As I've said Before...

Some days are diamonds, some days are stone! 

And yesterday was definitely the former. I got away early from the grotty camp ground in Fairbanks that I had ended up at last night. In fact early enough that I omitted to pay; Whoops! Well the place was disgusting, with filthy toilets, litter everywhere and the most completely useless camp ground host that I have come across on the is trip. So did I feel guilty as I left? No I did not! I was heading north. Today was the day I’d been waiting for. The day I ride the infamous Dalton Highway. Yes, the very one featured on TV’s Ice Road Truckers… except of course I would be riding it in the summer and hopefully the ice would have long since melted. As I headed out of town I realised that I may have made my first error of the day, I hadn’t topped up my fuel tank and I had no idea where the first fuel was available on the Dalton. With a huge sigh of relief a gas station appeared just before arriving at Fox on the edge of Fairbanks. I filled the bike with premium gas and myself with a huge cup of coffee and a nice big peanut butter cookie. That went down well with us both and we purred on out of town.

Initially the road is designated as the Elliot Highway and is well surfaced, something that wasn’t going to last I feared. At this point the road is still the Hwy 2 or Alaska Highway, only changing to the Dalton after about 75 miles at Livengood; don’t you just love the names? In reality the Alaska Highway proper ends at Delta Junction as from there on the road already existed. In 1942 they just connected to the that existing road… but all this is just semantics, my map clearly designates the road all the way to Fox as the Alasks Highway, so you takes your pick…  The evocative names along the roads here abouts all relate, of course, to the old gold mining days and were no doubt named by the prospectors depending on the luck they were having at the time; except for Chicken, so called the story goes because they couldn’t spell Ptarmigan and the Arctic Circle. Arctic? Hmm, something was going to have to change fairly quickly in the next 300 miles, as the sunshine was the best I’d had for days and the temperature was warming up nicely; more like equatorial than Arctic..

White Ptarmigan is very common in the area! Anyway, the sun was shinning, the riding easy, the scenery fantastic and all was right in my little world. I stopped for a photo at the sign indicating that I was just about to enter the James Dalton Highway and immediately I passed the sign the road surface sort of ran out…Ah!, this was indeed the Dalton Highway I had been expecting. To be honest the surface wasn’t too bad although the grader that suddenly appeared changed all  that instantly… I was suddenly riding across a ploughed field once more! It was OK once you got used to the amount of grip (or lack of it!) that the surface had, and I slowly built up confidence and picked up speed, although only to about 40 mph… this could prove to be a long day as my destination was supposed to be Coldfoot, so named as many of the miners having got this far got cold feet, turned around and ran for home.  Coldfoot was about 60 miles inside the

 About 20 miles on I caught up with two other bikes just as they pulled over for a break; I pulled over as well for a chat. The bikes were an 1800 Honda Goldwing and a BMW R1100 being ridden by brothers Mark and Chris respectively. Mark was struggling a bit with the bulk and weight of his Goldwing, not really the most suitable of bikes for gravel roads. After a brief chat I dropped in line behind them, happy to have some company on a road that I knew could only get tougher as we went along. The sun was still shining brightly and my thermometer on the GPS was showing 20c and it was still only a little after 9am. Having kitted up ready the Arctic weather, I was starting to feel somewhat warm! It was a beautiful ride though, through pristine boreal forest in a completely unspoilt landscape. I kept stopping to take photographs, losing the brothers in the process but then enjoying the chase to catch up with them once more. In truth, had I been on my own I would have been riding just a little faster, but there was no rush and I still wouldn't have arrived any sooner due to all my photo stops. 

 The first fuel stop was at the Yukon River Crossing and in spite of still having plenty of fuel we all topped up our tanks; just in case! A lesson well learnt from riding in Africa where is is often the case that the next fuel stop simply doesn’t have and petrol, only diesel; so you never pass a source of fuel without topping up. There were a few other bikers there and I got into conversation with a young couple riding identical BMW F800GSs. John and Sheena were both on leave from active service at Fort Brag where John was in the parachute unit; I’m not sure whether Sheena was in the same unit or not.

The Yukon Crossing Gas Station

They were a lovely young couple and were intent on riding the whole way up to Prudhoe in a day. Typical youth, always in a hurry and no time to enjoy the moment! But believe it or not, even I was young once, although far too long ago to remember. More coffee and cookies devoured, and off we went again, Mark in the lead on the Goldwing, Chris in the middle and me in my favoured position bringing up the rear. Every time I stopped for a photo I was enthralled not only by the scenery but by the absolute silence. Not a bird was singing or any other sound to be heard. It’s not often that such total and absolute silence can be enjoyed in our frenetic world these days. More stops, another chase to catch Mark & Chris. More photos, relish the silence. Before too long we spotted a sign for the Arctic Circle and turned into the parking area just in time to see John and Sheema pulling out, they were making good time. We were surprised to be greeted by a couple of volunteer rangers, happy to take photographs if required and also unexpectedly handing out certificates of authentication that we had indeed crossed the Arctic Circle; whilst the sun still shone and the temperature still climbed!

I made it to Gobbler's Knob!

I can honestly say that it was one of the best days riding that I had enjoyed since getting over to Canada and the US and there have been some damn fine ones. Mark & Chris were great company; the weather really couldn’t have been bettered and the scenery was simply magnificent. Even the road wasn’t half as bad as we had all been expecting, but with this weather it had to be a lot better and easier to ride than if it had been raining! Oh foolish me, why do I even contemplate such things. Before too long Coldfoot appeared, or at least the sign for it did! I think we had all been expecting at least some semblance of a town… In fact Coldfoot camp is the left overs of a camp built to house, initially the construction workers of the Alaska Highway, then latterly expanded to house up to 450 workers on the huge oil pipeline which we had been shadowing all day; running from the oil fields of Prudhoe Bay down to the Valdez, the northernmost ice free port in Alaska. It was basically a huge truck stop with two accommodation blocks, a restaurant a bar and a fuel station selling unleaded petrol, diesel and LPG, and that was it. As you might guess this far north and so remote, cheap it wasn't! Accommodation in the “hotel” was $200 for a twin bedded box room which admittedly did have a bathroom en-suit, but the bare fibreboard walls left a little to be desired as did the rest of the décor; unleaded regular petrol was nearly $5 for a US gallon (3.7 lt) against just over $3 further south.  However, to my amazement, camping was free! So guess who was a very happy bunny? By now my thermometer was reading a heady 26c and we were nearly 150 miles inside the Arctic Circle. If the weather holds. getting to Prudhoe tomorrow should be easy.

Mark & Chris were going no further than Coldfoot, having just wanted to cross the Arctic Circle. I on the other hand was going to whole nine yards or at least that was my plan. The three of us enjoyed a pleasant meal at the buffet which at $21 or about £14 wasn't bad value. There was certainly plenty on offer including, to my amazement, nice fresh salad. I can’t imagine where they got that from, although with trucks running up and down to Fairbanks daily I guess it was not too difficult to arrange. A few beers, my first since leaving Edmonton, and some good conversation put my first day on the Dalton nicely to bed. In spite of the midnight sun, and the comings and goings of the trucks, I slept very soundly…  Although was that a little rain I heard in the night?

Oh yes, indeed it was, in fact it had rained quite heavily as evidenced by the splashes up the edge of the inner tent where I had not shut the fly down. I lay for some time listening to the rain which would ease and almost stop then come again with renewed intensity. It always sounds worst when you’re in a tent as it makes such a noise on the flysheet but, once up and about, it still wasn't a pleasant day and a bit of a shock after the beautiful weather of yesterday. The prospect of riding to Prudhoe in the rain didn’t fill me with delight. I could of course postpone and stay in camp for the day, after all the camping was free and I had no limit on my time, so even the cost of a meal wasn't too bad, but I really didn’t fancy just hanging around the camp in the rain any more than I wanted to ride in it. Chris and Mark said their goodbyes and set off for the run back to Fairbanks Even that was not going to be an easy ride especially on the Goldwing as the rain would have made the road like a skating rink on the dirt section! I headed off to the restaurant for a coffee and a think. It was a straightforward decision; should I stay or should I go? However this was Alaska and I was over 100 miles inside the Arctic Circle, the rain could stop in a few minutes or it could go on for days; it could get worse or even snow! There was no way of knowing. Weather forecasting up here was notoriously unreliable. As the rain eased once more I took a gamble and decided to go for it! Now I’m sure that will come as no surprise to those of you out there that know me. One thing I have never been good at (one of many…) is sitting twiddling my thumbs.

It didn't take long to get packed up as I hadn't unpacked very much and before long I was on my way North in the drizzling rain. The clouds were hanging low in the sky obscuring a lot of the fabulous landscape but the first section north of Coldfoot was on a reasonably good road surface so I was running OK. Of course it didn't last as I hit the gravel I slowed down a bit for safety. Whilst it wasn’t nice to ride as they put Calcium Sulphate on the surface, I'm told to help keep the dusty down, it wasn’t quite as slippery as I’d been warned. I guess more like riding on grease than black ice !!!! As long as you kept an easy grip on the bars and didn’t fight the occasional shimmy or involuntary change of direction, all was fine. Speed was down as I hated to think of having to do an emergency stop on such a surface for a moose, bear or caribou. The water was also obscuring some of the worst of the potholes, so all in all it was steady as she goes…. However, all said, I felt I was doing OK. Yes, there were a few buttock clenching moments and I'm glad I wasn't linked to a heart rate monitor, but as I always say to the Scoots guys… It’s an ADVENTURE! If I wanted it  easy I’d have gone to Butlins, Bognor or Benidorm.  

As I approached the North Slope, the first of the days big climbs, I caught up to a huge truck… just as The Beast decided that it didn't want to play any more! It dropped onto one cylinder, which with only two of them to share the work load anyway, wasn't good. She was spitting and banging like a good ‘un, so overtaking simply wasn't an option.  I slowed down to stay well back from the spray of the truck at which point The Beast expired! No amount of coaxing would bring forth even a glimmer of life. Looking over the engine, it was as though it had been sprayed with concrete! I’ve never seen such a mess. Where the gravel and Calcium Sulphate had been dried by the heat of the engine the cylinders, rather than having deep cooling fins, were now as smooth as a baby’s bottom. From under the fuel tank, where hides all the electrics, the stuff was just dripping slowly down, to add to the thickness already on the cylinders. I scrapped, wiped and washed as much of the stuff away as I could but still not a glimmer of a spark. Meanwhile the gentle rain from heaven fell gently on the place beneath… and on me! Reluctantly I unloaded some of my kit and removed the fuel tank to get a look at the coils, connections and plug leads. I wiped everything as dry as I could, I checked the connections, sprayed the lot with WD40 and put it all back together.

Pressing the starter, I at least got spark, although she didn't start first off. I put all the luggage back on and with a lot of coaxing, sweet talking, OK; and a good bit of swearing, she started. I wont say it sounded too sweet but it was running. At that point common sense should have taken over, whilst instead sheer stubbornness (stupidity???) took over, and instead of turn back to Coldfoot I push on up the infamous North slope. Telling myself that a good run down the other side would dry out the electrics and get it running properly. Well, if it had been dry it would have, wouldn’t it? However by now the rain was epic! I convinced myself that it would wash som of the crud from the bike and from the road. So badly did I want to get to Prudhoe Bay. The bike ground to a halt once more about a quarter of a mile from an oil line service area, I tried to push the bike there. Have you ever tried pushing an overloaded wheelbarrow through wet concrete? If you have you’ll know how hopeless was the task I set myself! I unloaded once more and tripped off the seat and tank, not in itself a difficult job. Once more I dried everything, cleaned off the worst of the crud, reassembled and amazingly got it going! Yet again, glutton for punishment that I am, I refused to turn back and pushed on. I could see the huge , notorious pass ahead, the one that give all the trucks so much grief when covered in snow and ice. It really is one hell of a climb. I ground slowly up and over it mand pushed on, thinking that at last I was onto a winner. A few miles on it stopped once more. I repeated the previous unload, strip, dry, reassemble, load and go routine three more time before that littler light of reality finally lit up in my head… I was going to have to turn back. There was still over 80 miles to go to Deadhorse with a further 20ish to Prudhoe. I was running out of steam, WD40 and dry cloths. I simply couldn’t keep pushing on, I’d given my best but been defeated not by the riding but the road conditions taking their toll on my biker. I was gutted but at the same time elated that I hade made it so far and strangely satisfied knowing that I had given it my absolute all.

Now I had just one little issue left… the 200 miles back to Coldfoot! Once more I went through the now well rehearsed procedure, and got her started I got back over and down the pass before she went onto one cylinder but amazingly kept going. By looking at the buildup on the cylinders it was obvious that it was the right hand cylinder that was shorting out as that was wet whilst the left one sporting a nice dry coat of the “concrete”. Although worried about causing further damage I rode on as long as I could on the one cylinder until finally with less than a hundred miles to go she stopped again. This time no amount of drying, wiping, spraying would coax even a glimmer of life from the engine. Even in the face of the seeming futility I kept trying; I really had no other option. Inspite of the fearsome reputation of the truckers on the Dalton for taking no prisoners as they haul their impossible loads over even more impossible terrain, I found them to be a great bunch of guys, with two of them even stopping to see if they could help in any way. They were a cheerful, courtesy bunch, working in an extremely hostile environment and I had no problems or issues with any of them, but then I also didn’t do stupid thing like parking in the middle of the road at the foot of a long drop so hindering both their descent and the following climb. A trick that the RVs  are apparently famous for.

I was just contemplating a night on the road side, not in itself a huge problem, when along came John and Sheena, hauling ass (or should I say making good progress?) for Fairbanks. Of course they stopped although there was not a lot they could do other than let the people back at Coldfoot know that I was stuck on the road side and try if possible to arrange some kind of lift or tow back for me. They shot off and I just knew from the kind of guys they were that I could trust them to do there utmost for me, however I really wasn’t too optimistic as to just what they could pull out of the bag. Meanwhile I kept trying to get the Beast to fire up. It would cough a little but I simply could not get it to fire into life. The battery was by now starting to get weak and even though all the electrical stuff was off, I could tell that it wasn’t turning over as quickly as before. I gave it one last shot. I couldn’t believe it, she fired up, still only on one cylinder, but it was running. I set off slowly, hoping to keep down the amount of spray getting onto the electrics. I bimbled along for about 10 miles at around 25mph; I didn’t care how slow. As long as it kept moving. It wasn’t much fun though when the trucks came thundering past showering me and the bike with the wet “concrete” I had to take off my glasses and lift my visor as they were completely opaque by now, as was the screen. As I ran down an incline I throttled back a bit and to my amazement the second cylinder coughed into life for a moment. After that I kept trying to feather the throttle whenever I could and slowly but surly the engine came back to life. I hit the better road surface and opened her up, firstly to try to clear any further moisture from the ignition (it had by now, of course, stopped raining) but also to try to get back to Coldfoot as soon as possible after John and Sheena just in case he had managed to mobilise a tow truck.

I roared into the truck park to find John and Sheena sitting by their bikes. John’s look of utter dejection on not finding any help for me, instantly turned into a beaming smile as I stopped beside them. Unable to find any assistance he had been trying to work out how they could get me back. One plan being to off load their luggage at the reception then after transferring some of my weight to Sheena’s bike to tow me with John’s bike back to Coldfoot or even if necessary back to Fairbanks. Like I said, I just knew that come what may John was a guy you would want on your side if push came to shove! And they even ended up buying me dinner before we said our farewells and they jumped back on their bikes and disappeared down the Dalton. I gave them the Scoots web address and I just hope they stay in touch. One day I would love to return that kindness by cooking them both dinner at my place in Wales.

I’d been on the road for 10 hours by the time I got back to Coldfoot and I was as shattered both physically and emotionally as I think I have ever been. The rain at least had the decency to stay off as I put my tent back up behind the hedge, sheltered from the worst of the weather and the noise of the trucks. I was filthy but had to stay that way as without paying $200 for a room there was no available shower. I wandered over to the bar for a few well deserved beers. I wasn’t too sure if I was celebrating or drowning my sorrows. In the event I was too tired even for that. It also felt strangely quite and jus a bit lonely without John, Sheena, Mark or Chris! So it was on expensive beer and off to my little tent and bed. I didn’t lay awake for long and didn’t even hear the helicopters coming and going. However I did wake at around 3.30am, although by then I had been asleep for over 8 hours so that was good.

By 4.30am I was on the road back to Fairbanks. The sky was looking threatening although as I left Coldfoot the morning was dry; I hoped it would stay that way. I’d had enough rain and muck on the Dalton for now… The clouds were hanging low on the hills as I ran back to the Arctic Circle, The rain held off although there wasn’t a glimmer of sun or blue sky to be seen. The incredible landscape I’d enjoyed on the ride up was completely enveloped in the murk and cloud of the early morning. A reminder if one was ever needed to make sure you take photos when you first see them. Never rely on getting them on the way back, they may not be there! By 7.30am I was back to The Yukon Crossing camp, if anything, even less salubrious than Coldfoot. I hadn’t bothered with coffee or breakfast before leaving Coldfoot, so decided to celebrate my escape from the Dalton a little early with one of their Big Breakfasts which I washed down with 3 huge cups of coffee; enough caffeine surely to see me through the road ahead. I also picked up a DVD about the Dalton which I though might interest the folks back home and treated myself to a t-shirt; my one and only souvenir so far!

The Yukon Crossing is almost exactly half way between Coldfoot and Fairbanks so I still had another 150 miles to do, with the worst bit right at the end. The weather, whilst still looking threatening was still dry and even the road had dried a lot. It really is amazing just how quickly road condition change on the Dalton. Just an few hours with no rain and a bit of wind makes a road that was treacherous into something far more amenable to ride. Equally it only takes a few hours of rain to turn the whole route into a nightmare. One however, that I had managed to survive and even escape from by my own efforts. Yes I was feeling a degree of satisfaction now that my energy levels were restored, and relishing the next challenge. Oh me and my big mouth! About 50 miles on and the rain started once more, Only gently, but enough to have to a trifle worried about the mud to come on the last section of the road. It wasn’t going to be sticky, getting stuck in sort of mud. Just a slick as slick thing can be. In fact so slick you could play…. Oh well I guess you get the picture! And of course there was that ruddy great road grader doing it’s best to make it even slicker… Hopefully I thought I’m up early enough that the driver of the monstrous great thing would still be enjoying his cornflakes.

He wasn't! He’d been at it for hours by the time I found him. I’d already had the bike sideways so many times that I’m thinking of entering it and me for Speedway next season! And that was on the good bit, to say I was feeling uneasy about riding the freshly graded section would not be overstating things. Alls well that ends well though and I got through with the rubber side down and headed on for Fairbanks and hopefully a decent pressure washer and an Auto supplier to bring The Beast back to some sort of order.  I’m hoping that a new set of plug leads should do the trick although to be fair they are not very old and have never played up before, but it was definitely that area that was causing the problems. I did whilst doing the early strip and cleanings find that one of the leads was not making good contact into the coil, but even with that sorted the problems persisted. Even on the run down from Fox, when the heavens opened once more the problem returned.

I'm now on a little RV / Camp ground at a 1^st Nations village called Nenana! The bike is once more running nicely although without the assistance of new plug leads. I did find a pressure washer yesterday in Fairbanks and got most of the crud off but although I tried several Auto shops I failed to find any leads. E ventually I gave up and headed down towards Denali Country Park which is on the way to Anchorage. The weather on the other hand had different ideas! As I turned South the skies opened once more and it just got harder and harder. As I climbed over a couple of high points I was up in the clouds with mist so thick I had trouble seeing the road just a few feet ahead of me. I saw a sign for a camp site and swung of the highway. In fact it was a bar called Skinny Eddies. The car park was so slick I almost dropped the bike a couple of times just parking it. I walked dripping into the bar which looked like something out of an old time Western. I was told I could camp anywhere either in front or round in the beer garden, for free! I don’t know why but something just didn’t feel right about the entire set up. It was probably just my paranoia but I rode on. It’s funny when you’re on the road sometimes things are like that and I always listen to my instincts. Anyway, I did good. About 20 miles further on I spotted a sign for an RV site just off the highway. By now I was soaked, cold and damn fed up, although strangely the bike had got over it’s hissy fit and was running quite well. I swung into the Nenana RV site and set up camp right next to a picnic shelter. … I wandered into the town for dinner at a nice little restaurant that had it’s own micro brewery. Burger and chips and a pint of there best was my order of the day, then back to the site Later when the office opened and I went to pay my $10.25 I was told that I should have set up in the shelter, no problem. I spent a pleasant couple of hours chatting to the owner of the site who runs it with her husband, then collapsed into bed for a well deserved long sleep.

Overnight it rained again, and just kept raining! And for those of you who say I never learn; wrong, I learnt my lesson and stayed put for the day. I even shifted the tent, bike and whole kit and caboodle into the aforementioned shelter. Apparently the weather it set to improve tomorrow and has in fact now stopped raining at last at about 6pm. I used my time today in sorting out both bike and kit so hopefully tomorrow will see me having a good run. I found that the lower plug cover on the right cylinder had a sort of notch where it had been catching on the cylinder head, so I’ve applied some heavy duty silicon to that and to the cover itself to stop the water getting in. I also found that I am missing the nut and stud from the left hand rocker cover. Amazingly not a drop of oil seems to be coming from it. There are two ten millimetre nuts on the edges which also hold it and I guess that the gasket, renewed at Creston when I check and set the valve clearances must be sort of glued to the head! I just hope it stays that way. I’ll try to source am 8mm bolt long enough to replace the stud, but it’s odd as I’ve never removed the stud.  So now I just have to hope for some good weather tomorrow to let me get away moving south. I do have one more little foray north to undertake which will see me in Dawson City home of writer and poet Jack London. From there the plan is to drop back to Edmonton, through which I have to pass anyway, for a couple of nights with Rosemarie and Doris. Get my washing done, try to sort the bolt and even possibly plug leads. Then it’s back to the route I had worked out when I was there a week or two back, across to Halifax and HOME... perhaps!