From then on, it became a case of "sit there, twist that". The fuel cell
was a blessing, as I was able to concentrate on making time without having to plan my fuel stops for stations
that would be open. As I cruised south of Whitehorse, I was once again impressed with the improvements in
the Alcan over the past 10 years. While the pavement suffers the normal seasonal damage from frost heaving,
it still is in very good condition compared to what I find in many parts of my home state. In seemingly no
time at all I'm approaching the small, lakeside village of Teslin. Crossing the Nisutlin River Bridge at the
south boundary of Teslin, I was reminded why steel grate bridge decks are unpopular with motorcyclists. This
is the longest such span on the Alcan, and I was glad to now have it behind me. Farther south, Rancheria was
still closed as I rode by, but it looked as though someone had started to plow the deep snow out of the
driveway. Maybe it would be open when I came back through later, headed north. Then it was Watson Lake,
274 miles from breakfast (and also the warmest temperature I saw that day at +33° F), and next fuel for bike
and rider at Liard Hot Springs, so I'd be able to make Fort Nelson in case everything between the two was
closed down when I went through.
A few miles north of Liard Hot Springs, I started noticing an abundance of hoof prints in the snow
along the shoulders, and a general destruction of the nearby flora. It was obvious that a good-sized herd
of bison had been in the area recently. Caused me to be extra diligent in my roadside scan. When Trapper
Ray's lodge showed up alongside the highway, it was a welcome sight.
While I was eating at Liard, a young trucker mentioned that the highway had been nearly impassable from Fort
St. John to Pink Mountain when he'd come through the morning before, and it had continued snowing heavily
for most of the day, from what he'd heard later. He asked me how far I was intending to go that night, and
I answered that I didn't intend stopping before Dawson Creek (still another 478 miles to the south) if I
could get through. Once again I got that look that said "You ain't the sharpest knife in the drawer, are
you buddy?" With his warning in mind, I figured I'd best hit the road and see what it looked like from the
seat of a Concours. After Liard Hot Springs it's 195 miles to Fort Nelson. Fortunately, most of the bison
were in the area just before I'd gotten to Liard, and I'd only have to watch for moose, elk, caribou, sheep
and deer for the rest of the ride.
While the highway was, for the most part, clear and dry, parking lots and
gas stations were not. Up here in the semi-wilderness a gas station might consist of nothing more than a
small cabin with one, two, or three pumps out front. No paved apron, no canopy overhead. And after a
winter's worth of snowfall being packed down, then warmed by the springtime sun during the day and refrozen
each night, they become two to six inches of rutted, pot-holed ice, that's a real challenge when you're on
a bike. Having been down once, I felt no compulsion to show off my dubious riding skills, and paddled the
bike up to the pump at nearly every stop. Another reason to be glad I had the auxiliary fuel cell, as it
meant fewer such stops to contend with. Now, with it being the time to travel again, by carefully
maneuvering the Concours from its parking spot in front of the lodge, we got back onto the pavement and
headed southeast once more.
Shortly after pulling out from Trapper Ray's at Liard, the sun dropped over
the mountains and it began to get dark. As it was a crystal clear night, I knew it would be getting pretty
chilly. Parking briefly in a gravel pullout, I donned my Widder vest with arm chaps, put on the Widder
gloves and plugged them in, and prepared for night. As the temperature was still ten degrees or so above
zero (F), I didn't think I would need the leg chaps or my balaclava. After all, I was heading south, where
it would be warmer. Right!
Something that had never occurred to me while I was packing my gear, nor
had it while the sun was up and the temperatures were hovering just below the freezing point, was that the
freezable liquids in my luggage could do just that - turn to solids! The realization came to me after the
sun had gone down and the temperature started dropping. Too late now to do anything about it, just have to
hope things didn't break, although all liquid containers in my luggage are, themselves, packed in turn
within zip-lock bags - just in case.
The Alcan winds, twists, and turns, plays roller coaster for a while, and
then teases you with a few miles of straight or gently curving, beautiful pavement for a while before it
takes you back in time to the twisting, turning, rolling highway it started as some 60 years ago. It won't
let you get bored. As I continued along I mentally tracked my progress, comparing what I was seeing with
that which I had seen before. You can travel the Alcan week after week, the year around, and it will never
appear the same twice. So it became a game to try and recall exactly what this or that spot had looked like
in past trips, and what would be coming up next. This sort of mental activity I find helps to keep me alert,
and I definitely didn't want to succumb to inattentiveness this night.
Even so, a little later in the evening I was surprised to find myself
almost at the top of Steamboat hill before I was aware of it. Twenty years ago there would have been no
mistaking the location due to its sharp turns and steep grades, but now it had been tamed to just another
climb and descent.
Interrupting the solitude of that wilderness highway are places like Muncho
Lake, with its assortment of lodges, many still shut down for the winter when I rode through, then Toad River
with its abundant elk in the neighborhood, Summit (the highest point on the Alcan at 4250 feet elevation),
Steamboat, and finally Fort Nelson. Arriving at my usual fueling stop, the Blue Bell Inn, restaurant, gas
station, laundromat, convenience store, etc., I got fueled up just before they closed at midnight. Going
inside to pay and grab some snacks in case I had to spend the night alongside the road, the attendant
volunteered that I was the first motorcyclist through this year. Guess I could understand that, as most
have better sense than I was displaying. Having no reason to stick around, and the only cold parts on my
body being my feet, it was on down the road again.
Tuesday, April 9, 2002 Alaska Highway, just south of Fort Nelson, B.C., Canada
Fort Nelson is only 283 miles from Dawson Creek, and Fort St. John is 47
miles closer than Dawson Creek. But, that 283 miles can seem pretty far at times, and this night was one
of those times. My feet were the only parts of my body that were feeling really cold so far, but living
here in Alaska, I'm no stranger to cold tootsies. On occasion I would wiggle my toes to make certain I
still had feeling in them, and then grin and bear it. And grin I did. Despite the less than perfect
motorcycling conditions, I was having fun. The thought that I could stop and don the Widder leg chaps to
help keep my lower extremities warmer came to me, but the realization that I'd have to strip down to my LD
Comfort undershorts to accomplish that feat dissuaded me. I knew I could stop, get off, and walk around
for a bit to thaw out if it became necessary.
In addition to watching for animals that fully expected to have the night
to themselves, there was the need to be especially careful on every curve, REALLY careful on curves on hills,
because of all the sand that had been spread over the recent snowfalls and ice. That concern kept forward
progress to less than the desired quantity.
Being that I was down to one driving light, I aimed that one right down the
center of the road so it would reach out a little past the high beam. It still helped considerably.
Having but one driving light was proving to be a blessing also, in a way. Using 55 watts less than my first
night on the road, I was able to turn my heated clothing up higher without overtaxing the alternator - to a
point. Four hundred watts can be spread only so thin. Keeping an eye on the voltmeter's glowing little red
eye, it became apparent that to keep the electrical system happy, the engine needed to be spinning at around
4,000 rpm or more. This meant dropping occasionally down to fifth gear, and a few times to fourth, or even
third. But that was a better choice than keeping the bike's speed up, as falling again was not considered
an option, especially under these conditions on this lonely stretch of road.
As I rode, I kept an eye on the thermometer, glowing there on the shelf as
though daring me to continue in the face of its declining readings. And while I rode, I made comparisons
with the temperatures I'd just ridden in back in Alaska, where the lowest reading I saw was 3°F above. Now
I was watching the numbers drop that low again… then even lower. The appearance of the zero was momentous,
then it rose, along with the elevation, to a few degrees above, only to descend further as the road dropped
into a temperature inversion. Down to -9°F, now back up to +12°F, then down once more to minus 9°F and up...
no, down even farther, this time to -11°F. For miles it went that way, up and down, up and down.
As anyone who has done much riding on a motorcycle can attest, even a
one-degree change is immediately noticeable. Thus I was able to determine that my little digital
thermometer had about an eight second lag time before displaying the drop or rise in temperature that I was
able to immediately sense as I passed through it. Crossing the Buckinghorse River at MP 173 I felt the most
severe drop in temperature that I'd experienced so far. Sure enough, the numbers soon indicated -15° F. In
a mile or so the road climbed out of the valley and the temperature climbed back up to near zero. But my
elation was short lived, as the drop into the channel of the Beatton River followed in about half an hour.
This time I saw the -15°F displayed even before the bridge, and just as I was crossing it, felt a sharp drop
in the temperature. My estimate was that it dropped another 3 degrees before the thermometer could react and,
thankfully, the road started climbing right away so the coldest spot was left behind in short order.
Just after crossing Beatton River, Mae's Kitchen appears on the east side
of the highway, and I couldn't help glancing over to see if there was any sign of life. At this point it
wouldn't have taken much to lure me into a warm room and a comfortable bed. In the past I've noted that my
metabolism slows down around 0'dark-thirty and I become more susceptible to the cold, so I was starting to
feel the effects of the cool night air. I'll be the first to admit that I would have preferred the
temperature to be 20 degrees warmer, but at least I was riding after 5 months of enforced idleness, and life
was good.
Between Fort Nelson and Fort St. John, a distance of some 240 miles, I met
fewer than 10 vehicles, nearly all of them semi's; tankers hauling fuel north from the refineries further
south. As a form of entertainment, I imagined the thoughts going through the minds of the drivers as they
met this two-wheeled anomaly appearing out of the dark, cold night. Things like "What the ___ is that fool
doing out there on a motorcycle?", or "That guy must be a total idiot, doesn't he know it's 20 below [°C] and
there's ice on the road up ahead?", and other such laudatory comments. Late at night, on a long, empty road
like that, I'm easily entertained.
Next was the climb up to the top of the hill at Pink Mountain, and to find
what had happened to all the snow that fell the previous day. As I passed the entrances to the two lodges
on opposite sides of the highway, I could see the remnants of a heavy snowfall, and there was still a bumpy
coating of thick, well-sanded ice all across the road. Tiptoeing through this at a much reduced pace, I was
glad to see that the south-facing pavement on the other side had received the benefit of a sunlit day, and
only slowed for a short distance to be sure there was no black ice hiding under the cover of darkness. From
that point on, it was back to sit there, twist that, while keeping a sharp eye out for four-legged roadblocks.
Onowon came into view, and I slowed once more, looking longingly at the
buildings, which I knew were warm and cozy inside, but by this time Dawson Creek was less than two hours
distant, and the breakfast that I was planning to enjoy there provided a greater incentive than the
interior of a motel. Besides, it was ridiculous to succumb to the temptation of creature comfort at this
stage of the ride.
Rolling into Fort St. John, I felt a little conspicuous in the sparse 4:30
AM traffic. Had it been summer, I could have ridden along with a big sign reading "I am an idiot" and felt
the same way. Before long I was back up to speed on the highway to Dawson Creek and, I hoped, a hot
breakfast.
If we ride much, we sooner or later get to enjoy the carnival-ride
experience of crossing a metal grate bridge deck. With good tires and a halfway decent suspension there's
no problem with such a surface. Add a little rain, and it might get a bit more interesting. Throw in a
cross wind and the pucker factor can increase proportional to the strength of the crosswind. Now picture
this one - a long, curving metal grate bridge deck, over the open Peace River with vapor rising off its
surface, temperature about -5°F, at O'dark thirty. Needless to say, I took it cautiously, and breathed a
little easier when I got back on sanded pavement on the other side, glad that the lights of Taylor, B.C.
were disappearing in my rear view mirrors.
It was still 5 below when I got to the north side of Dawson Creek at
5:30 AM, and it didn't take long to find an open restaurant. Carefully turning around in the ice-covered
parking lot, I parked near the door and went inside. By now I was accustomed to the strange looks, and
besides, I didn't care. It was warm in here, and my feet were happy with that situation. Choosing a seat
near the door and a little away from the main group of breakfast diners, I started stripping down to the
essentials. My Widder gloves to the right, helmet to the left, jacket on the back of a nearby chair,
glasses on the table out of the way. I watched in amazement as the glasses not only steamed up - they were
soon covered with white frost, as was the faceshield and the outer surface of my helmet.