My initial impression of The Alaska Highway is that it is quite smooth. Given the lore surrounding this 1,422-mile stretch of tarmac in the North of North America, I’ve been expecting a semi-paved track with massive cracks and heaves and craters caused by 90-degree temperature swings and massive trucks with equally massive tires that continuously chew it up. That’s not the case here, though, on the section that leads out of Dawson Creek.
Last original bridge of the highway.
The beginning of the bridge is fast approaching; and I try to stay calm.
“Stand up,” a voice inside is saying. “That’s what you learned in the off-roading course.”
“That can’t be reasonable,” another contradicts. “Who stands up on a motorcycle while riding? This isn’t acrobatics, man; you’re going over a steel bridge!”
“Stand up! Stand up!” the first voice is now shouting.
“Remain in your seat!” counters the other one.
“Stand!”
“Sit!”
“Use the force Luke!” Wait — what?
Aaaaaaiiiieeee!!!!!
Suddenly, I am on the bridge, standing up on my bike, feet planted firmly on the foot pegs; hands braced on the handlebars, fingers balancing throttle, clutch and brake. The wheels begin to jut back-and-forth. And… that’s about it. I am in full control. The technique works just as well as it did at the training I took just a few days earlier in Calgary. In fact, I feel comfortable enough to use my temporary height gain to gaze out at the beauty of The Peace River below.
To the trucker behind, I bet this all looks planned; as if I’ve been doing it for years. ‘Course he (or she) might wonder a bit at the “Yeeeeeee-hah-hah-ha-ha-ha-hhhhhaaaaaaaa!!!!!” that explodes from my helmet as I reach the other side (my ears are ringing).
A little further up the road, I stop to top off the fuel; and take in some Gatorade, coffee and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups — the latter items being necessary because, in my haste to get started on The Highway this morning, I hadn’t eaten much; and my glucose level is dropping. A bicycle is parked out front; and, as I am curious what sort of person decides to ride a bicycle to Alaska, I strike up a conversation with its owner, Julie The Cyclist.
Julie started pedaling in Connecticut earlier this year; and, like me, is heading to Fairbanks. Very down-to-earth, Julie is; and tolerant of my curiosity (who rides a bicycle from the North-Eastern US to Alaska?). Truth be told, pretty-much everyone I’ve met on The Highway so far has been rather groovy; but Julie is moreso. We chat for a bit about the important stuff in life like what’s real and what’s not but tries to be and sometimes thinks it is. Then, we’re off again–she on her ride and I on mine. So, why was she riding all this way? “It’s just something I felt like doing,” she told me. Huh. Interesting perspective. Who says we need to have a reason for doing what we do? Very Zen.
Here‘s a link to Julie’s Facebook page.
Ceiling at Toad River Restaurant
My target destination for today had been the provincial park at The Liard River Hot Springs. A veteran rider I met at a coffee shop in Dawson Creek and who has ridden The Alaska Highway several times over suggested it would be just the thing to soak road-weary bones after a day of riding.
However, it’s already 7 p.m. by the time I stop for fuel at the Toad River RV Park / Campground / Restaurant / Gas Station, about an hour South of Liard River; and I realize I have a serious case of road head. I am in a daze from being in the saddle too long; and pushing on further would be a risk — not only to Gunther and myself; but to the entire trip should either of us be laid up for any significant amount of time should things go awry. I waffle back and forth mentally as to whether to stay or go while I wait in line at the pumps for three riders ahead of me to finish filling their tanks with that precious petroleum commodity found only sporadically on this mostly-desolate highway.
A partial remedy for road head is to begin talking to someone — anyone – as it kind-of forces you “outside” yourself. So, with Gunther refuelled, I wander over to where the other riders are discussing their next route and cajoling about the miles that have been.
Now, there’s a kind of camaraderie amongst riders on The Highway. I mean, there is off The Highway, too; but it is compounded up here by the connection that exists amongst everyone travelling this road — rider / trucker / RV driver / cyclist / walker. People look out for each other. There’s just so much that can go wrong in the sometimes hundreds of miles between any sign of civilization, that a sort-of solidarity kicks in; and you share with one another—you share tools; you share spares; you share tips and stories from the road.
And so it is as I join the others. Turns out they are heading South; and have just come down the road from Liard River. That stretch of The Highway is a beauty, they report–lots of twists through the mountains; but watch out for loose gravel on some of the switchbacks; and stone sheep wandering around in the middle of the road (yes; that’s stone sheep; not stoned sheep).
That settles it. Continuing on today would be a waste of a good ride because, in my current state, I would be dialled in on making it to my destination rather than enjoying the ride. And loose gravel? And sheep in the road? Nah — not worth it.
Which is how I find myself pitching my tent at The Toad River Campground – an oasis in the mountains as it turns out.
Interestingly, despite the name, this place has got nothing to do with toads. See, back in the day, traffic crossed the river by means of a ferry that was pulled across by a rope; that is, it was towed. The river became known as the river where you get towed across — or the towed river. Get it? Ribbit.
Next stop: The Liard River Hot Springs.