Editor's note: This is the seventh installment of columnist's Dan Wegmueller's series on his recent motorcycle trip to Alaska.
So there I was, minding my own business at a local Monroe farm implement dealership. Out walked Nate, the small engines mechanic. In typical fashion he produced a pair of sunglasses, crossed his arms and exclaimed, "Well Danny-boy, if you like Alaska so much, why don't you just [expletive] move there?"
In case it has not shown, I loved Alaska. Dad, Dave, Stewbert and I made it to Anchorage on our motorcycles, with zero trouble. Now with five days to kill, let me give you several good reasons to feel the same as I, toward our youngest state.
The first order of business was a hiking trip, which Ashley had scoped out before our arrival. Having ridden through the Alaskan wilderness, I had a pretty good idea how perfectly desolate the countryside can be, once off the beaten track. On this day we drove to Flattop, a local park on the outskirts of Anchorage. The footpath leisurely wound its way around a hill, making a half-hearted attempt to reach the top. This was an easy grade, with steps carefully laid out, handrails in place. The only dangerous obstacles were the ever-present dog droppings, whose owners obviously could not be bothered to clean up after their pets, despite posted signs and special trash receptacles - jerks.
Phase Two of the climb was more rugged. The path was still obvious, but without handrails and neatly placed stairs. Dave, Dad and Stewbert bolted ahead - apparently this was a race, or there was a pot of gold at the top. I, on the other hand, enjoyed a peaceful climb with my wife, sister, brother-in-law and Peggy.
Then came Phase Three of the climb. No longer was the path obvious, or even discernible from the surrounding terrain. Posted signs along the route came just short of saying, "Good Luck - You're on your own, buddy." This section was a steep, exceptionally rocky grade. I shouldered my backpack, and hoisted myself up with both arms; no longer could one simply walk. By now the girls had dropped out, mere specks from this height. Finally, the last rock came into view. I wedged myself into a crevasse, braced and then pulled - I had made it.
And man, what a view. We were way above the tree line, and snow still hid among the shadows. Valleys arched thousands of feet below, in a brilliant mottled green, interspersed with colorful wildflowers. I have rarely breathed air so fresh, nor taken in such an unimpeded view. Dad, Dave, Stewbert, (brother-in-law) Craig and I each posed for pictures, as proof we made it, and relished in the glory of our feat. In fact, the only disagreeable aspect of that moment was knowing we were only half done - time to descend.
The second thing to love about Alaska is civil aviation. While other parts of the country were still sitting around watching birds, Alaskan aviators had already mastered the art of flying in some of the most inhospitable conditions, over some of the most deadly ground, on earth. Time to get a taste. Ashley, Stewbert and I signed up for a scenic flight with K2 Aviation, based out of Talkeetna. We boarded a DeHaviland Otter, bound for the foothills and glaciers of Mt. McKinley (I even got to sit co-pilot). The turboprop whined casually to life, and we were instantly airborne. Due to a low cloud cover, we flew about 1,000 feet above the ground (AGL). Even now, I am amazed at the sheer desolation of the Alaskan countryside. Over the warm, turbulent tundra, the Otter bounced and bucked. Literally, there was nothing below but green earth and scattered lakes, with a neat dusting of pine forests. Then, we arrived at the foothills of Mt. McKinley. Coming up over a range, the air instantly stabilized. Cool, dense air over the glaciers made for a nice, smooth ride.
What a view. Here, there was no cloud cover. Bare rocks jutted high into the atmosphere, much higher than we were flying. Wisps of cloud indicated air movement, how it would swirl up over a range, and then eddy before dropping toward the floor below. At the base of the mountain, brilliant white indicated packed snow, the driving force of the glacier. As fresh snow packs into ice, it forces movement downhill. We flew parallel to the path, still at 1,000 feet AGL. Stress fractures indicated how the ice winds and bends, to fit the contour of the land. Quite literally, a river of ice appeared to be flowing from the mountain. The deep fissures exposed a translucent blue interior, and although frozen solid, gave the glacier a powerful sense of dynamic, energetic vivacity.
Further from the mountain, the glacier began to die. Clean white snow mottled into a dirty grey, and then black. Rivers of coffee-colored melt flowed from the path, forming milky lakes and streams. Here, boulders and dirt clumps were visible, even from altitude. What was eerily apparent to me was that here was a constant force of the earth. It has done more to shape the terrain than we ever could. It was here long before us, and will be here long after. For a fleeting second I buzzed overhead, as insignificant as a mosquito.
Speaking of mosquitoes, even at 1,000 feet AGL they were omnipresent. Returning to Talkeetna, the Otter's windshield was streaked filthy by thousands of tiny blips, making it impossible to snap photos. I commented on this, and then asked the pilot if he does much IFR flying (instruments only).
He smiled coolly behind his sunglasses, as only a pilot can do. He replied, "Nah, I never fly IFR up here - there tends to be rocks in our clouds."
So there I was, minding my own business at a local Monroe farm implement dealership. Out walked Nate, the small engines mechanic. In typical fashion he produced a pair of sunglasses, crossed his arms and exclaimed, "Well Danny-boy, if you like Alaska so much, why don't you just [expletive] move there?"
In case it has not shown, I loved Alaska. Dad, Dave, Stewbert and I made it to Anchorage on our motorcycles, with zero trouble. Now with five days to kill, let me give you several good reasons to feel the same as I, toward our youngest state.
The first order of business was a hiking trip, which Ashley had scoped out before our arrival. Having ridden through the Alaskan wilderness, I had a pretty good idea how perfectly desolate the countryside can be, once off the beaten track. On this day we drove to Flattop, a local park on the outskirts of Anchorage. The footpath leisurely wound its way around a hill, making a half-hearted attempt to reach the top. This was an easy grade, with steps carefully laid out, handrails in place. The only dangerous obstacles were the ever-present dog droppings, whose owners obviously could not be bothered to clean up after their pets, despite posted signs and special trash receptacles - jerks.
Phase Two of the climb was more rugged. The path was still obvious, but without handrails and neatly placed stairs. Dave, Dad and Stewbert bolted ahead - apparently this was a race, or there was a pot of gold at the top. I, on the other hand, enjoyed a peaceful climb with my wife, sister, brother-in-law and Peggy.
Then came Phase Three of the climb. No longer was the path obvious, or even discernible from the surrounding terrain. Posted signs along the route came just short of saying, "Good Luck - You're on your own, buddy." This section was a steep, exceptionally rocky grade. I shouldered my backpack, and hoisted myself up with both arms; no longer could one simply walk. By now the girls had dropped out, mere specks from this height. Finally, the last rock came into view. I wedged myself into a crevasse, braced and then pulled - I had made it.
And man, what a view. We were way above the tree line, and snow still hid among the shadows. Valleys arched thousands of feet below, in a brilliant mottled green, interspersed with colorful wildflowers. I have rarely breathed air so fresh, nor taken in such an unimpeded view. Dad, Dave, Stewbert, (brother-in-law) Craig and I each posed for pictures, as proof we made it, and relished in the glory of our feat. In fact, the only disagreeable aspect of that moment was knowing we were only half done - time to descend.
The second thing to love about Alaska is civil aviation. While other parts of the country were still sitting around watching birds, Alaskan aviators had already mastered the art of flying in some of the most inhospitable conditions, over some of the most deadly ground, on earth. Time to get a taste. Ashley, Stewbert and I signed up for a scenic flight with K2 Aviation, based out of Talkeetna. We boarded a DeHaviland Otter, bound for the foothills and glaciers of Mt. McKinley (I even got to sit co-pilot). The turboprop whined casually to life, and we were instantly airborne. Due to a low cloud cover, we flew about 1,000 feet above the ground (AGL). Even now, I am amazed at the sheer desolation of the Alaskan countryside. Over the warm, turbulent tundra, the Otter bounced and bucked. Literally, there was nothing below but green earth and scattered lakes, with a neat dusting of pine forests. Then, we arrived at the foothills of Mt. McKinley. Coming up over a range, the air instantly stabilized. Cool, dense air over the glaciers made for a nice, smooth ride.
What a view. Here, there was no cloud cover. Bare rocks jutted high into the atmosphere, much higher than we were flying. Wisps of cloud indicated air movement, how it would swirl up over a range, and then eddy before dropping toward the floor below. At the base of the mountain, brilliant white indicated packed snow, the driving force of the glacier. As fresh snow packs into ice, it forces movement downhill. We flew parallel to the path, still at 1,000 feet AGL. Stress fractures indicated how the ice winds and bends, to fit the contour of the land. Quite literally, a river of ice appeared to be flowing from the mountain. The deep fissures exposed a translucent blue interior, and although frozen solid, gave the glacier a powerful sense of dynamic, energetic vivacity.
Further from the mountain, the glacier began to die. Clean white snow mottled into a dirty grey, and then black. Rivers of coffee-colored melt flowed from the path, forming milky lakes and streams. Here, boulders and dirt clumps were visible, even from altitude. What was eerily apparent to me was that here was a constant force of the earth. It has done more to shape the terrain than we ever could. It was here long before us, and will be here long after. For a fleeting second I buzzed overhead, as insignificant as a mosquito.
Speaking of mosquitoes, even at 1,000 feet AGL they were omnipresent. Returning to Talkeetna, the Otter's windshield was streaked filthy by thousands of tiny blips, making it impossible to snap photos. I commented on this, and then asked the pilot if he does much IFR flying (instruments only).
He smiled coolly behind his sunglasses, as only a pilot can do. He replied, "Nah, I never fly IFR up here - there tends to be rocks in our clouds."
