To Halifax and home…

Well hmm, yes but… There are however still a few bits of unfinished business on  the way across. On the map I had spotted the Denali National Park which was for fairly obvious reasons, a must do and I had been told that it was a stunning ride. Denali was just a bit down the road from Nenana, at least in Alaskan terms anyway. So leaving my cycling buddies still fast asleep in their tent, I left my shelter on the cute little RV site which had served me so well and headed south on Hwy 3 towards Anchorage. The weather looked a bit ominous with a sky full of clouds; just the odd patch of bright blue showing through here and there. I hoped that the blue would win over the grey as the day progressed and hopefully warmed up.  As always the road was as near empty as makes no difference; the surface was good and all was right in my little world. I had been told that Hwy 8, a dirt road which started right opposite the park entrance, was fun to ride and through some fantastic scenery. I was also hoping to get at least a glimpse of Mt McKinley, the highest mountain in the USA, although with the current cloud cover this was highly unlikely. It seems that, as with Ben Nevis, due to it’s height, it is generally shrouded in cloud. Sure enough the prophesies were spot on, by the time I approached Denali Park the clouds over the entire mountain range all but obliterated everything above about 1000ft.

I made the left turn onto Hwy 8 and the dirt in company with another biker who was riding a BMW F800, but he soon left me in his dust; I was in no hurry and just wanted to savour what was to be almost my last day of riding in Alaska; tomorrow night I would hopefully be back in the Yukon, Canada at Dawson City. About an hour along the dirt I came across 3 bikes stopped by the road with one of them obviously having problems with bits of his 950 KTM all over the side of the road. I stopped as I always do, just in case I could offer any help although I must admit to knowing absolutely nothing about the internal workings of a KTM! However, you never know, there may just be that one tool or something that the guy is missing that I just happen to be carrying amongst all the rubbish I pack. As it happen he had already identified the problem as a blown fuel pump, something which it seems is a fairly common problem. So much so that, having had the problem before, he had a second, vacuum pump, already installed which just needed the pipes connecting. With the bike running once more, I bid them farewell and left him to the reassembly.

The info I had received was right, the road was a dream to ride. The dirt surface was pretty good, with not too much gravel on it. The scenery, once more, was to die for! Running a long a fairly narrow valley with mountain ranges unfurling on both sides. The clouds even obliged by lifting enough to ensure that I could enjoy them to the full. Some 137 miles or so later the road finally ran out and I hit the main Fairbanks to Valdez highway with the ever present oil pipeline running adjacent to the road. I didn’t stay on the highway for long though, whilst a part of me would have liked to have seen both Valdez and Anchorage, as always in life choices have to made, and so about an hour later I turned left in favour of the Tok Cut off which took me back in a north easterly direction towards the funny little town of Tok on the Alaska Highway through which I had ridded a couple of weeks ago. The whole point of the exercise was to ride up to the previously mentioned town of Chicken, thence onto the self-proclaimed “Top of the World Highway”. One thing you can always be sure of in the USA is that exaggeration is king!

The town of Chicken is another old gold mining town; to be honest, even to call it a town is a bit of an exaggeration. A collection of old shacks, a gas station, gift shop and of course the gold mine all set to mine the gold from the tourist’s pockets; I didn’t tarry. I stopped just long enough to grab a couple of photos and hit the dirt. Yet another stunner of a road, whilst I’m not sure it deserves its heady title, it was certainly well worth riding. For a change, rather than running along a valley flanked by mountains, this little road ran along a ridge with open vistas on either side to the mountain ranges which flanked it. Just before the Canadian border the dirt suddenly changed to pristine “black top”; as smooth as a babies bum, the contrast to the previous 40 or so miles couldn’t have been more marked. Unusually, the US and Canadian border authorities seemed to share a single building, with no hint of a “no man’s land” such as I found by Skagway. Formalities were, as always, smooth and quick. Then it was back to the dirt for the final 60 miles down to Dawson City where I checked into another Provincial park camp ground just a ferry ride across the Yukon River from Dawson’s Main Street.

I fell in love with Dawson City even as I took my first of several free ferry rides across the famed Yukon River. It was almost as though it had been set up for a film, but unlike Barkerville which I visited a few weeks back in BC, this was a “real” town; a living, breathing, working town. Preserved and renovated certainly but a town in which real people lived and worked, a town that exuded an air of vibrancy. Yes, there were plenty of tourists around but somehow they didn’t seem to overwhelm the place. Most of the streets are paved with dirt rather than the gold you might expect from such a prominent city in the centre of the Klondike gold fields. There are certainly plenty of active claims still being worked around the area, but the rewards by and large are fairy meagre, particularly when measured against the huge amount of work required to extract it. Although it must be said that gold fever can still be found amongst some inhabitants of the town. I guess it’s akin to gambling fever really; always being convinced that they are going to find the strike which will make them rich. I met one such character in the bar of the city centre Downtown Hotel. He had the wild gleam of an addict in his eyes and he talked non-stop about just how much gold there was still to be found out here. I actually found his fanaticism a little scary, as I do any fanatic and left him to ramble on to my new friend, Randy.

My main thrust for including Dawson City on my route was to visit the Jack London Cabin and museum. Author and one time gold miner Jack journeyed to the Klondike in the hey-day of the late 1800’s gold rush and set up his claim high in one of the many creeks. Only thanks to the research and efforts of a guy named Dick North, was the cabin eventually discovered and moved to Dawson City as a part of the exhibition of the famous authors life. Of course he wasn’t at all famous when he arrived in the Klondike via the familiar Skagway, Chillkoot trail route. He had convinced his sister to mortgage her house to Jack London Center and I showed her the Jack London Credo which I carry on a brass plaque on the side of my bike as part of my tribute to my son Sam. I confess that I had never heard of Jack before my good friend Fred sent me a text containing the credo while I was attending Sam’s repatriation ceremony at RAF Lyneham. Dawne it transpired was also a former world champion gold panner, having worked in the gold field for many years prior to taking up her present position as curator of the Jack London exhibition.

fund the project but alas he never did find “the mother lode”, having to wait for a few more years before he struck gold with his writing.  I enjoyed speaking to Dawne at the

I spent a good few hours wandering around Dawson’s back streets and taking photos of some of the picturesque old buildings as well as visiting some of the more unusual shops to be found there, including an “outfitters”. I assume the term comes from the gold mining days and refers to “outfitting” the miners with the things they would require on their claims. However, this particular one was a fascination hotch-potch of camping and general outdoors type items mixed in with a wide array of antiques and the sort of things you would usually see in a museum, including or course the inevitable odd bits of gold panning equipment.

The Dawson City Downtown Hotel; Home of the Sourtoe Cocktail...

I had been joined on my pitch at the camp for the first night by a fellow biker, a Swiss guy by the name of Claudio; no, not he of Charlie and Ewan fame! He was great company and I had one of the latest nights of the trip, as we talked around the camp fire pit. Not only was the camp ground just $12 per night but there was as much ready-cut wood as you wanted, all free of charge. So of course we made the most of it, cooking our steaks to perfection over the flames and keeping warm in the cool evening air. Also joining us round the fire later in the evening was Randy, an American, who was travelling in a rented RV with his wife and two young boys. We welcomed him warmly…he was carrying a bottle of red wine to share!!! Randy was also a biker and the proud possessor of a Harley, but had succumbed, like many of us over the years, to the pressures of family life and limited his biking excursions. The following morning both Claudio and Randy moved off whilst I stayed put for a second night. I wanted to see more of the town and also to attend one of Dawne’s talks about the life and times of Jack London, which was fascinating. In fact I ended up spending most of the following morning at Jack’s cabin, listening and talking with Dawne and a few of the other people attending her talk. Of course, as always the bike drew many admiring glances and much interest with its Jack London connection.

I bought another steak to cook on the open fire and headed back to camp around tea time, and was amazed to find Randy greeting me, having been alerted to my return by the sound of “The Beast”. It transpired that his RV’s slide out had stopped working and the hire company was sending him out a new electrical module for it to Dawson so he was going to be on the camp for a further two nights. Randy announced that he was heading over to town after dinner to do the Sourtoe Cocktail ritual… so of course I had to join him. The only problem was that he and his family were going on their bicycles, leaving me to jog the mile and a half ! After two months of sitting on my bike with very little exercise, I have to admit, it nearly killed me. Anyway I now have my certificate from the “Captain” to say that I’ve kissed the toe !!!!!!!

As always I was up and away early next morning and starting to head back in a vaguely easterly direction, planning on getting to Whitehorse by the time I stopped for the night. That is until I spotted the turn onto the Dempster Highway; the road to Inuvit. I stopped for a photo of the sign, once more the voices just took over and before I knew It, I was heading north… Will I ever learn? To cut a long story a little shorter, I crossed the Arctic Circle once more after a 200 mile ride on yet more gravel roads and the worst near disaster of the trip when The Beast started fishtailing wildly. I was convinced I was going down, big time. To make matters worse the road at this point was elevated by about 15ft on a sort of berm with absolutely no barrier either side. After careering wildly back and forth across the road a few time, to my amazement I managed to hold on to it and get it all straight. Definitely one of those sphincter clenching moments! I then found out that the camp ground I was heading for at Rock River had a rather large bear prowling around it, so I turned back for the Eagle Plains RV park which I had passed a couple of hours earlier. I’d had enough, next morning I headed back down and got back on my route to Whitehorse!

And here I sit now back at the Roberts Service Camp Ground right on the edge of the town of Whitehorse. Compared to Dawson City the town is fairly nondescript but it must be said that it does have all the facilities that one needs, supermarkets, bike shop, a Canadian Tyres outlet that sells just about everything plus banks, tourist info, etc, etc. I had only intended to stay for two nights giving me time to catch up with my blog, sort the bike out a bit and generally tidy up my kit. However, I am camped next to a lovely English couple, Caroline and Jim from London, who are about 20 months into a 2 ½ year trip around north and south America on a pair of 650 Husquvana motorcycles. We have been having a bit of a laugh together so here I still am! Yesterday Caroline and I walked into town to do our laundry and get some shopping whilst Jim stayed back in camp and read as he is awaiting a knee operation early next year and cannot walk too far.. We then returned the long way round carrying the lot plus a 6 pack of beers and a 3 lt box of wine. By the time I got back I was knackered, Caroline has rather longer legs than me and is also a hell of a lot fitter (and younger); but it was a fun walk with the pair of us talking non-stop all the way, and I certainly needed the exercise. We have all been cooking and eating together as well, with us working like a well ordered and practised team which has been great.

Today Caroline and I were going canoeing, but it’s been tipping down with rain for most of the day, so instead I’ve managed to finally get everything up to date ready to hit the road once more tomorrow. I will be sad at the parting but that’s life on the road. Hopefully we will stay in touch over the coming weeks.

It been really nice having some like minded people to talk and laugh with for a few days, although it does bring home the loneliness of not having a loved one with you on a long trip.