeshot of pebbles crackling in their wake. Struggling up each climb, we looked back over our shoulders like hunted prey, innevitably making us wobble from one side to the other, front tyre slipping and losing a few valuable joules of energy.
The best tactic is to pull over with a wave. Trucks CB radio each other if there's a cyclist, and over the days, get to know roughly where you'll be. The 500 mile journey takes them 12-15 hours. After 10 hours of rest, they turn round and head back again. And repeat...
Know your place in the pecking order for a harmonious co-existence.
The road, cutting through a sea of forest, wound on and on, up and over ridges that slowed us to turtle-pace.
Although I like my dirt riding, surprise stretches of tarmac provide some 'light' relief.
Some half of the pipleline is overland, and it appeared and disappeared from the earth, zigzagging over the hills, glinting in the sun.
Incredibly, the road comes within metres of the actual pipeline, so close you can reach out and touch the casing. No eletric fences, no checkpoints. Presumably a satellite keeps a watchful eye, and occasionally, a helicopter swooped overhead.
The Dalton Highway meets the mightly Yukon river at the Dalton’s Mile 56. Even though half of the river lies in Alaska, and it flows right across this massive state, incredibly this is the only place where there’s a bridge that spans it.
FBaiiiiii. A reminder not to get any funny ideas. in 2001, a drunken hunter took a pop at the pipeline; six thousand barrels worth of oil came spewing out.
The Yukon River. Which also meant we were close to the fabled Hot Spot.
Perhaps just as important to the cyclist though, is the fact that crossing the Yukon means that you’re just a handful of miles away from the Hot Spot diner. News of their fabled 10$ burgers spreads from tourer to tourer like forest wildfire – we’d even been shown photos of said burgers. Little more than a makeshift trailer home set up on a parched scratch of land beside an ice-cool spring, it’s run by a formidable ex Playboy Bunny, with a husky voice reminisent of Marge’s chainsmoking sisters from the Simpsons.
Turning left is good.
Not usually one for burgers, this completely hit the spot. Dan had reached nirvana, and blissfully tucked into two.
Also tucking into a burger was Dave Thomas, from the Isle of Mull. His small stature (and his banjo) fit perfectly into his Mini estate, which he was driving around the world.
Diddy Dave and his Big Trip.
Then it was time to tear ourselves from this burger paradise (can there be such a thing?) and head out once more into the heat, closing in on the lumps in the road known in trucker parlance as Sand Hill and Rollercoaster.
The Rollercoaster...
As the miles wound on, the road seemed to become quieter and quieter. It was just us and the mosquitoes.
To add to the challenge, the road was being resurfaced, a process that involves spreading calcium chloride to surpress dust and break down the rocks. It’s a messy formula that creates a tacky, brake-clogging mud, but once it’s dry, the results are as smooth a the best tarmac.
With its tors and flat, muted colours, the landscape took on a Dartmoor-esque quality, with the 40 foot granite Finger Mountain looming in the distance.
17 miles to go to the Artic Circle. That's about the same distance as my commute from Bristol to Bath used to be...
A friendly ranger even gave us a certicate to mark our crossing of the 66 degree latitude point.
Inventive Place to Stash your Food: the roof of a long drop toilet.
Finally, the sun went in and the Jack White and Brookes Ranges came into view. Covering almost a fifth of Alaska, the Brookes marks a barrier across the state between the boreal forest to the tundra of the North Slope, which in turn leads to the Arctic Ocean.
Our diet was centred around a dwindling supply of blocks of cheese, flatbread, pasta, carrots, copious servings of peanut butter and Dan’s special morning recipe: uncooked porridge oats mixed with water, orange flavouring and a real treat, raisins.
A breakfast of champions.
Until, low and behold, we came across a tasty roadside treat…
Fields and fields of wild blueberries. We sat beside the road, gorging on fruit.
Forest fires from previous years left a wake of blackened spruce trees, poking out of the ground like giant charred matchsticks. Around them, fireweed was flowering, preparing the earth for regrowth.
Finally, at mile 175, we pulled into the old mining camp of Coldfoot, so called because gold prospectors would get cold feet and turn back from the Koyukuk River.
Nowadays, Coldfoot offers a bar, a truckstop cafe, a mozzie-ridden camping ground and some basic accomodation for tour groups.
The truckers sat, portly bellies, beards, moustaches, Carhart dungarees and baseball caps for the most part, smoking on their own table. We were finally able to put faces to the mysterious men, who surveyed the world from high up in their cabs, thundering past us like unstopable forces across the plains.
But we had eyes for one thing only. Like the Hot Spot before it, news of Coldfoot’s all-you-can-eat-buffet is passed on with reverential hush by bike tourers travelling the Dalton Highway. On our tight budgets, $20 had seemed an overpriced indulgence back in Fairbanks. 5 sweaty, dusty days later, it seemed like a complete bargain.
Surveying the spread of food, including salmon, steaks and five deserts, it was hard not to behave like cavemen. 'Each as much as you want' said the chirpy waitress. We took her to her word.
The tired but contented smile of a man who has earned his dinner.
This photo was taken at 1am.
With bellies painfully full, we pitched the tent for the night, enjoying an evening drinking cheap rasberry ‘champagne’ and tequila with the friendly cooks and cleaners at the camp, listening to stories of eccentric prospectors and trappers who still live in these parts.
Just 250 miles lay between us and Deadhorse…
To be continued…
(There’s some YouTube videos here)
Fairbanks and onwards…
July 19, 2009
We’ve now leap-frogged our way up to Fairbanks. We have Mike, who works with robots in the Air Force’s bomb disposal squad, to thank for our comfortable and speedy ride here, after he picked us up in Palmer and drove us all the way to Fairbanks. There can’t be too many places left in the world where two guys, two bikes and ridiculous load of luggage can get a 5 hour ride within an hour of sticking out a sign made from a pizza box…
One pizza down and an hour later, we were speeding to Fairbanks.
It’s an exciting moment, as it’s here that the journey really begins. Our off road loop of the Kenai was superb, but wasn’t actually on the route. Now it’s time to get rolling. Daniel has to be in Montana by the end of August, and I need to get cracking on the Great Divide Mountain Bike Ride to clear Colorado before it’s too cold and snowy.
Our first payed campsite of the trip. Lush grass and a bench included.
Yes please.
For those who can't do without a hair drier when they go camping...
From now, we’ll keep riding towards an ever later sunset – I’m writing this at midnight and there’s still plenty of light to read by. Logistically, it seems easier to ride the gruelling Hall Road north to Prudoe Bay, and then try and hitch a ride back to Fairbanks, rather than the other way round. Hopefully enough people will see us struggling away over the next week to offer us a lift when we backtrack – avoiding the $280 ticket for the shuttle bus.
We slept in a Airstream RV converted into a sauna at Adam's houseshare. It was actually Dan's second night he'd ever camped out in a sauna. The first time, sometime turned it on when he was asleep!
Daniel's legs, struck by Pushkie, and now blisttering in the sun...
When's the last time you checked for sleeping kids?
Following a cycleway between Palmer and Wasilla.
The journey here was a good chance to see what we have in store for us when we head south to Denali. It’s the scale of the wilderness that’s overwhelming. So few settlements; when they do appear, blips along the endless yellow paint strip that divides the road, they’re little more than a tyre repair shop, a gas station, a few rusty trucks, and perhaps a timewarped motel. “This place has a way of making you feel small,” commented Mike.
Alaskan 'junk'. Love it.
More guzzling classics.
The grandeur was a relief after our ride out of Anchorage, working our way through its ugly sprawl of industrial estates and malls, onto its busy highway. Thankfully there was a cyclepath, even if our conversation was drowned up by the constant drone of heavy traffic.
These kinds of days are the the ugly underbelly of touring, the tedious slogs along busy roads to escape cities, the parts of a long trip we generally filter out from memory, or simply shut our eyes and sleep through on a bus journey. But these segments also lend bike touring its depth; it isn’t just the highlights of a country, it’s everything in between. They’re part and parcels of the highs and lows that, like the roads we follow, challenge us both physically and mentally. Luckily it only takes a small encounter or a breathtaking view to lift the spirits once more – or in our case, a free extra iced bun in a bakery on our way to Wasilla…
Heading out of Anchorage: not the prettiest of rides, though a little Photoshop helps!
Much better. Idyllic Palmer, the breadbasket of Alaska.
When Dan found this badge on the road (we call them his surrogate family) I had a serious case of 'pannier customisation envy'. It's a bike touring thing.
In a car park in Anchorage.
And the biking equivalent. I wish I lived in a place that justified owning one these titanium Fatbacks. The tyres are 3.7in wide, and a run at just 5-7 psi for riding in the depth of winter!
From what we’ve read, the Haul Road is both challenging and remote. There’s little to be found along its 400-odd mile length, much of which is gravel, muddy or potholled (for instance, there isn’t a single grocery store). Hopefully we’ll be back in Fairbanks within a little more than a week. In the meantime, thank you for reading and leaving comments – they’re always nice to read. And thanks especially to everyone in Anchorage who’ve offered advice, a yard to sleep in or spare parts to get us on the road – including Alan, Sage, Adam, Eric and Greg. You’re hospitality and kindness are much appreciated.
Alan, famous for his both bike-strewn backyard and wealth of Alaskan knowledge . Rarely a moment does he stand still!
Adam, who sorted us out with everything from bear spray to a spare skewer to a night in a sauna. Thanks!
Winner of 'The coolest door handle to a bike shop in the world'. More titanium loveliness at Speedway Cycles.
Riding the Kinai Peninsula (part 2)
July 16, 2009
So after our night on Kenai Lake, a fast gravel road descent fed us back onto the highway at Cooper Landing, where some blueberry muffins refuelled us for the road ahead.
America: you can't beat it for local produce.
Back on tarmac, we pushed on to the tiny settlement of Moose Pass, then hitched down the dead end road towards Seward, to ride the Lost Lake trail. The busy, windy highway wasn’t a stretch we particularly wanted to ride, plagued as it is by the colossal RVs, with no shoulder on which to seek sanctuary.
We’d also been told to ride Lost Lake unladen, and to stash our kit before setting off. Good advice, as its phenominal descent turned out to be riddled with roots and steep, techy steps – great! A veritable gem of a ride, it unravelled out of the car park with a long, ambly singletrack climb through lush, fern-filled forest, coated in a softly-strokey fur of moss.
Miniature ferns cast an ethereal light across the trail.
The climb was long but fairly easy going, with the odd rooty ladder.
A fairytale setting, and different in feel from anything else we'd ridden.
Then it opened up on onto open, Alpine pastures, blanketed by heavy clouds. Still working its way ever higher, the trail looped on and on.
Bonus: no mozzies either.
Woodland, alpine and rooty singletrack. Lost Lake is a gem of a trail.
With a highland feel, we could have been back in Scotland. Until the clouds lifted...
What a ride! Enveloped by clouds at the top, it could have been Scotland or Dartmoor – until the mists lifted and rugged peaks and glaciers materialised in every direction and a vast, pancake flat lake revealed itself to us. A lost world, gouged out by glaciers eons ago. Then the trail delved back headfirst into the woods, unrolling its way tightly down the mountain side, knotted with roots to launch off and water drainage crossings to keep us on our toes.
There’s little to compare with riding a near endless ribbon of singletrack, just as a glacier pokes unexpectedly out of the high mountain cloud cover.
The trail wrapped around various small lakes that reflected the rugged scenery.
Worth breaking the flow for...
Mist swept in and out, revealing high peaks with a magician-like flourish.
A sea plane buzzed overhead, looking for a break in the clouds to land on Lost Lake.
It was getting late by the time we made it back down to the road. We flagged down a ride with Sean, a young writer, who was driving home after hitching to Homer to buy a baby blue ’72 Chevrolet Blazer. Sitting behind the huge wheel, he had the quiet pride of a new owner. The Chevy resonated with a gurgly, throaty rumble, shimmying across the road when he pressed the brakes; a cranky old giant whose body is beginning to age. Indeed, it swallowed up bikes, via a boot window that was wound down with a chrome foldaway handle.
That night, we camped in Michelle’s yard, a friendly, kooky Oregonian who’d we hitch-hiked with to Seward. We’d really landed on our feet. Warm hearted and completely spontaneous (she set about picking wild flowers while we loaded up the bikes), Michelle had droven us with bare (tattooed) feet, not only inviting us to camp in her yard, but feeding us delicious slow roasted pork stew when we returned late and exhausted after the ride. After murming a few polite refusals, we tucked in – a welcome change from the pasta that had been sustaining us each day, coupled with the (cold) porridge oats (mixed with orange Tang in lieu of milk) and the cheese /peanut butter sandwiches. We’d stocked up on supplies before leaving Anchorage. Looking into the trolley of pasta, brown bread, cheese, porridge and peanut butter, one guy commented to Dan: you must be one of those health nuts!
Little Eli and Handbag Peanut.
Michelle donated this pendant hewn from caribou bone for my pannier-customisation program. Helps me tell one from the other too!
That evening we chilled out with her friend Chris, and two kids, Eli and Forrest, and their newfound dog – Peanut, a mellow, handbag-sized creature who took an amusing dislike to Dan! As we were finding out, these backwater towns are homes to some interesting, fringe communities. I enjoyed finding out what drew people here, and hooked them in so much to made endure the long winters, when there can be as little as a few ours of light each day. A New Yorker called Melissa popped round too; a friendly, formidable figure with a shock of long, jet black hair. Melissa lived in a yellow school bus pulled up on the roadside that had once been driven up all the way from the lower 48s.
Seward itself teemed with tourists heading out on boat trips to the fjords. Wild strawberries, blueberries and salmonberries sprouted beside the overgrown train tracks and I noticed a drifter-looking character wandering in along the railroad as we headed in. The sun was burning off low cloud by the time we pulled into its quaint downtown, lifting a curtain on the mountains and revealing swathes of forest, a dramatic backdrop to a harbour dotted with hulks of rusty old containers.
Seward. A good spot for breakfast.
Bursts of colour in Alaska's wind-blasted, rusting harbours.
With views like this, why bother getting out of your RV?!
The bike shop in Seward was set in a recycled railway carriage. 'Carriages take up a lot of space in a landfill,' said Ron, who ran the place.
Backtracking to Moose Pass, yesterday afternoon we rode our last trail – Johnson Pass – which linked us back to the road we’d followed to get from Anchorage to the Peninsula. Another swoopy lakeside ride that heaved us up and over the mountains, pinballing us back out on the other side. We’d been warned that it could be overgrown at this time of year, but after the Russian Lake jungle, it felt relatively sparse. We just had to contend with a gang of particular tenacious mosquitoes that chased us up the climb, and a grizzly bear sighting.
Fortunately by the time we'd spotted the grizzly, it was bounding off, crashing noisily into the undergrowth. It was big...
Still, handy to have the bear spray at the ready. The sighting set us off on a renewed round of yodelling.
The 22 mile Johnson Trail was the last pass in our singletrack medley.
From there we picked up a ride – hitching in Alaska, even with two fully laden bikes – is remarkably quick and easy. It was 10pm, and within just a few minutes, a pickup pulled over. Alta was a native Alaska back from salmon dipping with her family, and we learnt about her work driving heavy machinery in the lead and zinc mine, set in the reserve to the far north. Chatting away, we got a real sense of how of how close knit the Alaskan communities are. How in touch, despite the massive changes brough through mineral extraction, everyone is with their natural surroundings, hunting only for food, hiking only with a purpose, and looking after each other in times of need…
Tired legs. The final descent off Johnson Pass.
Alta she dropped us right off back at Alan’s bike-strewn yard where we pitched our light in the midnight light. Alan soon emerged, beers in hand, to welcome us back. We’re now planning to next phase of the journey – the ride up to Fairbanks, taking the backway via the Glenn and the Denali highway.
In the meantime, time to give our legs a well deserved break…
Mountain biking the Kenai Peninsula (part 1)
July 16, 2009
Singletrack, singletrack, singletrack as far as the eye can see...
First off, Alaska is amazing. Both Dan and I agree that this last week has been amongst the best mountain bike touring we’ve ever done. The scenery is expansive and simply beautiful – and that’s just the little nugget of the Kenai Peninsula that we’ve experienced so far. The weather has definitely helped – it’s been the best conditions in five years, apparently – blessing us with views of sweeping, snow capped ranges, crystal clear evening light and sublime trail conditions. Riding aside, we’ve received an incredibly warm welcome from all the Alaskans we’ve met, each seemingly surpassing the next.
The midnight view at Kenai Lake made even instant ramen noodle taste good.
This last week has also given us an insight into the two distinct sides of this enormous state. There’s the Alaska of pristine parks and vast tracks of protected land and reserves (almost three quarters is owned by federal or state agencies, like the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge). And there’s the Alaska of (now dwindling) oil, and the junk wasteland this oil has brought with it. Empty husks of old cars and trucks litter many a scruffy backyard, streaked with rust and sprouting weeds and wild flowers, or bleached by salt water.
Without getting too political, Alaska seems to embody the way attitudes to the environment are compartmentalised in the US. On the one side, there’s a system of national parks and and a forest service that’s second to none; every effort is made to protect flora and fauna, and laws strictly enforced for sustainable fishing. And on the other hand, even now, there’s an incredible squandering of energy and resources, and a very dubious government energy bill. All this oil has spawned a completely car-centric culture, home to massive gas-guzzling V8 trucks, and cars almost as wide as those in Europe are long.
The Goliath RV. This one was pulling a 'short range' Hummer. Various compartments pop out to the side and the top, like a Transformer. Hydraulic, RV-levelling legs mean you won't even spill your beer.
It’s the Goliath RVs that really intrigue me though. These giants of the road are literally as big as passenger buses, parking up in neat lines before the most majestic views imaginable. Costing hundreds of thousands of dollars and squeezing out little more than six or seven miles to the gallon (one US gallon is 3.8 litres), they’re jam-packed with all the mod cons; a complete lux bubble. For the cyclist they can be a little precarious – especially when there’s no shoulder to ride on – as they bumble along unfamiliar routes, taking every inch of available highway. Each to their own, but it does feel a step too detached from nature… I had to smile when I read the sticker on one of them as it thundered by: our little paradise.
Alaska One: stunning mountain scenery and barely a soul on the trail.
Alaska Two: a junk wasteland.
Our route turned out to be a cracking loop. Eric from Epic Designs knitted together a way of linking up some of Alaska’s best singletrack, and we weren’t disappointed. Travelling with so much kit didn’t always make our life easy, but gave us the versatility to pull over and camp where we wanted. We tackled a mountain bike trail every day, with road sections in between.
The forest-clad singletrack climb up to Resurrection Pass forded clear creeks.
The 39 mile Resurrection trail was particularly epic, and is apparently rate as rated as Alaska’s top trail. I can honestly say it’s some of the best singletrack I’ve had the pleasure of riding, with a lovely shape to the journey. A sinewy climb and a fast flowing descent, both through ancient, moss-coated forest, provided the bookends to a spectacular stretch across wild and open terrain at the pass top. An encounter with a grizzly and her cub on the way up added some extra spice to the ride too…
There were camping spots along the way, many with bear-proof storage boxes. No cooking or snacking in the tent, as bears can smell the odours.
And there were cabins you could book in advance. These carpenters were fixing up a few of them, a nice summer job... In the winter, they head off to Antartica. David told us he's barely had a dark night for four years. Like most men here, they all had beards - an Alaskan right of passage. I'm growing mine...
It was hard to believe these trails weren't built for biking, and that they were dual use. The well groomed singletrack wound its way up through the forest.
Until it emerged onto open land towards the top of the pass.
Lovely. More of this please...
... thank you!
Cresting the pass top, at last.
It was hard to imagine the trail being any better. Flowy singletrack, a grizzly sighting, swathes of wild flowers and grand mountain views. It was a little hazy as there’s some four hundred fires burning in the state, thanks to the heatwave Alaska is experiencing.
After some encouragement, Daniel began to release his inner whoop, and was soon whooping his way down the bermy descents. This expression of biking excitement had a dual purpose, as we didn’t want to surprise a grizzly round the next bend. We also yodelled out a bear-fending mantra. I went for a ‘Yodolo hoo ho’ style of incantation, while Dan favoured more of a ‘Yoyoyoyoyoooo’ battle cry.
A pause for breath after the climb, and a chance to take in the view.
July is a good time for wild flowers. We had to watch out for the white flowered Pushki, similar to cow parsnip, that can blister your skin in the sun.
Bliss. Late afternoon light on the descent down from Resurrection Pass. This is what it's all about.
Who knows what these are, but they looked like a fluffy-haired army emerging from a freshwater stream.
We crossed paths with a few riders. Will was travelling alone and was packing a handgun strapped to his chest, as a second line of defence after the bear spray, velcroed to the top tube of his bike...
Not a bad spot to pull over for swim. Cue shoal of salmon and soaring eagles.
Russian Lake was crazily overgrown in places and at times, completely engulfed us; we pushed our way through foliage as high as our heads, ‘bushwaking’ our way through on two wheels, as they say here. Still, there was no shortage of big snowy peak views and pastures of wild flowers. Following a river at times, it also offered the chance to pull over and wash (just after we’d seen a black bear lumber off). As we cooled ourselves in the clear waters, a school of salmon worked their way upstream, and bald headed eagles swooped overhead. Add in a backdrop of glaciers, and we had the complete Alaska experience rolled into one.
We're no poo experts, but this looked like the work of a bear...
Heading off for Russian Lake, for singletrack Round Two. There's a strong Russian connection in Alaska. The state was sold to the Americans for 2c an acre in 1867, partly because the Russians didn't want to secure it or let it fall into the hands of the Brits.
At the risk of sounding repetitive, more sublime forest singletrack...
We didn't stay here.
But it did look lovely. This one in the Chugah Forest was hand hewn in 1951 and is maintained by the US Forest Service. The trail and cabin were built in reply to a growing recreation economy on the Peninsula.
Lovely detailing. There was even a cute little pot bellied stove.
After an exhausting day of battling through the undergrowth, we emerged at Kinai Lake. Our tranquil camping spot was interupted only by two drunk campers philosophising long into the night. The thrust of the vocal argument involved whether one of them, if he was God, would send his own daughter to Hell if she murdered the grandmother of his camping buddy. Only in Alaska…
(to be continued)
