Fortunately, Doug was at his desk and answered right away. I explained to him that I'd dropped the bike a couple days earlier, was all right, but needed some parts and pieces and would he notify the COG list to see if I could beg, borrow, rent, or steal the needed parts to get everything back in smooth running order. Because even though all was firmly attached to the bike again, it took nearly five minutes to get something out of the right side bag, and even longer to get it all fastened back together again. Not something I wanted to deal with for the next four weeks and 14,000 miles. During the phone call I also mentioned the fact that I'd come around 900 miles since 12:30 the afternoon before, and ridden through some temperatures as low as -15°F. It wasn't my intention to make a big thing of it, I just found it interesting in that I hadn't really expected to do either of those things. Doug asked if I minded him passing that information along to both the COG list and the LDRiders lists, and I gave my assent. Didn't realize what a tempest in a teapot would result from those tidbits. Man, did I get a hard time from my fellow riders. In short order I became "Crash" Gustafson. Oh well, I've been called worse.
Gassing up after breakfast, I learned that the Hart Highway toward Prince George was reported to have black ice not far out of town. There was a thick fog bank lying in a low area just west of Dawson Creek, so I stopped at a pullout short of it and put the bike on the sidestand. Sitting there with my back warmed by the sun that had barely risen above the horizon, and my vest turned down as low as it would go, I felt relaxed and at peace with the world. It wouldn't have taken much to have dozed for a bit, but it was necessary to see what else the highway held in store for me, and there was a desire to get on down the road. After about 30 minutes the fog seemed to have lifted, and I figured I'd be able to see the ice, if any was still on the road. By now the temperature had risen to about 15 above and it was looking to be another beautiful day for riding.
From Dawson Creek it's a short 44 miles over to the tiny community of East Pine, and its twisty little river crossing, then another 20 miles on to Chetwynd. The latter town was still in winter hibernation when I passed through, and it paid no more attention to me than I to it.
The 250 miles from Dawson Creek to Prince George takes the traveler through grain fields and next to pine-covered mountains as it follows the valley of the Pine River; then over Pine Summit, around lakes, through what looks to be some great fishing country, and past many more miles of forest. It's a beautiful ride, even when the weather's a little chilly. But once again I found myself surrounded by the monotony of the white topography. Yep, it was time to find a place with some varied colors in the landscape, and I didn't plan on stopping until I got there.
Encountering a brief snow squall through Pine Pass, the temperatures started climbing in earnest as I descended toward Prince George. Once down off the summit, the elevation varies less than 100 feet until the final drop down into the Fraser River valley, and that was where the temperature finally got comfortably above freezing. It sure felt good! Riding through downtown Prince George, I realized that it had been just 24 hours since breakfast and starting south from Whitehorse the previous day. Noting the mileage, later calculations showed the distance to be 1134 miles. Once more a Saddlesore, had I just bothered to document it. However, this ride wasn't to get certificates, just to get to the destination, so that was merely a serendipitous occurrence.
Here in Prince George the piles of snow revealing themselves here and there between buildings offered mute testimony that spring was still a few weeks away this far north, and there was an all-too-real chance that I could wake up tomorrow to six inches or more of snow, so southward I continued.
Stopping at Hixon around 1:30 PM, the windshield was dampened with the beginnings of a soft rain as I gassed up. Talking with the clerk in the little convenience store, she told me that just a couple days earlier the area had been blanketed by a heavy snowfall. Just what I needed to hear to cement my resolve. Being somewhat familiar with the route after over 40 years of travel up and down the Fraser River valley, I knew that the one place to be sure of finding dry, bare ground tomorrow morning was the junction town of Cache Creek, which is surrounded by desert. My destination was established, and at 6:15 PM I checked into a motel in that small community, safely assured that I had seen the last of stark white scenery for a while. Total distance from Whitehorse: 1428 cool, white, but fun, miles. Had I ridden another 72 miles, it could have been a Bun Burner. No matter, I was stopping right here, where there was no snow to be seen in any direction.
Wednesday, April 10, 2002 Cache Creek, B.C., Canada
Wednesday morning found me up and feeling bright and frisky by 7:00 AM. After a meager breakfast that left me looking longingly at the closed fruit stands along the next 30 miles of highway, I was packed and ready to head south, then west. First though, I needed to notify my insurance carrier and get the ball rolling to accomplish repairs on the bike when I got back home. A little after 10:00 AM that had been taken care of, and travel could begin again. As I pulled out of Cache Creek after fueling up, there were clouds over the mountains ahead, but nothing detracted from the awesome scenery of the Thompson and Fraser River canyons that morning.
Those of us fortunate enough to have traveled these miles can only make an attempt, with words and photos, to describe the natural beauty. If you ever get the chance, spend some time in southern B.C. and over along the Alberta border in the Canadian Rockies. Sorry, but the Colorado Rockies pale in comparison.
The temperature was in the low sixties now, so the snowmobile suit was bungeed onto the Givi top case and I was once again able to wear the Roadcrafter. This left me feeling much more protected as I twisted and turned along the canyon wall above the roily Fraser River.
Coming into Hope, a slight sprinkle dampened the pavement and lent a pleasant freshness to the air. Even though I've traveled this route since 1962, I never tire of seeing this part of Canada. Outside of Hope, Trans-Canada 1, which I'd been on since leaving Cache Creek, becomes a four-lane divided highway, just like an interstate down in the U. S. Nonetheless, it remains a scenic byway as it runs along the base of the mountains that stretch from here south across the international border into Washington State. This is the kind of riding I never tire of.
Before long, it's through U. S. customs at Sumas, Washington, then a stop on a side road to make a few phone calls now that cell phone reception is good again. While arriving in the Seattle area later than I'd planned and hoped, it's still early enough to swing by Ron's house in Bothell to tighten up loose bolts and nuts, and begin repairing some of the damage from the fall up in the Yukon. Ron, gracious host as always, drove me around to pick up some extra nylon screws for the windshield, and helped me with the repairs that would get me down to Bend, Oregon, where a few replacement parts were already waiting. He also came up with some 3M super adhesive foam that we used to remount my Saeng mirrors to the windshield. It held up fine for the rest of the trip.
With Ron's able assistance, we also discovered that the right hand driving light had only separated into several pieces, but had not broken. Reconnecting the wires to the bulb and back of the light, and fitting the lens/reflector unit back into the somewhat flexible housing, the light was functioning once more. Just to be on the safe side, however, we applied a full band of clear packaging tape around the whole assembly. Later, while riding at night, I would be very glad to have both of the Hella's adding their illumination to that of the single headlight.
While at Ron's, Russ Pagenkopf from Juneau, Alaska, who would be my riding partner for this little tour, showed up on his Honda 750 Nighthawk. As an employee of Alaska Airlines, he had taken advantage of one of the perks of his employment and shipped his bike south to Seattle and flown down himself to begin the Four Corners Tour at nearby Blaine, Washington. After picking the bike up at the Alaska Airlines cargo facility, he'd ridden up to Everett Powersports to have new tires mounted and the bike serviced. He and his bike were now ready for the long journey.
Our plan at this point was to overnight at Blaine and then, after an early morning departure from that beginning point, meet Ron north of Seattle and ride together to the Washington coast for a lunch of fresh oysters. We retired to Café Veloce to discuss the finer points of our plan over a delightful meal, after which Russ and I headed north through the gentle Northwest rain to Blaine for a good night's rest.
Thursday, April 11, 2002 Blaine, Washington
Typical of this part of the country, adjacent to the Strait of Georgia, which separates Vancouver Island from mainland British Columbia, there was a gentle rain softly falling as we mounted our bikes and headed for the Denny's that we'd passed on the way into Blaine the previous night. Then back to the motel to finish packing, ride a couple blocks to the Blaine Post Office for our official photos, gas up, and away we go.
It was a pleasant morning in spite of the drizzle, and even that soon dried up so we could ride comfortably and without having to wipe moisture off our faceshields every few minutes. Traffic was moving at a reasonably rapid pace, and Russ and I were out in the hammer lane next to the median keeping our own pace rather brisk. Suddenly, there was a cloud of steam behind my windshield. The immediate thought was that I'd hit a larger puddle and the water vaporized when it hit my exhaust pipes. The smell of anti-freeze that followed on its heels quickly laid that wishful thinking to rest. Pull in the clutch, hit the kill button and the four-way flashers at the same time, and quickly get as far to the left as the guardrail will allow while slowing to a stop. For the second time on this trip I'm thinking "This can't be happening".
But it was. After parking the bike on its sidestand, we looked back down the highway we had just covered, and the telltale stream of coolant was proof that the ride was on hold until some repairs were made.
