Ed does Fairbanks again


NEWS FLASH: The world is going to hell.

Yes, as many of  you may have suspected,  the last few square  feet of
arctic tundra  have now been  paved over to make  a parking  lot for a
"Pizza Hut". I knew it was bound to happen sooner or later, as my trip
to Fairbanks  in 1995 showed that the  trend was  well underway. Well,
just to see how bad things have gotten, I decided to do the trip again
this year. I did it. Palo Alto, CA to Fairbanks AK in three weeks. And
yes, I was never more than walking distance from a shopping mall or an
"Espresso" bar.

Of course, one could  argue that the last time  I had any enjoyment at
all was  on the '95 trip,  and that I was  setting out to enjoy myself
once more. That  might  just be  true. In fact,  I  might  actually be
willing to admit that this trip was even more fun.  Besides, it is the
summer   of '98, and so   it was time  to do  some  prospecting in the
Klondike  (turns out I got the  wrong century, but I  still had a good
time).

I won't bore anyone with details of what equipment I took. If you want
details, send me e-mail.  I tried to travel light. I took a road bike,
sporting a rear    rack with panniers   and a  handlebar bag.  Minimal
camping gear (sleeping bag, bivy sack), which is just as well, because
I  am the world's   worst camper.  The plan was   to do  sleazy motels
wherever  possible, and   simple camping  wherever  necessary. It  all
worked out fine.   One important thing to note   is that I took  three
water  bottles  and  a  100 Oz   Camelbak.  I  highly   recommend this
combination, and  in some places an extra  Gatorade bottle in the bags
helped out.

OK.  On with  the story.  I'll try to   emphasize the interesting  and
adventurous parts, and maybe even exaggerate a little. Mostly, this is
a story about  how wonderful people can   be. I spent  three weeks and
covered over 3000 miles, with no significant bad experiences.

THE LOWER 48:

My ride began on Sunday, June 14. I escaped the Bay Area via Livermore
and the Antioch bridge. 113 north through Dixon, Woodland, and Knights
Landing,  followed by  45 up through  Grimes   to Colusa.  In Grimes I
stopped for  dinner  at "The Islander  Club",  which is  a really  old
tavern converted  from  a really old   butcher shop.  It was  nice and
run-down, just   the  way I  like  'em. The  barmaid  was friendly and
cooperative, and even brought me the entire pitcher  of ice tea, which
she  had  just  made.   I highly   recommend   it, if   only  for  the
atmosphere. In Colusa  I stayed at  the world's  worst motel, and  got
bitten by mosquitoes all night.

The next morning, as early as  I could get started,  I headed up 45 to
Hamilton  City, turned left,   and had a late   breakfast in Orland. I
noticed that they served "Espresso" here. Heading north on 99W, I went
through  Red Bluff, picked   up I-5, went  through Redding,  and on to
Dunsmuir and Weed. I mostly don't remember this part very well, except
that I got into Weed quite late. I grabbed a  bunch of cookies for the
next day at the little market there, had dinner (all-you-can-eat ribs)
at the Hi-Lo Cafe (which also serves "Espresso"), and collapsed.

I then developed what would become  my standard technique for the rest
of my trip. In my handlebar bag I like to keep  lots of snack food, so
that I can eat  while  riding for long   periods. The big problem   is
crumbs. When cookie  crumbs mix with cracker crumbs,  and then get wet
from  any  light rain,  it  forms a substance  in  the  bottom of your
handlebar bag that would make   the  "Readi-Mix" company envious.   My
"brilliant" solution to this  problem is to use  the plastic bag  that
all stores now use to pack your groceries, and use it  to line the bar
bag.  This  way, you can  change  the liner  once  a day, after having
collected all kinds of crud in the bottom.

Weed is the lower end of  route 97, which is really  a key road in the
route to Alaska. I would be on 97 for  almost a week (6.5 days), which
made navigation really simple.  The climb up out  of Weed is long, but
the morning wasn't as cold as it sometimes is.  I got to Klamath Falls
in time for lunch at a really bad Chinese Restaurant, and headed north
into the headwinds  in the early afternoon.   This would be one of the
worst days of  the trip, as I  was trying to get  to Bend by nightfall
(in order to keep pace with my '95 trip). I  got within about 15 miles
when  darkness fell.  This was no   ordinary darkness.  It was  really
dark. I couldn't see a thing, and was regretting not having stopped an
hour earlier at La Pine. It would have saved me much agony in the long
run. As it was, I was stuck in the middle of nowhere and was forced to
do  some creative camping  along  the side of  the road.  It was cold,
noisy, and awful.  I woke up the next  morning with a sore throat, and
the beginnings of a cold  that I would be  fighting with for the  next
week. Oh, well. Serves me right.

The next morning I headed  up to Shaniko, where I  had a lunch of beef
stew and fry bread  at the hotel/cafe. This  is a really  great little
town of 25 in the middle of the high desert. They serve "Espresso". It
looks just like the old west. At Moro I stopped at  a store to pick up
liquid and cookies. I was  approached by an  older local gentleman who
looked a lot like a farmer. I thought to myself "uh-oh. Here goes that
usual  conversation:   'how far  d'ya plan   on  goin'  on  that there
bi-cycle?'". But, to my surprise, this guy asked me where I was going,
and  told me  that  he just  did "Tour  de  Oregon" (or something like
that), and wished   me  well.  This   was  the start  of   many,  many
encouraging encounters throughout the trip.  In contrast with my  last
trip, when everyone  told me I was  "nuts", this trip seemed to  bring
out a lot more well-wishers.

>From there toward  the Columbia gorge is largely  downhill, but into a
ferocious wind.  It took  a long time  to get  to the river,  at which
point the  wind is largely from  the west. Going  over a bridge with a
nasty side wind is no fun, especially when  it's only two lanes, has a
lot of traffic,  the guard rail is only  about 6 inches high,  and the
Columbia is a  hundred feet below.  This bridge has a  climb up to the
middle span, and a descent on the other side. There I was, approaching
the middle, when OH, Jee-zus! It's a STEEL GRATE SPAN!!!!!!

Let me say a few words  about steel grate bridges. I  hate them. I get
no traction, I feel  like I'm slipping sideways  when I ride on  them,
and that both tires have gone flat. We all have  our phobias, and this
is  mine. Sharing a  lane with large trucks   while going over a steel
grate bridge is my idea of hell.

But,  there   I was.  Big trucks  coming  AT  me, with their air-blast
concussion blowing me sideways  to the right,  then sucking me back to
the  left, followed   by the  steady  wind   blowing me  back to   the
right. Traffic approaching me from the rear. Low gear. Grab those bars
like your life depends on it (cuz it  DOES). Steady. Steady. Now we're
going down the other  side. Whew. Back onto  pavement, and finally off
the  bridge. My nerves  were a mess. Now for  the 10 mile climb up the
other side of the gorge. I pushed myself really hard. I was dying, but
I wanted to get  to Goldendale before  things closed down. I pushed. I
climbed. It  was hot. I felt like  quitting. I was completely worn out
by the time I got  to town. I got  a room and  had a nice conversation
and pep-talk from the  motel manager and a  local member of the Hell's
Angels (at least, that's  what he looked like),  and got to the  diner
just as they were closing. When  the owner heard  how far I had ridden
that day, he stayed open, told me to take my  time, and said that if I
had ridden that far and THEN climbed up out  of that gorge, that I was
one "hell of a man".

"Eh, it was nothing", I said. 

In Washington, the  headwinds  got fierce.  From the Yakima  valley to
Ellensburg should have been easy, but  is was awful. The descents were
even a lot of work. This is where I started to fall behind my previous
schedule. It was getting late even as I climbed to Swauk pass, and the
very  long descent which follows  really didn't help as  much as I had
hoped. I didn't even get to Wenatchee. I stopped in the little tourist
town of Cashmere. It was eerie. There was a  little downtown area with
no people and some strange music playing on  the PA system. There were
a few groups of kids walking around. I was glad to get out of there.

The  next day got me  up to the  border,  where I  picked up some more
Canadian cash, and finally crossed into BC.

THE OKANOGAN VALLEY:

Once into Canada, the  scenery changes completely. This little  valley
of  the Okanogan river is surrounded  by pretty mountains, and is very
agricultural. All the houses   are painted and   maintained. Cherries,
apples, berries, peaches, etc., are  available at fruit stands located
approximately every 10 feet along the highway. I got into Penticton as
darkness  set in. The  young lady at the  first motel I could find was
amazed that I had ridden from California. She said that she once had a
boss who had  ridden to Alaska.  When I  told her about  my plans, she
declared   that I  must be  "really   something". I  assured her that,
indeed, I was.

Just to demonstrate how  hospitable people were on  my trip, I want to
digress and share one little  story. I had  asked the manager where  I
could  find something to eat.  She pointed  me  across the bridge, and
told me that it was within walking distance to  many places. Now, this
room (for  about  $28 US), came complete   with a kitchen. Although  I
started to walk to dinner, I quickly decided  that it was farther than
I felt like walking at that time, and that I would go back and use the
kitchen to test some of  my packaged camping food  that I brought  for
emergencies. As I was preparing a feast of freeze-dried spaghetti, the
phone rang. It was  my friend the manager,  letting me know  that many
local places would actually deliver dinner, if it was too far to walk.
I thought that this was amazingly  thoughtful of her, and it basically
put me in a good mood for the remainder of my journey.

The next morning it was raining. By the time I got ready to go, it was
down to a drizzle, but, just to be sure, I put on full rain gear. Sure
enough, my  method worked, and the  rain stopped 15  minutes later. At
Kelowna, I  discovered  that  bicycles are required   to  take to  the
sidewalk  across the long bridge.  I  didn't  realize this on the last
trip, and felt that the sidewalk was much  more dangerous than the car
lanes. Anyway,  I  grabbed some lunch  on the  north end of  town at a
little   sandwich shop  (which   serves  "Espresso"), and  headed  for
Vernon. At Vernon I got some fruit, cherries, and  crackers to last me
over the somewhat  desolate ride over  the hills to Falkland.  In  the
early  afternoon it    began to rain,    and  this slowed me   down  a
bunch. Changing clothes is such a bother, but  it's necessary when you
can't predict the weather. Somewhere up there the rains stopped. I got
something  to drink at Monte  Lake, and had a   nice chat with the gas
station owner who suggested that I just try to get to Kamloops and get
a motel. I thought about taking his advice, but  then I started making
better time. I got my first flat when I picked up  a staple in my back
tire where 97 follows the  Thompson river, and  the  CP tracks, a  few
miles outside of Kamloops.

Kamloops  is  beautiful, and   I really  should like  it.   However, I
don't. The houses are all pretty and neat and  the city is very clean.
What I  don't like is that bicycles  are directed off the highway, and
are then left for dead. It is nearly impossible to go through town and
find the  bike route back onto 97  on the western end.   Add to this a
bazillion foot climb as  you ride west on  Columbia street (I  think),
and it makes for a miserable hour wasted while trying to get out. Even
though I  almost  remembered the  way  from  last time,  I  still  had
trouble.   Once you get  to  the top of the   big  hill, you are in  a
shopping mall wasteland, where  nobody knows any directions. I decided
by dead-reckoning  that the  magic road  that gets you  legally out of
town must be along the base of that hill over there, so I wound my way
to where I was between a hill  and Hwy 97.  I knew that the magic road
designated as a "Bike Route" led past the jail,  but I didn't know its
name. I asked a pedestrian for help, and he didn't  know. He only knew
the tire store where he was going to pick up his car.  OK. I just kept
winding westward. Eventaully, I passed what looked like a jail. It was
an elementary school. Oh, well.  It's gotta be here someplace. Keeping
on in the same direction, with  no other choices, and  with 97 in full
view to my left, I eventually found my road  and the jail. There's one
"Bike Route" sign after you're on the right road.  A mile or so later,
there's a little barricade and a  short dirt path  which gets you onto
an on-ramp from a  truck weigh station, and  onto 97. About the time I
was entering the highway from the on-ramp, a motorist tooted at me and
waved. I think it was my friend with the new tires, but I wasn't sure.

It  was getting  dark  at this point,   and I had  foolish thoughts of
getting to  Cache  Creek by nightfall.   This part  of   97 is lightly
traveled, so it's a pleasant ride, although a bit  hilly and windy. At
some point it became clear that I was going to  either have to camp in
a field, of get very  lucky on finding a  motel, as there really isn't
much out that  way. I began eyeing  the landscape for potential sites,
when I saw that there was a place called "Savona" on my map.

Sometimes maps can mislead. Sometimes there's a  town name and nothing
there.   However, as  I  would learn  throughout the  trip, right when
things  would start  to    become desperate,  something   good  always
happened. Savona was a good example. Someone had the good sense to put
a completely functional town right next to the highway!. I inquired at
a gas station about motels, and was told to take this little road down
into town and to find the "Inn" if I wanted an expensive place, or the
"pub" if I wanted  a cheap place.  That one  was easy. Sure enough,  a
mile later and in the middle of town was a  two story hotel with a bar
and cafe on the  first floor and a hotel  on the second. I  stopped in
the cafe  to ask about a room,  and was directed to  the bar.  This is
great. This place had  NO TOURISTS!!!!! Only  locals. One local with a
really  heavy accent asked  me about my trip  and started drawing maps
about how to get to Jasper and  McBride (not the way  I was going) and
told me that it was like the "wild  west" the way  I was headed (up to
Quesnel). It was awfully nice of him, and  I politely listened. Then I
got to the bartender.  This was no  ordinary bar.  There was a one-man
act playing country music  on an electric guitar  at about 120dB to an
audience of about 8   people in a room  the   size of my office.    No
tourists. All locals. There was a small group of Native folks enjoying
the performance.  I asked the bartender  about a room,  and he gave me
the huge price of  $36 Canadian (about  $25 US).  No problem taking the
bike upstairs. So, I did.

This  place  was      like  something  you'd    see  on    "Gunsmoke"!
Bathroom/showers were   down the hall. The   room had a  double  and a
single bed, all crammed  together into a fairly  small space, a  sink,
and, best of all, a little side room with an  old claw-foot bathtub! I
learned later  that the place was built  in the 1930's, but  it seemed
much  older.  Lightbulbs  were just    screwed  into sockets in    the
ceiling. Right outside my window was the flashing marquis. The one-man
band might  as well have been in  the room, as loud  as he was.  I got
cleaned up, and went downstairs to get something to eat.

The bartender could  only offer potato  chips, but suggested that  the
cafe might have some leftovers, even though they had just closed. Sure
enough, the    cook offered to  re-start   the grill for  me,  and the
waitress (who by now was having a great time telling everyone about my
trip) went in  to help. I settled  for a simple  ham sandwich, so that
they  wouldn't  have to  cook  anything (he  was   making some for the
bartender to  sell, anyway),  and the  waitress  brought me dinner and
started asking me about my  trip. She  was really  excited that I  was
doing it, and said what I heard many times  over: she wished she could
do it.  She  was proud of herself  for quitting smoking  and trying to
get healthy.  We had a nice chat  about the town,  Canada, the US, and
the hotel. As far as I could tell, there was no "Espresso" to be found
in Savona.

Savona is located on a heavily used section of  railroad track. Let me
say a few words about  trains. I like them.  You could put tracks down
the middle of my bedroom and run freight trains on them all night, and
it would be just fine with me.

I finished dinner and said good-night. As I began to climb the stairs,
the "band" began to play "North, to Alaska!". Then a train rumbled by.
It was a delightful  evening. And to  think  that I was worried  about
having to find a spot in the woods.

The next day was prodigious.  Once I turned north  at Cache Creek, the
wind cooperated and I sailed easily up through the "Mile House" towns.
This  is sparsely   populated land,  but there   are  enough stores to
sustain a cyclist.  Around  Williams Lake I began to  notice a lot  of
traffic.   I   missed a  critical  turn  and   lost some  time getting
directions.  On the  north end, after  the climb out  of town, I got a
flat which cost me even more time. I wasn't worried. Things were going
well. After about 9 began to  look for a place to  stay, but just kept
pushing. Some of the locations on my map didn't have much of a town to
back  them up.  As 10   o'clock approached, I  was around  Alexandria,
according to my map. 97 follows the  Fraser River through this region,
up on a ridge overlooking the valley. I  found a store that claimed to
have a camping area with a scenic  view of the  valley, but nobody was
home.  The house to the  north end of  the store had a kind  gentleman
sitting out front who directed me as to just where the alleged camping
area was.  As I started to roll over to  the back of  the store to set
up, a nice  young lady came  out of the house  to  the *south* of  the
store, (only three buildings here: south house, store with campground,
north house), told me that she had once ridden to California, and that
I could camp  right there  in  her grandfather's backyard, saving  $5.
After she assured me that Grandpa wouldn't mind, I set up my tent with
a  nice scenic view of  some old cars  that gramps was collecting, and
got a few hours of sleep. People can be so nice.

Day 9  started  off a  bit  slowly, as  I stopped  for breakfast  at a
truckstop in Kersley. This place took  forever to serve me, and seemed
to  prefer waiting on  truckers.  I try  to  not let things like  that
bother me, and when I got out of there, it was  on to Quesnel. Quesnel
is fairly large and industrial. There is a long descent into town, and
a long climb  up on the other  side. I wanted  to revisit a  rest stop
where I had camped three years before called "Hush Lake". It seemed to
take forever  to  get there, but  once   I did,  something interesting
happened.

THE WOMAN FROM WHITEHORSE:

Hush Lake  is a primitive rest  stop.  I stopped to  use the outhouse,
brush my  teeth, and change clothes.  As  I was  doing these things, a
woman walked up and asked where I was  going. I described my trip. She
said  that she wished that she  was on a  bicycle. She asked about how
far I went in a day.  I said that it  varied, but that yesterday, with
some favorable  winds and    long  daylight  hours, I had    done  200
miles. She said that she lived in Whitehorse, and  knew all about long
days,  having run a  marathon at midnight  two nights before, in total
daylight. She was driving to Vancouver Island in  a hurry, and told me
that the  Cassiar Highway was a  mess. She had   eaten dinner in Dease
Lake the night before (about 600 miles away!).   She asked when I'd be
in Whitehorse.  I told her it would be the next Sunday or Monday.  She
said she  wouldn't be there for  2  weeks, because of her  business on
Vancouver. It was so nice of her to ask. Then  she told me about other
cyclists.  In particular, she had spoken  with a guy pulling a trailer
who was riding to Colorado. She wished me well, and was on her way.

ON TO PRINCE GEORGE:

I   remember nothing about  the trip  into  Prince George, except that
there was  a lot of  construction as I got   close, and that  I really
didn't   recognize  any of  the places   I saw. This   was  not really
important, as I only had to find Hwy  16. This would  be the end of my
time on  97, but it was  just  as well. The  traffic  on 97 had become
quite intense, especially north of Williams  Lake. It seemed different
from the last trip. Much more local traffic in the late evenings. Lots
of  people  towing  boats. Lots  of  cars,  as opposed to   trucks and
motorhomes. I got the impression that more people  were living here or
vacationing here than there were a few years ago. Of course, my memory
may  be going, too. I  didn't recognize  anything  in Prince George. I
couldn't find the grocery store  where I had stopped  in '95. I'm sure
it was there, but not where I  was looking. I  decided that it was not
necessary, having stocked up in Quesnel, so I just headed west on 16.

The  hills on 16  have gotten  a lot bigger.   The traffic  has gotten
heavier. There is a lot of climbing to do on the  way west from Prince
George. There is  also a lot of  rural  housing going in.  Every  cafe
serves "Espresso".   About 20 miles out  of town I  ran across a young
couple riding to Maine. She was from Woodside (small world) and he was
from someplace. They had started in Whitehorse and had taken the ferry
to Prince Rupert.    They had heard bad   stories about  the  Cassiar,
although they  had  met a  "crazy German"  guy  on a  bicycle  who was
heading up it as they had come through.  We parted and  I headed on to
Vanderhoof.  16 is  much hillier than  I remembered.   I wasn't making
particularly  good time, but I  got to Vanderhoof in  time to  go to a
7-11 and pick up a large stash  of goodies for the  next day.  I think
the 7-11 serves  "Espresso".  Some locals asked me  about my trip, and
were  quite polite.  However, there was  still quite  a bit of traffic
around the town,  and  I wanted to get   away. As darkness fell I  had
gotten to  "Beaumont Provincial Park" near  Fraser Lake. This park was
quite crowded with motorhome people  who had lots of  noisy kids. As I
paid the $12 to the attendant, I asked if, for the price of admission,
she  would kindly  shoot any screaming  kids.    She assured me  that,
indeed, she would. "Remember, now", I  said, "any screaming kids and I
want to hear BANG!  BANG!, and  that's it, OK?".   "Will do", she told
me. At least there was some drinking water and a nice bathroom.

Despite the hills and wind, I had been catching up to my previous pace
for the last few days. The weather was cooperating,  and I was feeling
better. I was only about 25 miles short of where I had stopped on this
day in '95. I hoped to make it all up the next day.

The  hills on 16 just didn't  quit. The old   hotel at Endako is still
just a tavern. At least they changed the name  to reflect that fact. I
remember stopping  for   supplies in  some  town, maybe   Houston, and
slipping  through  Smithers  without a  stop.   Smithers  seems to  be
growing,  with  lots    of rural housing     going  in, and  lots   of
traffic. "Espresso" bars are plentiful here. I wanted  to get to South
Hazleton, so I really pushed onward. Somewhere along here I saw a wolf
wandering on the road.  I think he didn't  even notice me. There was a
long  stretch of road  construction on the way  into New Hazleton. the
road was torn down to dirt, and, of course, it started  to rain. Not a
bad rain, but is was getting cold.  In New Hazleton  I made a point of
seeking  out the  Chinese  restaurant that had  served  me so well  in
'95. It was  still there and  still good. My  waitress talked to me at
great length  about her grandmother in  Oakland, the bad local economy
due to the mills  shutting down, and how she  wanted to leave.  I then
rolled into South Hazleton.  Late,  but I had  at  least caught up  to
myself. I stayed at the  "Cataline Motel" where  the manager spoke all
about the Klondike gold rush (in  which her grandfather was involved),
the Cassiar, and where I might buy some more  cookies. When we decided
that the local  store was  closed, she  scurried into  her kitchen and
came  back with some frozen "friendship  bars" which she had baked the
day before. People can be so nice.

THE CASSIAR HIGHWAY:

The next morning, on the way from  South Hazleton to the junction with
37, I was climbing   a hill and  noticed  a large  black dog near  the
summit along the side of the road. When this dog  stood up on his hind
legs and looked down the road  toward me, I  realized that I had never
seen  a  dog  stand  up  before,   and that   perhaps   this wasn't  a
dog. Indeed, it was a black bear who then scooted across the road into
the woods.

There's  an Indian village called "Kittwanga"  at the  southern end of
the Cassiar. It's quite spread out over a few miles, but there's a gas
station and  the "Seven  Sisters' Cafe"  right  where  37 hits   16. I
stopped for a huge breakfast there, bought  a bunch of supplies at the
store, and tried unsuccessfully  to get a  5mm allen wrench at the gas
station. I had  been hearing creaking noises  from my Phil  Wood hubs,
and I  wanted to tighten  them up. As it turns  out, you need  TWO 5mm
allen wrenches, while I had only brought one. 10 miles up 37 the noise
began  to really bother  me, so I pulled  the wheel off,  and tried to
figure out how to  tighten them with only  one wrench. This,  it turns
out, is hard  to  do.  Even with  my  Leatherman pliers  grabbing  the
opposite side, I   couldn't get enough torque  on  the  screw. Then  I
decided  to jam a plier  jaw down into  the allen hole,  and twist and
turn until I think I got some effect. Then I put a few drops of oil on
the bearing, and  the noise seemed to go  away (The first thing I  did
when I got  home was to get  a PAIR of  5mm allen wrenches, and to put
them in my tool kit.).

The weather started to get nice in the late morning.  I saw a few more
bears  in the early afternoon.  By the time  I got to  the lumber camp
before Meziadin Junction, the sun  was hot. The Hazleton mountains are
beautiful against  the blue sky. I loaded  up with cookies and liquid,
called  a friend  who once drove  the Cassiar,  and  gloated about the
beautiful scene  I  was enjoying  (she  was at  work...heh,  heh), and
headed up to  Meziadin Junction. At  the junction is  a cafe (serving,
you guessed  it:   "Espresso") and gas station   which  share a gravel
parking lot and now have a sign declaring this to be "Club Mez". North
of here is  a lot of climbing,  and there was some  road construction.
The flagpeople are always fun to  talk to, because  they are bored out
of  their minds.  I only  had a short wait,  and  they let me through.
Soon, though, began a 40 mile stretch of  dirt and gravel which lasted
all the way to Bell II.  I got one flat  along the way, but managed to
fix it in short order.  It gets a bit  spooky in the late evening when
there's no traffic on a remote road like this. The bugs were out, too,
making the stop to do a tube  repair all the  more rushed. I just kept
pushing, and got to  Bell II really  late (11:00), with barely  enough
light to see. The station  was closed, of  course, so I just pitched a
tent and slept.  The next morning, I got going just before 7. I wanted
to   eat at the cafe there,   but it didn't open  until  8. I had been
having trouble  getting  myself moving in the   mornings, so I  didn't
wait, and just pushed on.

There's a little gravel  airport called "Bob  Quinn" along the way.  I
stopped there  to use the outhouse, when  a pickup dropped off a young
man. We got to talking. He had been working in a coal mine at a nearby
mining camp. He really liked the camp, and explained  how they spend 2
weeks at the camp, and two weeks in Smithers, with a company-chartered
plane doing the taxi service.   Soon enough, a twin-engine prop  plane
landed. This guy told me about the area, too. He was from Iskut, which
is a little   Indian village farther up 37.   Iskut has about  a dozen
houses. I mentioned that I   remembered  Iskut, and the little   store
there. He told  me that the  had a great big store  now,  and that the
town had grown too big for his liking.

Ever since Bell II the road  had been paved for 2  miles, then torn up
for 2 miles, then paved for 2 miles, then torn up for 2 miles. It was
very annoying.  Nearing the Burrage  bridge, the  road was quite messy
and had  some roller-coaster hills to  endure. While descending one of
these little nuisances,  I noticed a lone  cyclist  at the top  of the
next climb. We met near the top,  and I noticed that  he was pulling a
trailer. Hey, wait  a minute. This sounds familiar.  So, I asked if he
was going to Colorado. "Maybe", he  said, "or maybe Montana, depending
on  when  the money  runs out." I  mentioned that  I   had heard about
someone  riding  to  Colorado from  a  woman I  had  met  several days
before. He asked  if it was  the "Indian woman". I  said that, yes,  I
could imagine that she was. He had eaten dinner with her in Dease Lake
a few nights before.  Then he asked  me "did you  know that she  ran a
marathon last Sunday?". I admitted  to knowing all about her  athletic
accomplishments, and we  had   a nice  chat about   coincidences,  and
cycling through this  part of  Canada. To me,  it was  amazing to have
made this connection after several days. I'm  not sure who he was, but
he claimed to have done  the Cassiar many times,  and to have led many
organized rides through the region.

At  the   Burrage  bridge there was  some     heavy repair  work going
on. Notices  had been  posted  about road  closures of  several  hours
because  of this bridge, and  there was even  a schedule of times when
the road  would be open.  The crew let  me pass, and  one young worker
asked   me  in that  wonderful regional    accent "How  d'ya like  ahr
roads?!!".  I replied that they were "wonderful".

When I got to Iskut, indeed the store had grown. It  was now about the
size of a   7-11. There were  about  15 houses.  I could see  my miner
friend's point.

I was given advice at Iskut to just camp along the Stikine, and get to
Dease Lake  the next day.  Of course,  I ignored this. It was raining,
and I just climbed the muddy road  up to the  top. About 10 miles from
Dease Lake,  the road begins a descent   which lasts all  the way into
town.  This really helped  me, because  I  wanted to get there  before
everything closed.  I went to the  liquor store to  get a  room at the
hotel  (you'd have  to   have  been  there to understand    this), and
succeeded. The nice little cafe across  the street was closed, but the
"Shell" station ran a cafe that closed at 10:00.  She was closing as I
got there, but agreed to  heat up one  leftover  stew dinner.  It  was
wonderful.  This poor woman was  cleaning  up the  kitchen by herself,
while  getting my dinner.  I was  very grateful.   Walking back to the
saloon/liquor store/motel a friendly young fellow  with a heavy accent
said "Hey!,  You're  makin' good  time!".  It was  my friend  from the
Burrage  bridge   construction crew. He  remembered  me  from 50 miles
ago. I began to feel like I was part of a very long, narrow, family.

I  tried to take it  easy the next day. The  road is  paved and fairly
easy. At one  point I saw  a little chick  in the road, and  the momma
bird standing on the shoulder watching carefully. I  swung to the left
to  go around both of them,   and momma didn't like   this at all. She
spread her wings and came after me,  trying to chase  me away. I don't
know what kind  of  bird, but it  was  fairly large,  light brown, and
spotted. As she was starting to  make a swooping  pass at me, a camper
came by in  the opposite direction. I'm  not sure what happened, but I
was worried that momma might have been  hit. I didn't  go back to find
out.

There is a  place  called "Jade City" along   here.  I stopped for   a
"Grizzly  burger" at  the cafe  (where,   oddly enough, "Espresso"  is
available). and stocked up on supplies. I was able  to learn about the
history of this region,  which isn't very old  at all. Only  about 150
years ago did the  first capitalists invade, and  they had a hard time
transporting stuff.  It wasn't until the turn  of the century that the
Yukon telegraph   came  through  the  region, and   there  was no real
contiguous road until the 1970's.

A  little  to  the north   was  a  little  valley,  with   a sign  for
do-it-yourself gold    mining  at some   private campground  nearby. I
noticed a small plume of white smoke in the distance  to the east, and
thought nothing of  it. However, a pickup coming  down the other  side
stopped,  looked  out over  the  valley,  and then  turned around  and
hurried back. When I got to the little  Indian village of Good Hope, I
learned why. There is a real danger of forest fires in this region and
that plume of smoke was one of them. This was Native land around here,
and they protect it fiercely. I  talked with the storekeeper for quite
a while about  the region. He was sad   because all of his  people had
left for the weekend and were going up to Watson Lake, leaving him all
by himself. A posse of  local women was  forming in the parking lot to
go deal with this  fire. If I  had more time,  I would have helped. It
would have been a great experience. I probably should have.

The ride up to  the Alcan highway  from Good Hope is  very  easy.  The
winds were with me, and I got  in to Junction 37  in plenty of time to
get dinner (salmon) and a room. I  called my friend Joe, in Fairbanks,
to let him know  of my progress, and to  estimate when I'd be there. I
discussed the possibility  that I might take a  side trip up to Dawson
City, and  thus would be later  by an unknown  amount of time.  I then
called my friend  Kevin  in Wisconsin, where I   learned that it   was
raining and miserable.  I  was in the  Yukon with sunshine in the late
evening, and he was watching out for tornadoes in Wisconsin. Heh, heh,
I love these trips. I told him about the  possibility of taking a side
trip up to Dawson, and then doing the  "Top of the World Highway" into
Alaska, and that I was nervous about doing such a remote road. We both
decided that my life wasn't worth much, anyway, so there was no reason
not to go. Turns out, it was brilliant logic.

THE ALCAN HIGHWAY:

The Alcan is beautiful.  The Canadians have  been working furiously on
it  for   the last few years.   Grades   have been  lowered, shoulders
widened, and curves  straightened. In fact, it's  too easy. In '95 the
construction was in full swing, and I had to  ride through it in rain,
thus building character. Now, it was in better shape than most roads I
ride on at home. The  weather was very nice  for me, and I moved along
quite well. The scenery is really quite  beautiful along here when the
weather  is clear. I hadn't remembered  it that way  before. Maybe the
Canadian government had a few  snow-capped mountains installed in  the
distance, just to increase tourism. Speaking of tourism, there's a lot
of it here, and  most traffic is in the  form of motorhomes. It became
clear along  here  that, since  this was  the  only route through  the
region, all businesses were geared  toward serving tourists. There are
long stretches between settlements, but they all have tourist junk for
sale,  and their prices can be  quite high. Sigh. Nothing is authentic
anymore.  I stopped  to  load up   on  snack food  at  "Rancheria", or
someplace near there. The store served Espresso.

I started noticing  the same motorhomes passing  me several times  per
day.   This is a   trend that  would continue   for several days. They
drive. They    stop. They drive    again. Sometimes   they  travel  in
groups. One  such group of  four had "Alaska or  Bust" on the  back of
their campers. "Yeah", I thought, "me too".  I saw these folks for the
next 4 days.

In the late afternoon, this part of the trip can get eerie. I began to
think about where I was, and how I had just gone out for a little bike
ride. Now I was in the Yukon. All by bike. If I had wanted to see just
how much  trouble a person  could  get into on  a  bicycle, I had done
so.   This was   a LONG   way  from home,   and  from  any significant
civilization.  However, any  fears  have  no  basis.  There is nothing
unsafe about being  there. As I would  learn time and again, there are
few people,  those that are there are  very much  looking out for each
other. I suspect I was safer there than I would have been at home. 

I needed to get to Teslin  in order to  stay on schedule. It was early
evening when I got to: THE TESLIN BRIDGE!!!!! This is a half-mile long
STEEL    GRATE    BRIDGE over   a   RAGING  TORRENT   of   a river!!!!
Aaaaaaaaaaaaagh!!!  Late in the day, my nerves are in no condition for
this sort of thing. Furthermore, I knew that Teslin was inhabited by a
large population of Tlingkit for  whom  sarcasm is a highly  practiced
art form, and who just loved to make fun of "stupid white folks" (as I
learned  on  my last   trip).  At  least is wasn't   raining (There is
nothing worse than a wet steel grate bridge.).  OK. Gear down. Grab on
real  tight.    No     traffic   (it   was   past     the    motorhome
dinnertime).  Good.    Steady     now.   "Zzzzzzzzzzz",  one     span.
Good. "Zzzzzzzzzz", two spans...Good. Look forward. Don't look at that
river.   Don't  look    back  (much).   Keep pedalling.    "Zzzzzzzz",
halfway. Feels   like  my  back   tire  is  flat.   Ignore   it.  Keep
moving. "Zzzzzzzzzzz", one more span. "Zzzzzzzzzz", then silence. Made
it. My arms were killing me.

This time I wanted to try a place called "Mukluk Annie's Salmon Bake",
which was  a few miles  west of Teslin.  I needed  to see if they were
open.  I went to the tavern.  I went to use the phone.  As I picked up
the phone, the cord  hooked a beer glass that  someone had left on the
ledge, and before  I knew  it,  it had smashed into   the floor.  Some
locals started giving me a hard time: "Hey!  What're you trying to do,
wreck the    place?".  Uh, oh.  This    is Teslin: be prepared   to be
ridiculed. I cleaned  it up and tried to  call the salmon  bake place,
but the call didn't go through.  So, I made the best of the situation,
and got something cold  to drink at  the bar.   The young barmaid  had
only been in town for  4 days, and was  having  trouble with the  cash
register.  It  was giving  "error code  18"  and  refusing to open the
drawer.  Thus, commerce had ground to a halt.  She had the manual, but
threw it down in disgust. This was my chance.  I picked up the manual,
and looked up error  code 18.  "Try this",  I said, reading  the first
instruction.  That didn't work.  It seems that  code 18 meant that the
paper was about to run out.  There was one more alternative given: "to
temporarily ignore this  warning, push mumble/mumble/foo". I asked her
to try "mumble/mumble/foo".  She did.   Pa-ching! The drawer opened!!!
I  was then a very  popular person in  the bar.  Since she didn't know
about the  salmon bake, she took me  over to the sarcastic local folks
who kindly filled me in on the details, and asked about my trip.  They
were suitably amazed and tried to  scare me with warnings about bears.
Then they offered to buy me a  beer.  I politely declined, and thanked
them  for their  help. Although  sarcastic, they  were genuinely  nice
folks.

Mukluk Annie's was another 10 miles down the road,  and was a pleasant
little tourist  trap. The food  was fine, and I   got a cabin  for the
night ($40 Canadian).

The next day was a big decision point for  me. All day I thought about
what to  do after Whitehorse. North or  west? At Johnson's crossing, I
stopped at the little store, and tried to find something, anything, to
carry and eat. This  store had nothing I wanted.   I started to  get a
cinnamon roll, when a gentleman from Texas driving a motorhome offered
to buy me breakfast. So, I sat with them and talked  about my trip and
theirs. When we finished, there was  a white-tailed fox in the parking
lot, looking for food. It seems that he's a "regular".

I stopped at Jake's  Corner for a burger  and  the cookies that  I had
wanted  to get  earlier. This  is a  strange place with  a  lot of old
machinery  on  display  as decoration.  It's  a  bit  run-down, as  if
somebody's great business  plans didn't quite work  out. But there's a
cafe  and a store. After  that,  I immediately had  some tire troubles
with  pinhole leaks caused by the  tube protectors wearing through the
tubes.  These  kind of failures  become  more frequent  after a lot of
miles on the same tubes, and  it was getting to  be really annoying to
have to fix them.

Soon enough, I was in Whitehorse. What to do? I was tired. I wanted to
finish  up and get   some   rest and real    food.  I should   just go
straight. Right.  The road  is easy, and   I could have a  nice, easy,
restful ride to Fairbanks. Right.

Right.
Right.
Right.
Hmmmmmmm.
Naaaahhhhhhhhhh!!!!!

THE KLONDIKE HIGHWAY:

I loaded  up  at a huge  grocery  store on  the west end  of town, and
headed up the   Klondike Highway!!!  The  winds were  cooperating, the
traffic was  low, and the sun was  hot. I made  great  time. I saw two
touring bikes parked by the side  of the road and  stopped to find the
owners. There were two guys from Austria who had just ridden down from
Inuvik. We talked for a few minutes, and I let them  get back to their
dinner. I got to Fox lake where a little  public campground was filled
with the  motorhome  crowd.  The  lake and hills  here were beautiful,
spoiled only by the noisy power boats on the lake.  I got a tent site,
and decided to boil some  water and make some freeze-dried  spaghetti,
thus testing my camping skills.  As I got the  fire started, I noticed
that I had forgotten to bring a spoon with me. So,  I whittled one out
of a piece of wood while the water heated. Such a camper I had become.

The next day I stopped in  the town of Carmacks for  an early lunch. I
asked about where  to get water. As I  was paying for lunch, the local
barmaid was picking up something, and offered to let me fill up at the
bar, where  the water was good.  It was very  nice of her. There was a
nice store in town, too, so I could load up on junk food for the day.

The Klondike highway is central to  Canada's plans for tourism in this
area.  Banners commemorating the  100 year anniversary of the Klondike
gold rush  were  everywhere, and there   was quite a  bit of motorhome
traffic. The road winds along the  Yukon river for  a while, and it is
fabulous to  see.  After Minto, the  road  gets hilly. I  stopped at a
store in Pelly Crossing and actually found  "Gatorade", which I hadn't
seen  in a very long time.  About 10  miles out of   town, in the late
afternoon, I was riding up  a little grade,  and happened to glance to
my right. There,  not 50 feet  away,  sitting on an embankment,  was a
large brown bear. He was eating berries, but I got a  good look at his
face.   In fact, he was watching  me ride past.  Evidently the berries
were good.  He just  watched,  and I just  rode.  A little faster,  in
fact.   I got to   Stewart Crossing kind of late,   and pulled into  a
little  privately-owned campground  to spend  the  night. The  manager
directed me down  to the end of the   lot. When I  got  there, a young
couple was sitting   outside at a  picnic  table, drinking wine.  They
applauded me.  "What for?", I asked.  It seems that they had passed me
four times that day,  and  were amazed  at  the ground I had  covered.
Then I noticed that  they  were from Ohio.  They had  sold everything,
bought  a  camper,   and were  headed  to  Miami.    We discussed  the
possibility  of a wrong turn someplace,  but they assured me that they
knew what they were doing.  They also lent  me  a "Thermarest" to  use
that night.

Although  one hears stories  about mosquitoes in  the North, I had not
ever had  much  trouble with them.   That is, until this  night. These
things  were fierce. You couldn't stop  moving. I got  into my tent as
soon as possible,  and the noise  of those bugs kept  me up all night.
It was awful. I finally got up early and got the heck out of there. It
was a real mistake to stop there, although I was  able to clean myself
in their bathroom, and get some drinking water.  It wasn't worth it. I
was now very tired and needed a good night's sleep.

Oh, well.  On  to Dawson.  Along the way,  the road descends into  the
"Tintina Trench" which is of important  geological significance, or so
the signs told  me. . I  had been  worried about my  back tire.  I was
still riding on the original 700x28's that I had started on, and I had
seen some fraying  on the rear sidewall. I  thought to  myself that it
would  probably  blow  on this  descent. I   thought  about my epitaph
reading "He died   while descending into  the  Tintina Trench".   Sure
enough, a few miles  of descent later, ka-pow!. It  was all I could do
to  keep  the bike  on the  road while I  brought it  in to  a stop. I
changed over to a 700x32 and put in a fresh tube. These "Top Tourings"
are tough tires,  and I had  already gotten 2900  miles on the lighter
ones.  No need to press my luck any more. When I got it back together,
the next bridge   I  crossed  was the   one over  "Flat  Creek".   How
appropriate.

I  then stopped at   the cafe where  the   Dempster Highway  joins the
Klondike. It was really hot, but since I didn't have far to go, I took
my time. While in the cafe, a squirrel ran  around the dining room. He
was a regular there, and lived in the roof. Nobody minded at all.

I got  to Dawson in  the  early evening.  It really  is a pretty town.
There are  the expected taverns,  theaters, and hotels that  have been
restored for the sake of  tourism.  Lots of "Espresso".  However, many
of the buildings look to  be quite old  and not yet restored.  Lots of
young people  with backpacks were wandering  around, as  well as a few
"mountain men" who looked as if they had come to town to get supplies.
I  found a nice  little grocery store, and  stocked  up.  The next day
would  be tough, and I wanted  to be prepared.  There is  a ferry boat
across   the Yukon River  here,  which takes  you   over to the public
campground, and the "Top of the World" highway. I was fortunate to get
a nice spot by the  river, and without  mosquitoes. A nice couple from
Ontario   mentioned that  they  had  seen   me  for several days,  and
congratulated  me on my  progress.  An older  man  from Norway told me
about his bike trip from Oslo to someplace  north.  The ranger told me
about the highway. It was very pleasant.

The next  morning, I got up at   5:00, and wanted  to  hit the road by
5:30. I didn't really know what was ahead, and I wanted to have plenty
of time to deal with it. As  I was packing  up, some younger guys in a
4-wheel drive asked  me if I was  leaving. They wanted the  space. 5AM
and they  wanted  the space.  I  told them I  was, but  it would be 20
minutes  or so. These guys   were really  annoying. They then  brought
their tent over right away. Excuse me! OK, I needed to get started, so
I made sure  I grabbed my receipt out  of the post  (so they'd have to
pay), and I got moving. In 3000 miles, these were the only rude people
I had seen. I really bugged me. Oh, well.

THE TOP OF THE WORLD HIGHWAY:

The Top of the  World begins with about  20 miles of climbing. It  was
paved  right up to the   US border, except  for some  short regions of
gravel which  hadn't been oiled yet. I  had some tire  troubles in the
morning, which could have been an omen for the rest  of this day. Some
motorhome folks stopped  and asked if  I needed help. They  really are
nice folks. The views can be spectacular  from here. There are jaggedy
mountains  off  in the  distance which must   be  over a hundred miles
away. There are valleys, and old miners cabins, and wildlife. The last
mile  or so on  the Canadian side  consists of a  steep  climb up to a
summit.  It was about noon when I got to  the border. The border guards
were not particularly friendly,  and wouldn't give  me water or let me
deposit some trash ("we  have to pack our  trash out, ourselves", they
told  me). Ah, the U.S. They  directed me to a  cafe  4 miles down the
road where I could get some  water. "Probably serve Espresso", I said.
"Huh?", he asked.  "Never mind.". I just went   on. It had started  to
rain. The road  was now not paved.  It was getting messy. Short, steep
hills on loose wet gravel are no  fun. In a mile  was a rest stop with
garbage cans. I wondered who packs out THAT trash.  Then there was the
town of Boundary. This was  the cafe. They  can't give out water. They
can't even cook (no permit). But, they can microwave bad food and sell
you bottled water. I ate a  little and got back on  the road again. It
was  really muddy by now,  and I felt  like  my right rear pannier was
coming loose. So, I stopped for a while to tie  it up with cord. I was
wasting a lot of time with changing clothes, stopping for repairs, and
stopping to eat. It would only get worse.

I highly recommend not being  in a hurry on this  road. Take your time
and plan to camp. Take lots of water.

A few muddy miles later, the road descends.  It really is quite pretty
in  this  region, but I was   starting to  have  a bad  day.  The rain
stopped,  and I spotted a  cyclist headed the   other way. He was from
Switzerland, and was doing a 5-year trip around the  world. He told me
about the rest of the  road, and about a state  park after the town of
Chicken. Yes, Chicken. By the time I got to Chicken, it was 6pm. I had
sliced the sidewall on my front tire on a stone, and had an awful time
repairing it. I  finally put on  a 700x32 and  a new  tube, but I  had
wasted over an hour  trying to get a  patch to hold, and reinforcement
inside the sidewall. I should learn to not mess  around like that. The
weather had cleared up, and the scenery had been beautiful. There were
old gold mines back there, and pretty  streams. A young couple told me
that  they had found  some gold  in the river.  I wanted  to stop, and
actually did  for 5 minutes, but  I  didn't find any  gold.  I went to
Chicken.

The town of Chicken is .2 miles off the highway at mile 67. There is a
little  store  on  the highway,   where   I stopped for  something  to
drink. They had no running water, but would sell 16oz bottles of water
for $1 each. I should have bought a few, but I  didn't on principle. I
got back  on  the   road. I didn't  even   check  out  the  "Espresso"
situation.

It was getting late, and the  going had been  really slow. There was a
lot   of climbing  on loose  dirt  and  gravel, and  descending on the
same. A  mile of up, a mile  of down.  It  was  getting boring and was
taking  forever. I thought  about possibly  camping, when I remembered
the state park. I found the park at mile post 49.  I needed water very
badly at this point. It had  been hot, and  I hadn't been able to fill
up all day, and I was down to 1.5 bottles, from a full load *plus* the
"Gatorade" bottle I  had kept as a  spare in my rear  bags. I found  a
pump,  but the handle was gone!!!!   OK, so I   had wasted 10 precious
minutes wandering around this campground.  Back on the road. Up. Down.
Up, Down. It was really slow. At least the daylight would hold out. At
mile 25 pavement began. I was really tired and was looking for a place
to camp. Then I got a flat. Slow leak again. I was averaging less than
10mph for the  day, and  I  had been trying   hard. I saw a few  motor
campers parked on the side.  I was  getting worried about bears. I was
starving.  I had very  little water left. I knew  that there must be a
descent  into the Tanana valley  someplace, but the  terrain just kept
going up  and down.  Finally,  at mile  6 it  started to  get cold.  I
stopped to change,  when I noticed some dark  figures moving  near the
road ahead. I thought it  was wildlife, until  I saw one with a  white
shirt. I couldn't think of any animals who would wear white shirts, so
I realized that  it was people. How odd  to have people walking around
in  such  a remote area. When   I got there,  they  had found a little
clearing at the bottom of a ravine. It was a group of hikers. I waved,
and they waved back. It was after 11pm at this point.  Had I gotten to
them before they  had climbed down, I would  have asked  to join them.
But,  as I was   only a few miles   from Tetlin Junction,  I just kept
moving.  I  finally reached  the Alcan at   around midnight. There was
still enough light to see, but there was no place to stay.

TO FAIRBANKS:

So, as I turned onto Route 2, I was kicking myself for not stopping to
camp,   for  not  getting more water,   and,  generally  for  being an
idiot. Then I saw  a figure on a bicycle  heading my way.  "Hey, don't
you know it's late?", he called out. "Yeah, you  too!", I replied.  We
stopped and talked for  a while. He was  headed back to Vancouver on a
bike with a  broken  rim. The walls had  worn  out,  and the rim   was
separating as the spokes pulled it apart. Yikes.  He was just going to
go a few hundred miles more, and  get a ferry from  Skagway. I hope he
made  it. He asked about the  Top of the World,  and I  told him about
water  shortages. He said  that he had heard that  they would sell you
bottled water in Chicken. I confirmed this rumor.  It really helped me
to know  that   there were  other  idiots  out there.   I got  to  the
campground just outside Tok very late. It was the roughest 183 miles I
had ever done. Although it had started well,  it really got bad in the
afternoon. Don't do it this way. Take your time.

The next day I got up very late. There was only 200 miles to go, and I
would spread it out over 2 days. I tried to  cook some awful camp food
for breakfast, and found it to  be inedible. It was  about 9:30 when I
got  started, and  I  just poked  along to Tok.   There I stopped in a
hardware store to try to find a  5mm allen wrench.   Fat chance. So, I
ate at a cafe,  and was joined by an  older local  couple who told  me
tales of how  "duct  tape" had  saved their  lives  so many  times  in
Alaska. I got cookies at the market. Tok seems to have grown. I didn't
get moving until after noon. Even the gas stations served "Espresso".

The  highway follows the Tanana valley  all  the way to Fairbanks. So,
the ride is fairly easy, although there is a  lot of short up-and-down
stuff.  About 50  miles from Tok  I ran across  a couple from Italy on
bicycles who were looking  for a place to   camp. They had  a problem,
because there really   wasn't anything before  Tok,  and  it was  late
afternoon.  They  told me about  a  campground 20  miles  back which I
wanted to find, just to  get some sleep, but  I somehow missed it.  It
was just as well. The rule is that right when things become desperate,
something good happens. This day would be no exception.

There  is one stretch of   the  Alcan where the shoulder   disappears,
purple flowers line   the road, and   the road is  as   straight as an
arrow. For miles.  Many miles. With a slight grade.  There is a bridge
over a river which you can see for many of those miles as you approach
it. It looks like it would take 5  minutes to get  there, but it takes
much,  much longer.  It's almost  like  a  mirage.   It's all  you can
see. This bridge,  looming in the distance.  At  first, you don't even
know it's a  bridge.  It looks like a  distant truck. Then, as you get
closer, you realize  that it doesn't move. Forever  later, you get  to
it. I don't even remember the river it crosses.  It's an eerie effect,
though, for anyone who has ridden there.

After  about 95 miles,  I found a  tavern  and a  motel with cabins. I
stopped at  the tavern, and  asked about a room.  As it turns out they
aren't related to the motel. So, I asked for  something to drink. they
had no soda pop that I was willing to drink, but  how about some sweet
ice tea? "Sure",  I said. As  he poured it,  I reached for some money,
and  he said  to forget  it.  It was on  the  house. How nice. Then he
asked: "Do you know how to pick a lock?". Well, as a matter of fact, I
did.  So, I   admitted it. It seems  that  they had recently bought  a
shuffleboard machine (the only one in this area!) from the Elk's club,
and it wasn't  working. There was a little  key lock on top, and  they
wanted to open  it to get inside. So,  I described the tools I'd need,
and we made a pick from a large safety pin.

There  were two guys  there. One was the owner  (or the husband of the
owner), and the  other I'll just call  "George". I started picking. It
was a tough little lock. Not  a very good  one, but when they're cheap
and they  bind,   it's really hard to   "feel"  the pins.  George  was
standing across from me, just to make me  nervous. As I was picking, I
noticed some smoke coming up from under my right  shoulder. At first I
thought it was George's cigarette. But wait, George was over there, and
the smoke was  over here. Pretty soon  it became clear that the  smoke
was coming  out  of the machine.  Before   announcing my discovery,  I
decided to  pause and reflect  upon the  unusual nature of  my current
situation:

1) I was in the middle of Alaska.

2) I had gotten here by bicycle.

3) I was in a saloon.

4) I was picking a lock on a shuffleboard machine.

5) The machine was on fire.

Any one of these items would have normally  made my day complete. Life
can be so wonderful. I then pointed out that we  had a problem. George
pulled the plug,  we tore the back  panel off  by  hand (the lock,  it
turned out, was irrelevant to opening  the machine), and found smoking
relays. Then  George remembered that he had  twisted the control wires
together and now decided to separate them. The machine then worked. We
replace a few light bulbs, and it was  ready for action. I listened to
a  few stories about local bridgeworkers  and their saloon activities.
They let me  use the house  phone to call for  a room. The place  next
door  was way too expensive  for me, but the   bar owner recommended a
cheaper place down the road. The owner's wife offered the backyard for
camping. It was as if  we were all old  friends now. I needed a shower
and a meal, so, I was off with a great story to tell.

I got to the "Cherokee Lodge" at a reasonable  time.  I had dinner and
got a very primitive room. Good enough  for me, however, and the price
was right.  They let me use their  laundry (which I needed badly), and
I called Joe in Fairbanks with my  latest arrival plans. He invited me
over for dinner, and  to stay at his   house when I arrived. This  was
amazing, for someone whom I had only met over the internet. I was very
happy again.  At 4AM I was awakened  by someone pounding on my outside
wall, looking  for  "Mark".  Turned  out   to  be  relatives  of   the
owner. They all apologized the next morning. 

The trip   into Fairbanks is  quite beautiful.   The  Alaska range  is
clearly visible to the south, for most of the day. At Delta Junction I
made my  reservations for the train  and plane return  trip. I  got to
Fairbanks  at around 4pm, and went  to "Big Ray's"  to get some shorts
and a  T-shirt  to wear while   riding trains and visiting   people. I
wandered over to Joe's house in time for dinner, and  had a great time
telling stories and learning about the area. People  can be so nice. I
hope I can return all  the favors someday. The next  day Joe showed me
around the  university,  and we parted  in  the mid afternoon. I  then
wandered  around Fairbanks, did  some  souvenir shopping,  and got  to
"Alaskaland" in the  evening (a pretty neat  place to visit).  There I
got more  souvenirs,  and talked  a  lot  to  the very friendly  local
folks. One young  woman was with her mother  when they saw  me looking
confused. Not realizing that  this was my  normal state of being, they
asked if I needed help, directions, local  information, etc. We talked
for a while, and I mentioned that I would  need a place to camp before
catching  the train the next  day. I wanted to  stay at the "Nor-Lite"
campground, because it had  been so convenient.  They told me that the
owner had died and that the camp was closed. Although sad, it saved me
the trouble of going there to find out. All because  they had gone out
of their way to help. 

I ate at the all-you-can-eat salmon  bake that night  and it was a lot
of fun. It's worth  doing once. Late  evening, hot sun, happy  people,
piano music playing on   the PA system,   and reasonably good  food. I
enjoyed it.

I  wandered over  to the Chena  River  campground, which  was full (as
usual). The volunteer manager showed   me where the tent sites  were,
and  wasn't sure if  they were full.  One  was empty, but  there was a
reservation tag on it. A nice cyclist from Colorado was in site 3, and
allowed me to share his  site. So, I shared  the cost and promptly set
about setting up. There was a very noisy  bunch of rude people in site
4, and they were keeping the entire neighborhood awake. My friend from
Colorado finally got  up  and asked them to   keep the noise  down. It
hardly helped.   Only after they  got tired  and  drunk  did it settle
down. So, I had very little sleep for the long day ahead.

GOING HOME:

I got the train  to Anchorage, which I  very much enjoyed,  although I
would have enjoyed it a lot  more on a good  night's rest. Then I rode
across Anchorage at 9pm to get the red-eye back to SFO. There I had to
buy a bike box ($15),  check the bike ($50),  and wait 2 hours for the
flight.  I  then watched  as they threw  my bike  around while loading
it.  With a plane change in  Portland, I was  worried. Sure enough, at
SFO my bike came through sans  box. They told me  that it was all torn
up by the time it got here. Small wonder. First  they make you buy the
box, then  they trash it. At least  the bike wasn't  damaged. I put it
together  and  found  the frontage road   (after  a policeman gave  me
terrible directions) to get away from the  airport (turns out you just
follow the signs   to "rental car  returns"  and you are  on the right
road. I rode directly to work and got caught up on my e-mail.

CONCLUSIONS:

Although I was completely exhausted  at the end,  both from the Top of
the World experience, and the long return trip on little sleep, it was
a wonderful trip.  The  weather was almost perfect.  Tires were only a
problem on one day. I  learned a few  lessons. Mostly, I'm glad that I
could still keep pace with myself from a few years ago. If anything, I
was getting  stronger as the ride  progressed,  although that one long
day really messed me up. Now I know what to do.

The  amount of development   continues to amaze me.   Everywhere, some
houses or buildings are going in.   People are willing to drive around
in  cars all day, and this  fuels more development.  Furthermore, what
civilization is turning into will soon have no local color whatsoever.
Throughout the  northwest, there are large  men involved in the lumber
industry,  wearing  red-and-black  flannel shirts, sitting  in  cafes,
sipping  "Espresso",  and talking about  their  401K plans.   For some
reason, this  worries  me.   There may soon  be   nothing authentic in
civilization worthy  of the trip. There just  aren't that  many Savona
Hotels left.  My advice is to get out there while you can, before it's
all  overtaken by  a few   large  chain operations.   Fortunately, the
scenic beauty will still be there, but it's being chewed  up at a good
rate, too.

The people I  met on this trip were  simply wonderful.  They are  what
made the trip successful. No paranoia, no rush,  and no troubles. Only
those  two  unpleasant incidents at  Dawson  and at   Chena River were
exceptions, and these were notable mostly by contrast with the rest of
the trip. 

If anyone wants any more details, e-mail me at richley@parc.xerox.com.


Daily Summary:

Day:	Day's end:		Day's miles:

1	Colusa, CA		188.7
2	Weed, CA		186.4
3	Bend, OR (almost)	193.9
4	Goldendale, WA		168.7
5	Cashmere, WA		167.2
6	Penticton, BC		184.4
7	Savona, BC		178.7
8	Alexandria, BC		200.7
9	Beaumont Park, BC	192.7
10	South Hazleton, BC	191.5
11	Bell II, BC		182.9
12	Dease Lake, BC		151.3
13	Junction 37, YT		148.6
14	Mukluk Annie's, YT	159.0
15	Fox Lake, YT		148.2
16	Stewart Crossing, YT	179.7
17	Dawson City, YT		116.5
18	Tok, AK	(almost)	183.3
19	Cherokee Lodge, AK	103.4
20	Fairbanks, AK (Joe's
	Front Door)		121.3
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