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Observations: The Alcan
On my first ever drive up the Alcan (officially, the Alaska Highway) it was
very much a wilderness drive over a definitely wilderness highway. It was January 1962 and, returning
from a 30-day military leave to Fort Richardson just outside Anchorage, I found a brand new compact Mercury
two-door in Detroit that needed to be delivered to the Avis car rental franchisee in Anchorage. Picked
up the car in Detroit on January 2nd, with 26 miles on the odometer (I still have the log of that trip).
I was allowed 4000 miles for the drive, but as I wanted to swing out through Seattle to pay a visit to some
friends there, I disconnected the speedo cable in Minnesota and gave the car an extra 2000 break-in miles,
at no extra charge. Rather generous of me, in my unsolicited opinion.
Roads I hardly recognize these days for all the population growth, were gravel
and lonely 40 years ago. The afternoon and evening before I arrived at Dawson Creek and the beginning
of the Alcan, I spent driving through the worst snowstorm I have ever been in (and I've seen a quite few in
my time). No snow tires or tire chains to be had in the diminutive 13" tire size that was just
becoming available on American cars. Fortunately, the car didn't have enough power to spin the tires,
so it just kept going. By the time I got to Prince George, all the other traffic going my direction
had pulled off at hotels and motels to escape the terrible driving conditions, save one traveling salesman
from Vanderhoof, and a fellow in a Mercedes sedan. We'd been keeping each other company for over a
hundred miles by then.
Later that night, sleeping in the passenger seat alongside the Hart Hwy.,
nestled down in my sleeping bag, it dropped to -42°. When I turned the radio on the next morning a
little before dawn, the only station coming in was KXEL in Waterloo, Iowa with its country music (we called
it hillbilly back then) disc jockey. When I heard it, I remembered my uncle, living on his ranch
farther west in B.C., telling that they listened to that station more than any of their local ones.
Back then the Hart Hwy. was all gravel, and there was virtually no traffic
on it that time of year. A cow moose was trotting up the road ahead of me at one point, and I guess
I was "herding" her a little too closely, as she suddenly skidded to a stop, and turned to come directly
at me. Visions of moose hooves thundering down all over that little car had me wishing I'd been
more patient. But she veered to one side, and passed within inches of the side of the car as she
strode defiantly back whence she came. When I started breathing again, I proceeded toward Dawson
Creek, in less of a hurry.
Leaving Dawson Creek, I had noticed literally hundreds of snowshoe hare
carcasses flattened all over the highway for miles. Thought it very strange, and read in the Alaska
Sportsman magazine some months later that it was due to the hare population being at its peak that year,
causing that particular phenomena to occur. Never seen anything like it since, anywhere.
In the ensuing years, the Alcan has been tamed to a large degree. Trutch
Mt. has been bypassed, although the old highway leading to it can still be seen to the east for several
miles. The original builders had neither the time nor the equipment to haul in the huge amounts of
fill that the present highway needed to traverse the swampy ground it now crosses. Steamboat has but
a hint of the twists and turns, along with steep grades and drop-offs without guardrails, that used to
cause panic in the flatlanders who found themselves facing it, especially when rain turned the gravel
surface to slick mud. The road over Summit is still pretty much the way it was gouged out of the
rock walls some 60 years ago, but at least now there are guardrails along the side next to the canyon.
Not always a good idea in my estimation. Before they added all the guard rails to highways here in
Alaska, you could be pretty sure that by the second serious snowfall of the winter, the poorest drivers
had been weeded out, and you felt a lot safer knowing it was the more skilled survivors who were approaching
you in the other lane.
Nowadays the Alcan is, to a great extent, a good paved two-lane highway
through what is still wilderness for the most part. The Canadians have done an admirable job in
designing their highways, and have preserved the feeling of traveling through pristine wilderness even
while motoring down a wide scenic highway at freeway speeds. In addition, the people who populate
this highway seem to be of a special breed. For the most part very friendly and helpful, yet with
the same streak of independence that I observe in my fellow Alaskans. No better place to get in a
bind, because these folks have seen it all, and know how to fix it. Just be patient, because if the
fish are biting up the road, your problem may have to wait.
This stretch of road remains one of my favorite rides or drives, winter
or summer, and probably will remain so for my lifetime.
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The ride up to Fort Nelson was warm, pleasant, and uneventful, just the
kind I like. Rolling into Fort Nelson at around 7:00 PM, it was still a long time 'til sundown.
With the vernal equinox over a month past, the days here were noticeably longer than those in the South 48
states. First finding an overpriced motel, I checked in, and then took a half-mile walk to one of the
few restaurants to stay open this late. After riding all day, it felt good to stretch my legs, then
after the hefty meal I ate, I needed to expend some more calories. Getting back to the motel, I found
that a strange looking vehicle had arrived, with the owner staying in a room near mine.
Seeing the owner outside, cleaning his rig, I walked up to him and introduced
myself. He identified himself as Joe Garcia, from Santa Fe, New Mexico. The trike he was
riding/driving had been built by himself and a partner, who did this for a living at a business called
The Fab Shop. It had a built-up 454 Chevy big block, Turbo-Hydramatic, Buick rear axle with dual
rear tires, and pulled a small utility trailer. Judging by the number of locals who drove by to
gawk at it, the trike had attracted a lot of attention coming into town.
Joe and I visited for a while, and then I retired earlier than I might
have, as I knew tomorrow was going to begin the big push for home.
Friday, May 10, 2002 Fort Nelson, B.C., Canada
It's time to end this ride and get back home, so I'm down at the office and
helping myself to some of the "continental breakfast" food shortly after 6:00 AM. Then out of the motel
and headed north well before 8:00 AM. Joe's trike is still in front of his room, but he's out and
packing as I pull out. It's cool, and there are clouds up ahead, but it's still dry as I make time
toward Steamboat Mountain, Toad River, Muncho Lake, and the other waypoints along the Alaska Highway.
Memories of delicious pies lure me in to Trapper Ray's Liard Hot Springs Lodge, but I make it a quick stop
as there were a few drops of rain on the windshield just as I neared the Liard River crossing.
When I dressed this morning, I knew I'd be riding all night, so the
Roadcrafter got bungeed on top of the Givi tail trunk and I donned the snowmachine suit for guaranteed
warmth. Buttoned up for rain, I again hit the road with Watson Lake and fuel as my next destination.
Joe passed the lodge on his trike just as I was finishing my travel preparations, so I hurry to catch up
in order to have a little company for a few miles of this lonely road. Pretty soon I run into a
little more drizzle, and find that Joe has slowed down. With no windshield and no protection from
the wind trying to blow up his pants legs, he's not enjoying the rain. I pass him, knowing I can't
afford to dilly-dally if I want to get on home without another overnight stop.
Around 60 miles before Watson Lake there's some construction that was
started last summer and, hopefully, would be completed later this summer. But as I ride over it today,
all I find is washboard gravel, with windrows of loose crushed rock between the tire tracks. Slowing
down to a speed at which I can control the bike fairly well yet still have the advantage of gyroscopic
stability from the tires, I bounce along, ducking from flying stones whenever I meet an oncoming vehicle.
There's been no rain in this area, so dust is another nuisance.
There are scraggly black spruce trees growing fairly close to the highway,
and I'm riding slowly anyway, so I stop to use the natural "facilities" just inside the cover of the trees.
While I'm so stopped, Joe and his trike nearly catch up with me, and I watch his progress in my rear view
mirror as I get under way once again. Apparently the trike doesn't like the washboard any better than
my Concours, as he travels even slower than I do while on it. Pretty soon the gravel ended and the
pavement resumed, so I was able to hurry on to Watson Lake for my next fuel stop.
Joe rolls into the Tags station as I'm fueling, and tells me that he has
had enough for the day. He looks cold, and admits that the weather has sapped his energy, so he'll
get a room here and regain some of it tonight. It's only 3:15 PM, and I'm not interested in stopping,
so I bid Joe farewell and get out onto the highway, headed west toward Whitehorse.
When I get to Rancheria, about 75 miles from Watson Lake, I see that the
lodge is now open, so I stop in for a hot meal, knowing that it may be my last for a while. I sudden
rain shower dumps on me as I'm getting the bike parked, and I see snow clouds up ahead. Nevertheless,
I am determined to enjoy a leisurely meal, even as I scan every southbound vehicle for signs of snow packed
on their rear end. After eating, there's nothing to do but get back out onto the highway and find
out what sort of conditions await me.
One of the things I've learned about the Alcan from years of traveling it -
the weather can change drastically within a few miles, then change back again in the next few. Although
there was snow falling on both sides of me, and sometimes both ahead of and behind me, I was happy that none
fell where I was. Being that the highway from Rancheria to Whitehorse is in good condition and traffic
was very light now that it was getting past the hour when most locals were traveling home from their jobs,
I was able to make very good time as I traveled west and then northwest toward the Yukon's capital city.
It's a few minutes before 9:00 PM when I fill the tank just outside Whitehorse,
Yukon Territory. There's still a little light in the western sky as I get back onto the highway and
head toward my home state, now anxious to end the journey - so that I can begin preparing for my next one.
As I thread the sharp turns dropping down into the tiny hamlet of Champagne, I am again aware how I enjoy
this ride, even with its less-than-perfect roads. In a few miles the road straightens out again, and
I can resume my cruising speed toward Haines Junction.
Ten-thirty or so now, and I'm passing through Haines Junction with a right
turn at the junction to go north toward interior Alaska rather than south on the Haines Cut-Off to the
northern end of Southeastern Alaska. The driving lights I had when I came south a month ago would
be welcome tonight, and I vow to replace them before another trip to the South 48.
The construction hasn't really resumed on this stretch, and the gravel
portions are still ungraded from last fall when the crews put their equipment away for the winter.
Now every grade is washboard, covered with a thin layer of loose gravel. It doesn't take long to
discover that swinging over to the downhill lanes on the left side allows me to climb the grade on
relatively smooth, well packed gravel. Destruction Bay falls behind a little after 11:30 and
Burwash Landing is just up the road. But snow is starting to fall now, and the gray sky has turned
an unfriendly black ahead of me. For a few miles now, the highway is straight as an arrow, with
roller coaster hills following the terrain, as the snow turns to heavy, wet flakes that are starting to
impair visibility.
Saturday, May 11, 2002 Kluane Lake, Yukon, Canada
As I make the last curve coming into Burwash, snow is falling harder and
seeing the road is becoming a serious problem, with the flakes reflecting back a large percentage of the
illumination the headlight should be putting on the pavement ahead of me. Around the turns, and back
onto old, narrow pavement. I meet one other vehicle, and have to come to a stop when I do, as the
road is invisible with the combination of oncoming headlights, wet pavement, and heavy snowfall.
Moving once again, I find my windshield is plastered with at least half an inch of heavy, wet snow.
Stopping to wipe it off doesn't do much good, as it's already opaque by the time I'm moving again.
Looking over the windshield is possible, but then my faceshield is plastered with snow as well.
I try lifting the faceshield, but my glasses get splattered with snow immediately and act more as a
blindfold than as vision enhancers.
There's absolutely no shoulder on this stretch of highway, so I have to
stop at the edge of my lane with the four-way flashers on to remove and store my glasses in the tank bag.
The faceshield being worse than useless, I leave it open and blink as snowflakes sting my eyeballs.
I'm now back to speeding down the highway at almost 25 mph, keeping an eye on the mirrors just in case
there's a vehicle coming up behind me.
With the temperature hovering just below the freezing point, there's been
no need for the electric garments except for the heated grips and Widder gloves. But as the night
wears on and my metabolism slows down, I find myself turning the control on to its lowest setting.
Somehow the added warmth makes me feel more isolated from the miserable weather going on all around me.
The dawn (figurative only) of the new day finds me peering over the top of
the windshield, trying to see the road in spite of the thick, wet snow that continues to fall. At
around 2:00 AM, pulling in to Kluane Wilderness Village, the only 24 hour gas stop between Whitehorse and
Tok, I realize that I'm getting tired of riding under the present conditions, and as I'm filling the tank,
I ask the nearby attendant if they have any rooms available. "Sorry", he says, "we're all filled
up". Well, guess I didn't really want to waste money on a room at two in the morning anyway.
After a quick iced tea and a candy bar it's back on the bike and headed northwest once more.
The snow seems to have tapered off a bit as I dodge chuckholes and
washboard a few miles from my gas stop, and is now becoming rain as the road loses elevation in its quest
to join the Tanana River valley ahead. Shortly before I reach Beaver Creek, the westernmost
community in Canada, precipitation has stopped altogether and the clouds to my right are breaking up
with the light of a soon-to-be-rising sun behind them.
Slowing to near the speed limit (man, 30 km/h is slow) as I cruise by
Canada Customs west of town, I realize it's now less than 20 miles before I'm back home in Alaska, and
the ride is nearly over. The inevitable feeling of disappointment is beginning to make itself known.
It will be good to be with longtime friends in a familiar setting once more, but the adventure is about
done, not to be repeated for at least another year.
Passing through U. S. Customs was only slightly more involved now than in
pre-9/11 days, with the necessity of producing photo ID which was then copied by the customs agent.
Perhaps the agent, judging by my bedraggled appearance, felt that even if I were a terrorist, I represented
little danger to anyone but myself.
At the familiar Chevron station in Tok, I fill the main tank only, as the
distance to Glennallen is but 142 miles. It's tempting to stop at Fast Eddies for breakfast, but
with home cooking (my own) a mere two and a half hours away, I resist.