I awoke to the sound of rain on the tent and decided to just stay curled in my sleeping bag despite the need to get up and going for Prudhoe Bay. Kim was asleep and I heard no sound from Fanda's tent so I dozed a bit longer. We’d been up far too late the night before, the long daylight fooling us only to realize it was 1 am and not 11 pm as we had guessed.
The rain stopped and I peered out at wet bikes, mud and gear and had to make myself head out into the damp cold. I heard the zipper on Fanda's tent and Kim beginning to stir as I fiddled with the bikes, again having to adjust Kim's chain which was slack.
We ate some cold food - maybe beans or something - and got the wet tents stuffed in the duffle. Eventually we were loaded and the sun appeared while we dodged potholes on the road from the camp out to the Haul Road.
Fanda had asked if we'd heard anything that night, as he'd heard sniffing near his tent and wondered if it was a bear. We hadn't, but searching around the tents we were unable to spot any tracks due to the gravel.
From the north side of Atigun Pass, we saw no more trees and the tundra lay across huge expanses and rolling terrain. Our timing for the fall colors was great, as the carpet was a blend of yellows, oranges, deep maroons and reds. Truly beautiful and so different than what we'd ever seen. You certainly know that you are in a remote area of the world and the feel is wonderful.
Having heard from so many folks about the poor road quality and bad construction sections, it was both with apprehension and excitement that we raced north, the roads still wet and gravel covered. It was a mix of freshly graded dirt, with some deep wheel swallowing patches, followed by hard dirt and potholes, random stretches of blacktop and hard packed gravel. There were many areas of unmarked road repair and construction patches that one would suddenly come upon over a rise, where 60 mph stretches came screeching down to 15 for slick mud sections.
The 158 miles we had to travel to the industrial community of Deadhorse outside the oil facility of Prudhoe Bay came slowly, the concentration required making each mile seem like ten instead. We passed through a couple of construction zones, the wheels wobbling and wavering in mud and deep gravel. The smooth looking, freshly graded sections were often the worst, because they spread fresh soft dirt approximately 2-3 inches deep and wet it down, then run a grader over it. The smooth surface is just a thin sheet of dried dirt with mud beneath which catches you by surprise.
As we finally reached the last 36 miles, where we'd been warned the serious construction began, we tightened up and readied ourselves. At one stop, the native American flagger talked with me about what lay ahead, not to mention the grizzly bear and musk ox that had wandered by earlier, and life in Alaska in general. Looking at the tundra around, I had thought it might be free of bears since there seemed to be no cover and little food. Wrong.
Shortly after, the pilot car arrived and we began the slow trek ahead, replete with earth movers, gravel loaded semi side-dumps and a plethora of heavy equipment. The mud varied, but the worst was the 4" deep soft dirt that had been graded smooth and water dumped on the top... that is until the pilot car led us straight into a stretch of deep, wet river gravel.
Fanda was in front of me and his front wheel hit a 12” deep section of gravel, digging in enough to completely stop his bike. I was coming up to him so quickly that I could barely get stopped, hearing Kim yelling in the headset that she was going to hit me. I cringed, felt a hard bump but didn't go down, then saw Kim off her bike and rolling in the mud to my right. I struggled to get my bike to stay upright in the gravel since I couldn’t get the kickstand down to get off and help. I turned only to see a truck driver who'd been behind her running to her side, as well as a dump truck driver bailing out to help lift the bike.
I finally got off the bike and could see where her front tire had kissed the bottom of my pannier and amazingly her bike had no body damage or anything broken. Luckily she was unhurt but shaken as we got the bike righted with the help of the two drivers. We all were pissed at the driver who’d led us into the deep gravel instead of the smoother compacted section just adjacent to us. Fanda said he could see her eating chips and listening to her headset instead of paying attention to the road. The problem with the pilot cars is that you are forced to stay close behind them, typically with a semi or two on your tail and have absolutely no idea what lies ahead until it appears under the rear bumper of the car and suddenly under your front wheel. This was no exception.
We continued on, covered in mud and sliding here and there until a few smooth areas appeared. Eventually we reached another stop and the flagman told us we had timed the ride perfectly because... "Two more weeks and this will be a different world up here". They'd had snow a couple of days before amidst 7 days of rain and the temps had hit 30 or so. It was little comfort for the next 20 miles of teeth gritting moments of slip-sliding away.
Finally, the community of Deadhorse was on the horizon and I wondered if Kim's bike would make the 242 miles or run out of gas, but the 700 purred into the industrial buildings of Deadhorse with no problem. We eventually found the Prudhoe Bay Hotel while searching for gas, and a truck driver pointed me down to the fuel tanks a block away. We were starving and celebrated our arrival with a cold can of beans in the parking lot, not having to worry about bears with all the heavy equipment running around. We eventually headed inside the hotel, donning the required booties to keep our muddy feet off the carpet.
I decided that VanCamp's needs to have athletes on their labels like Wheaties, and Fanda should be the first cover boy...
Coffee was complimentary in the hotel and we downed a bunch of it while resting in the cafeteria area. The manager warned us of a grizzly seen in the parking lot where the bikes were, much to my disbelief. It was hard to comprehend with nothing but massive oil field trucks and industrial buildings all around. But indeed she a had a good photo of it - fat and fluffy - on her cell phone. I told her we’d relaxed for the first time in weeks out in the lot to which she laughed. She then said that if the grizzly had shown itself, we could have jumped into any of the vehicles. I asked how and she said it was illegal to lock your car for that very reason. I was happy to hear that bit of information, but still wonder if it’s true.
After resting a bit and psyching up for the return, we filled up with gas at the funky fuel tanks and found the Prudhoe Bay General Store/NAPA Auto Parts building for some road snacks and a picture. The cashier told me to watch out for the road as the construction was some of the worst they'd had and the locals were a bit miffed at it. She said there had been word that a rider "had gone down on it today" and I told her it was one of us. She said it was worse than normal and to be safe.
In the parking lot I again checked the 700's chain and it was very loose. I tightened it again but was seriously concerned about the next 500 miles it had to go. For it to suddenly decide to end it's life on this remote road was not something we needed.
It was a sobering thought that our destination lay another 500 miles back down the road we’d come
That said, we geared up and rode south without incident, other than some near death moments, until we hit a major patch of mud and in my sudden moment of dog paddling heard Kim shouting she was down. I got stopped to find she’d gotten sideways in the slop and laid the bike down. Again she wasn't hurt but frustrated at dropping the bike again. Riding in mud for 2 days and nearly 500 miles takes a toll.
The miles continued through the construction zone until we hit the 36 mile marker and felt some relief as the roads improved... to a degree, again the sudden moments of tension when you'd hit an unmarked patch of mud. It honestly seemed that the road crews were trying to dump bikers for fun the way they screwed the road up at random moments.
At this point you may be thinking it was just trouble and strife on the ride, but the epic scenes of beauty outweighed all the trouble with the roads. One clearly remembers the hairy moments more than the easy stretches, but, you can NEVER relax during the 500 miles up, or the 500 miles back. There will always be a dangerous pothole in a beautiful stretch of asphalt, a sudden 12" deep soft patch of dirt on a hard pack road, a pile of random egg sized gravel in the least expected place, or a semi coming around a curve in your lane... all guaranteed to happen the moment you look away to enjoy the view. At least we were very lucky and didn’t have rain all the way as many riders do.
One badass Butterfly
The landscape changed as did the light, becoming crisp and sunny as we got closer and closer to Galbraith Lake. The colors of the tundra were really rich and beautiful and we commented on it constantly. We three had spaced out from each other as we each stopped for photos here and there. As I crested a ridge and the Sena's reconnected, Kim said there were two Caribou on the roadside. As I pulled up they were angling across in front of us and crossed the road, disappearing behind the pipeline and trotting away.
Eventually the Brooks Range reappeared and then Galbraith Lake, the campground, and time to set up tents. The day before we had expected to make it back to Coldfoot this day but the fatigue and time lost in the road construction wore us down and we didn't have the extra 100 miles left in us.
Back to Galbraith Campground
It was clear and chilly as we set up camp, Fanda hacking a few pieces of wet shrubbery for the fire while I scrounged some foam rubber sheets from a discarded archery target to use as fire starter for the wet wood and simultaneously poison us with the fumes.
We shared canned beans and canned ham for supper by the fire, discussing the next day's 360+ miles to Fairbanks then crawled off into the tents.
As I lay in the dark tent thinking about the day... and bears... or wolves, I heard a dull metallic thumping sound coming from Fanda's nearby tent. I realized something was up and called his name. He shouted "bear" and I grabbed my can of bear spray and pocket knife, trying to make some noise banging them together but only getting a pathetically dull "clunk clunk clunk." I yelled Fanda's name again and then yanked the tent zipper down, my headlamp illuminating him just as he emerged from his tent, the can of bear spray we'd lent him in one hand and his tiny camp hatchet in the other.
He looked around wildly and said he'd been awakened by loud sniffing on the tent wall, followed by something pushing against the fabric and shaking the tent right next to his head.
As Fanda wildly flashed his light about, he could see no bear nearby but was definitely upset. His “disc brake bear alarm” had not worked and the sound I’d heard had been Fanda hitting the alarm trying to get it’s siren to go off as it had in their first bear encounter. I told him to grab his steel cook pot and put some rocks in it to bang and shake if the bear returned. An ex-Viet Nam military sniper I'd met who lived in Alaska had told me the only thing that had scared grizzlies away from his cabin were rocks in a coffee can, not even gun shots.
It felt a bit thin and stupid to suggest rattling rocks, but I asked him to grab an extra pot lid from his sidecase that I could use as a noisemaker in our tent. He did both and then got back in his tent. I zipped up ours, completely awake and listening to every sound and heartbeat for another hour or two, determined to stay awake all night. Kim had been deep in sleep and only grumbled incoherently during the whole escapade. I fought the sleep as long as possible until I finally passed out sometime in the wee hours of the morning. It’s odd that you can indeed become so tired you really don’t care if something kills you.
What a wild, difficult and amazing day it was.
Views from our campsite that evening…
