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Five Corners On A Connie
or This Can't Be Happening!
by Jack Gustafson

My first ride on a motorcycle was back in '60, when a friend foolishly offered me the use of his pristine '58 XLCH. Prior to that I'd never been on a motorcycle, so he had to explain the shift pattern, brake and clutch controls, and how to kick it over without getting launched myself. Supremely confident, I took off down the highway in my low cut oxfords, short-sleeved shirt, and gloveless hands. Helmet? Heck, only racecar drivers wore those. Within 20 minutes I ran across another friend who was riding his brand new Sportster, and the race was on. Fortunately, I lived through that day and have never looked back. But in all the ensuing years I have heard, and believed, the old saying that there are two kinds of riders - those who have fallen, and those who are going to fall. Now, after 42 years of staying upright, it was my turn. What trauma! The unbelievable had occurred!

It didn't help that I'd been riding along without so much as a wiggle for the past few miles in the snow, and was getting a little cocky. I should have remembered the verse in Proverbs that reads "Pride goeth before a fall…". Coming to a mild upgrade, and finding myself slowing down as I started the ascent, I eased on a little throttle. Next thing I knew, the back end started fishtailing and, overcorrecting and before I could react properly to catch it, we were down on the right side and sliding.

Five Corners On A Connie

Okay, for those of you who are real nit pickers, it wasn't really a full five corners. That would require hitting Deadhorse, aka Prudhoe Bay, to make it a true, 100% five corners. But Tok, Alaska was close enough for me, especially in early April. Have you ever heard the lines of the song that go "When it's springtime in Alaska, it's forty below"? Well, that might be a slight exaggeration, but not much. And it can get mighty nasty up in the Brooks Range that time of year. So I wimped out, and turned south as soon as the roads allowed.

This whole thing started when I decided to make the annual LD Riders Crawfish Boil hosted by Shane Smith in McComb, Mississippi. There are many riders east of the Mississippi whom I had met only via e-mail, and now there would be the opportunity to put faces with names, and to get to know them a bit better. Not long after making the decision to catch "Da Boil", Kerry Perkins of the COG List announced the "First Annual Below Sea Level Ride" to be held at Death Valley the weekend before the Boil. By starting my ride a few days earlier, I could do both, so plans were adjusted accordingly.

Within a few more days, it hit me! I'd be near the southwest corner of the U.S. at Death Valley, and not very far from the southeast corner when at McComb, MS. By taking a slight detour coming back home, just a couple thousand extra miles, I could do a Four Corners Tour while riding around the country. So I started checking into that option, and found that it would make a nice little diversion, as well as give me an excuse to see some new places. From preliminary travel plans, it looked like I'd be riding a maximum of 15,000 miles "IF" I rode all the way back home. Some thought was also given to leaving the bike with friends somewhere in the Pacific Northwet and flying home as an alternative.

Now, let me assure you that I was still exhibiting some semblance of sanity at that time, as my plan at this juncture was to build a shipping pallet, strap the Concours to it, then ship it south by truck a couple of weeks before my planned departure from the Seattle area. But when you reach a certain age, sanity has a way of slipping out of one's grasp, and is replaced by… well, INsanity. As D-Day approached, I began watching the weather along the Alaska Highway (still known affectionately as "The Alcan" by many of us old-timers) and was pleased to see that it was staying clear and cold. This meant that there would be mostly bare asphalt all the way down into British Columbia. Spring was also approaching, however, and that meant almost certain changes in the weather, with snow sure to be falling somewhere along my route. Thus the vigil began.

The closer to the date I'd chosen as my "final decision" day, the more I felt that I could ride the bike down to the South 48, and kept hoping the weather would hold. From riding in the fall, I knew I could probably handle temperatures down to zero or so, and figured that with the longer days of spring, I could ride for 10 or 12 hours each day, and when the sun went down and it started getting cold, I could get a room at a lodge or motel along the way. The only problem I foresaw would be starting Annie after leaving her sitting outside overnight. But confident that locals would have the means to get any type vehicle warmed up enough to start after a cold night, that potential problem was set aside as being a non-issue.

Giving up the Aerostich Roadcrafter and switching to a two-piece snowmobile suit provided me with better protection from low temperatures, although scarcely any from asphalt burns and bruises. However, it's hard to be a safe rider when you're numb from the cold, so that's what I wear come below freezing weather. With the lightly insulated, but windproof, snowsuit, there's no need for electrically heated garments until the thermometer drops below 20°F, or even colder once I'm acclimated.

Meanwhile, annual maintenance was underway on "Alcan Annie", along with a few upgrades that I thought would make the trip easier and safer. From the COGList I'd learned that several list members had added the Audiovox cruise control, so one was picked up in Anchorage and plans were made to install it. Driving lights would be a welcome addition in the South 48, where it gets dark at night during the summer months (don't know why y'all haven't figured out that it's better the way we do it in Alaska - stays light when it's warm enough to ride, gets dark when you have to put the bike away). And then the annual new windshield, new bulbs all the way 'round, and new tires and wheel bearings, of course. Also from the COGList, I'd learned about extenders that would provide a slightly larger envelope of somewhat calm air behind the fairing, so those were added to the bike for this trip, along with stuffing a couple of vents with foam pipe insulation - a tip I got from Doug Grosjean's webpage.

Now it was getting down to the wire, and I had yet to build the pallet or contact a trucker who might haul the Connie south for me. In addition, I realized that there was a part of me that really wanted to ride down the Alcan, and my procrastination was doing the job of forcing me to ride Outside, and I was happy about it. The Alcan remains one of my favorite rides, and I didn't want to miss a chance to do it again.

Some might think I'd learn, but those who know me well realize that I never will. If there are three weeks worth of work to do on the bike, I'll start ordering parts four weeks before my trip is to start. That usually leaves me finishing the last bolt tightening just minutes before I pull out of the driveway. This year was no different. Thursday I browbeat some poor, unsuspecting souls into helping me get the bike out of the basement shop. To be a little ahead of my starting point last year, I cranked up the engine to make sure it would run. Warmed it up for a few minutes, then shut it off and went back to tying up loose ends.

Friday was spent sorting and packing, revamping the lists I'd sweated over last year after my return from California. Saturday was given over to cleaning up the shop, putting tools and leftover parts away, and then little incidentals like installing the windshield, bungeeing the extra clothing on the top of the Givi, and trying to find room for the computer hard drive I was delivering to a friend on my way out of state.

Saturday should have been a breeze, but I kept finding little things I'd put off until the last minute - and now the last minutes were upon me. Finally, at 6:30 PM, enough was enough, and if it wasn't done by now, it didn't need to get done. Besides, I'd tried to give myself a cushion in case the weather turned bad along the way, and I had to lay over for a day. That cushion was gone, and I was going to get to Seattle late if I didn't get moving.

Before I go any further, let me make it clear that I do NOT consider myself a "tough" motorcyclist. Rather, just an old geezer who has spent too many winters in Alaska. The reason I felt confident in heading south on the Alcan Highway in early April - still winter this far north - is that I am pretty acclimated to the cooler temperatures after having just survived another winter in which anything above -40° is considered mild weather. It is my opinion that anyone, regardless what area of the world they call home, can become acclimated to these temperatures and make the same ride I did, if they care to. The motorcycle was of more concern to me, as factory R & D is not usually concerned with operation of these two-wheeled vehicles under sub-Arctic conditions. To help prepare the bike, I had synthetic lubricants everywhere I could use them: The engine/transmission, front forks, and rear shock all contained 5W-40 Mobil Delvac 1, the final drive carried 75W-90 Mobil 1 gear lube. The engine cooling system was filled with my usual mix of 60% anti-freeze and 40% distilled water - good to over 50 below. The speedometer cable and all grease zerks were lubed with Mobil low-temp synthetic grease. Being synthetics, the lubricants would also offer superior protection in the hot temperatures I was anticipating later in the ride.

Saturday, April 6, 2002 18:40 Glennallen, Alaska

Someone asked me to give details as to what sort of gear I had on; what I did to keep warm. In answer to that request, here it is, from the skin out: Long-sleeved cotton tee shirt and LD Comfort undershorts, Widder System II electric vest with arm chaps and Widder leg chaps - connected to a Widder Electronic controller that I have velcroed to the outside of my tank bag, quilted thinsulate pants and jacket, wool shirt and Draggin' Jeans, Chill Factor snowmobile bib pants and jacket, relatively thin knee-high wool Nordic skiing socks, Sidi On-Road Sympatex boots with a sheepskin liner in the sole, Widder electric gloves, Nolan N-100 helmet. Just in case it got really cold, I also carried a polar fleece balaclava that goes under my helmet and well down over my chest and the back of my neck. The gloves and heated handgrips are connected to a Warm 'n Safe electronic controller so I can warm my oft-frostbitten hands separately from the rest of my body.

You may notice that none of my cold weather gear is modern high tech - no polypropylene undergarments or socks. Most of what I have is stuff I've been wearing for many years, and has kept me from freezing to death so far. Besides, I'm a cheapskate and will keep wearing it until it's worn out. Since this trip, though, I've started checking out clothing that might be a trifle better suited to this type riding and will probably be adding some of that to my wardrobe in the near future.

To make it down the ice-filled side street to the highway I'd left my tires underinflated for a little more traction. Thus, departing home, my business partner followed me to the gas station with a cylinder of dry nitrogen so I could deflate, then reinflate my tires with that gas, as it changes pressure less than plain air with temperature changes, and I figured I'd be going through some pretty extreme changes (little did I know).

Finally fueled up, zipped up, aired up, and plugged in - onto the highway at 19:27 with one stop scheduled before I got to the Alcan at Tok. With the days getting longer now that the vernal equinox had come and gone, it was still quite light as I headed north. Light enough that when I made my stop 80 miles later, I could see snow clouds hanging in the valley ahead of me. At my request, my friend phoned a neighbor about 15 miles up the road to see if it was snowing there. All clear - so away I went. Temperatures so far not bad - around +20°F - no need to turn the Widders on yet, but the heated grips and Widder gloves felt good, and were keeping my fingers toasty.

After fueling in Tok (and getting a strange glance from the station attendant) the direction became generally southeast for the next 1300 miles or so as I headed for Milepost 0 of the Alcan at Dawson Creek, British Columbia. It's 93 miles from Tok to the Yukon line, and the trip was getting off to a pleasant start. Temperatures were still above zero, although getting closer to the mark as I neared U. S. Customs at the border. When it hit +10°F, I turned the Widders on, but only on the lowest setting.

Having mounted a pair of Hella driving lights on one of Larry Buck's mounts just before leaving, I spent some time getting them adjusted to throw light where it would do the most good. It was immediately obvious that they were a good investment, as I was able to see well enough to keep my speed up even though I was in moose country.

Riding at night on a two-lane road with little traffic is, to me, a pleasant experience. It was clear and crisp, and when I made a stop to tinker with the lights, or just to get off and walk around a bit, a glance skyward would reveal a nearly-solid canopy of stars, twinkling by the zillions. The only other place where I've seen night skies nearly as clear was in the Four Corners area in Arizona. The Northern Lights were also visible that night, although very faint, but the stars gave off enough light to walk around easily without artificial illumination - one of the many reasons I love living in Alaska despite the extreme cold we sometimes have to endure.

Preparing for this trip, and the attendant heavy traffic that was expected to be found in various cities along the way, I'd installed a pair of Saeng Quick-Scan mirrors on the windshield. Nearing the border, with the temperature down around 5 above, I hit a series of sharp bumps in the pavement and the mirrors, their adhesive too stiff from the cold to hang on any more, fell off and dangled by the opposite side tether until I could stop and remove them. Into the side bag they went. Oh well, won't need them on the Alcan, I'm sure. [Note: After getting home and reporting the problem to Saeng, they sent me two screws to use to mount the mirrors through holes in the windshield in the future. Good service from the people so far as I'm concerned.]

U. S. Customs being the last warm haven on my home side of the border, I took advantage of their comfortable rest rooms and made sure I was properly dressed for the night ahead. Leaving there, and making the mild descent to the actual boundary line between the U. S. and Canada, I realized belatedly that I was riding on solid ice. Fortunately, it had been sanded lightly and neither tire slipped at all.

Being that I'd been up long hours getting ready for the trip for the past few days, and was a little tired, I opted to stop for the night at Beaver Creek, 21 miles inside the Yukon, and then make a hard push the next day to get off the Alcan. So at 1:00 AM Yukon time I checked into the lodge at MP (Milepost) 1202 for a good night's rest.

Sunday, April 7, 2002 11:00 Beaver Creek, Yukon Territory, Canada

After a hearty breakfast, back on the road, with the temperature around 25°F in the shade, and freshly fallen snow melting where the sun was hitting it. All in all, a beautiful day to be traveling. Once again heading southeast, I soon noticed a heavy gray snow cloud in the valley ahead of me. It seemed to be supported by the peaks of mountains on either side of the highway, and snow curtains could be seen draping themselves down to ground level. Sure enough, about 12 miles from Beaver Creek I found the first of the fresh snow on the pavement. Fortunately, the sun was hitting it with warm rays, and in the vehicle tracks there could be found a dab of wet pavement every foot or so. Thus, with speed reduced and cheeks firmly grasping the seat cover, I continued on to see how much worse it would get.

At the 18-mile mark I crossed the bridge labeled "Dry Creek #2" and then started up a mild grade at about 35 mph. Now for some reason I'd convinced myself, with no compelling evidence to back up the notion, that I'd be riding in snow for the next 50 or 60 miles. With that mindset, I began climbing this little incline thinking that I might just as well find out how well I could handle the deeper snow that I was sure I'd be riding in for the next hour or two. That's how I took my first ever (but not last) spill, and found myself sliding along next to my Concours, wondering how far I'd slide before coming to a stop.

After the shock of going down, hearing the sound of plastic and metal sliding over the snow-slicked pavement, and then the realization that my travels had come to a standstill, I was enduring a mixture of disappointment and disbelief that had me somewhat dazed for a few seconds.

Crawling over to Annie as she lay on her side, calmly idling away, I hit the kill switch and then turned off the key. For what seemed like several minutes, I sat there in the snow, surveying the wreckage. As it slid along the highway, the bike had slowly turned end-for-end and was now facing back down the hill. Back that way was the Givi top case, which had broken the locking tab off the base plate. Up the hill, in the direction we'd been traveling, was the right side bag, lacking a chunk of the top rear inside corner. The right side Baker Air Wing was laying off to the side, and anonymous small bits and pieces were scattered around like kernels of corn in a chicken pen.

Not sure how long I spent just looking at the mess, and thinking that here, less than 300 miles into the riding season, I was stopped cold, unable to continue on this trip that I'd spent countless hours planning, anticipating, and working toward. But even before I got Annie back up on two wheels, the realization came that I didn't have to quit. Just the month before I had succeeded in mounting full Givi luggage on my trusty old Suzuki GS1100G, and the tires were at least good enough to get me to Seattle before I'd have to replace them. I could get the Connie hauled back to Beaver Creek, then hitch a ride home to Glennallen and get the Suzi. All that would be necessary after that would be to transfer my load from the Concours to the Suzuki and be on my way again. With luck, I'd lose no more than a day. With that positive thought in mind, I went to work getting back on the road.

First, of course, it would be necessary to get Annie back on her feet. Off with the tank bag to make it a little lighter. Down with the side stand so I wouldn't find her falling onto the opposite side once I had her up again. Then back up to the bike, get a good hold, find some footing in the snow (the Sidi On-Roads are GOOD!), and HEAVE! Hmmm. The first foot went all right, but someone must have dropped some extra weight on it while my back was turned, as that was about as far as it wanted to come up. Okay, a little more preparation to give me time to think about what I was doing. Clean the snow away from the tires so they don't slip sideways as I'm lifting. Dig down to pavement a little better where my feet are placed so I can put all my effort into lifting. Find a good handhold on the auxiliary fuel cell for better leverage. Let's try this again.

Trying to remember everything I've learned about lifting a fallen bike, I concentrate on keeping it moving once it starts, and this time it came all the way up, then over gently onto the side stand. Wow! It still looks like a Concours now that it's vertical again. The windshield is hanging by one screw, but I have enough extras (nylon, so they break off and save the windshield - and me) to replace the missing ones.

The right side damage is now visible and I take stock. My right driving light is history by the looks of it. Larry Buck's driving light mount is well made, but it isn't designed to be a roll bar, and has been re-arranged by the drop. The right mirror is bent back as it is designed to be when subjected to this mistreatment, but is unscathed otherwise. The right hand antler is broken halfway up the vertical leg of the "L" and the side bag won't stay attached. Doesn't matter, as the bag itself is too damaged to hang on the antler anyway.

To get myself moving in the right direction, I tackle the easiest things first. Dig out the screws for the windshield and remount it. Now Annie is starting to look rideable once more. The tank bag goes back on. I put the tail trunk onto its base, and wonder how I can fasten it so it won't come off. I'm starting to get the idea that this isn't as bad as I'd feared. Maybe I can even continue. No fluids on the ground aside from a little gas that leaked out of the fuel cell, and I mentally redesign the vent to prevent that in case of future drops. Up to this time I hadn't even considered the possibility of personal injury, but now I examine that aspect. There's a little sore spot on my right elbow where I landed initially, and a tiny matching tear in my jacket sleeve to mark the location. One other little tear on my pants leg, but no other marks or soreness. At this time I had the presence of mind (barely) to shoot a quick photo of the GPS, giving time, location, and average speed and distance to this point.

The temperature is up to about freezing now, and the snow cloud has moved on, leaving me in bright sunlight. It's far too warm for the snowsuit, so off it comes as I get down to business.

Shortly after I first got up on my feet a car zoomed past. The driver appeared to be an older lady, and I didn't blame her for continuing on down the road. She couldn't have helped much anyway. Then there were some northbound trucks, but they couldn't have seen me until they dropped over the hill and were headed downgrade, so stopping on the slick surface wasn't even an option for them. I'm sure they passed the word on to southbound drivers via CB so someone would stop soon. Sure enough, in a few minutes a pickup pulled in ahead of me and the driver came back to see if he could help. By that time I had things pretty well under control, but he had an unused strap with him that he offered, and it proved to be just what I needed to hold the tail trunk on for the next 3000 miles.

Next was an empty truck heading back south for another load of travel trailers. He stopped to see if there was anything he could do, but without a way of hoisting the bike up onto his trailer, there wasn't much of any way he could help. When he left, I noticed that he was never able to get over about 10 mph all the way up the hill. Maybe that was steeper and slicker than I'd estimated. (It was. With everything white it is difficult to judge an incline like that. Going back that way in June I stopped at the top of the previous hill to take a photo and realized that the one on which I had fallen was much steeper than it had looked on that ill-fated day.)

In previous trips I've sometimes found it necessary to temporarily carry some of my gear on top of the tail trunk, and for that reason carry a small cargo net made for the back of station wagons. A few straps from HelenTwoWheels are always along "just in case", as well as a couple of bungee nets. All these items came into play in the next few minutes as I tried to reassemble the broken side bag, and transferred some of the more vulnerable articles to the opposite side. Two hours after falling, Annie was tied together and ready to continue the trip. The pieces of driving light were in one of the side bags, the tail trunk was strapped on, the windshield was as good as new, and it was warmer now so snow was beginning to melt a little again. Airing the tires down - the front to 28 psi and the rear to 30 psi, I felt confident we could make it to the top of the hill and would decide my course of action based on what was found there.

Knowing I didn't want to experience a second fall, I kept the bike in first gear with my feet sliding along, ready to catch it, until near the top of the hill. Once on level pavement again, where the sun's rays had been able to do their work, I found more wet pavement, and despite my caution and concern soon found myself flying along at the ground-gaining speed of 35 mph. To my chagrin, within five miles I found the pavement to be nearly clear and only damp. Still a little leery of how my bandaging attempts would hold together, I held the speed down for a while. But when I got across the White River and hit the straight, smooth pavement in that stretch, I decided it was time to test my workmanship. Watching closely in the mirrors for any sign that my load wanted to part company, I eased the speedo on up to 60. With everything looking good, I slowed back down to a more sedate pace, pleased with the way things were looking.

About 65 miles down the road I stopped at Kluane Wilderness Village, a combination gas station/restaurant/repair shop/motel/ convenience store/whatever-else- you-might-need, like many along the northern Alcan, to buy some lightweight rope or cord. The only thing available was some 5/8" diameter polypropylene rope, in bright yellow.

There are times you have to take what you can get, and this was one of those times. The rope was run over the mirrors and behind the windshield to hold the driving lights up, as they had been loosened by the fall, followed by the washboard gravel, and the mount was banging against the top of the fender.

With the bike and load solidly fastened together once more, it was time to start making up for lost time. I'd had a meeting set up in Whitehorse with a fellow who was going to help man the checkpoint for the '02 Rendezvous and I had yet to see him face to face. That made it important that I get there before too late at night. With the tires deflated a bit, I didn't want to get too wild in the corners, but after stopping and checking them several times for heat, and carefully exploring their behavior, I felt confident in picking the speed up a few notches. As a result, I arrived in Whitehorse around 8:00 PM local time, and we were able to get together over a late dinner. At my request, Mike had brought along a partial roll of duct tape he had laying around the house, and my thoughts were becoming more positive all the time.

After saying our good-byes, it was off to a motel for me for a good night's sleep, something I have never done before when riding down the Alcan. Seems the day had taken a bit out of me, and it was time to get a new start the next morning.

Monday, April 8, 2002 Whitehorse, Yukon Territory, Canada

It feels good to sleep in. When traveling like this, I let my body dictate the hours of rest, knowing that when I awaken naturally I'll be refreshed and ready to put in a long day. Thus it was that I barely made it out of the motel room by the 11:00 AM checkout time. The temperature had dropped to -22° C overnight according to the TV weather report, and I didn't mind letting the sun get a little head start before I went out and wiped the frost off the seat. By the time I got to the Petro Canada station 5 miles south of town, my digital thermometer was showing 18°F above, and it felt good. After topping off the main tank and the aux. fuel cell, I headed for a restaurant and some breakfast.

Entering the dining room I got a few strange looks (not the last time this would happen) and then sat down and enjoyed what, to me, is the most important meal of the day. About 12:25 I headed out to the bike, and got ready to see what the rest of the Alcan looked like this early in spring.

The previous night, in the motel room, I had emptied both side bags and spent almost an hour duct taping the right one back together to some degree of structural integrity. Along with straps to the passenger grab handle to help support the weight, there were straps fore and aft keeping it in place, so everything was going to stay intact, regardless of my speed today. And speed was on the menu, of a certainty. There were people in Seattle expecting me, and I wouldn't be late if I could help it. The weather was definitely a factor yet, as there were still almost 2000 miles to go, and every kind of weather possible in those miles. But I was southbound now, and it had to get warmer, right? Was I in for a surprise!

From then on, it became a case of "sit there, twist that". The fuel cell was a blessing, as I was able to concentrate on making time without having to plan my fuel stops for stations that would be open. As I cruised south of Whitehorse, I was once again impressed with the improvements in the Alcan over the past 10 years. While the pavement suffers the normal seasonal damage from frost heaving, it still is in very good condition compared to what I find in many parts of my home state. In seemingly no time at all I'm approaching the small, lakeside village of Teslin. Crossing the Nisutlin River Bridge at the south boundary of Teslin, I was reminded why steel grate bridge decks are unpopular with motorcyclists. This is the longest such span on the Alcan, and I was glad to now have it behind me. Farther south, Rancheria was still closed as I rode by, but it looked as though someone had started to plow the deep snow out of the driveway. Maybe it would be open when I came back through later, headed north. Then it was Watson Lake, 274 miles from breakfast (and also the warmest temperature I saw that day at +33° F), and next fuel for bike and rider at Liard Hot Springs, so I'd be able to make Fort Nelson in case everything between the two was closed down when I went through.

A few miles north of Liard Hot Springs, I started noticing an abundance of hoof prints in the snow along the shoulders, and a general destruction of the nearby flora. It was obvious that a good-sized herd of bison had been in the area recently. Caused me to be extra diligent in my roadside scan. When Trapper Ray's lodge showed up alongside the highway, it was a welcome sight.

While I was eating at Liard, a young trucker mentioned that the highway had been nearly impassable from Fort St. John to Pink Mountain when he'd come through the morning before, and it had continued snowing heavily for most of the day, from what he'd heard later. He asked me how far I was intending to go that night, and I answered that I didn't intend stopping before Dawson Creek (still another 478 miles to the south) if I could get through. Once again I got that look that said "You ain't the sharpest knife in the drawer, are you buddy?" With his warning in mind, I figured I'd best hit the road and see what it looked like from the seat of a Concours. After Liard Hot Springs it's 195 miles to Fort Nelson. Fortunately, most of the bison were in the area just before I'd gotten to Liard, and I'd only have to watch for moose, elk, caribou, sheep and deer for the rest of the ride.

While the highway was, for the most part, clear and dry, parking lots and gas stations were not. Up here in the semi- wilderness a gas station might consist of nothing more than a small cabin with one, two, or three pumps out front. No paved apron, no canopy overhead. And after a winter's worth of snowfall being packed down, then warmed by the springtime sun during the day and refrozen each night, they become two to six inches of rutted, pot-holed ice, that's a real challenge when you're on a bike. Having been down once, I felt no compulsion to show off my dubious riding skills, and paddled the bike up to the pump at nearly every stop. Another reason to be glad I had the auxiliary fuel cell, as it meant fewer such stops to contend with. Now, with it being the time to travel again, by carefully maneuvering the Concours from its parking spot in front of the lodge, we got back onto the pavement and headed southeast once more.

Shortly after pulling out from Trapper Ray's at Liard, the sun dropped over the mountains and it began to get dark. As it was a crystal clear night, I knew it would be getting pretty chilly. Parking briefly in a gravel pullout, I donned my Widder vest with arm chaps, put on the Widder gloves and plugged them in, and prepared for night. As the temperature was still ten degrees or so above zero (F), I didn't think I would need the leg chaps or my balaclava. After all, I was heading south, where it would be warmer. Right!

Something that had never occurred to me while I was packing my gear, nor had it while the sun was up and the temperatures were hovering just below the freezing point, was that the freezable liquids in my luggage could do just that - turn to solids! The realization came to me after the sun had gone down and the temperature started dropping. Too late now to do anything about it, just have to hope things didn't break, although all liquid containers in my luggage are, themselves, packed in turn within zip-lock bags - just in case.

The Alcan winds, twists, and turns, plays roller coaster for a while, and then teases you with a few miles of straight or gently curving, beautiful pavement for a while before it takes you back in time to the twisting, turning, rolling highway it started as some 60 years ago. It won't let you get bored. As I continued along I mentally tracked my progress, comparing what I was seeing with that which I had seen before. You can travel the Alcan week after week, the year around, and it will never appear the same twice. So it became a game to try and recall exactly what this or that spot had looked like in past trips, and what would be coming up next. This sort of mental activity I find helps to keep me alert, and I definitely didn't want to succumb to inattentiveness this night.

Even so, a little later in the evening I was surprised to find myself almost at the top of Steamboat hill before I was aware of it. Twenty years ago there would have been no mistaking the location due to its sharp turns and steep grades, but now it had been tamed to just another climb and descent.

Interrupting the solitude of that wilderness highway are places like Muncho Lake, with its assortment of lodges, many still shut down for the winter when I rode through, then Toad River with its abundant elk in the neighborhood, Summit (the highest point on the Alcan at 4250 feet elevation), Steamboat, and finally Fort Nelson. Arriving at my usual fueling stop, the Blue Bell Inn, restaurant, gas station, laundromat, convenience store, etc., I got fueled up just before they closed at midnight. Going inside to pay and grab some snacks in case I had to spend the night alongside the road, the attendant volunteered that I was the first motorcyclist through this year. Guess I could understand that, as most have better sense than I was displaying. Having no reason to stick around, and the only cold parts on my body being my feet, it was on down the road again.

Tuesday, April 9, 2002 Alaska Highway, just south of Fort Nelson, B.C., Canada

Fort Nelson is only 283 miles from Dawson Creek, and Fort St. John is 47 miles closer than Dawson Creek. But, that 283 miles can seem pretty far at times, and this night was one of those times. My feet were the only parts of my body that were feeling really cold so far, but living here in Alaska, I'm no stranger to cold tootsies. On occasion I would wiggle my toes to make certain I still had feeling in them, and then grin and bear it. And grin I did. Despite the less than perfect motorcycling conditions, I was having fun. The thought that I could stop and don the Widder leg chaps to help keep my lower extremities warmer came to me, but the realization that I'd have to strip down to my LD Comfort undershorts to accomplish that feat dissuaded me. I knew I could stop, get off, and walk around for a bit to thaw out if it became necessary.

In addition to watching for animals that fully expected to have the night to themselves, there was the need to be especially careful on every curve, REALLY careful on curves on hills, because of all the sand that had been spread over the recent snowfalls and ice. That concern kept forward progress to less than the desired quantity.

Being that I was down to one driving light, I aimed that one right down the center of the road so it would reach out a little past the high beam. It still helped considerably. Having but one driving light was proving to be a blessing also, in a way. Using 55 watts less than my first night on the road, I was able to turn my heated clothing up higher without overtaxing the alternator - to a point. Four hundred watts can be spread only so thin. Keeping an eye on the voltmeter's glowing little red eye, it became apparent that to keep the electrical system happy, the engine needed to be spinning at around 4,000 rpm or more. This meant dropping occasionally down to fifth gear, and a few times to fourth, or even third. But that was a better choice than keeping the bike's speed up, as falling again was not considered an option, especially under these conditions on this lonely stretch of road.

As I rode, I kept an eye on the thermometer, glowing there on the shelf as though daring me to continue in the face of its declining readings. And while I rode, I made comparisons with the temperatures I'd just ridden in back in Alaska, where the lowest reading I saw was 3°F above. Now I was watching the numbers drop that low again… then even lower. The appearance of the zero was momentous, then it rose, along with the elevation, to a few degrees above, only to descend further as the road dropped into a temperature inversion. Down to -9°F, now back up to +12°F, then down once more to minus 9°F and up… no, down even farther, this time to -11°F. For miles it went that way, up and down, up and down.

As anyone who has done much riding on a motorcycle can attest, even a one-degree change is immediately noticeable. Thus I was able to determine that my little digital thermometer had about an eight second lag time before displaying the drop or rise in temperature that I was able to immediately sense as I passed through it. Crossing the Buckinghorse River at MP 173 I felt the most severe drop in temperature that I'd experienced so far. Sure enough, the numbers soon indicated -15° F. In a mile or so the road climbed out of the valley and the temperature climbed back up to near zero. But my elation was short lived, as the drop into the channel of the Beatton River followed in about half an hour. This time I saw the -15°F displayed even before the bridge, and just as I was crossing it, felt a sharp drop in the temperature. My estimate was that it dropped another 3 degrees before the thermometer could react and, thankfully, the road started climbing right away so the coldest spot was left behind in short order.

Just after crossing Beatton River, Mae's Kitchen appears on the east side of the highway, and I couldn't help glancing over to see if there was any sign of life. At this point it wouldn't have taken much to lure me into a warm room and a comfortable bed. In the past I've noted that my metabolism slows down around 0'dark- thirty and I become more susceptible to the cold, so I was starting to feel the effects of the cool night air. I'll be the first to admit that I would have preferred the temperature to be 20 degrees warmer, but at least I was riding after 5 months of enforced idleness, and life was good.

Between Fort Nelson and Fort St. John, a distance of some 240 miles, I met fewer than 10 vehicles, nearly all of them semi's; tankers hauling fuel north from the refineries further south. As a form of entertainment, I imagined the thoughts going through the minds of the drivers as they met this two-wheeled anomaly appearing out of the dark, cold night. Things like "What the ___ is that fool doing out there on a motorcycle?", or "That guy must be a total idiot, doesn't he know it's 20 below [°C] and there's ice on the road up ahead?", and other such laudatory comments. Late at night, on a long, empty road like that, I'm easily entertained.

Next was the climb up to the top of the hill at Pink Mountain, and to find what had happened to all the snow that fell the previous day. As I passed the entrances to the two lodges on opposite sides of the highway, I could see the remnants of a heavy snowfall, and there was still a bumpy coating of thick, well-sanded ice all across the road. Tiptoeing through this at a much reduced pace, I was glad to see that the south-facing pavement on the other side had received the benefit of a sunlit day, and only slowed for a short distance to be sure there was no black ice hiding under the cover of darkness. From that point on, it was back to sit there, twist that, while keeping a sharp eye out for four-legged roadblocks.

Onowon came into view, and I slowed once more, looking longingly at the buildings, which I knew were warm and cozy inside, but by this time Dawson Creek was less than two hours distant, and the breakfast that I was planning to enjoy there provided a greater incentive than the interior of a motel. Besides, it was ridiculous to succumb to the temptation of creature comfort at this stage of the ride.

Rolling into Fort St. John, I felt a little conspicuous in the sparse 4:30 AM traffic. Had it been summer, I could have ridden along with a big sign reading "I am an idiot" and felt the same way. Before long I was back up to speed on the highway to Dawson Creek and, I hoped, a hot breakfast.

If we ride much, we sooner or later get to enjoy the carnival- ride experience of crossing a metal grate bridge deck. With good tires and a halfway decent suspension there's no problem with such a surface. Add a little rain, and it might get a bit more interesting. Throw in a cross wind and the pucker factor can increase proportional to the strength of the crosswind. Now picture this one - a long, curving metal grate bridge deck, over the open Peace River with vapor rising from its surface, temperature about -5°F, at O'dark thirty. Needless to say, I took it cautiously, and breathed a little easier when I got back on sanded pavement on the other side, glad that the lights of Taylor, B.C. were disappearing in my rear view mirrors.

It was still 5 below when I got to the north side of the Dawson Creek at 5:30 AM, and it didn't take long to find an open restaurant. Carefully turning around in the ice-covered parking lot, I parked near the door and went inside. By now I was accustomed to the strange looks, and besides, I didn't care. It was warm in here, and my feet were happy with that situation. Choosing a seat near the door and a little away from the main group of breakfast diners, I started stripping down to the essentials. My Widder gloves to the right, helmet to the left, jacket on the back of a nearby chair, glasses on the table out of the way. I watched in amazement as the glasses not only steamed up - they were soon covered with white frost, as was the faceshield and the outer surface of my helmet.

Enjoying a leisurely meal, along with a single cup of coffee and then some nice, hot tea, I had time to reflect on the first 1450 miles of my sojourn. From the time I'd left Glennallen, I'd been surrounded by snow, and to say the monochrome landscape was becoming boring was a major understatement. Now it was time to find something else to look at. Feeling good after the hearty repast, I decided I would make it at least to Prince George if the road conditions permitted, and probably make an early stop there for another good night's rest. Seattle would be about 8 to 10 hours from there, so I could still make it on Wednesday. Checking my watch again, and doing the quick calculations to come up with local time, the thought that it was three hours later in the Eastern Time Zone hit me. Doug Grosjean had given me his work phone number before I started out, and he would be there now, as it was almost 9:00 AM in Clyde, Ohio. Taking a moment to write down all the parts I thought I would need, I checked to see if my cell phone would let me make a call from here. Getting no satisfaction from that direction, I found a pay phone in the arctic entry and placed the call.

Fortunately, Doug was at his desk and answered right away. I explained to him that I'd dropped the bike a couple days earlier, was all right, but needed some parts and pieces and would he notify the COG list to see if I could beg, borrow, rent, or steal the needed parts to get everything back in smooth running order. Because even though all was firmly attached to the bike again, it took nearly five minutes to get something out of the right side bag, and even longer to get it all fastened back together again. Not something I wanted to deal with for the next four weeks and 14,000 miles. During the phone call I also mentioned the fact that I'd come around 900 miles since 12:30 the afternoon before, and ridden through some temperatures as low as -15° F. It wasn't my intention to make a big thing of it, I just found it interesting in that I hadn't really expected to do either of those things. Doug asked if I minded him passing that information along to both the COG list and the LDRiders lists, and I gave my assent. Didn't realize what a tempest in a teapot would result from those tidbits. Man, did I get a hard time from my fellow riders. I became "Crash" Gustafson in short order. Oh well, I've been called worse.

Gassing up after breakfast, I learned that the Hart Highway toward Prince George was reported to have black ice not far out of town. There was a thick fog bank lying in a low area just west of Dawson Creek, so I stopped at a pullout short of it and put the bike on the sidestand. Sitting there with my back warmed by the sun that had barely risen above the horizon, and my vest turned down as low as it would go, I felt relaxed and at peace with the world. It wouldn't have taken much to have dozed for a bit, but it was necessary to see what else the highway held in store for me, and there was a need to get on down the road. After about 30 minutes the fog seemed to have lifted, and I figured I'd be able to see the ice, if any was still on the road. By now the temperature had risen to about 15 above and it was looking to be another beautiful day for riding.

From Dawson Creek it's a short 44 miles over to the tiny community of East Pine, and its twisty little river crossing, then another 20 miles on to Chetwynd. The latter town was still in winter hibernation when I passed through, and it paid no more attention to me than I to it. The 250 miles from Dawson Creek to Prince George takes the traveler through grain fields and next to pine-covered mountains as it follows the valley of the Pine River; then over Pine Summit, around lakes, through what looks to be some great fishing country, and past many more miles of forest. It's a beautiful ride, even when the weather's a little chilly. But once again I found myself surrounded by the monotony of the white topography. Yep, it was time to find a place with some varied colors in the landscape, and I didn't plan on stopping until I got there. Encountering a brief snow squall through Pine Pass, the temperatures started climbing in earnest as I descended toward Prince George. Once down off the summit, the elevation varies less than 100 feet until the final drop down into the Fraser River valley, and that was where the temperature finally got comfortably above freezing. It sure felt good! Riding through downtown Prince George, I realized that it had been just 24 hours since breakfast and starting south from Whitehorse the previous day. Noting the mileage, later calculations showed the distance to be 1134 miles. Once more a Saddlesore, had I just bothered to document it. However, this ride wasn't to get certificates, just to get to the destination, so that was merely a serendipitous occurrence. Here in Prince George the piles of snow revealing themselves here and there between buildings offered mute testimony that spring was still a few weeks away this far north, and there was an all-too-real possibility that I could wake up tomorrow to six inches or more of snow, so southward I continued. Stopping at Hixon around 1:30 PM, the windshield was dampened with the beginnings of a soft rain as I gassed up. Talking with the clerk in the little convenience store, she told me that just a couple days earlier the area had been blanketed by a heavy snowfall. Just what I needed to hear to cement my resolve. Being somewhat familiar with the route after over 40 years of travel up and down the Fraser River valley, I knew that the one place to be sure of finding dry, bare ground tomorrow morning was the junction town of Cache Creek, which is surrounded by desert. My destination was established, and at 6:15 PM I checked into a motel in that small community, safely assured that I had seen the last of stark white scenery for a while. Total distance from Whitehorse: 1428 cool, white, but fun, miles. Had I ridden another 72 miles, it could have been a Bun Burner. No matter, I was stopping right here, where there was no snow to be seen in any direction.

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