Soon, while the morning sun is still "low" (lately, it never really  is low very long), I come upon the "Peace River Valley" and almost fall off.  I took a chance and drove off the big highway a little to see what it was about.  This place looks like the old Bonanza TV show, or the high fertile country around Rifle Colorado.  The land bursts with life and mixtures of rivers, small streams and lakes, and the old forests to make your heart sing.  I just stop to contemplate, watch the small game dart around with no compunctions about the big old thing over here.  With a full heart, I get aboard again.  Although I wrote it up in my log that night, it never occurred to me until now that I took NO pictures.  I just never thought… Next I pass Pink Mountain.  The country is pretty, but maybe my eyes must have been bloodshot, because I could see no pink.  The highway grades are getting pretty steep. 

There is a place called Suicide Hill, where the original incline killed many travelers.  I did try to find the occasional stretch of the old, original Alaskan Highway roadway.  It is not kept up, and they really don’t want you on it, so it is not marked.  It’s fun on a bike, like an old country lane, but if you get stuck or break down out here, they warn you you’re on your own.  The brush and trees come right up to the road.  There are no shoulders, which means you cannot spot game animals coming up.  I had too long to go to risk that, so after a couple of experiments I stayed on the main road.  I figure that just by chance I will have enough adventures, I don’t have to push my luck.

I made it to Prophet River at 5 p.m. on 26JUN. I’ve refrained from mentioning any tourist traps, they don’t need me.  But when you pass here, stop and say ‘hello’ at Lum-N’Abners place.  Put it like this, if I remember the good fellowship after the whole trip is done, you may call in there and not be disappointed.  Then, further on, I see: This is Muskawa river! It’s just after the Prophet River, 281 miles from Dawson Creek, lies the lowest point on the Alaskan Highway.  So it’s marked.  The elevation is 1,000 feet and I stop to contemplate.  Big deal.  But it is just before Fort Nelson.

Let’s take a minute to contemplate the geography. Up to now, I’m mostly keeping in the gentle plain-side slopes to the East and North of the mountains. I can see that. But when I stop, I’m reading ahead in the pages I cut from the ‘Milepost. At Fort Nelson, this will all change. I will really start climbing and cutting West again. Heck, although I’m quite a bit North, I’m really just passing West of Seattle, for one way to look at it. The anticipation builds for some driving fun, and for some of the unknown.

This is weird. Around Fort Nelson, the word "Slave" is pronounced "Slay-Vee" which comes from people who arrived in the 1700’s from Great Slave Lake. They speak "Athabascan" which is another thing for me to research when I get home. I learn this much from reading the monument, while I am eating my sardines and Planter’s Peanuts. I’m actually taking these notes… Maybe I’ll get an endorsement.

Blast onward. Muncho Lake is excellent. The views are to dream on, even while bopping along on the bike. The road does get more serious though, and I have to pay attention to the rock cliff on one side and deep water on the other. There is nothing in between, no damn shoulders at all, and it goes on like this for a really long while. They have some big lakes up here I guess. I stop when I can, and the old road is visible up higher on the cliff. If I am impressed with how this road is carved without much compromise to lazy driving, that old one would scare even me into paying attention. Speaking of being scared, the signs around here are emphatic about the bears. In short, you cannot feed ‘em. But you have to think about that. What you do is stop somewhere and eat your stupid tuna fish, buttermilk and cashews. Be sure to throw the refuse in a bear-proof receptacle. Do any bodily functions imperative in the bear-proof latrine. I am sure a bear can get through the door and kill me, but he won’t ever get to the pit. Then, wash the tuna juice off your hands. They can smell it. If you slobber in your beard, use soap. All done? Jump on your crazy motorcycle and drive about five miles before you camp. In camp, all you can smell like is the deet in your bug spray. You’re safe. Go to sleep.

I have made 430 mile since Dawson Creek, and things are going more smoothly. The weather is fine, the sky clear, and my old head is getting some serious fresh air blowing through the vacancies. It is here that I start just following the mood. If I want to stop and hike around, there is no pressing need to do anything else. Sometimes I just stop and climb up to some rock, either on foot or running the bike up a game trail. Shut it down, take the hard-hat off, and just soak in the peace. I long for better expressive skills, since the feelings are strong, but the words I put down are weak.

I find myself at a rough camp called "Whirlpool Canyon" and rest up some more. I’m not tired, but the views of the Laird river are astounding. My pictures are ‘way too contrasty,  the light is getting the deep shadows, and I had not cleaned the dust off the front and back lens surfaces. Stupid. The campsite was bare-bones, but the game trails led off in all directions and had sweeping outlooks on the valley.

Warning, I might just go on a rant here.

Also around this area I start seeing the tourist signs warning about sheep and rams. Now, I’m an old hunter. I have done the occasional deer out west, hung and butchered it personally, and my fillets show the real secret of game meat: - do not allow any fat or gristle. The only others are antelope and one big elk. I am totally against hunting predators, they are too rare and needed too badly for the natural balance. But I have always heard of the shy and rare Dall and Stone sheep and now the road signs are saying I should use caution. Why? Well, the tourist marker says they come down to lick some mineral deposits.

 Now, since I’ve been sitting at this one for a solid hour, I am leaving  and taking a couple of pictures. Just in front of me, at the bottom center of the picture, there are marks where their sharp hooves have cracked the crust. Over to the left, actually in the cone of the drain hole, are some more, with bite and lick marks. Very peaceful, no game. You can tell I just hiked up to this one, the cliff in front of my toes is about a thousand feet. Those are full size pine trees at the bottom of the valley! The road is behind me about a third of a mile, but the game trail I climbed is all up and down. I’m out of shape.   {So you say, what's the rant?  Well, just remember this and I'll get back to it.  You won't be disappointed.}

On to Watson Lake. Gassed up at the "Signpost Forest" which can only be seen faintly in the distance. Why did I not explore and do the tourist things which are expected of me? Read the paragraph for the above two pictures again. There are, really, acres of posts with signs from cities everywhere. These are not just markers telling distances, these are genuine signs taken or stolen from communities all over the world. I cruise by in first gear, around one edge and down the length that fronts on the highway. It is actually hot here, and I did not even want to look for Valparaiso.   If you want to see the big picture, right mouse click on your Navigator and view the image.

Now, though, you guys have to get  serious. Although I may have wandered into it on a game trail, the road is now in the great Yukon! So I hit Rancheria Falls. It’s about 700 miles past Dawson Creek. (Around here, most things are measured from Dawson Creek. It is a tradition or something.) I camp just about exactly on the Continental Divide, a sobering thought. As I check my ‘plan-ahead’ maps with my friend here, I see next will come Teslin, then on to Whitehorse.

Remember that sanguine mood just a short time ago? Well, what they don’t tell you is how much construction goes on in the middle of summer on this road. There are literally miles of cars, RVs, trailers, semis, and more pickups towing boats than there are mosquitoes. They all line up where the flagman stops them, so that they get escorted through the construction site and not get smashed by the big earth movers. Now it can get hot, dusty, and the road is seriously rutted and covered with rocks bigger than grapefruits. The very first time I actually stopped and shut off the engine. There were people wandering around, kids throwing mud clods, and generally trying to make the best of it. This guy asks me "Something wrong?" - and I say no. He then wonders why I am not going up to the front of the line. I look ahead, I swear it is ¾ mile up to the heavy equipment. I say "Now wouldn’t that be rude?" and he tells me that bikers are expected to do it. So I figure the worst could be some embarrassment and venture up to the flagwaver. She smiles and says to follow the escort pickup when it comes. I ask why do bikes go first? She says all the cars have windows, air conditioning, and the people don’t have to breathe the dust in them, but bikers are "outside" and it is sort of a tradition. Wow.

But the delays are still there, and the country is still torn up. It is not like the solitary tour when going through these zones.