Trans Americas 2009 - The Blog

Having slept really well in the tent, more so I think that others who were sharing the little plywood rooms here, I was up at 6am and back to the room for a shower, trying not to disturb Jim in the process (usually an early riser, I think having a room all to himself enabled him to engage in some sleeping practice). Then I packed the bike (surprised at how easily my luggage now goes together with practice) and went and grabbed a couple of bowls of cereal for breakfast (my attempts at reducing my food intake still failing miserably, but at least I avoided the full cooked breakfast). Around 8.15am we were on the road again, following the brilliantly descriptive directions provided by Globebusters - “turn right back onto the Dalton Highway, then continue to Prudhoe Bay” - no chance of getting lost there, then..

Actually, it wasn't quite like that, as we first turned off the Dalton to visit the old mining village of Wiseman. This was a collection of old buildings surrounded by rusting bits of machinery and a million or so mosquitoes. Still, it gave me a chance to practice my arty-farty photography...





Just as we were about to leave Wiseman, I noticed that the ice-hockey puck I'd fitted to the bottom of my sidestand, to stop the bike from leaning over too much when parked, had come loose, so I needed to remove it completely, and borrowed a hacksaw from Jeff (the Van Man) to cut the screws back,. That meant I was last leaving, some distance behind the others. Despite my earlier assertion that I would be taking it really easy today, I upped my pace a little on the hard compacted mud road, travelling at a brisk but comfortable 65mph. Despite the road being mud, it's just as smooth as tarmac, and as long as you avoid the gravel at the edges, and keep extremely vigilant for changes in surface (which can appear very abruptly) then it's relatively safe. The riding was good, passing once more through the forest on either side, with the oil pipeline making frequent appearances to the left or right, and sometimes passing underneath bridges carrying the road. Eventually we made it to the Atigun Pass, where the Dalton crosses the Brooks mountain range.





This is where the road changed for the first time, becoming wet and slippy mud as we rode up the pass, and down the other side. However, it was relatively straight-forward with no dramas to speak of. Once on the other side of the pass, the scenery also changed dramatically, from the forest of the South to the Arctic tundra of the North. With no trees, the wide-open expanse of fields leading to distant mountains was very reminiscent of parts of England, with the exception that there was a ruddy great big oil pipeline zig-zagging its way across the landscape... But it did give rise to the photo that matched an image in my imagination, of a lone bike riding across a desolate landscape... in this case the rider is Al, but moments after he'd gone from view, I rode this section all alone with my thoughts...





The road continued for mile after mile of wilderness, and as we'd all got separated I got to ride alone for a considerable period of time, with no music to distract me, only stopping occasionally to rest my legs (riding standing-up to better deal with the rough road sections was tiring) and to take the inevitable photograph of my bike surrounded my mamba coutry (miles and miles of b*gger all)...





Eventually (I've noticed I use that word a lot, but it does convey the passing of time between paragraphs, in this case, about an hour...) I stopped for a longer rest, to eat an apple and enjoy the absolute solitude and quiet. When I got going again, I caught up with a bunch of riders stuck at some roadworks. The road was being “graded” which we had been warned about because it is very hazardous. Basically, the road is watered, then a new layer of mud and gravel is spread over it, and then compacted down. Which is fine when done (although it remains very slippy and rough for some time afterwards as we found out later), but when it is being done, it means that there are great big ruts and mounds of dirt to catch out unwary bikers. This section had been made one-lane only, with a STOP-SLOW lollypop at either end, and a pick-up truck leading the traffic through the roadworks. The road was slippy and rough in places, but otherwise OK, and our little bunch got through without trouble (a later group wasn't so lucky, with one of the guys going down at slow speed, both bike and rider undamaged).

Shortly after the roadworks I was leading when a couple of caribou made a dash across the road in front of me. I stopped pretty quickly and grabbed my camera, but they were away into the field before I could get a decent shot. Kevin had passed me whilst I was stopped and noticed the caribou were heading out towards a river – and then he noticed a huge herd of them... so we all took the gravel road leading to the river and stood in amazement, as 2 very large herds, each with about a thousand or so caribou, came down the river...

See the dark line across the centre of this picture? That's a herd of caribou, that is...





And if you want a closer look...





Where we'd stopped there was a camper van also parked up by the river, which we initially thought was some other tourists who had seen the herd and come for a better look. Only it wasn't, it was a couple of hunters who were looking to use their bows and arrows (because only bows are permitted, no guns, and only certain caribou can be killed) to get themselves a kill. They were non-too-pleased when a large group of bikes all turned up for a better look at their prey, but even less impressed when a big 4x4 arrived with a thundering V8 that scared some of the herd, from which emerged a couple more hunters armed with more bows and arrows... It was time for us to leave, so we bid a hasty retreat and rejoined the main road...

Which was not compacted mud for much longer, instead being a section of freshly graded wet, rutted and very, very slippery gloop. I was following Kevin when we both saw it approaching and dropped our speed, then slithered along until we got back on firmer ground. Looking back, we could see that one of the bikes had gone down. Nick had been following us and had hit a rut which sent him into a tank-slapper (where the handlebars go lock-to-lock quickly) and he'd gone down, the bike ending up pointing back the way he'd come. He seemed OK, so the only thing to do was take a photo, which Richard duly did... Kevin standing proudly by the downed bike, whilst Nick looks dejected (and I'm struggling to get off my bike in the background...)





With the bike back upright and a bungee holding the damaged pannier lid on, we slithered back along the road once more. Just before arriving in Deadhorse, the village that services Prudhoe Bay's oil works, we encountered a grader in full flow, the road awash with water and mud and huge great ridges of mud and gravel everywhere... But we were not to be denied, and slithered our way through it, arriving safely at the motel (the Arctic Caribou Inn) around 3pm.

So here we are, at the top of the world (at least, as far North in the American continent as it's possible to get to).

The celebrations had to be a bit clandestine, though, as because Prudhoe Bay is a working Oil plant (basically, it's a huge oil production area, with lots of wells and big machinery, plus a few mad tourists like ourselves who come here because of where it is), it's “dry”. No alcohol. So we gathered in room A-2 (next to ours at the furthest point from reception) for a little toast of sneakily smuggled in booze (beer, red wine or Welsh whiskey, whichever took your fancy).

To the Top of the World!

Now we head South...

But not tomorrow, because we're going skinny-dipping in the Arctic Ocean (unless there's Polar Bears about, of course...)!