tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16607861630521629302024-02-08T07:50:28.513-08:00Earning the HorizonA solo bicycle journey of the world's longest roadDavehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-81231528276668449132009-11-30T09:57:00.001-08:002009-11-30T09:57:29.075-08:00A Good Story<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CNAMPHA%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CNAMPHA%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CNAMPHA%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><!--[if gte mso 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mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: normal;"><span style="">I had sent a lot of stuff home in Fairbanks. In Whitehorse I had again packed a cardboard box full of extra gear and sent that home as well. I had given my camping chair to David the day I left him by the lake. I carried less food, clothes, spares, and tools, but even still my bike was tremendously heavy. I don't know how heavy, I never weighed it, but I could barely lift it. Somehow every bag and pocket was still full to bursting and I had two nearly full bags of food stacked on the back.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: normal;"><span style="">The panniers had been somewhat protected from the rain that night by their bright yellow covers, but even still, everything was just barely damp inside the bags. I had on my hat, whose brim had been sharp and strong when I started, but now sagged slightly in the constant rain. I was in the habit of wearing the hat even while biking, its strap secured around the back of my head. At first it did well in the rain. It kept me warm and I could tilt the brim down to guard my face as I sped downhill. The felt wouldn’t become saturated but its surface would slowly change to dark brown as it absorbed freckles of water. While peddling uphill or across flat ground, a drop of water would hang from the brim between my eyes, swaying hypnotically back and forth with the motion of my body until it fell off and was replaced by another. Several times the hat had been blown off while I was riding. Heading downhill into the wind a truck would come speeding up the other way trailing a white cloud of water. The wet blast as it passed had ripped the hat off my head. The hat was my favorite piece of raingear but was aging, turning soft and losing its shape.</span><b style=""><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The only other piece of raingear that worked was my jacket. Despite the constant cold I never rode bundled up, even in the rain. I wore the jacket, which was really just a thin shell, with my riding jersey underneath. Even the Gore-Tex of the jacket would feel heavy with absorbed water after a day in the rain, but for the most part it kept me dry. I wore two layers on my hands, my long fingered cycling gloves and then a 'waterproof' glove over that. I had bought the waterproof gloves from REI mainly because of the picture on the box which showed a hand wearing the glove being plunged imperviously into a tank of water, and large text across the front that reads WATERPROOF! I can only assume that whoever wrote that was trying to make a joke because these gloves were no more waterproof than a sponge. My hands were always soft and wrinkled with the water trapped in my gloves.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The only other rain gear I ever wore was a pair of shoe covers, though I don't have a good explanation for why I wore them. Even with them on, after an hour in the rain I could wring out my socks and fill a half cup with water. I never bothered with rain pants. I felt that they would rub uncomfortably against the motion of my legs, and I assumed they wouldn't work anyways given the track record of my other rain clothes. I just let my shorts get wet.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">It was a rather eclectic outfit, the trim shell of a ski jacket, black biking shorts, shoes covered like small surfers in wetsuits, and a hat that was subtly beginning to soften with use.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I needed to get back up the steep muddy road I had come down the night before to get back to the highway. I knew I couldn't ride it and frankly I wasn’t even sure that I could walk it. I pushed my bike away from the lake, back towards the trees and the steep dirt road. I put both hands on the wet handle bars and leaned my chest down between my hands pushing the bike forward. The metal cleats on my shoes crackled against the wet rocks half buried in mud with a sound like ice splintering. It was steep and a hassle, but I soon made it back to the top of the hill. I went back to the gas station to get breakfast and pick up the package my parents had sent to the post office there.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The post office was a sad and strange room. Like all things in the town it was a mobile building with counters and walls of curling wet composite board. The room had clearly been converted from some other use. It was too big and even with the lights on, half of it sat in semi darkness concealing piles of ambiguous junk. At the far end was a counter and a light. No one was there, but the electric crackle of the metal on my shoes against the linoleum floor had obviously alerted someone farther back in the darkness, for just as I was about to call out, someone appeared in the window.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I got my package with curious looks from the woman there and went next door into the grocery store where there was a table. The thing I was most happy to receive was a new taillight. I hadn't had one since losing my first the night in Deadhorse, and after more than one thousand miles in bad weather on a trucking road I felt pretty lucky I hadn't yet been flattened. I spread out the other items in the box across the table and began to organize them. I went back to my bike and pulled an armful of gear from the bags I wanted send back. I stacked this gear on the table in the grocery store and added to it the stuff from the package I was going to send back. I found the small piece of jade I had bought a few days prior and threw it in the stack along with a note explaining it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">A group of people roughly my age was gathering a few seats down and I couldn't help but eavesdrop, they were talking awfully loud. I gathered that it was the same people who had been partying up on the hill the night before, and this morning they were all meeting bleary eyed in the grocery store to go over the night before play by play. Who said what and how much they drank and why John is mad and why would she do that and on and on. The girl was telling a story with wide eyed enthusiasm about something she had done or said to someone and the ensuing emotional drama. I actually looked over to see if she was serious. So boring was the story that I couldn't believe anyone would actually tell it, let alone tell it with such intensity. She was serious and the entire loud conversation of the group followed a series of similar hugely dramatic and infinitely unexciting minutiae of social life in Dease Lake.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">It took me a long time to get out of town. By the time I had gotten back over to the post office and the woman working there had figured out how to send a package, it was already after lunch. I went to the only other shop along the highway, a quiet restaurant that tried to be formal but didn't know how. No one else was there; I can't imagine anyone ever going there. I sat down and asked for a menu but was told that they were only serving soup... 'Well I guess I could make you a sandwich too,' the woman added. I ordered both, ate, and left.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I hadn't expected it, but immediately after Dease there is a very long and steep climb. The road crossed west back up and over the Continental Divide. It was grey and cold. The rain came lightly for some time, stopped, and then started again. I finally made it to the top of the climb, 'Gnat Pass,' an unremarkable turn in the road which just happens to mark the point at which it begins to descend. It wasn't so much a matter of going up and over a mountain as it was of going higher up into the mountains. Beyond Gnat Pass the road turned south and leveled off on a faltering plateau and did not fully descend for days.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">It was much colder higher up. There was no snow, but the wind was strong and blew against me, pressing the front of my hat down into my eyes or up against my forehead. The rain hadn't stopped and the strong white grey of the sky promised that it wouldn’t. My hat was becoming a problem. I stopped and took it off, and instead, attached the hood to my jacket, pulled it over my head and cinched the opening closed over my mouth and nose. Across the road and a little ways into a field on the far side, I noticed a small wooden barn sitting quietly and darkly in the rain. Three horses stood together against the outside of the building sheltering from the wind.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The trees were smaller and more scarce and water oozed slowly through the muddy marsh that did not lead anywhere with any hurry. It would make its way to the ocean eventually, but not for a long time. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The road curved and climbed again and there were no cars and no buildings. Finally, it began a long steep drop into a narrow valley. The surface was never smooth and was sometime unpaved, a cratered surface of sporadic gravel and circles of brown water. I lacked the patience to descend slowly, and blasted down the steep grade in a matter of minutes. As I neared the bottom, it became clear that the road was simply dipping down to cross a river and then would return back up into the mountains on the far side.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The river was mean, fast, and muddy. The bridge crossing it was made of the same steel grid as the one I had crashed on days earlier. As the road leveled out on the bridge I cringed as I braked to a stop and wasted my thirty miles an hour of speed. I walked the bridge and looked around for a place to rest and eat before climbing out of the ravine.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I saw a small shelter, the kind state parks use to cover information displays at state parks. There was a car parked alongside it and as I pulled up I could smell food cooking. A young man was there, on vacation from somewhere and going so see some family member somewhere else. He had decided to drive the Cassiar as an adventure and had caught some Salmon that day. He was kind enough to share an entire steak with me and made tea as well. Drinking tea and leaning against the information under the awning, we made small and kind conversation.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'It just surprises me how raw everything is here. I mean, you go outdoors where I'm from and you’re fine, but here it feels like you go outdoors and, and it's just... really harsh.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I didn't know what to say to this. He said the statement with a tone and expression that made me suspect he didn't really mean it. He said it in a way that someone says something they'd be expected to say, something they were told is true and then share the idea as though it were their own. I had been told that Canada would be as he described it, but my experience was different. My experience was that rain is rain, cold is cold, and wind is wind. In mass concentration it can be more difficult psychologically and physically, but there was nothing overtly sinister about the landscape. We exchanged emails and parted ways.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">That was the first day I was ever forced to stop by darkness. I don't remember what time it was, but under the heavy clouds it became so dark I could hardly see. I had climbed away from the river and was moving through bland forest, curving hills, and obscure views. I wanted a camp spot with flowing water, with firewood, and shelter. Instead I found a rest stop, complete with an outhouse and picnic tables. I set up in the rain and darkness on a somewhat flat patch of gravel towards the far end, and with no trouble, fell quickly to sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></p> Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-2777327336874480732009-11-25T12:57:00.001-08:002009-11-25T12:57:41.858-08:00Advice<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CNAMPHA%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CNAMPHA%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CNAMPHA%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> 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mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">My parents, bless them, sent me packages on several occasions. They would choose a town somewhere ahead of me and then address the package to general delivery with a note to the postman to expect a wet and tired guy on a bike to stumble in at some point and pick it up. These packages primarily contained pieces of gear that I asked for, such as my new kickstand, a replacement tail light for the one I lost in Deadhorse, new earphones, etc, but they also contained, or so I had been promised, some food from home. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Up until this point in my trip I had only received one package in Fairbanks, and it had snuck out without my mother’s knowing. So when I opened it eagerly, hoping for an offset from the Alaskan diet, I have to confess to slight disappointment at finding only the kickstand inside. To make matters worse, expensive as it was, the kickstand turned out to be worse than my original, and so after going through a tremendous ordeal installing and adjusting it and many failed attempt to use it, when I got to Whitehorse, I finally traded back to my original flimsy, simple one and threw the other away.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">My second package was waiting for me in Dease Lake. Dease Lake was a dot on my map like any other, but I had heard that this particular dot was the location of a grocery store. By the time I drew near the town I was well into the mountains.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The light was cold and lifeless, the result of thick low clouds and the sun beginning to slide diagonally into the horizon somewhere unseen. The town began as all those towns did, with several mailboxes set beside mysterious dirt roads in the trees.<span style=""> </span>Then houses, quiet and dark in the rain. Then a paved street or two branching off from the highway and finally the town proper. This is usually just the large mobile building which serves as convenience store, gas station, post office, and restaurant. Dease Lake was no exception. I went in to buy some pasta and chili.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">It took a very long time for me to reach a point far enough south that at least half the customers in any given store weren't family members and friends half working and half eating. This store was not that far south. It wasn't empty, and it was fairly well stocked, but as I worked through the rows I soon gathered that most everyone else in the store were either related or good friends. I took my basket up to the counter to check out.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Where's the lake?' I asked the young native girl who was bagging my groceries. I had seen a large lake a dozen or so miles back, but had lost track of it in the trees as I came closer to town.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'What lake?' she asked freezing midway through scanning a loaf of bread, looking distressed and surprised. Being in Dease Lake I meant the question to refer to Dease Lake.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Isn't there a lake here? I'm looking for a place to camp.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>She still looked startled and a little frightened by my question, but after a moment she answered, still holding the bread and using it to gesture like a pointer.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>'Oh, yeah, there's a lake over past the bar. Just go right before the bar, then turn left just after and then go to the end and you'll see a dirt road that'll go down to the water.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Those were good enough directions for me. I paid and snugged my hat back on my head before going back out into the light rain. It was too late to go to the post office, which was adjacent but kept different hours than the store, so I rode off to find the lake.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I found the bar, a sad quiet affair, and went to the end of the road behind it. Several dirt roads split off in different directions, all muddy, rocky and steep. I wasn't even sure that I'd be able to get down any of them, let alone push my heavy bike back up.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">This type of situation is very common when touring. I frequently find myself at some point of decision, with limited information and relatively high consequences for failure. Choosing the wrong road could mean an hour of muddy frustration. <i style="">Do I go and find someone to ask about which road leads where? Do I camp where I stand? Do I get back on the highway and find a more sure but less ideal place?</i> I decided to choose a road, <i style="">but which road?</i> I feel that I have a sense for this type of decision. I don't think that there is anything mysterious about such a sense, but assume that it springs from a subconscious evaluation of many minute and subtle factors in a situation. Like in this instance, I was probably doing nothing more than looking at tire marks, inclination of the terrain and roads, and imagining where the lake might be situated. Regardless of why I did what I did, I chose the road on the right. The decision turned out to be correct. After a few minutes of skidding carefully over glossy mud covered stones and dodging ruts I arrived at a small clearing in the trees along the water’s edge.<span style=""> </span>The light was now a deeper and more sinister shade of grey. The lake looked small from where I stood, more like a pond, but at the far end it may have taken a corner and connected to a bigger body of water. The bottom was deep black mud and the edges were fringed with twigs covered in dark moss.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"><span style=""> </span>I immediately set about making a fire. People had obviously camped here before. There were several dark scorch marks and half hearted fire rings in addition to sparse pieces of soggy trash. A canoe sat filling slowly with water half up on the beach. I threw some wet branches down in one of the fire rings and slopped a generous amount of gasoline from my fuel tank over them. I took a napkin from my bike, wrapped it around the end of a stick and doused it with gasoline as well. I lit the napkin and threw it onto the branches which exploded with a warm -woosh!-<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">As the fire started I began the thousand and one chores that camping requires and that make you appreciate the convenience of a modern life. But before I had even set up my tent I noticed that the fire was in critical condition. The gasoline had all burned away and only one small part of one branch was still burning, a small cold candle defiant in the drizzle. By the time I knelt down next to the fire even that had gone out. <i style="">I don't have time to deal with this right now!</i> I thought, frustrated. I retrieved my fuel canister and this time unloaded an even larger quantity of gasoline onto the smoking pile, arranged the branches in a more deliberate way and repeated my technique with the napkin.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The fire died down quickly again, but this time the branches burned with enough energy to overcome their moisture, the coolness, and the rain. I nearly had my tent set up when I caught movement in the trees fifty feet away.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">A man tromped down the hill and onto the beach, a backpack slung over his shoulder and a box of Canadian Beer under his arm. I appraised him for a moment and then called out,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Hello!'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The man waved a casual hand at me and continued coming forward.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'This isn't your property is it?' I asked him.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'This? No, f--- no man. This isn't my property. Hell I camped here last night. Over there, by that tree. Damn good camping spot. You should camp over there.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Well, I’m about set up here,' I said gesturing to my tent and fire, 'I think I'll stay here.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'F--- man, there's some damn good fire wood over there. You wanna beer?' He held up the box in offering.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'It'd be hard to say no to that,' I said smiling.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The man very happily tossed me a beer and opened one for himself. He squat down where he was and looked at me through narrow eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">He was one of those people who talks, who needs to talk. It doesn't matter what he's talking about, as long as he is the one doing the talking and there are sufficient places in the topic for him to alternately complain and then to offer advice.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">He had hitch hiked up to Canada from the US some years ago and had been slowly passing his life chopping firewood, working in mines, logging, and acting as a handy man as he wandered around the country.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">He was an operator. He invested in people with beer and company and always earned a return. He would readily side with you on any of your grievances, and damn those anonymous third parties who had grieved you. It's a funny fact of life that those whose advice you'd like to hear are generally tight lipped, but bums are inextinguishable sources of insight and wisdom, not to judge a book by its cover, Socrates was something of a bum after all. But far from Socratic questioning, my friend was a fount of simple advice, 'you just gotta be open to opportunities man,' complaints, 'F--- the US,' and the precious stories of his daily life, 'That canoe belongs to a fat Samoan dude. Huge f----- guy. He came down here last night and we had way too many beers and he's like 'let's go fishing maan!' and so he gets in the boat and I start pushing it out and he just tips over and his feet go straight up and he fell in with his clothes on and everything, f----- hilarious man!'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">We spoke for a short while, but he seemed to realize that I was not going to be able to match the fat Samoan, so he offered me more beer, climbed into the canoe and disappeared slowly to the far end of the lake. Twilight lasted for hours, and by the time I had bathed in the lake, made dinner, cleaned up, and gotten in bed it was dark and I fell instantly to sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Coming out of the timeless obscurity of sleep sometime in the middle of the night is always disorienting. It is not so bad at home; lights come in from the street or off the microwave or the other room.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">It's warm and secure and dry. But sleeping alone on a thin membrane above the muddy ground is different. I was still too focused, too consumed and resigned to my situation that I remained emotionally distant from it, but was still aware of it. And so it was with a detached understanding that I was suddenly awake. The rain still parterre lightly on the roof of my tent, but that was not what woke me. In the distance, across the lake and through the trees a deep booming had begun.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"><span style=""> </span>I checked my clock, <i style="">2:35,</i> <i style="">What on earth is going on out there?</i> ‘Boom, Boom, Boom,’ it continued in cadence, loud and pulsing. Then I heard shrieking, the high-pitched wail of a girl’s voice. Then laughter, shrieking, and then the shrieking broke into laughter. Guys were yelling, girls were yelling and through it all continued the deep ‘Boom, Boom, Boom!'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style=""><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Why do they have to have a party now?</span></i><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"> I thought rolling over in my sleeping bag. I listened and made out the song above the booming base. <i style="">I wasn't expecting to get blasted with Rihanna here of all places.</i> Apparently there was a house hidden in the trees not too far from where I slept and there was something worth celebrating that night, something worth celebrating for hours. I can't say for sure but I assume that that thing was alcohol itself. Laying down there in the mud by the lake I was distantly aware that the people in the house were probably my age, or at least close to it. I had no desire to go join them but was suddenly struck with the realization of how far my life had drifted away from that of my peers and old friends. I don't think I have ever felt so estranged from my peer group. It wasn't a sad feeling, it wasn't a feeling of superiority, it was simply the recognition of there being a great separation between me and them.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">It's a distance I have felt all my life, but has sprung into tangible existence since my setting off on this trip. I lay awake thinking that the music would never stop, but the next thing I knew it was morning, and aside from the rain, it was quiet.<o:p></o:p></span></p> Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-74020092627746880092009-11-24T13:03:00.000-08:002009-11-24T13:04:09.021-08:00Heavy Like Gold, Hard Like Diamonds<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CNAMPHA%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CNAMPHA%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" 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<![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapedefaults ext="edit" spidmax="1026"> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:shapelayout ext="edit"> <o:idmap ext="edit" data="1"> </o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The minor differences between British Columbia and the Yukon were enough to amuse me for a while. At the border of the province are several large signs bearing tourist information and touting the land’s greatness. It seems every town, province, state, and country has a slogan in which it tries to convince any visitor that their land is the best place on earth. Often this theme is hinted at or implied indirectly by making some statement about the richness of culture or the beauty of the landscape. British Columbia, however, simply comes out and states it directly. 'British Columbia: the Best Place on Earth.' <i style="">Bold statement</i>, I thought. But they don't stop there. They have selected two slogans which are repeated with equal frequency and seem to compete for official status. 'British Columbia: Super, Natural.' <i style="">Oh no, a pun.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The road was narrower and more coarsely surfaced. There was no strip down it's center and, like the Dalton, it was completely subject to any whim of the terrain. The road was pasted to every undulation and dip and seemed to choose its course without any grand plan in mind. Road signs were often supported, not on standardized sign posts, but on pieces of wood nailed together and set on the ground (or by one of many other means of ingenuity).<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">In the Yukon Territory, short, washboard sections of dirt were a minor nuisance and were fairly common. Here, on the Cassiar, unpaved sections were very common, only much longer and generally more problematic. I dove headlong into my first day, eyes on the road and mind on the weeks ahead. I was aware of drawing closer to the mountains but I didn't give them much thought except for a detached anxiety about how much climbing they might mean.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I soon came across a young German couple. The woman spoke very little English and her boyfriend was not much better, though he did not hesitate to make an effort.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Ve love it here. This very nice. Is beautiful!' I looked around. <i style="">It is beautiful</i>, I thought. My tense frame of mind hadn't allowed me to notice or appreciate the emotional resonance of the setting. I was directly at the base of the mountains whose rocky bases began across the pond and through the trees. The mountains had color, orange volcanic rock drawing out the deep purple in the granite and the green of the trees on their shallower slopes. The mountains were not especially large, and perhaps for that reason alone I had written them off, expecting instead the sheer dizzying grandeur of those peaks shown with dramatic music in nature documentaries. I resolved to try and appreciate my experience more as I wished the German couple luck and set off again.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The road wasn't mean, although perhaps a little spiteful in some of its short steep climbs, but I didn't mind. Every half hour or so an RV, construction truck, or local car would creep around me, but other than that it was silent and I was alone. That evening I found a place to camp at Good Hope Lake.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">In addition to being a body of water, Good Hope Lake is a couple houses with large satellite dishes and a large convenience store. The store is a large mobile building that has one or two small and mostly empty shelves inside and is tended by an angry young local. I found a rocky dirt road that descended a steep embankment from the highway and led to a small sandy beach on the edge of the lake.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The water was crystal, cool, and blue. Small ripples pushed up on the shore through which I could clearly see sand and pebbles swelling in the refraction. I wondered if my camera would be able to capture the effect that I found so mesmerizing, so I took several photos before setting up camp.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Until that night I never really had a proper fire. I had built other fires, but due to the amount of attention they required, my level of fatigue and the direction of their smoke, I never drew much comfort from them.<span style=""> </span>But this night I was so ecstatic with my campsite that I decided to do the thing properly. I had a cable saw with me, a thin steel wire with sharp teeth protruding from it and I decided to give it a try. I found a large dead branch still firmly affixed to a nearby tree and wrapped the wire around it at its widest point. My first several strokes stuck suddenly in the grove and I had to jerk the wire back to free it. After a moment I realized that by keeping my arms wide and fixed and rotating through my shoulders and hips, the wire wouldn't catch. The cable cut quickly, but it was exhausting for my back and arm muscles to keep my fists spread. The branch finally broke with a dry crack and fell down the embankment. I dragged it with one hand over to my camp and began to break it down into fire size chunks. I picked up a large boulder and threw it down onto the branches where I wanted to break them, but soon the boulder began to bounce off of the thicker points and I had to revert back to my saw. The wood burned well. It was warm and constant and I had enough of it that the fire maintained its critical heat and so did not make any smoke or require constant attention. I listened to music, prepared my dinner, and sat staring at the flames as darkness came and stars appeared. After that night, whenever possible, I always built a fire.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I have spent enough time rock climbing to develop a sincere affection for stone. Rock climbing puts you in intimate proximity and dependency with stone. It requires visual and tactile scrutiny of every detail, every flake and crack and texture. You learn to feel the softness and warmth in some, the sharp coldness that drains heat from your fingertips in others. It takes on innumerably varied forms and offers a dramatic template in which to entirely immerse yourself. Every time I rose past a curve in the road that had been blasted into rock it was always an interesting study for me to wonder at the age and composition of the exposed layers.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I came to a place called Jade City. I had heard the word before, of course. Jade. I had some notion of a polished green stone which was sometimes used on ancient necklaces or art. I knew that it was sometimes used in new age healing and was supposed to carry a positive energy, but I had never given it a second thought. There is a shop in Jade City which I only visited because of the sign out front offering free coffee and because it was beginning to rain. This shop is practically the only thing in the 'town', aside from several other unremarkable buildings set quietly into the trees along the road. It sells jade in the form of several dozen slightly imperfect and cheesy statues of local animals, rings, necklaces, doorstops, paperweights, charms, totems, and on and on.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I fetched my coffee and looked around, grateful for an excuse to be off the bike. The raw jade is flown in from a quarry somewhere off in the mountains. Large boulders are strewn about in front of the shop waiting to be processed by large screaming saws that are left unattended to work their way through chunks of stone. Jade is such a dense and fibrous material that it is only worked with diamond tipped tools, and even then it can take hours for one of these saws to work its way though even an inch of a quality stone. I couldn't find anything in the store that I liked. I gazed over shelves of imbalanced green bears reaching across their wooden pedestals for a little metal fish, at bins full of delicate translucent jade rings, and at the minute pieces of green that had been worked into countless earrings, bracelets, and necklaces. I didn't like any of the transformed pieces, but the stone itself, raw, heavy, deep green, and pure, seemed to me a substance of such legitimacy that I understood all the claims made about the stones healing energy. I finally bought a small, simple little oval of rock, unornamented, plain, and tucked it into a pocket on my bike.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I mark that store as a transformational point in the forest. North of here the trees are dry and dull. Sometimes dense and sometimes as sparse as the furthest reaches of the Boreal Line, they simply did not carry the electric mystery I was expecting and hoping for. After Jade City the forest was suddenly dark and full. It seemed intriguing in the way that only something alive or seemingly concealing life can be intriguing. In the cool light rain I moved without effort for miles, trying to stare as deeply as possible between the trees as they flashed by, trying to catch glimpses of concealed moss covered rock faces, ponds happy with lily pads, and the never visible, always audible, sound of flowing water.<o:p></o:p></span></p> Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-45541676168209056002009-11-17T11:57:00.000-08:002009-11-17T11:58:29.502-08:00Sleeping in the Rain<p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">Every half hour there was a loud, long humming noise. It sounded like a distant prop plane or a vibrating sander. It would switch on suddenly, moan along for about a minute, and then switch off completely. Other than the noise of the light rain falling, whose volume was amplified against my tent, there was no other noise. It was completely black but my eyes were open. I leave my eyes open even when I'm trying to fall asleep. I turned in my sleeping bag like a chicken on a rotisserie, exposing my left shoulder and hip to the ground, to the fire that would within a few minutes cook that half of my body to a level of discomfort that would require me to rotate onto my stomach, and then my right side, and finally over onto my back again, leaving me evenly cooked all around and ready to begin another turn.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">The humming noise sounded again. It was made by trucks crossing the long bridge that stretched over the pale milk chocolate river a quarter mile away. That much I knew. What I didn't know was that the surface of this bridge was made of a large steel grid. I didn't know that it would be so cold in the morning that it would still be raining and that the steel squares of the bridge would be slicker than ice under my tires.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">So the following morning I rode towards it at a confident speed, naive to my impending misfortune. When I hit the bridge, the heavy back end of my bike drifted out sideways like a dirt track motorcycle racer would do to drift around a turn. The front wheel shifted quickly one square to the left and then shot back in line.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My stomach cinched up and I knew I was going down. I tried to unclip my right foot from the pedal to help catch my fall, but before I did the back tire suddenly shot back into alignment as though pushed by an opposing force. Shaken and moving more slowly, I tentatively pedaled on. A second later, the rear tire drifted suddenly out to the right and once again I really felt that I couldn't save it, but just before I completely lost control, the bike corrected again. I tried shifting my weight forward and back, I tried going faster or slower, but I couldn't understand the physics of the thing. The bike just kept drifting wildly and unnervingly to the side before suddenly correcting again. The whole trip I don't think I have had such an arm and ab workout as I did then trying to stay balanced while drifting across the bridge. I was almost across, the last fifty feet, when the rear tire started drifting sideways again. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Hold onto it,</i> I told myself. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">It will correct in a minute,</i> the back end of the bike hung in balance for a moment as the rear tire spun slowly at a diagonal. Just as I thought I had it, the back tire shot out suddenly, the bike careened around sideways, and I fell flat down on my side before I even realized what happened. I stuck out my hand to catch my fall and it slapped hard against the ice cold steel bridge as my bike landed on top of me, my feet still clipped to the pedals.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">I’m alright</span></i><span style="font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">, I realized as I picked myself up. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Well except for my hand, but I don't think it's broken...</i> I hoisted the bike upright and walked the remaining distance to solid ground. I looked back at the bridge which now seemed a forbidding dark tangle of wet steel in the cold grey morning light. It was my first fall, my only fall so far, and while I did have the cold shivers of adrenaline shaking through my hand, I felt lucky. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">If there had been a truck behind me...</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">The road I was on is called the Alaska Highway. It is perhaps incorrectly named given that the majority of the road runs through Canada, but the Alaska Highway it remains. There is a point where the Alaska Highway dips briefly into British Columbia before crawling back into the Yukon Territory. You can easily see this by looking on a map of the area, and my goal for the day was to get through the portion in British Colombia and back into the Yukon. I didn't make it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">It turned out to be much farther than it looked on the map and I ran out of energy that day. Tired, and having already ridden farther than I planned, I pulled over to camp in the grass along side of the road.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">The grass was deep and heavy with water from the incessant drizzle. Small black spiders and ants hid from the rain on the underside of the blades. I pushed my bike away from the road and flipped out the kickstand with a twang. The bike would not stand up; the kickstand just sank straight into the muddy ground beneath the grass. Finally I managed to keep it upright, jamming the kickstand against a small rock, black and slick with mud. I began feeling around for a flat spot, using my feet to feel the undulations of earth concealed by the grass. Nowhere was really flat, but I finally found a place that was close enough and where the water wouldn't pool.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">Seen from a passing car or truck, or out of the window of a warm house, a tent seems impossibly small, pathetically uncomfortable, sad and alone in the rain. But on the inside, with much fussing and organizing and drying off and cleaning up, it is possible to be fairly comfortable in most situations. This was one of my worst campsites, in the deep, wet, awkward band of grass dividing the highway from the forest, close enough that a passing semi was loud enough to wake you, without water or a shower or a place to get food. But even still, I managed to change into dry clothes, tuck my wet, clammy feet into good wool socks (the socks from Jesse’s friend), eat a decent meal, read my book, and even listen to music while doing it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">The following morning it was still raining. Even a light drizzle sounds loud as it pops against the top of the tent, making it easy to think the rain is much heavier than it actually is. I always took some pleasure in making breakfast, leaning out of my sleeping bag and warming water for oatmeal and tea. But it was raining and I didn't want to cook out in the rain. I decided to try and use my stove inside the vestibule of my tent.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">My camping stove runs on gasoline, an ill suited fuel for the purpose, but one that was very practical for me since I could refill it nearly anywhere. I took out my stove and fuel canister from their little black canvas bags and flipped out the little aluminum feet of the stove. Using the pump built into the top of the fuel can, I counted to twenty as I pressurized the bottle.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I inserted the braided steel fuel line into the nozzle on the canister, locked it in place and opened the pressure to the fuel line. Now for the tricky part. The stove will not burn properly until it warms up. To do this you are supposed to bleed a tablespoon of gasoline onto the wick and let it burn a big smoky fireball for several minutes. This can sometimes be dramatic and a little unnerving. More than once I had found myself scrambling to move pieces of paper, plastic and articles of clothing away from a larger than expected fireball after accidentally letting out too much gas.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">I mashed down a section of grass beneath my rainfly and balanced my stove on its aluminum base. I pulled my lighter from inside my shirt where I had been warming it in order to be ready to ignite the fuel. I flicked open the collapsible flame adjuster and gently twisted it open. A small amount of gasoline sputtered and bubbled in the center of the jet. I quickly shut off the fuel supply, snapped open my lighter, and held it to the little puddle of fuel.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">It didn't take for several seconds, but then I whipped my hand away as it suddenly exploded into a bright orange fireball with thick black smoke. Instantly the inside of the tent was warm. The heat seemed to soften the wet fabric of the tent, which started to sag down closer to the flame. I reached around the flame to press the canvas away from the fire and with my other hand unzipped the door of the rainfly partway to let some of the smoke and heat out. Small droplets of cold rain snuck through the crack and landed on my pillow, disappearing instantly into its black fabric. After a moment the flame died down until it was barely visible, like the flame of a candle. Gently I eased open the fuel line just enough to let a small amount of gas through.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">The stove had not yet warmed up properly so the gas that now seeped through the nozzle was part vapor and part liquid. This caused the stove to spew a rapid series of fire balls with a loud <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">puff puff puff puff!</i> A moment later the explosions diminished and the flame began to burn a hot blue.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">I pulled apart my cooking pots, filled one with water, and placed it on the stove. The flame sputtered again as I cranked it up to full power and felt around the stove with my hand to see how much heat it was emitting at its edges. It seemed ok, barely.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">I closed the flap a little bit to stop the rain from coming in, scooted around, and grabbed my bags of food. The bags were long cylinders, simple and light. As this was the case, I often had to pull everything out of them in order to get what I actually wanted. A minute later, my sleeping bag was lined with food: the beef jerky from Deadhorse, vitamins, rice meal, several powdered supplements, a handful of snickers bars, a bag of sugar, salt and pepper, dried apricots, canned cashews, trail mix, peanut butter and jelly, two oranges and an apple, crackers, pasta, chili, powdered milk, honey, tea, and finally, my oatmeal.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">I poured several bags of the oatmeal into my silicone bowl and added in powdered vitamins, honey, and a spoonful of powdered milk.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">The little stove sounds like a miniature rocket when it gets warmed up, so much so that I actually checked to see if it generated any thrust the first couple times I used it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">I took the cap off of the pot and a cloud of steam mushroomed out of it. I added the boiling water to my oatmeal concoction and threw some tea into what remained in the pot.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">The rain continued lightly and loudly. I unzipped the door a little further, struck by a sudden fear that I had forgotten to zip up the bag on my handle bars. I peeked through the crack and saw the bike a few feet away, sad and wet, but perfectly in order.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">Breakfast was too nice. It made too perfect an excuse to linger in the tent and avoid the work, avoid the cold, and avoid the rain. But ultimately, somehow, I put myself in motion gathering up all my food and cooking gear, dumping the small amount of water remaining in the pot into the grass, and organizing all the rest of my stuff into piles.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">Crawling to the side, I rolled up my sleeping pad and stuffed the sleeping bag into its case. Now the dreaded part: I pulled off my warm pajamas and slid into my still wet cycling clothes. My socks were still drenched as were my shoes which bubbled water as I squeezed into them. I pulled on my rain jacket and my wide brimmed hat and hoisted myself awkwardly out of the tent.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">Rain is not ideal, but it is actually not so miserable to bike in, provided it’s not too cold and that you accept that you're just going to get wet. The worst part of rain is actually the setting up and tearing down of a campsite because all of your stuff gets wet in the process. I had laid awake the night before thinking of a way to avoid this. I quickly and carefully removed all the gear from inside the tent, tucking it inside 'waterproof' inserts inside my panniers and then covering the panniers with external 'waterproof' covers. This was the only way that I was able to keep my gear mostly dry. I then turned my attention to how to get the tent and rainfly packed up without getting the entire tent wet. I first went around and pulled out all the tent stakes that were holding the fly and gathered them up in one muddy little pile.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">The cover now adhered in its wetness to the tent underneath. Reaching under the rainfly I unclipped the tent poles and popped them out from the four corners of the tent. There was now a deflated pile of wet nylon at my feet with tent poles sticking out at either end. I disassembled the poles so that they would slide out smoothly and pulled them out from the other end. After folding them up and stuffing them away, I yanked the tent out from beneath the cover and crumpled it into my pannier and followed it with the sopping wet rainfly.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"">Ready to go. At least so I thought. To do it properly I still had to brush my teeth and put on sunscreen and dig my gloves back out and clean my glasses and then I could go. I thought about it for a minute and then decided not to do any of those things, but pushed my bike carefully through the grass, up the little embankment, and back onto the road.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-66359836945385539442009-11-16T14:15:00.001-08:002009-11-16T14:15:44.792-08:00Stikine<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" 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mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in; line-height: normal;"><span style="">The continental divide runs along the peaks of the Rocky Mountains and delineates the point at which streams flow either west to the pacific or east to the Hudson Bay and the Arctic Ocean. On my map I could see a faint dotted line marking the division. I began to think to myself that if I was about to cross anything as impressive sounding as 'The Continental Divide' then I must have not only climbed far higher than I realized, but I must also have a terrific descent waiting for me on the other side.</span><b style=""><o:p></o:p></b></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">My map had marked on it a place called Swift River which was just barely back in the Yukon Territory. I arrived there soon, hoping to supplement my breakfast with some coffee and to use a restroom. Swift River turned out to be just two buildings joined together by a string of junk: old boards, bikes, tarps, several cars, and even an old school bus.<span style=""> </span>Out in front were several ancient looking fuel pumps. Inside sat two men who looked as soft and rotten as the junk that sat out in the rain.<span style=""> </span>The building was an old wooden house of poor construction. It was dark inside and the building seemed to sag under piles of old clothes and souvenirs collecting slowly in the corners. The floor echoed under my cleated shoes. By the kitchen in the back a sign had been hung that read, ‘Don't bother the help, they’re harder to find than customers.' A joke, sure, but a true statement, no doubt. I asked for coffee and the fatter man, who seemed more a part of his ancient chair than his own person, gestured with his finger to the man with bad teeth, who, with a severe limp, made his way back into the kitchen to fetch my coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I answered the questions, where I was from and where I was going and yeah I had come across some bears and no I wasn't going to bike home when I got to Argentina. I paid the man for twenty cents of gasoline and went outside to fill my camping stove. I took several photos of the pumps and the junk, and set off again.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Up and over the continental divide and down the far side.<span style=""> </span>On the map I could see the road run right down out of the mountains and into flat terrain before Watson Lake. Hours later, I reached the flatlands.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Well that's not true. I reached that point on my map where the subtle bumps of shading that represented mountains ends. In reality the terrain was steep and repetitive. Empty forests draped over hills large enough to make me very frustrated by the time I reached their peaks.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The junction for the Cassiar Highway drops south out of the Alaska Highway a solid twenty miles before Watson Lake. I decided that I carried with me enough food to just dive right into the wild Cassiar and avoid altogether the forty miles back and forth from Watson Lake.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Restaurants, convenience stores, and gas stations can, with a good level of reliability, be expected at any point where two red lines on the map meet, that is to say at a junction of two major roads (major being a relative term). Reaching the Cassiar, I saw with relief that the rule held true.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">It was a nice building, made of large varnished wooden logs, and was arranged in such a way as to be accommodating. There was RV parking in the back and there were showers and a restaurant. Expensive as it was to camp there, I stepped into the gift shop to pay. The proximity to a good breakfast would make camping there entirely worth it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">As I approached the counter, the only other customer in the store, a man of about forty-five with a baseball cap and an ill kept moustache cut sideways in front of me.<span style=""> </span>He had several white t-shirts draped over his arm, all bearing, in quivering blue letters dressed in ice, the phrase, 'I Survived the Alaska Highway.' The man paid for his shirts, and returned to his motor home.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The restaurant was good! The first place I had been that really seemed to be aware of the fact that food ought to have flavor, and put any effort at all into making it so.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'It's good!' I told the server who was also the owner. 'It's the first good food I've had in a long time! A lot of the places, well...I don't know, I feel like a lot of the places I've been don't really, they just don't-'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'I know,' the woman said seriously, and judging from her expression, not only did she know, but she considered the very idea of those other places frightening.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Cycle touring requires a comfort, or an acceptance of the unknown. I was at the head of a vastly remote and wild stretch of highway in northern Canada and knew very little more than that. Some people are able to frantically and fastidiously plan and research every detail, but I find that this limits one’s ability to respond and adapt to new situations. And on a trip of the scale I am doing it is simply impractical. I had only a rough idea of how long the road was and how long it would take me to get through it. I didn't know how much was paved or how cold it would get or how often there were other people or anything like that. I was uncertain about things as essential as food and water. The best information I could get on such topics was by asking locals, but the most they can tell you is, 'yeah, there are some stops. I think there's a grocery in Dease Lake.' Hardly conducive to a relaxed frame of mind, or to a detailed plan. As for water, my electronic water purifier had always been fussy and had finally died my last day in Alaska. I didn't know if there were at all frequent towns where I'd be able to refill, or even creeks whose water I'd have to boil. And then I would need fuel for my stove to boil the water and I had no idea how often there'd be gas.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Nevertheless, the following morning, after a good breakfast and real coffee, I turned right off of the Alaska Highway and simply began doing the work, began making progress, understanding that it didn't matter whether or not I knew all the details, but that with endless patience and effort I would emerge on the far side.<o:p></o:p></span></p> Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-83887027679310892822009-11-12T00:04:00.000-08:002009-11-12T00:05:12.363-08:00Superstition<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" 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Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I was heading to Watson Lake. Watson Lake is a relatively large town in the Yukon, and before you begin to develop any idealistic notions about a quaint little village set into the beautiful forests of the far north, you should know that Watson Lake is not most famous for its scenery, but rather for its 'signpost forest.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I never did make it there to see this undoubtedly stunning wonder, but I know it consists of hundreds of road signs from all over the world that have been tacked up to wooden posts in an area creating a 'forest.' While the glory and charm of this forest are heavily touted on every tourist brochure in every cafe along the highway, I heard it described as 'not very impressive' by another cyclist, and so do not regret never having seen it. Nevertheless Watson Lake was my target, my mental destination. Cities like that meant a day off, a grocery store, and laundry. At least that's the frame I mind I was in at that point on my trip.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">The day after leaving David behind by the lake was difficult. It was one of those days that was bland and unscenic. The trees seemed shrubby once again, like they had been further north. I watched much too closely as the kilometers clicked by and constantly felt like stopping. <i style="">You’re tired. Make lunch, pull over and camp here. Take a day off. At least take a break. </i>To this, some other part of me would simply respond, <i style="">you're not tired, you're just looking for an out.</i> And it was true, in part. I was actually tired, but I was mainly just looking for an out. At that point in my trip I was still stopping frequently, even if only for a minute or two. Every hour or so I would congratulate and encourage myself and take a couple bites of food. If anything, this at least helped to break the monotony of an entire day on a bike.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I finally allowed myself a break at a small rest area. That was one thing that always cracked me up, all those rest areas. Why are there so many rest areas? Who is doing so much resting anyways? This particular pull out was equipped with an outhouse and several informational boards with faded drawings of birds and plants and brief descriptions explaining the landscape. I still couldn't sit still long enough to really read any of these signs. I walked around munching a Snickers bar -sorry William- and tried anyways…<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'...hundreds of acres burn leaving behind an environment of blah blah...well suited for many types of new blah blah blah which you can see by the thousands in the spring.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I moved on to the next sign which had a hand drawn raven.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'The raven is a highly intelligent bird which plays a role in local mythology and tribal superstitions. The raven is generally considered a bad omen or the representation of an evil spirit.' My interest started to fade. 'Feathers are often used blah blah...' I finished munching my candy bar and got back on the bike.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">In the distance a narrow black line quivered against the sky at the top of a low rise. I squinted, trying to determine what it was. <i style="">It can't be another cyclist, it's too skinny...</i> The line wiggled back and forth, oscillating like a mirage or a post blurred in heat rising off the ground. Slowly the specter solidified and within minutes I was face to face with it.<span style=""> </span>It stared back at me. Its eyes were a brilliant reflective orange in which I could see myself and the mountains behind me. Its head was narrow and bulging and fluted on top, like a giant mushroom. Its arms and legs were skinny and black and it was smiling at me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Hello!' he said.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Hi,' I answered, looking into his face which was tucked beneath a bike helmet that seemed somehow a little too puffy and behind a pair of brilliantly orange sunglasses that turned up at the edges making him look like some kind of insect. He wore long sleeve, black skin tight cycling clothes, and had absolutely no equipment on his bike which is why he looked so thin at a distance.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Where're you going?' I asked him.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">He smiled at me even more broadly, straddling his bike and standing partway in the highway.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Well you see, I'm a Christian,' he said stretching his right arm out wide, touching his left fingertips to his chest and inclining his head slightly, almost as though the entire motion were a subdued but still theatrical bow, 'and I've been traveling on this here bike to spread the word of the good Lord Jesus Christ.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">He spoke with a Texan accent and had the energy and charisma of a fledgling television pastor. He was young, maybe in his late twenties.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Oh, I'm a Christian too,' I said to him.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Well the evidence of the Lord is all around us,' he said, sweeping his arm around at the mountains.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style=""><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">That's a rather silly argument, not that I'm gonna argue,</span></i><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"> I thought.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">We exchanged information and wished one another well. It turned out that 'Jesse' had come up from Florida and was ultimately heading up to Deadhorse, after taking several months off in Alaska. I don’t know where he is now, but I don't think he could have actually done it before winter began in earnest, making the road impassable.<span style=""> </span>Jesse was supported by a friend who drove a truck and pulled a trailer with his gear. I met the friend a few miles later.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I don't remember his name. It was a common name, but I had one of those moments where you hear a name and could not repeat it even a moment after hearing it. He was a big kid. I'm sure he played great football when he was in high school, and maybe even college. He had powerful hands and a big head. He was such a contrast to the light and slender frame of Jesse that I had trouble imagining them as friends.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">He had actually driven past me catching up to Jesse, and then turned around and caught back up to me to give me a drink. He was too nice and it didn't seem natural coming from a guy with such a powerful build, although I do not doubt his sincerity. After giving me a soda he drove off, but turned around again and caught up with me fifteen minutes later, having found the pair of socks he couldn't find for me the first time he looked. I wish I could remember his name.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">That evening it started to rain. A light, cold and dark rain that began just as I was pulling off the road to camp. I had reached Teslin, home of a grocery store. Well, that's what all the travelers said as it seems to be the only thing there worth anything to anyone. There was also a restaurant which had RV parking. I set up my tent in light rain down by the lake, had a shower, and crawled into bed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">When the rain cover is on the tent it is impossible to see out of. There are no windows and two doors have to be unzipped in order to get out. This leaves one feeling pretty vulnerable and blind. I lay there thinking about all the things that had happened recently, about being on my own again and how much I looked forward to getting south.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I was just beginning to drift off when suddenly a big black hand slapped down hard on top of my rain cover and began scratching against it furiously. My stomach cinched and my heart jumped in surprise as sharp black fingers began scraping frantically against the rain cover.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I stared for a moment and then reached up and punched the scrambling dark spot with the side of my fist. Instantly it disappeared, vanishing completely, making no noise at all. 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mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >It always astonished me at just how long it took to get everything ready to go in the morning. You need to clean and sort the pots used for making breakfast, which also means putting the soap and sponge used to clean them away. The stove must be disconnected from the fuel can, folded up and secured in its bag. The utensils must then be cleaned and put away. Food and seasoning must be re-packed and secured once again to the back of the bike. Then the sleeping bag and air mattress have to be compressed and shoved into their pannier.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Journal, pen, map, iPod, Kleenex, water bottle, chapstick, GPS, pocket knife, bear spray, flashlight, chair, pillow, battery, camera, cables, pajamas, and toiletries must all be gathered, organized, and put back onto the bike. Then you have to change into your riding clothes, which somehow always feel a little wet and nasty, put your shoes on, and clean the sweat off your glasses. Then the clothes from that night have to be rolled and folded and stuffed into bags on the bike. Then the tent must be disassembled and packed away, don’t forget to gob on the sunscreen and then, finally, head back onto the road. Wait, there are always one or two things you've forgotten: this zipper’s open or your sandals are on the ground or your washcloth is still hanging from that branch or something. Every time I left anywhere I was always extraordinarily careful to check the ground around where I had been, making sure I had forgotten nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Finally, leaning heavily into the handlebars, I pushed my bike up the steep rocky turn-off and back onto the road. I looked back the way I came before starting and saw an ambiguous black shape moving towards me. <i style="">William?</i> I waited as it moved slowly closer, until finally it materialized, not as William, but as David.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Morning!' he smiled his big English smile at me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Morning,' I answered back. 'I thought you were William. Did you see him? He's right back in town.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >They had somehow missed one another, even though they both camped in town.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >'I think William’s going to take the day off,' I said smiling. 'Yesterday was by far the biggest day he's done so far.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >David and I agreed to ride together, although I was intent on making it all the way to Whitehorse, something to which David would not commit. It was a long day, over a hundred miles through dull forest and aggravating hills. It was strange there, in northern Canada, because you could see so far. In all of Alaska I was either in cloud or smoke or rain and so could rarely see more than a mile in the distance. Here, however, the landscape was arranged in such a way that I could frequently see 50 miles distant, and so it was possible to imagine where your destination was, which hills it was set between, or which mountains you would have to cross to get there.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I soon rode ahead of David and hoped he would push all the way to the town, but I wasn't banking on it. Prior to that day I had had two culinary inspirations. The first was to combine Nutrigrain bars with butter and sliced apple in order to approximate apple pie. The second was to combine beef jerky, rice, potatoes, and Ramen together to make a stew (this did not turn out well). This day I had my third. I planned to cook pasta and pour a can of chili over it. <i style="">Would that work? That can't be that bad, chili is just kind of like a meat sauce anyways right?</i> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Two days previously I came across a Dutch couple having lunch on the side of the road who were also cycle touring. They had set their stove up on the wooden post of the metal guardrail and looked so relaxed and so comfortable I was inspired. 'Ve go slow,' the man had said in a strong accent. 'Ve go slow enough zat ve don't svet. Ve don't want to need a shower.' This approach was so contrary to mine and looked so appealing that I was impacted by it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >So that day I set my stove up on the little wooden post supporting the metal guardrail and took my time preparing a big lunch. I had a suspicion that David would catch up and I wanted to have enough for him too. I carefully drew water from the river, boiled the noodles al dente, and warmed the chili. Excited and hungry, I clamped the handle on the pot of chili and poured it over the pasta. I retrieved my bowl and fork from my bike and started to serve myself when, with lightning speed, the pot twisted out of the handle and spilled all over the street. <i style="">Oh bother.</i> I leaned out over the guardrail and pulled some noodles off the top of the pile, those that didn't have so much gravel sticking to them, and put them in my bowl.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >I managed to save enough for a small lunch, which I was still working through when David finally arrived.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >'What's for lunch?' he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Pasta,' I said.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Alright! Where's mine?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I pointed to the mess on the street.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >'I actually did mean to make enough for you, but...'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >David laughed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >He decided to make it all the way to Whitehorse with me that day. Riding with David I barely noticed the rest of the day go by, and soon enough I began to see billboards along the road advertising restaurants, museums, auto shops, and hotels with... wait... swimming pools? Admittedly they were all indoor pools, but the fact that they existed was a sign of my making progress south.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Even now I often make the mistake of feeling myself arrived before actually, truly, and completely being there. Whenever I let myself feel this way too early, the road always seems to make ten miles longer than they really are, seems to find a way to fit the biggest hill of the day in this distance, or otherwise punishes you for arriving mentally before physically. In this case the march of billboards continued for what seemed like an eternity, but must have been about an hour and a half before we finally arrived in Whitehorse.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >As many towns are, Whitehorse is surrounded by a sprawling shamble of run down little shops and alleys full of potholes. The road finally curves through a deep gorge which seems to filter the junk before finally dumping into the town center which sits on the slow, muddy Yukon River.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >David had done his research better than I and had in mind a place to stay along the water. Roberts Service Campground was located just upriver of the town, tucked in the trees along the water. Biking through the entrance it was apparent that this was a destination, or rather a hub, for all sorts of young international travelers going fishing, kayaking, and hiking. The campground was fairly full, although David and I found good spots adjacent to one another. The campsites were raised boxes of meticulously raked dirt, a fire pit, and a picnic table, for which we each paid fifteen dollars a night.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The campground had coin operated showers. Shove a loony into the aluminum box on the wall and water sprays out of the far wall for five minutes. There was a covered area next to the office which was stuffed full of old, faded couches and miscellaneous blankets and pillows all surrounding a fire pit.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I took the next day off in order to go to the grocery store, post office, and to do my laundry. The town was nicer than Fairbanks, clean, and still retaining the feel of an old western settlement. That evening I followed a trail down to the river from my campsite. The ground was like a sponge, a mossy deep green mesh of leaves and half rotten twigs. I noticed the increased variety of foliage. In Alaska there was about four different types of plants: two low, bushy kinds of things, Birch, and Spruce trees. It seemed as though life was coming to the landscape which was even beginning to develop a scent: the sweet smell of rot.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >At the airport before leaving on my trip, my friend Nam had given me four cigars. I had planned to smoke the first one in Deadhorse as an acknowledgement and celebration of the fact that I had gotten everything in order and actually made it to the North Slope. My time there was so frantic that I never had the chance, but the first night, that night on the tundra where I sank into the mud and cooked fish, I did try to have one. The experience was utterly unsatisfying. The wind was too strong and cold and kept stealing its heat, and I was too preoccupied cooking and managing my belongings that I couldn't tend it properly. I had the second in Coldfoot, where I met Kim and had the buffet. Again the wind was too cold and I was too distracted to ever really get it burning properly. The third I was saving for Fairbanks, a celebration of finishing the Dalton Highway and reaching civilization. But once again I was too busy to have it, and so wound up lighting it at my campsite the first day out of town.<span style=""> </span>But everything had gotten wet in Fairbanks and that round woman was making me nervous and so that cigar was really my biggest failure. The final cigar had bounced around in the hopelessly disorganized mess that was my handlebar bag, and had become cracked and bent and discolored. Nevertheless, my last night in Whitehorse, I cut off all of it, save the last inch, which had not been so badly damaged, and tried my luck again.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I was seated in one of the sunken couches around the fire pit at the campground. I had my journal, a full stomach, and everything prepared for the following day. That one inch, that last remaining inch of tobacco, was, finally, perfect. I suppose I had finally reached a level of comfort with my nomadic life that I was able to properly relax and enjoy a moment’s rest.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The following day David left before me as I had to stay behind in order to finish up some journals, so I bid him a casual farewell, confident I would see him later that day. Several hours later I was finally on the road again. After the billboards and streetlights finally fell away, I wound my way through a maze of grey granite and trees and finally emerged alongside a long, skinny lake. The lake looked metallic under the clouds and a strong wind whipped north along the water creating little grey peaks and shook the trees along the lake. This made it very difficult to go on. The wind was strong enough to cut my speed in half, making it tempting to pull off and wait until the wind died to continue on. I finally came to a sign along the road marking a state campground. <i style="">You know what...</i>I thought. <i style="">I bet... Yeah he's gotta be.</i> I pulled into the campground, which was along the lake but was sheltered by trees. I found David a few minutes later, his tent set up, book in hand, with water on the stove. It looked like heaven to me, to take a day off to relax and read, and he invited me to join him, but I just couldn't justify it. I took down his contact info, took a photo of him and bid him a real farewell.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Back on the road the wind was relentless, but all things end, and finally, at a small town called Jakes Corner, the road turned east, away from the lake, and shot off into a very narrow valley between dramatic rock faces.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >One thing fairly common in this part of the world are young backpackers traveling by thumb. While we are different, cyclists and hitchers, there is a certain lonesome and adventurous thread we share. There was one such traveler standing on the side of the road and I pulled over to say hello. He told me he wasn't having any luck finding a ride, and he was thinking about just camping where he was.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >'...it's already getting late. It's six thirty.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style=""><span style=";font-family:";" >Six thirty is late?</span></i><span style=";font-family:";" > <span style=""> </span><i style="">With this nearly constant sunlight, I bike until, say, nine at night.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I was again tempted to stop as there was a campground and a restaurant there... and I had already worked so hard...<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Well good luck,' I said making up my mind to continue on into the valley. I finally did make it to a campground, a pretty place in the trees above a small lake, and I slept well.<o:p></o:p></span></p> Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-40209290687927514052009-11-08T22:15:00.001-08:002009-11-09T20:31:38.346-08:00To the Something Junction<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> 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mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The following day I wasn't sure what level of goodbye would be appropriate to make towards my new biking friends. <span style=""> </span>A large and dramatic goodbye would become awkward if I saw them again only a couple miles down the road, but I didn't want to be rude. I settled with an, 'I'm sure I’ll see you on the road, but if not I wish you luck.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I was the last one to leave, but being the fastest of the three I was confident of catching them at some point during the day. I set off excited to have friends tucked around some bend in the road ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The road followed the lake, bright blue, clear and beautiful.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Within ten miles I had caught David and we pulled off the road at a small convenience store set against the mountains bordering the lake. I balanced my bike delicately on its kickstand and went inside to survey the poorly stocked shelves. Trail mix, candy bars, chili, and soda. There was not much here but I had heard rumors about the grocery store at Teslin Junction.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >That's the way life works on the road. Information is usually acquired by rumor and you learn to discern what is accurate and what is likely not. Grocery store rumors are a subject of such importance that they are rarely wrong. Other rumors, such as of headwinds, bears, snow, and hills are open to individual perception and experience and are generally not reliable.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >For instance, we had asked the woman at the restaurant whether there were many hills coming up over the next several days. She answered with a definitive 'no,' paused for a moment and then said, 'Well, I guess your ears do pop at one point after the lake.' In general motorists have a very distorted perception of where and how large the hills are. I found that the best information about the terrain is to simply assume that the going will be tough.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I also found that maps were comically inaccurate. Free tourist maps are fairly easy to find, but don't seem to relate to the terrain with any accuracy. Roads often seemed to be approximated by hand, and trying to look at elevation lines does not provide an accurate way of knowing where the hills are. Even still, with some practice, I was able to learn to use these maps. The techniques were often counterintuitive.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >One could easily assume that roads that run along the edge of a lake would be flat given that the lake itself is necessarily flat. However quite the opposite is true, for lakes are often set into steep mountains, the spurs and draws on which the road is obliged to drop into and climb over. Additionally, strong winds often build over lakes, and according to the laws of misery (I will discuss the laws of misery shortly), this wind is necessarily a headwind.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >One would assume that roads that squiggle into the mountains would have more hills than roads that run straight over terrain that looks flat on a map. However, once again, the opposite of intuition is true.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >Roads that 'squiggle' necessarily turn, and turning is always an effort to avoid hills, while roads that run straight over 'flat' terrain simply climb and fall steeply over hills that are not quite mountains and so are not displayed on a map, but are large enough to be a lot of work to climb over.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >As I collected my items from the flexing metal shelves, two more people entered the convenience store. I recognized them at once. Cass and Dan, whom I had met in Alaska, smiled and greeted me. They then turned and greeted David by name. It was an odd feeling to have been so alone in such a vast and empty world for so long and then to suddenly have people you know around every corner. I was eager to get moving, especially after doing only a half day the day before, so after a brief conversation, I left with another uncomfortable goodbye and set out on my own.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I knew William was out there somewhere, and I knew he was slow so I expected to catch him soon. The road dipped and rose around the lake, cutting into the wind. Steep snow peaked mountains loomed threateningly and beautifully to my right.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Even though the scale of my trip is impossibly large, it does not at all diminish the distance of one mile. If anything it seems to increase it. Here is what I mean, if I had to bike 5 miles instead of 4, it makes very little difference, but if I instead am made to bike 81 miles instead of 80 miles, that additional mile is a far greater chore than it would be on a shorter ride. So even traveling around a lake like this, which in the grand scale of my trip is very small, does seem to take a great deal of time. However, at length the road curved around the southern end of the lake, passing over the wide silty river feeding it, and then running next to fields of grass barely submerged under a crystal clear foot of water that had spilled over its edge. The road then turned off into rolling hills which filled the narrow valley between two new ranges of peaks.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >At no point on this ride have I ever been biking to Argentina. The impossibility of such a feat would overwhelm and cripple me. I bike to the next city, the next hamburger, the next downhill, or the next time I will see the sun. In this particular case I was biking to Whitehorse, the capital of the Yukon territory. It is very easy to construct idyllic mental images of the places you are headed, based on some rumor you've heard, or some movie you saw as a kid, or simply some desire for it to be as you wish it to be. People do this all the time about all sorts of things, and very rarely are our imaginings close to the reality. On the road, in the extreme north, this problem was exaggerated so much so that it was often comical.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >For instance my imaginings of the mountains and forests of Alaska were contrasted to a reality of smoke, ash, and strangled trees. My imaginings of Fairbanks, a sanctuary of culture and comfort, were replaced by a reality of run down shops and unhealthy, idle people. My idyllic vision of Canada as a place of log cabins and home cooking was steadily being substituted by truck stops and packaged snacks.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Although it is often inaccurate, this ability people have to dream and hope about a better future is very important in getting through difficult times. So I still held onto a vision of Whitehorse as an interesting and friendly town, quaint and comfortable. That's where I was biking, several hundred miles, not several thousand.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >In the distance the road curved like a mile long Nike Swoosh up and over another hill. Halfway up a black speck moved slowly up the shoulder. <i style="">William! Finally!</i> A short time later I pulled up alongside him.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >'You don't give yourself nearly enough credit,' I said, 'you're really not very slow at all.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Ha, oh hey. Yeah I'm... Well I'm... I guess I'm getting stronger every day.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Yeah but I don't care how strong you are, this headwind is just horrible!'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Oh the headwinds never bother me,' William said gently, 'I just don't like the hills.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Oh really?' I exclaimed, 'See, I could bike up hills all day, but I absolutely hate headwinds! Do you mind if I draft off of you for a while?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Drafting is when one cyclist rides very closely behind another so that the wind resistance is reduced for the person in back. It is the same reason birds fly in formation and it actually has a very noticeable effect when biking. I pulled close behind William and into his slip stream. Immediately I noticed how much slower his pace was.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >For some reason I normally bike just about as fast as I can. Frankly, it’s difficult for me to pace myself. I don't know why, but I'm the horse who, when cut loose, runs off at full gallop as though it's got somewhere to go. Whenever passing motorists would tell me that I was 'really movin' I would jokingly respond by saying that I was just trying to get it over with.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >William had his bike geared far lower so that his legs spun quickly and lightly. His handlebars were very high so that he sat nearly upright, and he had a rest for his forearms running between his brake levers. Everything looked very comfortable, if a little silly, and I couldn't help but think that I had a lot I could learn from him.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >This was the first time I had really ridden with anyone on my trip, and I was astounded at the strength you can get from another person.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >You draw strength from a friend’s strength and an enemy’s weakness. As the day wore on, and William remained constant, I drew strength from his strength. We were friends. It must reveal some weakness in my character to confess that many times, doing things with my friends, whether physical challenges or other, I could draw strength from their weakness. When you see an opponent tire, it is encouraging, and while maybe the word 'enemy' is too harsh here, I do think that if you ever find yourself drawing strength from the fatigue of a 'friend' you should stop and take a look at yourself.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >If we use this criteria to determine who our friends are and who our opponents are, I can definitively say that the road is my opponent. As the road weakens, as I peak a halfway point or begin a descent, as I come out of the mountains or detect any weakness whatsoever in the road, that gives me strength.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >William was constant, slow, and patient. He must have been drawing strength from me as well because we managed a big day, the biggest day he had ever done. I did leave him after riding together for several hours, his pace being too foreign for me. I arrived at a small town, really just a couple dozen buildings lining a junction, and found a small cafe.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" ><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>Carefully, always carefully, I balanced my bike on its kickstand. Its metal points stabbed slowly into the grass and the bike toppled over. I left it on its side. I had crossed my first 1000 miles that day and celebrated by getting a beer with my dinner. I sat out in the sun on the large wooden deck and noticed something incredibly odd, something I hadn't yet seen on my trip.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >There was a young Canadian couple seated several tables away and the girl, I did a double take, the girl was actually skinny. She was not especially pretty, but she looked fit and active. Most of the women I had seen so far were your stereotypical coffee-pouring, pie- serving middle aged women. Seeing a fit young couple made it feel as though the industrial north was finally beginning to weaken. Like real life, life for the pleasure of life itself, was beginning to return to the landscape.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >As I was getting up to go, out on the street a large, hairy man sitting upright, with legs spinning quickly rode past the restaurant.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >'William!' I called going out to him, 'You made it! Well done.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" ><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>William smiled, sheepishly pleased.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" ><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>'Are you staying here tonight?' I asked him.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" ><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>'Yeah, yeah there's a trailer park over there I’m gonna stay at. We can share a campsite if you want.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >'That’s alright,' I said hoisting my bike upright, 'I want to do another ten miles or so. There’s supposed to be a creek up ahead where I can camp.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I pulled a handful of trash from a bag on my bike to throw it away.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >William looked at the crumpled paper and plastic in my hand with an empathetic grimace.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >'That's so many candy bars,' he said shaking his head slowly, feeling deep compassion for the nutritional ravages I was putting my body through.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >In my hand I held exactly one Snickers wrapper and the wrapper for four Jolly Ranchers.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Oh, actually it's just one candy bar,' I said to him. 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{mso-style-name:"Plain Text Char"; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-locked:yes; mso-style-link:"Plain Text"; mso-ansi-font-size:10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.5pt; font-family:Consolas; mso-ascii-font-family:Consolas; mso-hansi-font-family:Consolas;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} .MsoPapDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; margin-bottom:10.0pt; line-height:115%;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I didn't want to get up, not that there was anything unusual about that! I never wanted to get out of bed, but this morning I felt particularly firmly glued to my mattress. I rolled over and checked the time: 9:45. <i style="">Crap!</i> Another late start. I set my head back down on the small pillow and moved my jaw around, clicking it back into place. My jaw was sore and out of place every morning. In fact, my whole face was a miserable affair. Far from healing, the canker sore in one corner of my mouth had cut deeper and another was forming on the other side, neither of which was very visible, but they made smiling and eating difficult. My wisdom tooth was still emerging painfully, making it hurt to chew or swallow. My nose was dry, painful, and somehow always runny.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" ><span style=""> </span>I rolled over again and unzipped the tent just enough to stick my hand outside. The air was cold but at least it wasn't raining. <i style="">Get up Dave. Get up!</i> I drew my hand back inside the tent and curled up deeper inside my warm cocoon.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >There was a faint crunching noise, the unmistakable sound of a heavy body grinding gravel into the dirt. Then came a quiet clicking, a rapid and soft tick tick tick. It was that distinct noise of another bicycle.<span style=""> </span>There is accountability in being watched, and somehow the simple fact that another cyclist was present provided me with more than enough motivation to stop making excuses, sit up, and stumble out of my tent.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >A man had pulled up several dozen feet away and was fussing with the trailer attached to his bike.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Morning!' I called to him.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Hello.' he said in return, unhooking the trailer and turning his bike upside down.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Where you coming from?' I asked. It was the typical question, the question everyone asked me and the question I asked everyone. It is the touring cyclist’s version of <i style="">How are you?</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Well I've come off the Dalton, from Prudhoe bay, and spent a couple of days in Fairbanks,' he spoke with a damnably charming English accent.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Oh really! I just came that way also!' I said, instantly feeling the bond that forms between two people who have both endured the same misery. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'My name’s Dave,' I added, offering my hand.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >He straightened up and took my hand, a smile spreading across his face, echoing in deep creases which spread comfortably down from his eyes. He had a good face, fit and proportioned. It was the kind of face that would look almost exactly the same at 25, 35, and 45. I squinted trying to guess which one was closest to accurate.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" ><span style=""> </span>'My name’s Dave as well,' he said in his crisp accent.'Have you also come off the Dalton then?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" ><span style=""> </span>'Yeah, I spent nine days on the Dalton and then one day in Fairbanks. This is my sixth day out of Fairbanks.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >Dave removed the wheel from his bike and flicked the rubber off the rim with a practiced motion.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'We have the same bike tool,' I said pointing. There was nothing David could say in response to this that would sound natural, so he just smiled and pulled a fresh tube from the large bag on his trailer.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'So have you done anything like this before?' I asked, already guessing the answer.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Yes,' said David, stuffing the new tube into the wheel, 'I did a ride several years ago from England to South Africa.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I had guessed that he had done some touring before, but this surprised me. 'Oh wow,' I laughed, 'yeah that ride intimidates me. Wow. Did you go alone then?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Yes.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Ha, well it's nice to know there are people out there crazier than me,' I said as he tucked the tire behind the rim of the wheel and clamped his pump onto the valve. 'Did you find the Dalton to be very difficult?' I asked. 'I mean I thought it was brutal, and it's been much easier since then, but I don't know, I was wondering if that type of road is typical.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >David began inflating the tire with a small hand pump. After a moment he said, 'Well if you've done the Dalton in nine days and come through with flying colors, you should be just fine.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >Flying colors?</span></i><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" > I thought. <i style="">I didn't think I came through with flying colors. In fact the only part of my experience on the Dalton that has anything to do with flying colors would be the string of swear words I would like to use to describe any one of its hundreds of hills.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >Dave squeezed the tire in his hand, checking the pressure. Satisfied he fitted it back onto the frame, turned his bike right side up, and re-attached the trailer.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Well you'll probably pass me, I don't go that fast,' he said, offering his hand.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Yeah well I hope so, and if not, good luck with the rest of your trip.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >David wheeled his bike back onto the road, waved and set off.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I quickly prepared breakfast, oatmeal and dried fruit, cleaned up my campsite and set off. The road was much the same as the day before; it weaved over and around the small hills of the valley floor, staying always between mountains just high enough to be peaked with white.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >There were many more one building towns, marked on my cheap map, which were closed for the season, making me feel vulnerable to be so far north so late in the season. I kept my eye out for David, expecting to see him in the distance at any point, eager to ride with someone.<span style=""> </span>Afternoon came too soon and I looked with trepidation at a bank of dark clouds several miles ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >As I drew nearer them, small drops of water started to ping off my arms and face, the promise of a heavier rain. I checked my map and knew that the next town was only a couple of miles ahead. If it was open I hoped I would be able to make it there before the rain began in earnest. I rode harder and made it to town.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >An 'open' sign directed me to a restaurant down by the edge of a large lake. I balanced my bike precariously outside and stepped into the lobby. My initial impression was that this was the first place I had been that made an effort to be nice. The floor was carpeted and the walls were covered with faded prints of paintings. A tall window was set into the length of the back wall through which I could see the lake, grey and textured under the rain.<span style=""> </span>I sat at a table by the window and watched the rain make patterns on the water.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I had only gone forty five miles, about half of what I had been doing since leaving Fairbanks. Since it wasn't going to get dark until late at night, and then only a dim twilight, I could eat an early dinner and then ride late. I ordered and quickly ate a hamburger and had a cup of coffee (two staples of life on a bicycle) and took out my journal to do some writing.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >The door chimed and David walked in wearing his riding uniform of capri pants, t-shirt, and a beanie. I wondered how he could stand wearing that hat as he rode as 60 percent of your body heat escapes through your head, and even on a very cold day, biking is enough work to make you sweat. I waited to catch his eye, but he waved to someone at another table and sat down without noticing me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I finished my journal and walked over to their table.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Hello,' I said, 'mind if I join you?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >David looked up and, recognizing me, smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Of course. This is William,' he said, gesturing the other man at the table. I took William’s hand in mine, a big padded bear paw, and shook it. I sat down on the padded aluminum chair as the server poured us all a fresh cup of stale coffee. William, it turned out, was cycling as well and had met David earlier that day. William was tall, with a full beard that fell around his face as a natural extension of his wild hair. His mannerisms and tones of speech were that of an exceedingly kind and gentle person. The kind of person who, whenever he smiled, smiled shyly and whenever he spoke, inflected his voice with the timid, high pitched tone of someone nervously concerned with being polite.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'I'm not trying to impress anybody,' William said. 'I'm just riding to lose weight.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >He had a vast soft belly and a full, fleshy face, the result of a dozen years as a truck driver based in anchorage. And let me tell you, having seen the serving sizes at these truck stops, his excessive poundage was completely understandable.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I sat back in my chair, feeling blood run warm through my legs and arms as I subconsciously relaxed my tense body. I was very pleased to be seated with two other cyclists, two people who could confirm my experiences, who could offer advice and insight. Two people who provided a good excuse to stay inside out of the rain and drink coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'So how far do you go a day?' I asked William.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >He looked down at his plate, 'Oh I go slow, I'm not trying to impress anybody. I started out just doing about 20 miles, but I'm getting stronger. Now I do about forty. But I'm getting stronger every day. Do you guys feel like you're getting stronger too?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Oh yes, I do.' said David, smiling and taking a sip of coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I laughed. 'Well I don't! If anything I feel weaker and weaker everyday!' It was true.<span style=""> </span>I was really pushing myself, pulling huge miles. I knew I was getting stronger, but I also knew that it would take a long time to become comfortable with my new life.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >William looked at me with an expression of great concern. Every line of his face full of empathy, eager to help me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Well what are you eating? You need to eat right. It's so important that you eat right.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I laughed again and said that I ate way too many Snickers bars. This was also true, I had been eating several a day for the calories, but had also carefully ensured that I was consuming proper nutrition. I had with me enough powdered dietary supplements to supply a mission to Mars. So even when I could find only junk to eat, I was still providing my body with everything it needed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >William looked at me with horror on his face. 'Oh no, no you can't do that. Oh those candy bars won't do you any good.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >David chimed in, 'Well there's really not much else sometimes. I mean if it's all there is...'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >William’s eyebrows were raised and pressed together and he was shaking his head with concern. I tried to explain that I was actually being careful about my nutrition. I tried to explain about the supplements and the good meals I had every day, but William’s opinions had formed, and my arguments fell on ears made deaf by the concern of someone who has much to teach you.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >We talked for a long time. We talked about drinking water and campsites. We talked about sore backsides and bike locks. We talked about motor homes, motorcycles, headwinds, and hills. It was so good to know that others were sharing my experiences and frustrations. At length I was convinced to stay there that night and call it a short day.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I put on my ranchers hat and ran out of the restaurant into the rain. I fetched my bike from the side of the building and wheeled it around to a patch of grass where William and David had already set up their tents. I set up camp quickly in the cold rain and ran back inside for a warm shower, more food, and more conversation.<o:p></o:p></span></p> Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-72250894769367066232009-09-20T00:45:00.000-07:002009-09-20T00:46:05.458-07:00Larger Than Life<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> 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font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I woke up sometime in the middle of that night, unzipped the screen door of my tent, and then the door of the rain cover, and stepped out into the night. The silhouettes of the trees stood out in one flat jagged edge against subdued orange and yellow hues of a sun tucked just below the horizon. The wide band of color faded coolly to meet with the deep black blue of the dome overhead. <i style="">Night,</i> I thought, <i style="">I’m going to begin to have darkness at night. </i>I stared at the orange and yellow band feeling closer to the sun than I had yet on the ride. I couldn't see the sun, but there was life in that band of color, refreshing after a monotony of steel grey cloud.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I heard a squawking high above me and looked up to see several large flocks of geese heading south, their sleek bodies’ flecks of pure black against the lighter sky. There were three V formations, the birds riding in perfect streamline, sharing the work of cutting through the wind.
<br /><i style="">They don't want to be this far north either,</i> I thought to myself.
<br /> I crawled back into warmth of my sleeping bag and fell quickly back to sleep.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">It’s hot,</i> I thought, coming to out of sleep and back into consciousness. <i style="">Why is it so hot? It’s too hot.</i> I opened one bleary eye and stared out of the slit in the top of my sleeping bag. The tent was bright and orange inside. The tent poles were casting shadows against the fabric. I sat up, looking around the exceptionally bright, warm tent and smiled. <i style="">Sun!</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I scrambled out of the tent and turned my face up towards the sun, which was hanging bright and sharp in a clear blue sky. <i style="">I like Canada better already.</i> I walked several paces over to a larger boulder and sat on it. I closed my eyes and held my face up to the sun feeling its warmth. It gave me shivers, the same kind of feeling you get when crawling into a well made bed. But then cold; in the next instant a cold breeze flickered over me and I shivered for cold. <i style="">Not yet,</i> I thought, <i style="">I’m not there yet.</i> I opened my eyes again and looked at the sun and my surroundings and this time noticed that the sun was white and distant, the light falling on the trees was cool and grey.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I unpacked my bags, which had been wet since Fairbanks, laying everything out to catch the breeze and the sun to dry. I rode back two miles to the Deeterdings restaurant hoping to get breakfast (it turns out they didn't serve breakfast either) and wound up seated with a cup of instant coffee, checking emails and keeping one eye on the TV mounted on the wall above the microwave.
<br />'The bodies of eight more homeless men were found this week,' the news woman was saying, 'between Anchorage and Fairbanks...' <i style="">Eight bodies? That's quite a few.</i> ‘...in sleeping bags and seem to have died from exposure during the…'. <i style="">Oh that makes a bit more sense, I was thinking homicide.</i> Nevertheless, the news was disquieting. I had heard that the coldest part of my ride through the Northern Hemisphere was in Canada, which I would be beginning that day.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I finished my coffee, jumped back on the bike and collected my nearly dry gear from my campsite down the road. Soon I found myself riding past signs welcoming me to the Yukon Territory and boasting the slogan, ‘Larger Than Life.” <i style="">I hope not.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I rode out of Alaska with zero melancholy, spitting good riddance to the road as I had done when leaving the Dalton. Canada was at once more beautiful, helped greatly by the better weather. In the distance were large snow peaked mountains, a range 100 miles across that finally fell into the sea. After several hours the clouds began to return. At first small and puffy, as though God had scattered hundreds of wet cotton balls across a pane of glass in the sky, but soon swirling thicker, taller, and darker. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I looked down to check my speed. 0 mph. <i style="">Oh no, my odometer isn't working!</i> I coasted to a stop, stepped off the bike, and began to examine the sensor. I checked the magnet attached to my spoke, adjusted the sensor on my fork, and checked the contacts for the display. I lifted the front of the bike with my right hand and spun the tire with my left..'0 mph.<i style=""> Crap.</i> I looked over all the points of failure again and was about to give up when I noticed that the wire had frayed where it wrapped around my brake cable and had been getting pinched against the frame whenever my handle bars would tip to one side, knocking my bike off its kickstand, (a very common occurrence.) I took out my pocket knife and sliced through the wire. Holding the blade against my thumb, I stripped the rubber outer sheathing back and then delicately removed the covering from the fine strands of copper of the inner wires. I twisted the exposed copper back together, wrapped it in ductape, and spun the wheel again. 9mph. Good to go.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I continued on the road, which was usually a coarse pavement, but occasionally gave up and submitted to washboard and gravel. Massive RV's crawled carefully around me as I climbed hills, making my way towards the mountains in the distance. The mountains drew nearer until eventually I found myself riding into a narrow valley with a blade of peaks running along my right and left. Held trapped between these peaks near the road were several lakes, the water a deep blue and black, somehow more pure and rich than anything I had seen in Alaska. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I was hungry and rode past many old wooden buildings, marked on my map as entire towns. Some were in such a state that I assumed that they had been closed for years. Many others were simply padlocked, with logs and oil drums blocking their driveways and signs stating, ‘Closed for the Season.’</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Finally, I came to a place between the fins of mountain that had a small ‘open’ sign peeking from behind a faded curtain. Although I had long ago lost the sun in the clouds, it was becoming so dark that I knew it must have already tucked behind the mountains. I coasted across the gravel parking lot and timidly balanced my bike on the kickstand I had still not learned to love. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The store was a small, one roomed old building made of wood. Someone had gone through the trouble of maintaining a small flower and vegetable garden out front, which was decorated with several painted stones, a small wooden scarecrow, and a sign that read, ‘One Old Buzzard and one Cute Chick live here.’ I took off my glasses and hobbled through the old front door.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">It was dark inside, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. The small space was filled with old shelves lining the walls and extending out into the room. The shelves were full of local crafts, canned foods, interesting rocks, and bits of wood. Five people were positioned about the room listening to a middle age man with big cheeks and pale skin who was standing in a corner talking rapidly. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">‘I mean to say… It is about the government…because if you watch conservative television, I mean, if you watch conservative T.V. in the states… It’s one of those things… They will say that Canadians hate the system. Because it’s the thing about, now I’m not saying that I think this, but of course it is, in the states…’</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I surveyed the shelf with food, which was dismally stocked, and selected a can of peaches. An old man who was sitting at a small table in the center of the crowded room stood up and limped over to the cash register, having seen that I was ready. <i style="">The 'Old Buzzard,' no doubt.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I paid for the peaches and sat down in an old metal chair near the door whose paint was flaking off. The man was still talking. He was wearing a long sleeve Hawaiian print t-shirt which he had tucked into a pair of cargo shorts. The Old Buzzard seated himself back at the table and sat back, crossing his arms. A woman who I guessed to be the ‘Cute Chick’ was sitting against the far wall and two other women were examining the items on the shelves. <i style="">Wife and daughter, I’d guess.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">‘You see I study these things, well it is, I mean it is my field, of course, because I am a political scientist, well I’m a political scientist, I mean I studied political science in college.' The man stopped, looking around to make sure that no one would voice any objection to his assertion of authority. ‘Oh. I’m a political scientist too,’ the old man said, speaking each word with the raspy cadence that comes with age. ‘I got my degree in school…in the school of life!’ </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He turned in his chair to look at me, opened his mouth in a wide laughing smile and gave me a pronounced wink. I smiled back.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">‘Yeah, oh yes, school of life. But it’s like I was saying, now I’m not saying I’m here nor there on this, but it is, I mean with healthcare, of course, they would like you to believe, in America, they would like you to think that Canadians all hate their state run health care.'</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The old man huffed. ‘I had my hip replaced seven years ago and then had my whole leg off three years ago. Never cost me a dime. Course what we don’t have are doctors. Doctors here see the money in the states and then they think, what am I doin’ stayin’ here!’</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He said the last several words as though they were a punch line, and looked at me again for affirmation of his wit, throwing me another loud wink. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The pale portly expert in the corner continued his faltering monologue as I finished my can of peaches.
<br />‘Excuse me,’ I said, leaning forwards and addressing the Old Buzzard, ‘You don’t happen to have a tap I could refill my water bottles from do you?’
<br />‘No,’ he said shaking his old head. ‘No. No, all the waters trucked in. It’s delivered. We haven’t got any water.’
<br />‘We’ve got water, in the car. I can give you some water because we’ve got a whole bottle full, in the back of the car,’ the expert said.
<br />‘Oh, great. Please. That would be a huge help.’ I followed the man out to his car as he explained where he’d gotten the water in red-light green-light scraps of word. ‘Someone just gave us the jug, just gave… well a couple miles ago. So we don’t need it. So I figure, I mean I figure if someone helps you, I figure you can help someone else.’
<br />‘Thank you.’ </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I rode for another hour that evening, between the blades of mountain, finally pulling off in a patch of dirt on the side of the road. Three or four rusty old oil drums stood not far from my tent. Still being paranoid about bears and lacking any better option, I put my food bags on top of them. <i style="">Might keep a three legged gopher from getting them,</i> I thought, <i style="">but not much more than that.</i></p> Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-71315883678009449802009-09-13T18:57:00.000-07:002009-09-14T13:13:20.177-07:00The Deeterdings<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" 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mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I was awakened early the next morning by the sound of rain on my tent. The rain cover was on, but my bike was not covered. Before starting my trip I had tested the permeability of my canvas panniers, running water over them in the sink. They did not even become moist. So I rolled back over and fell asleep again, feeling sure that this drizzle wouldn't saturate the bags. When I finally got up several hours later, the rain had not stopped and had mixed with the ash that was covering everything and had turned it into a thick grey paste. As I cleaned up camp and put things in their bags, I noticed that everything in the bags was wet. The rain had gotten through and had made damp everything from my clothes to my journal to my sleeping bag. <i style="">Fine.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I threw on my rain jacket, donned my felt rancher’s hat to keep the rain off my face, and took off. It was not an energetic rain. There was no electric sense to it, no mysterious freshness. As I rode along the freeway to get out of town, trucks roared past, trailing plumes of water behind them. My own bike made a slick slurping noise across the wet asphalt. A thin stream of water sprayed out in front of me off my front tire like the stream from a weak super soaker with dirt stuck in the nozzle.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Slowly the city broke up, becoming auto, lumber, and industrial yards. Then an airfield and then a four lane highway lined by dense, shrubby fir trees on either side. Traffic thinned and it soon became a two lane highway. After some time the road swung along a river, a swift wide mass of chocolate milk swirling around small moving islands of sand and debris. The road was mostly flat, an entirely new experience for me and one I greatly appreciated.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Riding all day was still far from enjoyable but, as the road narrowed and traffic thinned, I finally racked up enough miles and found a campground.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I wasn't yet sure if I could camp wherever I wanted, so I decided to try the state run park and maybe even get away with not paying. As I pulled in I was greeted by the friendly state park 'NO' signs: 'No swimming,' 'No stopping,' 'No Overnight Parking,' 'No Gathering Firewood,' 'No Fishing,' 'No... Etc.'</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I pulled into a spot and began setting up. I hadn't been there two minutes before getting the distinct sensation that I was being watched. I turned around quickly and saw that a woman had materialized on the trail about twenty feet away.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">She was standing squarely on both feet and staring at me curiously through her round spectacles. She was very short and perfectly round. She had a round face framed by a short round haircut. Round arms fell over her round body and her sturdy round legs were stuffed into little round hiking shoes.
<br />'Did you get a chance to pay yet?' She asked without preamble.
<br />'No, not yet,' I answered grinning to myself.
<br />'Well it's twelve dollars just as soon as you get a chance,' she said in a not unfriendly way.
<br />'Alright, just gimme a couple minutes to get settled,' I said, and went back to setting up. I could feel that she was not leaving. I could feel she was still standing there watching me.
<br />'You know I can just pay you now,' I said, reaching into my bag and grabbing my wallet. The woman stepped forward and handed me the stub from an envelope she was holding.
<br />'Just fill this out and attach it to that post over there,' she said.
<br />'Sure,' I said, taking the piece of paper and handing her the money.
<br />'So where are you goin’?' she asked, looking at my bike.
<br />'Argentina,' I said.
<br />'Oh,' she said simply, and then after a pause added, ‘I'm goin’ that way myself, except you'll probably get there much faster, I'm on foot.'
<br />'You mean you're <i style="">walking</i> it?' I asked her incredulously.
<br />'Yeah,' she said smiling.
<br />'You didn't start in Deadhorse?' I asked, 'You didn't walk the Dalton!'
<br />'Yeah I did,' she paused and then added vehemently, 'it was <i style="">horrible</i>.'
<br />'Yeah it was...terrible,' I said. She continued to stare at me, with a pained wide eyed expression on her face, wanting more confirmation on her opinion of the road.
<br />'Awful, miserable. It was suffering,' I said.
<br />The woman stared at me a minute longer before deciding that I meant it and then continued, 'Come over to the cabin over there and I can show you my notes for the trip if you want to see them.'
<br />'Sure. I'd like that,' I said, 'just give me a couple minutes to get settled and I'll be right over.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">A few minutes later I stood on the deck of a small cabin with the woman who had retrieved a large binder and was flipping through it. The pages were full of cut outs from maps, motivational quotes, pictures of cities, and faces. All of it was meticulously arranged, annotated, and laminated.
<br />'So how do you carry your stuff?' I asked.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">She flipped forward a couple of pages and pointed to a picture of a large simple cart with a steel frame and a large plastic tub affixed to it.
<br />'I can either push it,' she said, 'or tie it around my waist and pull it. Pushing’s easier cuz you can sort of lean on it, but going downhill it is better to be in front of it. I'm only going about ten miles a day, but I hope to get up to twenty.'</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">As she told me about her previous trip across the US (twice), showed me pictures of herself pushing the cart and told me how she had paid the truckers to deliver her food as she was on the Dalton, I couldn't help but think what an unlikely athlete she was. It struck me that I was not even tempted to do what she was doing, despite doing something seemingly similar, and how very different the two of us were in motivation and outlook. That night I lay awake in my wet sleeping bag trying to imagine the depressing pace of ten miles a day and to imagine five years as a transcontinental vagrant.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The next several days were long and flat. I followed the river past towns consisting of a single truck stop, through low mountains and mist and rain. Occasionally it was pretty, low misty clouds swirling slowly in the tight green draws of the mountains. My miles jumped. Eighty miles here was equal to about fifty on the Dalton<b style="">. </b>The next two nights, I found places to camp along wide silty rivers that were fairly secluded but were never out of earshot of the highway. Bears were always on my mind, but only caused me the level of anxiety one gets when wondering whether or not they remembered to close the garage door. I was usually able to reach about one small town a day where I would stop and get dinner.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">People would ask about my bike, where I'd been, and where I was going. One man told me about a bike trip he had started several years before.
<br />'I started at the Canadian border, headed east, but the roads were so bad I stopped the second day cuz I wasn't havin’ any fun.'
<br /><i style="">Fun?</i> I can remember thinking, <i style="">I haven't had five minutes of fun since I started.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Coffee was usually weak and was always Folgers, food was expensive and towns were for truckers and RVs. Finally I came to the Canadian border. I was assuming that I could find food at the border crossing, and sure enough, as I approached I saw numerous large signs decked out with mostly burnt out bulbs advertising the 'Last Stop in the US' and the 'Last Duty Free Gas.' I pulled into the dilapidated little shop.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">As I stepped off the bike, I noticed a larger and nicer looking place just a hundred yards farther down the road that was actually the last stop in the US and the last place to get gas. A man was standing outside the door of the little store.
<br />'You need something?' he asked aggressively.
<br />'Yeah I'm looking to get dinner.' I peered around the man’s shoulder into the mostly bare shelves of the small convenience store. 'Is there a place where I can get dinner?'
<br />'Oh yeah,' said the man loudly and sarcastically, 'there's a <i style="">much</i> better place just down there.' He gestured dramatically, 'You see how stupid that question is? Here you are talkin’ to the owner and I'm gonna be like, yeah, go to the other place.'</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Now, I have a certain ability to make anyone agreeable and reasonable. I can find hospitality even where hostility is what's being offered. The secret is not complicated, nor is it difficult. Simply don't acknowledge anything juvenile or confrontational, but move forward expecting the person to behave. I fixed the man briefly with a look that I hope said 'Are you done with your little tirade?' and then pressed on.
<br />'Oh I just mean a place where I can get a hot meal. It doesn't look like you've got a kitchen back there.'
<br />'Uh, no I don't.'
<br />'And do they have a kitchen down there?' I asked gesturing to the other place.
<br />'Uh, yeah, but they close their kitchen at six thirty!'
<br />I checked my clock, seven. It was probably a lie, I thought, but then again it might not be, and a bird in the hand...
<br />'I'll come in and take a look,' I said.
<br />I walked around the nearly bare shelves for a minute and then picked a can of chili.
<br />'Do you have a microwave?' I asked him.
<br />'Duh!' he said, changing his voice and screwing up his face in retarded imitation, gesturing to a table against the back wall.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I flashed the guy the same expression I had given him a moment ago thinking, <i style="">this poor guy has to live with himself, that can't be easy.</i> I dumped my chili into a styrofoam bowl and put it in the microwave.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">As I waited for it to cook, I stared fixedly at a tiny ancient television hanging above the door. The Discovery Channel was fuzzily detailing some new weapons system. I knew the man was watching me. I could feel that he had already realized I wasn't going to have a piss'n and spit'n fight with him and that that made me a friend. As a friend I had become something of extreme value, something I knew he didn't have many of. I knew it was coming and I waited. The man sighed loudly, louder than he would have if he had been alone. I didn't move. He yawned loudly and stretched his arms wide glancing at me. Unable to take it anymore he finally dove in:
<br />'So where are you headed?' he asked in an entirely different tone of voice than he had used so far. I told him. I'm not sure he registered my answer, either because he didn't really know where Argentina was or because he wasn't listening.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">He pressed on, 'Weather sucks. It is too damn cold and wet and the rain won't stop, cloudy all the time. Course a couple weeks ago it was hot as hell. Sunny and miserable all the time. Guess if it's not one thing it's another.'</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The microwave beeped and I removed my bowl, stirring the scalding bits in with the cold parts. He had reminded me that I hadn’t really seen the sun since I started. I had seen it very rarely on the Dalton, and then through a heavy haze, and had had nothing but rain since Fairbanks.
<br />'Well you can always find something to complain about.' I said flatly. I knew he wouldn't like my response, as there was no pity in it. The man was silent for several seconds then said,
<br />'Well you better get south fast. The weathers gonna’ change and then,' he laughed, 'well then you'd be in real trouble.'
<br />'Yeah I know,' I said eating my chili and staring at the TV.
<br />The man looked up at the TV and said, 'You wanna run a store?'
<br />'This one you mean?' I asked.
<br />'Yeah. It's less and less customers every season, and this season’s about done.' He was looking at the TV without seeing it, 'I just leave the TV on cuz it's all I got for company.'</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I thought about telling him that if he wanted company he could start by not being so rude to his customers. I thought about telling him what I thought about him and his place, but it was a fleeting thought, gone before it formed completely.
<br />'No, no I don't.' I answered him.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I was not satisfied with my bowl of chili as dinner so I decided to try the place down the street. It turned out that the man had told the truth, they really did close the kitchen at six thirty. They even had less selection than the other place. I eventually found myself seated with a cup of ready mix hot chocolate and some prepackaged pastries.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The dining area was large and mostly empty. Shelves too small for the walls they stood against were mostly empty, save for a few t-shirts, stickers, and candy bars.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I heard running footsteps from around the corner inside the building followed by a shrill, piercing scream. A second later two little kids tore around the corner, both screaming with delight. The one in back was about eight and carried a fly swatter which he was using to whack his little brother on top of the head. The younger one was barely older than a toddler and ran with his arms protecting his head, shrieking with delight. The kids tore several laps around the store before the younger one sped behind the cash register, clutching the jeans of the man standing there. The man didn't break his attention with the customer he was helping, not even for a moment.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Realizing his father was no refuge, the younger one tore away again, swerving between the customer and the counter and off through the merchandise, screaming the whole time. The older one pursued, bringing the fly swatter down repeatedly on his head.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">As I took another sip of hot chocolate, I noticed a picture frame hung on the wall. Inside, two blond kids with overly combed hair grinned back at me maniacally. On the frame was a plaque with the words, 'The Deeterdings.' <i style="">Perfect.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">A woman walked tensely out from around the corner where the boys had emerged. She caught the younger one and scooped him up, holding his face level with hers.
<br />'Stop it!' she spat at him, the muscles in her neck and arms pulsing, 'Stop it! Knock it off!'</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The kid would not look at her, but was staring around at the floor, no longer smiling. The mom set him down and the moment his feet touched the ground he was off again, screaming in delight as his older brother pursued him.
<br /><i style="">Canada,</i> I thought, <i style="">I wonder what Canada is like?</i></p> Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-20712855201662309862009-09-13T15:29:00.001-07:002009-09-13T19:54:28.652-07:00City of Ash<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> 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mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >Fairbanks has one redeeming quality: it's flat. When I woke in the dirty, expensive campground the first night, I found my sleeping bag and hair covered in ash which had slowly been drifting through the mesh of my tent all night. I threw a rain cover over my bike and bags to keep any more ash from building up on them and then jumped on my bike to go and find a nice place to have breakfast.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I don't need to go into the details but it will suffice to say that I ended up in the Safeway a block down the street after an hour of looking for somewhere nicer to go. Not wanting to linger in the grocery store, I finished breakfast and headed back to the campground.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >The layer of ash covering my belongings had grown thicker in my absence. I dusted off the picnic table and disgorged the contents of my panniers across its surface.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >Flashlight, headlight, gps, camera, batteries, charger, solar panel, water filter, two fuel bottles, stove set, dishes, and cookware. Spare cord and cables, strapping, and wire. Bike tool, pocket knife, survival knife, knife sharpener, multi-tool, chain grease, chain links, patch kit, tire repair, four spare tubes and two spare tires, sleeping bag and mat, tent, rain fly, footprint, and stakes. Medical kit, sutures, four pair underwear, and four pair socks. Rain jacket, biking gloves, long fingered gloves, ski gloves, rain gloves, shoe covers, PVC bike cover, Gore-Tex pannier covers, wide brim hat, beanie, helmet, and sunglasses and spare lenses. Long underwear, t-shirt, long sleeve shirt, long pants, cycling pants, rain pants, compass, chamois towel, two pair cycling shorts, cycling jersey, fleece, bike pump, tire irons, bear mace, two 13 liter Gore-Tex food bags, journal, bullet proof cigar case, water filter...<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I looked over my belongings, spread out across the table and its benches, spilling onto the ground. Most of these items were still strangers to me. I didn't know where the zippers were on the jacket or that the rain gloves didn't work or how many stakes the rain fly used or where I could find many of these items on my bike. I was determined to sort through them and send home what I could do without.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I also needed to get to the laundromat and wash everything I could. Dirt had gotten inside everything and the endless bumps on the dirt road had rubbed it in, abrading every smooth surface and dirtying every clean item. I packed what I would need back on the bike, threw the rest into the tent in order to keep the ash off it and struck off to find first the post office and then the laundromat.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >The post office was downtown and I knew I had a new kickstand waiting for me under general delivery. I found the office without much trouble, and in the process got a tour of downtown Fairbanks: A dirty sprawling mess of closed and boarded buildings, rubbish strewn highways, scary looking people, and questionable looking liquor stores.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I filled a shipping box with what I decided I no longer needed, threw in the memory card from my camera, and addressed the package to my parent’s house in San Diego. I picked up the package containing my new, stronger, kickstand from general delivery and stepped outside to install it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >After some fiddling I determined that the bolt it came with was too short; I would have to ride all the way across town to the Home Depot to try and find a longer one.<span style=""> </span>I also needed to get to a grocery store in order to re-supply for the next portion of my trip.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I made it to the Home Depot and after much drawer opening, measuring, checking and talking with the sales person, I finally determined that they did not carry the size bolt I needed. Nevertheless, I finally emerged with a bolt of the right thread size and a packet of washers. I debated throwing the hardware into my bag and installing it back at my campsite but decided it would be more prudent to do it at the hardware store in case anything else should go wrong. That turned out to be a very good decision.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I used the whole packet of washers but still had too few, and the head size of the bolt was different, so my wrench didn't fit. Also, the legs of the kickstand where much too long. I went back inside, bought more washers, a wrench, and a small hacksaw. After much fiddling I managed to secure the stand to the bike in a slightly ridiculous but secure way. I turned the bike on its side and hacked through the aluminum legs of the kickstand, taking off no more than a quarter inch at a time. After some adjustment, it worked, clumsily, but whatever. The rubber feet that came with it turned out to be comically too small to fit, so I threw them in my bag along with the old flimsy kickstand, returned the wrench, and set off to find a laundromat.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I was almost back to the campground by the time I found one. When I pulled up, two large woman stood out front smoking. The older one was talking loudly in a voice made raspy by years of smoking and strong by years of gossiping.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" ><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>'Yeah so it was Paul got me this job. I just showed up for the interview and I don't know what he said, but then they called the next day and said you got the job. I started the next week and I ain't screwed anything up and I told him I wouldn't give them no problems and so I work about everyday now and...' she paused and took a big drag on her cigarette.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'It's these damn fires, I can't breathe and I can't sleep and I woke up this morning and I was on time for work, but I told Paul I wasn't gonna be able to take it anymore and it's been real bad so I ‘spect it's gonna last a while longer...'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >The woman continued talking to her younger friend as I gathered the dirty clothes from my bike. 'It doesn't stop, you know, when you get married. I party more now I'm married than I used too. You don't need to worry about getting married it's all about just what you want to do and not letting yourself stop,' she took another long drag on the cigarette, 'and havin’ fun. That's all I care about just having a good time.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I made my way past the woman and through the door. The woman flicked her cigarette onto the sidewalk and followed me inside, stepping sideways to fit behind the cash register.<span style=""> </span>I approached the counter and looked into her face.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >The woman looked as though she had been squeezed out of a tear in the side of a tube of old grease. Her face was swollen, one eye pressed nearly shut, sweat glistening from discolored patches beneath each. Her breath came in short strangled rasps from the gash in her chin that served as her mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Can I help you?' she spouted quickly at me between wheezing breaths.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><i style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >My god,</span></i><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" > I thought, <i style="">this woman is dying.</i> She stood squarely, waiting for a response.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Yeah I just need some change for a load of laundry and some detergent.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'You wanta shower too?' the woman gasped.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Oh, yeah, that would be great how much is a shower?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Five dollars for five minutes,' spat the woman.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><i style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >Fine.</span></i><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" > I handed the woman a twenty and got a handful of quarters and some bills in return.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Use that machine over there,' she said pointing, 'most of the others don't work and when you use the dryer put it on high heat and it'll save you some money and let me know if you need help.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Thanks. Thanks very much,' I said.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I loaded my clothes in the dryer and stepped into the shower. Five minutes of vigorous scrubbing later, I emerged feeling clean for the first time in a long time. As I waited for my clothes to finish, I looked out the window of the laundromat at the restaurants with signs so faded as to no longer be legible, trying to decide where to eat. In the distance I could see a pair of golden arches. <i style="">Well it's not a caribou steak, but it'll have to do.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I took out my phone and called my mom for the first time.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Dave!!!'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" ><span style=""> </span>'Hi Mom.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" ><span style=""> </span>'Oh Dave, yay! It's so good to hear your voice! How are you?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Uhh, good...tired.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Oh. How's it been? Is it just beautiful?' She asked expectantly.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Umm, no. Well a little, sometimes, I mean. It's really smoky up here so I don't know if there are mountains in the distance or anything.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Oh. How's it been? Has it just been amazing?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Uh, well it's been very difficult. I'm glad to be off the Dalton.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Yeah I bet. Boy, how amazing. Well how are you? I mean how are you doing?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'I'm good, I'm focused. I'm kind of just doing what I need to do you know? It's not like I really have time to do anything else.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Yeah, yeah,' she said. I could imagine her smiling as she said it on the other end of the line.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'How's everyone at home?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I took my clothes out of the dryer as my mom filled me in on what was happening back home. After securing everything back on my bike I went back inside to make sure that I hadn't left anything behind.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Hey mom, I've gotta get back on the bike, I still need to get dinner and get over to the grocery store. It's really good to talk to you though, and I should be able to stay in touch much more often now I'm through Fairbanks.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I thanked the woman at the counter again and got back on the bike.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I wound up not getting back to the campground until about nine thirty, having spent the better part of an hour wandering around the massive grocery store and somehow winding up with only half of my groceries back at the campsite.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >As I climbed into my tent, I imagined the good places in the world, the nice places, the small places. The places where the sun seems close and small and bright, where the air is life and birds sing and friends laugh and food has flavor.<o:p></o:p></span></p> Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-65406902558172203032009-09-07T01:45:00.000-07:002009-09-13T15:35:45.126-07:00Out of the Wild<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> 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mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >Why do all good things come to an end? I have heard the question asked rhetorically many times. Well if anyone actually wants an answer, the answer is of course very simple: <i style="">all</i> things, both good and bad, come to an end. No further proof of this is needed than to say that one day, although I thought that it would never happen, even the Dalton Highway came to an end.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >Despite wanting to move on mentally from the highway as far as I physically am now, please allow me one more moment of lamentation on another of its miseries.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I neared the end of the road, 12 miles left, 10 miles, 8... I was excited. I made the mistake of thinking that I had climbed the last hill of the Dalton. I have now learned to never, ever let yourself think that way, and especially not on the Dalton.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >So I came down a hill and saw revealed in front of me, not that long descending valley (oh never that long descending valley!) but a sharp line cutting up into the hill ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >Miserable and amused I began again. I mentioned previously that the reservoir of emotions that I was unconsciously storing at one point broke through, and as this hill stretched on and on, my acidic frustration began to run over me as thickly as the sweat that held the dust to my skin.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >It was though a crack was splintering through the levy in my mind, allowing all the anger I had been refusing to direct at the road to spray through, high pressured and impossible to stop. I stood in front of the spray, soaking wet and gasping for air, trying to plug the crack, or at least to keep the ocean from spilling through. This was the only point on the Dalton that I screamed out loud. I didn’t mean to, but on one exhale I screamed with exertion and frustration. Before I realized it I cried out again. And again. I felt like a rock climber hanging by a single finger, my body swinging loosely over an abyss I would not look into. Every muscle and tendon was stretched to breaking. But then, as all things do, it ended. The ocean of emotion retreated.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >As I transferred from the dirt of the Dalton to the pavement of the Elliot highway, which would carry me the final hundred miles to Fairbanks, I spat good riddance to the dirt and rode on.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >A very short ways away is a large ravine, and (forgive me if I get a little bit weepy here) a large bridge spanning it. A bridge! Those who built the Elliot had actually gone through the trouble of building a bridge <i style="">over</i> what would have been a miserable half hour ordeal on the Dalton. A mile or so further on my jaw dropped again. There was a short, sharp little hill ahead falling across the road, and (sniff) the road was cut into it, staying level. Just beyond that, the road turned, it <i style="">turned</i> and avoided the worst of a hill!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >It was getting late, but I managed to press on past the town Livengood (pronounced <i style="">Lie</i>-vengood which is appropriate because this far north, and with no services of any kind, the name 'Livengood' is surely a lie) and set up camp near a stream just off the road. I was about 85 miles away from Fairbanks.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >The following day I was determined to get to civilization. I followed the Elliot, which was by all ordinary standards still a difficult road, but it was paved, and it occasionally made an effort to avoid the worst terrain. I was shocked to find just how well I could keep my momentum on pavement.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I began to see things like mailboxes and driveways, rusty old cars and even old wooden buildings. Many of the drivers on the highway wore breathing masks in the smoke. <i style="">Great</i> I thought, huffing along, <i style="">this is healthy.</i> Before too long I came upon a wood log building advertising souvenirs and coffee. I couldn't believe it. Coffee! A place right along the road that I hadn't expected where I could just walk in and get a cup of...<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Thas' cheatin.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I looked around. To my left a kid of about nine or ten had walked up beside me as I pulled into the lot. The kid was wild, wearing dirty blue overalls and muddy shoes. His straight sandy blond hair stuck out in all directions. The kid looked and moved like such a little animal that if he had wandered into my camp the night before I probably would probably have snared and eaten him, thinking him to be some strange kind of wild Alaskan animal.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'What's cheating?' I asked him.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'That,' he said pointing to my face.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Cool! What is that? Is that a mirror?!' Another boy had just materialized from the bushes around the shop. This one was perhaps twelve or thirteen and clearly the leader of the two. He had dark matted hair and a stout pudgy face.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Oh yeah, it is a mirror. That's what's cheating?' I asked the little wild animal, 'my mirror?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Yea thas' cheatin,' he said stepping forward to examine my bike computer.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Don't touch that!' shouted the older one, with a quick sideways glance at me as if to say, S<i style="">ee? Look how well I know my manners</i>.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'That's not yours! Don't touch that!’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'What's it for?' said the little animal, drawing his hand away and smiling up at me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'It tells me how far I've gone.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Thas cheatin,' said the boy quickly and definitively.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Oh? Well I like having it,' I said.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Don't listen to him, he's stupid,' said the older one.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >The little wild one beamed up at me for a moment and then said, 'You gotta water filter?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Yeah, I do,' I said grinning at the kid.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Thas cheatin,' he said again quickly.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Boy everything’s cheating isn't it?' I said to the kid. He didn't answer but smiled his little wild animal teeth up at me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I went inside the store and found the pot of Folgers tucked between a rack of books and a shelf of t-shirts. I went back outside and sat down on the deck. The kids swarmed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Well they closed the school house, nottanuff kids,' the older one was saying, 'so my dad got the schoolhouse and he got a really good deal and so now whenever we want something we can just go take it from the schoolhouse. He built an outhouse with the wood...'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'I bike all the way to the river to go fishing,' said the young one excitedly.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Only once!' protested the older one authoritatively. Then looking at me he said, 'He's only done it once so he can't say he does it.' The little wild one smiled at me and swung his legs happily on the bench.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >When I could no longer justify sitting with the boys, I climbed back onto the bike and continued on. I rode all day and it was a dreary, muggy, white sky day. The forest was definitely thicker now, but was not pretty or interesting. Finally I came to a place I had heard of, Hilltop, a trucker’s cafe about fifteen miles out of Fairbanks. It was dinner time and as I walked in, too tired to change out of my tight biking clothes, I noticed that the place was covered in signs. Not fun, decorative, or eclectic signs, but sharp, new plastic notices. 'We Card,' 'No Roller Blades,' 'Visa Mastercard,' 'No Sale of Tobacco to Minors,' and on and on. Just inside the door was another sign with a picture of their apple pie and text reading 'You've <i style="">earned</i> it.' <i style="">Damn right I have,</i> I thought as I stepped inside.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >The building was, of course, a mobile unit that had been hauled out here and dumped beside the fuel pumps. The inside was harshly lit under fluorescent lights and was largely empty, except for the large truckers sitting in the 'truckers only' area. I took a table against the far wall as a middle age woman clutching a menu came towards me.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >She walked with a slow and deliberate sway in her hips. Her hair was salon blond and sprouted out of a pony tail on top of her head.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'What can ah dew for you, biker man?' She poured her sweet southern accent over me like synthetic syrup warmed in the microwave.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Well I'm very hungry, could you recommend something?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Oh you're hungry? Well the hamburger steak is real nice, and it's a big meal too.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'That's fine,' I said 'and I’ll have a ginger ale as well please.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >The woman smiled at me, 'Sure sweetie,' and then sauntered back to the kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >A few minutes later a huge steaming salty brown mass landed in front of me, along with a massive cup of Ginger ale. I understood suddenly why truckers are so large. Looking at the plate of food, I was certain that I would not be able to ingest all of it. Nevertheless, several minutes later, I found myself scraping the salty remains off the plate with the side of my fork.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >The woman came back and sat on the edge of the table, striking a rather deliberate pose with her arm thrown back supporting her upper body.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Everything all right?' She asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Yes, very good. I haven’t been full in a while.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >She smiled at me and began making usual conversation, asking where I was from and where I was going. I had the impression that her southern accent might have been deliberately acquired and then exaggerated for effect. I told her that I hoped to make it into Fairbanks that night and find a place to camp.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Fairbanks? Oh sweetie, that's just a hopnskupumjump...' she cleared her throat, 'Hop Skip and a Jump away.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Do you know where any campgrounds are in town?' I asked her hopefully.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >Peeling herself off my table she went behind the counter and returned with a map of the city.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Well the only one I know is over here,' she said making a mark on the map, 'but that's so far, that's all the way across town...'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Are there any hills between here and town?' I asked her, knowing full well that the odds of any ten miles of road in this part of the world being flat were extremely low.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Oh, yeah, well there's one. Oh and it's such a big hill too...' she furrowed up her brow empathetically. 'But from the top you have a great view and you can see the skyline of the city.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><i style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >Skyline?</span></i><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" > I thought to myself, <i style="">I didn't think Fairbanks had a skyline.</i> And for a moment I imagined myself, clean and comfortable, sipping a coffee and casually digesting the first leg of my journey in some nice cafe downtown. (this idea turned out to be comically<i style=""> </i>inaccurate)<i style=""><o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >'Well thanks for the help,' I said, handing her my debit card 'I've got to get back on the road'.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >The woman took my card, gave me the map, and wished me luck as I headed back out into the smoke.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >As I came closer to town, things changed further. The two lane highway swelled into a four lane freeway. Traffic thickened, driveways and junk became more common. Billboards began to line the road advertising auto shops, lumberyards, gas stations, and motels. Small debris became more abundant along the side of the road where I was riding. Eventually I came to the final hill.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >It was long, and steep, but fairly straight forwards. As I crested it I looked eagerly through the trees to the right to try and get a glimpse of this 'skyline' I had been told about.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >Well I never did see it, but what I did see was an increase in junk and junky cars and junky car dealers whose merchandise parked in the grass alongside the road. As I drew nearer, there were pedestrians, large, shuffling, and shabbily dressed, giving off the distinct and unhealthy air of someone who is 'not doing too well.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >When I came to the Wal-Mart I knew I was in town. I had made it. 500 miles through the wild and I was here. Civilization. Of course I still did not feel arrived, I still had to make my way all the way across town, find a place to stay, set up camp, and then, mercifully sleep. The road across town was loud, strangled, confusing, bumpy and long.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >The town passed as a series of dirty industrial yards, falling ash, rusty auto shops, and fast food restaurants. I finally found the campground and coasted in, looking around.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I had not yet stayed in a campground. On the Dalton I always just slept wherever I pleased. No one minds and while I did have some nice spots, I looked forward to amenities such as drinking water and, more importantly, a proper shower. Riding around the campground I soon discovered that all the tenting spots were full. The only remaining sites were the large and expensive ones for motor homes. Near the entrance was a camper that looked permanent that had a sign out front which read: 'Camp Host.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >I pulled up my bike, walked to the trailer door and knocked. A moment later a small and confused looking woman opened the door. I explained my predicament and asked her if there was anything that could be done.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >The woman looked at me as though horrified, as though my problem was beyond human comprehension and help. She seemed unable to find any words so I suggested, 'Well are there any other campgrounds nearby? Or should I just pay for an RV site?' The woman opened her mouth without making any noise and shook her head slightly, looking at me as though I were crazy. 'I'll just pay for the RV site,' I said. 'Oh, and are there showers or drinking water?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >The woman stared at me a moment longer before finally managing a weak 'no.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" >Charming,</span></i><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11;" > I thought, climbing back onto my bike, <i style="">I think I preferred the Dalton!</i> I found a site, paid whatever the ridiculous amount was for two nights, set up my tent, and crawled into my sleeping bag. <i style="">Oh well,</i> I thought to myself yawning, <i style="">I’ll take tomorrow off, get cleaned up, do a couple errands, and just make a nice leisurely day of it. </i>Ha ha! How wrong I was!<o:p></o:p></span></p> Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-44042569209101244832009-09-06T00:06:00.001-07:002009-09-06T16:35:44.124-07:00On the Whole<p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">Getting through the Dalton in my writing has proved to be almost as much of a challenge as getting through it by bike! I keep expecting to finish that section of the ride in the next journal, but find that there are things I just can't leave out for the sake of my own memory and for everyone to enjoy them as well. Nevertheless, I will wrap it up soon enough and should be able to catch up to where I physically am pretty quickly! </span><?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">The Dalton is too arrogant, industrial, and efficient to curve, even when a quarter mile turn would allow you to avoid a three mile climb. It is never graded into hills. Ravines are never filled or bridged to level the road. It plunges straight up and down again and again and again. These repetitive hills were so brutal that although the Antigun Pass was a difficult, I much preferred it to the rest of the road. Riding over this terrain does not yield any kind of victorious satisfaction. The feeling is much more akin to suffering through hours of traffic in a hot car. It's painful drudgery. There is no music that suits it, there is no pleasure in the process.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">This type of challenge is far more difficult than any other. It invites apathy and despair, pointlessness and hopelessness, which are far more subtle and seductive enemies than mere fatigue or pain. It felt unhealthy, like some type of repetitive and sick mental abuse. I had to quiet those very human portions of my mind which rejected to my yielding again and again with quiet submission to hill after hill.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">More uphill or downhill?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">It is slightly more uphill, given that you start roughly at sea level and Fairbanks is at an elevation of about three hundred feet. However, this gain is spread out over 500 miles so it's hard to notice. But that's in terms of distance; let's think about it in terms of time. I would often find myself struggling up hill at three miles an hour, and then descending around thirty. This means that I would spend ten times as much time going uphill as downhill. So in a sense, it is ten times as much uphill as down, but that’s awfully pessimistic so I tried not to let myself think it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">While it was sometimes cold, it was more often hot. Sweat ran down my chest and face. It streamed across my sunglasses leaving salty trails. Whenever I began to climb yet another hill, the mosquitoes found me and then greedily swarmed until I could crest the hill and bomb down the far side.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">I rarely found it to be beautiful. This was perhaps largely due to the eternal orange haze which I eventually learned was from massive forest fires burning near Fairbanks. I wondered how much worse the smoke would get, the damage it was doing my lungs, and just how large the fires must be to cover the sky 500 miles to the north. I could often not see more than a half mile into the distance, leaving me isolated from my surroundings. Riding like this is like making someone follow a trail, but only allowing them to look at their feet with no idea of where the trail is going.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">The mountains had crumbled to become endless hills just before Coldfoot, hills that were covered in millions of the shriveled Spruce trees. At times, isolated in the smoke, it would have been easy to believe that I had somehow been caught in some type of twilight zone, some world between worlds that had wrapped itself in an eternal dead forest.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">I rode over countless rivers and streams, some deep blue and clear, others green and opaque. I was constantly struck by how little wildlife there was. Often all that could be heard was the shrieking of a squirrel, the sharp repetitive chirping, loud and mechanical, like a stuck power drill.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">The thought of quitting:<br />I only bring this up because it is a common enough question and I assume people would like to ask, 'Did you ever think about quitting?' The answer is yes, I was of course aware of the option, but it simply didn't tempt me. It sounded less appealing than continuing on.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">I would motivate myself with thoughts like <i>God forbid, that this, the greatest challenge of my life, is actually difficult or painful.’</i> Or I would remind myself that with a bit of patience and a little hard work I would get where I was going. <em>If you could sit through that two hour accounting class then surely you can ride another two hours.</em> It also seemed to help to imagine ways in which things could be worse, <i>The wind could be stronger. At least the rain is light. The road could be muddier.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">Before starting the trip, I thought that it might be boring biking all day, but I realized that I was simply working far too hard to get bored. In fact, I was working too hard to get lonely or excited, anything except tired. That’s another thought I had again and again, <i>I am working so hard! I just can’t believe how hard I’m working!</i> I found simple calculations to be difficult. <i>Let’s see, I've gone 43 miles, and I want to do 65, so that means I have to go... 30...30 plus 2... No wait, 65 minus 43... Uhh so 43, 53, 63, ummm... 65...</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">The thoughts that filled my head over those nine days were similar to those that fill one’s head just before falling asleep. Images of friends’ and families’ faces flit through, laughing or saying something they often say. Songs learned in the third grade come from nowhere and get stuck on repeat. Random memories, like sliding down the hall in socks when I was a kid, or of catching a bullfrog, or playing videogames at a friend’s house flutter around and mix together. Lines from movies and TV shows come randomly and repeat and then go away. Questions with some metaphorical meaning occurred to me and would repeat over and over. <i>Are you churning cream or just treading water? Are you churning cream or just treading water? Are you churning...</i> or else, <i>will my bar tape burnish or tarnish? Will my bar tape burnish or tarnish? Will my bar tape...</i> I forced myself to count breaths as I climbed hills to try and quiet my mind. <i>count to 300. You can count to three hundred, then you'll almost be at the top.</i> Whenever I stopped for a moment, I was always surprised at how screaming loud my random thoughts had become, and how quiet it was without them.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">I built fires on occasion but generally found them to be more a smokey nuisance than a source of light and comfort. My knee always hurt, but never reached that point of failing weakness like it did the first and second day, which encouraged me. It hurt too much to crouch or kneel and I was always surprised at how badly I limped when I stepped off my bike to draw water or get lunch. Sometimes I would almost fall when I stepped off my bike, my legs being so fatigued and my knee being so sore. I rarely stopped. Even things like greasing the chain or adjusting the seat were delays I only rarely indulged.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">The Dalton is not smooth enough to allow you to keep any momentum. If the grade is even slightly uphill you don't coast at all and the momentum of a downhill does not carry you even partway up the next hill, making any elevation gained a very poor investment. The tops of hills are quite often marked in order to warn truckers to downshift for the coming descent. Initially, I thought that these markers were my friends, they marked the end of the climb and the beginning of the downhill after all, but I soon learned what they really meant: 'Congratulations on completing another half hour of suffering. All your hard efforts will now be wasted in a dusty, rocky minute. This message will repeat throughout the day.'<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">I was still unemotional. My bike fell over again on its flimsy kickstand, scattering my toolkit. I carefully gathered my tools and righted the bike. I came sweating over another hill and saw three more on the horizon. I quietly continued. I hit a bad stretch of road and just kept riding. I was able to retain some sort of detached amusement at my situation anytime things became particularly horrible. I suspected that I might be filling a reservoir of emotion. It turned out that I was and that spite and anger would soon began to break through, but I'll get to that later.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">I never had trouble sleeping, but always had trouble getting out of bed. I fell asleep early and slept in and could not have imagined getting less sleep than I did. Starting late like this always made me feel short on time. Despite doing everything quickly, I did everything full of care. I was careful with my trash, I pulled to the side of the road carefully. I was careful purifying my water and careful unpacking my bags. I was careful going downhill and careful going up. Part of doing this was recognizing the things that could go wrong, recognizing the things that would be horrible if they went wrong, and then taking measures to make sure those things didn't happen. It seemed to me a great epiphany at the time that everything done on the Dalton must be done 'full of care' but then realized with an obvious jolt that that is precisely what the word careful means.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">One of the things I did discover with the brutal clarity that only personal experience provides is that strength lives on the far side of weakness. I found this on days where I had given all that I could, days where I was defeated and finished, but still had miles to go and then did them. Past that point of defeat I found a great deal of strength. The strength here is of a different essence, of a different quality than the strength used before reaching weakness. It's so different that I now call any feeling of strength before weakness mere energy. I think most people have this strength and that it is why when life asks more of us than we can possibly give, we stretch and bend and sometimes tear ourselves to handle it, but in the end we find a way to survive. </span><o:p></o:p></p>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-4968114402866778692009-09-04T11:50:00.001-07:002009-09-04T11:50:34.224-07:00Day 5<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" 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mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Day 5. The short stunted trees continued to get thicker as I headed south and they brought comfort and purpose to the landscape. This was the first day that minutes and even miles passed without my noticing.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I rode in a light rain and loved it. I rode into the wind and loathed it. I arrived in Coldfoot that afternoon.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Coldfoot is like a heart, but not in the way that is typically meant by that metaphor. It is not the center, it is not important. It is a steady and industrious pump along the vein of highway. It is a two day drive from Fairbanks to Deadhorse and Coldfoot is the only 'town' between the two.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">It is really hardly a town at all, but rather more of a wide spot in the road partitioned in several places by clumps of shriveled Spruce trees. It has a population of 14 and about as many buildings. The buildings are of course trailer units, joined together like the buildings in Deadhorse. Well…every building but one. Across from the eating trailer is an ancient looking one-roomed wooden structure that looks completely unused and seems to be starting to sink into the ground. I assume that it has no value except for its age. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I pulled up tired and hungry, but very happy to be 'somewhere' at all. I parked my bike at the base of the short flight of wooden stairs leading to the front door, pulled some pants on over my cycling shorts, and changed into my nice shirt.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I sprang lightly up the steps and paused, completely surprised at my energy. I stepped inside and looked around. Several aluminum tables with composite board tops and a few plastic chairs were scattered around. Toward the back was a separate room containing a large table and a television guarded by a sign that said 'Truckers Only.' Several stereotypical looking characters sat around the table in silence, watching the TV.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I saw the sign for the restrooms and went back to have a look at myself in the mirror. I didn't have any idea what I looked like. I didn't know if my face was dirty or tan or if a wild look had crept into my eyes which I assumed were bloodshot. I nudged into the small bathroom and stared into the scratched mirror. The first thing I noticed was my hair, sticking out wildly in all directions, looked as though it was either very messy or aggressively stylized, depending on how you wanted to think about it. My eyes were not red, but were clear, framed by a permanent scowl that had affixed itself to my face against the wind, rain, and diffused glaring sunlight. My arms and face looked tan, but as I began scrubbing them with soap and water, layers of dirt and sweat peeled off revealing whiter skin underneath. I dried my face and arms, left my hair as it was and stepped back out into the dining area.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I paid for the buffet and ate more than I have ever eaten in my life: pork roast, sausages, chicken pasta, mashed potatoes and salad.<span style=""> </span>I had the soup and several rolls to go with it. There was some strange semi sweet rice dish with questionable chunks of meat and vegetables in it. I had about three large glasses of soda and about four cups of coffee with my five different desserts.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Feeling relaxed and satisfied for the first time the entire trip, I took a seat on the deck in front of the trailer, lit a cigar, pulled out my journal and began making notes on the last five days on the road. A man in faded black jeans and a grey T-shirt, which was tucked in around his paunchy belly, stood by the stairs talking to a foreign couple wearing heavy motorcycle jackets.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Yeah I've been running tours here for almost six years,' he said hoisting his fanny pack up a little higher, 'You'll probably see me on the road, I've got the big van, says 'Princess' on the side...'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Several very large and hairy truckers shuffled around him, pausing briefly before grabbing the handrail and laboriously climbing the five steps to the front door. A group of three motorcyclists pulled up and began unfastening their helmets as they dismounted from their bikes.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">In the distance I could hear a pack of dogs howling. There was the faint smell of wood fire.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I set my half finished cigar in the ashtray and went to fetch a sweater from my bike. I felt like an animal, like some wild thing, savage and alive. I felt incredibly strong, as though the last five days had given me a lifetime of experience on which I could now confidently depend.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">As I was rummaging through my bags, a van pulled up behind me. About eight people in their fifties slowly stepped out of the sliding door, looking at me and murmuring to one another. From around the driver’s side bounced a girl, about my age, blond pony tail bobbing wildly. She clutched a stack of papers in her hand.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">She noticed that her group was staring at me and said, 'I know, isn't it amazing people can do that! I think it's so incredible.' Someone behind me agreed, loud enough for me to hear. They continued talking about me just feet away as though I couldn't hear them. I looked around, gave a sheepish smile and then turned back to my bag, zipping it up.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Alright let's get a picture!' squealed the girl delightedly, turning to her group.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">One of the members of the group protested, saying that she needed to be in the picture too, the rest of the group agreed good naturedly.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'I can take the picture,' I said, standing up and turning to face them.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Oh really!' exclaimed the girl, 'thanks so much! You're awesome!'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">There were murmured agreements from the group behind her. I stepped forward, taking the camera from her.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'This one too, please,' said a woman, holding out a large SLR.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'And this,' said another<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'This as well.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I found myself holding no less than seven different cameras of all shapes and sizes.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'...two three. One two three. One two three. One two...' I said moving quickly through them.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I finished and began to untangle myself from the straps and lanyards.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Thanks, youre awesome,' said the girl smiling broadly at me. 'I'm Kim.' She stuck out her hand.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Dave,' I said transferring some cameras to my left hand.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Her group closed in, surrounding me, and began asking the usual questions.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Where are you going?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'How much does your bike weigh?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'How long do you think it will take?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'What do you eat?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Where are you from?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I answered politely while backing slowly away from the group, around the man with the fanny pack who drove the princess van and back up the stairs.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Thanks!' they all chanted at me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'Sure,' I said, returning to my seat.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">My cigar had gone out and as I lit it again I could hear Kim’s voice coming from the parking lot.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">'And this certificate is for Tom for making it north of the Arctic Cirlce!' there was a burst of enthusiastic applause and genuine congratulatory remarks from the others in the group. 'And this certificate is for Cathy for making it north of the Arctic Circle!'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I leaned to the side, looking over the railing and down onto the group in the parking lot. Kim’s arm was outstretched, holding Cathy’s certificate towards her. Kim was jumping up and down with excitement, pony tail bobbing wildly. The group applauded with undiminished enthusiasm. Someone shouted 'Hoorah!' while another proclaimed 'Way to go Cathy!'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style=""><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">Are they going to do this for everyone in the group?</span></i><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"> I thought to myself.<span style=""> </span><i style="">Surely by the last person they will know what's coming and even Kim will lose her enthusiasm. </i><span style=""> </span>But as I watched, they went through every single member, Kim jumping with joy, the other members applauding appreciatively in the slipstream of her energy.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">My cigar was finished. I added it to the cigarette butts in the ashtray and stepped back inside. I had been planning on resupplying here, my food bag had gotten so low that it kept slipping out from the strap holding it on the back of the bike and falling onto the road.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I had seen the truckers who knew the cashier by name get styrofoam to-go boxes from a place beneath the counter and I discretely grabbed two as I headed back to the buffet line. It was an all you can eat buffet but I still thought it a good idea not to make it known that I was fueling the rest of my expedition from their kitchen.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";">I filled the boxes with food and then retreated with my bike to a far corner of the parking lot where I packed the food into ziploc bags and then stuffed the bags into my food sack. With a long last look at this small, humble place of warmth and light in the great Alaskan wilderness, I clipped in and pressed on. I had already ridden far that day, but jazzed on energy from coffee and social contact, I rode for another several hours before stopping and quickly falling asleep in the constant hazy sunlight.<o:p></o:p></span></p> Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-42071213410854839772009-09-01T08:59:00.001-07:002009-09-05T20:47:06.275-07:00Apple Pie for Breakfast<div class="Section1"> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i><span style=";font-family:";" >Apple pie for breakfast</span></i><span style=";font-family:";" >, I thought, rolling over in my sleeping bag and smiling to myself. I would make warm apple pie for breakfast. Even with this incentive I found it difficult to get out of bed. Nevertheless, a few minutes later I managed to stumble out of my tent and grab the cooking stuff from the bag on my bike. I cut one of the apples I had taken from the hotel in Deadhorse into thin pieces. I simmered the apple in one pot and placed two apple cinnamon Nutrigrain bars in a second pot. Since I only had one stove, I turned it on high heat and alternated the pot with apples and the pot with the bars over the flame, switching them every few seconds. Soon the apple slices cooked and the bars began to get crispy so I combined them into one pot and broke up the bars with the edge of my spork.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >To the north, green rolling hills retreated for many miles before dumping back onto the perfectly flat tundra which then spilled into the Arctic Ocean. To the south was the formidable Brooks Range, a 700 mile East to West barrier dividing the North Slope of Alaska from the rest of the state. I knew that the Atigun Pass was ahead somewhere frozen in granite, but I had no idea how far it was or what it was really like. All I knew were the wide eyed stares that I had gotten from people who had driven through it as they learned that I would be doing it by bicycle.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I took a bite of the warm apple mess in the pot, deciding that it wasn't bad, and that it was nearly as good as the real thing. It was still by far the best breakfast I had eaten on the road.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I cleaned up the camping site, bid farewell to the small creek, and pushed my heavy bike back up onto the road.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >There is a certain trick of perspective that occurs when cycling great distances. Assuming that you are not on a particularly large hill, it always appears that the road is headed down into a distant valley, and looks as though you have just climbed out of a valley. That is to say that the road always appears to be downhill in both directions. Since, at the time, I did not know that this was illusory, I looked forward with excitement to the valley that ran off down between the mountains in the hazy distance. <i>The road would surely follow the valley</i>, I thought, <i>so I'll at least have some nice downhill before I get to the pass.</i> I clipped in and started to go.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I slowly weaved my way through mountains that steadily became more sheer and grew in height. Everything was still a hazy, subdued, and slightly orange shade. It looked as though whoever had painted the landscape had used too much white, rendering every color a soft pastel.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The road weaved between the mountains, rising and falling over their rippling bases. I struggled over hill after hill, convinced that the next would be the one that would finally drop me into that long descending valley. The air was still when I started, but slowly began to blow against me, an icy trickle at first, but soon it had escalated into a mean spirited resistance. I imagined the wind being sucked through the pass somewhere in the mountains ahead, curving sleekly through it, ambitiously climbing over the highest point of the range so that it could dive to the bottom for the sole purpose of making my life miserable.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I was becoming very discouraged at how slowly I was going. <i>And I'm headed downhill, into that valley,</i> I told myself naively. <i>Why is it so difficult?! Why am I going so slowly?! I must have really overdone it<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><i><span style=";font-family:";" >yesterday.</span></i><span style=";font-family:";" > After hours of toiling, I stopped for lunch, crouched from the wind behind a wooden sign on the side of the road that cited important information for traffic entering the pump station for the pipeline just up ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I pulled food from my bag and looked back the way I had come. The road descended in long repetitive dips for miles. The rolling hills in the distance were clearly beneath me now and I was completely surprised to see how high I had climbed or even that I had climbed at all. <i>Maybe this is the pass,</i> I thought to myself, looking around at the sheer granite walls all around me. <i>I mean I am pretty high up, and it looks like the road might just curve around those two mountains ahead, and then maybe that will be it!</i> I loaded my food back onto my bike, hardly letting myself hope that I was right. My knee still hurt tremendously, my back was aching, and my backside was fast becoming very sore. I was also tired, very tired. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Far from riding at a leisurely pace, I had been clawing aggressively over steep hills all morning, the kind of hill that looked small in the vastness of Alaska, the kind that would stand out and be regarded as 'that really big hill' in my hometown. The road was still rock and dirt and dust.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I soldiered on. The cliffs around me drew closer. There was now a small splashing river following me into the mountains, and it grew thinner mile by mile as I drew higher. <i>This must be it,</i> I thought, <i>but don't even let yourself hope. I'll climb all day and night if I have to.</i> I slowly came around another corner in the granite and then saw it. A sharp diagonal line was cut into the mountain in front of me as though someone had slashed across the mountain’s face with a knife. Halfway up the grade an enormous semi truck looked like a miniscule rocket, a long plume of dust bellowing up behind it. The truck’s engine hammered and roared, its echoes filling the canyon. I stared for a moment, struck with the brutal geometric beauty of the scene. I fumbled around in my handlebar bag for a moment, pulled out my camera and absently snapped a picture, knowing that it would utterly fail to capture the moment.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I was tired. I was beyond my limit just in reaching this point. I could not give any more. I stood and stared as the truck finally reached a turn in the road and turned out of sight. The noise of its engine seemed to die away unnaturally quickly. I wondered how much higher the road climbed around that corner. It didn't matter. Staring a moment longer, my mind began to accept the situation and I suddenly found myself ready to continue.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I set off towards the grade at ten miles an hour. As the road steepened I watched my speed drop to six, and then three. Do you know how slow three miles an hour is? It is hardly fast enough to balance. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >My tires slipped a little on the gravel every couple seconds. I began to slalom, back and forth across the road to lessen the angle. I counted my progress in inches, not feet.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >My back was aching, my knee was splitting, and the wind was loud and horrible. Yet inevitably the valley floor fell away and the cold grey granite walls became level with me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I did not find it beautiful. The mountains were cold, still, and lifeless. A pale green moss clung to some of the faces. Every so often a small gushing finger of water sprouted from the boulders lining the road. I couldn't imagine any of these mountains having names, or being worthy of having names. They seemed too unloved, too eternally frozen and dead to be considered anything other than an obstacle for the road.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >I wanted to stop. I wanted to stop so badly, but I just kept pushing myself a little further and then a little further still. I eventually reached the corner I had seen the truck disappear around and saw that the road did continue to climb, curving dramatically away towards two stone grey peaks.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I added inch to painful inch and continued to climb. I tried to quiet my mind and relax the muscles I wasn't using. I noticed that my face was strained, contorted with exertion. I relaxed it and told myself to keep it calm. Despite my best efforts, every couple of minutes I would suddenly notice that my face had contorted once again into a pained expression. Finally, clawing, scraping, and sweating in the cold wind I reached the top of the pass. There was a dirt turn around which I coasted over to in order to rest and take in the view.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >There were beaten metal signs with bullet holes through them warning of avalanches and rock slides. Some sturdy silent weather equipment had been installed a short ways away. On either side of the road stood two sharp granite peaks. The distance was hazy, the sky was white and the wind was cold and strong. There was nothing alive.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >At almost five thousand feet above sea level and more than 100 miles north of the Arctic Circle, this can indisputably be counted as one of the far corners of the world. I realized that at the time and paused to ask myself how I felt. Nothing. I still felt nothing. Not accomplishment, not loneliness, not anything. It was cold and now that I was no longer biking it was starting to chill me. <i>Time to get out of this wretched place</i>, I thought to myself.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >As I clicked into my pedals to go, I noticed that I was no longer alone. At the far end of the lot sat a man on a Harley. He wore all black leather, black sunglasses and had a black skullcap framing his face and full red beard. The man was staring at me. He was also positioned between me and the road heading south.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >I pedaled towards him, shouting hello above the wind as I drew near. I noticed his liberal gut filled his leather jacket, practically resting on and engulfing his large gas tank. The man stared at me with a determined lack of expression on his face and then gave me a quick nod.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I wondered what he must think of me. I wondered if he barely considered me, or if maybe he was insulted by my presence as though by doing on bicycle what he no doubt considered a great achievement by motorbike made him feel less adventurous. I wondered if I made him feel fat and lazy. I returned his nod assuming an equally stoic expression and began to coast down the grade.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I am writing this roughly thirty days into my journey, and I still have not gone faster than I did on that descent. Even after more than a thousand miles of smoothly paved roads and large Alaskan hills, nothing has come close.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I tucked down into the headwind hoping my gear would stay strapped on, hoping that my bike would hold together as it bounced and skidded and pinged rocks out from under the tires. Once or twice I hit soft gravel, every muscle in my body instantly going rigid to keep the bike from drifting. Soon I began to slow and found myself pedaling again. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I had hardly blinked on the descent, and had not risked even the quickest glance from the road, but as I leveled out and slowed down I looked around.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The change in scenery was immediately apparent. While the sky was still white and hazy, the plants were deeper and more lush. The cliff faces around me seemed more warm and alive. A couple minutes later I came to the 'Furthest Toilet.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >This is not a cleverly named rest stop as it quite simply is the furthest north public restroom on the highway. A small, brown wooden outhouse, it is not impressive, but it was the first sign on my trip of any services for a traveler. About one hundred feet south of the toilet is the 'Furthest North Spruce,' also accurately named. I rode over to the tree and read the plaque explaining it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The poor tree, hundreds of years old, but only just over a dozen feet tall, was killed several years ago when the bark at its base was vandalized, scored deeply all the way around exposing it to the elements. The tree now stands leafless and grey, but otherwise perfectly intact. This tree marks the beginning of the Borreal Forest and the end of the tundra. The siblings of the tree begin only feet south of it. Grinning to myself I wondered if maybe the 'Second Furthest North Spruce' had killed its brother out of jealousy.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >As I continued south I began to hear birds chirping. There was sparse leafy foliage timidly filling in beneath the now common spruce trees. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >A small squirrel ran out to the end of his stubby branch as I passed, every muscle in its small body tense with fury as it squeaked loudly at me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >It was still not beautiful, and the forest was stunted, barely alive. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The trees here grow slowly and only ever reach about twelve feet in height. Their branches are short and clumpy, giving the tree a sad shriveled kind of appearance. It all adds to create a bizarre otherworldly kind of place.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The Dalton highway is never nice. Let me repeat that because I mean it very seriously: the Dalton highway is never, ever, not for one moment, nice. In this case, for instance, although it was trending downhill, it continually rose and fell over the legs of the mountains surrounding the valley, preferring these hills to the flat valley floor. The wind was still in my face and was wearying. Finally I had covered an acceptable number of miles and found a place next to a stream where there was room to set up my tent.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >Unlike the nearly dead stream to the north of the mountains, this one was chortling and happy and fresh. It seemed absolutely delighted to bound over and around the small boulders in its bed before disappearing off into the stunted forest. I set up my tent on the rocks to the side of the stream, prepared food, washed in the happy, ice cold water and quickly fell asleep.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> </div>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-2399326988338230452009-08-22T21:31:00.000-07:002009-09-01T09:01:37.022-07:00Hummingbloods<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5COwner%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" 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0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I carefully lifted the pot of icy water over my head, cringing where small drips splashed over the edge and fell on my bare torso. My feet and ankles were in that prickling burning frozen phase that comes before numbness and after the initial shock of the cold. I stood in the mouth of a large steel pipe that channeled the creek under the road. The creek was fed by water oozing out of the tundra in the summer heat like water from a sponge and moved just barely enough to keep from getting sick.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I took a gulping breath and upended the pot of water over by head, gasping as liquid icicles spread slender fingers down my body. I filled the pot again and poured it over my face. The water tasted salty from the sweat in my hair and on my forehead. I stepped a little deeper into the pipe to avoid the wind as I began to lather soap across my chest and down my arms.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Three days. I had finished three days on the road and still I was stoic. I expected that I would thaw as my routine formed and that feelings and emotions would begin to flow and trickle over me in sometimes icy sometimes warm rivulets. But there was nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I leaned over, and with a light and unhealthy scraping noise, picked up the light aluminum pot from the rock I had set it on and filled it again. I lifted it and poured it slowly down my hair. I imagined my first day washing off, imbuing the water with stress and pain and hard defiance. I dipped the pot again, its metal rim clinking against stones in the small stream, and poured it over my shoulders. Day two washed off in a dirty sheet of dust and sweat. It washed off in a sheet of rolling hills and low coiling bushes and black mudded river valleys.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I had awoken late the morning of my second day. Ten o'clock and my sleep still sat on me heavily, making me not want to move. Some combination of small pillow and hard mattress had caused my jaw to slide out of place. I moved it around slowly and with a strong internal, <i>thock,</i> it slid back in place. I felt a canker sore forming in the corner of my mouth and it seemed that one of my wisdom teeth had chosen that night to begin its painful debut. I rolled over and crawled out of my bag and staggered out of the tent. The day, once again, was the same as the day before. Plain white sky and empty cold wind. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The rain had stopped and I noticed with relief that it didn't seem to have saturated the road during the night. I noticed a small brown disc on the ground beneath my bike and picked it up. It was the plastic lid I had been using to place my kickstand on. It had cracked under the pressure in the night and that was why my bike had fallen over. I held up the lid and turned it over. It was still useable; I would just have to be very careful how I weighted it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >It took me a couple of hours to eat breakfast and clean up the campsite, so I didn't get started until nearly one. I pedaled slowly across the large parking lot back towards the road. The truck that had been parked at the other end of the lot, the truck that gave me company and felt like my friend, had moved on before I woke.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I made it back to the road and pedaled tentatively at first, unsure how violently my knee would object to being put to use again so shortly after the prior day’s abuse. Within a couple miles the pain returned, and the pain was worrying and wearying.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Trucks continued to pass, flinging me with rocks that sometimes stung and dust that coated my clothes and skin. Occasionally two trucks headed in opposite directions would pass me at the same time so that I was forced into the deep and dangerous gravel further on the side of the road.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The road was wide and elevated about ten feet above the tundra. Tall metal posts with reflectors at their tops lined the road so that its path would be discernible in the winter when even breath froze. Motorcyclists on rugged roaring beasts flew past in both directions several times an hour and usually gave some sign of recognition. My favorite of these signs was the clenched fist, raised and meant to impart strength. It worked.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The Alaskan oil pipeline, the only reason that there's anything this far north anyways, materialized out of the haze to the right of the road and ran parallel to it. Large signs marking the mile of the pipeline came with it and reminded me how slowly the miles were passing.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i><span style=";font-family:";" >52, the last one I've noticed said 52.</span></i><span style=";font-family:";" > I thought, <i>the next ones got to be like 57... Or maybe even 58.</i> In the distance the orange sign came closer and closer until, finally, it was legible. A large 53 was inscribed across it in big black letters. That was the way it went. Miles crawled by. A minute never passed that I wasn't painfully aware of. Time was eternal. Feet added to feet and very, very slowly added to miles.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >Out of the haze in the distance I saw some large structure loom, like some gaudy fictional city of spires and light and steel. <i>What on earth?</i> I wondered as I drew closer and the towers became more solid. <i>I thought there wasn't anything for hundreds of miles.</i> Because the haze made everything look more distant than it was I quickly arrived at the structure. A chain link fence surrounded it and there was a sign on a metal post across the street that said 'Pump Station One - No Services.' I rode by staring up at the structure, wondering what other bizarre things were lurking in the haze ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >At last the road made its first turn, a big yawning turn to the right, stretching and flexing its muscle like the first stretch you make in the morning after a night of good sleep, arms wide and fingers curled. After this, the road seemed to wake up and dove headlong into the first hills rising out of the tundra. I climbed it slowly, inevitably, taking care not to strain my knee.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Far beneath me to my left, the river veered away and I bid it farewell and regretted never getting to meet it. I climbed and found that I could climb. The temperature had come up and it was warm now, in the seventies, and I was sweating. The road fell and then rose again, steep and rocky. And then again it fell and climbed. And again and again it rose and fell, climbing as aggressively as possible over the rolling hills, turning only just enough so that a truck could rumble up the hill in its lowest gear. <i>I sure hope there's a point to all this up and down</i>, I thought. I kept climbing. After some time I would peak the largest hill on the horizon expecting to look from its peak and have a clear and distant view of where I was headed and where the road flattened out but was always disappointed in seeing more hills identical to the ones I had just climbed. Minutes still ticked by with painful lethargy and I tried not to look at the mile markers because I already had learned that they told discouraging lies.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The road curved around and began a long descent. I had not realized that I had climbed so high. It was steep and I was moving quickly, a bit faster than I felt comfortable with. The road was bumpy and curved sharply. A semi blasted from behind me and I slowed slightly as it flew around a blind corner leaving me in a cloud of dust. The road dropped further and as I came around the next corner I realized that it was dumping me back along the river. <i>Great. Thanks for that. You know we could have just stayed down here. I hope you got that out of your system</i>, I muttered to the road.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The road, it turned out, had not gotten it out of its system and continued to shoot randomly up into the steep hills to the right of the river, roller coaster along for a while, and then plunge back down into the valley. It was wearying and I pushed along hard, not leisurely cruising, but sweating and breathing hard and working hard. The miles inevitably began to stack and I reached forty, feeling pleased that I had been able to match the previous day. In the haze ahead, partway up the next hill, something quivered into form.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'I can't let you ride here.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The man was maybe forty. His skin was red and peeling lightly from, as he later explained to me, getting a cold burn several years ago working the road in the winter. He still had most of his teeth but it didn't look like he put too much effort into trying to keep them. He wore jeans, work boots, a hardhat and an orange reflective vest.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'You'll have to ride in the back of the truck, it's only a couple miles. We're working here and it's not safe.' he said. It was only my second day and the idea of getting a free ride for a couple miles both tempted and appalled me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Is there no way I can ride it?' I asked him.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >He eyed me and my bike for a minute and then said, 'I can understand you wantin’ to ride the whole thing. We had some biker come through here last year, rode all the way from Argentina and then we made him go in the truck. It was the only part he didn't ride. I said to him don't worry, I won't ever tell nobody.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I stared back thinking <i>well you're telling me now, I wonder how many other times you've told this story.</i> After a pause the man said, 'I tell you what, I get off in an hour, or an hour and a half, or half an hour or somthin’, whenever the trucks stop coming. You can ride through then. You can just wait over there,' he pointed to the side of the road behind his parked truck. I pulled over and sat on the ground and pulled out my bags of food. The worker spat some words into his walkie talkie and some other words spat back out of it. Then he turned and stared at me shamelessly, taking in every detail of my appearance and making me feel uncomfortable.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'I'm Ken' he said.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Dave,' I answered.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Where you goin?' he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Fairbanks and then Argentina,' I said.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'You goin’ alone?' he asked, still staring at me too concentratedly.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Yeah, that's the plan,' I said.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >He looked at me a moment and then said,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'You guys are all crazy. Do you have enough food?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >I told him about the food I had gotten in Deadhorse and how I thought that it was enough.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'I got some in my truck, if you want it,' he said, half starting towards the car.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Sure!' I said, 'If you don't mind.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >He fished around in the car for a minute and then handed me a snack size bag of Cheezits, trail mix and a mostly empty bag of jolly ranchers.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'It's not much,' he said apologetically.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'It will help,' I said, 'thanks very much.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >He smiled at me, feeling immensely proud at the tremendous good deed he had just done.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Sure' he said, 'I think people ought to help each other. You know, just when you can, kind of do a good thing for somebody.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Course,' I said, 'you want some beef jerky?' (beef jerky was one thing I had plenty of) <o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Oh no, no you need it.' he answered smiling. He knew he had just been elevated to sainthood and he wouldn't let any charity on my part detract from his nearly divine status.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'I've got some water too.' he said, the idea just coming to him as he dove back into his cab and emerged with two bottles of water.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Oh I don't want to take all your food.' I protested feebly, knowing that there was no stopping this force of goodness now anyways.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Oh that's alright. It's all free at the camps anyways.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >A white pickup headed the other way pulled up next to us and stopped. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >A man with a sparse but long white beard leaned out the window and said in a quiet, serious voice, 'Well that's the last truck, Ken.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'This is Dave' Ken said proudly, gesturing towards me, 'I've helped him out, given him some food. He's going to Argentina.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'The man in the truck stared at me seriously, behind serious sunglasses and then said, 'You got bear spray?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Uh yeah. Yeah I do.' I said.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Good,' he said quietly, looking over me and my bike. 'Remember, if a bear attacks you, you just play dead, but if he starts to eat you, you kick him in the balls.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >I looked back at him, trying to detect some trace of humor in his expression. There was none.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Uh, yeah. Good to know,' I said.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >He turned in his seat and pointed back up the hill the way he had come. 'Stay on the left side of this hill,' he said, 'the left side has been compacted, the right side is still soft. The left side.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >White beard put his truck in gear and drove away slowly. Ken turned to me to make a big goodbye out of our parting.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Just, uh, take care. Be careful,' he said, looking like there was something more he wanted to say.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'I will,' I said, positioning myself on my bike and getting ready to leave.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Vaya con Dios,' Ken blurted awkwardly and then looked nervous about whether or not he had said the correct thing. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Is that right? I mean, that means... Uh that means...'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Go with God,' I said, 'yeah, you said it okay. From Pointbreak right?' I asked him as he had pronounced the words in exactly the same way as Keanu Reaves does in the movie.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >Ken looked affronted, 'Yeah - no- I mean... It's a little more deep than that.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Of course, I'm only kidding. Thanks very much. I really appreciate your help,' I said, trying to mollify him. I clipped in and began to make my way slowly up the left side of the hill.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >A few miles further on the pain in my knee had spread out around the tendons and muscles surrounding it and it moved from pain to weakness. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >It felt as though the joint were made of a material not suitable for the stress and that at any point it simply would stop to function completely. Climbing the final hill that day was the first time the pain reached a cry-out-loud level. Three times spasms ran up and down my entire leg, a sharp and shocking pain over the top of what I was used to dealing with. I saw a small pull out up ahead and coasted over to it, relieved to have a place to stop.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The turnaround was small and with my tent set up at the back end of it, I was still only about eight feet off the road. A few feet behind my tent was a small pool of stagnant water from which poured thousands of giant mosquitoes.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I quickly dug into a pocket on my handle bar bag and found a bottle of 100% DEET. I squeezed some drops into my palm and then smeared it into the mess of dirt and sunscreen and sweat already covering my face, neck, legs and arms.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >If mosquitoes are supposed to be repelled by mosquito repellent, then these particular ones missed the memo. The large things hummed around me with an audible buzzing noise as I slapped at them constantly. As quickly as I could, I changed into long sleeve clothing and then dug to the bottom of my bag and retrieved a hat with mosquito netting built in which covered my face and neck. The only part of my body that was exposed was my hands, which I kept moving constantly to prevent the mosquitoes from biting them. I set up my tent, trucks still roaring past, and threw my stuff inside as quickly as possible to prevent mosquitoes from flying in through the door. I had a quick dinner and then packed my food back into its bags and looked around for a place to hang them. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The pipeline was perhaps a hundred yards away and I thought about going over to it, but the grassy tundra had gotten deeper, mile by mile that day, and now was covered in hard, waist deep bushes. There was a sign post across the road set about 20 feet into the bushes marking an underground pipe. Why on earth there was an underground pipe there I still cannot guess. After much struggling with my nylon cord and heavy awkward bags of food and unyielding bushes, I had managed to hoist the stuff as far as I could up the sign. I stood back to admire my work. The bags hung pathetically about five feet off the ground and the sign now leaned at an awkward angle, threatening to uproot under the weight. As I watched, the cord slipped and the bags fell a couple of inches lower. <i>Well that's the best I can do tonight,</i> I thought, somewhat annoyed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The pool of water next to my tent was too disgusting and too thoroughly guarded by mud and bushes to draw water from, so I conserved what little I had, brushing my teeth carefully and measuring what I drank before crawling into my tent and quickly sealing the door behind me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >On the ceiling, a half a dozen mosquitoes buzzed around, banging against the mesh windows. I reached out quickly and caught one in my hand, crushing it. <i>These things are about the size of hummingbirds,</i> I thought, <i>hummingbirds that suck your blood.</i> I deposited the large insect into a paper napkin and reached up and caught another. <i>Actually that's a good name for them. 'Hummingbloods.' Charming.</i> and I deposited the second insect into the napkin. As I caught the rest I wondered what on earth they must eat when there are no people around. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >Finally, dirty and sticky, I fell asleep.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The noise of a truck along the Dalton highway is unlike anything else. You can hear it roaring miles away, smooth and piercing and powerful, almost indistinguishable from a jet engine at a distance. Then, as it gets closer, the pure jet noise is supplemented with the rumbling of tires, the grinding innards and changing gears of the machine. It is loud. You would not believe how loud it is in the otherwise perfectly silent world. As I lay in my tent, half asleep and only a couple feet off the side of the road, it sounded like the noise was coming straight towards me and I had to tell myself again and again that I was not going to be run over as I woke up from dream after dream in which I was crushed under some giant machine.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Despite the noise I managed some decent sleep, and then, in a moment of silence, there was a voice.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Hello? Hello?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >I turned in my sleep, sure that the voice was part of my bizarre dreams. Then the voice was much closer, the undeniable reality of it harshly contrasting with the expected ambiguities of my dreams.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Hello!'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >I rolled over quickly, looking out of the mesh of my tent towards the road. A stooped figure dressed in all black was creeping tentatively towards me. He had long black hair and a scraggly black beard. He walked as though he had lived his whole life in a cave whose ceiling was too low to allow him to stand all the way upright. As he walked his hands absently clawed the air ahead of him as though feeling for spider webs.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Yeah?' I said, feeling around for my can of mace.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >The man crept right up to my tent, so close I could see the dirt on his face. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >He surveyed me for a moment and then said, 'You know where Happy Valley is?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >I relaxed. Happy Valley, I knew, was the work camp along the river about ten miles back.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Oh, yeah,' I said rubbing the sleep from my eyes, 'it's about ten miles that way, on the right. You can't miss it.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >The man was quiet for a moment and then noticed my bike, 'You on a bicycle?' he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Oh, uh, yeah. I am,' I answered, wanting to go back to sleep. The man was quiet for a long moment, thinking deeply. Then he asked, 'Are you crazy?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <u4:p></u4:p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style=";font-family:";" >'Yup,' I answered immediately, rolling back over and pulling the sleeping bag over my head. I heard the man slowly creep away, get back in his car and drive off. 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class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Hundreds of small slimy fingers rushed up at me and then in unison pulled away momentarily before reaching up again in a synchronized dance. I stood crouched on a low flat stone near the edge of the river, staring into the water and watching the strange mossy tendrils swirl in the current. This was the first time I had filled my water bottles from a non stagnant source and I watched with pleasure as the plentiful clear water poured into their open mouths with a slight gurgle. I hoped to make it to Galbraith that day, a full ten miles further than the day before, twenty miles further than the first day.<o:p></o:p></span><u4:p></u4:p></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Day three had been a near exact repeat of the second day, except that the rolling hills had rolled higher, and to the side of the road the first small efforts of the Brooks Range to make mountains rise high above the road. The third day, like the second, had been full of sweat and short of breath and time. It was hotter today, into the eighties, and was humid. It rained a little as I rode, which felt good in the mucky air and the heat.<o:p></o:p></span><u4:p></u4:p></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >The road still seemed to prefer a good hill to the flat smooth river valley, to which it frequently returned in order to remind me that there was no purpose whatsoever in ever having climbed the hills to leave it. At times the road was smooth as glass, a moist, packed river mud that glazed by undulating with a wet noise under my tires. Other times it was gravel and deep and rocky and hell. There were small slow creeks every ten miles and pools of dead water everywhere. Time still passed with intolerable lethargy and my knee still hurt, but did not feel worse than the first or second day.<o:p></o:p></span><u4:p></u4:p></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I capped my bottles, climbed back onto my bike and began moving slowly up the next pointless hill. I worked for miles more, swatting at mosquitoes and beads of sweat that felt like mosquitoes. Dust continued to build on my skin and clothes. Another truck blasted by, incredibly loudly. A large chunk of gravel shot from behind it and struck me hard on the cheek, stinging. An impossible amount of time later, and after an impossible number of hills, I arrived at Galbraith, where a small oozing creek ran under the road.<o:p></o:p></span><u4:p></u4:p></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:";" >It was paradise, camping there. The mosquitoes were tolerable and fresh water was abundant. I was a good ways away from the main road on a secondary road that led to an old airstrip. After setting up my tent, I grabbed my cooking pot and my soap and towel and waded into the cold water by the mouth of the large steel pipe that channeled water under the road. I filled the pot and, after taking a large breath, poured the water over my head.<o:p></o:p></span><u4:p></u4:p></p> Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-50654796636102251152009-08-15T12:44:00.000-07:002009-08-17T10:19:12.383-07:00Day One: The North Slope of Alaska<meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNAMPHA%7E1%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNAMPHA%7E1%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CNAMPHA%7E1%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Cambria Math"; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:1; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:0 0 0 0 0 0;} @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1610611985 1073750139 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin-top:0in; margin-right:0in; margin-bottom:10.0pt; margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} .MsoPapDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; margin-bottom:10.0pt; line-height:115%;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt;"></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">By the time I woke, gathered the food I had drying under the heater in the bathroom, loaded everything securely onto the bike and checked out of my room, it was already after 12. I had hoped to get an early start this morning, making a short and leisurely day of it in order to give myself time to adjust to life on the road. The late start bothered me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I wheeled my bike down the hall of the hotel feeling slightly stressed. I made it to the front door, which was two doors wide, but had a metal bar running down between the two. There were two sets of these doors creating a small entry room as is often done in areas that have extreme weather. Both sets of doors were heavy metal and swung shut quickly and powerfully when opened.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I maneuvered myself around so that I was standing in front of the bike and grabbed the handle bars with both hands. The bike wobbled and I could feel it flex and wiggle like a fish under all the weight. As I began to back through the doors I noticed a bulletin board to my right that had a printout with a photograph of a large grizzly bear sniffing around a window of the building. Beneath the picture it said: WARNING! GRIZZLY BEAR SIGHTED IN AREA. NO TENT CAMPING. It also had a date, a few days prior. <i style="">Great,</i> I thought. <i style="">Perfect</i>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I backed slowly through first the inner door, the bags on the sides of my bike scraping against the door posts on either side, then the outer door, and then stopped at the top of the short flight of perforated steel stairs leading down to the gravel road. The rear half of the bike still stuck part way into the entry way even as the front tire flirted with the edge of the top step. I wiggled around to the side of the bike and grabbed the handlebars with my left hand and hooked my right beneath the seat. Very slowly and very carefully I lifted and lowered the bike one stair at a time onto the gravel.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The day was identical to the day before, the sky a monotone white blanket, the wind cold and strong, the horizon disappearing into a distant orange haze, completely devoid of any feature whatsoever.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The road officially began several miles north of the hotel, back further along the road I had ridden yesterday while going to the store and getting fuel. I had never before ridden my bike fully loaded and wondered if I'd even be able to ride the heavy precarious thing on the mud and gravel. I awkwardly maneuvered my leg around the gear piled on the back of my bike and over the crossbar. I checked everything, looking in the mirror attached to my glasses to make sure it was at the proper angle and tugging at the strap which held my food bags, spare tires and rain gear to the rear rack.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">A van pulled up right in front of me and a group of tourists spilled out looking around and laughing and talking with one another. These brave and intrepid explorers had obviously made the dangerous two day drive from Fairbanks to come and see the arctic ocean. They wore warm jackets, long pants, hats and gloves. I looked down at my bare legs sticking out of skin tight bike shorts and crammed into awkward mountain bike shoes. I felt the wind creep into my wind breaker in a thousand different places and up my shirt. I had to dress cool because I knew I'd be sweating soon. The tourists looked at me as they shuffled into the hotel, (headed to the kitchen no doubt) and one stopped to ask me what I was doing.
<br /> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">'Are you crazy?' she asked after I told her my plan.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> 'I don't know' I said.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> 'Do you have bear spray?' she asked.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> 'Yeah, a nice big can.' I said patting my handle bar bag. The rest of her group was nearly inside and she could tell that I wasn't in a conversational mood so she wished me good luck and hurried after her friends.
<br /> Standing over the bike, I waddled it out of the deep gravel by the stairs and onto the section that had been compressed by the constant flow of pickup trucks and big rigs. After a moment of fiddling I managed to click my right cleat into the pedal and half pushing on the ground with my left, half peddling with my right I set the lumbering beast in motion!</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I brought my left foot up to the pedal and, after a couple strokes of fiddling, managed to click in that shoe as well. I was really going! I heard a loud diesel engine behind me and glanced over my shoulder. The glance caused me to swerve wildly out into the road and into oncoming traffic. The truck coming the other way braked indulgently as I over-corrected and swung off the road to the right and hit a spot of deep, soft gravel. The handlebars cocked sideways and I started to go down. I leaned hard the other way and pushed hard on my pedals and somehow, just barely managed to keep upright. I eased back to the edge of the road and continued on as though nothing had happened, which I guess is smart because if I had tried to wave or else look at the drivers apologetically I would have almost crashed again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I made my way north through the town, trying to check the traffic behind me in the little mirror clipped to my glasses, having to turn my head at awkward angles in order to see with it properly. Finally, I saw the security booth up ahead that marked the official beginning of the Pan-American highway.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I coasted up to the booth, checking behind me to make sure that I wasn't cutting off any trucks and was greeted by a short rather round woman in a tight uniform. Well, to say I was greeted is perhaps a little generous on my part. She stuck her head out of the window of her booth and said, 'You can't go any farther,' in a harsh voice.
<br /> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">'Oh I know' I answered. 'Do you mind if I rest here a moment?' I really didn't need to rest, but wanted to take a minute to gather my thoughts and take a couple pictures.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> 'We gotta lotta traffic today. It's not a good idea,' she answered.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I made a rather big deal of turning my bike around and then of pretending to fix something near the front so that I would be able to have my moment. The woman's head continued to hang out of the booth staring at me disapprovingly. <i style="">Whatever,</i> I thought, <i style="">she's not going to mess this up for me</i>. I looked down the muddy road, across the bizarre steel structures and towards the horizon in the distance trying to preserve the moment in my memory. <i style="">What does everything look like? What does the air taste like? How do you feel?</i> I stopped at this last question. I had expected to feel a rushing surge of emotions. I expected excitement, nervousness, curiosity and fear, but I felt nothing. Nothing. My mind was clear and calm. I was a soldier and an executioner. I was focused and resigned. I was not scared. I was not excited. I simply was. I might as well have been going to the grocery I was so devoid of feeling.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I think that my mind and emotions must have ducked down to avoid what could have been an absolutely debilitating onslaught. I had only a very rough idea of what lay ahead as I hadn't really researched this road. I knew that the first real stop, Fairbanks, was in about 500 miles, that the road was gravel, and that mountains, mosquitoes, bears, moose, snow, rain and God knows what else divided us. I needed to head south and take care of myself and my gear. That was it. I clicked in to my pedals, a bit more expertly this time, and began.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">A bit more than a month prior to setting off on this trip I had a minor surgery done on my right knee. I had not had opportunity to condition before setting off on the trip because of the surgery.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> 'Can I bike?' I remember asking my surgeon.
<br /> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">'Well... a little,' he said. 'I mean I don't just want you to jump on your bike one day and go ride ten miles.'</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I had the surgery in order to be able to do the trip. Six months before I left I had gone on a thirty mile bike ride which hurt my knee badly and caused me to walk with a painful limp for the next several days. I tried various stretches and physical therapy routines but none of them seemed to help. I finally resorted to surgery, the result of which the surgeon warned me may not have fixed the problem.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> 'We'll just have to wait and see' he said. 'I'm cautiously optimistic, but we just won't know whether or not it's better until you really get a chance to use it. And take it slow. Don't expect it to be at full strength for a couple months at least.'</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I was nervous, and of course, a little reckless and foolish to even be starting the trip. In the back of my mind I struggled to quiet the fear that I may, after all the preparation and excitement, be forced home after only a couple days on the road.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I was moving quickly, the road a black mud topped with large sporadic chunks of gravel that went skidding out from under my tires with a deep chucking sound if they were pinched in just the right way. The road was wet because trucks with peacock tails of water continually sprayed it in order to keep the dust down. I rode past the corrugated steel buildings and ambiguous steel towers and the lake that the town curved around. There was a fair bit of traffic, and I was eager to get out onto the highway where I hoped things would clear up.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The wind was at my back, traffic was clearing, and the road, while still full of dirt and rocks, was smooth and hard and was decent. But still I felt nothing, no excitement, no sense of the area, no fear. I checked my odometer which I had set to zero at the gate where I started. Mile 8. And then it started.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">At first just a quiet stinging sensation that would peak as my knee bent to its deepest on every stroke. <i style="">Give it time,</i> I thought. <i style="">Don't worry yet. Your knee is just warming up.</i> A mile later and the quiet ping of pain in my knee had escalated to become a consistent pulse of tearing pain across my right kneecap. <i style="">Change the angle you're peddling, </i>I told myself. <i style="">Raise the height of your seat. Relax and make sure you're stroke is even.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">It was no use. Three miles later the pain was worse and nothing I had done had helped. <i style="">It's okay,</i> I told myself. <i style="">Just ride what you can today and worry about tomorrow tomorrow.</i> I rode on and imagined the pulsing point of pain as a red dot in my mind's eye, blinking with the pain in my knee. I focused on the dot, watching it and associating it with the pain I felt. That dot was the pain. Then slowly, very slowly, I imagined the dot dimming, becoming slowly less and less each time it flashed. The pain receded with the light and became more tolerable for several miles.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">But even as my acknowledgment of the pain lessened, the pain itself increased. Despite my best efforts, the small point of pulsing red light grew into a raging panorama of bright red, tearing across my mind's eye like a wildfire burning on pain.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I held my knee with my right hand, digging my fingers in hard around my kneecap. This did help relieve the pain slightly, and I rode for miles, one hand on the bars avoiding trucks and deep gravel, the other hand supporting my knee.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Hunched over to reach my knee as it went up and down with my stroke was not a comfortable or sustainable solution to my problem. Even worse than the pain was the thought that I may be doing myself permanent damage, that tomorrow would be worse and the day after that just unfathomable. I couldn't hunch over anymore, it strained my back and neck too much. I tried standing up on the pedals. This helped a little also. <i style="">Great,</i> I thought, <i style="">I'll just ride to Argentina standing the whole way</i>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I rode on, the pain holding, endurable but mentally taxing. I still felt nothing emotionally. I was aware of the facts, but had no emotional reaction to them. My knee hurt, I would do what I could that day and I would deal with tomorrow tomorrow.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The eternally flat horizon and the hazy atmosphere did weird things to my perspective. It seemed as though I could see forever (which made the fact that you could see nothing at all particularly disturbing) when in fact I was only able to see a couple of miles. Despite it being cold, heat waves rose off of the tundra blurring approaching trucks at their base and making them look tall and precarious and mysterious. After several hours of riding, I saw what I thought were huge mountains way off the distance. However I reached them in a matter of minutes only to discover that they were just low bluffs. Likewise, I thought I made out trees beginning miles ahead, but as I drew close, they slowly stopped quivering like mirages and materialized as low, scraggly bushes growing along the banks of the river that ran from the Brooks Range to the south and dumped into the Arctic Ocean.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I struggled on, astonished at how slowly the miles passed and with how much difficulty each one was earned. <i style="">And it's perfectly flat, and I have a good tail wind,</i> I thought. <i style="">I wonder if I'll be able to go on at all if it begins to rain, or if the wind changes direction.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Bending low to hold my knee, I saw something on the horizon. It looked like the top half of an hourglass, pointed at the bottom and bulbous at the top, that had been dipped partway into rippling water so that its base quivered like a mirage. <i style="">A person? A mountain? Another truck? An animal?</i> As I rode towards it, the object's base slowly became solid, and its top became discernible. It was a water truck spraying the road down with a thick stream of water. I passed the truck, which was headed the other direction, and rode onto the sopping wet part of the road. My speed dropped from 15 mph to about 4. Mud flung up, despite my fenders, and coated my ankles. I was sinking into the muck and peddling hard, barely moving fast enough to keep my balance, which was already poor because I only had one hand to steer with. I had no idea if this mud would last for a mile or for twenty.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">It didn't matter, I still had no emotion. I was tired and I was in pain, but I observed these things as though detached from them. I couldn't let them reach me. A truck blew past from behind me spraying me with a fine muddy mist as I tried not to swerve into it from my narrow tract.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I thought back to the moment I left my house in San Diego for the airport. My neighbor and friend was there, and was choking back tears as she hugged me and said goodbye.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">'It will take such strength.' she had said in her thick Spanish accent, 'such strength.' <i style="">She was right,</i> I thought to myself as I pedaled slowly along. <i style="">She has no idea just how right she was.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I needed a break. I had covered a little more than twenty miles since the gate and was getting hungry. I found a small pullout where a tractor had plowed some of the gravel off the road making an area where a pickup could turn around. At the end of the pullout was a pile of dirt and gravel which provided some shelter from the wind. I crossed over to it and coasted to a bumpy stop. I balanced my bike precariously on its flimsy kickstand, placing its metal point on the cap from the container of almonds so that it wouldn't stab into the dirt and cause the bike to tip over. I unfastened my food bags from the back and limped over to the gravel pile, collapsing with my back against it. I massaged and stretched my leg and then pulled a snickers bar from my bag and started eating.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I was only fifty feet from the road and watched semi trucks and some adventurous motorcyclists blast by at sixty miles an hour. After a couple of minutes a dusty old van pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. Someone stepped out from the passenger's seat and began walking towards me.
<br /><span style=""> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">'Are you crazy?' he shouted over the roar of a passing semi and the rush of wind. He was smiling a big genuine smile beneath a big genuine beard. He looked young, in his twenties, and was dressed ruggedly, clearly no stranger to these hostile parts of the world.
<br /><span style=""> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">'People keep asking me that' I responded.
<br /><span style=""> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">'We saw you making good time back there and we both said 'that there's a real man!''
<br /><span style=""> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">He continued smiling at me broadly. I didn't know how to respond to this comment. In truth I guess I felt a little sissy in my spandex shorts and having only made it a little over twenty miles. The compliment buoyed me.
<br /><span style=""> </span>'We're cooking some caribou steaks just a couple miles down the road. Come by if you'd like one!' he shouted at me, turning to go.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Caribou steaks sounded good, very good. To be able to rest a while longer and get a good meal was very tempting. I considered it deeply. But it was getting late and I had not made the distance I was hoping for. I would press on. No steaks tonight. <i style="">Fairbanks,</i> I thought. <i style="">I'll buy a steak in Fairbanks.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The rest of the ride that day went like the first part. I was tired and ready to stop by about mile 32 and slowed to pull off the road. Looking towards the river to see if I'd be able to draw water there I saw a small grizzly walking along the bank. He was about a hundred yards away, and upwind from me which mean that he couldn't smell me, but also that my pepper spray would just blow back in my face if I tried to use it. I would have to ride further to camp.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I pushed on for another ten miles before my knee forced me to stop. I pulled off at a thousand acre flat gravel area that had been built for some purpose I could not fathom. It was empty except for a semi that was parked at a random angle near the far corner. I rode across the lot.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">There were some bushes just past the back edge of the lot and so I assumed that that was where the river flowed and that I'd be able to get some water there. I was nervous about the bear and hoped that I had ridden far enough.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The first thing I did after I chose my campsite was to change into my 'nice' clothes: a button up shirt and khaki pants, both made of indestructible nylon. I wanted to at least to pretend to be civilized. I set up my tent, threw my sleeping bag and pad inside, zipped up the door against mosquitoes, grabbed my water bottles and headed, limping, across the tundra towards the clumps of bushes. The ground here was mostly spongy grass, but there were frequent and sporadic low gnarled branches, twisting like thick rotten pieces of leather along the ground. The air didn't smell like anything and I suspect that that's because it's too cold for things there to rot, and there's nothing to decay anyways. What is there to give smell to the place? I reached the low strangled bushes and the edge of the water.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">It was immediately apparent that this was not a part of the river, but rather one of the stagnant thermokarst ponds. The pool was shallow and its banks muddy. I walked to the edge of the tundra, where the dirt thawed and fell into the muck below. The mud beneath was fine, and soft. I inched towards the edge and noticed how shallow the water was, a couple inches of clarity hovering timidly over a mud that had no definable beginning. If I could just reach out a little farther I could dip my bottles. I stood as near the water as I dared and reached out as far as I could with one bottle. The edge broke the surface and immediately black swirling clouds of mud rose from the bottom and began pouring in with the water. I felt a flash of cold on my foot and looked back realizing that my shoe had sunk in the muck and muddy water was pouring in.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I wriggled out of the mud and glopped back to the grass. Still no emotion. In the distance a truck drove past on the road, barely audible in the wind.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I limped back to my campsite and grabbed my largest cooking pot and my towel and returned to the cold, muddy pond. I took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my pants to my thigh and walked slowly into the mud, carrying my water bottles and the cooking pot.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I had no idea how far I would sink in, and hoped that I wouldn't end up waist deep, having to army crawl out of the muck, wet and black.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The icy mud crept up over my ankles and up to my calves. I took another big and tentative step further out, feeling the ancient mud surging around my feet as I sunk deeper. I came to rest up to my thighs in the filth. I reached out as far as I could with my water bottle, trying to get some clearer, undisturbed water. Holding the bottles at a shallow angle I managed to fill them most of the way. I filled the pot to brim last and waded back to the grass.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I sat next to my towel, the cold wind quickly hardening the liquid mud on my legs. I pulled out grassy chunks of earth and used them to remove some of the mud. Then I took my cooking pot full of water and poured it little by little down my legs, scrubbing at the same time with my hands and managed to get the rest of the mud off. I dried myself quickly with my towel and then put my shoes back on.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I limped back to my tent and forced myself to eat the halibut steak I had taken from the buffet. I told myself before setting off that I would eat like a king the first night, and I did, despite knowing that there was a grizzly nearby that would be attracted by the smell of cooking fish.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I cleaned up dinner using as little precious water as possible and packed my food back into its bags. When camping, you're supposed to hang your food bags from a tree to keep critters from getting them, but there weren't any trees for hundreds of miles, let alone any feature whatsoever.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">I walked across the gravel a quarter mile and laid one of the the bags of food on the gravel. I placed the second bag a quarter mile further hoping that if one bag was smelled out, the other might still stand a chance. There was nothing else to do and I hoped that the tundra was actually as lifeless as it felt.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Very ready for bed, I crawled into my sleeping bag, and after sitting up for a last look at my small, forlorn, and vulnerable bags of food, I laid down to try and sleep. Questions about the rain on the south side of the mountains, the foreboding Atigun pass, my knee, my food, and the billion unknowns that lay ahead were slowly overcome by fatigue and I fell into a dense and heavy sleep.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Some indiscernible amount of time later, I was jarred out of sleep by the feeling of cold water on my face. <i style="">Water? Rain?</i> <i style="">I thought this was supposed to be the desert!</i> <span style=""> </span>Coming to my senses, I willed myself out of the warmth of my sleeping bag and out of the door of my tent. Still bright as day, I knew it was late at night. I threw the rain cover over my tent, picked up my bike which had fallen over, threw a rain cover over its well and then dove back into bed. As I lay there wet, cold, and listening to the sound of rain, there was still no emotion.</p> Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-81472722366777673432009-08-11T22:12:00.001-07:002009-08-12T09:17:16.307-07:00Deadhorse<div class="Section1"> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> Deadhorse (a.k.a. Prudhoe Bay but I prefer Deadhorse for dramatic effect) is little more than a patch of gravel on the infinite tundra whose sole purpose is to feed the mouth of the Trans-Atlantic oil pipeline. Deadhorse is accessible by either the airstrip or a 414 mile dirt road. The airstrip is home to large rusty steel parts and an old cargo plane that sit hissing in the wind which blasts off the Arctic Ocean. The 414 dirt road endures a roaring and sporadic flow of truckers that service the massive steel oil machines of Deadhorse and the thousands of seasonal workers that live in camps there on the tundra.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";">The sun, of course, does not set here this time of year, and although my flight had taken place mostly in the dark, we flew over the Arctic Circle, over the top of the world, and back into the sun, so I was able to see a bit of the landscape before we landed. From the airplane window, tundra stretched away, perfectly flat and disappearing into an orangeish haze many miles in the distance. The North Slope of Alaska, which rises slowly inland to meet with the impressive Brooks Range, is technically a desert even though temperatures here drop to minus 80 in the winter. It receives very little precipitation, but the ground is frozen year round. Parts of the icy ground, which thaw in the warmth of summer, create small muddy pools which become trapped and stagnant on the surface, unable to trickle down through the ice and unable to evaporate away due to the weakness of the sun. As I flew in I could see hundreds of these small thermokarst lakes, the sun behind them, making them look silver, like thin pieces of melted aluminum spilled across the top of a table.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> On the tarmac, the wind was cold and strong. I could see no mountains, no features whatsoever in any direction. Neither trees nor bushes grow this far north and the ground off of the runway was covered in an endless spongy grass which survives by weaving a dense mesh of roots firmly into the thin layer of unfrozen soil near the surface.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> The terminal is essentially one room, divided arbitrarily into the 'secure' area and the general area by a half-hearted partition. I had made no hotel reservation, had no map, and no idea what I was going to do aside from the knowledge that there was a hotel somewhere near the airport. I asked the woman working at the baggage counter,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Yea, there's one jus across the street.' she points.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Just across the street?' I point also hoping to get some more specific directions.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Yea jus across the street.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Thanks.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";">Deadhorse is not a town in the way that we typically think of towns. It has a population of about 14, but there are thousands of workers there in the summer who live in large, self-sufficient trailer complexes. Because of this there is no grocery store, restaurant, or any of the other amenities one normally associates with a town. In fact, the word town evokes completely the wrong idea of Deadhorse. Deadhorse is really a sprawling industrial oil complex. All the buildings are made of stacked and joined double wide trailers with ribbed steel siding. Massive steel machines, steel parts, and steel pipes are everywhere. It seems that if it is not made of steel, it is not strong enough to survive on the north slope of Alaska.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> I managed to find the hotel and secured a room. I went back to the airport and assembled my bike in the baggage area and then heaped all of my supplies on top of it to wheel it over to the hotel. One thing as common place in Deadhorse as big steel machinery are large gravel expanses. Such an expanse is the 'street' that the hotel was across. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";">As I made my way across the gravel big-rig sized parking lot, the cold wind persisted from the side and kept blowing my belongings off of the bike and sent them tumbling along the ground towards a small thermokarst at the west end of the parking lot. My bike did not have a kickstand at this point and was very difficult to balance under all the weight. I finally gained the entrance to the hotel, my person and belongings disheveled and hoped that I would be able to keep my stuff and my person on my bike when I set off in the morning.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> I needed food and gasoline. I got a map from the large and less than cheery woman who was working the front desk and asked her where I could buy some supplies.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Well they have sum fud here...' She made a mark on the map. 'n the gas station’s here.' she made another mark and handed me the piece of paper. It has no street names and no scale.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'And where are we?' I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Wur right here.'. Another mark.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'And how far is this? A couple miles?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Yea sum'n like at.' I could tell I was pushing the limits of her hospitality so I thanked her, took my map and left.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> To the untrained eye (my own) it was very difficult at first to distinguish 'wide gravel street' from 'wide gravel area,' both of which Deadhorse has in great abundance. So following my blank map to destinations unknown in the middle of a vast industrial park, absent of any people aside from those who drove by looking down at me from dusty truck windows, was a bit of a challenge. Nevertheless, a half hour later I stood outside an unmarked steel door set in the side of a large blue steel building. I looked at my map again and looked around for someone to verify that I was in the right place. A half mile away, a dusty pickup crawled along the gravel and I could hear some machinery clanking and a diesel engine gunning in the distance, but other than that it was silent. I climbed the short flight of steel stairs to the door and opened it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";">Rows of metal shelves holding metal parts filled the room and receded to the far wall. A man with a moustache stood behind a counter to the right and stared at me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Uh... You sell any food?' I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'You want upstairs.' He said.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> I turned to look where he was pointing and noticed a flight of stairs to my left.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Oh, thanks.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";">Upstairs there was another counter behind which stood a girl of about 17. The rest of the room was filled with clothes racks containing heavy jackets, pants, hats, and gloves. A magazine rack stood against the far wall and some hand tools hung on a peg board near the back.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Hello.' I said, giving the girl a friendly smile. 'Do you sell any food?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> She eyed me for a minute and then said 'Um not really. We got some over here. How much do you want?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'About seven days worth.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> She looked at me puzzled and I explained what I was doing.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'You got a can of bear spray?' she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'A little one.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'You might want to get a big one.' she said indicating a large red canister in the display case beneath the counter.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'That's what the woman at the airport told me also' I said. 'She also told me about the couple that got eaten by a grizzly a few years ago.' and I told the girl about the two people who had been on a rafting trip and had been stalked by a bear and attacked in their camp and killed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> '... and they had a gun and bear spray and bear canisters for their food and everything. They did everything right but I guess they just got unlucky.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Uh... are you crazy?' asked the girl.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'That’s what the woman at the airport and the woman working at the hotel asked me. No. Well no I don't think so,’ I answered.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";">I went over to the aisle containing food and my heart sank. Here I was, the day before embarking on the most mentally and physically challenging endeavor of my life, and I was going to have to do it on beef jerky, Slim Jims, Snickers bars, and Tic Tacs.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Where do people eat here?' I asked the girl.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'People eat in the camps, or at the hotel. There's a buffet. It's all you can eat.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";">I grabbed several handfuls of Snickers and Nutrigrain bars, three 3/4 pound bags of beef jerky, and some Tic Tacs (I don't care how hungry you are, Slim Jims are just scary.) On the bottom shelf I found a large tub of roasted almonds.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'I’ll take the bear spray as well' I said.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";">I left the store and took several minutes stuffing the food into a bag on the back of my bike and then secured the bag with bits of nylon cord before setting off to find the gas station. I peddled into the wind, up the road which was black mud and gravel. Trucks passed every few minutes and I looked constantly over my shoulder to try and stay out of their way.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";">I saw a sign for the fuel station on the left and pulled off the road into the maze of industrial machinery. I found an empty small portable building with a pump on the side. A sign on the door said 'Temporary Pump' and had an arrow beneath it that pointed unhelpfully deeper into the maze of steel and gravel. Another sign around the side said 'Call for Gas' and had a phone number beneath it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";">I looked around. It was still silent and still except for the distant sound of machinery and the hiss of the wind. I took out my phone and turned it on. A signal! I had a signal. I dialed the number and held the phone to my ear.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Hello.' Came a tired sounding male voice.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Yeah I'm here at the gas statio-'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Gimme a minute' and then he hung up.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";">I stood waiting, not sure what to do. I checked the time. It was nearly nine at night. I hadn’t realized it was so late. Getting my luggage to the hotel and putting my bike together and finding the store had taken longer than I realized and since the sun was still up, it was as bright as it had been all day. A few minutes later, a man stomped out from an obscure corner of the steel maze wearing the Prudhoe Bay uniform: blue jeans, hat, sweatshirt and work boots.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Hi thanks for coming out' I said. 'I just need a little bit... <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> It's for my camping stove.' I said holding up the fuel can.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'You'll want unleaded, I expect.' was his reply as he turned towards some large steel boxes nearby that I hadn't recognized were pumps. He went over to a loud diesel machine and switched it on. Then he went around behind the pumps and came back a minute later, grabbed the nozzle, and held out his hand for the canister. He was staring at my bike so I said,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'I'm going down to Fairbanks. Headed out tomorrow.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> The man was silent for a minute and continued looking at the bike then said,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Are you crazy?' in a matter-of-fact kind of voice.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Well maybe more than I know' I answered.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'You got bear spray?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Yeah, a big can of it.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Where you gonna carry it?' He asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Right here.' I said quickly, pointing to my handlebar bag, the thought having just occurred to me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'You got a gun?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'No, no I don't.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'You might want to get a gun' he said and turned his attention back to the pump, squirted a little into the bottle and handed it back to me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Thanks' I said.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Don't worry about it. So are you stopping in Fairbanks or are you gonna keep on goin’?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'I plan to ride all the way to Argentina, but I'm just thinking about Fairbanks today' I said storing the bottle in my bag.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'That's one hell of a trip' he said. 'Hell! Ridin’ to Fairbanks is one he'll of a trip. You goin’ alone?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Yeah, I am.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Hell of a trip' he said again looking from me to the bike.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Yeah, well thanks again for the gas.' I said, swinging my leg over my bike not wanting to get caught up in a conversation.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Oh of course. No problem. You be careful out there okay?'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> 'Will do sir.' I said and began to ride off across the gravel. I felt him watching me as I made it back to the street and turned the corner to head back to the hotel.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";">The bag of food I had taken such care to tie on properly kept slipping off the side of the bike as I rode and falling with a frustrating scraping noise against my tire and onto the gravel road. I made it back to the hotel a half hour later and maneuvered my bike up the short flight of stairs, through the double front doors, down the long and narrow hall that led to my door and into my cramped room which was messy with all of my unorganized gear for the following morning.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";">I needed more food. I had powdered supplements from my Dad, enough to last me until Fairbanks, but they were mainly for nutrition and wouldn't provide near the amount of energy I was going to require over the next nine days to Fairbanks. I wandered out of my room, down the hall and into the mess room where some leftovers from the buffet were set out for late night snackers. I grabbed a couple to-go boxes and filled them up with what was there: a large halibut steak, a couple baked potatoes, and a lot of rice. In the eating area I found some cup-of-noodles and hot chocolate mix. I grabbed four of each and headed back to my room feeling tired but knowing that there was still a lot to do in order to be ready for the morning.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";">The door bumped against my bike as I squeezed through it into my small messy room carrying the food. I cleared a spot on the bed and laid out all the food I had. It looked like enough. I <i>thought</i> it looked like enough but really had no idea.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";"> I took the to-go box containing the rice and placed it on the floor under the heater in bathroom, spreading out the rice so that it would dry evenly. I dumped the container of almonds into a large Ziploc bag and then emptied the cups-of-noodles out of their styrofoam bowls and into the now empty almond container. I used my fuel cannister to smash the cylindrical bricks of noodles into little pieces which I poured into another Ziploc bag. I spent the next several hours organizing the rest of my food and equipment and making sure that everything was in working order. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";">Finally having cleared the bed and feeling very ready to crawl into it, I noticed that the expensive and very powerful taillight I had bought and affixed to the rear rack of my bike had fallen off. 'Oh no' I mumbled to myself 'It must have fallen off somewhere along the road back there. That's going to be just about impossible to find!' I sat debating whether or not to even try to find it. 'Well,' I thought, 'I promised everyone I'd be careful, and this is what being careful actually means.'<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="Calibri","sans-serif"font-family:";">I put on my jacket and strapped into my shoes and maneuvered the bike awkwardly out the door of my room and out of the hotel. It was after midnight, but the sun was still high in the sky. I set off, riding along the same path I had taken earlier that day, looking for a flash of red or a bit of plastic that had been run over and pressed into the gravel and mud. I looked around the entrance to the store, and then searched carefully around the gas station. I looked along the path I had ridden earlier but was unable to find it. 'Well, hopefully those truckers keep their eyes on the road tomorrow' I thought, feeling somewhat anxious about not having it. I made it back to the hotel late and fell into bed and slept well. Tomorrow, I knew, would be very, very difficult.<o:p></o:p></span></p> </div>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-87080477573984786192009-06-03T12:03:00.000-07:002009-06-03T12:11:24.924-07:00Me? You Too!<p class="MsoNormal">I feel I get too much credit for this trip.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yes, it’s challenging and unique.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I suppose it’s impressive, and yeah I guess I can’t deny that it does take some courage to be willing to undertake it, but I do not view it as a challenge any greater than those faced by people in every day life.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No really, I mean it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I think life in the real world can be much lonelier, more challenging and require more perseverance than something like what I am doing. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If someone is impressed by what I am doing, be assured that I stand in equal awe of the person who commutes to work every morning through heavy traffic, of the person who stays through the rough times of a relationship, of the person who perseveres through a lonely and uncertain time in their life.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I really mean it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Some people shake their heads at what I am doing as though they don’t imagine that they could ever do it themselves, but I shake my head back and wonder if I could ever commit to my family as they have committed to theirs, or to their career, or if I could endure the heartache they have recently experienced, or the physical challenges of sickness or disability.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In the end I suppose every one is on a lonesome and grueling journey, and frankly, I would not be surprised if yours were more profound than my own.</p>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-25863984169228052092009-05-18T01:45:00.001-07:002009-05-18T01:45:35.194-07:00Discomfort<p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">I don't feel comfortable talking with people about my trip.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It actually was surprising for me to notice this.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I just get uncomfortable, and I answer questions simply, without going into descriptive detail.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am all too aware that other ears turn from their conversations to listen to mine, and that it's a conversation many of them have already had with me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>'You're doing what?'</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>'I'm riding a bike from Alaska to Argentina.'</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>'Oh…' They pause, looking awkward as they try to think where Argentina is: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Somewhere near Mexico I think.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I think they speak Spanish there.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Yes that's right, South America.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>'When do you leave?'</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>'July.'</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>'This July?'</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>'Yes.'</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>'Oh.'<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Another pause as they nod their heads to keep the conversation from feeling like it's sticking.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>'So who are you going with, are you going with a friend?'</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>'I'm going alone.'</p><p class="MsoNormal">This is the tipping point, once we get this far the advice starts to flow, but their reaction is one of two things.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Either the head stops nodding and starts shaking (this is usually a mother's reaction) and then the advice I get basically boils down to 'you cannot go alone.'<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Or else they lean forward and offer wisdom from personal experience.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>'I used to cycle.'</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>'Oh?'</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>'Oh yeah, you just need to remember to have a spare tire.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Do you know where the bike shops are in South America?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Yeah I went to one in Mexico, I bet it's still there. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Do you want the phone number?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What was it called… or what was the owners name… I mean I think I still have the number.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Where are you going in Mexico?'</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I answer the questions, but my internal response says something different than my words: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Spare TUBE, I think you mean spare tube and duh I'll have an extra.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Of course I don't know where every bike shop in South America is! Mexico is not in South America.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You don't have the phone number.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Why would I want it?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mexico is huge, that's like a European saying 'I went to a bike shop in the U.S. once, do you want the phone number?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What, do you want me to list every town in Mexico that I'm going through?'</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Ok so it's not so bad, and I do appreciate the advice I get.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Some of it is good, and people are helpful, but I chuckle to myself after most of these conversations.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>However this is not the reason I get uncomfortable.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I do think I know why it is, why it feels uncomfortable for me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Imagine a poor man talking to a wealthy man,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">'Wow, how much money did your swimming pool cost?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Oh that's expensive… It sounds like you made quite a bit this year as well, I heard about a new car?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>How much did that cost?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Oh you are wealthy!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You should put your money in bonds, my brother works at a bank…'</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Odds are the wealthy man likes and is proud of his money, but you can see how he would be uncomfortable with this conversation.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It's something personal, and he doesn't want the poor man to feel badly about his own possessions. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I don't mean the analogy at any deep level, just imagine the wealthy man's discomfort, and you will understand mine. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">So is it modesty?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No, I don't really think so.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I'd love if I could point to modesty as the explanation, ha ha! But that would be a self indulgent lie!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>So let me be honest with myself, I have a confession which proves it's not modesty:<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I love when people find out what I'm doing.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I would like to think that people talk about it when I'm not there, that they whisper admiration and astonishment.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I love meeting people to find that they already have heard about me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I like to have the biggest and baddest aspiration in the room.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ha!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It's a horrible confession I know!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It's not that I dislike talking about it, it's just discomfort. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I wish it weren't the case but I just can't seem to help it! <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Maybe it is modesty, I don't know.</p><p></p> Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-42193905737179058892009-05-07T13:48:00.001-07:002009-05-08T01:39:14.499-07:00Hmm... I don't really like that last entry. It seems too much like what it is: a young mans mind bristling with too many of the ideas of a young man. It reads like brain vomit, but trust me, the meal was good!Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-78832340510664275852009-05-03T21:06:00.001-07:002009-05-03T21:14:28.012-07:00More Thoughts on the Why<p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">One opportunity, viewed in isolation, is easy to ignore. In each singular idea and potential one can readily find an abundance of flaws, so glaring and crucial that they manage to kill their hosts. In an existence ultimately devoid of perfection, this is the inevitable result. Opportunities, extraordinary in their size and potential, are often dismissed either because they seem so incredibly foreign to our daily patterns that we fail to even recognize them as a possibility, or because we find and inflate one of a billion excuses. Missing one opportunity may be no great tragedy, and often we are wise to avoid them, but as the number of opportunities we pass by or fail to create grows, we as people shrink, and stagnate. In this state we find people turn pitiful, sorry and defeated.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> Of course we simply cannot take advantage of every opportunity. There must be some filtering, but can I suggest that we are generally too harsh, too stringent in our requirements? Life in both her beauty and ugliness is waiting just outside the protective sphere of our routine, and will firmly embrace us if only we are willing to embrace her back. In my own faltering way I have tried to open my arms to her, and have had tastes of the range of life's flavors, good and bad, and been enriched because of it. But still I am dissatisfied, or perhaps I am dissatisfied precisely because of these little tastes. Perhaps these little tastes of the richer flavors of life have only awakened a deep and vicious appetite in me, an appetite with a mind and drive of its own, an appetite I am obliged to feed. </span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> I am not arrogant enough to make a recommendation. I will not declare what is or is not a proper way to live. I will not tell anyone to stand up, open their arms and seek out the deep satisfaction that exists only well beyond the boundaries of comfort. I do not presume to know where each person can find fulfillment. But let me share this thought, this feeling of my own, and it is my most sincere hope that you would let it sit in your mind and affect you. </span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> Opportunities are moments of freedom. We live imprisoned by the constraints of possibility. When an opportunity arises, our constraints have loosened in one dimension, and that new opportunity is a new freedom to us. Imagine the life, fully articulated into every facet available to it. Imagine the richness of existence in the person who is not constrained by comfort, or laziness, or fear. I am not this person, but a strong and deep part of me endeavors to be. It's a smoldering ember deep in my soul that flickers, and dims, that I breathe on and try to coax into ignition. It is smothered by complacency, and the hollow stagnation of contentment. I want more only because I want to want more. I value satisfaction more than comfort. I value experience more than security. I want to look back at a life colorful and detailed, faceted and full. </span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> Maybe I am not feeding this hunger in the right way, or maybe I should smother the ember and be calm and small and content. But I don't think I could. I may make decisions that I regret, but regret is often the fair price of experience. There is one regret I fear, one regret that I am willing to suffer through a thousand others to avoid.</span></span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">That is the regret of, at the end, wishing I had done more, of wishing I had realized the God-splendid gift of my time, and valued the beauty of existence. </span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> I want to taste the air off the Arctic Ocean. I want to hear mad rain torture me through a sleepless forest night. I want my back to be an anvil for the sun.</span></span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">I want to be thirsty and tired and alone. I want to pull layers off of myself and find my nucleus, and see if it is soft or hard. </span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> How many opportunities slide past us, unrecognized just beneath the surface? How many lifetime moments have we missed by not standing ready, and not having the courage nor the drive to create them and to undertake them? I am not arrogant enough to make a recommendation, but I can't help but feel pity when someone rots in routine, and is eaten by years, and has neatly defined the small horizon of their world, and is superficially satisfied in it.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> I will not do that.</span></span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">God help me never to do that.</span></span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);"> </span></span></span></span></p><div> </div>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-91454977345324940552009-04-25T12:21:00.000-07:002009-05-09T00:12:27.117-07:00Time, the JuggernautDoes the future approach us, or do we approach the future? That is to say, do we stand still to have future events wash over us, or are events in the future like marks on a road, and we are compelled inevitably towards them? <div><br /><div>I guess there is not really a difference, perhaps only a difference in the feeling of it. Well to me it feels that the future is laid out on some dark highway, waiting for me to come to it. I wish that I were able to follow this road at my leisure, to saunter along pausing before large events, going slowly and carefully through important moments and taking my time in the enjoyable ones. But the reality is that that I'm in the passenger seat of a mechanical driver, one who is going way too fast. </div><div><br /></div><div>No. No this is not quite the feeling. The feeling is more that of being pressed forward. The feeling of standing in front of some giant roaring machine that moves inevitably forward, pressing and scraping me along the road. It is a machine I have to run to stay in front of, one that does not stop if I trip and fall down, but continues to shovel me forwards along the abrasive asphalt, scraping and burning me until I am able to climb to my feet again. Deadlines and dates approach far too quickly, and are lost in the noise of the past even faster. </div><div>The most concerning date for me right now is the departure date for this trip, and I am pressed towards it at a remarkable clip. Of course I am the one who signed up for this. I am here by choice and have this goal by choice. But it's the same kind of choice you make when you get into a roller coaster you are anxious to ride. One that clambers and clanks along inevitably clawing towards a terrifying drop. 'Wait! Wait! Wait! No, I'm not ready! Wait! N0-!'</div><div><br /></div><div>And then, light in the gut, you drop over the edge. Moments later of course you laugh and smile and get back in line to do it again. So I frantically gather and prepare myself, and run in front of the machine and ready for the drop...</div><div><br /></div><div>Ha ha, I make this seem altogether too serious. I look forward eagerly to my trip, but it approaches quickly! </div></div>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1660786163052162930.post-1766594477971274982009-04-14T10:44:00.001-07:002009-04-14T13:46:44.987-07:00Looking over the edgeAs you can probably imagine, the preparations for a trip such as the one I am planning are an emotional as well as a logistical challenge. I am confident and strong in my desire and resolve to go, but do not hesitate to admit that at times the magnitude of what I am setting out to do seems impossible. In the middle of the night I sometimes do feel that the loneliness of it could break me, that I am being a fool for wanting to do it at all. But these moments are rare and brief, and I do not allow them to take root and grow. <div><br /></div><div>I feel like I am standing on the edge of a precipice, staring down cautiously over the steep edge, dizzied by the height. In a couple of months I'm going to step off of that edge and throw myself into an brutal and lonely world. I am aware of these things, and I can feel it. The emotion is what you would expect: a rushing mixture of trepidation, excitement and wonder. All these feelings swirl and surge together, stirred and strengthened by worries about my health, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">can my body do it?</span> my mind, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">is my</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> mind strong enough? </span>and concerns over logistics, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">will I get everything ready in time? </span>But the most profound feeling, the feeling that reaches me most deeply, is the warmth of the support I get from friends and family. I mean this quite honestly. Even a small show of faith and endorsement matters to me and is remembered. So thank you everyone who has offered encouragement and help. Thanks everyone who has written letters and sent messages. Thanks companies who believe in what I am doing and have offered support, and thanks to everyone for keeping me in their prayers. </div> <div><br /></div><div>I am standing on the edge, and deep down I contain a mad swirl of emotions. But my mind and resolve are clear, and I can't wait to step off.<br /><div> </div></div>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15678607999217184961noreply@blogger.com0