The bike, on the other hand, sat patiently while I made sure of it's condition.  I took my time, partially because my head hurt and I didn't need the noise, and partially because I was looking for an excuse to stay right here and soak up the scenery.

My log shows Mosquito Fork and Fortymile River, but I can't describe them because I can't remember.
You are not missing much, because it was only that ten minute ride...  but Partner, when I finally got moving I did get a treat.  The scenic viewpoints are specifically designed for motorcycles!  The paths are steep, the turns are tight, and the cars and RVs stay away.  Not only that, there are game trails and hunter's (or maybe miner's) rut-paths pretty much all over if you look for them.  I spent the rest of the day just chugging around in first gear, going up and down the countryside getting rich but not spending any money.   I will remind the tree huggers that I left that wilderness in as good a shape as I found it.  I stayed to established game trails or what appeared to be all-terrain vehicle tracks.  My bike leaks NO oil, and I left no litter.

The Taylor Creek Bridge is only about ten miles from Chicken.  That's how far I got in a whole day.  I pulled into their campground and spent my first twenty minutes visiting with some very nice people, but didn't stay.  I was reminded of the game trails within a few minutes of pulling in here, I saw blood, my own.  On one of the trails, I thumped my right calf a good one with the left foot peg, I actually had to beg a Band-Aid and some anesthetic from a family in a huge camper.  Thanks!.  I finally pitched my tent a few miles further where there was a bunch of streams, gravely banked rivers, and absolutely no humans.  Then I washed up.  The weather is surprisingly hot, and some of my game trail mistakes earlier in the day had made me work hard.  Those animals took me to places where I was off the bike, using foul language while pushing it up the trail  --  engine idling and me helping it over rocks and smooshing it sideways in the mud to get around a deadfall. The big old engine was hot, and I got hotter doing the work it was supposed to be doing, damn.

It was a good thing I rested.  The road here is rough, and not at all well maintained.  The grade gets to be one long descent, from about the entrance to the "Fortymile River National System" which is managed by the U.S BLM.  They have a pretty tough job to do, the mountains are rugged, the road clings to the side and seems more like a forestry service road than a 'highway' - even the Top of the World Highway.  The weather is spectacular.  Warm, sunny, and the winding surprises of the next vista can take your breath away. So can the switchbacks, really tight.

Just a little nervous, the trees are very thick, and the shrubs have not been cut back from the road in many sections.  I don't have much of a view in case any wild animals pop out.  Now, this is always true in theory, but for some reason I was very apprehensive along this stretch.  I mean it is lonely out here.  This is the height of the tourist season, but there is NO traffic.  I keep remembering the old guy on the BMW who got stopped by a bear.  That would ruin my whole trip.  So I just putter along, and hum an old mantra from the old days.  I'm not in a hurry, this trip is already more than I ever bargained for, and as I relax, I just cruise and muse and let the bike do all the work.

The mountains in the distance are the Alaskan Range.  Snow capped and so apparently close in this clear air that I wish I could go flying with my brother Tom and cross the valley.  I stop to think, and eat the last of my provisions.  If I had my pistola, and if it they were in season, I would knock over a deer and camp here for weeks.  Well, maybe some other time.

The sign says "Mount Fairplay" which seems humorous for an instant; but as lonely as it is, I like to think whoever named it had some frontier philosophy of social responsibility in mind.  I stop again.  A very narrow shoulder, a steep drop-off slope where they would find my headlight in the top of some tree, but the breeze is cool and it is so quiet, a half-hour goes by until the dust from a pickup takes my notice.  After a while they get up to where I am, and out here, everybody stops.  'No, nothing wrong, just enjoying the place, thanks.'  They offer me some beer and I say no, I'm going to be moving on now.  It is a young couple in love, and I didn't think they needed company.  One thing else, they showed me how to recognize a particular plant, from which they tried to brew some psychedelic tea, but the stuff must not have been ready.  They say that it is a narcotic called Labrador Tea, and came highly recommended, but had no effect at all on them.  I thanked them for the thought, but mentally could not fathom why anyone would want to dull the senses in a land like this.

Then, the remnants of my hangover finally blowing out of my system, the road was beckoning and I was finally ready.  Shortly, the huge burned area from the 1990 'Porcupine' fire shows that in just a few years, the land reclaims itself and the signs say it may even be healthier for it.

Gassing up at Tetlin Junction, I find myself back on the roaring Alaska Highway.  This is the highway I left back at Whitehorse, just about one thousand miles ago. Reminds me of the Dan Ryan in Chicago.  Almost.

Here is the closest thing to a commercial you will see from me.  Save your money, and go up to the "Tok Gateway Salmon Bake" in early July (during the salmon run).  I had the charcoal grilled king salmon, with all the trimmings, and such a feast makes me wish I had better powers of description.  Take your time here, the people love you, and you need to savor every course.  The chowder is in a gigantic kettle in the dining room, walk up and have all you want.  The aroma is like those scents, represented in the cartoons, that reach across the room and waft you up in the air to float over and have some more.  Be moderate though, because as delicious as it is, the bread is even better, both home made on the spot.

They take fresh salmon (I mean, up here, fresh is measured in hours!) and carve a huge 1 1/2" steak before your very eyes.  The chef on the grill talks things over with you, as friendly as can be, while he's working.  HIs huge grill is just outside the dining room, you can hear it sizzle as you have the first courses.  I did eat inside, I enjoyed being out of the sun for a while, but you can find excellent, breezy tables out in front too.  My salmon is done with a brown sugar glaze, made browner and more sugary from the flames.  Just the scent of it will thrill you, hell, it will stop traffic!. My generous portion was the perfect way to end the thousand mile detour, and is another reason to go back.  I'd do it in a minute.  Perfect.

No worries for the children, the facilities are immaculately clean and the staff is courteous, even to ugly old Harley drivers.  They encouraged me to be comfortable on a whole picnic table, since I do have a lot of stuff with the jacket, chaps, maps, etc.. .  I must have spent two hours on that meal, and recommend that you do it as well, at your earliest convenience.  After, I sat and talked with other patrons, and drank the strong coffee.  I spread out paper towels on the table, and did a clean up job on my camera and lenses.  Although I didn't find anything actually wrong, it is only after this point that the pictures started coming out again.  Beware.

I pack up and go, promising myself I'll be back.

I'm dismayed to find the traffic is heavy, the travelers are less than observant of my little bike, and I have to work hard to get my reflexes back to mind my own manners.  Not that there are any hard feelings or anything, but my close call with a huge RV put me in a cold sweat.  The details are stupid, he passed a slow truck and cut back into traffic behind another slow truck.  I just happened to be between the two trucks, and got ran off the road, into a brutal soft shoulder with rocks the size of my helmet.  No warning, not even an approaching car or anything to make it reasonable.  Just came on over.  I went for some swerves and slides, and in slowing down damned near got tangled up in the wheels of the truck which was behind me.  He, luckily, decided to move over to his left as fast as he could so I could get back on the road.  Much later, after I had stopped and regained my composure, I was working up through traffic again and passed Mr. Courteous.  I didn't recognize him at first, but he saw me coming, moved over and blew his air horn.  Thanks, big truck; big smile and a wave, and off we go.

This was just a few miles West of Tok, and minutes later, I see the RV again, and notice a big rental number on the back.  You will be proud of me, I didn't even flip him off.  I wonder to this day whether he ever saw me at all.

The road is either backed up solid approaching construction zones, or beautifully repaved and traffic going at a great rate of speed.  The sun is hot, and for many miles I took off my boots, tied them to the ropes to air out, and even knotted my socks to the handlebars to slay the mosquitoes.  I put on sun block on the tops of my feet while I was riding, and tied my jacket to the back too.  This is Alaska?  I had people snapping pictures (of me) out of their windows, and one guy passed me a beer at about 35 mph on gravel.  You had to be there to appreciate it.  The road was so nice, I crossed one leg over the tank and tried to imagine riding side saddle on a horse.  Now I know why women quit this style long ago.  It is fun for a while but makes my back hurt.  It does get your foot away from the hot cylinder.

The question of the day was "Why don't you take off the helmet?  There's no law you know."  Hot as it was, I kept it on.  Even though I was tempted, all I had to do was think about that good ole boy in the RV.  I kept it on.  The whole trip. I took off the face shield, and opened the vents at front and back.

The routine again is:  Roar along the smooth places, but be alert for the stopped traffic piled up before the construction.  I know what I'm doing now, and even though they are backed up for miles and having lunch by their parked cars, I drop down to first gear and putt-putt up to the front of the line.  Why first gear?  Because the little kids are all over the road.  There is no traffic coming because usually the construction zone is one way, and alternating blocks of travelers is all that can get through.  They are actually playing ball and walking their dogs.  So, up to the front I go, and am usually rewarded by the sight of the best looking girl on the construction crew.

Think I'm kidding?  Think about what you would do if you were the construction foreman.  You accomplish two goals with one decision.  First, you get in good with the girl, because that must be the easiest job on the crew.  Second, you keep the waiting traffic well entertained and in complete control.  Nobody argues with a 90 pound blonde in a helmet, waving her little flag in really tight jeans!

The escort pickup leads the opposing traffic up to where I'm parked, at the head of the line.  The escort stops here and waves the traffic on past this point.  There is no hurry, they can only go about 15 mph. and there are hundreds of them.  If it is really dusty, they keep a little distance, but usually are packed bumper to bumper.  When you see the end of the line coming, the little pickup starts up and so does the Sportster.  I follow along, and at the first muddy place I do my fishtail.  Just by (purposefully) sliding around, kicking up mud with the back tire, I make sure who ever is following me keeps well back.  I don't want to take a spill and have them run over me.
 
So it goes to Delta Junction, and I get my first glimpse of the pipeline.  First impression:  minimal impact on the terrain.  It is up in the air, and the countryside looks as normal right near it as it does a mile away.  It is big, and it does go on and on.   The little tourist stop is pretty well done, but every tour bus, RV, car and pickup from the lower 48 is compelled to stop, and so do I.  It one of the few places where the public can go up to the thing, legally.
 

I'm a little confused, in my triplog, as to exactly where this picture is located, but the old engineer in me wants to show you something: 

Life is good.  Fairbanks is still celebrating the Independence Day quite heartily.  I have a snack there, and stock up on provisions, and just cut North on the Elliot Highway.  Why?  Hell, I guess because it goes North!