Trans Americas 2009 - The Blog

Wouldn't you just credit it. The first day since the trip started for real that we get off, and the end result is I can't sleep. Wide awake and reading my book until almost midnight, so I decided to go and see the midnight sun. But it was obscured by clouds. Damn. Still I took a photo anyway, and then sat outside and read my book by the midnight daylight (if you see what I mean)...





Eventually I did get off to sleep, and still woke relatively early ready for the long ride South (it's actually a very, very, long ride South, but today's bit is a mere 240 miles or so, but all on the Dalton Highway... and the road changes from day to day depending on where the roadworks are, whether it has rained overnight, and how much traffic has been going up and down it. But for us, today, it was perfect. There were no particularly bad sections, and for much of it I rode alone, stood up at 60mph, scanning the road ahead for hazards and the scenery on either side for wildlife (a couple of caribou, a fox and lots of ground squirrels). Riding like this has to be one of the most extraordinary ways to travel. Imagine, if you can, standing on a plank of wood, 2 inches wide, in front of a huge fan heater forcing warm air at you at a steady 60mph. Now imagine the plank of wood is atop your washing machine filled with wet towels on the fast spin cycle. Now you have to balance a pole between your hands with a jug of water on each end and not spill any (these represent the handlebars, and if you grip too tightly the shocks coming up through your legs will have the bike in a death weave very quickly). Now imagine doing this though spectacular scenery and all with a zen-like calm. You still won't get close... Simply fan-bloody-tastic!

Before too long, though, my peaceful progress was rudely interrupted by an officious bloke in a day-glow suit standing by a lorry and waving at me. I thought he was waving me past, so crawled past him onto to hear a loud whistle and a shout, as he pointed to the spot in front of the lorry where he'd wanted me to stop. Bloody roadworks... Within minutes of being stationary the rest of the group started to arrive (I'd glided past the lead group just a couple of miles back, so in-the-groove was I). Before long we had 14 bikes in a big line, ready to be led behind the pilot car through the fresh mud and gravel they were laying. With me at the head, having to choose a good line for the others to follow, and avoid coming a cropper myself.





But it wasn't a problem, and soon we were free again and cruising sedately along the dirt, kicking up a small cloud of dust and enjoying the sunshine. Until once again my concentration was broken, this time by something shining at the roadside. A very grim reminder of just how treacherous this road can be. It was a Harley belonging to a Brazilian guy we'd met at Prudhoe. He'd left early that morning to avoid the road-workers, and somehow left the road on a particularly picturesque, but otherwise not particularly hazardous stretch. He'd been air-lifted to Anchorage in a pretty bad way, but will survive. I don't like taking pictures of crash sites, but it's an important reminder of how things can go wrong, especially if you're not properly prepared. Road tyres on a heavy Harley on this road is a recipe for disaster – sure, many have managed it, but they've all been pushing the odds. We're on dual-sport “adventure” motorcycles, fitted with a full off-road front tyre and a semi-off-road rear. And we've all had off-road training. Yet we still had 2 down on the way up (though thankfully unhurt).





Somewhat subdued, we rode on South, the road just perfect and with the sun still shining and warm, the thoughts rattling through my head soon moved away from the crashed Harley and onto the ride. Riding a motorcycle requires so much concentration, even more so on an empty dirt road that changes as quickly as this one can, that holding thoughts, any thought, for very long is impossible, the ride simply takes over and the only thoughts that enter my head are short-lived, like catching faces of people standing at a station from a speeding train...

Finally I arrived at the Atigun Pass once more, the barrier between the Tundra of the North and the Forest of the South. At the top were Jim and Mac, who'd left a good hour and a half before us, and had stopped here to admire the view and wait until we caught them up. Jim greeted me with the words “We've worked out why it's called the Atigun Pass”... “Why?”... “Well, when they first built the road, they went over here and up to Prudhoe, then when they were coming back, they saw the mountain and said....'oh no, not 'at again'...”.... I smiled and left before things got any worse...

Once on the other side of the pass, I stopped and waited for the group to catch up, reflecting on the fact that I'd already covered 190 miles in just 4 hours, on dirt... Not bad going... When only Al showed up (and Jim, Mac and Aaron went by), I decided to get moving again, reasoning I'd stop somewhere else to avoid arriving back in Coldfoot too early. When I found a lovely little river, I pulled off the road and sat by the gently bubbling water for perhaps 20 minutes, just enjoying the silence and the sunshine and the utter beauty around me. Alone with my thoughts, and without the constant motion, able to hold onto them for a while...





My solitude was interrupted on a couple of occasions by 2 cars that whizzed by one way, then back again, with strange towers on their roofs. When I finally dragged myself away and rode the few remaining miles to Coldfoot, they were parked up outside the café, with big “Google” stickers on the side... seems they're mapping the Dalton to feature in “My Street”... wonder if any of the bikes will appear on the images?





With the bike fuelled up I bought a few beers despite it only being 2pm (it had been a long and dusty ride!), and then went and showered/changed ready for dinner. Which was once again an all-you-can-eat affair, but this time with the most delicious fish with mushrooms and scallops, which at least kept me away from the desserts for a little while... After dinner a few of us wandered across the road to the visitor's centre, where there was a talk on the Kanuti National Wildlife Reserve, which is about 8 miles from the road, and only accessible by air (to one of 2 villages in the reserve), boat or foot. Which could explain why it only gets “20-30 visitors per year” and is “America's greatest wilderness”. Quite.

Exhausted from all that riding/food/education, I went to bed around 9pm, opting not to camp this time as it was still sunny (and unlikely to stop being until the wee small hours of the morning, when it will be just “light”)....