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| Five Corners On A Connie or This Can't Be Happening! by Jack Gustafson Thursday, May 2, 2002 Hamburg, New York The rain hadn't stopped, but the temperature had raised one degree to 51°F by 9:15 AM when we mounted up once more for points west. The rain started to lessen as we neared Cleveland, and just a few miles west of the I-271 split we exited the interstate to find a place to have a meal and dry out. While dining, a gentleman came up to us and started a conversation. He'd pulled in to a parking spot next to our bikes and noticed the Alaska license plate on mine. As we were the only obvious motorcyclists in the place, he spotted us quickly. He questioned us extensively as to where we were going, where we had been, etc., etc. Asked if we were going to write a book about our trip. Uh, no. This is just another motorcycle ride, albeit a bit longer than most we take. Nothing to make a big deal of. We'll leave that to the guys who ride around the world, or from Deadhorse to Tierra del Fuego or something like that. Heck, we're just out having a good time. We were pleased to find that the rain had quit and the skies were looking brighter when we got back on our bikes. The weather continued to improve as we rode west toward Toledo, and our planned rendezvous with Doug Grosjean at the Clyde, Ohio Whirlpool offices where he spends his days. To get even with Russ for ignoring my plight as I pulled off the road at the insistence of the Maine trooper, I'm going to tell this one on him. After finishing lunch there in Ohio, we headed north a few blocks to get back on I-90. We had to cross over the interstate and go down the westbound on-ramp, as we were headed for the Toledo area and we were still east of Cleveland. However, I watched Russ, who was in the lead, turn east onto the eastbound on-ramp and proceed to accelerate as if to fetch something he'd lost back that way. Maybe the meal on an empty stomach had dulled his navigational senses, or perhaps he thought he might have missed something in our late-night tour of Buffalo and wanted to see it again. Anyway, I went to the bottom of the westbound on-ramp and waited a few minutes until he passed, now going in the proper direction. Doug knew we were coming, and came out to meet us shortly after we pulled up in the parking lot. He showed us a bit of what he did there - lots of neat CAD stuff with the computer - and then took us through the factory for the grand tour. Having been an appliance repairman in an earlier life, many of the pieces I saw were familiar to me. Made it that much more interesting. Watching the assembly processes was fascinating for someone of my bent. (Okay, "twisted" is more like it.) Doug had made arrangements with his S.O.., Sharon, that we would all join her at Dearborn, Michigan for a dinner party. Russ and Doug headed that way by one route, while I took another, a little farther west, in order to make a brief personal visit. It was still warm and light when we left Sharon's house together to convoy over to the "Transylvanian" restaurant. Now prior to this visit I'd always been impressed with Doug's obvious intelligence, both through private e-mails we had exchanged and from the many writings he has posted to various lists. But when we got inside the chosen dining establishment I began to wonder if something darkly sinister lurked just beneath the surface of this mild appearing rider. How would you feel if you'd been invited, all unsuspecting, to dine with the Adams family? Actually, we had a great time, sharing laughs among our small group, and with the restaurant staff, as we enjoyed a very good meal and great company. It may have been Sharon who wondered why she had agreed to join this bizarre fest as Russ and I, aided by Doug, shared some of our motorcycling "treasured memories". Once again, the clock betrayed us, and we headed out the door to the accompaniment of grateful looks from the staff. A round of photos in the parking lot, and Russ and I once again hit the interstate headed toward Seattle. Distance was not on the agenda this night however, as the heavy meal put us both in the mood to stop for the night. We made it west of Ann Arbor (where a serious accident on the interstate had closed a portion of I-94 and had us once again taking the Cook's Tour of a city we really had no desire to see) and upon spotting a motel near Exit 159, we called it a night. At our arrival time of 11:30 PM, the temperature was still 51°F, the exact temperature we'd started the ride in that morning. Friday, May 3, 2002 Chelsea, Michigan We're relaxed this morning, as we no longer have a schedule, and it is, once again, a beautiful morning. Finding a laundromat, we get our dirty clothes turned in to clean ones again. It was late - 12:20 PM - when we finally pulled out of Chelsea with our next planned stop at Don Damron's Fireside Inn over in Stevensville, Michigan. As we tooled west on I-94 into the city of Kalamazoo, we watched two sportbike riders pull onto the interstate to our right. Clothed in typical fashion - helmet, gloves, nondescript jacket, jeans, tennis shoes - they proceeded to cut through traffic in a manner guaranteed to irritate the cage drivers they were dodging, failing to use turn signals or common sense. They stayed on the interstate for about 4 miles, then exited in the same manner - cutting across several lanes of traffic just in time to get the off ramp. It was interesting to note, from our position in the hammer lane, that they had progressed to only about three car lengths ahead of us despite all their antics. My hope is that they live long enough to mature and learn to ride safely and responsibly. We found Don's fine dining establishment with no trouble, and sat down to enjoy a good meal. Our waitress found Don for us, and he joined us for some lively conversation while we ate. I'm going to blame Don for talking us into this, as it was during our delicious dinner that we decided to do a SaddleSore from Stevensville. There were no planned stops for either of us before Montana, we wanted to get across the Midwest as quickly as possible, and I-80 should provide the perfect venue for that attempt. Checking maps and GPS, it looked like the Wyoming border would be just about far enough. So when it came time to leave, we got out our SaddleSore witness forms (which I vainly carry with me on every trip) and had Don witness our starting odometer readings. He pointed out that his daughter, who had at one time had the distinction of being the youngest Iron Butt member, could have signed them as well. Had that fact occurred to us, we would have been honored to have her signature on the dotted line. It was a real joy to spend the time with Don and his daughter. But once again, the ticking clock was controlling our schedule, so off we went at 5:05 to fuel up and get our official starting time. In previous sentences I've noted my inability to cope with the documentation portion of an official Iron Butt ride, and it turned out this one was no exception - but I didn't discover that until it was too late to remedy the situation. Russ and I both rode a couple of blocks south on Red Arrow Hwy. to a large station to fuel up. We obtained our receipts and dutifully folded them and put them away for safe keeping. However, I failed to put on my reading glasses first so I could ascertain exactly what was printed on the slip. But the printout was over three inches long, and two inches wide, and filled with fine printing, so it had to have every bit of information I required, right? Or so I thought - for the next thousand plus miles. It wasn't until I sat down about 25 hours later, in a restaurant in Torrington, Wyoming, that I discovered there was no time printed anywhere on the receipt. Having traveled the route many times in the past 40 odd years, I am all too familiar with traffic in Chicago and its environs. And yet we managed to find ourselves crawling from Indiana toward the Illinois line as part of a 10,000 vehicle creeping mass, with the temperature only slightly lower than what we had experienced in Houston and Florida. Perhaps in the future I should consider such things before heading out to do a 1000 mile day. To complicate matters, the cooling fan on my bike refused to come on, leading to the temperature gauge climbing into the red, and coolant spitting out onto the hot pavement. Once again we found ourselves clear over to the left hand side of the pavement, which on this portion of interstate is akin to riding through a trash heap rather than the rain-washed cleanliness of northern I-5, where I'd found myself in a similar situation nearly a month earlier. After letting the engine cool for a bit, we decided to chance moving forward again, looking for the nearest exit to get onto a surface street where we could expect to move occasionally to aid in cooling the radiator. As good fortune would have it, we had to ride less than a mile to get to Exit 2, and got onto US-41 which took us south to US-30 where we were able to resume our westward direction. By shutting the engine off at stoplights, and keeping the bike rolling whenever possible, we were able to make it west to US-45 where we turned north to rejoin I-80 and get back up to a comfortable speed. From then on, we had but one goal - get to Wyoming by tomorrow afternoon. In my days of being chased back and forth across the country by a 48' semi-trailer I had carefully measured the differences in time and miles around or through most major cities from coast to coast, and found that experience proving useful as we neared the Quad Cities region on the Mississippi River where it divides Illinois and Iowa. We stayed on I-80 and circled to the north, and before we realized it, were headed west again in Iowa. It was just 10 minutes before 10:00 PM when we crossed into Iowa, and we continued to make good time as we made our way toward Nebraska. At Exit 220, near the town of Williamsburg, we stopped to fuel up. It was somewhere to the west of there that I recall being passed by a car with Alaska plates. Well, what better rabbit than one of my countrymen - so I set off in hot pursuit. This was even more than Russ felt comfortable with apparently, as his headlights began to diminish in my rearviews. Checking my speedometer, I realized that my fellow Alaskan was probably in a much bigger hurry to return to the state than I was, and reduced my speed to something less likely to prove instantly fatal in the event of a mishap. Can you believe it? The restaurant at the Flying J, where I've faithfully eaten a meal every time I pass through the area, is closed when we arrive just after midnight. So we made a u-turn and went back to the Pilot truckstop we'd passed up a few miles north. Sure enough, the fairly heavy meal this late at night made me drowsy, and in less than fifty miles I spotted a rest area and pulled in for a 2 hour nap. This was one of those times when the difference between riders worked against us, as Russ was still wide awake and ready to keep riding. He stopped too, however, and we both got some sleep, although mine was fitful due to the cool temperature. At 03:45 we were back on our bikes and headed west once more. We crossed the Missouri River into Nebraska at 5:15 AM and made it another 16 miles before I was once again overcome by a case of the drowsies and we stopped for another brief nap. This time Russ was able to sleep quite well apparently, as I had a bit of trouble waking him once I was ready to travel again. We made it as far as the Petro Truck Stop at Exit 353, near York, Nebraska by 8:30 AM, and stopped there for breakfast. It had warmed up to 54°F by this time, with the sun starting to come up behind us through a slightly hazy sky. Although it isn't something I usually have, a cup of coffee helped to get me back on schedule and ready to put some miles behind us once we were back on the interstate. As we make our weary way across Nebraska toward the Wyoming line, I'm aware that this Saddlesore attempt, taking place on the interstates here in the Midwest U. S., is probably the most difficult one I've ridden. The miles slowly added up as we continued across this flat stretch of landscape. While seemingly featureless to the casual glance, I enjoy it, as I remember various points from many earlier trips across I-80, and years before it, on old US-30. In fact, when I travel through here by myself, I often get off the slab and take the two-lane for a change. It has hardly changed in the more than 45 years since I first came across it, headed for a summer ranch job in Oregon. I enjoy pleasant memories, and some not so pleasant, but soon they are all left behind as we leave I-80 at Ogallala to take US-26 into Wyoming. This is another highway that I frequently travel, ever since a vacation trip with three teenage stepchildren as we returned home to Alaska. With 3 teen aged siblings in a car together for an extended period of time, it is imperative that they have something to do. So we retraced the Oregon Trail - as much as we were able - from Jefferson City, Missouri to Oregon City, Oregon. Along this stretch of US-26 from Ogallala to past Guernsey, Wyoming, there are many historic sites (and sights) related to that famous trail from the early days in our nation's history. Even the kids were fascinated by the things they saw and the places we visited. It was just after noon local time when we left Ogallala, but that meant it was 2:00 PM in Stevensville, Michigan, two time zones east of us. That gave us but 3 hours to make the 155 miles to Torrington. Not a problem so long as all went well. Having been over this road several times, I wasn't worried, and felt we would be able to keep our speed up enough to maintain at least a 55 mph average - that would get us there within the allotted time. As a matter of fact, we had a sufficient cushion when we neared Chimney Rock, one of the major landmarks along the Oregon Trail, that we sidetracked a couple of miles to stop and take some touristy photographs of the sight from a distance. Leaving there, we were within 55 miles of Torrington, and had just over an hour to get there. We crossed the line into Wyoming at 2:48 MDT and 11 minutes later pulled up to the gas pumps at the first station we came to in Torrington. Making sure the receipts had the correct time on them, we realized that we had completed the 1000+ miles just under the wire - twenty-three hours and fifty-five minutes since we had fueled up in Stevensville. That's cutting it close. We talked one of the clerks in the convenience store into coming outside to witness our odometers and sign the witness forms. Then Russ, who had friends to visit in Montana, hit the road again while I walked over to the restaurant with all my paperwork for the ride, and sat down get everything ready for submission to the IBA while I waited for my meal. It was while doing that, that I discovered the lack of a time stamp on my starting receipt. The lack of proper documentation for the ride doesn't bother me all that much. It seems failing to properly document rides has become a habit for me. So after dinner I get back on the bike with a destination in mind, yet subject to change along the way. But as the miles go by, I decide to continue as planned, and keep going until I get to Buffalo, Wyoming, where I find an EconoLodge with nearby restaurants. This will serve as the starting point for some riding I have in mind for the morrow, weather in this high country permitting. Sunday, May 5, 2002 Buffalo, Wyoming If I had to live somewhere other than Alaska (not a thought I wish to dwell on), northern Wyoming is one of the few places I would consider making my home. Here in Buffalo, the Big Horn Mountains loom to the west, and the Black Hills are less than a day's ride to the east, as inviting a set of roads and scenery as you'll find almost anywhere. It was a mild morning as I headed west across I-25 and up into the mountains with the small town of Worland as my destination for now. Climbing toward the summit, I met quite a few riders headed the other way, and wondered to myself if there might not be an organized ride going on. Or maybe these local motorcyclists were just as eager as I was to get out and enjoy the good weather. The last time through this area I'd crossed from west to east through Shell Canyon, and now I wanted to take a look at Ten Sleep Canyon, which lays a few miles farther south. On the way, I rode over Powder River Pass, where the weather was cool (38°F) and the skies were cloudy overhead. The requisite photos taken, I descended through the Canyon and then through the sleepy little town of Ten Sleep. Again, there was what appeared to be a disproportionate number of two-wheeled vehicles gathered at cafes and bars for a town of this size. Couldn't blame them at all. Stopping to fuel up at Worland, with the temperature up to 73°F now, I got to enjoy this ranching town for a few minutes, and wondered what it would be like to live here year around. Probably just as well that I was just passing through on a day with good riding weather, as I can remember some days, crossing Wyoming on I-80 in the winter, when a person wouldn't have wanted to be outside at all. From Worland, it wouldn't have been but a short ride south on US-20 to Thermopolis and the famous hot springs there. It was tempting, but the anticipation of Shell Canyon was too much, and I instead turned north toward Greybull, where a right turn in the middle of town would take me toward the dot on the map named Shell, and its namesake canyon carved deep into the west side of the Big Horn Mountains. As I came out of the upper end of the narrow canyon, the wind picked up, blowing from the southwest rather briskly, driving scudding rain clouds past the surrounding peaks, and even blowing veil rain toward the ground, which it never contacted due to the dry winds blowing across the terrain. I've been here in nicer weather, but there's something about foul weather that attracts me, and I stood next to the bike for a while, watching it. Then a couple of photos, and back onto the Concours to see what else awaited us. It had been my hope when I started out this morning to be able to ride up to Burgess Junction and then ride back west on US-14 Alt to connect with US-310 and enter Montana via that route. But when I got to the junction, I saw several feet of snow just past the Bear Lodge Resort , with the road plowed out only as far as their parking lot. That meant I'd go on over Granite Pass and get back onto the interstate at Ranchester. Oh well, it had been a pleasant interlude while it lasted. The lights of Billings were inviting as I stopped there for dinner and gas. But it was not yet 6:00 PM when I was ready to go again, and I really wanted to get as far as Butte before the weather turned nasty again. According to weather reports I had seen on TV the previous evening, a snow storm had come through the area the day before, and another one was on the way. Livingston and Bozeman were similarly inviting as the evening turned into night, but I had slept in late this morning and was feeling fine, so onward I rode. There was snow on the road, and some serious snow flurries in 33°F temperatures as I climbed in the dark toward the top of the Continental Divide just before dropping down into Butte. At one point I had to stop between snow squalls and clean off my windshield and faceshield so I could see the road. The road continued to wind toward the top, and I wondered how much colder it would get as I climbed, and if I would have to turn back to one of the spots that had seemed so alluring earlier. The sign marking the summit of the pass and then the highway descending back down the west side were both welcome sights, and I was glad both that I had continued on this far before calling it a night, and that Butte was no farther than it was. It was slightly warmer - 35°F here in Butte when I arrived at 10:15 PM, but I knew that could change before morning. At least I was where I could relax for a day or two if the weather forced me to stop. Monday, May 6, 2002 Butte, Montana Fortunately, only a light dusting of snow fell this morning, so I brushed it off the bike cover and took the cover up to my room to dry while I walked to the nearby restaurant for breakfast. By the time I had checked out of the motel and had the bike ready for travel again, it was 10:45 and the temperature had climbed to 41°F. Still, as I rode north and west toward Missoula and another climb and pass through mountains, I found myself ducking in and out of snow squalls and even one ground-whitening hailstorm. Not too strangely, I found mine to be the only motorcycle on that stretch of highway that morning. Then again, Russ might be just ahead or just behind me. Wherever he was, I hoped that he was enjoying weather as good as, or better than, this which I was riding through. Progress was steady, as I had heard of a major snowstorm headed toward Butte, and I wanted to get out of the Rockies and down to a lower elevation before I found myself stuck here for two or three days. As I zipped past Missoula I noticed the clouds ahead appeared to be getting thicker and darker. Lookout Pass was getting to be more of a long shot. The last 5 miles of the climb to the top were the worst for me, as the temperature had already dropped to 32°F and the drizzle that was falling at lower elevations had turned to a light snowfall. Just as I neared the top at 2:00 PM, with the temperature now down to 30°F and snow coming down steadily, I pulled in to a roadside rest area and took a couple of photos. Now that I was at the top, and it was literally all down hill from here, I could breathe easy. Sure enough, the run down past Kellogg, Idaho, then back up over Fourth of July Pass and back down again through Coeur d'Alene and into Post Falls was nice, with dry roads most of the way. But while I was inside getting some snacks after fueling up at the Chevron station, a hailstorm hit the area and deposited nearly half an inch of the little white balls on the ground in about five minutes. I made that gas stop last a good, long fifteen minutes. Now that I was out of the mountains, the pressure was off to get somewhere other than where I was, so the ride over to Spokane was done at a more relaxed pace. While the temperature there was relatively mild at 52°F, there was a pretty stiff breeze blowing from the northwest. Past the city and headed southwest on I-90, I started thinking about Snoqualmie Pass ahead, and wondered what shape it might be in. There's a westbound rest area a few miles before Ritzville, and I pulled in there to see if I could check on road conditions ahead. This was around 4:30 PM and I knew it would be dark before I got beyond Ellensburg and started back up into the Cascade Range. The report I heard was that the temperature was 33°F and there was slush on the road. Not impassable at that time for a motorcycle, I thought, but what might it be like 3 or 4 hours later? Especially with a storm coming off the Pacific and headed this way. I already knew what snow looked like, and I knew how bikes behave in snow, I didn't need to ride 2 or 3 hours to find out. So I wimped out again and headed south on US-395 toward the Tri-Cities. Now some folks don't care for deserts, they're too dry and dusty. But when you want to avoid precipitation, a desert offers the best chance of doing so. Just as when I headed for Cache Creek up in British Columbia when I was tired of seeing snow, so I headed for the driest area I knew of now. While it didn't warm up a lot - it was still only 56° when I rode through Kennewick - there was a pleasant dryness to the air that I reveled in. Across the mighty Columbia River into Oregon, and then down I-84 a few miles to the small community of Boardman where I found another EconoLodge with an adjacent restaurant, and I felt it was time to stop, as I had used up my good weather luck for the day. Tuesday, May 7, 2002 Boardman, Oregon There's nothing like turning on the motel TV to find out that the weather behind you is far worse than the weather ahead of you. Spokane had received 8 inches of snow overnight, Lookout Pass 13", Butte 10", and places in between had similar amounts. There wasn't even any rain predicted for Portland, my next destination. My decision to hurry out of that area yesterday turned out to have been a good one, and I was happy with the route I would be riding for the rest of this day. The temperature had only dropped to 54°F this morning, and it felt warmer as I walked next door for breakfast. At 10:20 I was out on I-84 headed toward Portland. The day grew progressively brighter and warmer as I rode down along the Columbia, through the Gorge, and on past the string of Oregon State Parks that line the south side of the river, stopping occasionally to take photos. It was as I was nearing Multnomah Falls that I looked up and saw snow falling on some of the peaks high above the interstate. And yet it was warm and bright where I was riding. I can handle snow just fine under those conditions. Just after 1:00 in the afternoon I found myself crossing the Columbia again as I entered the state of Washington on I-205. A few more miles and I stopped to call Ron Smith and let him know I was headed his way. It was necessary for me to swing by his house to pick up my cold weather gear, and from there we would ride up to Cafe Veloce for dinner. Ron would try to contact another rider or two to see if anyone could join us. Traffic was at its heaviest as I made my way past Sea-Tac and turned off onto I-405 toward Renton. Fortunately, the HOV lane was lightly traveled and I was able to maintain a good speed as I hurried to get to Ron's house without being too late, the way I usually seem to be. Our timing was great, and we got to the restaurant around 7:00 PM and proceeded to sit down to a delicious meal. Cori Phelps was able to join us a little later, and Ron and I got to listen to some of her recent adventures aboard her Yamaha. She has some very interesting stories to tell, and is good at recounting them. But here in Washington the same problem arose that had plagued me all around the country - that of too little time to spend with the folks I most enjoy spending it with. Soon it was time to part company and head north toward home. On the way across from Maine I had decided that so long as I was going to get all the way back to Washington before turning north, I would go right back to where it started - the Blaine Post Office. So after Cori, Ron, and I said our good-byes, that's where I headed. Got my unofficial finish photo from within a few feet of where this ride had started a month previous, and then said a sad farewell to my Four Corners Tour as I turned east to cross the border at Sumas. Finding no likely looking motel around Sumas, I proceeded to cross the border into Canada and found one within a few moments at Abbottsford, British Columbia. A good night's rest, and I could begin a serious quest for the home state. Wednesday, May 8, 2002 Abbottsford, B.C., Canada With the exchange rate between U. S. and Canadian money being so favorable to U. S. citizens right now, it's pretty easy to justify a hearty breakfast when dining north of the border. So I splurged. Afterward, waddling over to my room to finish packing, I mused on how I enjoy traveling in Canada. The weather is good as I head east on TC-1 this morning. It continues to stay dry until I get past Hope and there is a brief light shower before it dries up again, to stay that way all the way up to Prince George. Past Spences Bridge a few miles, I find a roadside stand open as I ride past it. Realizing that I probably won't see one again on this early spring trip, I backtrack a few miles to stop in and buy some fruits and a bottle of juice. Then it's on up through Cache Creek and to 100 Mile House for my first gas stop. It's along here that I notice there is no power to some of my electrical accessories, so I pull in to the little park and historic museum at 108 Mile House to do some repairs. This necessitates removing the seat, which in turn necessitates removing the auxiliary fuel tank. Pretty soon I have parts sitting in a circle around the bike while I search for the problem. Turns out a blade type fuse protecting the power distribution panel has a little corrosion on it, just enough to stop voltage from getting through. A thorough scraping with a jackknife blade was all it took to insure I'd have toasty hands and an illuminated thermometer all the way home. One of the reasons I'd elected to stop here at 108 Mile House, even though the weather was still pleasantly warm, was the gathering of heavy gray clouds ahead of me. But thankfully the threatened rain never materialized, so I rode on to Prince George and got a room. It wasn't that I was too tired to continue riding, rather it was just that I was in no hurry to end this trip, so I was taking all the time I needed to get back home. There was a mock-Oriental restaurant (run by real Orientals) next to the motel, so that's where I had my dinner. Seems there are a lot of so-called Oriental dining establishments springing up all over, but only a few of them have really good, traditional Oriental dishes. But it beat starving, and I didn't feel like riding around Prince George trying to find the best place. Next time I'll see if I can't schedule a dinner stop farther north in Chetwynd and sample the highly recommended cooking at the Chinese restaurant there. Thursday, May 9, 2002 Prince George, B.C., Canada While a restaurant specializing in Oriental food is not my first choice for a good breakfast, it beats Eggs McScrambled. The personal refueling done, there was nothing to do but load the bike, top off the fuel tanks, and head northeast for the Alcan. South of Prince George I had noticed the lakes were all opening up with the warm days of spring. Here at the slightly higher elevation, and somewhat higher latitude, the lakes were turning dark as their surfaces prepared to thaw, and there was occasionally some open water along the edges, sure signs that spring would reach here as well. Having been in a bit of a hurry the previous month, southbound, I now took a closer look at my surroundings as I rode along in the sunlight. The Hart Hwy. has seen a lot of changes in the 40 years since I first traveled it. More homes and businesses, pavement where then there was gravel, and even commercial electricity with poles and wires announcing to one and all that civilization had come to this far northern wilderness. With the sun rising toward its zenith, its warming rays brought a spring-like quality to the air and I found myself wishing the day could go on and on in this same manner. The two-lane highway had little traffic, and compared to the interstates and large cities I had been riding through just a few days prior, it seemed I had the road to myself - just the way I like it. Arriving in Chetwynd just after lunch time, I filled the tanks once more and made the decision to take BC-29 north - also known as the Hudson's Hope Loop - to intersect the Alcan at about MP54 and shave off 29 miles as I bypassed Dawson Creek. This road twists and winds, climbs and descends, as it passes through the historic town of Hudson's Hope and then follows the mighty Peace River - the only river to breech the Rockies - on its way to join the Alaska Highway north of Fort St. John. It was while traveling through the Peace Valley that I watched the odometer turn to all zeroes as it recorded the first 100,000 miles in its busy life. This didn't really impress me all that much, as the bike has traveled over 40,000 miles with various problems that kept the odometer from advancing. In reality, it now is approaching 150,000 miles of travel, and seems to be prepared to add that many more before calling it quits. Before I was really ready for it, the stop sign appeared that signaled the intersection with the Alcan, the next-to-the-last highway I would be traveling on my way home. Shortly after I turned north once again, I remembered that I had told Doug Grosjean that I would give him a call once back on the Alcan safely, so I pulled over to the side of the road to take advantage of the last cell phone reception I would have until Whitehorse. Five minutes later, I was rolling on the throttle again, with plans for a final overnight stop at Fort Nelson that evening. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Observations: The Alcan On my first ever drive up the Alcan (officially, the Alaska Highway) it was very much a wilderness drive over a definitely wilderness highway. It was January 1962 and, returning from a 30-day leave to back Fort Richardson just outside Anchorage, I found a brand new compact Mercury two-door that needed to be delivered from Detroit to the Avis car rental franchisee in Anchorage. Picked up the car in Detroit on January 2nd, with 26 miles on the odometer (I still have the log of that trip). I was allowed 4000 miles for the drive, but as I wanted to swing out through Seattle to pay a visit to some friends there, I disconnected the speedo cable in Minnesota and gave the car an extra 2000 break-in miles, at no extra charge. Rather generous of me, in my unsolicited opinion. Roads I hardly recognize these days for all the population growth, were gravel and lonely 40 years ago. The afternoon and evening before I arrived at Dawson Creek and the beginning of the Alcan, I spent driving through the worst snowstorm I have ever been in (and I've seen a quite few in my time). No snow tires or tire chains to be had in the diminutive 13" tire size that was just becoming available on American cars. Fortunately, the car didn't have enough power to spin the tires, so it just kept going. By the time I got to Prince George, all the other traffic going my direction had pulled off at hotels and motels to escape the terrible driving conditions, save one traveling salesman from Vanderhoof, and a fellow in a Mercedes sedan. We'd been keeping each other company for over a hundred miles by then. Later that night, sleeping in the passenger seat alongside the Hart Hwy., nestled down in my sleeping bag, it dropped to -42°. When I turned the radio on the next morning a little before dawn, the only station coming in was KXEL in Waterloo, Iowa with its country music (we called it hillbilly back then) disc jockey. When I heard it, I remembered my uncle, living on his ranch farther west in B.C., telling that they listened to that station more than any of their local ones. Back then the Hart Hwy. was all gravel, and there was virtually no traffic on it that time of year. A cow moose was trotting up the road ahead of me at one point, and I guess I was "herding" her a little too closely, as she suddenly skidded to a stop, and turned to come directly at me. Visions of moose hooves thundering down all over that little car had me wishing I'd been a more patient. But she veered to one side, and passed within inches of the side of the car as she strode defiantly back whence she came. When I started breathing again, I proceeded toward Dawson Creek, in less of a hurry. Leaving Dawson Creek, I had noticed literally hundreds of snowshoe hare carcasses flattened all over the highway for miles. Thought it very strange, and read in the Alaska Sportsman magazine some months later that it was due to the hare population being at its peak that year causing that particular phenomena to occur. Never seen anything like it since, anywhere. In the ensuing years, the Alcan has been tamed to a large degree. Trutch Mt. has been bypassed, although the old highway leading to it can still be seen to the east for several miles. The original builders had neither the time nor the equipment to haul in the fill that the present highway needed to traverse the swampy ground it now crosses. Steamboat has but a hint of the twists and turns, along with steep grades and drop-offs without guardrails, that used to cause panic in the flatlanders who found themselves facing it, especially when rain turned the gravel surface to slick mud. The road over Summit is still pretty much the way it was gouged out of the rock walls some 60 years ago, but at least now there are guardrails along the side next to the canyon. Not always a good idea in my estimation. Before they added all the guard rails to highways here in Alaska, you could be pretty sure that by the second serious snowfall of the winter, the poorest drivers had been weeded out, and you felt a lot safer knowing it was the more skilled survivors who were approaching you in the other lane. Nowadays the Alcan is, to a great extent, a good paved two-lane highway through what is still wilderness for the most part. The Canadians have done an admirable job in designing their highways, and have preserved the feeling of traveling through pristine wilderness even while motoring down a wide scenic highway at freeway speeds. In addition, the people who populate this highway seem to be of a special breed. For the most part very friendly and helpful, yet with the same streak of independence that I observe in my fellow Alaskans. No better place to get in a bind, because these folks have seen it all, and know how to fix it. Just be patient, because if the fish are biting up the road, your problem may have to wait. This stretch of road remains one of my favorite rides or drives, winter or summer, and probably will remain so for my lifetime. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The ride up to Fort Nelson was warm, pleasant, and uneventful. Just the kind I like. Rolling into Fort Nelson at around 7:00 PM, it was still a long time 'til sundown. With the vernal equinox over a month past, the days here were noticeably longer than those in the South 48 states. First finding an overpriced motel, I checked in, and then took a half mile walk to one of the few restaurants to stay open this late. After riding all day, it felt good to stretch my legs, and after the hefty meal I ate, I needed to expend some more calories. Getting back to the motel, I found that a strange looking vehicle had arrived, with the owner staying in a room near mine. Seeing the owner outside, cleaning his rig, I walked up to him and introduced myself. He identified himself as Joe Garcia, from Santa Fe, New Mexico. The trike he was riding/driving had been built by himself and a partner, who did this for a living at a business called The Fab Shop. It had a built-up 454 Chevy big block, Turbo-Hydramatic, Buick rear axle with dual rear tires, and pulled a small utility trailer. Judging by the number of locals who drove by to gawk at it, the trike had attracted a lot of attention coming into town. Joe and I visited for a while, and then I retired earlier than I might have, as I knew tomorrow was going to begin the big push for home. Friday, May 10, 2002 Fort Nelson, B.C., Canada It's time to end this ride and get back home, so I'm down at the office and helping myself to some of the "continental breakfast" food shortly after 6:00 AM. Then out of the motel and headed north well before 8:00 AM. Joe's trike is still in front of his room, but he's out and packing as I pull out. It's cool, and there are clouds up ahead, but it's still dry as I make time toward Steamboat Mountain, Toad River, Muncho Lake, and the other waypoints along the Alaska Highway. Memories of delicious pies lure me in to Trapper Ray's Liard Hot Springs Lodge, but I make it a quick stop as there were a few drops of rain on the windshield just as I neared the Liard River crossing. Buttoned up for rain, I again hit the road with Watson Lake and fuel as my next destination. Joe passed the lodge on his trike just as I was finishing my travel preparations, so I hurry to catch up in order to have a little company for a few miles of this lonely road. Pretty soon I run into a little more drizzle, and find that Joe has slowed down. With no windshield and no protection from the wind trying to blow up his pants legs, he's not enjoying the rain. I pass him, knowing I can't afford to dilly-dally if I want to get on home without another overnight stop. Around 60 miles before Watson Lake there's some construction that was started last summer and, hopefully, would be completed later this summer. But as I ride over it, all I find is washboard gravel, with windrows of loose crushed rock between the tire tracks. Slowing down to a speed at which I can control the bike fairly well yet still have the advantage of gyroscopic stability from the tires, I bounce along, ducking from flying stones whenever I meet an oncoming vehicle. There's been no rain in this area, so dust is another nuisance. There are scraggly black spruce trees growing fairly close to the highway, and I'm riding slowly anyway, so I stop to use the natural "facilities" just inside the cover of the trees. While I'm so stopped, Joe and his trike nearly catch up with me, and I watch his progress in my rear view mirror as I get under way once again. Apparently the trike doesn't like the washboard any better than my Concours, as he travels even slower than I do while on it. Pretty soon the gravel ended and the pavement resumed, so I was able to hurry on to Watson Lake for my next fuel stop. Joe rolls into the Tags station as I'm fueling, and tells me that he has had enough for the day. He looks cold, and admits that the weather has drained the energy from him, so he'll get a room here and regain some energy again tonight. It's only 3:15 PM, and I'm not interested in stopping, so I bid Joe farewell and get out onto the highway, headed west toward Whitehorse. When I get to Rancheria, about 75 miles from Watson Lake, I see that the lodge is now open, so I stop in for a hot meal, knowing that it may be my last for a while. A sudden rain shower dumps on me as I'm getting the bike parked, and I see snow clouds up ahead. Nevertheless, I am determined to enjoy a leisurely meal, even as I scan every southbound vehicle for signs of snow packed on their rear end. After eating, there's nothing to do but get back out onto the highway and find out what sort of conditions await me. One of the things I've learned about the Alcan from years of traveling it - the weather can change drastically within a few miles, then change back again in the next few. Although there was snow falling on both sides of me, and sometimes both ahead of and behind me, I was happy that none fell where I was. Being that the highway from Rancheria to Whitehorse is in good condition and traffic was very light now that it was getting past the hour when most locals were traveling home from their jobs, I was able to make very good time as I traveled west and then northwest toward the Yukon's capital city. As I pass the Nabesna Road at MP60 I am tempted to turn and ride up to my house to check how it has fared through this past winter. But it's time I face the inevitable conclusion of this ride and put it behind me, so I continue on toward Glennallen. Entering the town, I spot familiar vehicles with familiar faces peering out from inside. Under the coating of Shakwak mud, neither the Concours nor I are recognizable, so my waves go unreturned. Still, it is good to be home, if only to give me the opportunity to prepare for a future trip. Pulling up in front of the apartment that I've referred to as my temporary home for the past seven years, I start removing luggage and accessories, and carry them inside to be sorted through over the course of the next week or two. There are many little, seemingly insignificant souvenirs of the past 5 weeks in there. Each one, as I pull it out, will evoke some memory of a place, person, or time that I will savor. Most will have to be deposited in the round file, but for a few moments they will serve a higher purpose. Long before I got back here I knew that this experience was too good to let it be the only one like it, and while riding along I've been planning for future trips. Maybe a Four Corners Tour starting in Maine in December? The 48 states plus Alaska in 10 days ride, but with a start at Alcan, the U. S. Customs station on the Alcan Hwy. at the Yukon border? And another Crawfish Boil - definitely! While I may or may not ever do another long ride, there's nothing to stop me from dreaming. Most who read this understand the passion that drives a rider to continue when most others would stop, or at least look for a place to spend the night, waiting for conditions to improve. The hardships, the discomfort - they're all a part of the whole experience of long distance riding. Why would someone want to leave out an important portion of his experience? As with most men who live by choice in rural Alaska, I love the outdoors. Travel is one of my main passions as well. Motorcycle touring gives me both of these things in abundance. A couple of weeks after returning to Glennallen, I rode the Concours in to Anchorage to get an estimate done so I could turn it in to the insurance company. The temperature felt warm when I left home, around 60°F, so I only wore a long-sleeved cotton tee shirt under my Roadcrafter. Going through the Eureka area in Tahneta Pass, I noted the temperature had dropped to 50°F and it felt pleasantly cool. I knew I was back home. As I've grown older, and hopefully a bit wiser, the realization has come to me that the mighty deeds we do are really of no consequence. But what we can inspire others to do by our own actions is. If my ride, and this recounting of it, can inspire other riders to say "If that old duffer can do it, it'll be a piece of cake for me", then I will have accomplished something worthwhile. The United States, along with our neighbor to the north (for most of you), Canada, offer some of the very best riding to be found anywhere in the world, along with great people to meet along the way. Keep your priorities in their proper order, and look after your families first and foremost. But once those responsibilities have been taken care of, get out there and see the world. You won't regret it. by Jack Gustafson |
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