Coldfoot to Haines Junction, Alaska

South from Coldfoot, pretty far in one page:

A booze shot to fuzz the edge of reality a bit; just enough to let new, spooky possibilities come sneaking in (let 'em).
Don't be afraid.

Hang in there with me folks, going downhill I will pick up speed, and even get cheerful pretty soon. If you really need to know, I'll tell you why they named it "Coldfoot" - but don't spread it around.

As usual, the story begins in a bar. I actually made it to someplace famous, the

Farthest North Saloon in North America, with Readable Walls.

I can't certify that, since that was as far North as I got. As a matter of fact, about the walls... , but I digress.

It is an unimaginably beautiful place in July. They say it is part of the Brooks Range, but depending on which map you read, you get confused about what the Range is and what the Wilderness Area might be for the BLM Ranger's management bonus. They named it Coldfoot back about 1900. The 'stampeders' were charging up the Koyukuk River and got as far as the town originally named Slate Creek. For some reason, those stampeders got COLD FEET and turned around and went home. Guess what? I did too. My fatigue, the distance from Judy, and the further goals for the trip ahead made it reasonable to turn back, but with a wistful note out the exhaust pipes. When I get more time and money, the outfitters and tour guides here seem to be my kind of people. I can't recommend any of them personally, other than they tell good stories and don't mind passing time with an old, dirty Sportster driver. None of them knew that I intend to try one of these internet sites, but if they find this little page: "Thanks for the Tequila!"

My pal Davey warned me that the Griz's will just about jump out from behind every bush, sit on the passenger seat, and spend all afternoon chewing your butt until you get really tired of it. Heading up the road, I really gunned it past Jim River, because the signs warn you about them baars, especially during the July salmon feast. I hoped my Harley could outrun 'um, and it sure did, never saw a one. But some old geezer at the aforementioned cultural center said, if I was to go back, he didn't think they'd get close enough to do harm, taking into account their sensitive olfactory equipment... . He bet me, and backed it up with the appropriate amount of liquid courage. I remembered Davey is an Alaskan too, and quite the authority, but maybe he forgot that, on the back seat, they would be downwind. So now, now heading South on the same road, it was about time to decide the issue. I pulled off, putting all of those 1200 CCs into whisper mode. No food to attract 'em, no .45 Casull to repel 'em, but I was ready. Well, almost. Took a teeny pull on the pull-flask. You do understand, almost an hour since my lesson. It was warm, just a light mist in the air, and even after sitting motionless for half an hour: nothing in sight other than the mosquitoes, one of them carrying a Gold Wing on a trailer. 'Guess the old geezer was right. Even the bugs didn't bite.

Back to reality, and some bad news. These film rolls too are among the missing. Now, those of you scientists out there who continue to make some tenuous connection between the Tequila flow and the missing images, be quiet, Judy might hear something to confuse the issue. It is my theory that I need a new camera. That's my story.

The ride back to Fairbanks was uneventful, passing even my friend the Finger Rock in the fog, and then Fairbanks itself is a breeze. The Harley dealer is hospitable, and the mechanics there are superb. They did the major service, tranny oil and all, and made me believe they steamed my bike just as a matter of courtesy. In retrospect, it was so dirty it probably smelled like me! But they let me clean up, put me on to the best of the local restaurants, and fully fortified, I called ahead to book my passage on a ferry.

Well, not exactly booked. I spoke with the nice lady and she was adamant that I would never get a cabin without a reservation. Very reasonable, since this is the height of the tourist season. I was unsure of my schedule, planning to run my little bike up to the top of Denali, and might have to slow down for the Sherpas on the trail. She tried to dissuade me about that point. I asked, since it was a ferry, if anyone was allowed to sleep in their motorhomes or campers [thinking that, if they didn't leak oil or gas or unmentionables, I could unroll my sleeping bag and get under one]. Absolutely not. She then got really helpful and explained I could take a deck passage and sleep either on a chair out there, or come in on the floor of the theater. Wow. Now, back to schedule. Tough going again until I asked if a bike was the same as a car... . Then, I learned that not only was it cheaper, they could "always find room" for a bike and I shouldn't worry about a reservation, just to show up a little early to learn the rules. Neat.

Leaving Fairbanks, I turned the noise up loud and made great time. I get the feeling that Alaskans are not too worried about the speed laws, having all them Griz's to distract their risk management system. The George Parks highway is just like an LA freeway, and the bike was running swiftly, until the rain and fog hit. Damn, the farther I go, the thicker it gets. The higher I get, the more cold and rain/slippery it goes. I knew that heading for Denali would be a climb, and my 'genuine HD gear did keep me warm, but the rotten truth was I couldn't see more than 1/4 mile, maximum! After Nenana this trend got to be serious. Heck, I got grumpy and pulled off for a meditation and some advice at Tatlinka. I'd had it. Less than 300 miles from an excellent sleep, meal, and tuned bike; here I am bone tired, and unsure of ever seeing the horizon again! Whose the hell idea was this anyway? I find the prediction is for some sad weather conditions. Some big front moving in from the West, and gradually building up to be a show. I didn't need it.
The choice being clear, either blast back to Fairbanks and cut East, or dash down to Cantwell and cut East. Having absolutely no reason than instinct, I pressed South to Cantwell. Bad visibility all the way. I mean, if they tell you there is no way to see something over 20,000 feet high, you conclude it is time to move on. That's the key, I'm actually running out of time. What I could do (what sounds so inviting in my head) is hole up in a cushy/cheap motel, or make a well sheltered camp at a site that's bear-proof, and wait till the storm blows over.
Now, I know what you're saying. Why not just keep going South? Anchorage, by the name of it, must be somewhere near the water. Where there is water, maybe a ferry, and Judy would never know. Well, I have my principles, very little sense, and less money. I remembered the guys at Fairbanks Harley said the road down to Haines is beautiful. I already gave you the clue, but I made my decision after speaking to the nice lady again. Just compare the cost of a ferry ticket from Anchorage to Prince Rupert with one from Anchorage!
South OK, but only to Cantwell. Ugly it was for quite a while.

Believe it or not, the Healy Senior Center is the place to get more and better advice about darned near anything. I met a grand 'old' gent, I wish I was as sharp as he, who figured out my program in an instant. He gave me very simple directions about blasting past the KOA as fast as my junky bike would go. Why the hell do you kids make them so damned loud, nowadays? Serve you right if Judy puts you out. You'll probably wind up here... . Without going into details about going where I shouldn't have been, I found a campsite in the lee of the weather, totally quiet and isolated, and spent a reborative several hours with my own thoughts; plus Norwegian Sild sardines, premium pack mixed nuts, and buttermilk. Ah, the pillars of sustenance, less than 50% peanuts! I didn't even need the tent, nor the sleeping bag, I just kept the rain suit at hand because I was remembering Fargo.
Thanks, old man.

About 20 miles before the park entrance to Denali is when I hit snow. Stating to creep in from the hills on the side of the road, the shoulders getting sloppy, and finally slush when the road is shady in the curves. Take it easy, still can't see over half a mile, so no worries about sliding to a stop just to take pictures. Traffic is extremely courteous. I have more tourist traps to pause for gas, warmth, and just mental breaks than I need. Some other folks, in an expensive SUV, are pressed for time and giving up on the park tour. Just like me.

Driving here is trance-like. It takes total concentration to keep my bald head and balding tires in the proper vertical alignment. To dump it now would not be any fun, the road drop-offs are steep in places, terrifying in others, and my face shield gets grimy with the spray. You can't really scrub it, the grit will grind it like sandpaper. What to do is hope for a nice wet spell, which washes it, or a nice straight section, since going fast blows it clean. Real scientific. There was one lodge where my main motive was to use the restroom, hand soap and water to clean the lexan, and nice soft toilet paper to dry it without scratching. Ah, luxury. I had to reward the place by leaving the barkeep a nice tip.

Someone overheard me whining about my cheap-ass Nikon, and the trouble with the rewind sprocket, and he asked to have a look. I really didn't want to dig it out of the big duffel bag (out in the sleet), but we continued to talk, and he insisted that if there was ANY break in the visibility, to go to his favorite landscape place. He even drew me a map, which I later lost on the ferry, but it just so happened I needed a rest exactly when I saw his landmark. He was about 22, his wife about 32, and he did stock photography as a sideline for their other jobs. Many people I met had three or even four means of support, none of which were full time, but serving to keep the averages up. His trail to the lookout would have made a nice frame of the valley, but I only knew it was there mentally, certainly not visually, since now the fog is mixing with the drizzly flaky snow. Maybe he was trying to kill off his competition, because the rocks were really slippery, but I'm sure he meant well after all.

No, you can't beat fun. Some people like to play chess. I really love to ride a great bike, on a challenging trip, and owning it forever. The doing it is the thing. Even writing these words gives me a chill. That damn thumpity bike started on half a crank of the engine, I let it warm my hands up on the fins, and started singing my old mantra. The beat is a little off, my having composed it for a Royal Enfield, which everybody knows can't put out any rhythm. Me and Jerry tried to tune it to idle real slow, maybe that made it hard to start, but it sounded cool. Who cares, I can't carry a tune anyway, let alone keep the beat. I'm sorry you don't have any pictures, and that I can't get the ones I have in my head out to you in these words. Hah, no I'm not, I lied. Forgive me.

The mantra worked. You see, sliding on snow is good for the soul. You want to do it purposefully every once in a while to keep your reflexes in tune with the swoop of the back end when you feel it skid out. You can't tense up, or it won't be smooth. I do it when there is gravel, sand, snow --- but never on ice. I'm not that good. Recently, I put some wet leaves in the last category, but that's another story. My mantra is just a dull, low, repetitious phrase of very few notes. If I can keep it going, even through a few taps on the back brake brody up to a sideways slide to a stop, it works. Try it too when just pulling a gear. Let the torque roll on and off, squirt some slush up in a rooster tail, and hum steadily. The turnoff at Cantwell is coming. Be ready. Listen to the hum in your head, the pipes sound fine by themselves.

Gravel, a little warmer so it's rain, steady. The Denali Highway between Cantwell and Paxson is only 135 miles, but only the last five are paved. Hooee, I thought I was all done with that after the Dempster Dumpster. Who knew? In very few miles, it's warmer still. Hell, the further East I go, it is breaking out into sun, and the gravel is drying up. Now, I have some serious crust on the bike, including the cooling fins. I rest at a mountain top, take off several layers of clothes, and just stuff my rain suit in the ropes where I can get at it handy. This is nice, and I make a gleeful note in my little book that I am putting my sunglasses on. Again, I'm sure my mantra hooked a hunk of my karma and rewarded me for keeping the 'Enfield in tune as best I could. Which reminds me, before I take off, I clean the fins and get righteous checking all manner of things on the bike. I know, the Fairbanks mechanics are better than my poor talents, but this gravel is bumpy as hell and it never hurts to stay 'as one' with the condition of a bike. That sun is up there. Wow, what a change.

Less than ten minutes later, I saw a moose real close to the road. Luckily, the beast was at the rise of the next hill, and I was able to slow to a stop with no excitement whatsoever. Why am I all tense? He just acts disinterested and walks slowly over the ridge. Hell, now I'm bad. Where's my old .45/70 Marlin when I need it?
Man, if he only knew. I have such an adrenaline debt that the moose population owes me, they wouldn't believe.
You bet I kept a sharp watch when I passed that point in the road, and made the old bike rumble off the rocks across the canyon.

A few more cycles of warmth, some drizzle and some rain, but nothing to be concerned about. The clear points are awesome. Cruising is easy, and mark this well, sometimes it gets hot. Egads, the signs say on a clear day you can see McKinley. Looking at what I am sure is that direction, all I can see is clouds that are bluish gray. I'm in the sun, and happy about it. My jacket is unzipped, just jeans below, and my boot laces are all unloosed. The road is actually getting dusty.

Paxson comes up real easy, paved road and all. Now, I'm heading for Tok. I stop to check because I have put myself at the middle of one side of a triangle, and my next destination is the point at the other side. I can go North, up to Delta Junction, or South down to Gakona Junction. Both have good highways heading my way. I remember the Alaskan Highway from Delta Junction to Tok, but I need to check out the conditions if I choose the other way, and go from Gakona to Tok. Heck, it turns out to be an easy choice. They say there is more construction going the Southern way, and the rain is also down there. Done deal. Take off.

Back following the pipeline again. I learned something from this couple on a Gold Wing. He's an engineer and I commented about the zigzag angles in the pipeline used to accommodate thermal expansion. He says: Ever think about an earthquake? If it is all long and straight, it will buckle and/or pull apart in the movement. If you put the bends in it, it moves easier and doesn't break.
This is cool, road is great. There is Summit Lake on the left, sparkling in the West, and soon up comes a couple of glimpses of a big glacier on the right. Occasional clouds and a rare touch of mist. I'm pushing a little to ensure I make good time while the weather holds, and only slow down or stop briefly when the vistas come up. Dave warned me about scenery burnout, and I wonder if the glory and exultation has worn off. No, I conclude, I just need to do the miles at a steady pace. I make mental note of one thing, a very obvious place where they buried the pipeline so that the damn moose can migrate without a care. Sure, help 'em. I get a glint in my eye and remember how moose meat tastes sweeter and more tender than beef. Yup, I like 'em. Like them a lot.

I rip through the junction and am back on the Alaskan Highway before I know it. I'm a peeping Tom techie with x-ray eyes. The traffic is dense again, but when we get let loose, the whole herd kicks it up to a thundering pace. I get in with the thrill of speed; the future's so bright, I gotta wear shades. Besides, I'm hooking South East and the sun's low in the sky. Delta Junction to Tok is just construction, speed, gravel and dust. I'm so happy, and going so fast. Serious miles but not much MPG to brag about. Maybe all the bugs are spoiling my smooth, streamlined finish.
So I slam into Tok with quite an impact. Tired, buzzed with noise and just a little vibration, I wait to get on the other side before I stop to rest. No, I didn't stop for another salmon bake. Had I been able to average about 150 MPH, I would have cut North to see my old buddy in Chicken, just up the road, and find out how the big miner's party turned out. Nah, he can get along without me. So the cut off for the Top of the World Highway was just a moment to grin and remember, at least I gunned the pipes in his honor. Beyond that point, I'm back on a road never seen before, and what more could I want?

I slow down to a more moderate pace. Wandering around a bit, up comes a really nice establishment of some kind. There are pickups in front, with local women filling huge water drums from a hose. I see groceries in the window and a sign for laundry. I'm thinking how lucky I am. I have a little snack while I'm waiting for the washing machine. Now, these ladies are close to my age, and are amused at me darting in and out of the restroom to put my dirty stuff in the load. As soon as my junk hits the dryer, I jump in the pay shower. I go real fast, because I only have a few quarters, and I think all the hot water must be going to the washing machines.

While relaxing on the front deck, watching the wind blow, I inhale the fine scent of a good flask of Tequila, and the finer lack of scent from my carcass. A couple of bikes roll up from the other way. They say it’s hot, dusty, and construction for the next 55 miles at least. Why am I getting so clean? If feels great, that's why. I figure the sun will get lower pretty soon, and press on to take my chances.

I didn’t get too good of advice from those two bikers. I went cooking over the road they had just come down, and had only a ½ hour of good running. Then rain and construction mud hit hard at the same time, about 9 p.m. I drive in it, to make sure I get to Canada before the border closes. I make it OK. Here comes the roadblock... .
I'm staying at the back of the line, just watching. I have the engine off and hear staccato voices ahead. The guards thoroughly search the RV and the pickup/boat in front of me. I sit in the rain, looking miserable. They guy walks back to me and just waves me through the whole deal. He didn’t even want to talk. He seemed to be in a really bad mood, but just when I eased out the clutch, he gives me this grin and a twinkle in his eye, and I figured he ain't all bad. Probably in the training manual somewhere.
I stop for gas, talked to two more bikers riding double, who are sharing a detached cabin/room for $60 Canadian. The owner and her son serve up some excellent bean soup, sour dough bread, a blueberry thing and the coffee. After they close down the cash register for the night, I talk the “Mike” kid into letting me have a room for about $22 Canadian. I am off the lobby of the main place, with the big TV, tapes, the best shower; and those bikers are off in a cabin, cramped and sharing a stinky shower in a utility building farther down the row. Next morning, I get up really early and find 'Mom just setting out coffee and eggs for her boy. I'm invited to sit up, no mention of a bill. I make sure to drop $15 American just to keep up the spirit. I clean up the room, including the bathroom really good and take my leave.

Somewhere between 20 minutes and an hour after above, I'm doing about 60 in light rain on a nice paved road. There are big swoopy curves, with some straight sections between. No construction.

Bike by River & Dirt Needing some time to compose my thoughts, I rest a bit near the Donjek River. Down there by the sandy bank, the flow is just as gray and sandy as it looks from here. I just leaned up against one of those rocks and felt lucky to have nothing more than sore arms and a story to tell. See, about the only clean place on the bike is where my leg keeps the air cleaner polished, and of course the fork wipers have to scrape off the mud. From the looks of the shiny tubes, I was getting close to bottoming out my suspension, even in the "light" front end.
A little further on, Bike on ruts & Mountains I needed needed another break and took this little side trip.

Do I need to explain? Feeling sorry for yourself just does not last long up here. I was feeling stiff, from riding nervous, and just walked through the cool woods in the shade.

No wind, no animals, not thirsty or hungry, but whatever need I had was satisfied just up and to the left in the quiet trees. I found some peace there, and it truly leaves me without words to relate. Someday, when I'm even older and can communicate better, I'll try to put it into words. Until then, if you want to wait, just keep looking at this picture and it might come to you without even needing me.

I was, somehow, not anticipating a big stop at Destruction Bay [maybe it was the name], but may I tell you the lack of pictures of Kluane Lake are due only to my growing fatigue, my anxious need to make some more miles to rendezvous with my ferry boat, and that dusk was falling with the sort of challenging light conditions I would have screwed up mightily had I stopped and tried to capture it.

It is flat spectacular, the largest lake in the Yukon, and we both ought to go back and do it justice!

We take the Haines Highway, a mere 150 miles down to the ocean, all in traffic as sparse as can be expected for the main artery in the middle of tourist season. Haines Junction was a welcome food, gas, and rest. Correction, gas only in town. I had trout a little further on, it was from Kathleen Lake; water from the glaciers, cooking from an artist in a chef's hat in a campsite. I have no idea who gave them the idea, but this guy could fish and cook fish! His boy, about nine or so, came sliding over to look at the bike and I answered a couple of questions. Next thing you know, his dad sent him back with an ice cold beer and an invitation to a light supper. Well, not having keyed the tin of sardines quite yet, I decided to be sociable for once, just until the beer warmed up enough to drink (those of you who know me need no explanations). My trout was a big old fella, and had been caught that afternoon. My my my. I had planned to get to bed early, but we started watching the fire and swapping lies (he was a fisherman, you know), and when I went back to my little campsite, I just stretched out on the ground and gambled that it wouldn't rain.

Guess what, I slept late next morning. That grass was as soft as a bed, and after my hands loosened up, I was ready to get moving. The fisherman had gone early, his camp was still there, but maybe we depleted his catch enough that he needed to go get some more.

I checked over the bike again, no errant bits getting loose, so I figured it's time to go on. Again, my nerves made me start slowly, and check how she enters the curves. No change in handling from the beating I gave it {look how, now, I gave it the beating rather than it slamming the hell out of me!}. The big lumpy engine sounds even quite happy to be chugging over the historic trail. Everybody has heard of the Chilkoot and the Chilkat Passes, where the Tlingit natives were there from prehistory, and the goofy gold rushers had to carry their kit up the long hill. Heck, my bike made it seem like going downhill. Guess what? It was! Ha.

So you go from the Yukon, through British Columbia, and within minutes it seems you hit Alaska again. No wonder I get lost. Nah, there is only one main road. I had a quick sandwich at Mosquito Lake and rolled on in, --

-- to Haines:
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