Day 115 to 116 – to Dawson City, Canada

14 to 15 July    Kms travelled – 30,708

I must be getting old, or perhaps I had become accustomed to the limited alcohol input over recent months travelling, but I awoke at my usual early hour in Whitehorse, Canada, with a distinct headache.  I only had a couple, honest!  This, however, meant I simply rolled over and went back to sleep!  It was gone 9 when I finally did emerge, pack the bike and hit the road.  I felt somewhat better minutes later when I passed a group of around a dozen BMW GSs gathering in the car park of another motel on the outskirts of town.  At least I had beaten them to it, I thought, as I turned off the Alaskan Highway onto the Klondike Highway (2) north towards Dawson City.  There´s gold in them there hills!  We just had to see whether Canada would serve up another pan of golden riding.

But it wasn´t long on the road before the group of BMWs caught up and, with the appropriate waves, rolled by one by one.  I could see they were on an organised ride, with much stickerage advertising Eidelwice Expeditions – that well known name for global motorcycle adventure tours.  It was also not long before the heavens frowned and it became time to adopt the wet weather posture.  I had been tallying up the amount of rainy days I´d encountered to date, with only 4 in total out of my 115 (so far) being of distinct dampness.  So with that perspective, I decided to make the most out of it and enjoy the run up into the wilds of the northern Yukon.

While much of the scenery was of a similar vein, it was on the whole quite pretty and had a stark beauty about the place, only enhanced by the scale of the countryside.  Similar thoughts to those I had had in parts of South America, but here we were able to feast on more hillsides and trees.  And, in fact, it wasn´t long before the sun was peeping through again, only to leave patches of heavy showers for the remainder of the morning. 

The road offered a varying degree of rider enjoyment, from patches of tough slog, to wonderfully curvy fun bits.  From top notch tarmac to rough patches of chip sealed road, which is where the local authorities spray a sticky compound on the surface then dust the road with a layer of chippings,  which they then leave for the local traffic to bed in.  Fine if you have four wheels, but it made life interesting for this two wheeled traveller.  Each time I came to a patch of chip seal I was unable to gauge whether the stones were already fixed, or whether I was about to encounter something akin to a gravel road – with all the different handling characteristics that entailed.  So I adopted the approach of slowing at all surface changes just in case.  As I said, some parts were a tough slog but progress was being made. 

I was also playing leapfrog with my BMW friends, as their differing pace and fuel/food/loo needs resulted in us passing each other on a number of occasions.  And each time with the appropriate courtesy shown to fellow like minded Adventure Bike Riders, as nods and waves were exchanged to speed each other on our respective ways.  At a rest break I happened across another ABR (KLR650) who had just descended the much praised dirt covered Dempster Highway from inside the Arctic Circle at Inuvik.  A relatively local rider from Alaska, he was able to regale me with tales of mudded out road, tricky river crossings (they had had a whole month of rain in June which had only subsided the week before), and wondrous sights as we mutually admired each other’s chosen steeds.  A 5 day run for this experienced off road rider, he had found the route particularly challenging this year...  but nevertheless leaving me with the sensation that I was again passing and leaving undone much that should be done. 

He also warned of a 2 km patch of bad road ahead that had just been completely relayed after nature´s destructive force had taken its toll.  The road was back in place, but a firm surface was not.  A deep and extended trench of small loose stones beckoned and threatened in equal measure.  No turning back, I was already on the edge of Klondike country and the call of Dawson City with all its colourful history drove me on. 

Forewarned is forearmed as they say, and I soon recognised the area he highlighted as evidence of recent road workings was clearly visible – so were the loose stones, which had already been driven into ruts and ridges to some extent by heavier vehicles.  Memories of Ruta 40 in Argentina exploded into my mind, not least due to the remoteness and lack of traffic on the road (it seemed I had finally left my BMW colleagues behind).  I lowered my tyre pressures and braced myself for an uncertain ride.  No Patagonian winds to blow me off course this time, thankfully.  But in no time at all the road dived into a steep curving decline which made it difficult for this (still) relatively inexperienced off road rider to maintain traction through driving the rear wheel, while running at a speed which didn´t take me over the edge on a bend.  I almost lost it once, but on the whole came through the stretch with a smile of relief and renewed sense of achievement.

I was then rewarded further after some distance with the sight of giant mounds of pebbles lining the side of the road and the now widening river valley.  At each turn the road improved and signs of human presence started to crop up.  I later realised that I was, in fact, seeing signs of man´s impact on the local landscape throughout this final stretch to Dawson.  The pebbles had not been thrown up over the years by some sort of flooding river, as I had thought, but by the gold machines which floated in the shallow waters digging up the river bed and discarding this goldless waste in impressive style.  The scale of the operations in its heyday must have been incredible.

And then I was rolling through a small industrial estate, over a bridge, through a narrow gorge, and into a town that appeared to have been frozen in time for a hundred years (or at least built by some sort of Hollywood operation then left to the weather to age).  The streets in Dawson City are not paved with gold... in fact they are not paved at all!  Aside from the main road which runs along the side of the Yukon river, bypassing the town centre and linking with the river ferry on the far side of this relatively small patch of flat land, the streets are paved with mud.  I immediately pictured the mud fighting scene towards the end of that tongue in cheek western movie, Paint Your Wagon, and rode into town with a smile.

It was, however, a smelly and tired smile.  In my bid to get north while my time on the road remained, I had found myself without a single piece of clean clothing remaining.  My bike suit, frankly, stank to the point that even I winced each morning when getting dressed...  so imagine what my helmet liner was like!  I felt the need to reinvigorate myself and enjoy the delights that this almost fantasy place offered – and when I was presented with a 2 night deal at the El Dorado hotel, the decision was made.  A rest / laundry day was scheduled, with some strolls along the raised wooden boardwalks...  howdy pardner!

If you ever get to Dawson, and I hope you do, you should stay a few nights.  This is a real life town, not a tourist resort, with an active year round community despite its far remote location.  It retains both the look and feel of the frontier as old builds are maintained, and new builds are required to fit with the gold rush decor.  Stacks of history too, as you wander round visiting the museums, bars and shops, most of which actively seek to hang onto the past.  You can even visit a brothel, which was tolerated by the town´s authorities until surprisingly recently (no, don´t worry, it is closed now!). 

She really did have a diamond tooth!

But a write-up on Dawson would not be complete without a mention of Diamond Tooth Girtie´s gambling saloon.  There, for a $10 season pass to gain entry, you can sup the local brew, grab a tasty bite, try your hand at poker (or other such gambling temptations) while taking in the live period show, three times nightly.  Think back on those old western movies again, and picture the saloon shows with can-can dancers, variety singers and dashes of cheeky humour - yep, just like that, and done remarkably well.  Then as you finally leave at 2 in the morning, you can wonder at the land of the midnight sun with brightness akin to a cloudy day back home.

Lots of bikes came and went during my all too short stay, the vast majority of which would now be classed as Adventure Bikes, coupled with lots of conversations with their respective riders.  I was, however, heartily impressed with a Harley Ultra rider who had followed me into town having ridden that great lump of metal through the tricky stony patch a way back.  His heart visibly sank when he learned that the road leading away from town on the other side of the river was no longer maintained – and comprised largely of dirt and stone.  But he resolved to press on.  The Top of the World Highway was the route to Alaska...  and that challenge loomed as my head hit the pillow for the 116^th time.              

Thought for the day

Nerves and perhaps even a dose of fear were running through my mind these days to the extent that they might have caused me to take pause in Dawson.  I was becoming fearful of the road ahead and nervous about the bike´s performance, particularly the front tyre which was no longer gripping as it should (it had been on there since Peru).  I was worried about how I was holding up, as aches and pains were surfacing with each passing day (including the return of my South American back pain), along with a general profound tiredness.  I was worried about my remaining time...  would it be enough?  I was getting anxious about the logistics of my return, with my preferred option of finishing in Anchorage no longer being economically viable, I would now have to get back to Seattle (more time...  more miles).  I realised 116 days away was too long as I tried to manage a deep underlying homesickness unlike anything I had previously encountered. 

The trip was nearing its conclusion, but it was now also getting really hard.  I was determined to press on, but I could not stop these constant negative thoughts from invading my mind.  I had come a long way in mind... and in body, but could I finish this (what now seemed to me for the first time) massive solo challenge?  Was the Top of the World Highway leading to the most northerly border crossing in the Americas...  a road too far?   

Hand on heart; I was really afraid that it was...

Day 112 to 114 – to Whitehorse, Canada

11 to 13 July    Kms travelled – 30,058

Leaving Prince George was a low key affair, much like the very many departures I had had to suffer on the journey so far.  I say “suffer” for a reason.  In terms of the architecture there was little to commend the town, particularly in comparison to the sights that mother nature serves up in the surrounding areas.  But there was a warmth and comfort extended by the people I met that made it, yet again, difficult to leave.  Some places just click, and you are left (or you leave) with a feeling that you could and should spend more time. 

I was, however, heading west (16) with a view to kicking north up the now famous Stuart Cassiar Highway.  The road was good (mostly), and kind (mostly), to this road (weary) warrior.  Tree lined open valleys stretched out before us and helped lead the way between snow peaked mountains.  If it sounds pretty, then I´m doing my job right in typing these words.  It was lovely...  not as spectacular as some of the scenes I had seen on the trip, but some real fine country.  And to top it off, we were soon running from greeny blue lake to the next; like riding the string of a gigantic sapphire necklace.  It was a good morning.

Come around midday, however, and come Burns Lake and I needed to stop.  The trip north from South America was in reality a trip north west.  The Americas have got a bit of a lean going on, which meant that with every key stage of the trip I was moving into earlier and earlier timezones in comparison with home.  I hadn´t spoken to the lovely Mrs Pat for a while, and the much needed reminder of what home felt like provided by Eric in Prince George, simply topped up the need to feast on her visage.  It was time for Skype so, as I was saying, it was time to stop...  and Burns Lake seemed a good place.

The local tourist information office provided free wifi, free coffee, free information and free chat, as I whiled away a few hours nattering with folks back home, and folks in town.  We also got sorted with some accommodation for the night, as I decided not to bother making further progress this day.  Word from tourist information was that there were more lakes over the nearby hill, with a ferry link on the road, and some pretty sights.  Sounded like a short detour was on for the afternoon, followed by a highly recommended (and massive) steak dinner.  Nice!

Recharged, the following day we were up and out early and leading the way through a crisp misty morning.  Heated grips were back on, and the run through to my breakfast coffee break at the start of the 37 was a great warm up for what was to come.  People have stated that the Stuart Cassiar Highway is one of the must do roads heading north, and to many is the preferred route.  I could see why.  Almost instantly, the scenery became more dramatic, more unspoilt and more in touch with the elements.  There was also a more notable increase in local wildlife proportionate to the decrease in traffic, with a number of people I spoke to along the way citing bear sightings!   I saw many foxes, loads of deer, a number of unnamed birds... but no bear.  

And then...  what was that?  A dark shadow flew past my peripheral vision as we were enjoying this (comparatively) twistier and quieter road.  Idris kindly grumbled to a speedy halt, and there it was...  a black bear feeding at the side of the road.  Idris´ notable engine thump, no doubt along with our abrupt halt, seemed to be unsettling the beast, so we quickly moved on...  with me grinning widely at the sight, only to realise later that I hadn´t taken a single photo.

More was to come, however, three in fact.  Each at different points along the road, each sat at the side feeding, and each becoming uncomfortably inquisitive each time we slowed down or stopped for a better look.  Call me a coward...   no, seriously, call me one..  for I discovered that is exactly what I am when I comes to these impressive animals.  I had read too many stories about the injuries inflicted by bears on us bipeds.  They are much faster than even the speediest of us – think Usain Bolt sporting a fur coat and two fists full of hunting knives – and without his good humour!  I had also heard these stories reinforced by people on the road, and the locals hereabouts.  They can´t all be exaggerating?  OK, I´m being a bit long-winded here.  The upshot is... I didn´t get any shots.  I bottled out of one camera moment after the next, and much as I revelled in the sights of these wonderful creatures, I have nothing but my words to share with you.  But you know what a bear looks like... don´t you?  You know...  Usain Bolt...  coat... knives!

Heading on up, and the temperature was heading on down.  Neck buff and heated waistcoat (not plugged in) had come back into play.  But this hadn´t affected the ride.  I wrote in my day book this day  “lovely weather...  lovely scenery... lovely ride”, so all was clearly well with the world.  I should note that there is not much by way of human impact along the way on up.  There are fuel stops and places to stay, but as we headed further into the northern wilderness, we were again back to having to plan ahead for such things.  It was a welcome additional task.  It meant we were nearing our final destination.  But the destination this day was an overnight in a basic “construction workers” motel, but the price was manageable and the company and food excellent (as it invariably was throughout Canada).  Just as well really...  there was no way I was going to lay out my tent for the night!

The next day´s early start and good riding saw Idris and I leapfrogging positions with a trio of Harleys who were also heading north, but which had differing caffeine and loo needs.  We did eventually meet up though, and it turned out that despite the US plates, two of the guys were Kiwis.  Nice bunch.  Then the rain closed in, and the waterproofs dusted off for (I think) perhaps the first time since Mexico!  I was wishing I´d stayed indoors as the cloud settled lower towards the increasingly bumpy road, no doubt the local wildlife felt the same.  I didn´t see a thing aside from a few bikes, a few RVs, and a few cars for the whole day. 

Oh!  I did also manage a quick stop at a jade mine, which was set on the side of the road opposite from a gold mine, near the Cassiar Mountain.  An interesting spot with free coffee, but the lovely coloured stones seemed a bit pricey to me.  I´m not sure whether this was a consequence of the increasing prices I had noted for pretty much everything as we headed further on up, or whether it was a comparison with the jade prezzies I had bought my wife back in Guatemala?  Either way, we headed into the mountains with pockets empty of green stone, but with stomach full of coffee.  And some mountains worthy of note they were too, with the ride only being tainted slightly by the quality of the surface which (from time to time) suffered overly from the severe winter exposure. 

With the ongoing bumps and rumbles of the mountain road running into bumps and rumbles of rolling forestland (some of which had been scarred by various forest fires over the last 20 years providing for some fab photo ops), we hit the Yukon and a moment to reflect on distance travelled.  For the first time since riding into Patagonia on the way down to Tierra del Fuego, I felt that I was entering the end of the world.  But now it was the other end I was looking at...  and we were closing on 30,000 kilometres travelled!  We had not yet reached our final ´must do´ - Alaska – but the Yukon conjured up in my mind so many images of gold rush towns and extreme frontiers I could not help feeling we were now just a short step away.

But even though we had travelled some 800 kms this day already, we were to learn that a short step in Canadian terms is a trans-continental ride for us Europeans.  I was at Junction 37 and the Alaskan Highway (a generally better quality but less interesting road) lay before us.  A quick refuel and chat to some of the increasing number of bike riders (also a lot more GSs, DRs, KLRs and KTMs now joining the stream of Harleys), and it was a “left turn Clyde” for a heady run into Whitehorse.

Now, I hear you ask, why is he saying the run to Whitehorse was a heady affair.  Nothing more than a troublesome headwind leading to a stiff neck and painful temples, would be my answer.  Hard work after a great but tiring long riding day.  Some great shots though.  The Alaskan Highway might not be quite as pretty as some of the road ridden over the last couple of days, but it does have its moments (and its share of wildlife).  It also has its share of bridges surfaced with metal grids (and some wooden ones) no doubt designed to allow melting snow to fall through in to the rivers below.  There are signs to warn the approaching motorcyclist, but no matter, I grew to hate the things with a passion as I struggled to make progress in the northern wind while keeping Idris upright on this challenging surface. 

The last 200 kms before Whitehorse earned us a good bed for the night and a couple of beers too.  I´ve not been drinking much on the trip, saving money and my morning head in the process, but I have allowed myself a few at weekends.  The motel was attached to a typical Canadian local bar with live country music that evening.  Fixing my spot on a comfy bar stool, I settled in for a few Alaskan beers and some equally relaxing light-hearted chat.  I wonder if the folks here are related to those in Montana?

Thought for the day

I can´t say that today’s thought is particularly meaningful in the grand scheme of things but... since the increase in two wheel traffic and the opportunity to ride in groups and/or with other riders is now presenting itself, I have been thinking about the whole riding alone thing. 

Throughout the whole trip to date, I have only spent one day riding with anyone else – and that was with Clark on the last leg of getting to Ushuaia.  Since turning round at the bottom of the world I could not recall having ridden a single revolution of Idris´ wheel with anyone.  On the whole this was not out of a particular desire to ride alone (even though I generally prefer it).  I had, in reality, expected to meet up with people along the way and ride along with them from time to time.  It just never worked out that way.  And now, as we were nearing the end of an epic adventure, I was increasingly of the view that I should finish it alone.  A point of pride?  A point of pig-headedness?  Or simply a pointless point?  Who can say.  I was certainly enjoying the increasing frequency of chats with like minded folk on the road... I would just avoid riding the same speed as them... I decided.

Day 110 to 111 – to Prince George, Canada

9 to 10 July    Kms travelled – 28,085

Was it the weariness felt from months on the road, or was that bed really that comfortable?  I thought as Idris and I sped up the 93 towards Radium Hot Springs with a bustle more associated with being late for work, than the final stages of a mammoth bike ride.  I slept late.  Something I don´t often do, even when work is on the cards back home.  So I quickly settled on the fact that that bed really was that comfortable, and the Village Inn in Windermere really was that peaceful and quiet. 

And we were back enjoying the road, and what a road!  But I´ll let the pictures and your respective imaginations capture that.  I couldn´t help thinking that perhaps I should have stayed at Radium Hot Springs when we rolled through town, as it was littered with accommodation, most of which with parked two wheelers outside – and most of which of the American iron variety.  But perhaps not.  Perhaps I had needed that moment of peace last night to set me up for the day´s wonders.  Perhaps I was secretly worried about the name of this town?  I was OK with the hot springs bit, but Radium?  Just how exactly was this spring water heated anyway!!

Aside from providing food for thought, and food for my late morning stomach, Radium did also provide the right turn (still on 93) and gateway to the Kootenay National Park.  $9.80 for a day pass (hang on to it, you´ll need it for more parks later) and we were waved in with the warmest of smiles, only to have the broadest of smiles spread across my face as I realised that my pre-trip reading had once again paid off.  This was well and truly a place to be, and especially on a bike.  Steep-sided gorges with curves in the road that would have been at home on a 40´s pin up model!  Then up over a broad pass and alongside wide open valleys lined with snow topped mountains.  A whole series of sights that begged us to stop for photos at almost every turn of my head, but which also pulled us onwards with a promise of more of nature´s wonder.  On the whole, really not a rubbish place at all! 

Then, after a short detour along a dirt road (nope I didn´t get lost, but a chap I spoke to at a photo stop mentioned I might spy and eagle that way) and a relatively easy stretch along highway 1, I was back on the 93 again heading towards Banff.  Hang on, rewind a little.  A couple of points I should make about that stretch.  Not only was the scenery continuing to do its thing to the utmost as we trundled along – and it would be remiss of me to give the impression that we had just blasted through a boring bit to get to the next great stretch of road – but also there were some rather odd bridges and tunnels being built along the highway worthy of a mention.  These were quite large constructions which result in you feeling you are riding through a tunnel rather than under a bridge – though they are wholly man made.  Designed to allow the wildlife to cross safely under or over the main highway, they must have been costing the Canadian taxpayer a notable sum, not least at they were covered in plant life too, including trees!  But well done Canada!  Much as I welcome the construction of great roads which open up access to this wondrous landscape, it is still nice to see that the locals can still get about without hitching an unwelcome ride on the front of an articulated truck!

But I was talking about Banff, and it was now in that National Park where I stopped and wrote “wow” in my day book!  Miles and miles of better and better views as we progressed north west along the 93.  Past Lake Louise and the icefields the roads had now straightened out a little – so not noteworthy from a biking experience point of view - but that was just fine.  The last thing I wanted to be doing right now was focussing 100% on the road, when the land through which we were travelling demanded so much attention instead.  If my eyes were feasting on the landscape, then they were gorging themselves to such an extent that they would likely bulge out of my head at any moment.  Then high passes, deer and eagles – who could want for more?  Well, me really...  no bear yet, despite lots of warning signs. 

Moving onward into Jasper National Park we did encounter some peculiar weather when approaching one of the highest passes of the day, which allowed me to relearn an important lesson.  Weather in the mountains is an incredibly changeable thing, and not to be underestimated.  And, as it happens, in this instant I was not caught out by this fact, but rather it worked in my favour.  A little way before the Columbia icefeilds and one of the highest passes of the day we were hit with storm strength side winds and rapidly moving dark clouds on the road ahead.  The road had run up through a clearly visible winding pass on the side of the mountain, but now the whole vision has disappeared in the murk of low cloud and heavy rain.  I stopped at the first sign of water droplets on the front screen, and headed back down the relatively straight road, where I pulled over for a ponder. 

Thunder and lightning were now hitting the heights ahead, and the head shaking of a few bikers which were passing on the way down had me thinking about a place to stay for the night.  I had not long passed a national park lodge, but a word of warning... everything is very very expensive in the parks (including fuel) so best to bring what you need with you.  It was mid afternoon, so I decided to wait a bit longer and take some photos before deciding on what to do.  30 minutes later I was riding up the side of the mountain in clear blue sunshine, with no notable winds, and with the road already pretty much dried out.  What would have been a very dangerous ride less than an hour before, was now a hugely enjoyable one.  The heated grips switched on, and there was the ice!

As you cross from Banff into Jasper National Park it is well worth making the stop to see the ice fields.  Even in the midst of summer these glaciers are still most impressive.  I would have loved to have spent more time in these parks and walking the mountains, but it was not that sort of trip.  The clock now continually ticking in the back of my mind, I rode down to Jasper town to find a bed for the night. 

A B&B secured (hotels here were a bit much for my budget) and a walk around this pretty touristic mountain town saw me stopping by a most impressive GS1150 with worldwide stickerage and the life scars to match.  It was not long before I was engaged in a great chat with fellow ABR Dylan Samarawickrama who was on his round the world experience, and heading south whence I came.  So much to discuss, stories to swap, and we were nicely interrupted by passers by interested in the conversation.  We were also well into mozzie country again! 

Was it the light nights (10:45pm before the sun went down last night), or was it simply a bad night’s sleep, but the next day after packing the bike and heading off, I dumped it.  No, that´s not true.  I never even got to the heading off bit.  I dumped the bike straight away as I hadn´t taken off my disk lock!  In all my years of motorcycling, I can´t remember a time when I had made such a basic mistake.  No damage to Idris, and a quick pick up, removal of said lock, and we were on our way.  My spirits were, however, harder to pick up and I rode off with a heavy heart – not angry with myself, just a bit down.  Funny the things that affect your emotions when you are travelling alone.

The ride this day was around 400kms of tree lined forest and river valleys and views, often lined with hills of snow.  Not the great mountains of the national parks, but not exactly boring either.  I noted a few good sights where I stopped off for a few shots and/or a chat with a local biker or two, but on the whole this was a business day for the journey as the landscape was more or less the same throughout the route.  Still no bear or moose, despite being told of sightings that same day.

I rolled into Prince George and on the advice of the nice lady in the tourist information office, found myself booking a bed at Eric´s place (see places to stay link on the right).  A top bloke, lifelong biker, and great hostel host.  Chatting with him that evening was just the tonic to put my head right in preparation for the next day.  And with Idris tucked up safely inside his shop, a good night´s sleep was also had.  While this day we had been heading more west than north, that was soon to change, with the famous Stuart Cassiar Highway calling our names!

Thought for the day

As we rode into the Lake Louise area of Banff, one of the reportedly most beautiful lakes around, I couldn´t help balking at the level of tourism to be seen at the main entrance.  I was struck by a similar feeling when I arrived at the Old Faithful Geyser in Yellowstone, only now I realised it wasn´t a reaction to over commercialisation of natural beauty spots as I had previously thought, but rather an aversion that had grown inside me to crowds of people.  My journey north had sought out national parks and generally avoided populated areas.  Even my stay in Phoenix was on the outskirts, so I had not encountered the levels of people and hustle and bustle associated with urban areas.  It now felt alien to me.

How easy it was to have gotton away from familiarity with being in such situations when you are surrounded by volumes of bodies, and how easy it is to live your life with a focus on small scale human interaction instead.  And I must say I preferred it that way.  It seems that the only times I could recall being particularly lonely on the journey were in the more populated areas, surrounded by people but feeling alone.  As I was approaching the end of my time on the road, I did start to wonder how well I would readjust to life back in a relatively densely populated Europe.  I can´t answer that, only time will tell, but it did tell on my thoughts this day.