Editor's note: This is the ninth installment of columnist's Dan Wegmueller's series on his recent motorcycle trip to Alaska.
Well, as I always say, this is what I love the most about writing this series. The other day I received a letter in the mail, from a Monroe resident who felt a particular closeness to my last article. In my last article, I mentioned the beauty of Prince William Sound, the "freshness" of the glaciers, and the sheer isolation of Whittier. This week I would like to spend some more time on Whittier.
Besides, at this point in our motorcycle journey, our luck ran out with the Weather Gods. As Dad, Dave, Stewbert and I sped away from Anchorage on Highway 1, we ran into a constant, freezing drizzle. This type of precipitation is the bane of adventure riders; too cold and wet to be tolerable, but not quite miserable enough to necessitate a stop. So, we rode on. Our goal for the day was to make it to Canada, which was laughable; the border was only 430 miles away.
But, this awful condition is something that deserves mention. Traveling at 55 miles per hour, no waterproof gear could keep out the chilled moisture. Even with heated grips on my KLR and snowmobile touring gloves, my hands turned a painfully cold white. Driving down the highway forced cool water into the seams and cracks of even the toughest gear. As I shifted positions, I could feel water dribbling down my chest. Actually, the only part of my body that remained warm and dry were my feet. For what it's worth, prior to the trip I bought a pair of waterproof, insulated Redwing work boots. This bulletproof, American-made leather proved to be the best $200 I have ever spent.
Let's talk about something else, like Whittier. As I mentioned last week, Whittier, Alaska, boasts a population of only 182, and the second-largest snowfall at sea level in the world. Although small and environmentally inhospitable, Whittier represents unsung significance in American history.
During World War II, Whittier (then known as Camp Sullivan) was the port of entry for U.S. soldiers into Alaska. Given the precarious nature of the terrain, special amenities had to be constructed. Two huge buildings, the Hodge and Buckner, were constructed to literally, house the entire town (at one time these were the largest buildings in Alaska). To this day, underground tunnels connect the town's facilities, so there is no need to venture outside at all. Despite an annual snowfall as much as 43 feet, there are no snow days in Whittier.
In Whittier, I noticed the Buckner Building, now abandoned and derelict. Our tour guide pointed out that the Buckner stands empty, but is frequented by bears and snooping tourists. Although structurally unsound, it cannot be demolished due to the high amount of asbestos. Besides, Whittier can only be reached via train, ship, or civil aviation. Hauling the rubble out would be cost prohibitive. So, the building remains, flooded and caving in on itself.
The aforementioned letter I received was from a Monroe resident, who lived in Whittier during the 1950s. As a testament to the peculiar circumstances of living in Alaska, he described going to Anchorage on a weekend pass, via train. To get from Whittier to Anchorage required passing through two tunnels. Between the tunnels is an area known as Moose Pass, "More often than not, the train would have to halt to allow a herd of moose to get off the track."
As Dad, Dave, Stewbert and I neared the Canadian border, the soupy weather persisted. Despite this, Alaska had left a positive impression upon me. At first it was difficult for me to place, but I gradually began to realize what it was, that drew me to our youngest state. There is a sense of real-world practicality in the people that live here. Living in Alaska carries no privileges; the people who live here are not coddled. In Alaska, the natural environment reigns supreme, and people are only visitors. By contrast, people in other parts of the country live laughably privileged lives, and take it upon themselves to invent stupidly redundant things, like compact florescent light bulbs and hopelessly inefficient electric cars. Places like Alaska scare such people, who might live as long as 45 seconds off the beaten path.
In one short week I tooled about Alaska. The impression she left was as subtle as a sledgehammer. These are the people who will survive. This is the land that, even in 2010, serves as a reminder that humans are not the big screaming deal we sometimes make ourselves out to be. Think about this: In terms of harshness of terrain and durability of people, Alaska is a cold-weather version of Australia.
Tired, cold, and wet, we crossed the border and made it into Canada. I wish that this week's article had a happy ending, but alas, it does not. We stopped in Beaver Creek, at a place called Ida's Motel and Café. Wanting nothing more than dry beds and hot showers, we unpacked before scoping the place out. This is what I wrote in my journal, on July 15, 2010:
"OMG what a [expletive] dive. Filthy, leaky room, tub does not drain, mosquitoes, spiders, and bugs everywhere. Door broken. Vermin infestation! Smells worse than black mold. What a dump! If ever, in the history of mankind, there was justification for arson, Ida's Motel and Café is it. P.S. $150 for THIS?!"
Well, as I always say, this is what I love the most about writing this series. The other day I received a letter in the mail, from a Monroe resident who felt a particular closeness to my last article. In my last article, I mentioned the beauty of Prince William Sound, the "freshness" of the glaciers, and the sheer isolation of Whittier. This week I would like to spend some more time on Whittier.
Besides, at this point in our motorcycle journey, our luck ran out with the Weather Gods. As Dad, Dave, Stewbert and I sped away from Anchorage on Highway 1, we ran into a constant, freezing drizzle. This type of precipitation is the bane of adventure riders; too cold and wet to be tolerable, but not quite miserable enough to necessitate a stop. So, we rode on. Our goal for the day was to make it to Canada, which was laughable; the border was only 430 miles away.
But, this awful condition is something that deserves mention. Traveling at 55 miles per hour, no waterproof gear could keep out the chilled moisture. Even with heated grips on my KLR and snowmobile touring gloves, my hands turned a painfully cold white. Driving down the highway forced cool water into the seams and cracks of even the toughest gear. As I shifted positions, I could feel water dribbling down my chest. Actually, the only part of my body that remained warm and dry were my feet. For what it's worth, prior to the trip I bought a pair of waterproof, insulated Redwing work boots. This bulletproof, American-made leather proved to be the best $200 I have ever spent.
Let's talk about something else, like Whittier. As I mentioned last week, Whittier, Alaska, boasts a population of only 182, and the second-largest snowfall at sea level in the world. Although small and environmentally inhospitable, Whittier represents unsung significance in American history.
During World War II, Whittier (then known as Camp Sullivan) was the port of entry for U.S. soldiers into Alaska. Given the precarious nature of the terrain, special amenities had to be constructed. Two huge buildings, the Hodge and Buckner, were constructed to literally, house the entire town (at one time these were the largest buildings in Alaska). To this day, underground tunnels connect the town's facilities, so there is no need to venture outside at all. Despite an annual snowfall as much as 43 feet, there are no snow days in Whittier.
In Whittier, I noticed the Buckner Building, now abandoned and derelict. Our tour guide pointed out that the Buckner stands empty, but is frequented by bears and snooping tourists. Although structurally unsound, it cannot be demolished due to the high amount of asbestos. Besides, Whittier can only be reached via train, ship, or civil aviation. Hauling the rubble out would be cost prohibitive. So, the building remains, flooded and caving in on itself.
The aforementioned letter I received was from a Monroe resident, who lived in Whittier during the 1950s. As a testament to the peculiar circumstances of living in Alaska, he described going to Anchorage on a weekend pass, via train. To get from Whittier to Anchorage required passing through two tunnels. Between the tunnels is an area known as Moose Pass, "More often than not, the train would have to halt to allow a herd of moose to get off the track."
As Dad, Dave, Stewbert and I neared the Canadian border, the soupy weather persisted. Despite this, Alaska had left a positive impression upon me. At first it was difficult for me to place, but I gradually began to realize what it was, that drew me to our youngest state. There is a sense of real-world practicality in the people that live here. Living in Alaska carries no privileges; the people who live here are not coddled. In Alaska, the natural environment reigns supreme, and people are only visitors. By contrast, people in other parts of the country live laughably privileged lives, and take it upon themselves to invent stupidly redundant things, like compact florescent light bulbs and hopelessly inefficient electric cars. Places like Alaska scare such people, who might live as long as 45 seconds off the beaten path.
In one short week I tooled about Alaska. The impression she left was as subtle as a sledgehammer. These are the people who will survive. This is the land that, even in 2010, serves as a reminder that humans are not the big screaming deal we sometimes make ourselves out to be. Think about this: In terms of harshness of terrain and durability of people, Alaska is a cold-weather version of Australia.
Tired, cold, and wet, we crossed the border and made it into Canada. I wish that this week's article had a happy ending, but alas, it does not. We stopped in Beaver Creek, at a place called Ida's Motel and Café. Wanting nothing more than dry beds and hot showers, we unpacked before scoping the place out. This is what I wrote in my journal, on July 15, 2010:
"OMG what a [expletive] dive. Filthy, leaky room, tub does not drain, mosquitoes, spiders, and bugs everywhere. Door broken. Vermin infestation! Smells worse than black mold. What a dump! If ever, in the history of mankind, there was justification for arson, Ida's Motel and Café is it. P.S. $150 for THIS?!"
