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Tuesday, July 26, Day 10
I brought my alarm clock in last night. I wanted to get an
early start. However, I set it in the dark and also I forgot it doesn't have
any batteries in it. Isn't there some sort of rule, never set an alarm clock
when you're exhausted? My watch at 7 a.m. starts beeping. Always have a backup
plan. I doze a bit more, shower, grab only the few things I brought in and
vanish.
I have to make a decision as to which direction to head. The
same clouds from yesterday hang low and ominous in the sky. They seem ready to
explode in buckets of rain. To the north is Fairbanks and in-between there is
Mount McKinley. The highest peak in North America. I have been told that the
ratio of tourists who actually see the mountain on a clear day is like one out
of ten. Not very good odds. Looking up it seems pretty obvious which side of the
ratio I'm on.
On top of that, I'm haunted by this
constant sense of urgency. Sure I
am on vacation, but my current style is not to just tool around from place to
place. But rather to cover distance. Lots of distance. The idea of riding the
motorcycle thousands of miles is what really excites me. I want to conquer continents,
not just run around to all the sightseer places.
The roads here in Alaska form the shape of a triangle with a
major city at each point. Anchorage is at the bottom. Fairbanks is at the top.
And Tok, the first town coming into Alaska is at the far eastern point. I study the
map while standing in the parking lot of the military base. The bike is all packed up and ready to go. Time to cross out Fairbanks and Mount McKinley from the To-Do List. I notice a road heading north
splits the triangle. Beside it in little letters spells out 'Alaskan Pipeline'.
Decision made and I head north. That is what this trip is like. I have no idea
where I will be tomorrow. I am just heading off into the distance each morning.
While standing there about to leave, behind me is the runway and gray fighter jets roar off into the sky, one after the
other, banking sharply to the left and then disappearing straight up into the
clouds. I try to imagine what it would be like with that much raw power strapped
to the bike. Hmmm…
I leather up and head north. As I head off into the
mountains, it begins to rain and the road becomes slick. I get closer to
Glennallen and I weave my way through the mountainous curves. While crawling
along twisting back and forth, I ride up on two guys on Goldwings. At the first
service station, we all pull in together. They both have coolers attached to the
rear fender on a little platform. I bet they’ve got some sandwiches in there
and something to drink. Neat idea.
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The dark clouds that greet my ride
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They say they just finished up Alaska and are heading back
east. They even sent their wives back home on a plane. They plan to ride back
down to the lower 48 themselves.
"Now the fun begins", one of the guys says smiling
a big grin. We chat about the roads and the things we have seen up here. There
is something about bikers that sort of binds all of us together. We ride and
therefore we all have something in common. I have talked to almost every biker I've
come near.
I ride back up the same road I rode in to Anchorage on
spotting the same glaciers off in the distance. The clouds are low and thick and
at times, they extend all the way down into the valley. The motorhomes and I
ride through the spotty rain and fog patches. The curves are all slick and the
road is very treacherous. I can't lean the bike in the corners and at times it
feels like it's going to break loose at any second. |
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Going into one very tight left corner, I suddenly realize I
am not going to make it. I'm crashing. It just happens that quickly. There is
no time to recover or think about what I did wrong. I'm crashing and crashing
doesn't care. I arc around the curve heading off the edge of the road on a
tight up and over left-hander. The front tire passes over the white line and
hits gravel. Metal guardrail lines the edge of the road and my brain sends the
signal to the rest of my body I'm going down. The first impulse that triggers
in my mind is "Save the bike!" The bike is life. Save the bike!
I try to stay upright as long as possible. I spot dirt
between the guardrail and the edge of the road and head for that. The guardrail
is about two and half feet off the edge of the road and there is a small ditch
beside the road about a foot deep. The tires start sliding in the soft dirt and
I feel myself being thrown off the bike flying into the air.
It all happens so fast. In my mind I am thinking of crash
scenarios. Watching all those superbike racing crash videos come to mind for
some strange reason. Here are these sportbike riders crashing at a hundred miles
an hour and just getting right up. They crash, slide a ways, then walk away.
Inside my mind, I am screaming, "Slide! Slide!
Slide!"
I am wrenched off the bike, and my left hip hits the pavement
first, slamming down. My entire body follows like a rag doll into the surface of
the wet road. Then my black leather figure goes shooting down the road.
In the quarter second that it takes to get thrown off the
bike, I realize I am sliding down the road on my belly protected by my leathers
that cover me from head to toe. I slide on my belly and chest. My arms are
outstretched before me as if I was sliding into first base. My brain is
relieved, even as the sliding is taking place since my physical state is very
important. I am in the middle of nowhere and thousands of miles from home.
I slide 20, 25 feet down the road, which is damp from the
rain clouds that recently passed through. I slide to a stop and just pause there
for a half-second a bit dazed trying to realize what just happened. I am lying
on my stomach on a wet road on a blind mountainous corner. The bike just lies
there a short distance away on its side saved by the crash bars and the V shape
of the shallow ditch. No spectacular explosion of plastic bits or twisted hunks
of metal here.
My mind commands my body to rise. There is just this figure
lying in the middle of the road in the middle of the mountains. Just lying
there, not moving. Again, my mind commands my body to get up, get out of the
road.
I get right up as if I meant to do that and walk over to the
bike. I forget about myself for a moment and am overly concerned with the state
of the motorcycle. The headlight is still on, shining through a small cloud of
dust. I reach over and turn the key off. The radio on the left side is hanging
free but still attached to the broken dash panel. The left turn lens is busted
and the left highway peg is busted clean off. The fairing is partially separated
from the dashboard and the cycle has scooped up the soft dirt into every crook
and cranny on the side of the bike. The bike is still in gear and the shift
lever is bent under the bike just enough to prevent me from shifting it.
It's only then that I realize that I am okay. I wiggle my
big toe, yep, that works. Everything else seems okay too. Little finger, both
arms, that sort of thing. As quickly, as my attentions turn to myself, it turns
back to the bike.
The first motorhome to round the bend sees the bike lying
there. He stops and runs over. I start pulling stuff off the back of the bike.
Gas cans, sleeping bag, the top hard bag, and ALICE pack. I cannot budge the
bike from its position. It's wedged against the side of the guardrail and when
I try to right it, it bumps into the side of the rail. The bike is so heavy; I
cannot get any leverage and it just sits there lying on the ground.
The motorhome guy finally reaches me asking if I am all
right. I assure him I am fine. He has a bad back and can't lift much. But
together, we pull the front end up out of the tiny ditch and push the bike
upright. It starts right up, but it's stuck in fifth gear. The shifter seems
to be stuck in place. I slip the clutch though just enough to get rolling and
manage to get the bike up on the road. Gathering up all my things, I thank the
man for his help assuring him again that I am okay. He says I am lucky.
The bike rolls to the bottom of the hill where I can make the
necessary repairs. There is a dirt road here, I think it is Chickaloon Road, and
I pull into this off the main road. Popping out the kickstand and letting the
bike idle, I notice there's a good size scrape in the leather chaps on my
knee. There's another on my forearms. The chest of the leather jacket seems to
be fine though.
Out come the tools and eventually I figure out a way to bend
the shift lever to a place where it'll work. I pull in the clutch and run
through the gears, yep, works just fine. I bind all the loose plastic of the
fairings together. As I finish, it begins to rain. Crashing sucks.
I motor up Highway 1 through the rain as the clouds slide
down the mountainsides creating think fog and slippery roads. It's terrible,
terrible weather and I notice the steering is pulling to the left. Figures I
probably knocked something out of alignment. With no options but to keep on
going, I just ride through the miserable rain finally reaching Glennallen and
gassing up.
"Did ya get hurt?" The old guy behind me asks while
I pay for the gas.
"No," I say nonchalantly giving the easy answer,
"I guess I got lucky."
Not wanting a conversation I walk out the door, hop on the
bike and start off. I decide to give Alaska one last chance. I can't just
leave, I don't want to leave. But suddenly my enthusiasm for the state has
left me. Crashing will do that to you.
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The Richardson Highway (Highway 4) begins
in Valdez, home of the infamous Exxon Valdez 11 million-gallon oil spill
in 1989, and splits this triangle. Highway 4 heads due north along the Alaskan
Pipeline.
Just past Gulkana, I take the turnoff and head for the
pipeline. Visibility improves some but I can still only see maybe a half-mile
while riding the ridges. The clouds are low and dark. Sunlight seems like a
distant memory. |
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Alaskan Pipeline evokes an immediate reaction, of awe. I am riding across this
barren stunted tree wilderness, and here lies this mammoth man-made tribute to
human achievement. It rises from the ground, goes back into the ground, rises
from the ground, goes underneath streams, and rises over hilltops, zig zagging
across the terrain.
It was long known that large oil reserves in Northern
Alaska existed. Native people were known to cut chunks of tundra from the ground and burn it.
The tundra chunks were soaked with enough oil to ignite and provide fuel. Oil
was discovered in March of 1968 in the North Slope area of the Brooks Range. The
problem was how to get it to an year round ice free port. A pipeline was the
answer and Valdez was chosen as the port. |
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While it only took three years to build all 800 miles of it,
it took six years to plan the thing. The pipeline was completed in 1977 at a
cost of 8 billion dollars (in 1977 dollars). Over 28,000 people at one time
worked on the pipeline to build it. Today, people who live here get money just
for living in Alaska. The money comes from revenues generated from the flow of
oil in the state, which has generated billions of dollars of revenue for the
state. I bet a lot of doom and gloomers predicted the end of the world back then
when they built this.
Since 1977, 10 billion barrels have traveled to Valdez. Over
13,000 oil tankers have been filled there from this one oil discovery, about 70
every month. It multiplies out to 4 million gallons every hour.
It takes five and a half days for the 90 degree oil to make
the 800 mile journey. Since it's beginning, an average of 42,671 gal./min. has
flown up out of the earth and southward through Alaska so we hungry consumers
can gas up our cars, and motorcycles, with cheap gas. The pipeline supplies 20
percent of the domestic oil in the states. The numbers to me are amazing.
The pipeline was quite an engineering accomplishment in the
early seventies when it was designed. A heated four-foot thick 800-mile elevated
and underground pipeline crossing 3 major fault lines. It also crosses three
mountain ranges of the Brooks, Alaska, and Chugach Mountain Ranges up and over
4739 feet at its highest. The pipeline can withstand an earthquake on the Denali
fault as much as 20 feet of lateral movement and 5 feet up and down and not
spill a drop.
The zigzag in front of me is to allow for the expanding and
contracting of the pipe as the temperature can range from 90 degrees to 90
below. The pipeline in each of its 40-foot lengths will expand or contract three
tenth of an inch with every 10-degrees of temperature change. However, that
works out to 9 inches of total possible expansion, which happens for every 40
feet. The zigzag allows for this too as the pipe floats atop the pilings.
Another really neat thing about the pipeline I read about is
how they clean it and check out the insides of the pipe. They use something
called a 'pig' that gets propelled through the pipeline by the oil. They can
use this thing for all sorts of uses.
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They load this thing up in the pipe and send it though
inspecting the pipeline, even cleaning off the wax that builds up on the inside.
There's a scraper pig, a magnetic pig, and even an ultrasonic pig that looks
at the wall thickness using ultrasonic transducers.
It reminds me of that James
Bond movie where they load the Russian defector guy up in the tube and send him
off across whatever border that was, something like that. Always was a big James
Bond fan.
Eventually I reach a spot where the pipeline crosses the
road. I pull over and walk over to it where it sinks right into the ground to go
underneath the road. It’s enormous close up. I walk right up on top of it and
look out over a vast green wilderness. Ah, Alaska
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In front of me are the pilings, called VSM's (vertical
support members) that the pipeline sits atop. The aluminum things on the
top of the pilings are actually aluminum radiators that transfer heat out of the
surrounding ground to prevent the permafrost from melting. They adorn the tops
of the girders for as far as I can see.
Onward to the sprawling metropolis of Paxson, which is
actually just a lodge at an intersection called Paxson Lodge which beginnings
date back to 1903. I fill up the tank debating what to do and which direction to
head. It's that sort of trip, just deciding which direction to go at each
fillup. I look down at the map scotched taped to the tank. Not too
many options.
To the west is the 135 mile Denali Highway through the Denali
National Park and Preserve. I don't even think to ask about the road
conditions in all this rain. I haven't gotten that involved. I'm just sort
of wandering around Alaska.
I decide to chance heading west. It's a split second
decision. Due west will carry me toward Mt. McKinley. The map shows the road as
all gravel, but I can't just leave Alaska yet. Or can I? I get back on the
bike, start it up with my fresh tank of gas and make the decision. I'm going
to chance it anyway.
At first, the road west is freshly paved. Swooping over hills
that swell and sink gracefully, no mountains here, just wonderful up and down
hills. Although to the north is the Alaskan Range of mountains with three peaks
over 11,000 feet and much of it glaciated. I can't see very far into the
distance with the low clouds though. If the sun were shining, I bet this scene
of brilliant green grassy knolls would be thrilling.
Then the rain starts up. It's drizzle for a few minutes
than a pouring rain. I am in the rain suit but it only helps so much. Boots,
gloves, neck, all eventually become saturated. Then the motorcycle starts to act
funny. Like it's running on three cylinders instead of four. Like it's
sucking on water rather than a yummy mixture of air and gas. Maybe there isn't
any air out here; the air instead is being displaced by torrents of rain. I am
worried. This has never happened before. The motorcycle is my lifeline.
Everything depends on it running smoothly and consistently.
The further I go, the worse it gets. The motor is popping and
gasping, backfiring, misfiring, all sorts of stuff. It sounds horrible. It's
as if I'm heading directly into the belly of the storm. I can't see anything
through the fogged up visor. When I raise it, the raindrops are like bullets to
my skin pelting me a thousand times at once. The rain strikes my face so hard,
it hurts. It feels like little pins pricking my skin. The windshield of the bike
fogs up and now I can't even see through it either. It requires me to sit up
straight and try to peer over the top. I lower the shield to its middle position
to protect my face and still be able to see over the windshield. I head right
down the middle of the road moving over for the occasional vehicle.
A motorhome goes by the other way shooting up a blast of
grime. It covers the windshield and myself with dirt spray. The vans pulling
pop-up campers and station wagons loaded down with coolers and bicycles coming
back the other way are covered in dirt. I wonder to myself if this is a good
indication of what I'm heading into. I press on hoping the bike will work out
the popping and misfiring and keep on running. I pull in the clutch a few times
coasting and revving the motor. That doesn't change anything.
Then as I round a corner cresting a hill, I run into an
absolute wall of water. The wind is howling and the rain batters every part of
me. I have ridden in rain for hundreds of miles but it feels like I am in some
sort of tropical storm. Something you'd see only on TV. I am miles from
anywhere and this is beginning to worry me even more. By now, the bike is barely
holding on, sputtering and spitting. I brace against the wind and counter
balance the bike against the gusts, leaning into it. The bike is getting blown
all over the road. I can't see a thing.
Okay, okay, you win. I slow to a stop and just sit there for
a moment in the pouring rain holding the throttle open to see if I can blast out
more of the water if that's what's causing this. The engine sputters and
misfires and coughs. I flip the throttle lock that holds the throttle in place
and let it run at 2400 rpm. The rain is just coming down in buckets.
I pull myself off the bike. It's hard to move in my yellow
rain slicker, the kind they wear on fishing boats. It's not exactly a motorcycle-rainsuit, but was given to me for free. It goes over the top of all my leathers but I feel like the
Michelin Man. I stand there in the middle of the road looking westward. Mount
McKinley. It's why people come to Alaska.
At 20,320 feet, it is the tallest mountain in all of North
America. Its peak can be seen from as far away as Anchorage. The timberline at
the base is only 2,700 feet. Above that, trees are not able to endure the harsh
conditions. This is a sad decision. The bike huffs and puffs behind me
struggling to run. I walk back over to it heaving my leg up and over the 31-inch
seat. Then I pull around the other way and head off through the driving rain.
Something did not want me to go down that road if you believe in that sort of
thing.
Back to Paxson and joining onto the main road heading north
along the pipeline, the rain subsides and the bike returns to normal as if
nothing happened. I am not even sure what did happen on that road, but the downpour was the most intense I have ever experienced on a motorcycle. Making north on the
Richardson Highway, it's still very slick and very wet. But it is not raining
anymore and that is a blessing. The hum of the bike carries me up and over 3000
foot Isabel Pass through the Alaskan Range. The road descends into a valley cut
by a dirty mountain stream of the Delta River full of glacial silt. The map
shows glaciated areas on either side of me but with the low clouds, I can't
see anything. Nothing like all the glaciers while riding from Tok to Anchorage.
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The Richarson Highway along the Alaskan pipeline
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I ride for awhile through the rather strange looking forests
of taiga. It looks like a pine tree, only much smaller, like a miniature tree.
At the crest of a hill, I fall into a smooth plain of incredibly green forest. I
ride the several miles to the other side and stop. Looking back, it's quite a
sight, one of the most scenic of this entire trip. A dark turbulent boiling gray
cloud jutting out from the rest leads the pack north. I stop the bike along the
side of the road. I have to pause a moment to realize how fast it is moving
through the valley off to the west. I pull the bike to the middle to of the road
and snap the picture. This is such a beautiful
land. And to think we snagged it from the Russians for a couple million dollars.
Suckers.
It is time to leave. No way I am heading for Fairbanks in
this weather. I hit Delta Junction and gas up. Delta Junction is the official
end of the Alaskan Highway even though Fairbanks is 100 miles up the road. There
is a monument here and they even have certificates that laud the travelers of
their reaching the end of the road. Just thinking about the ride from Whitehorse
to Tok makes me think they shouldn't offer certificates, but rather a medal.
As every town has its claim to fame, Delta Junction has its annual Great Alaskan
Outhouse Race to be held this coming weekend. There are four pushers and one
sitter. The outhouse racers compete for the 'Golden Throne' award. We had a
three-person outhouse behind the house as a kid on our farm. I cannot fathom
racing that thing down Main Street.
Another odd thing about Delta Junction is that when I think
of Alaska, the last thing I think about is farming. I think of forests, and
mountains, and bears- that sort of thing. Yet this area has a huge farming
industry. There are 40,000 acres of farmland surrounding the small town of 736
people. That's a lot of land, considering our farm was only 60 acres in
Wisconsin, and that was average for that area. They raise oats, wheat, barley,
potatoes, peas, and other crops. There are dairy farms, swine farms, beef farms,
even a bison ranch. There's also a wild bison herd that was transplanted here
in the 1920's that have their own 70,000-acre preserve just southeast of town.
Like I said, lot of land up here.
I will be leaving the pipeline, which fascinates me so much.
Just up the road a few miles in the opposite direction is the Tanana River where
the pipeline goes right across the river as a suspension bridge. The pipeline
goes across 13 major rivers. The widest river the pipeline traverses is 2,295
feet, a whole half mile.
I turn east and head for Tok. It's time to leave Alaska. I'm
ready. Once on Highway 2, the road becomes flat and straight for long stretches.
Something new after the hundreds of miles of mountainous roads I have been on
the last few days. The road is wet but the rain stays away. I make tracks to
ride the 120 miles to Tok by nightfall.
I hit the town in the early evening and gas up spotting Fast
Eddies. I see lots of other bikers lined up outside and I say, yep, that's the
place for me. I pull up next to Electraglides and even a BMW Paris Dakar. I hop
off and at the same time, the owners of these bikes walk out. One group is from
New Hampshire, Rick and Skip White of the White Mountain Riders Motorcycle Club
from Berlin, New Hampshire. About 6 or 7 of us stand around and swap stories,
especially of my wiping the bike out earlier today. I tell the story in a
comical way and we all get a good laugh. They're probably actually thinking-
they're glad it wasn't them.
"I like this guy," the guy with the Boston accent
keeps saying as I tell a couple tales from the last two weeks. I make them laugh
about some of the strange things that have happened so far on this trip. It
feels good to talk to people. It's odd to travel a 12-hour day and not say a
single word. Sometimes I say something outloud to myself and am surprised to
hear the sound of my own voice.
In return, they tell of a monument to all motorcyclists in
Coldbrook, New Hampshire and insist I go there to see it. The couple describing
this are even wearing t-shirts bearing pictures of the 35-ton monument. I of
course promise to stop by. As they leave, I start talking to the couple on the
Paris Dakar with the Corbin seat. They are from Albany, New York.
"Don Rowland," he says giving my hand a firm shake.
"Tim," I say back smiling. He's wearing a full
leather suit. Someday I will have to get something like that. I am wearing a
leather jacket I bought years ago in high school that wasn't designed for
motorcycling in the least. It's rather thin and most of the time I wear my
Marine Corps jacket over the top of it to stay warm, not to mention my long
johns and two long sleeve shirts.
"This is my partner Pat Cobleton." Don says. His
'partner' Pat wears black leathers too. They tell of having to change the
rear tire and not having the right one and of the people who in the end helped
them out. They mention another guy they met who is also on a Paris Dakar. As
soon as they say that, he motors on by and waves. Nice timing. He has a front
tire bungeed onto the back along with all his other gear. They say they have to
be back on the 7th and if I am near Albany, New York anytime, to stop
by. Then they hop on the bike and motor on.
Inside Fast Eddies, I order a roast beef hoagie although I am
not exactly sure what that is. It turns out to be the best sandwich I have had
in the last 4000 miles. And Reases Pieces pie for desert. But of course.
Chocolate and more chocolate. I still have a few Oreo's left too in case of an
emergency.
I am not sure what to do as I survey the roads on the maps
spread out over the table as I finish my meal. The weather is bad in all
directions and who can say how long that will last. Another storm is waiting for
me to the east.
I decide to take the Top of the World Highway. I'm not sure
what the Top of the World part means. Probably that it's really far north I
suppose. Anything not to go back down the mudbath it was coming up here, if you
call that a road. I'm a few breaths away from deciding to head up the highway
northward. I figure I'll just find a place to sleep along the side of the
road. I measure out the distance of 175 miles of gravel road to Dawson City.
It sounds crazy but doable. Maybe I am just young and
adventurous. Besides, the whole town is booked up says my waiter when I ask
about staying here for the night. He doubts I could get a room this late. It's
normal for the entire town to be booked up this time of year he adds.
I gaze out the windows at 9 o'clock at night, the sun still
shining as if it were noon time. Two Harleys pull up and park right outside the
window. I think this must be a sign. Both bikes are not the pretty polished type
you see running around on the weekends, rather these two bikes are covered in
mud and wet gravel dust. A coat of gray covers every nook and cranny. Two
scraggly guys in rainsuits shuffle in, see me, and plop down in the next booth.
Tugging, pulling off rainsuits, chaps, neckerchiefs, gloves, and jackets, they
settle in next to a heap of clothing. Much like my own.
They are from Southern California and it feels nice to run into someone also
from California. They have just arrived in Alaska and driven all the way up the
Alaskan Highway in the last few days. They hear of my indecision. My thought to
head off into the wilderness in the middle of the night piques their interest.
In return, they insist I shack up with them. They've secured a bed and
breakfast down the road a ways. I oblige. How could I refuse?
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