‘Twas The Night Before Riding… - Sunday night, June 19
So here it is, the night before a long ride and I still
don’t know where I’m going. This is very unusual for me. Usually I at least
have a route planned, drilled down to laminated sheets that I keep visible on
my tank bag. I’ve written about that before – heck, no doubt just about
everything I write about is going to be the same trip after trip because I’m
always the one taking them – but route sheets take all the guess work out of
the trip and insure that I’m going to ride down the roads I want to see.
So I have a route picked out to Prudhoe Bay, a couple of
variations actually. But today I’m not feeling it. It was a great day. I loved
being at church knowing that it would be my last Sunday for awhile and the
gracious folks at Faith would get a three week reprieve from my preaching. We
had Father’s Day plans for my daughter’s house (also remembering her, gulp, 30th
birthday the next day about which I choose to live in denial) so it was going
to be a great day.
But I wasn’t feeling the trip.
I was looking forward to riding. I was looking forward to
camping. I was looking forward to being away for a couple of weeks. And I was
looking forward to spending a week in a cabin by a lake in Minnesota with
Kelley most of all. The question was where I would ride to get there. After
anticipating the trip for months, now I’m torn.
Will I ride some bucket list roads in Colorado and Wyoming? Will I spend
some extra time in Montana? Will I visit my buddy in Boulder or my sisters out
in Washington state? Or will I hit it hard and head north?
I went to bed knowing only that my bike was packed and I was
going to get an early start. I’d have to leave it up to the moment from there.
So THIS is Palo Duro Canyon – Monday, June 20
Begin 10,315 miles
End 10,979 miles
Today 664 miles
I headed out early in the morning and promptly messed up in getting out of Houston. Kelley took the obligatory first picture of the trip outside of our garage and I was off.
I headed out early in the morning and promptly messed up in getting out of Houston. Kelley took the obligatory first picture of the trip outside of our garage and I was off.
 |
| We didn't get the flash right but you get the idea. |
They have been working on the 610/290 intersection for a
long time and I should have known better than to be in the far left lane (the
old way to 290 and the safest, in my opinion, lane for a motorcycle in
traffic). As soon as I realized my mistake it was too late to get over so I
took a little U-Turn detour via Ella and got back on track.
Usually I love leaving town. This time wasn’t so great. I
was already missing Kelley. We will be together for a week on this vacation at
a cabin in Minnesota but that already feels like a long time from now. I stayed
in the left lane and headed for Waco.
I have mixed feelings about Waco. I have friends who went to
college and graduate school there. My step-daughter Emma is thrilled to be
headed to Baylor in the fall. But I also know that Waco is remembered as the
scene of the
lynching of Jesse Washington and there still is a stark black/white divide
in that town, made worse by the sappy sweetness of a particular form of
Christianity that doesn’t really fit for me. So those were the thoughts I was
thinking as I made the next mistake of my still brand new trip – I couldn’t
decide how I wanted to get to Palo Duro Canyon.
I’ve wanted to see Palo Duro Canyon for years now. I
actually did accidentally see the backside of it on a trip home from Sturgis
and it was majestic. But this year I wanted to camp at Palo Duro State Park. I
just didn’t know how I was going to get there. The fast and easy way, which is
also the most boring, or a more interesting way.
Stuck between my choices I didn’t make a decision. I just
pulled to the side of the road and dialed in the address for the state park in
my GPS and headed off toward my sense of the more interesting way and I let the
GPS keep adjusting until I was finally willing to follow its directions.
So it was that I found myself heading out of town on TX 6
but then veering off track down other interesting roads. I got tricked by the
GPS when it turned me back north again on 281 – it wanted me to take the fast
and easy way of heading up to US 287 and that is NOT the way I wanted to go. So
I took the reins back up in Glenallen and went back to the un-plan of choosing
roads that looked fun and letting the GPS catch up.
I passed through Stephenville and took TX 108 up for a brief
run on I-20 before bailing out and getting back on the unbeaten path. TX 70
took me through Turkey, TX, the home of Bob Wills.
Now here I stop to make my statement about motorcycle riding
and taking pictures. Since I love reading ride stories I have come to
appreciate that many long distance motorcycle guys are also amateur
photographers. Especially the guys who do rallies like the Iron Butt Rally
which always involve taking pictures to prove they are in certain places. God
bless them all. I appreciate their pictures but I hate taking pictures. I love
to ride. Stopping for pictures is irritating to me.
Besides, I don’t need them. I take pictures with my mind all
the time and that is good enough for me.
When it is convenient, like using my GoPro camera for
videos, I’ll do it. But I don’t plan on doing even that on this trip. The only
way to mount the camera on the Beast is to look through the windshield which
means close ups of dead bugs ruin the videos. Yuck. So this trip will NOT be a
photo essay. I write this blog for myself (and my grandkids), and I’m a word
guy rather than a picture guy.
Having said ALL that, I DID stop to take a picture of my
bike next to the mural painted on the side of an old building celebrating
Turkey as the hometown of music legend Bob Wills. I took out my phone, thinking
that would be easier to use since my GoPro was packed deep in my side case, and
took the picture.
What those back roads did for me was invite me into a lot of
thinking. A lot of thinking about life in small towns. Like the small town I
grew up in. The good and the bad. For mile after mile I had the roads to
myself, just like I remembered driving across North Dakota. I thought about the
dreams of a small town kid and what it would be like to head off to college and
then go back to make a life where you had always lived. I admire people who do
that. They pick up the torch and keep it going.
And that made me think about God. I’m at that stage of life
where the beginning is long over and the ending is chronologically closer. Face
it, I’m not going to live to be 110. I’m in a new place, far more receptive to
the reality that life does not belong to me and that I have been living in
God’s will for me for a long time. I am where I am because that is where God
wants me to be. To simply admit that, and to embrace it, is wonderfully
freeing.
It also means that I live with a heightened sense of
connectedness. Because God is my creator, everywhere is my home, but Houston,
with Kelley at my side and our kids just a quick drive away, and the good
people of Faith Lutheran sharing my life, are all wonderful gifts of creation
in my life. Riding down the road with such thoughts is part of the reason I
love doing that I do to get away. Getting away is really about getting
reconnected. All roads lead home.
But first I needed to get on TX 86 and eventually another
quick pass up I-27 to Canyon and then over to Palo Duro Canyon State Park. I’m
glad I did it.
The sweeping ride from the entrance down to my campsite was
gorgeous. Palo Duro is huge but it isn’t nearly as deep as the Grand Canyon.
They also had some road damage in the park so I got a bit confused in looking
for my assigned site. That allowed me to ride through the whole park to see
what I could see. Eventually I made it to my site and set up for my first night
of camping. It also would be the first and last time that I cooked and ate food
while camping. After riding 664 miles through the Texas heat I was shocked to
realize that the cook in the bag food I brought for the night was chili. Yuck.
I ate it and hated it. Enough of that.
Also, I can’t remember if I noted this before in a previous
post but I had given some thought to switching from tent camping to hammock
camping. But my test ride was highly disappointing. Thus I pitched my tent and was glad to have it. I wasn’t glad that it was unbearably hot and that I basically
spent the night in a pool of my own sweat. It was just a little short of
miserable and I was happy to pack up early the next morning to get back on the
road. I figure camping is going to get better.
How I Survived Not Breathing – Tuesday, June 21
Begin 10,979 miles
End 11,551 miles
Today 572 miles
Packing up my campsite proved to be far better than sleeping
in my sweat bath. I packed up slowly, methodically. At some point I made coffee
and then, while it was cooking in the coffee press, I did a little more
packing. At some point I want to take a series of pictures of how I pack my
bike with what I’m bringing on this trip. I think I did well with everything
that I planned.
Except that I forgot my shoes.
I actually realized that I forgot my shoes yesterday when I
was on 290. I could have returned home and picked them up but that felt like
self-betrayal, especially after missing the exit for 290. So I decided I would
just punish myself and do the whole trip in my one ton riding boots. Packing up
camp in shorts and knee high black boots was a lesson in humility that would
have been even worse if there had been anyone around to notice. As it was, I
was all by myself and that was bad enough. I need to solve my shoe situation at
some point.
Packed up, I rode back out of the canyon and returned to the
well beaten path of passing through Amarillo back to good old US 87 and the
road to Colorado. I really am tired of that road but it is the best way to get
from here to there and I wanted to get there. Although I still wasn’t clear
where there would turn out to be. What I WAS clear about is that I had lost all
interest in spending any more time in New Mexico or anywhere else that includes
camping in hot weather!
Back again through Dumas and Dalhart. Back again through
Clayton. Remembering the time that Melanie and the kids and I stayed the night
in Dumas at a cheap motel because that is what we always did. Remembering when
my friends and I stayed in Clayton before taking an interesting side trip
through New Mexico which would eventually take us back up through Colorado on
the way to Sturgis. Back again on the New Mexico Safety Corridor. Waiting for
the road to get interesting again and wondering where I was going to ride that
day.
I got to Raton, NM, and stopped for gas and food. Again, a
friendly reminder that I hate to stop when I ride. I hate to stop for anything.
I like to ride tank to tank all day long. I like to stop only for gas or
nature’s obligations and take care of all of my business at once. Especially
since the worst thing about riding the Beast is getting on and off when it is
loaded. It is about impossible and very embarrassing to be seen.
I heft my left leg up so that I can just get the toe of my
boot on the seat, then I sort of short hop forward until my boot reaches the
edge of the seat, then I let gravity take over and it slides me into place. I
HAVE to do that from the right side so I’m sliding into the kick stand or else
I would knock the bike over. Dismounting means stepping off with my left foot
which then forces my right foot up off the ground. I short hop my way away from
the bike until my right foot is up on the seat. At that point I reach up for my
boot and pull it down off the seat. None of this is pretty. All of this makes
me look very foolish which is very uncool. Whenever I notice people watching
that little dance at a gas station I always say, “I have a bad leg” when the
truth is that I am old, out of shape, and 100 pounds overweight.
Now you know that getting gas in Raton followed by getting
food meant that I would have to mount and dismount twice in short order. I did
it but I didn’t like it. I did like the old fashioned Family Restaurant just
down the street from the gas station. I love to eat at places like that on bike
trips.
Motorcycling is an expensive hobby. But you have to pick
your poison. I tell myself, to justify the amount of money I spend on bikes and
assorted stuff that I “need”. “Well, if
my hobby was hunting or fishing then I’d want to buy a four wheeler, get on a
lease, have more than one gun, buy a boat, a dozen rods...and that would be
expensive too.” At least I can use my bike to commute!
Motorcycle trips can also be expensive. Again, you have to
pick your poison. Camping (once you buy the gear you need) is cheaper than
staying in motels. Although, after last night, I’m wondering if the savings are
worth it. And so it eating on the road. In years past, I would eat two meals a
day, breakfast (often at the motel) or at a truck stop, and dinner after
unloading at the motel for the night. On this trip my plan is to go on the one
meal a day diet. We’ll see how it goes.
I also like to eat at places where I know that the
waitresses don’t make a lot of money. For me, leaving a $10 tip for an $8
breakfast is infinitely more satisfying than a fancy dinner where the prices
are printed like this, 16, instead of like this $16.00. The Family Restaurant
in Raton would be my first meal on the road.
It would also be the place where I would decide where I was
going. But first I checked my phone.
My phone is either turned off or turned on “airplane mode”
when I’m on bike trips. Maybe I check for messages at gas stops, but usually I
don’t. I saw that I had a message from a beloved parishioner and my heart
stopped. I hoped nothing horrible had happened as I called the number.
It turns out that something horrible HAD happened but not directly
to them. After listening I offered my best suggestions on the phone and only
then said that I was in New Mexico and would be gone for some time so I
couldn’t be there for them right then. She completely understood and our call
ended. I did the only thing I could do. I said my prayers and I opened up my
Harley atlas to plan the next stages of my trip.
My bucket list rides jumped out at me like those
indecipherable numbers did for the math genius on the chalkboard in “A
Beautiful Mind.”
I will:
- Ride to the top of Mount Evans in Colorado, the highest paved road in the United States at over 14,000 feet.
- Ride the Chief Joseph Highway out of Cody, WY
- Ride over Beartooth Pass from Wyoming into Montana
- Ride the length of the Stewart/Hyder Cassiar Highway, BC 37
- Ride from Fairbanks (where I have already been) to Prudhoe Bay (which was my original plan and the initial purpose of this trip)
- Ride for a quick visit to the Bible camp I used to work at in North Dakota
- Ride to Lakota for another quick visit with some relatives
- Ride to Ottertail Lake in Minnesota for a week with Kelley
- And ride back home to Houston.
There, in living color, was my trip plan and soon it was
augmented by the Big Boy breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage, hashbrowns, toast,
and plenty of coffee.
The downside of this plan was that I wouldn’t be able to
visit my buddy in Boulder or my sisters in Washington but I can always do
either later, traveling by plane instead of by Harley or the Beast.
Breakfast over, it was time to hit the road. I’m convinced
that, if the Beast was alive and able to communicate, it would have whooped for
joy when I headed up the Raton Pass on my way into Colorado and Mount Evans.
Somewhere in Colorado, riding up I-25, I found myself
thinking again of my missing shoes. I took an exit for a rest area and called
Kelley. Now I suppose many partners would do something like this but I happen
to know that it is the sort of thing that Kelley lives for – she loves nothing
better than to be helpful to the people she loves. Fortunately for me, she
loves me. So I asked her to go on the internet and find anywhere in the Denver
metro area that sells some kind of size 15 or 16 trail running shoe. Now you
have some idea of why replacing shoes for me is a bit complicated. Not the
“trail running shoe” part but the size 15 or 16 part. I just chose “trail
running shoe” because it seemed so “Colorado camping chic” and I don’t have
anything like that at home. She went to work with a plan to text me my options
later.
All the miles blend together for me on I-25 in Colorado. The
highway is a race track not for the faint of heart. Which I actually appreciate
as it helps justify so many miles spent on an interstate, the type of road I
love in my truck and avoid like a plague on my bike. As always, with the miles
comes the memories and the never ending river of thought.
Every time I ride past Pueblo I remember staying there on
our way to a reunion at Ascension Lutheran in Cheyenne and celebrating Katie’s
birthday with a big meal out at Burger. I also remember the time many years ago
when I took my first Harley across the state on US 50. The first time that I
got to ride the Million Dollar Highway from Ouray to Durango. Even then my
thing for long rides was a part of me as that trip ended by riding non-stop
from Durango back to Houston via El Paso.
I’m seldom baffled by the choice of Colorado Springs as the
training center for the US Olympic Committee. It seems perfect for all kinds of
athletic training. The weather and scenery can’t be beat. I guess that is why so
many religious organizations are also headquartered there.
As I got closer to Denver I exited somewhere to check on
Kelley’s progress. Bingo! REI, the most recent beneficiary of my melting credit
card as I prepared for this trip, had a pair of shoes for me in their flagship
store in Denver. I just needed to get there.
At this point I should mention that it was hot on the road.
Hot as in blistering hot. Hot as in, when I got to the snail’s pace of I-25
through Denver the temperature reading on the Beast hit 109 degrees (yes, this
is included in the mongo electronics package that is the KTM 2015 1290 Super
Adventure.) But those same electronics paid the price on that freeway, the
Beast started to melt like my credit card.
First came the DIRE WARNING message for the suspension
system, then the DIRE WARNING message for the engine overheating, then the DIRE
WARNING message that the fuel pump was failing. I figured that the bike would
just die right there on the freeway or that all it needed was a moment in the
shade. The GPS led me to the REI store which featured three levels of camping
and adventure exotica, its own hyper trendy Starbucks, and not a lick of shade
to park my bike under. It spit coolant like a teapot when I put it on its
kickstand. Again, I figured that it would either die right there or get over it
because my trip had hardly begun.
I got to the shoe section and waited in front of a fan while
the guy went to find the shoes they promised they had. Fortunately I found a
seat in front of a fan. Nice.
Too soon he was back and my new gold-gilted shoes fit like a
glove. No, they were brown shoes but at that price I think there must be some
gold in there somewhere. Figuring that I was ready to go but the Beast still
needed a minute I got a cold drink in the Starbucks, caught up with Kelley on
the phone, and caught my breath for my ride to the top of Mount Evans.
Mount
Evans is the highest paved road in North America. You take I-70 west of
Denver to Idaho Springs and then CO 103 to CO 5 up to the summit. I have wanted
to go up there for years but it has never worked out. I wanted to go there last
year with Kelley but it didn’t happen. As I planned earlier in Raton, today
would be the day. And I was nervous.
Several years ago I tried to climb Mount Malo just outside
of Estes Park. I teamed up with five other guys attending the same clergy
retreat. We were split in teams of two. One team quit early. One team made it
to the top. My partner and I made it, according to his altimeter, to 13,300 ft.
I could see the pile of boulders in front of us that marked the summit. But we
were moving slow and it already looked like we wouldn’t make it back before
dark so we headed back down the rock face of the mountain to the trees and
mountain stream we would follow back to the retreat center.
I remembered back to how hard it was to breath, how
impossible it was to take more than a few steps before needing to stop for a
second, and that was at 13,000 feet. Mount Evans would take me past 14,000 feet
and now it was with several years of not taking very good care of myself. Not
to mention the team of bowling balls now living above my belt. Yes, I was nervous.
But I was also thrilled the way I always feel when I get to
a bucket list ride. I love every minute, notice every detail. At some point on
the way up I noticed a sign for a campground three miles off the main road. “I should check that out on the way back
down.”
The views were spectacular. I was so surprised to see this
guy on the side of the road that I actually broke my own rule and stopped to
take a picture.
Eventually I got to the summit. And I was woozy. Not
seriously woozy but when I stopped in the parking lot and stood on my feet,
still on the bike, my head immediately warned me that getting off and walking
around would not be a good idea. Even in the best of times, not a good idea,
and certainly not after having battled the heat and riding over 500 miles to
get there. So I took a quick picture from the seat of the bike and headed back
down.
My singular goal on the way back down was to find the sign
for that campground. As always, the way back goes much quicker than the way out
and soon I was turning off onto the dirt road that would take me to my home for
the night. It was a great road. Gravel, twisty, rutted. It was the kind of road
the Beast was designed for that I can’t find back in Houston. Soon I was at the
National Forest campground.
This time setting up camp was even more methodical and slow.
I couldn’t understand why I needed to take a break between setting up the poles
for the tent and putting the rain fly on. When the camp hosts stopped by to say
hello they told me that the camp was just a hair under 10,000 feet high. OK,
just what I needed to hear. But it was a great campsite with cool weather, no
mosquitoes, and I slept much better. What a great day!
If We Can Build Roads Like This… - Wednesday, June 22
Begin 11,551
End 12,284
Today 733
The altitude isn’t the reason it takes me nearly 90 minutes
from waking up to leaving a campsite on my bike. It takes me that long because
it is an enjoyable process and includes plenty of time to sit, enjoy the
solitude, pray, and think about the day ahead. Today began precisely that way.
The Beast is a wonderful bike but it has a couple of
features I detest. One, as noted previously, is that it is extremely tall, even
more so because of the extra four inches of my custom Russell Day Long seat
(which I love.) The other is the chain. Each night of the trip, while the chain
is still warm from the day’s ride, I put the bike up on its centerstand and
clean and lube the chain. It isn’t complicated. It doesn’t take that long. But
I have to do it and I hate it. I did it last night and I hated doing it.
So this morning, as yesterday, before I load the bike, I
take it off its centerstand. It is just easier to do it then. But since it is
so tall it is also a bit difficult to maneuver on the sand of the camp parking
spot. But no worries since it is a Beast – I just took it across country,
through two other unoccupied sites, between various trees, and then up on the
road back to the main highway.
One of the ways that I use my GPS on trips is to set some town
on the way as my destination. It breaks up the day and sets me up for a series
of small wins. This morning I dialed in Fort Collins, hoping that I might end
up on something other than I-70 to I-25. The GPS chose an alternate route which
turned out to be a long ride through city traffic that basically cut the corner
of Boulder/Denver to I-25. Since I was passing through town before 7:30 AM I
felt a little better about not making my normal visit to my buddy in Boulder on
this trip. Not much…but a little. I still had a long way to go today.
Once past Fort Collins I noticed again how subtle shifts in
altitude greatly impact geography. Few people realize that Cheyenne is actually
1,000 feet higher than Denver. What you can’t miss is how sparse and desolate
the really high plains get once you pass Fort Collins. It is striking all year
long.
My first planned stop was my meal for the day at the same
truck stop in Cheyenne that I stop at every time I ride through town. Cheyenne
has a special place in my heart. I did my internship year there and it was a
great great year. I’ve been through town with every trip to Sturgis. I stayed
with friends at the dumpy but great for us Sands Motel and had some fun nights
at the Eagle’s Nest across the street. All of that was years ago but the
memories remain and the truck stop is just down the road. As always, the food
was….the same. It worked and it was fun to leave a tip.
Back again on I-25 heading north through Wyoming. Two things
to watch for in this neck of the woods – road construction and wind which will
curl your teeth. Also now begins the roadside watching for critters that will
become the norm for the rest of the trip. I saw antelope and deer, lots of
them. And plenty of road construction. My next little win goal was to make it
to Cody.
US 14 and US 16 are two of the great motorcycling roads in
this part of the country. Both wind their way from South Dakota and the Black
Hills into Wyoming. They meet in Cody before making their way into Yellowstone
National Park. I’ve never been to Yellowstone (although it is on my bucket
list) and I don’t want to go there until Kelley and I either ride there with me
on my Harley and her on her “we will get it someday three wheel Spyder” or we
trailer a bike. Either way, we will stay at the old Lodge and enjoy the park
together. I don’t want to see it before that. Today’s plan means that I’ll get
to ride two great roads now and leave Yellowstone for later.
I took US 16 out of Buffalo to get to Cody. Beautiful road.
Perfect motorcycle road. Views galore. All you could ask for, and then you get
to Cody. The only thing worth noting about Cody is that you pass through town
and 19 miles to the north you pick up the beginning of WY 296, the Chief Joseph
Highway.
My excitement in getting there was matched by my
disappointment in seeing the road construction sign and the “Wait Here for
Pilot Car” signal. Darn! How far was I going to have to follow a stupid pilot
car and all of the RV’s that pile up at such points? It turned out that I would
have to wait for over 20 minutes. I was second in line, behind a pickup with
North Dakota plates.
The unwritten rule is that motorcycles are normally allowed
to budge to the front of such lines when riding out west. Especially so on the
Alaska Highway. It is expected there. But we were in Wyoming and I am also from
North Dakota and we grow up very politely, taught from kindergarten not to
budge in line and to be content with whatever scraps life throws your way. So I
just sat there, sweating in the heat.
The pilot car eventually came over the horizon and the
passenger in the truck waved out of the window for me to come get ahead of
them! Eureka! They ARE from North Dakota after all because we are also taught
to be nice and to be generous and to make a way for others. Which makes for a
perfectly wonderful world if everyone follows those same rules. What it did for
me was allow me to ride the entire 45+ miles of the Chief Joseph Highway
without coming up behind a single car. The initial red rock formation on the
left REQUIRED a photograph but not for me. There was no way I was going to give
up my all to myself road for a picture that I could later download from the
internet. Which I later did.
The Chief Joseph Highway ends at US 212, otherwise known as
Beartooth Pass. If I turned left it would have taken me to Yellowstone…which I
won’t enter without Kelley. My plan thus was to turn right and ride on one of
the absolutely most beautiful and breath-taking roads in the United States, all
the way to Red Lodge, Montana. Against my better judgment and prior planning, I
did stop and take one picture to capture the moment. Even though it isn’t a
“height” picture, it does capture the feeling I had on that road.
I kept thinking “if
people can imagine and engineer roads like this then why can’t we do a better
job of imagining and engineering more agreeable ways to order our lives
together even as people who disagree about so many things?” I kept thinking
pastor thoughts, wonders of creation thoughts. It was exhilarating.
And then, as I found myself reentering civilization, I saw a
sign for another National Forest campground. This one was even better than the
night before. It was lower so I could more freely breath and I found a spot
with, get this, a roaring mountain stream just behind a line of trees AND the
folks from the night before had left a bunch of wood for a campfire. Bingo,
Bango, Bongo! It proved the best night of sleep ever and only cost $17.
The Other Side of Washington – Thursday, June 23
Begin 12,284
End 13,067
Today 783
Today’s ride plan started very simply. Pass through Red
Lodge and take US 212 to I-90 and fly west. There were other road choices but
today was going to be about volume and getting where I needed to go. It would
be my last day in the United States for awhile and I needed to stage my entry
into Canada.
Interstates are not my favorite but, if you have to take one
to get there quickly and safely, you do it. I-90 is one of those interstates
that gets a motorcycle pass because it is gorgeous. Maybe not so much through
South Dakota but it redeems itself through Montana.
Basically I spent a big chunk of the day going just a hair
over the speed limit with my cruise control on. I did, however, have a few
surprises.
One was having a state trooper come flying by on my left
with lights ablaze only later to discover that he or she was heading to the
scene of one of the most horrific traffic accidents that I have personally seen.
Traffic, of course, came to a crawl and it was a long time before I passed by.
The ambulances had already left. All that was left was the remains of what had
once been a car now firmly planted in and under an 18 wheeler’s trailer, and
what had once been a pickup somewhere a few feet in front of the same 18
wheeler. I have no idea what happened and I said my prayers for those who had
obviously lost their lives on a Thursday morning on a beautiful stretch of
road. What a sight that was.
Later, in one of those more desolate sections where the
highway is divided by a deep deep ditch and there are few if any places to exit
or to u-turn, I came across a green two door older car that had parked on the
left fast lane shoulder. “That is a weird
place to park” I thought as I rode up to it. No sooner did I think that
then a guy got out of the driver’s door, took a step toward the ditch,
evidently lost his balance or something and went tumbling down the grass!
Normally I would stop for something like that but there was
no safe way to do that there – still remembering the accident I just drove by –
so I rode on and again said my prayers. Sometimes praying for people is the
best we can do.
Nature and the siren’s song of Harley Davidson motorcycles
called my name as I rode up into Butte. I hadn’t stopped at any dealers yet,
was frankly a bit embarrassed to do so on a KTM, but there was another item
that I realized I forgot at home that they might carry. And I know that
dealerships always have nice customer lounges, free coffee, and clean
bathrooms. I appreciated the use of all three and left without spending any
money. That is called restraint and it is something I rarely experience but did
so there.
I-90 passes into Idaho via Lookout Pass. I was really
looking forward to seeing that pass again. Many years ago, the first time that
I drove from Washington state to North Dakota, was with my Dad in a 1964 Buick
LeSabre that had once belonged to HIS dad that he was passing down to me. Dad
let me drive the whole way. Even through the mountains. I remember Lookout Pass
as terrifying, exciting, and glorious.
Maybe it was that we had been traveling from west to east
but this time, riding from east to west, it wasn’t the same pass that I
remember from 1976. It seems much tamer today. Maybe they have changed things
or maybe I have a few more experiences under my belt but now it is much more
mundane. And now I did it alone without my still new to me Dad (I had only met
him a couple of months before) sitting next to me in a musty smelling glorious
old car without air conditioning or cruise control. Lord knows I would love to
make that same trip again but that isn’t to be…except in my mind. Thanks again
Dad for that time. And that car.
And yes I am still sorry for the time that I turned away
from the baseball field into the blinding sun and the tree sap on my windshield
blinded me and I missed seeing the telephone post beside the grass path up out
of the parking area and thus hitting said telephone post with the left front
fender that later proved to be the beginning of the end of that 1964 Buick
LeSabre.
All of that and more was passing through my mind as I
enjoyed the wide sweepers into Idaho and those few glorious moments along the
lake in Coeur D’ Alene before Idaho passed away far too quickly and I was back
in Washington state.
I know full well that all four of my sisters and their
families live on the other side of Washington. Visiting them was one of the
possibilities of my trip. But it is a long way from Houston to Seattle and I
only have so much time. I’ve already ridden 1,969 miles in the first three days
of this trip and I’ve got thousands more to go so I won’t be getting to the
other side of Washington this time. I regret that and realized that we need to
plan a family reunion. We aren’t getting any younger.
I headed into Spokane looking for the street that would
eventually take me to US 395 North. I’m not sure why I chose to go that way as
I’ve been there before. Usually I like to choose new roads. But I’ve also been
across on US 2 and WA 20 and since every single road in that entire state is a
beautiful motorcycle road you can’t go wrong with any of them. So I took US 395
to Colville, the gorgeous WA 20 to Tonasket and then US 97 north to Oroville
and the border.
It had been a long day. 783 miles. After three nights of
camping the battery for my c-pap machine was dead and I hadn’t yet taken a
shower. I know, gross. I wore the same clothes too. Doubly gross. And somehow I
had missed putting the other two pairs of socks in my bag so I didn’t have any
other socks with me. Triply gross. And utterly delightful in a “who cares? No
one knows me on the road” kind of way. So I checked into a motel in Oroville
and slept like the well fed. Tomorrow, O Canada!
Cultural Disorientation, Eh? – Friday, June 24
Begin 13,067 miles
End 13,697 miles
Today 630 miles
It felt good to wake up in a motel room instead of a
campground but I still wasn’t in a hurry to get going. I made some coffee and
put on my new Merrill glorious Colorado camping chic hippie trekker shoes and
went for a walk around the block. I took another shower, just as good as last
night’s, and slowly loaded the bike for another long day.
I rode out onto US 97 north and made my way to the border.
It is nice to get to an international border and realize that I am white and
will thereby be accorded a certain privilege not of my making or my deserving,
just an accident of history, I am not carrying guns or drugs or alcohol or
tobacco for resale. I have a passport. I’m good to go. But still there is
meeting THE MAN at the border and the inevitable questions and that little
sense of relief to hear “Welcome to Canada.” Were it so easy for everyone,
everywhere, to so freely cross borders.
And then I was in a new country and it was weird. One of the
other great electronic features of the Beast is the ability to change units of
measure. Just like that I went from a digital speedometer displaying miles per
hour to one displaying kilometers per hour. That made keeping to the speed
limit easy but it also completely screwed up my ability to judge distances or
anticipate how far I could do before needing gas.
I don’t know of a single motorcycle, the Beast included,
with a trustworthy gas gauge. Even the high tech ones on a bike like this, that
tell you everything from anticipating miles remaining in your tank to your fuel
usage per mile, can’t be trusted. Everything has to do with how much weight you
are carrying, how fast you are riding, and the biggest kicker of them all, how
much wind resistance you are facing. All that you can trust for sure is the
trip meter which I always reset to zero at each gas stop.
One of my favorite features of the Beast is its 7.9 gallon
gas tank. Actually, since KTM’s are made in Germany, they state their gas
capacity in liters which is gibberish to me. I do know that I have a really bad
habit of squeezing every mile possible out of a tank of gas and that yesterday,
riding on fumes into a gas stop in Montana, I put 7.467 gallons into my tank.
Which gives me a top range of nearly 280-300 miles. Still I start looking for a
gas station at about 220 miles or so just to be safe. I didn’t know what that
meant in kilometers so, at my first gas stop in Canada, I filled up the extra
gallon of gas container I had carried with me.
I almost didn’t bring that extra gas container with me on
the trip. Since maybe all I was going to do was go camping around Colorado and
Wyoming I probably wouldn’t need it. But then I thought, “Maybe I’ll come across someone who does,” and I put it on.
I took the slow way up into Canada. Had I stayed on US 97
(and its Canadian counterpart) I would have returned to Penticton where I did
Ironman Canada back in 1998. Remembering how pretty the drive was from
Penticton over to visit my sister in Langley BC was one of the reasons I chose
this route. But looking at the map I saw there was a cross country alternative
that might be just as good or better so I took BC 3 to Princeton and then BC 5A
up to Merritt.
It was beautiful country. Wine and apple orchard country. I
rode by one fruit stand that was selling cherries and another that featured
Ambrosia (whatever that is) apples. I didn’t stop either time, or at any of the
other options I came across, because I hate to stop. But I couldn’t get the
sound of those apples out of my head either.
At Merritt I picked up BC 97C and then BC 97 in Cache Creek.
I wanted to get as far as Prince George or even farther. Then disaster struck
in Quesnel when I stopped again for gas.
I’m not particularly interested in sharing this story but I
need to as it contained an important lesson for me. A reminder that our
character is how we act when no one else is looking and that my personal
character is not so squeaky clean.
I pulled up to a gas station after having ridden for a long
time through mountainous roads with speed limits ranging from 45 mph to 55 mph.
Slow boat to China pace on a long trip but just right for the mountain twisty
roads I was on. Especially since it was raining on the top of every pass. So I
wasn’t in the best of moods. Not that I can blame what I did next on any of
that. I was just being a jerk.
I got to the gas station and did my silly old man sliding
dance to get off the bike when a young guy came walking up holding an empty red
gas can. I know what that means. And, for whatever reason, since I normally
give such folks a few bucks worth, I just wasn’t in the mood to do it that day.
So I answered his questions about the bike and my trip and then headed into the
station to prepay for my gas. I’m doing Canada on a cash basis (I got some Canadian
money from an ATM when I stopped for breakfast.)
When I got back to the bike, he was still standing there so
I said what I was instantly ashamed of saying, “You know, I thought at first that you were going to ask me for money
for gas and we both know what a bad bad idea that would have been.” What a
jerk I was. He instantly got defensive, “No
sir, I wasn’t going to ask for money.” And I filled up my tank.
That’s when God punished me for being a jerk.
I lifted my left boot to the seat as I always do and started
my little mini hops on my right leg when suddenly it felt like someone had
stabbed me right where my thigh muscle connects to whatever it connects to. I
instantly thought of the pro athlete who reported a completely detached triceps
muscle that “rolled up into a knot under my skin.” He needed surgery. I was
certain that I would need surgery too. The pain was excruciating!
But pride being what it is, I slid on to the bike, the
victim of my jerkishness none the wiser. Some man rule somewhere says you don’t
show your pain so I invoked it and headed down the road. I had no idea what I
would do when the inevitable happened and I would be forced to once again
dismount from the Beast.
I was several miles down the road before I dared to move my
right leg. It was OK if I moved it this way or that way but it hurt like crazy
if I moved it THAT way. I just rode on, worried that my trip was over and
wondering how I would get my bike back to Houston. Fortunately I own a trailer
and have at least one unemployed friend with time on his hands which is always
my backup plan. It was getting later and later and I didn’t want to set up camp
in the dark so I turned into the sign for Dave’s Campground just outside of
Vanderhoof, BC. 630 miles would be it for the day – a long day of slow mountain
roads, lots of rain, and now a disabled leg.
Once in the campground I rolled to a stop and began the
dismounting process. I got off. Barely. And then realized I would have to
remount and do it again once I moved on to my campsite. Dave didn’t have any
Advil in his camp store but he did have plenty of campsites available for $25
plus tax, which included a hot shower. I paid the man and gingerly made my way
back to the bike. I CAREFULLY got back on, and then off again at my site. So
much for that. I wondered how I would feel in the morning.
After a hot shower and a couple of nips from the flask that
I brought purely for social reasons, I laid myself down in the tent and
prepared to sleep, praying that I could walk again in the morning.
More Trees Than You Can Shake A Stick At – Saturday, June 25
Begin 13,697 miles
End 14,398 miles
Today 701 miles
Today I am off to the Alcan. Or the Alaskan Highway. Or
whatever it is officially called. But first I had to get there and I had a long
way to go.
I gingerly woke up after a great night of sleep in the cool Canadian
air. Then I remembered my leg. A couple of times in the night I had woken up,
both times very grateful for the ride story where the guy talked about how
helpful it was to have a special Nalgene bottle in the tent for certain
purposes. My leg still worked. It wasn’t right, I had to be careful walking,
and I had to be REALLY careful getting on the bike, but it worked. The trip
would go on.
Still on BC 16 West, the Yellowhead Highway, I headed toward
Kitwanga. I decided I was ready for my meal of the day when I saw a sign for
Houston. How ironic and what a great time for food.
Keeping up with Kelley isn’t as easy when I am camping in
places without cell coverage. I can send her text messages using my InReach
Explorer tracking device but it so much better to talk on the phone. Especially
in Canada without an international calling plan, we hadn’t spoken enough for
me. So I stopped at a place in Houston, ordered my coffee, and gave her a call.
I couldn’t resist sending her a picture of the menu as I was
eating breakfast at a Chinese café in Houston, British Columbia, without a
Chinese person in sight. Again it was eggs, bacon, sausage, hashbrowns, and
toast. It was also delicious. We had a great talk and someday we will find out
how much 30 minutes costs without the right phone plan.
Eventually I arrived at Kitwanga and my turn onto BC 37
North. I lose track of the names of the highways but there was a big sign at
the intersection and a couple of guys on adventure bikes sitting in a gas
station parking lot so I turned in to shoot the bull for a bit. I don’t know if
the whole thing is called the Cassiar Highway or it begins as the Stewart/Hyder
Highway or if the Canadians call it the Alaska Highway – all I know is it runs
north for 450 miles to just west of Watson Lake on the Alcan.
The guys were nice. Both on their way home. One to Vancouver
and the other to Hawaii. He had shipped his bike to Seattle just to ride to
Prudhoe Bay. Why did that not surprise me? We talked a bit but I never got off
my bike to do it. Why should that surprise you?
Then it was off to the Cassiar or whatever it is called.
Think trees. Mountain vistas. Narrow road between trees with no passing lanes.
Trees, trees, and more trees. About as far from Houston freeway traffic as you
can get. Miles and miles and miles when I was the only person on the road. It
was majestic, mesmerizing, and monotonous all at the same time. For 450 miles.
I passed the turn off to Steward BC/Hyder, AK. Lots of
people take that detour. There is a pretty cool glacier to visit but I don’t do
that sort of thing. I had no interest. It wasn’t on my list. I rode on.
At one point, off to my left, I saw the biggest bear that I
have seen in my life. It was huge. Brown with silver on its shoulders. It was
walking toward the road, the reared up on its haunches and headed back into the
woods. I didn’t have time to get a picture. I doubt I would have stopped had it
just been standing there. Grizzlies, if that is what it was, are fast. If it
wasn’t a grizzly bear it should have been.
It takes a long time for night to come when you are this far
north. I was feeling good and riding like crazy when I reached the Alcan
Highway. After all those miles the intersection was decidedly nondescript. Just
an intersection. I turned left to head to Alaska.
Since I tend to do this sort of thing, I considered riding
through the night, as far as I could, even if that meant all the way to
Fairbanks. That would be a hair over 1500 miles for the day. Doing that in less
than 24 hours is called a Bun Burner Gold in the Iron Butt Association
parlance. I have done that before, a couple of times, but those were on high
speed roads in the good old US of A which is a far cry from the chances and
changes of the wilderness Alcan. Then I thought again about Kelley and how much
such things worry her and that I hadn’t checked in for quite awhile and it was
late. So I decided to stop.
That taught me something else cool about camping. I saw a
sign for the Coal River Lodge on the Alcan. Think a few scattered old
buildings, two ancient gas pumps, and an RV park. I pulled up to the pump where
a guy was doing something and I asked him, “Do
you guys have anywhere I could pitch my tent?” It was about 11:30 PM at
that point.
He said, “How about let’s pretend that you didn’t see me and
you didn’t ask me that question. Then you just go through that driveway over
there with the flags where you will see a sign that says ‘Camp.’ Find yourself
an empty site and set up your tent. The code to get into the wash room for a
shower is 132 but I didn’t tell you that.”
Show me a motel that gives you a free night just for the
asking and I’ll be equally impressed.
I found a site, easy since mine was the only tent to be
seen, sent Kelley a message on the tracker, set up my tent without the rain fly
(a decision I would regret in the morning) and I was out like a light.
My $500 Gallon of Gas – Sunday, June 26
Begin 14,398 miles
End 15,213 miles
Today 815 miles
I knew when I woke up that today would be my longest riding
day yet. I just didn’t know exactly what that would mean since I didn’t really
have a plan, just daily goals. Today, my goal was to get to Fairbanks.
Riding on the Alcan or the Alaskan Highway or whatever the
official name is is certainly much easier than it used to be. It is a two lane
road, all paved except for construction areas, with the trees cut back well to
the side. The speed limit is 100 kpm, or about 62 mph. For much of it, that is
seriously and painfully slow. But given the condition of the road, sudden and
surprising patches of gravel or pot holes or road patches, you don’t want to ride
much faster. And since I think it would be absolutely stupid to get a speeding
ticket on vacation, I tend to ride just a little faster than the limit. I set
the cruise at 115 kph or about 70 mph and enjoyed the views.
I really don’t know what to say about this road. It is a
long long way from here to there. The road was originally over 1700 miles but
they are constantly improving it, removing curves, building better bridges, so
today it is just over 1400 miles. But since I got on a little bit west of Watson
Lake I would only be riding a portion of it. I’ll ride the rest on my way home.
As far as I’m concerned, the most beautiful part of this
section of the Alcan is coming up on and beyond Haines Junction. The mountain
range covered in glaciers stares at you from the left side for miles and miles.
I would show you pictures but I don’t do much of that.
I saw quite a few bears today, including some cute black
bears and one HUGE bear that might have alson been a grizzly. There was no way
I was going to stop anywhere near him. But there was that one time when I
realized that no one can ride to Alaska and return home without at least one
bear picture so I relented and got this one.
The last two gas stops before Alaska are at Beaver Creek and
something called like Border City, nearer the border. I stopped in Beaver Creek
and was shocked to realize that the border was just 19 miles away. My shock was
based on how much the road has changed since I was last on it in 2010. There were a few stretches with gravel and
pilot cars and road construction but nothing like I remembered.
Approaching the border and beyond into Alaska there was
nothing like the miles of lunar frost heave tundra road I remembered, or the
many miles of gravel road past the border. All of that was wonderfully paved
now and a joy to ride. I had my little chat with the border dude and flew on
into Alaska.
The speed limit on Alaska 2 (the Alaskan interstate system
includes numbers 1,2,3, and 4 which basically comprise a circle linking Tok,
Fairbanks, and Anchorage) is 65 mph and that is just about right. Between
constantly gawking at the beauty of distant mountains, following sometimes
treacherous curves, being surprised by sudden patches of gravel, and watching
every road side for signs of moose, bear, or deer, 65 mph is about all you
need.
I saw seven moose on the side of the road on my way to
Fairbanks. The first three were a Mom and a set of little twins. Understand, we
are talking about moose here. They are HUGE. They make Texas deer look like
Chihuahuas. One was on the shoulder of the road as I approached. I slowed way
down, he turned back into the ditch, and we were both better off for it.
The first town you get to is Tok. I saw the famous Fast
Eddy’s café that everyone writes about but didn’t stop. I was feeling every
mile of the day and anxious to get to Fairbanks. On the way home I’ll be
turning at Tok to ride through Chicken and the Top of the World highway but
that will wait until next week.
The next town is Delta Junction where I stopped for my last
tank of gas before Fairbanks. I got the chocolate milk I always get at that
point of the day and gave Kelley a call from the gas pump. I even sent her a
picture so she could see what I was seeing.
Then it was back on the bike with 95 miles left to
Fairbanks.
Every hobby, maybe every human endeavor, has a sort of
unwritten code. There might be rules in writing but what really matters are the
unwritten rules. The little insider stuff that really matters. Motorcycling has
a certain code as well. Unless you are at a rally, you ALWAYS wave to passing
bikers. If someone doesn’t wave, you know they could afford a bike but they
aren’t bikers. And the code says that you never pass a stranded bike without
stopping to ask if they need help.
So there I was, somewhere north of Delta Junction and still
far short of Fairbanks when I saw a guy dressed in a motorcycle suit walking up
the road in my direction. Off in the distance I could see a bike by the side of
the road so I turned about and rode up to him.
“Out of gas?” I asked him.
“Yes,” he said, “It seems I am.”
I told him that I didn’t have room to take him back to his
bike on mine but I did happen to have an extra gallon of gas that would get him
to Delta Junction.
I rode back to his bike and unpacked my gas can then waited
for him to come and unlock his gas cap. As he poured the gas we introduced
ourselves. He was from Fairbanks on his way to wherever he worked. I told him I
was heading to Fairbanks and then on to Deadhorse. I was going to get a hotel
room in Fairbanks, pay for the room for three nights, and store all of my stuff
in it so I could lighten my bike for the ride to Prudhoe Bay. Here is the part
where my gallon of gas cost me $500.
After putting the gas in his bike he gave me back my container
and then I saw him reach into his wallet. I packed my gas container back on my
bike and turned to see him take a step toward me with money in his hand. “No way,” I said “That’s not how this works. You just pay this forward sometime with
someone else.”
Then he said the magic words, “Well tell you what, how about you store your stuff at my house instead
of paying for a hotel? Hell, you could even stay at my house, I’ll be gone all
week.”
And I, even knowing that one of my worst character defects
is the utter inability to ask anyone else for help – even while knowing that I
would personally do just about anything I could to help someone else – said, “No man, that is a nice offer but I can’t
take advantage of you. You just help someone else some other time down the road.”
And then I asked if I could take his picture for my blog.
It wasn’t until I got to Fairbanks and turned into the Super?
8 because it was right next to Denny’s and one of the cheapest places in town
to stay, that I realized that my gallon of gas just got me about $500.
After 815 miles for the day I got my room at the Super? 8. I
decided to splurge and go for the room with the king bed…which wasn’t much of a
splurge since the nice desk lady agreed to give it to me at the same price as a
queen room. What I didn’t realize until I paid and got my receipt is that the
room is on the 3rd floor, in the middle of a very long hallway, and
there is no elevator. Six trips later, all of the stuff was off my bike and I
was ready to take a shower and wash a load of clothes. It was about midnight by
then, 3:00 AM Houston time.
Lesson learned? We’ll see.
I Guess I’ll Just Take the Day Off – Monday, June 27
Begin 15,213
End 15,221
Today 8
I got up this morning and headed downstairs to the motel
breakfast room. Before I went to sleep last night I checked the website for
Northern Power Sports, the local KTM dealer who I am counting on to install a
new rear tire and basically check my bike out before I head to Deadhorse. They
open at 9:00 AM and I wanted to be there when they unlock the doors.
A couple was sitting at one table. He was wearing an NDSU
Bison hat. That would be the perennial national champion North Dakota State
University football powerhouse Bison for those of you not in the know. At the
next table was an older guy in jeans and a t-shirt. It turns out that the
couple is from Larimore, North Dakota, and the guy is a farmer from outside of
Fergus Falls, MN, near where Kelley and I will be spending our week at a lake
cabin. He is here on his bike to ride to Prudhoe Bay today.
Now all of that can mean one of two things. Either it is a
small world or else people from where I’m from will always look for the
cheapest place to stay in town.
It was raining out when I headed over to the motorcycle shop
to get my new tire installed. I got there at 9:04 AM to see a sign on their
door announcing their new summer hours which include being closed on Sunday and
Monday. So much for that. I headed back to the motel with a slight alteration
in my plans.
I – obviously – spent much of today writing my blog. I
enjoyed my meal of the day next door at Denny’s. I’ll get a good night of sleep
tonight and try again tomorrow.
My plan is to gear up with everything I plan on taking down
the Ice Road Trucker Haul Road, better known at the James Dalton Highway, and
make my first stop the motorcycle shop. If they have a new tire in stock and
are able to install it, I’ll wait and leave when it’s done. If not, I’ll take
my chances and ride with what I’ve got.
Everyone always tries to leave for the Dalton with new tires
on their bike. Or they might even carry a spare with tools to change it
themselves on the road. I don’t do that. I ride my bikes. I don’t service my
bikes. I don’t want to mess anything up. I know the purists out there look at
someone like me with utter disdain but, as St. Clint so aptly put it, a man’s
got to know his limitations.
I carry basic tools, chain care stuff, an air compressor,
and a kit to fix a puncture. Beyond that I have a cell phone.
I’ve got 5,300 miles on a set of tires that are rumored to
last for at least 10,000 miles. That means they will have 6,300 miles on them
by the time I get back from Deadhorse. With almost 3000 more miles to get from
here to Fargo, that would put them right about at their limit. Right now I’m
riding on Heidenau K60 Scouts because they are the best choice for what I’m
doing. But normally the joy of the Beast for me is using it like a crotch
rocket commuter and for that purpose I would rather have the stock Continental
TA II’s. My plan, if I had anything close to a plan, has been to take my
chances and wait to change tires in Fargo.
But with 350 pounds of me and all the stuff I’m carrying,
the rear tire is well past half dead. I’m thinking that, to be on the safe
side, a new rear tire would be a fine idea. If I can get one in the morning,
I’ll do it. If not, off down the road I’ll go. Until tomorrow….
The End of the Line - Tuesday,Wednesday, June 28-29
Begin 15,221
End 16,265
Today 1,044
 |
| This really IS all the way to Deadhorse. It is as far as you can go . |
The guys at Northern
Powersports could not have been nicer or more helpful. I was there at 9:00
AM to get a new tire mounted, back to the hotel to load up, and off to
Deadhorse at 11:00 AM. What a long strange trip it would be.
Did I mention that I am a long way from home and that it
takes a long time to get anywhere around here? Leaving Fairbanks on the Elliot
Highway means almost 80 miles just to get to the beginning of the James Dalton
Highway, long known as the Haul Road. 80 miles with a 55 mph speed limit and
more 45 mph curves that you can shake a stick at. But every minute is pretty
and that’s why I’m here.
I got to the beginning of the Dalton, I was so excited to be
there. I was also surprised to find a
kid on a bicycle there as well. Evidently he forgot something and was
waiting for a car to bring it to him so I asked him to help me with a picture.
I know, I wasn’t planning on taking any pictures but now I was at the whole
point of this trip and I couldn’t help myself.
Recounting the next 20+ hours is already getting fuzzy so I
might be slightly off in some of the details – like how far it was from one
place to another – but here is what I remember from the trip.
I was nervous. No question about it, I was nervous. I have
read so many ride stories that they all kind of blended together but the common
denominator is that the character of the Haul Road changes completely as the
weather and road construction conditions change. Aware of that, I was very
relieved to be starting the journey on a beautiful day with just about perfect
conditions.
Besides, like the farmer from Fergus said at breakfast, “I ride my bike on gravel all the time. If an
18 wheeler can get through, surely I can too.” So there is that.
When you first get to the Dalton there is a sign that
basically says something along the lines of “Dangerous road ahead, tight
curves, steep hills, gravel surfaces, for the next 425 miles….” That is a bit
intimidating for a guy who hasn’t ridden more than a few miles on gravel since
my middle school days on my 1973 Yamaha Enduro 100 on the gravel roads outside
of Wahpeton. But, I figured, I’m not in a hurry and I will figure it out.
It turned out that there was a lot more paved Haul Road than
I expected. Some parts, like the initial miles and the 30 miles after Coldfoot,
were very nice and could be ridden very normally. Other parts had pothole
surprises and plenty of loose gravel. The entire way required paying attention.
I was SO excited to come to the Yukon River Bridge. This is
often a gas stop for people but the Beast has a 7.9 gallon tank and I knew I
could get from Fairbanks to Coldfoot with no problem. Plus I was also carrying
a “just in case” gallon.
Then two things happened at once. The skies opened and it
began to pour just as the pavement gave way to hills and gravel. It was still
pouring when I got to the Hot Spot Café, just 12 more miles down the road. 12
miles of realizing what water does to the road, not to mention how it feels to
meet an 18 wheeler at the crest of a hill without being able to see through my
face shield that was as wet on the inside as the outside because I flipped it
down too late. I whipped right by before I realized where I was. A quick U-turn
and I was sampling the storied Hot Spot hamburger. (Bun was fine, hamburger was
seriously overcooked.)
Back again on the gravel and I was channeling my inner middle
school self through the rain on the wet gravel roads. The KTM 1290 Super
Adventure is one heck of a motorcycle! Again I was reminded that its capacities
extend far beyond my capabilities
Coldfoot was just as I imagined it would be other than the
gas station/café was a bit farther off the main highway that I expected. I made
it a quick gas and bio stop, bought some more water for my Camelbak and headed
north.
Another surprise, there is about 30 miles of perfect
pavement after Coldfoot. The speed limit remained 50 mph (or whatever it was)
but I was having a great time going 70 mph. The rain had stopped and I wouldn’t
see rain again until Deadhorse. Then, just as suddenly, the pavement ended and
I was back on gravel.
I’m a little cloudy on just how far it was from there until
I was climbing Atigun Pass. I could see the barren Brooks Range mountains off
in the distance for miles and miles but never noticed a sign announcing the
climb up Atigun Pass. Because the weather was great, the skies were clear, the
pass itself was a bit of a disappointment. I expected it to be scary, steep,
and challenging. Instead it was just interesting. Before I knew it I was at the
top and heading toward the tundra.
The last 90 miles to Deadhorse was the worst road of the
whole thing. At one point, while I was hanging my feet off the pegs to stretch
my legs again, I ran my left ankle into a rock in the road. Hitting a rock with
your ankle, despite thick leather boots, at 50 mph, was a bit of a shock. I
thought my ankle was shattered…but it wasn’t. It just hurt.
There were three road construction zones in those 90 miles.
I had read about them. I was dreading them. But they weren’t as bad as I
thought. When I got to the first place there were plenty of signs to warn me to
look for the pilot car and slow down for the construction. But evidently they
were done for the day as there wasn’t anything there but signs. I rode over a
bit of a rise (like crossing a railroad track) and suddenly found myself in 4
inch deep large rock gravel with several deep sets of crisscrossing tire
tracks.
The Beast started dancing as soon as I hit it and I started
fighting against my instincts. I wanted to stay in the tire tracks but the ruts
were too deep and I did much better when I treated the Beast like a horse and
let it find its own way. I wanted to slow down but I immediately learned that
goosing it was the right choice every time. Somewhere between 20-25 mph in 1st
gear was the right place to be in all of the bad sections of road.
Before I got to the next pilot car sections I saw another
motorcycle coming my way. As he got closer he signaled that he wanted to talk
so I pulled to the side of the road and stopped. I didn’t pull off on the shoulder
of the road, that would have been terrible as the gravel was banked up and
deep. I just went as far over as I felt comfortable doing.
Maybe he was tired or just not paying attention but as soon
as the guy came up alongside me – far too close to me for my comfort – his foot
must have slipped in the gravel or something because he dumped his motorcycle
right on top of mine!
There we were. My right hand had a death grip on my throttle
to keep my own bike from tipping over. My left leg was pinned between his
mirror and handlebars and I couldn’t move it. He was down on his side, his left
leg pinned under this bike. We were a living Chinese Finger Puzzle of mangled
motorcycles and unbalanced men. We finally extricated ourselves.
As I was helping him pick his bike up he noticed my wedding
ring (a circle of gold crosses) and coyly asked me if those symbols meant
anything to me. “Absolutely!” I said. Short, sweet, and to the point. I could
pretty much tell where the conversation was going to go from there.
After telling the stories of how he discovered what God was
teaching him on his motorcycle journey he wrapped it up with “God provides and God will never give us any
more than we can handle.” Interesting – the very same discoveries that I
was making on this trip.
After swimming my way through the next two road construction
zones, both of which meant following pilot cars while reminding myself as the
Beast squirmed under me, “God won’t give
me anything I can’t handle”, I made it to Deadhorse.
My expectations of Deadhorse weren’t high to begin with and
certainly weren’t exceeded. A combination of maintenance sheds, oil field
equipment, trucks, most stuck between the airstrip and the lake that runs
alongside the north side of “town.” What I didn’t expect was getting lost.
Certainly at some point I hope some bored oil field worker will post a sign
“This way to the sign that you all want to take a picture of with your
motorcycles.”
Instead I found myself at 11:15 PM riding around the gravel
roads looking for what I couldn’t find. I should have turned right but instead
turned left. I found the Prudhoe Bay Hotel where I got directions to the gas
station. I also got some more water, another bottle of Advil, some more Chapstick,
and some wonderful beef jerky. Score.
Back onto the gravel and I tried the other side of town,
looking for the general store and my most important Deadhorse photo op. I met a
guy in a pickup who told me that he had been working on the North Slope for the
past 12 years but had never noticed the sign I tried to describe. I told him I
thought it was on the side of a grocery store. “The NAPA place?” he asked, “It’s
the only store here but I haven’t been in it for over 6 years.” I asked him
to take me there. Voila! And, as it turns out, he parked right across the
street for his next shift at work. I guess oil field workers up there are
pretty focused on the tasks at hand.
I thought briefly about going back over to the Prudhoe Bay
Hotel and sleeping awhile but it had started to rain and I dreaded the idea of
riding those first 90 miles back in the rain. I also didn’t want to pay $250 on
top of what I was already paying to store my stuff at the Super? 8 back in
Fairbanks. And, I thought about the stories I read where people would say, “Some people go up and back to Deadhorse
nonstop but we decided to sleep in Deadhorse.” I wanted the challenge so I
went for it.
Kids, don’t try this at home.
I left town and, a couple of miles down the road, I saw a
truck approaching. I also saw a caribou coming up from the side of the road on
the ride, and another truck bearing down on me from behind. Evidently the
caribou was out for a midnight snack and thought to itself, “I wonder if the green tundra on the other
side of the road is better than the green tundra on this side of the road?”
Save for those two trucks I would have stopped to snap a picture. As it was I
slowed down and internally encouraged the caribou to speed up.
Since I was now an experienced road construction zone rider
the trip back south was easy peezy. But I sensed that I was tired and getting
more tired so I rode more and more slowly. Where I took the washboards at 45
mph on the way north, now it was more like 30 mph. I rode like that all the way
back to Fairbanks.
Since I had neglected to worry about a cool way to mount my
GoPro on my bike I had also neglected to take any video on my trip. As I saw
Atigun Pass looming off in the distance I decided to try something new. The
Mouth Cam.
I stopped for coffee and gas in Coldfoot. I thought about
breakfast but the buffet was too expensive and I thought too much food would
put me to sleep. I met a great guy from Michigan who was also out exploring
Alaska. We had a nice talk and then I hit the road.
It took FOREVER to get back to Fairbanks.
Arrived at the hotel at 1:30 PM. This
website was one of many that I read before making this trip. It suggested
that I leave 4 days for the round trip from Fairbanks to Deadhorse. That
probably makes great sense as it is over 1000 miles. I did it in 26.5 hours. Thinking back I would have been better off to
sleep for six hours or so in Deadhorse but not doing so saved a bunch of $$$
and gives me a better story to remember.
Besides, I needed the time to wash the Dalton off my bike.
I slept like the innocent on Wednesday night.
My $500 Hamburger - Thursday, June 30
Begin 16,265
End 16,547
Today 282
 |
| Notice the backtrack to Fairbanks for the passport I forgot because I forget to remember that I might forget. |
I was in no hurry to leave Fairbanks. All I cared about were
two things – some postcards and a campsite. I’ll get to that.
I took my time getting ready to leave. I got my coffee and
headed outside when I saw something new, a huge dog crate just inside the
outside door. When I walked back into the lobby I saw a young man with a
beautiful Husky dog. I told him that when I was a kid I read the book “Kavik
the Wolf Dog” which, along with Jack London’s “Call
of the Wild” made me want to see Alaska someday. I was living the dream.
It turns out that he is a real life dog musher from
Switzerland who was spending some time in Alaska visiting and learning from
some famous Alaskan Iditarod veterans. We talked a bit about what we are
learning about Alaskan roads (they are terrible) compared to the roads in
Switzerland and the Scandinavian countries (which he assured me are much
better.) He asked me to explain the allure of Donald Trump and I asked him to
provide a solution to world poverty in less than 20 words. We got along great
and soon he had to go.
When I got back to my room I called the KTM dealer in Fargo,
ND, where I had made an appointment to get some new tires. The TKC 80 rear tire
that was brand new on Tuesday was already more than half worn out after my 1000
mile day. Now I first called that dealer three months ago to see if scheduled
repairs in advance and if they kept what I thought I would want in stock. I
called two more times before I left on the trip. I told them what I wanted them
to do and that I wanted it done on Thursday, July 7th. So I called
again from Fairbanks and the service manager said he had never heard of me.
What a CRAPPY way to do business.
So I got on the internet and found another KTM dealer in
Edmonton. The service guy I spoke to assured me that yes, they were open on
July 4th, YES they could have a set of Continental TA II’s ready for
me, and YES! I should be there at 10:30 AM to get them put on the bike. That
set and arranged, I started packing up my stuff for the trip.
I left the Super? 8 at 1:00 PM and headed south with only
one thing on my mind. I wanted to stop at the Santa store in North Pole, Alaska,
so I could send some postcards to the grandkids. THAT was THE most fun grandpa
thing that I have done all year.
I was back on the road and 34 miles from the motel when I
realized that I had left my passport under the leg of the desk. I had scrunched
up all the pages because I was keeping it in the same pocket of my jacket as my
cell phone so I put it there to flatten it back out. I remembered thinking “Don’t forget this here. You’re going to need
it” which I finally DID remember, as I mentioned, 34 miles away. So I got
to ride to Fairbanks one more time on this trip.
It was an uneventful ride down to Tok. This time I didn’t
see a single moose. When I got to town I stopped at the first place to get gas.
When I went inside to pay I asked the guy at the counter for directions to the
biker friendly campground that I had heard about. He told me how to find it. I
asked where that was in relation to Fast Eddy’s. He cautioned me against eating
there, suggesting instead the Sourdough Café which was just a little farther
down the same road as the biker campground.
I headed south and turned right on the Tok Cut Off and
started looking for the café. I was just about to give up my search when I saw
a campground with a sign for a café. It wasn’t the franchise looking place that
I expected. I parked and followed the sign back around to the café. I walked
through the door and who should be sitting there but Troy, the guy I gave a
gallon of gas to!
We chatted, he bought my $500 hamburger, and when we were
done eating, he went back to get his bike and then led me over to the biker
campground. Thompson’s Eagle’s
Claw Motorcycle Park. Perfect.
I picked a spot right next to two Canadians. Since it was
starting to rain I began my camp setup with my tarp. I brought it the whole way
and this was the only time I used it. Great idea as it let me set up my tent,
etc., out of the rain.
After I got my camp set up my next door neighbor came over
for a conversation. We were soon joined by a guy from Colorado who began
talking about how President Obama and Secretary Clinton both belong in prison.
I thought about how nice it was that my fellow countryman was painting such a
patriotic picture of the good ole US of A and excused myself from the rant. It
was still going on as I drifted off to sleep in the comfort of my Big Agnes
sleeping bag.
It Was Beautiful Country if I Could Have Seen It – Friday, July 1
Begin 16,547
End 17,153
Today 606
I left the campground looking forward to riding the Top of
the World Highway, the Taylor Highway (I think it is called, I can’t keep all
of these road names/numbers straight) that begins 12 miles south of Tok, passes
through the tiny mining community of Chicken, AK, and ends with a ferry ride
across the Yukon River to Dawson City, Yukon. Is that cool or what?
Well, it WAS cool and it rained a good share of the time.
I’m thinking it was beautiful country if I could have seen it.
I stopped for coffee and a pastry at one of the two choices
along the road in Chicken. Chicken is an old gold mining community of a few
hardy year-round souls, adventurous tourists on motorcycles or in RV’s, and
those who come to spend the summer seeking their fortunes. I had a nice long
conversation with a real Alaskan gold miner. He spends his winters in Denver,
sometimes finding oil field jobs, and sometimes driving truck, all to save money
to buy more equipment so he can spend the summer prospecting in Alaska. He
began going to Alaska in 1999 and has been every year since. He has done all
right.
The highway was gravel but was in good condition. Even when
wet. It reminded me of an Alaskan version of the Blue Ridge Parkway. The same
feel. The same 45 mph speed limit.
Soon I was looking forward to the border and the ferry ride across
the Yukon River. The border crossing was a bit of a pain as the nice lady made
me open my various bags, etc., but the ferry ride didn’t disappoint as it was a
real highlight. I got gas in Dawson City and headed southeast toward
Whitehorse.
I got to Whitehorse and started looking for a place to stay.
The first three campgrounds I tried were full. Finally I found a spot at a
provincial park campground. Very nice. Only $12. Can’t be beat.
Enter the Darkness – Saturday, July 2
Begin 17,153
End 18,198
Today 1,045
I realize now that I haven’t mentioned much about how weird
it was to be in the land of the midnight sun. Part of the reason why I just
turned around in Deadhorse is that it was as bright as daylight, even at midnight.
But now I was back again in the latitudes of darkness so I wanted to get an
early start and get as far as I could.
The Alaskan Highway (or the Alcan Highway, or whatever it is
numbered) is a really great road now. There are more gas stops than I remember
when I rode it back in 2010. There are fewer construction areas. It is just a
really nice two lane road with beautiful scenery and plenty of glimpses of wild
animals.
I just kept riding. I finally stopped for a late breakfast
at the Coal River Lodge, just west of Watson Lake. It was the same place that I
had gotten a free campsite on my way north so I felt I owed it to them to spend
some money. I got gas and had a great breakfast and then started doing a little
deferred maintenance. My rear tire was really looking bad but my chain was
worse! I tightened it just about to the last part of the adjusting bolt, hoped
for the best, and hit the road.
It is 272 miles from Whitehorse to Watson Lake. Then it is 319
miles from there to the next town, Fort Nelson. About in the middle is one of
my favorite parts, Muncho Lake. It was there, back in 2010, climbing back up
from the lake while heading south, that I came within inches of hitting a moose
that jumped across the road in front of me. Let’s just say that I was on full
alert. It was beautiful.
As it started to get dark I thought about looking for a
campground or a motel. But I wasn’t ready to stop so I just kept on riding.
Another 237 miles to Fort St. John. There I actually did stop to get a room but
I wasn’t willing to pay $95 to haul my junk to the 2nd floor so I
got back on the road and headed toward Dawson Creek and the conclusion of the
Alcan Highway.
On my last trip through there the 46 miles from Fort St.
John to Dawson Creek was an absolute blur. It was pouring rain, I couldn’t see,
there was road construction and I was miserable. It was that trip that made me
order auxiliary lights for the KTM the first week I owned it. BUT the Haul Road
had done a number on my lights. I lost the lens on the right one and my clumsy
new found friend who dropped his bike on mine had bunged up on the mount on the
left one. They were basically useless.
Also, wouldn’t you know it, once again it started to rain in
Fort St. John and road construction started immediately when I crossed the
river toward Dawson Creek. Another crappy trip. Maybe someday I’ll see the
sights along those 46 miles. The rain and I reached Dawson Creek and again I
wasn’t ready to stop. I just wanted to ride out of the rain.
More rain. More road construction. Now it is the middle of
the night and stopping no longer made much sense. I got to some little town and
pulled up under the roof over the gas pumps to take a break. There really
wasn’t a dry place to sit down but the sky was beginning to lighten and the
rain was starting to lessen so I got back on the road.
I stopped for gas at Fox Creek and realized I was ready for
an early breakfast. It turned out that the café was connected to a motel. It
was 5:15 AM and I was ready to sleep so I finished up my food, checked into a
room, unloaded the bike, and hit the hay. 1045 miles. Another official
Saddlesore 1000 for the Beast.
Rest Day #2 – Sunday, July 3
Begin 18,198
End 18,198
Today 0
Fox Creek is only about 2.5 hours from the dealership in
Edmonton so I just decided to stay there for the day. I took a walk. Took a
nap. Thought about working on my blog entry but didn’t feel like it. Spent some
time on the phone with Kelley. And, after all that, I went to bed early.
You Have GOT to Be Kidding Me! - Monday, July 4
Begin 18,198
End 18,710
Today 512
I loaded up the bike and headed toward Cycle Works in
Edmonton. My service appointment was for 10:30 AM and I wanted to get there a
little early. Just after I left the motel two deer crossed the road in front of
me. They would be the only wildlife I would see all day. At this point the was
a four lane so I made good time to Edmonton.
When the highway got to town it suddenly devolved into a
city street passing through the industrial part of Edmonton. I was following my
GPS to the dealership when we turned on to Wayne Gretsky Highway. Hockey IS
king in the north. I was at Cycle Works at 9:45 AM. I went in to talk to the
service guy who told me, in no particular order, that there was no record that
I had called. Yes, they did have a set of tires ready for my bike but there was
no note that I was the one who asked them to order them. And yes, they could
work me into their schedule but they couldn’t tell me when.
Long story short, I spent nearly 8 hours hanging around that
stupid dealership without free wifi or free coffee or anything else except the
café next door to occupy my time. It was brutal. They replaced my tires and
installed a new chain but they didn’t have the sprockets I needed in stock so
the new chain will be trash by the time I get to Houston. I was not a happy
customer.
One of the reasons people buy Harley Davidson’s is that the
dealer support and the wider Harley community is awesome. Thus far my
experience with KTM in that regard has been crap. I’m just saying.
I was back on the road at 5:15 PM, just in time for rush
hour out of Edmonton. I was very grateful to leave the Beast’s hiking boots
behind and ride on its new track shoes. Gone was my hesitancy around corners
and the constant WHIR and vibration of the knobby tires. I really like the
Continental TA II’s. I DON’T like Canadian tire prices but I’m hoping that the
exchange rate will help with that.
I stopped somewhere along the way for dinner and free wifi
and then got to Saskatoon sometime before midnight. I was going to look for a
motel room “just a little bit south of Saskatoon” – because that seemed so
fitting - but I saw one with a room for $65 right in the middle of town that I
couldn’t resist.
There’s No Dakota Like North Dakota – Tuesday, July 5
Begin 18,710
End 19,169
Today 459
After days and days of mountains and trees I was ready for
another day of fields and hills. Alberta had transitioned to Saskatchewan the
day before – strangely enough, while crossing a street in downtown Lloydminster
– and now I was looking at beautiful field after beautiful field. I would later
learn that the crops with the yellow flowers on many of the fields were canola
fields. Someday becoming Canola oil (the name derived from Canadian Oil.) Go
figure.
North Dakota was just a little over 300 miles from my motel
in Saskatoon and I was excited to get there. There is just something about
going home to your first real home that is special. But also a mixed bag. As
excited as I was to get there, and as excited as I was about what I hoped to do
there, something strange happened the second I crossed the border at Portal,
ND. The same trip that I had been thinking was fun, adventurous, challenging,
and great somehow appeared frivolous, a waste of time and money, a journey of
“What were you thinking?” You just have to love the power of good ole
Midwestern guilt.
Highway 5 across northern North Dakota doesn’t get much love
but it ought to. There are few scenic byways across the whole state so you
pretty much take what you get. But I love Highway 5. I have memories across the
whole state. My aunt and uncle live south of there on the western edge of the
state (sadly I didn’t have time to visit them this trip.) A basketball player
from Bowbells. Some great friends from Mohall. The times I preached in Kenmare
and their little country parishes. And Bottineau, gateway to the Turtle
Mountains and Lake Metigoshe.
The best part of ND 5 happens in the eastern end of the
state as you come to a glorious curve where the Red River Valley stretches out
before you. But I wouldn’t make it there this trip. I had places to go and
people to see.
I got gas in Bottineau and then headed north toward Lake
Metigoshe. I spent three summers working for Metigoshe Ministries, a summer camp,
in college and seminary, and I was looking forward to my first visit in many
many years. Doubly great, I was also going to be visiting with some Houston
friends and former parishioners with whom I shared 15 years of ministry.
Jim and Chris Dyess are giving their summer, as they have
now for a few years, to the work of Lutheran
Mission Builders, a wonderful program that connects (often) retired handymen
and handywomen who have RV’s and willingness to work hard, who then spend time
building things that further the mission of the church. They partner with local
volunteers and do wonderful things. They will be at Metigoshe from May 1 to
October 1 this summer working on a couple of projects at the Pelican Lake camp.
I was particularly struck by the forest of evergreen trees
that lined the main drive into camp. 34 years ago I remember that road being
used as we moved the first cabins down to the newly cut places where they would
be planted by the lake. I remember mowing those trees when they were little
more than babies. Now they are all grown up. It was fun to see the young child manning
the mower next to them…and then remembering that that is how young I used to be
while doing the same thing.
Jim, Chris, and I had a great visit. We walked around the
site, memories flooding me as I tested out my leg, still feeling weird from my
lesson at the gas pump. I was reminded of the quantity and ferocity of
Midwestern mosquitos and I got to spend the night in their wonderful home away
from home RV.
Back Where I Come From - Wednesday, July 6
Begin 19,169
End 19,538
Today 369
I left Metigoshe and headed out of the Turtle Mountains down
to the flat lands of North Dakota proper. I stopped for a quick breakfast in
Dunseith because I wanted them to have my business, and then rode south where I
picked up Highway 2 at Rugby. Rugby,
BTW, holds the distinction of being the geographical center of North America
and it has a monument right next to the highway to prove it. Technically, I
think the very center point is somewhere else but the monument is close enough
for me so I stopped to get a picture…just like I did the last time I rode
through there.
Ironically, that monument, the geographical center of North
America, located in none other than Rugby, North Dakota, sits in the parking
lot of a Mexican food restaurant. Now THAT’S the America I love. I headed east
on Highway 2.
Lakota, North Dakota, the county seat of Nelson County, is
the epicenter of my Dad’s side of the family. I have several relatives who
still live there, including my Uncle Gordon, Aunt Darlene, and my cousin Scott
and his family. I always try to visit them when I know I’ll be passing through
town on Highway 2…I’m just not very good at giving them advance notice. I think
it has something to do with the precision of how time works around there.
My Mom used to say “You
can never be too early but it just takes a minute to be late.” So I tend
not to make firm commitments when it comes to arrival times for motorcycle trip
visits.
I got there around lunchtime and stayed until nearly 5:00
PM. We caught up on family and the news and I got to learn about the continued
complexity of modern farming. I even got to go back out to the farm with my
uncle and cousin. We also had a great visit and then I was off to points
farther east and south.
It has been a long time since I lived in North Dakota but my
body clock is still accustomed to the horrific 55 mph speed limit of those
years. You get to places faster now. I got to Grand Forks in record time and
stopped for gas…only to discover the most complicated gas pump I’ve ever seen.
I jumped on I-29 south and, except for the road construction
that constricted four lanes down to two for far too many miles, I flew to
Fargo.
I grew up about 50 miles south of Fargo. I went to one year
of high school in Fargo and I went to four years of college just across the
river in Moorhead, MN. My favorite lunch in that one year of high school were
the days they served Cheese Frenchies.
Basically deep fat fried grilled cheese sandwiches. I loved them then
and I love them still. Mom’s Diner still serves them. They aren’t the same as
my high school memories but, for over 30 years now, I have stopped at Mom’s
every single time I have been back in Fargo to get a double order. I was
excited to do it again this trip…but I settled for a single order and salad
bar. Still worth it.
I left the Fargo area on US 10 heading west. Again, every
little town held memories. The home town friends who now live in Dilworth.
College friends from Lake Park and Twin Valley and Detroit Lakes. Before I knew
it I was at Perham, ready to turn south on 78 to the beautiful lake cabin
waiting for Kelley and me on Ottertail Lake.
Perry Miller is a high school friend who invited us to use
their lake cabin sometime – an offer that I jumped on and planned this trip
around. Perry has done some very interesting things since high school and I was
looking forward to spending time with him and his wife, Denise. But mostly, I
was looking forward to seeing Kelley.
I got settled into the cabin and slept as fast as possible.
I had ridden over 9,300 miles. I thought back over the trip. I had been at the
top of the highest paved road in North America. At the end of the road in the
farthest northern road in the world. AND I had stopped at the geographical
center of North America. I was ready to spend a week with Kelley at the lake.
INTERLUDE – July 7-13
Begin 19,538
End 19,896
Kelley was flying in on Thursday and I couldn’t wait to see
her. I rode to Fargo, got the rental car ready and parked next to my bike, and
was standing at the bottom of the escalator when she arrived. We’ve been
married 8 years but seeing her still brought tears to my eyes. She followed me
back to the lake with one quick stop to stock the wine bar and our vacation
began.
We had a great time with Perry and Denise and the weekend
weather was perfect. Perry and I golfed very poorly in a tournament in Wahpeton
on Friday which gave Kelley some time to unwind and get in the vacation spirit.
Over the weekend we got to take rides on the pontoon boat, visit old friends,
Mike and Mary Yaggie, and Kelley and I visited my mom’s grave outside of Fergus
Falls. We had great pizza from Zorba’s and a GREAT steak dinner from Kelley.
Perry and Denise went back to the real world on Sunday night
and Kelley and I had the next three days alone. Wind and rain kept us off the
lake but we found plenty of things to do, including a great visit with my soul
brother Lavel and his wife Emily on Wednesday night. Emily, the meal was
fantastic. Sorry I wasn’t willing to take another picture. Vanity after not
combing my hair for three weeks.
Eventually that time would come to an end. We will never
forget it.
NOW I Remember - Thursday, July 14
Begin 19,896
End 20,608
Today 712
We spent a little time on Thursday morning making sure that
we left the cabin exactly as we found it. That done, it was time to go. Kelley
kissed me goodbye and set off for Fargo and the airport. I loaded up the bike
and started off to Houston.
It was 62 degrees, fitfully raining, and windy as all get
out. I was riding into the teeth of it as I left the gentle hills of Minnesota
lake country to the flatlands of the Red River Valley. After more than a week
of North Dakota Nice, remembering the good times of growing up, and reading
Perry and Denise’s copy of Marc de Celle’s “Close
Encounters of the Fargo Kind” (because it was too windy to do much of
anything on the lake), I had been wondering why I had ever left that place.
The 24 mile ride from Fergus Falls to Wahpeton helped me
remember. It was 61 degrees in Wahpeton. The wind would get worse once I left
town and would stay bad to Brookings, SD.
I had my own “close encounter” moment when I stopped for gas
at the Simonton Station on Dakota Avenue. I always stop there. I went in to get
cash from the ATM (better to monitor how much money I would spend getting back
to Houston) and then gave the guy at the counter (I don’t know his name but he
is ALWAYS the guy at that counter) $20 to hold as I got my gas.
“Oh no” he said, “You can pump first here and then pay later.”
And then, of course he added, “So where
are you from anyway?”
Proudly I said, “I’m
from here. But I have lived in Texas for the past nearly 30 years.”
Delightful.
While I was pumping gas into my bike a guy who had overheard
us came out to the bike. He asked my name. When he heard “Kerry Nelson” he
said, “You used to live on South 2nd
right next to my mother, Edna.” I
vaguely remembered that and told him that yes, we did live there briefly but we
lived all over the place through the years. He remembered me. It was nice to be
remembered.
Before I left Wahpeton I just had to have breakfast at the
Fryin’ Pan. Like Mom’s Diner in Fargo, it is a tradition well worth preserving.
I remember when it was built. It used to be a Country Kitchen. My sister, Sue,
got her first waitressing job there, hired before the building was done.
Lavel’s Dad sold eggs to them. His parents took us to eat there all the time. I
loved the Country Boy combo. This time I settled for the same old ham &
cheese omelette with a side of bacon. I recognized a couple of faces. I was
back in my hometown.
It really IS a blessing to have a hometown. Not everyone has
that. And not everyone is from a place like Wahpeton. I have memories down
every street. As I have continued visiting over the years, always quick trips,
often just passing through, I have felt myself healing, growing up, maybe even gasp maturing. That town is the
touchstone of my life. It’s my Rosebud.
But it was still hard to realize that I was at Perry
Miller’s cabin on the lake, not his Dad’s, and that we wouldn’t get in trouble
for drinking beer on the deck. I guess I still have room to grow.
As far as Wahpeton is from Houston, getting from there to
here is not complicated. You take 210 west for 13 miles, get on I-29 south to
Kansas City, I-35 south to Dallas, I-45 south to Houston. Of course there are
plenty of other ways and I have ridden/driven many of them. But when you are in
a hurry, there’s no better way that Eisenhower’s vision of us being able to
move our troops around as quickly as the Germans could theirs. I headed out of
town.
Before I left North Dakota I took a quick peek again at
Hankinson. Just off I-29, it is the town where I was born (St. Gerard’s
Hospital) and baptized (Immanuel Lutheran Church.) I rode by both of them. We
left town before I was one year old but it is still part of me.
As I headed south it kept raining off and on but the wind
was mostly off my back. I passed the turn toward Pickerel Lake and remembered
my fun days last year visiting George. I passed Watertown and the Redlin Art
Museum. Kelley and I visited there once. She didn’t think much of his work but
obviously lots of people do.
Straight, flat, and windy. It got better once I got to
Brookings and even better as I passed through Sioux Falls, once named America’s
Most Liveable City. Another classmate of mine and her husband have lived in
Sioux Falls forever. And once again, while I thought of them, I just kept on
riding right through town.
I don’t know why I don’t like Iowa. I should like Iowa.
Everyone should like Iowa. But I don’t. I never have. I think probably because
I have no reason to ever stop anywhere in Iowa. I endure the state. Especially
leaving behind South Dakota’s speed limit.
I-29 passes through Missouri. That never makes much sense to
me. Then I finally got to Kansas City and promptly missed my exit to I-435. My
GPS wasn’t content to stay on the interstate and constantly wanted me to cut
west to take US 75 as a shortcut. But I have done that before. It is a great
idea at the beginning of a trip but, at the end of one and you just want to get
home, it is far better to just stick to the interstate and bear it. I missed my
exit because I mistrusted my GPS. A quick U-turn and I was back on track.
I wanted to get past Kansas City and usually that means
getting to Ottawa. There is a fine Best Western just off the exit and I had
enough points for a free room so I stopped. I scored the handicapped room – the
first one on the first floor and I parked right outside. Perfect. One more day
to go. I checked in with Kelley and spent the next hour trying to fall asleep.
I like a little cool-down time after a long day of riding and didn’t it. But I
got a nice shower and a reasonable bed and it was free.
Home Again Home Again Jiggedy Jig - Friday, July 15
Begin 20,608
End 21,370
Today 762
Like I said, it isn’t complicated riding back home to
Houston. Get on I-35 and head south. This time I happened to enjoy just about
perfect weather. Beautiful blue sky, warm but not hot, not much wind, and, at
first, not much traffic.
I got my ticket at the beginning of the tollway portion and
later stopped for gas at one of the islands that pop up along the way. Before I
left I put $7 cash with my ticket to cover my toll. Of course, when I got
there, it was $7.50. I swear it used to be $6.90. Inflation.
I stopped for breakfast at Sooner’s Corner in Oklahoma. I
don’t always stop there but I often do. It was the starting point for the
famous Cherokee Strip Land Grab. The government gave away millions of acres on
a “first come, first served” basis. Those who showed up and raced to claim land
were called “Boomers.” Those who skipped the event and got there first were
called “Sooners.” Hence the University of Oklahoma Sooners. Now you know.
Back through Oklahoma City again…forever….and then I
rediscovered the scourge of riding through Oklahoma. Road construction. There
were three or four places where bridges were under construction and all traffic
was funneled into one lane. I don’t know how they did it but the highway
department had figured out a way to channel the worse of drivers’ instincts
into a grinding halt of hot and halting. I SO wanted to jump on the shoulder
and pass my way to the front but no, I’m from North Dakota. We are polite
people. We don’t budge. We don’t cut in line. We are patient. We take what we
get. What I got was hot and sweaty. Again and again and again.
FINALLY the road opened up and I crossed the Red River into
Texas. The very first thing one crosses after the river is a porn shop off on
the right. You would think, conservative, Bible Belt, and all that, someone
would have tried to shut that place down. But there it stands. I guarantee you
the owner is not a Lutheran and not from North Dakota.
The speed limit jumps back up to 75 MPH in Texas which is
welcomed. But it is also a bit misleading as, for some reason, Texas is
completely incapable of finishing a road construction project on I-35. There has been construction along this route
for all 30 years I have lived in Texas. It NEVER ends. And I was going to make
Dallas just in time for rush hour. Oh joy.
The Dallas rush hour began for me 43 miles north as I passed
through Denton. Relentless, lane shifting, stop and go traffic, 100 degrees and
sunny. It was terrible. It took nearly 2 hours to get to the south side of
Dallas and the first breath of relief. I HATE driving through Dallas.
I was getting tired but I smelled the barn. As I have shared
before, riding long miles is basically an exercise in pain management. I stayed
awake managing my pain. And, as usual, when I get tired I ride much more slowly.
The cruise set to the speed limit +4 and I just hang on.
My last stop was a McDonald’s in Huntsville. Don’t, if you
are heading south, ever stop there. Getting back on I-45 is like riding to
Houston on the feeder road. It is like Huntsville really didn’t appreciate the
highway passing through town so they made their exits a pain. Even though I
still had more than an hour to get home, I texted ahead and asked Kelley to
open the garage door as I didn’t want to get off and on the bike one extra more
time.
And then, there I was in Houston traffic and there I was
pulling into the garage. The trip, the vacation, the silly idea of riding to
Deadhorse, was done.
Final Thoughts – Saturday, July 16
I really don’t know why people are wired the way they are. I
can only make sense of it when I think about God – whose ways will ever be
mysterious to me. I just know that it takes all kinds. I like road trips. I
like big challenges. I like what I just did.
You would think that a bucket list would eventually grow shorter.
That isn’t how it works for me. I still want to ride in Mexico. I want to see
Bryce Canyon and Mount St. Helens and where they had the winter Olympics in New
York. I want to see the brick I bought at the Four Corners Monument in
Madawaska, Maine. I want to go to Key West again but stay longer. I want to
spend time riding around Kentucky and Tennessee. I want to stay for a week in
Hot Springs, Arkansas. I even want to go to Sturgis again someday.
But I think I’m done with Alaska.
Overall, I covered 11,055 miles on this trip. I rode through
13 states and 4 Canadian provinces. I was gone for 26 days, 19 of which I spent
riding. I averaged 581 miles a day when I was riding. Not counting the short
rides over the time I was at the lake, I averaged 650 miles a day in 17 days of
riding. That’s a ton.
The Beast performed admirably. The Dalton wounded it a bit.
Changing tires twice was a pain. I totally trashed my chain and, since they
didn’t have the sprockets to match the new chain, I’ll have to replace it all again
when I go back in for service. The electronics worked well and were much
appreciated. The heat induced DIRE WARNING alerts became easy to ignore. I
loved the quickness and responsiveness of the Beast on the mountain roads and
passing cars along the way.
I appreciate the 7.9 gallon gas tank and the 9,300 mile
service intervals. With a 6 gallon tank and 5,000 mile service intervals, I
would have spent more time at gas stations and dealer service shops with the
Harley. BUT, there is nothing more comfortable than touring on a Harley.
Especially on the interstate portions, the Harley would have been better.
Truthfully, except for the three miles back into the woods
to my campsite in Montana, and the 90 miles from Atigun Pass to Deadhorse, I
could certainly have taken my Harley on this trip. Even on those roads, going
slowly I could have pretty easily have gotten through. The Harley will remain
my long distance touring bike of choice. The KTM Beast will be my “trailer it
to the starting point” choice when heading to Big Bend or Bryce Canyon.
But now both are tired and need service. With 77,000+ miles
on the clock, I think the stator is out again on the Harley and the KTM will
need a thorough going through after the way I beat the heck out of it on this
trip.
But I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. And now it is time
to start on tomorrow’s sermon. God bless you all and thank you Kelley!
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| At this resolution it looks like I didn't reach Deadhorse...computers betray us. I did! |
