Editor's note: This is the fourth installment of columnist's Dan Wegmueller's series on his recent motorcycle trip to Alaska.
After 2,500 miles and four days on the road, we were finally reaching the best parts of the trip. Let me tell you, camping adds a totally new dimension to a cross-country motorcycle journey. This was the much-anticipated highlight of our Alaska trip: pitching a tent, cooking supper over a fire, and having positively nothing to do with human civilization. British Columbia finally allowed us to do just that. But first, a little background.
Dad, Dave, Stewbert and I had planned on riding our Kawasaki KLR 650 motorcycles to Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. Along the Dalton "Highway" (term used lightly), fuel stops can be 200-plus miles apart, home comforts sparse or nonexistent. From the onset we had planned on packing outdoor gear, carrying our own food, and at least having the short-term ability to live on our own. After all, in the case of inclement weather or the highly unlikely scenario of a mechanical breakdown (we were riding Kawasakis, after all), the ability to stop along the road and spend the night could literally save our lives. Besides that, who wouldn't want to camp in northern Canada and Alaska?
To say the least, this desire turned out to be a bit of a logistical challenge. Four guys each riding a motorcycle divvied up the following gear: two tents, four sleeping bags and air mattresses, a cook stove, eating utensils, bug repellent, bear spray, water, freeze-dried food, spare tire tubes, tire repair kit, tool kit, spare parts, fishing gear, hatchet/knives, fire starters, flashlights, and a water purification kit. All of this, in addition to each man's personal clothing, waterproof gear and thermals. Weighted down with 60-plus pounds of accouterments each, we could still push 50 miles per gallon on the KLR's, meaning we could, in optimal conditions, travel more than 300 hundred miles on a single fill-up. Needless to say, we carried spare water, not fuel.
Let me contrast our entourage with a sight just east of Edmonton. I shrieked out loud when I saw it, my eyes bugged, and I pointed hysterically. There, driving down the road was a full-size, fully loaded RV camper. This monstrosity was towing a full-sized Dodge Ram, which was pulling a boat. At this point can you even call it "camping"?
So anyway, just east of Watson Lake, we decided to camp. This consisted of taking our bikes off-road via a gravel ATV trail, up an embankment, and into a natural clearing in the trees. This was scenic, relaxing, and tranquil in every degree; this was the long-awaited highlight of our Alaska trip. Dad, Dave and Stewbert set up camp while I cooked dinner. Don't get too impressed - dinner mainly consisted of boiling water mixed into freeze-dried meals, simple and quite delicious, actually. As the others built a fire, I sat to write in my journal.
Have you ever allowed yourself to be completely unplugged? Although we were by no means roughing it, I was quite invigorated to know that I was completely unreachable at that moment. No one outside of our group had any clue as to our exact whereabouts, and the odds of seeing another human were slim at best. I had no phone, no Internet, not even a GPS. As Dad, Dave, and Stewbert disappeared in search of firewood, I wrote in my journal.
You know what I discovered? Wilderness, even the tiny sliver that I encountered, can be incredibly oppressive. The sheer, pounding silence of it all made me feel diminutive and impotent. There I was, the master of my own universe, put completely in my place by nothing more than a show of silence. Don't get me wrong; it was beautiful beyond words. But, in an age of instant communication and gratification, I can see why few venture out to the backwoods. In an attention-starved society, wilderness is the quiet reminder that we are only stewards, not masters.
We would camp at multiple sites during this journey, as far north as Wiseman, more than 60 miles north of the Arctic Circle. Each site consisted of running our bikes off-road, in one case along the stony bank of a mountain river. Like the store attendant from last week's article indicated, you want a good place to camp? Just go off the road anywhere. He was absolutely right. One morning I awoke to backdrops of sheer stone, thousands of feet high, each capped with snow. Scrawny boreal pine burst forth in brilliant green while a crystal-clear stream wound its way through the vista. There is no doubt in my mind that nature is the dominant force of our planet. Thus, I shall enjoy it as long as it lets me.
We continued north, remember that our ultimate destination was the Arctic Ocean. As for my sentiments on nature, I must say that my brother shares the feeling, albeit in a rather unique way. One morning, as the sun was just threatening to peek over the mountains, we stopped at Muncho Lake to take a photo. The scene was gorgeous: blue sky, high mountains, deep-blue freshwater lake, and only us. We pulled over. Literally, I had just shut off the engine and had one leg still over the seat. I remember thinking, "Man - I'll bet Muncho Lake hasn't melted before last week."
I had scarcely finished the thought when I saw Dave run loudly and excitedly toward the water. He had turbo-stripped out of his gear, now clad only in boxers. Without a second's hesitation, he dove headfirst into the water.
Oh yes, I have video.
- Dan Wegmueller can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
After 2,500 miles and four days on the road, we were finally reaching the best parts of the trip. Let me tell you, camping adds a totally new dimension to a cross-country motorcycle journey. This was the much-anticipated highlight of our Alaska trip: pitching a tent, cooking supper over a fire, and having positively nothing to do with human civilization. British Columbia finally allowed us to do just that. But first, a little background.
Dad, Dave, Stewbert and I had planned on riding our Kawasaki KLR 650 motorcycles to Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. Along the Dalton "Highway" (term used lightly), fuel stops can be 200-plus miles apart, home comforts sparse or nonexistent. From the onset we had planned on packing outdoor gear, carrying our own food, and at least having the short-term ability to live on our own. After all, in the case of inclement weather or the highly unlikely scenario of a mechanical breakdown (we were riding Kawasakis, after all), the ability to stop along the road and spend the night could literally save our lives. Besides that, who wouldn't want to camp in northern Canada and Alaska?
To say the least, this desire turned out to be a bit of a logistical challenge. Four guys each riding a motorcycle divvied up the following gear: two tents, four sleeping bags and air mattresses, a cook stove, eating utensils, bug repellent, bear spray, water, freeze-dried food, spare tire tubes, tire repair kit, tool kit, spare parts, fishing gear, hatchet/knives, fire starters, flashlights, and a water purification kit. All of this, in addition to each man's personal clothing, waterproof gear and thermals. Weighted down with 60-plus pounds of accouterments each, we could still push 50 miles per gallon on the KLR's, meaning we could, in optimal conditions, travel more than 300 hundred miles on a single fill-up. Needless to say, we carried spare water, not fuel.
Let me contrast our entourage with a sight just east of Edmonton. I shrieked out loud when I saw it, my eyes bugged, and I pointed hysterically. There, driving down the road was a full-size, fully loaded RV camper. This monstrosity was towing a full-sized Dodge Ram, which was pulling a boat. At this point can you even call it "camping"?
So anyway, just east of Watson Lake, we decided to camp. This consisted of taking our bikes off-road via a gravel ATV trail, up an embankment, and into a natural clearing in the trees. This was scenic, relaxing, and tranquil in every degree; this was the long-awaited highlight of our Alaska trip. Dad, Dave and Stewbert set up camp while I cooked dinner. Don't get too impressed - dinner mainly consisted of boiling water mixed into freeze-dried meals, simple and quite delicious, actually. As the others built a fire, I sat to write in my journal.
Have you ever allowed yourself to be completely unplugged? Although we were by no means roughing it, I was quite invigorated to know that I was completely unreachable at that moment. No one outside of our group had any clue as to our exact whereabouts, and the odds of seeing another human were slim at best. I had no phone, no Internet, not even a GPS. As Dad, Dave, and Stewbert disappeared in search of firewood, I wrote in my journal.
You know what I discovered? Wilderness, even the tiny sliver that I encountered, can be incredibly oppressive. The sheer, pounding silence of it all made me feel diminutive and impotent. There I was, the master of my own universe, put completely in my place by nothing more than a show of silence. Don't get me wrong; it was beautiful beyond words. But, in an age of instant communication and gratification, I can see why few venture out to the backwoods. In an attention-starved society, wilderness is the quiet reminder that we are only stewards, not masters.
We would camp at multiple sites during this journey, as far north as Wiseman, more than 60 miles north of the Arctic Circle. Each site consisted of running our bikes off-road, in one case along the stony bank of a mountain river. Like the store attendant from last week's article indicated, you want a good place to camp? Just go off the road anywhere. He was absolutely right. One morning I awoke to backdrops of sheer stone, thousands of feet high, each capped with snow. Scrawny boreal pine burst forth in brilliant green while a crystal-clear stream wound its way through the vista. There is no doubt in my mind that nature is the dominant force of our planet. Thus, I shall enjoy it as long as it lets me.
We continued north, remember that our ultimate destination was the Arctic Ocean. As for my sentiments on nature, I must say that my brother shares the feeling, albeit in a rather unique way. One morning, as the sun was just threatening to peek over the mountains, we stopped at Muncho Lake to take a photo. The scene was gorgeous: blue sky, high mountains, deep-blue freshwater lake, and only us. We pulled over. Literally, I had just shut off the engine and had one leg still over the seat. I remember thinking, "Man - I'll bet Muncho Lake hasn't melted before last week."
I had scarcely finished the thought when I saw Dave run loudly and excitedly toward the water. He had turbo-stripped out of his gear, now clad only in boxers. Without a second's hesitation, he dove headfirst into the water.
Oh yes, I have video.
- Dan Wegmueller can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
