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Motorcycle Escape Magazine
Wide Awake in Alaska
By Jamie Elvidge
Editor in Chief of Motorcycle
Cruiser magazine
There are periods of time during
our adult lives when we need to spend more energy doing what we should
do instead of what we want to do. I see that. We go through periods where
we don't even notice days, weeks, even months as they swirl by, so much
tepid water under the aged bridge. It sucks. But it's also probably necessary
that we're bored at least part of the time, don't you think? Otherwise
there wouldn't be anything to weigh our excitement against.
Recently I came face to face with how utterly pathetic my middle-aged
plodding has become. The acknowledgment zinged me like a nine-volt on
the tongue while I was standing in line at the Seattle airport to board
a plane bound for Anchorage, Alaska.
"Alaska!" my wilted brain suddenly screamed out. "I'm going
to freaking Alaska to ride motorcycles!" And then the choir sang
and I noticed my heartbeat for the first time in months.
Friends and family who knew I was headed for a five-day dual-sport adventure
tour of Alaska's most beautiful back roads must have been baffled by my
unenthused retorts.
"No, I'm not excited, I've got a magazine to get out. No, it won't
be any fun because it's going to rain the whole time. The mosquitoes..the
missed meetings…(the morose chip on my shoulder might fall off and
throw me off balance. I could have too much fun and never sit still again.)"
After all, a motorcycle ride in Alaska turned me wild once, and it took
years to recover. It could happen again.
"Bring it on!" I thought as I peered out the jet's window at
the seemingly endless crests and folds of the Pacific Northwestern landscape.
"Let there be adventure!"
Touchdown
I was scheduled for a tour with Phil
Freeman's Alaska Rider Tours, a somewhat newbie outfit that offers custom
and organized dual-sport journeys and cruiser-style street rides. The
web site promised my endeavor would include winding paved highways and
less-traveled dirt roads as well as stunning mountains and glacial scenery
"as far as the eye can see." I got off the plane felling like
a pallid office zombie among the crowd of robust, red-cheeked sportsmen
there to fish and hunt, kayak and climb mountains.
Nonetheless jubilant, I found my way to the crazy little B&B in Anchorage
called The Earth, which is really the almost charming, ramshackle home
of an outspoken Norwegian Amazon named Margarite who has a sign over the
kitchen sink that says, "I am not your mother!" That was the
most helpful since I might have been confused when she nagged me to take
off my shoes and pick up my towel. One by one I met my tour mates as they
arrived at The Earth - the expectedly pleasant group of easygoing motocyclists
looking for a little zest in life. Alaska Rider Tours offers a variety
of options ranging from five-day stints like mine for those "short
on time" (sigh) to full-blown, two-week adventures or self-guided
tours. For the dual-sport trips you can choose between riding a Kawasaki
KLR 650 or a Suzuki DR650, or you can slip Freeman some extra cash to
saddle up a BMW F650GS, R1150GS, or GS Adventure. The bikes we had were,
er, well used. Word has it that the outfit scored a whole stable of brand-new
bikes for the 2004 season.
Liftoff
After bidding a hasty adieu to Margarite,
we motored off in a chilling drizzle. (Note: for a less neuratic vibe,
opt to stay across the street at the affordable Lanai Tower, as I did
on our return.) Freeman provides a chase vehicle on his tours, so we didn't
need to schlep our stuff around or strap bags onboard and worry about
the tighty whities getting wet. The bikes are equipped with saddlebags,
though, so you can tote your sundries and the extra layers you'll need
when the weather changes…and it will. Late June through early September
is the time to ride in Alaska, but even then, it could snow as easily
as break 70 degrees.
Our first day's ride took us north along the snaking coastline and up
sweeping U.S. Highway 3 into the mountains toward Mount McKinley and the
astonishing wilderness of Denali National Park and Preserve. When you're
in Alaska you'll notice that no one calls the tallest totem in North America
by the 25th president's name, but rather by its original moniker, Denali,
which means "the great one" in native Tlingit-speak.
But that's OK because you probably won't get to see McKinley anyway. Seems
the giant is enveloped in clouds some 250-plus days per year and tourists
almost always head home without the slightest glimpse. That's why they
post so many photos and drawings at the overlooks. "If you could
see this great mountain, here's what it would look like…"
In fact, it was my third time staring into the thick white curtain in
the general direction of McKinley, er, Denali, so I felt like an old pro.
One thing you are likely to see on any trek to Alaska is an abundance
of zoo-quality wildlife. Moose, I say, with all their movable enormity,
can be just as impressive as mountains. I find them especially stirring
when they pop out onto the roadway at dusk.
That first day was a feast for my haggard spirit. By the time I crawled
under the covers I was tingling with a renewed sense of wonder. Alaska
is so intensely remote- so unfathomably empty - it can do no less than
fascinate. Could anyone ever return from a trip to the extreme north to
say, "Yeah, it was OK…."?
DIRTY DAY, DOUBLE HEAVEN
Day two of our ride was an illustration
of the term "extremes," which is actually a synonym for "weather"
in Alaska. The famous Denali Highway is a 130-mile stretch of mostly ragged
dirt road that connects the national park to the state's interior Highway
2. Built atop actual tundra, the Denali route crosses the most profoundly
beautiful backcountry you can possibly imagine. Unfortunately, state budget
cuts last year cost the legendary highway its maintenance funds. It won't
be long before the road is impassable by straight street machines. I'd
ridden the highway on heavyweight cruisers in 1999 (harrowing, even back
then), and I imagined that passage on the midsized dual-sport machines
would be cake.
More like mud pie, as it turned out, with rain and darkness thrown in
the mix. An absolutely epic ride, though - the kind that you remember
like your first car or favorite kiss. In truth, we wouldn't have reached
the Gracious House hunting lodge on two wheels that night if the bikes
had been any less able. Instead of conquering the devilish storm, we would
have been forced to load our machines onto the chase trailer halfway through
the ride (some did) and miss the pure exhilaration that rewards survivors
of such cold and grievous missions. It was one of those "never have
ham-and-cheese sandwiches tasted so good" moments you can't buy,
steal or even induce with narcotics.
A night at the Gracious House lodge is an Alaskan adventure unto itself.
Although dilapidated, the eclectic doily-ridden atmosphere of the huntsmen's
haven is undeniably charming. We slid into the family owned, jerry-rigged
camp well after dark. Dripping wet and obnoxiously elated, we proceeded
straight from the bikes to the establishment's trailer-cum-bar, the "Sluice
Box," and devoured everything in sight. We wrote on dollar bills
and tacked them to the ceiling as we compared pothole-by-pothole accounts
of the day. Finally we crawled into our rustic cabins and slept harder
than spent puppies.
By morning the storm had broken like ice on a pale blue pond and we rode
off into the most scenic day yet. The remainder of the Denali Highway
was glorious, with McLaren Summit being the literal and metaphorical high
point of our travels through the Alaskan interior. Turning away from the
Alaska Range and off the slippery dirt highway, we headed south on Highway
3 through a blanket of autumn-gold aspens, Mt. Wrangell off the port shoulder,
its snowcapped peak dazzling against the perfect sky.
THE HAUNTING
Freeman let us know well in advance
that our third night's stop, the Copper Center Lodge, was home to a ghost.
He even had the Haunted Alaska guidebook to prove it. It all started Christmas
Eve about 80 years ago when one of the lodge's patrons, Don Green, went
mum on the couch in the middle of the festivities. Seems it took awhile
for the revelers to realize the guy was dead. Worse yet, it was in the
middle of a god-awful storm snowstorm and there was no way to transport
his remains…so they put him in a shed out back. You know what they
say about the spirits of bodies not properly put to rest. And guess who
got the room of the mistreated Mr. Green most frequently haunts? It's
told he has a habit of coming in and sitting on the edge of the bed, causing
the snoozing guest to wake in a panic. I woke up in a panic all right,
but I think it was the halibut casserole haunting me, not the ghost.
The next day was our last on the road and I was starting to feel the bite
of reality. How great it is to escape on two wheels, huh? I believe one
reason it's so deeply relaxing is because we are completely removed from
the parade of everyday tasks. The senses can be left to wander over the
scenery while the subconscious does a cleansing sweep of the attic. There's
no conversation to make, except with yourself. No phone calls, bills,
treadmills..you get the idea.
The last astonishing memory we made on this Alaskan adventure was at the
Matanuska Glacier, about an hour northwest of downtown Anchorage. I'd
gazed, fascinated, at the living, moving ice masses from the plane, yet
at ground level I could fathom their enormity even less. Did you know
that glaciers cover 10 percent of Earth's surface? If they all melted,
Kentucky would have a coastline. The facts don't beat getting up close,
though. It was challenging junping across the calving chunks and crevasses
in motorcycle boots, but those fist steps on an actual iceberg won't be
forgotten.
FRESH START
At the airport I felt like a different
person. My just-crawled-out-from-the-desk pallor had been replaced by
an out-doorsy glow. What's more, I could hardly wipe the smile off my
face. I wasn't sure how long the high would last, but I was certain of
one thing- I needed to get off my lazy bum and do more touring. It's too
easy to get complacent and miss the years that are prime for searching
out dreams and small-town diners. We say we're too busy. We believe we'll
have time later. But what if that's what Don Green was thinking right
before they rolled him into that shed behind the Copper Center Lodge?
Trust me, it's time to get the wheels turning.
It will haunt you if you don't.
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