First off, I would like to thank you for the exceptional feedback I've received on the Alaska Series. It is a great feeling to know that these articles are so well received, especially since they are not always written in the most ideal of circumstances. For example, right now I am writing this on my laptop from the seat of a tractor while unloading wagons of corn silage. My hands are dirty, leaving little brown streaks on the keypad as I type. What a contrast to the feeling of relaxed isolation on the Alaska motorcycle trip.
At least, until now. That relaxed, "easy rider" feeling was quickly diminished as soon as we turned south of Fairbanks. Highway 3 from Fairbanks to Anchorage looks scenic, enjoyable, and short - perhaps three hours tops. Highway 3 turned out to be anything but (and, as we soon discovered, it is 360 miles from Fairbanks to Anchorage - no easy, relaxed afternoon stint.) At this point, it is worth mentioning that of all the roads we traveled, paved or otherwise, of all the miles we clocked and distance covered, that 360-mile stretch of pavement that connects Fairbanks to Anchorage was the most stressful, dangerous, and frightening experience of the entire trip.
On that drive, a cold and dreary overcast sky suddenly let loose with a constant drizzle. The road itself was gritty and unpredictable, with frequent stops at small towns and construction zones. But worse was the vehicular traffic. Here were tourists in rented campers and RVs, taking their sweet time and suddenly slamming on brakes to snap a fleeting shot of a moose. Then there were the impatient locals, zipping between lanes and cutting off drivers, and in more than one instance nearly taking out a motorcyclist. Of all the miles I have ever put on a bike, this route past Denali with the gaggle of human tourists was by far the most nerve-racking.
Then, without warning, we were there. The Glenn Highway had been a normal interstate for miles, with billboards, fast food, and green exit signs. Then at Anchorage, it simply ended. One second we were pacing with traffic at 80 mph, the next we were stopped at a traffic light on 5th Avenue, waiting for pedestrians to meander across the street. I had to laugh - this felt like the end of the line, because it was. There was nowhere else for the Glenn Highway to go, no reason to continue. Anchorage was the end of the line, and without a boat or airplane, you could not go anywhere else even if you wanted.
I cannot tell you how good it felt to be in Anchorage. Dad, Dave, Stewbert and I pulled into the parking lot of Duke's 8th Avenue Hotel, our place of residence for the next five days. I was as in need of a hot shower and soft bed, as our KLRs were for an oil change, clean air filter, and pressure washer. We parked our motorcycles and unloaded, stretching out and feeling great to finally be in one place for while.
It is worth pointing out that I happened upon Duke's 8th Avenue Hotel by accident while searching online for a place to stay while in Anchorage. Whereas most hotels were upwards of $300 per night, Duke's was half that price, for one and two-bedroom apartments with private kitchen and bath. The place was clean, well-furnished, and the staff polite - the manager welcomed me at the door. I mention this because I literally spent a week searching for an Anchorage domicile, and aside from being incredibly affordable, Duke's exceeded our every expectation (plus, it was walking distance from everything). So if you are ever in Anchorage, check it out.
Of course, I also liked Duke's because Ashley was there waiting for me. Upon learning of my planned Alaska motorcycle trip, my wife Ashley, her friend Peggy, along with my sister and brother-in-law planned a week-long trip to coincide with ours. So, aside from having the opportunity to stay in one place for a while, we also enjoyed great company. Without further ado, we decided to check out Anchorage.
On the surface, you could be in a miniature version of Chicago or New York (but don't ever tell that to an Alaska native.) The city is tall, metropolitan, and friendly. It smells of a thousand restaurants and cafes, with the salty air of the ocean never far away. People enjoying outdoor seating add an amiable chatter, and the streets are easy to navigate. Public transportation is not necessary; everything worth visiting is within walking distance.
Having met Ashley and company, we now had ourselves a formidable group, eight total, making it slightly difficult to find spur-of-the-moment restaurant seating. We finally settled upon an open-air seafood market, and for not the first time in my life, I genuinely had trouble figuring out what to order. After 10 days on the road, everything sounded good; steak, halibut, crab, fresh salmon - good thing I had five days to try them all. I ordered the Alaskan king crab, and forget everything you have ever heard about fresh Alaskan king crab - it's way better. Dipped in drawn butter and consumed delicately (albeit messily), fresh Alaskan king crab is heaven.
The sun went down, but it didn't get dark in Anchorage. Surrounded by great company, excellent food, and local-brewed beer, I couldn't have been happier. In fact, as I sit here unloading corn silage from the tractor seat, I can't help but reminisce about the trip.
Kind of makes everything worth it, doesn't it?
- Dan Wegmueller can be reached at wegs@tds.net
At least, until now. That relaxed, "easy rider" feeling was quickly diminished as soon as we turned south of Fairbanks. Highway 3 from Fairbanks to Anchorage looks scenic, enjoyable, and short - perhaps three hours tops. Highway 3 turned out to be anything but (and, as we soon discovered, it is 360 miles from Fairbanks to Anchorage - no easy, relaxed afternoon stint.) At this point, it is worth mentioning that of all the roads we traveled, paved or otherwise, of all the miles we clocked and distance covered, that 360-mile stretch of pavement that connects Fairbanks to Anchorage was the most stressful, dangerous, and frightening experience of the entire trip.
On that drive, a cold and dreary overcast sky suddenly let loose with a constant drizzle. The road itself was gritty and unpredictable, with frequent stops at small towns and construction zones. But worse was the vehicular traffic. Here were tourists in rented campers and RVs, taking their sweet time and suddenly slamming on brakes to snap a fleeting shot of a moose. Then there were the impatient locals, zipping between lanes and cutting off drivers, and in more than one instance nearly taking out a motorcyclist. Of all the miles I have ever put on a bike, this route past Denali with the gaggle of human tourists was by far the most nerve-racking.
Then, without warning, we were there. The Glenn Highway had been a normal interstate for miles, with billboards, fast food, and green exit signs. Then at Anchorage, it simply ended. One second we were pacing with traffic at 80 mph, the next we were stopped at a traffic light on 5th Avenue, waiting for pedestrians to meander across the street. I had to laugh - this felt like the end of the line, because it was. There was nowhere else for the Glenn Highway to go, no reason to continue. Anchorage was the end of the line, and without a boat or airplane, you could not go anywhere else even if you wanted.
I cannot tell you how good it felt to be in Anchorage. Dad, Dave, Stewbert and I pulled into the parking lot of Duke's 8th Avenue Hotel, our place of residence for the next five days. I was as in need of a hot shower and soft bed, as our KLRs were for an oil change, clean air filter, and pressure washer. We parked our motorcycles and unloaded, stretching out and feeling great to finally be in one place for while.
It is worth pointing out that I happened upon Duke's 8th Avenue Hotel by accident while searching online for a place to stay while in Anchorage. Whereas most hotels were upwards of $300 per night, Duke's was half that price, for one and two-bedroom apartments with private kitchen and bath. The place was clean, well-furnished, and the staff polite - the manager welcomed me at the door. I mention this because I literally spent a week searching for an Anchorage domicile, and aside from being incredibly affordable, Duke's exceeded our every expectation (plus, it was walking distance from everything). So if you are ever in Anchorage, check it out.
Of course, I also liked Duke's because Ashley was there waiting for me. Upon learning of my planned Alaska motorcycle trip, my wife Ashley, her friend Peggy, along with my sister and brother-in-law planned a week-long trip to coincide with ours. So, aside from having the opportunity to stay in one place for a while, we also enjoyed great company. Without further ado, we decided to check out Anchorage.
On the surface, you could be in a miniature version of Chicago or New York (but don't ever tell that to an Alaska native.) The city is tall, metropolitan, and friendly. It smells of a thousand restaurants and cafes, with the salty air of the ocean never far away. People enjoying outdoor seating add an amiable chatter, and the streets are easy to navigate. Public transportation is not necessary; everything worth visiting is within walking distance.
Having met Ashley and company, we now had ourselves a formidable group, eight total, making it slightly difficult to find spur-of-the-moment restaurant seating. We finally settled upon an open-air seafood market, and for not the first time in my life, I genuinely had trouble figuring out what to order. After 10 days on the road, everything sounded good; steak, halibut, crab, fresh salmon - good thing I had five days to try them all. I ordered the Alaskan king crab, and forget everything you have ever heard about fresh Alaskan king crab - it's way better. Dipped in drawn butter and consumed delicately (albeit messily), fresh Alaskan king crab is heaven.
The sun went down, but it didn't get dark in Anchorage. Surrounded by great company, excellent food, and local-brewed beer, I couldn't have been happier. In fact, as I sit here unloading corn silage from the tractor seat, I can't help but reminisce about the trip.
Kind of makes everything worth it, doesn't it?
- Dan Wegmueller can be reached at wegs@tds.net
