Editor's note: This is the fifth installment of columnist's Dan Wegmueller's series on his recent motorcycle trip to Alaska.
Funny thing about Alaska - it is by far the largest U.S. state, but proportionately gets the smallest map. Check out a typical Rand McNally road atlas, and open to Alaska. It looks as though a drive from Fairbanks to Anchorage should take no more than a leisurely three hours. Wrong! The two cities are 360 miles apart. Alaska is huge; in fact she is more than twice the size of Texas (but don't tell that to a Texan).
We had been on the road for nearly one week and clocked over 3,500 miles by the time we crossed the border from the Yukon into Alaska. The hand-painted sign welcomed us to "Poker Creek, Alaska, population: 2. Most Northerly Land Border Port in the USA." Once again, I was home.
The aptly named "Top of the World Highway" snaked its way atop softly undulating hills, giving us a birds-eye view of the countryside. Absolutely nothing obstructed our view, not even power lines. The road was comprised of packed gravel and broken pavement, adding an unrushed feel to the ride. What's the use of hurrying? We treated ourselves to a slower pace, and took full advantage of the freakishly warm, sunny weather.
We stopped for fuel at an outpost called Chicken. I asked the gas station attendant how Chicken, Alaska got its name. Turns out, early settlers to the region relied on a native bird for food. The bird is officially known as the "Ptarmigan," but since no one could spell it, the name "Chicken" stuck. I liked Alaska already.
If you still have your Rand McNally road atlas open, look at Fairbanks. From Fairbanks, follow the Dalton Highway north, all the way to Prudhoe Bay. This is exactly the route we were planning to take. But first, a little background: The only reason the Dalton Highway exists, the only reason Prudhoe Bay is on the map, the only reason four dudes on motorcycles from Wisconsin even have a snowball's chance of making it to Prudhoe, is oil. Even after decades of drilling, Prudhoe Bay remains the largest oilfield in North America, and one of the top 20 largest oilfields on Earth. The 400-mile stretch of road that connects Prudhoe Bay to the nearest human civilization in Fairbanks was carved out of the wilderness solely for the extraction, transportation and utilization, of oil. The Dalton Highway is not paved. There are no towns, no tourist attractions and no amenities along the 400-mile stretch. Just north of Fairbanks, the blacktop ended with an ominous abruptness. A large sign warned, "Danger! Next service 120 miles!" Stewbert, Dave, Dad and I stopped briefly, checked our fuel, and grinned like madmen. Thumbs up! We pressed on.
We had chosen the Kawasaki KLR 650 specifically for this stretch of road, and now we were paid dividends. On one stretch we clocked 300 miles between fuel stops, having never switched to reserve. The overloaded motorcycles bucked and bounced over the rough, gritty terrain, but we could still travel 55 miles per hour in total comfort. We camped one night by a river, taking the motorcycles upstream through a gravel bar - good luck doing any of that with a Sportster.
Still, the freakishly, unseasonably warm weather held, as if by divine intervention. We stopped for a photo shoot at the Arctic Circle in 80-degree heat. The sun no longer totally set, which threw off my internal clock. One night we rode until 1:30 a.m. - it was still light out! The warm weather was not normal, or in any way predictable. We were informed by a local that a week prior, there was snow on the ground (conversely, two days after we left, a thick, freezing fog rolled in). The weather did carry downsides, in the form of billions of blood-sucking parasites. One night while camping, I doused myself with deet. I noticed a numb, tingling sensation on the top of my hand. I looked down, at the one patch of flesh that had not gotten treated with repellent. The top of my hand was black with mosquitoes. When I swatted them, my hand was a gooey, bloody mess. Dave lovingly referred to the Alaskan mosquitoes as "pterodactyls."
Additionally, the dry weather raised dust from the road. Only, this was not a typical gravel road. The Dalton Highway is paved with calcite, a mineral used in concrete. The dust instantly coated all surfaces with a layer of, literally, cement. My eyes itched and burned, visors no longer opened, zippers refused to work, bootlaces became brittle, drive chains and bearings squealed; still, the bikes performed brilliantly as we pressed on.
As we drove, the mountains gave way to hills, which faded to flat, featureless, infinite, tundra. I have never seen a land so barren as Prudhoe. The horizon ceased to exist as a destination. Rather, land faded to sky in an eerie haze where one became the other with no discernable border. But finally, we were there.
Ready for this? Our ultimate destination was the Arctic Ocean. Dave and I had planned on jumping in, and considering the freakish heat; it may have actually felt good. Well, if you are ever in Prudhoe Bay and wish to visit the Arctic Ocean, you must first sign up for the "Arctic Tour." You must do so 24 hours in advance, so they can run a background check on you. And, the only tours are at 8 a.m. and 5 p.m., meaning you must also spend the night. Oh yeah, gasoline at Prudhoe Bay is $4.50 per gallon, and the oilfield is run by BP.
- Dan Wegmueller can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
Funny thing about Alaska - it is by far the largest U.S. state, but proportionately gets the smallest map. Check out a typical Rand McNally road atlas, and open to Alaska. It looks as though a drive from Fairbanks to Anchorage should take no more than a leisurely three hours. Wrong! The two cities are 360 miles apart. Alaska is huge; in fact she is more than twice the size of Texas (but don't tell that to a Texan).
We had been on the road for nearly one week and clocked over 3,500 miles by the time we crossed the border from the Yukon into Alaska. The hand-painted sign welcomed us to "Poker Creek, Alaska, population: 2. Most Northerly Land Border Port in the USA." Once again, I was home.
The aptly named "Top of the World Highway" snaked its way atop softly undulating hills, giving us a birds-eye view of the countryside. Absolutely nothing obstructed our view, not even power lines. The road was comprised of packed gravel and broken pavement, adding an unrushed feel to the ride. What's the use of hurrying? We treated ourselves to a slower pace, and took full advantage of the freakishly warm, sunny weather.
We stopped for fuel at an outpost called Chicken. I asked the gas station attendant how Chicken, Alaska got its name. Turns out, early settlers to the region relied on a native bird for food. The bird is officially known as the "Ptarmigan," but since no one could spell it, the name "Chicken" stuck. I liked Alaska already.
If you still have your Rand McNally road atlas open, look at Fairbanks. From Fairbanks, follow the Dalton Highway north, all the way to Prudhoe Bay. This is exactly the route we were planning to take. But first, a little background: The only reason the Dalton Highway exists, the only reason Prudhoe Bay is on the map, the only reason four dudes on motorcycles from Wisconsin even have a snowball's chance of making it to Prudhoe, is oil. Even after decades of drilling, Prudhoe Bay remains the largest oilfield in North America, and one of the top 20 largest oilfields on Earth. The 400-mile stretch of road that connects Prudhoe Bay to the nearest human civilization in Fairbanks was carved out of the wilderness solely for the extraction, transportation and utilization, of oil. The Dalton Highway is not paved. There are no towns, no tourist attractions and no amenities along the 400-mile stretch. Just north of Fairbanks, the blacktop ended with an ominous abruptness. A large sign warned, "Danger! Next service 120 miles!" Stewbert, Dave, Dad and I stopped briefly, checked our fuel, and grinned like madmen. Thumbs up! We pressed on.
We had chosen the Kawasaki KLR 650 specifically for this stretch of road, and now we were paid dividends. On one stretch we clocked 300 miles between fuel stops, having never switched to reserve. The overloaded motorcycles bucked and bounced over the rough, gritty terrain, but we could still travel 55 miles per hour in total comfort. We camped one night by a river, taking the motorcycles upstream through a gravel bar - good luck doing any of that with a Sportster.
Still, the freakishly, unseasonably warm weather held, as if by divine intervention. We stopped for a photo shoot at the Arctic Circle in 80-degree heat. The sun no longer totally set, which threw off my internal clock. One night we rode until 1:30 a.m. - it was still light out! The warm weather was not normal, or in any way predictable. We were informed by a local that a week prior, there was snow on the ground (conversely, two days after we left, a thick, freezing fog rolled in). The weather did carry downsides, in the form of billions of blood-sucking parasites. One night while camping, I doused myself with deet. I noticed a numb, tingling sensation on the top of my hand. I looked down, at the one patch of flesh that had not gotten treated with repellent. The top of my hand was black with mosquitoes. When I swatted them, my hand was a gooey, bloody mess. Dave lovingly referred to the Alaskan mosquitoes as "pterodactyls."
Additionally, the dry weather raised dust from the road. Only, this was not a typical gravel road. The Dalton Highway is paved with calcite, a mineral used in concrete. The dust instantly coated all surfaces with a layer of, literally, cement. My eyes itched and burned, visors no longer opened, zippers refused to work, bootlaces became brittle, drive chains and bearings squealed; still, the bikes performed brilliantly as we pressed on.
As we drove, the mountains gave way to hills, which faded to flat, featureless, infinite, tundra. I have never seen a land so barren as Prudhoe. The horizon ceased to exist as a destination. Rather, land faded to sky in an eerie haze where one became the other with no discernable border. But finally, we were there.
Ready for this? Our ultimate destination was the Arctic Ocean. Dave and I had planned on jumping in, and considering the freakish heat; it may have actually felt good. Well, if you are ever in Prudhoe Bay and wish to visit the Arctic Ocean, you must first sign up for the "Arctic Tour." You must do so 24 hours in advance, so they can run a background check on you. And, the only tours are at 8 a.m. and 5 p.m., meaning you must also spend the night. Oh yeah, gasoline at Prudhoe Bay is $4.50 per gallon, and the oilfield is run by BP.
- Dan Wegmueller can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
