Wednesday 29th July

 Despite being up bright and early to ensure that I was clear of the showers before the hoards of cyclists that had arrived during the evening opened their eyes, it was mid-day before I finally bade farewell to Jim and Caroline at Whitehorse’s Tim Holtan’s. Caroline had cooked us all breakfast of scrambled eggs with onion and tomato,  all packed into a nice fresh whole grain roll. Washed down with a couple of cups of fresh coffee it hit the spot a treat! We rode together into the city, they to check on their chains and sprockets which were on order at a local bike dealer; I to find an ATM, and pick up a few supplies to see me through the next couple of days. We rendezvoused at Timmy’s for a final cup of coffee and to make full use of their free internet access. I was worried about my computer as I had failed to get it to charge at all yesterday despite trying it from my bike, from the site coffee shop and even scrounging a different lead from one of the girls; but no it simply didn't want know. However this morning, plugged into one of Timmy’s many sockets, lo and behold

It started charging straight away. It was however painfully slow, probably due the the fact that the place was packed with every man and his dog frantically tapping away at their many and various devices. So it was a quick upload of pure text, the piccys will have to come later.

I said goodbye somewhat sadly as I had really enjoyed their company and the friendship they have shown me over the last few days. We have laughed a lot, talked a lot and, well, it must be said, drunk a lot together and I've enjoyed every second of their company. However like most such meeting on the road, we have to move on, although it is quite possible that me may well meet up again as we are all heading in the same general direction for the moment.

I left rode back past the Robert Service Camp Ground for the last time as I headed east to pick up the Alaska Highway once more which I follow for the first 240 miles down to Watson lake, where I camped on the way up. Then I'm heading for the Liard Hot Springs. It wasn't on my itinerary,  but having been told by many that it is a must do had more or less convinced me, now with the chance of just possible bumping into Jim and Caroline one more time, it’s a must. From there I back track a little again to take the Cassiar Highway south to Hyder, where hopefully I’ll catch a glimpse of the bears fishing in the river for salmon…     

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. 

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!

Honest Guv, It's the voices made me do it!

From Whitehorse it was just over 100 km to Haines Junction where I decided to warm up with a coffee. The temperature was hovering around 12c, by far the coldest I had ridden in for a while. As I entered the small cafe attached to a motel there were only two other customers in there, a man with his elderly mother who were returning from a trip to the southern US to their home in Anchorage in a huge 5^th wheel RV. We chatted for a while about places to go and to see in and around Anchorage and of course where I had come from; his family were from Northampton originally. Coffee (and another muffin!) finished I headed for the restroom before settling my bill and getting back on the road. When I returned the couple had left and when I asked for my bill I was told that the man had already paid it! I hustled out to the car park and just managed to catch them and say thanks before they headed off. I could write a book just about the random acts of kindness I have received on this trip. Funny really as before I left I kept getting dire warnings saying never mind the bears, watch out for the people! Another urban myth goes pop!

I pushed on towards Fairbanks although reckoning that I would only get as far as Tok, somewhat over half way. In fact I didn't even get that far. The weather had stayed fairly grey and cold although I kept seeing tracts of tantalising blue skies ahead of me but never managed to catch them. All morning I had been riding along a wide vally between two mountain ranges. To my right was the Nisling range, whilst on my left were the St Elias Mountains backed by the… wait for it… Robinson Range! No seriously, I’m not making it up. And smack in the middle of it all was Canada’s highest mountain, Mt Logan at 5950m. I’m running out of superlatives on this trip, and I've a long way to go yet! Whilst I had been riding under a predominantly grey sky, the blue bit I mentioned earlier seemed to sit on top of the highest mountains with little fluffy white bits which I was never sure whether they were cloud or snow. It was simply sensationally, stunning, awesome…. Just keep added your own to taste as I don’t have my Thesaurus with my and I've run out. Anyway it was a fabulous ride

Arriving at Kluane Lake I spotted a sign for flights in ski plane over the Kluane Glacier and Icefields, I hesitated for a split second and rode on after all I was running to a very tight budget. The road ran right alongside the lake which was that wondrous turquoise colour that I'm beginning to get used to. It's caused by the sun reflecting (refracting?) from the silt being washed down from the Icefields  A mile or two later I spotted the tiny plane skimming over the lake, heading for touchdown at the airstrip. Before I knew what was happening, I had swung the bike around in a u-turn and was chasing the plane back to base. Working on my usual cock-eyed logic, I reckoned I might never be coming here again and how much could a short hop up to glacier and back be anyway? I set myself a maximum of $100  about (£50) for a 20 to 30  minute flight, although never having done such a trip before I really didn't have a Scooby! At the airfield, I rode across the landing strip and parked amongst the few vehicles already there. It was also a research station so most of the cars belonged to the scientists. I walked across to the tiny shed that served as an office and met Tom the pilot who was also receptionist, chief cook and bottle washer and I suspect only employee (boss) of the company!  He was just briefing two other prospective clients and told us that the flight was approx 1 hour ( bang goes my budget thought I) and we would get right up over the Glacier and the Icefields as well as seeing Mt Logan if weather permitted. The cost was a budget busting $225! It took less time than my u-turn before I heard a voice coming from my lips saying “Great, let’s go”… Yet again, I have to confess, it was the voices made me do it! 

Along with Danielle and Michel, two Quebecquois, I clambered into the tiny plane, by far the tiniest I have ever been in, with just four small seats. We bumped along the dirt runway before Tom swung the plane around ready for take off. I was stunned by the seemingly slow speed at which we left the ground, I'm sure even The Beast could have kept up with Tom’s little plane, but soon we were climbing up over the lake, being buffeted by the winds coming down from the mountains and the cold air from the glacier. Tom kept up a commentary of what we were seeing. His main job other than taking tourists site-seeing was ferrying scientists up onto the Icefields and taking skiers to the mountains in the winter, both of which involved landing on the snow and usually having to dig the plane out and building a snow ramp before t could take off again! Today, thankfully (?) we would not be landing as the snow was far too soft. It was obvious that from his work with the scientists Ton had acquired a wealth on knowledge about both the mountains and the Icefield system. I really don’t know how the flight could have been any better. Even the weather was on our side, as we rounded the corner of one mountain Tom exclaimed at just how clear the weather was. Apparently on his previous flight, just an hour earlier, it had been raining heavily at that point and was not possible to get up close to Mt Logan. This time around it was perfect.

I must have taken at least 2 to 300 photographs as well as shooting some video on my little Garmin Virb.. Yes, it was way above what I should have spent, but in terms of value for money I really could fault it. Tom’s love of flying and of the mountains was very evident in his commentary, general observations and conversation; he really made it all come alive. Whilst we were still way out by Mt Logan he announced with a laugh that we were due back in three minutes… I hoped that didn't mean he was literally dropping us there in the snow to walk back! But then I remembered that I hadn't paid him yet… In fact our hour stretched to about 90 minutes. It’s certainly one part of the trip that I’ll never forget, with Tom expertly threading the little plane through what appeared to be impossibly narrow gaps in the peaks and taking us close enough to the hillsides so that we could clearly identify the unusual breed of sheep that inhabit them and try to spot other wildlife such as bears, Caribou and Moose. Yes it was worth every last buck!

With my feet back on Terra Firma once more I rode once more along the lake shore and carried on for Tok and the Alaska border still stopping at far too regular intervals to take photographs including one of this most unusual memorial which as you might imagine caught my eye and my attention

As I crossed back into the USA and Alaska I met a couple of Harley riders who gave me the good news that they had had rain all the way from Fairbanks; Oh joy! Of course a couple of minutes later it started to gently rain adding to the cold air through which I was already riding. I could still see the tantalising blue skies ahead though and I though I would try to catch them up before camping for the night. As if by magic, just as I spotted a camp ground the rain stopped. It really hadn’t been much anyway. To round off my day nicely, the camp ground was free, the sun came out just as I unpacked my tent and when I wandered down to the ominously named Deadman’s Lake  I spent a wonderful hour watching a couple of beavers swimming around the end of the pontoon on which I was standing! A perfect end to a perfect day.

Skagway

After a peaceful night without a single interruption from the bears, or from anything else for that matter, I packed up and headed back into the town of Skagway, but I had a small problem! I’d awoken refreshed and without even the hint of back pain that I usually have until I’ve done a few stretches. So of course I didn’t get around to doing those stretches. I had a nice icy cold shower under a tree as I often do when there are no facilities on site. Then whilst preparing my breakfast tea and pancakes my back just went rigid; a spasm such as I haven’t had for many years and in those days of course I had Allie to sort it out for me, this time I was on my own. The packing was a slow and rather painful event; I felt about 90! Amazingly once on the bike and moving it was OK, although shoulder checks were a bit of a challenge. As there was precious little traffic around that shouldn't be an issue. By the time I had ridden the 9 miles of dirt road back to Skagway it had eased slightly so I parked up and had a wander.

Skagway is a delightful little town, founded in the days of the Klondike Gold Rush, with some of the original buildings still preserved and new ones being in a suitable matching style. I gave the town a definite feel of a frontier town… well apart from the cruise liner parked at the end of the main street and the hundreds of passengers milling around. Oh Well you can’t everything. To be fair, it was at least hundreds rather than thousands of passengers as one gets with the larger boats which totally overwhelms the smaller ports at which they call. The town even had a small theatre with three showings a day of an old time historic play about the town advertised by a couple in full traditional western dress stood by the entrance and a scantily clad young lady hanging out of an upstairs window with one stockinged leg cheekily cocked through the window; I reluctantly passed! I tried to buy a sticker for my panniers saying “Skagway” but boy, did I have to hunt for it. Someone is definitely missing a business opportunity there. I eventually tracked one down and it now lives happily on my pannier.

Returning to my the bike I had something of a crown around it and spent the next hour talking to people about my trip and of course about Sam, which was what stopped them in the first place. Then just as I though I’d make my getaway along comes Ron! Ron gives his address on his card as S/V Ferrous, Portsmouth New Hampshire, USA, as he has spent a good few years sailing around various parts of the world on said boat.However, he had just arrived in Skagway having Kayaked up from Vancouver. Have a look at a map because that is one hell of a paddle! Previously he had kayaked the entire length of the Yukon river and cycled right over the Alaska Highway from God knows where and then around Alaska; and you though my tripm was tough… I’m just a beginner! Eventually I tore myself away and hit the road that I had arrived on back to Whitehorse but with many, many more photo stops on the way up.  

Whereas on the way down to Skagway I had turned off just before the town this time I headed for the centre. It was pleasant enough, but really just another clone town with the same old, same old… I’m sure you get the picture. It’s quite frightening in a way as the UK seems very much to be following the North American trend of moving all the stores out of the town centres, which of course leaves nothing but coffee shops and hotel in them, so absolutely nothing of interest to stop for. I did find the SS Klondike, a stern wheeler which used to ply these treacherous waters right up until 1957 But other than that and a canoe hire place which in view of my back troubles, I felt it prudent to give a wide berth to, there was little of note, so I beat a retreat to a camp ground I had spotted on the way in just on the edge of town. Roberts Services was a slightly unusual camp ground as it appeared to cater predominantly for backpackers and hippies… I fitted in just fine!  They also had really good very hot showers which sorted my back out nicely, and sold great muffins and coffee at silly cheap prices, so guess what I had for breakfast next morning. Oh, and the staff were wonderful too.

 Next morning it was back to the Alaska Highway heading further north. I was once more in Yukon as whilst Skagway itself is in Alaska, most of the rest of it’s peninsular is in Yukon. It get very confusing as not only do you seem to pop back and forth from US to Canada, you also keep changing time zones by an hour! My ultimate destination was still Fairbanks but as that was still over a 1000 km north it wasn't going to happen in a day and as it turned out I didn't even get close!

OK, I got it wrong !!!

I have a confession to make… I got it wrong! Having now ridden a little over 1000 Kms of the Alaska Highway, I can assure you that it is indeed one of the World’s Greatest Motorcycle Rides. Certainly the first few hundred Kms were fairly straight and flat with a little too much traffic for my liking, but as the ride unfolds…Wow! It twists and turns and climbs and dips through hills and valleys, over mountains and across streams. There is enough scenery for even the most jaded of travellers to overload on; and I'm not halfway through it yet!!! Last night I camped on a completely deserted camp ground about 7.5 km west of Watson Lake and I slept like the proverbial log. I've had two fairly tough, long days on the road. 

The first involving a run of over 540 miles whilst yesterday I stopped to help a couple of fellow bikers one of whom, Mark, had suffered a second front wheel puncture. Whilst they had most of the things they need to fix it, the power socket on Mark’s BMW 800GS had stopped working, probably just a blown fuse, but try as we might we couldn’t find the little bugger, and the handbook was, of course, no help at all. Then his pump decided to overheat, so my trusty Slime pump got dug out from it’s hole in the tank and they were soon on their way once more. All in all it had cost me about 2 hours and so there was no chance I would make it all the way to Whitehorse, my initial destination. But hey, I made it into the Yukon so I'm quite happy with that. A quick stop at a supermarket in Watson Creek and a walk around the slightly bizarre Signpost Forest ,where of course I had to add a “Sam” sign, and off to camp. The RV site on the edge of town was full to bursting so I didn’t even bother to try getting a pitch. I’d been told at the supermarket that there was another camp ground a few clicks out of town so that’s where I headed. And what a result; my first completely empty site since Cape Breton. No little envelopes to fill in and put money in, nobody had been around to collect and not even a notice to give the fees payable. I’ll be back on the road by 8am and with Whitehorse now a little over 400 km away, I should hopefully make it by tonight…  

What a ride; Sensory overload by the bucketful! I thought the Alaska highway was great, but as I’d got to Whitehorse by just after lunch, I turned left just before the town and headed down to Skagway on the coast, which is the Klondike Highway, and takes you right through the mountains, finally dropping over 3000ft in just a few miles, but without a hairpin bend in sight! The 80 odd mile ride took me about 4 hours to complete as I kept stopping to take photos. Then no sooner did I get going and another fantastic scene popped into view; that overused Americanism, awesome

Is the only way I can describe it.

Weather wise it’s been a bit of a mixture with the temperature well down on recent days which may, hopefully, give the guys fighting the huge number of forest fire a little bit of respite. It even rained at one point, starting with a few spots, then as soon as I got my waterproofs on it stopped. A few miles later the heavens really opened and it lasted for at least…….. two minutes! A few more bursts of very light showers and it was all over. I took advantage of having to take my jacket off by stopping for coffee. To be more accurate I’d spotted a sign advertising “home made buns”! It could only mean Cinnamon buns, and I love them. They did nor disappoint, in fact I nearly bought a second to take away with me but somehow resisted the temptation; how good am I?

It’s been a bit of a strange ride in another way too. I seem to have been hopping in and out of Yukon and BC all day, even though I’ve been on the same road, and I've finally ended up in Alaska with the US customs being about 2 miles before you enter Skagway. Apparently the actual border is at the top of the pass about 27 km back but it’s too cold up there for the poor US customs men so you end up crossing a sort of huge no-man’s land; by far the longest I've ever found between customs points and that include the minefield between Western Sahara and Mauritania!

Dougie & Judith

As I pulled in to refuel between Whitehorse and Skagway there was a bike at the pumps with BC number plate but sporting a Scotland sticker. Dougie had bought the bike unseen on line, although he had enlisted the help of a member of the Horizons Unlimited forum to give it a once over for him. Then he and his wife had flown into Vancouver, picked up said machine (a Suzuki Varadaro) and set off for a 5 week tour of Canada and Alaska. They had even been a part of the way up the Dalton Highway towards Pruhdo Bay, but had been hit by bad weather and turned around… I listened intently as that is where I’ll be heading in a couple of days time! Whilst I don’t have a pillion, as I’m camping against their motels, I’m carrying a lot more kit which probably weighs as much if not more than Dougie’s wife!

The end of the Yukon River means I've reached the West Coast!

So here I am camped just outside Skagway and I can now say that I have officially ridden from coast to coast… OK, I know it’s not quite as far west as you can get, but it’s certainly on the west coast and in Alaska. The campsite was a lucky find in that I was trying to find someone to book me into an horrific, overcrowded RV site in the middle of Skagway when I bumped into a guy coming out of the showers who told me about this place. It roughly 9 miles from town, 5 of which are along a dirt road which as long as it doesn’t pour with rain tonight, is an easy ride. It might just get a bit slick with a lot of water on it… 

Oh! And there have been a few bear sightings on this camp ground over the last few days, well to be exact, the last one was… earlier today! And on that happy note I'm off to bed. I'm already sat in the tent away from the Mosis which get a bit hungry late in the evening. The funny thing is that I seem to get up before them! I've usually breakfasted and almost packed before they start to become a real nuisance.

I don’t think I’ll get much further than Whitehorse tomorrow as Skagway looks to be an interesting old town, so I’ll probably spend most of the morning there before heading back the way I came down; unless of course I find something else of interest to keep me here, in which case… I’ll be back! Oh, and Whitehorse has a Tim Hoton’s coffee shop with WiFi so I might just be able to get this posted on the blog.

And two for Diane...

Alaskan Fireweed. It's everywhere and so called as it is the first to reappear after a forest fire!

One of the many Floral Displays in Skagway