Editor's note: This is the sixth installment of columnist's Dan Wegmueller's series on his recent motorcycle trip to Alaska.
I don't mean to dwell on Prudhoe Bay, but it really was the purpose of everything. Riding to Prudhoe Bay, Alaska was the reason I took three weeks off work. It was the reason my dad, brother Dave, friend Stewbert and I each bought our own Kawasaki KLR 650 motorcycle. So needless to say, we were a little disappointed when we finally arrived and realized that, in order to actually visit the Arctic Ocean, we had to sign up for a guided tour. And submit to a background check. And, the only tours were at 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. By now we had clocked roughly 4,000 miles, ridden through rain and fatigue, chipped through hundreds of miles of calcite, only to be stopped a mere stone's throw from the Arctic Ocean.
Well, I suppose we could have just bit the bullet and joined a tour, but the whole thing just seemed wrong, and totally un-American. So, amidst the industrial jungle of Prudhoe Bay, dad, Dave, Stewbert and I lined up along a lazy little drainage canal, snapped a few pictures, and reloaded. The thought was not lost on me, that we were now halfway through our journey.
We turned south for the first time the entire trip. As we did so, I took note of our surroundings. As I pointed out last week, the only reason Prudhoe Bay exists, is oil. The buildings, trucks, airport, manicured gravel roads, and road signs add a kind of civilized feel to an otherwise barren wasteland. As we left the refinery, we were thrust back out into that wasteland.
A typical geology textbook features well-defined ecosystems, each clearly indicated by latitude on a map. These ecosystems seem to have clearly established borders, where one ends and the other begins. I never realized just how starkly these systems contrast, until my southbound trip from Prudhoe Bay to Fairbanks.
Beginning at the ocean, we rode through 60 miles of Arctic Tundra. It is impossible to imagine a more barren, desolate location. Sure, the refinery added a mute sense of civilization, but the sheer magnitude of isolation was intense. I felt as though we could not get out fast enough, such was the enormity of the nothingness.
Then, suddenly, the ground began to rise a little. We were now in the foothills, obviously clear of the tundra. Directly ahead, mountains. The Dalton Highway snaked its way through the valley, sheer stone cliffs jutting thousands of feet high to either side. The air felt fresh, the mid-afternoon sun warm, and the road predictable. We were absolutely the only vehicles on the road, and I felt my bike wander between both lanes as I craned my neck to take in the views. I remember thinking, as the KLR floated along, that this is what heaven must be like.
Just as suddenly, we were in the mountains. Ever see Discovery Channel's "Ice Road Truckers"? (If you have not, don't bother - the show is awful). The mountain pass south of Prudhoe Bay was exactly what we took. Just as indicated, the "road" (term used lightly) wound, twisted and reversed back on itself without the inconvenience of guardrails, centerlines, or steep grade warnings. There was no vegetation here, just sheer rock cliffs. Additionally, the road was coated with a fine grit that erased what little traction it may have provided. According to Dave's GPS, we gained 4,000 feet at the summit. Still, the bikes performed beautifully.
Coming out of the mountains, we entered yet another ecosystem. The landscape was carpeted with short, scrubby boreal pine, which gleaned what little life they could from Alaska's short growing season. Now the road traveled straight, putting the excitement of the mountain pass and dreaded tundra safely in the rearview mirror.
Our next destination was Anchorage; we would be staying in one spot for several nights, for the first time since our departure. As fantastic as the Arctic had been, I was looking forward to four consecutive nights in one spot, a hot shower, good food, and of course, my wife was waiting there for us. The gravel road turned back to pavement, and then multi-lane, complete with fast food and Walmart. As we rolled toward Anchorage, I reflected on one final observation:
Along the Dalton Highway, we passed through Arctic Tundra, foothills, mountains and boreal pine. Although we did not personally see them, herds of caribou roam wild, in numbers exceeding 10,000. Each of these systems, and the life they support, must exist and flourish within a pathetically short period of time. During our brief stay it was sunny, hot and we enjoyed 24 hours of daylight. In just a few short months, the opposite would occur: 24 hours of dark, with bitter cold and suffocating snow.
Along the Dalton Highway, the views were paralyzingly stunning. Where plants grew, even as far north as Prudhoe, they burst forth in phosphorescent green. Wildflowers splattered different colors throughout, in a vibrancy that eludes warmer climates. This is what I meant by heaven - the air was fresh, the colors ecstatic and the mountains high. It seems as though the more fragile something is, the more beautiful it becomes.
Although I was looking forward to Anchorage, and everything that goes with visiting a large city, the contrast between life along the Dalton and life along the Interstate could not have been more austere.
I don't mean to dwell on Prudhoe Bay, but it really was the purpose of everything. Riding to Prudhoe Bay, Alaska was the reason I took three weeks off work. It was the reason my dad, brother Dave, friend Stewbert and I each bought our own Kawasaki KLR 650 motorcycle. So needless to say, we were a little disappointed when we finally arrived and realized that, in order to actually visit the Arctic Ocean, we had to sign up for a guided tour. And submit to a background check. And, the only tours were at 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. By now we had clocked roughly 4,000 miles, ridden through rain and fatigue, chipped through hundreds of miles of calcite, only to be stopped a mere stone's throw from the Arctic Ocean.
Well, I suppose we could have just bit the bullet and joined a tour, but the whole thing just seemed wrong, and totally un-American. So, amidst the industrial jungle of Prudhoe Bay, dad, Dave, Stewbert and I lined up along a lazy little drainage canal, snapped a few pictures, and reloaded. The thought was not lost on me, that we were now halfway through our journey.
We turned south for the first time the entire trip. As we did so, I took note of our surroundings. As I pointed out last week, the only reason Prudhoe Bay exists, is oil. The buildings, trucks, airport, manicured gravel roads, and road signs add a kind of civilized feel to an otherwise barren wasteland. As we left the refinery, we were thrust back out into that wasteland.
A typical geology textbook features well-defined ecosystems, each clearly indicated by latitude on a map. These ecosystems seem to have clearly established borders, where one ends and the other begins. I never realized just how starkly these systems contrast, until my southbound trip from Prudhoe Bay to Fairbanks.
Beginning at the ocean, we rode through 60 miles of Arctic Tundra. It is impossible to imagine a more barren, desolate location. Sure, the refinery added a mute sense of civilization, but the sheer magnitude of isolation was intense. I felt as though we could not get out fast enough, such was the enormity of the nothingness.
Then, suddenly, the ground began to rise a little. We were now in the foothills, obviously clear of the tundra. Directly ahead, mountains. The Dalton Highway snaked its way through the valley, sheer stone cliffs jutting thousands of feet high to either side. The air felt fresh, the mid-afternoon sun warm, and the road predictable. We were absolutely the only vehicles on the road, and I felt my bike wander between both lanes as I craned my neck to take in the views. I remember thinking, as the KLR floated along, that this is what heaven must be like.
Just as suddenly, we were in the mountains. Ever see Discovery Channel's "Ice Road Truckers"? (If you have not, don't bother - the show is awful). The mountain pass south of Prudhoe Bay was exactly what we took. Just as indicated, the "road" (term used lightly) wound, twisted and reversed back on itself without the inconvenience of guardrails, centerlines, or steep grade warnings. There was no vegetation here, just sheer rock cliffs. Additionally, the road was coated with a fine grit that erased what little traction it may have provided. According to Dave's GPS, we gained 4,000 feet at the summit. Still, the bikes performed beautifully.
Coming out of the mountains, we entered yet another ecosystem. The landscape was carpeted with short, scrubby boreal pine, which gleaned what little life they could from Alaska's short growing season. Now the road traveled straight, putting the excitement of the mountain pass and dreaded tundra safely in the rearview mirror.
Our next destination was Anchorage; we would be staying in one spot for several nights, for the first time since our departure. As fantastic as the Arctic had been, I was looking forward to four consecutive nights in one spot, a hot shower, good food, and of course, my wife was waiting there for us. The gravel road turned back to pavement, and then multi-lane, complete with fast food and Walmart. As we rolled toward Anchorage, I reflected on one final observation:
Along the Dalton Highway, we passed through Arctic Tundra, foothills, mountains and boreal pine. Although we did not personally see them, herds of caribou roam wild, in numbers exceeding 10,000. Each of these systems, and the life they support, must exist and flourish within a pathetically short period of time. During our brief stay it was sunny, hot and we enjoyed 24 hours of daylight. In just a few short months, the opposite would occur: 24 hours of dark, with bitter cold and suffocating snow.
Along the Dalton Highway, the views were paralyzingly stunning. Where plants grew, even as far north as Prudhoe, they burst forth in phosphorescent green. Wildflowers splattered different colors throughout, in a vibrancy that eludes warmer climates. This is what I meant by heaven - the air was fresh, the colors ecstatic and the mountains high. It seems as though the more fragile something is, the more beautiful it becomes.
Although I was looking forward to Anchorage, and everything that goes with visiting a large city, the contrast between life along the Dalton and life along the Interstate could not have been more austere.
