Leaving the Continental Divide Motel, I let the big bike stretch its legs. I rode many miles that day through beautiful country with good weather and light traffic. I stopped in Whitehorse for gas, and per usual, the traffic was heavy and congested down by the river, and patience was needed. But once out of the valley and up on the bluff, the miles flew by. I stopped in Beaver Creek for a meal and gas, enjoying the quirks and oddities of the service industries this far North and West. The people are lovely, but their infrastructure is always utilitarian, or make-do, or both. Mostly both. Turning a handle or a faucet does not always bring what you expect from your experiences in civilization. But the food and service are good, notwithstanding the curmudgeonly signs warning of stern consequences if you break the posted rule. And of course I abided by the rules. Most of them.
The road between the Canadian border post and the U.S. border post was the worst section of roadway I have seen since 1979. It was totally torn up, there were no well graded sections. It was all rock, gravel, dirt and mud. Twenty miles or so of moonscape. So up on the pegs I went, and rode on through. I must admit to smiling a few times.
I rode all the way to Tok that day, a total of 571 miles in one day, the farthest daily ride of the trip. I stayed at the Westmark after trying a few other places, because the Westmark is overpriced for what it offers. I got to stay in the "pet" building, which meant I was able to pet a number of dogs, all of which were cute and friendly.
In the morning, I also met a fellow a little younger than me, who was riding two-up with a teenage daughter on a Suzuki 650, next to which I had parked the night before. They were from Vancouver, B.C., and were riding to Anchorage where they would meet the rest of the family. The daughter was about 14, I guess, and she came out, silently, with all her riding gear. It was black leather, of course, with chains and other bright metal bits here and there, tall black leather boots with platform soles, and a bright pink neck scarf. When she put her black helmet on, she looked as though she had come straight from the title role in "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo." She was cute beyond words. They were very sweet and nice, and rode off before me.
I gassed up and headed home. The Tok cut-off was uneventful, and as beautiful as always, with just a few moose here and there. I rode into Glenallen to have lunch with my friends, the Von Thaer family: Jack and Joy, their lovely and very smart daughters Victoria and Anna, and also met Joy's mother Gayanne (a faithful reader of this blog and the motivator to get it finished this year). The Von Thaer family fixed me lunch, and we chatted for a bit, and then I headed home for the last, last stretch.
Glenallen was getting the road into town upgraded, and it was a bit of work to get through it all. The pilot car (truck) was guiding us past heavy equipment just a few feet away. It is somewhat unsettling to be driving along even at 35 mph on loose gravel with cars/trucks in front of you and behind you with earth scrapers roaring by an arms' length away. If you slip and go down, there is nowhere for you to go, nor anywhere for the following traffic to go. So I tightened all my sphincters and carried on.
As I traveled along the Glenn, drawing closer to home, of course I became a little pensive. I had been a pretty far piece, and had some great times, seen some great friends, visited places old and new. But I was still enjoying riding this magnificent machine. It had an oil leak and was dirty, but it was just a monster that was great fun to ride. I was going to miss being on it everyday.
I pulled into the driveway at home with 10,282 miles on the odometer. I had ridden 9,521 miles over the past six weeks. When I weighed my gear, I found that I arrived at home with 160 pounds of gear on the bike including the weight of the luggage and two liters of water. That is still more than I want to carry, as you will see if you stick around for next years' adventure. But I made it home safe. Scout was happy to see me, as I was happy to see her. Meredith too!
So this ride ended and the planning began for the next one: the TSA Tour. Thrills, Spills, Adventures! Read about it here, in the coming year.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
The Cassiar Highway
The next morning I found where all the nicer motels were, as I got lost several times before finding the correct route out of PG and to the Cassiar Highway. I had never been on the Cassiar before, and have been curious about it for several years. It is remote enough that you have to pay attention to details such as fuel management, else you may be there for awhile.
Along the way, I stopped in Smithers to visit an old friend who works for Justice Canada. Brett Weber is one of those lawyers for whom no task is to great, too small, or to in-between. A great guy, he also served the Crown as a Judge in one of those Caribbean island provinces. As I called him from a parking lot to see if he might be available for lunch or coffee, I found him in a restaurant with some colleagues, just finishing lunch. There had been a fire that morning near their office which caused a great hullabaloo. But I rode over and found Brett in his cycling gear, as he was riding his bike that day. He admitted he did not look very lawyerly in that get up. But his colleagues were all appropriately attired, and we gossiped like lawyers. I told them about my adventures in PG, and they howled with delight, telling me stories about PG that made me wonder if perhaps I had been very fortunate whilst staying where I stayed. After a great hour, and a visit to Brett's office, I remounted and headed off.
It was along this stretch of road that one particular motorhome pulling an SUV became a kind of nemesis. Riding through a smallish town, he was in a right turn only lane approaching the intersection, and suddenly, without signaling, swerved into my lane forcing me to take hasty action. I survived without going down, but it was pretty close. Many miles later, he had pulled off for some reason. As I came riding down the highway at speed, he suddenly just pulled out in front of me, but only accelerating slowly. This was getting old. At the next available passing opportunity, I accelerated sharply around him, and left him there. I saw him once again later that day, as he had passed me when I stopped for gas. But I chose not to stop and speak to him about our earlier interactions, being in a foreign country and all, and not wishing to get into trouble with the locals.
I spent the night in a provincial campground, which was very nice. I met a man who wanted to talk about motorcycles, and Alaska, and Viet Nam, and all things related and unrelated. We chatted for quite awhile, until his wife came down the hill and took him home to dinner. The people in the next campsite were from Wasilla, and were trailering a custom Harley to the States where they hoped to sell it for a better price than they had been offered in Alaska. I looked at it, and it was a really nice bike, with an awesome paint job. I hope they got their money.
The next morning I got up and headed north, wondering what the northern half of the Cassiar looked like. Well, the road became narrower, the brush in places encroaching on the road, there were plenty of black bear, and it started to rain. Moreover, the electrical inter tie they were building meant there was more heavy truck traffic, which in turn was degrading the road. The chip seal was breaking up, and road chews were out repairing the breaks. The road was fairly crowned, and so the big trucks liked to drive int he middle to keep their loads balanced. This made for interesting interactions 'twixt trucks and everything else on the road.
And it rained. I failed to get my rain liner into my riding pants in time, and I got soaked. To make matters worse, I couldn't keep my visor clear. It just kept fogging up. When I opened it up to get air in, the rain pelted my face, stinging quite a bit. I became more than damp. I finally hit the Alaska Highway, and turned West, hoping for relief. Relief was sporadic, and I knew I had better get to some shelter quickly. Near Rancheria, at the Continental Divide Motel, I stopped and got a room.
It was a room in an ATCO trailer motel, just down the hall from a laundry room. I took advantage of that, getting my gear dry right away. After a hot shower, I went over for dinner, and to watch the people. A mining crew was staying there, with the lead guy looking a lot like Clint Eastwood, and the young guys all studly young men. A young woman tourist was traveling through, and had stopped there as well. She was hilarious to watch, as she flirted with each of the young guys. I don't know if she wound up with anyone of them for the night, but she had them all trying very, very hard to be chosen. Her car was still there when I left the next morning.
Along the way, I stopped in Smithers to visit an old friend who works for Justice Canada. Brett Weber is one of those lawyers for whom no task is to great, too small, or to in-between. A great guy, he also served the Crown as a Judge in one of those Caribbean island provinces. As I called him from a parking lot to see if he might be available for lunch or coffee, I found him in a restaurant with some colleagues, just finishing lunch. There had been a fire that morning near their office which caused a great hullabaloo. But I rode over and found Brett in his cycling gear, as he was riding his bike that day. He admitted he did not look very lawyerly in that get up. But his colleagues were all appropriately attired, and we gossiped like lawyers. I told them about my adventures in PG, and they howled with delight, telling me stories about PG that made me wonder if perhaps I had been very fortunate whilst staying where I stayed. After a great hour, and a visit to Brett's office, I remounted and headed off.
It was along this stretch of road that one particular motorhome pulling an SUV became a kind of nemesis. Riding through a smallish town, he was in a right turn only lane approaching the intersection, and suddenly, without signaling, swerved into my lane forcing me to take hasty action. I survived without going down, but it was pretty close. Many miles later, he had pulled off for some reason. As I came riding down the highway at speed, he suddenly just pulled out in front of me, but only accelerating slowly. This was getting old. At the next available passing opportunity, I accelerated sharply around him, and left him there. I saw him once again later that day, as he had passed me when I stopped for gas. But I chose not to stop and speak to him about our earlier interactions, being in a foreign country and all, and not wishing to get into trouble with the locals.
I spent the night in a provincial campground, which was very nice. I met a man who wanted to talk about motorcycles, and Alaska, and Viet Nam, and all things related and unrelated. We chatted for quite awhile, until his wife came down the hill and took him home to dinner. The people in the next campsite were from Wasilla, and were trailering a custom Harley to the States where they hoped to sell it for a better price than they had been offered in Alaska. I looked at it, and it was a really nice bike, with an awesome paint job. I hope they got their money.
The next morning I got up and headed north, wondering what the northern half of the Cassiar looked like. Well, the road became narrower, the brush in places encroaching on the road, there were plenty of black bear, and it started to rain. Moreover, the electrical inter tie they were building meant there was more heavy truck traffic, which in turn was degrading the road. The chip seal was breaking up, and road chews were out repairing the breaks. The road was fairly crowned, and so the big trucks liked to drive int he middle to keep their loads balanced. This made for interesting interactions 'twixt trucks and everything else on the road.
And it rained. I failed to get my rain liner into my riding pants in time, and I got soaked. To make matters worse, I couldn't keep my visor clear. It just kept fogging up. When I opened it up to get air in, the rain pelted my face, stinging quite a bit. I became more than damp. I finally hit the Alaska Highway, and turned West, hoping for relief. Relief was sporadic, and I knew I had better get to some shelter quickly. Near Rancheria, at the Continental Divide Motel, I stopped and got a room.
It was a room in an ATCO trailer motel, just down the hall from a laundry room. I took advantage of that, getting my gear dry right away. After a hot shower, I went over for dinner, and to watch the people. A mining crew was staying there, with the lead guy looking a lot like Clint Eastwood, and the young guys all studly young men. A young woman tourist was traveling through, and had stopped there as well. She was hilarious to watch, as she flirted with each of the young guys. I don't know if she wound up with anyone of them for the night, but she had them all trying very, very hard to be chosen. Her car was still there when I left the next morning.
Oh, Canada . . .
I passed into Canada without too much trouble at Sumas, and rode to Hope where I spent the night in a quaint (euphemism) Red Roof Inn. I walked to a restaurant for dinner, and on the way back to the motel stumbled across a small Anglican Church, Christ Church. It was very old, and almost mystical in its form and setting. There was a bench for sitting upon outside, and a prayer labyrinth under the big Douglas firs and cedars. Very beautiful.
Home was really pulling me now. I rode steadily the next day up the Fraser River Canyon, the highway much improved over the last time I drove it in 1982. It is a beautiful route, and the pioneers and railroaders have done a magnificent job. I appreciate engineers more and more as I see the results of their work in these more remote areas. The next day, as I was riding north on the Cassiar, I would see more evidence of fantastical engineering. There, they are building a major power link, and the towers are designed with a curve in them to compensate for the weight of the lines. When the lines are strung. their weight pulled the towers into a vertical position. I marvel that someone can sit in a office hundreds if not thousands of miles away. and design a tower to a precise height with a precise curve to handle a precise weight calculated on the length of the line to the next two towers. And then have a manufacturer build that tower, and have it trucked to the particular location on a sealed gravel road in the literal middle of nowhere. But they do it as a matter of course. I applaud them.
So I rode until I came to Prince George. Unbeknownst to me, the downtown center of PG (as it is known to the local prosecutors) has "gone downhill" in the last years. I was riding around in circles looking for a place to stay, and not really finding anything. Riding around in circles also got me accosted by a youngish prostitute, who apparently thought I was circling because of her (?) charms.
I finally found a seedy motel, the front desk of which was manned by a singlet and shorts wearing snaggle-toothed man of limited intellectual capacity, who was very nice and accommodating. However, no sooner had I unloaded all my gear and taken a turn or two around the confines of the not-quite-clean room, someone commenced pounding on the door while the room phone started ringing.
Since it was still daylight, I opened the door. There, a man of apparent mid-Easteren ancestry was holding a pizza box demanding payment, With the phone still ringing, I told him it wasn't mine. He was angry. I told him it isn't mine again, and went to answer the phone. The voice on the phone, also with a mid-Eastern accent, wanted to know about the pizza I had ordered. I answered in words to the effect that I had not ordered any sodding pizza, as I had just told the man at the door, and to bugger off and leave me alone. Whereupon I hung up. Smartly. The man with the pizza box was still loitering outside my open door, so I repeated my words to him and shut the door. Smartly. I never did figure out what their scam was, but at least they went away.
I went and asked my newest friend at the front desk where I might get a bite to eat. He wasn't really sure. I mean, he was pretty skinny, but surely he ate from time to time. With little guidance except from the iPhone, I stepped out smartly. The info in the iPhone was outdated. The first three places it described had closed long, long ago, if appearances may be believed. The cracks in the sidewalk outside their doors had tall grass growing in them, and the dust was caked on their windows.
Lots of inebriates were lolling about, notwithstanding the closeness of the police and municipal offices. I finally found a place with a sign outside, marvelous brass rails leading up the granite stairs, and brass fitted revolving doors at the top of the stairs. Apparently it was a pretty good place to go, with lots of regulars, some of whom were still capable of sitting upright. I ordered pizza, which was delivered promptly, hot, and very tasty. After finishing, I made it back to the motel without incident, and slept the night away between the more than slightly grey sheets.
Home was really pulling me now. I rode steadily the next day up the Fraser River Canyon, the highway much improved over the last time I drove it in 1982. It is a beautiful route, and the pioneers and railroaders have done a magnificent job. I appreciate engineers more and more as I see the results of their work in these more remote areas. The next day, as I was riding north on the Cassiar, I would see more evidence of fantastical engineering. There, they are building a major power link, and the towers are designed with a curve in them to compensate for the weight of the lines. When the lines are strung. their weight pulled the towers into a vertical position. I marvel that someone can sit in a office hundreds if not thousands of miles away. and design a tower to a precise height with a precise curve to handle a precise weight calculated on the length of the line to the next two towers. And then have a manufacturer build that tower, and have it trucked to the particular location on a sealed gravel road in the literal middle of nowhere. But they do it as a matter of course. I applaud them.
So I rode until I came to Prince George. Unbeknownst to me, the downtown center of PG (as it is known to the local prosecutors) has "gone downhill" in the last years. I was riding around in circles looking for a place to stay, and not really finding anything. Riding around in circles also got me accosted by a youngish prostitute, who apparently thought I was circling because of her (?) charms.
I finally found a seedy motel, the front desk of which was manned by a singlet and shorts wearing snaggle-toothed man of limited intellectual capacity, who was very nice and accommodating. However, no sooner had I unloaded all my gear and taken a turn or two around the confines of the not-quite-clean room, someone commenced pounding on the door while the room phone started ringing.
Since it was still daylight, I opened the door. There, a man of apparent mid-Easteren ancestry was holding a pizza box demanding payment, With the phone still ringing, I told him it wasn't mine. He was angry. I told him it isn't mine again, and went to answer the phone. The voice on the phone, also with a mid-Eastern accent, wanted to know about the pizza I had ordered. I answered in words to the effect that I had not ordered any sodding pizza, as I had just told the man at the door, and to bugger off and leave me alone. Whereupon I hung up. Smartly. The man with the pizza box was still loitering outside my open door, so I repeated my words to him and shut the door. Smartly. I never did figure out what their scam was, but at least they went away.
I went and asked my newest friend at the front desk where I might get a bite to eat. He wasn't really sure. I mean, he was pretty skinny, but surely he ate from time to time. With little guidance except from the iPhone, I stepped out smartly. The info in the iPhone was outdated. The first three places it described had closed long, long ago, if appearances may be believed. The cracks in the sidewalk outside their doors had tall grass growing in them, and the dust was caked on their windows.
Lots of inebriates were lolling about, notwithstanding the closeness of the police and municipal offices. I finally found a place with a sign outside, marvelous brass rails leading up the granite stairs, and brass fitted revolving doors at the top of the stairs. Apparently it was a pretty good place to go, with lots of regulars, some of whom were still capable of sitting upright. I ordered pizza, which was delivered promptly, hot, and very tasty. After finishing, I made it back to the motel without incident, and slept the night away between the more than slightly grey sheets.
Out of Yellowstone, headed home
I left Yellowstone with a new plan - to head on home, taking a miss on the Going to the Sun Mountain Highway. My visit to Yellowstone had given me at least a temporary cure to revisit these places from trips of 40 years ago. So I headed north on 191 with the idea of picking up Interstate 90 and flat-slabbing it to Spokane. The country was pretty, but nothing memorable. I stopped for gas in Belgrade, and reluctantly got on the Interstate.
It was a fast trip, with light traffic and minimal road construction. Not too many trucks, but the Harley traffic headed East for Sturgis was ever present, and really loud. I met a few characters in rest stops where I stopped to "rest", the most memorable of whom was a fellow from Washington State, who wandered over bare-footed munching an apple. He wanted to tell me about his motorcycle (a very nice one) and why he wasn't riding it on this trip (defying belief) and how I needed one of his peer cookies that a holistic health friend of his baked especially for him. They kept him awake and rejuvenated, he explained. As I was leaving, he ran over with four of these beauties in a paper towel and handed them to me, once again stating they were very filling, energizing, and utterly beyond belief. I thanked him enthusiastically, and put them in my tank bag.
Later, at the next stop, fearful of what magical ingredients or stimulating chemical formulations might have been added to these gems, I politely disposed of them. All I needed was to get high and crash. The latter hurts, as I understand it.
Because of the fast moving I was doing, I didn't take any photos that day. I stopped at St. Regis and camped, finding a little place that the Harley's were ignoring.
The next day I was up and out of there, forgetting to turn my Spot on. This caused my support team to become concerned later in the day, when they made e-contact to check on my well being. I appreciate that.
I rolled into Spokane to visit with my old friend Jim Goeke for a little while over coffee. He was shocked, shocked, to see me on such a large bike. I explained I was expressing my inner self, that I had always wanted to be larger than life, and so I bought this particular bike: they just don't get much bigger or badder than a BMW R1200GS Adventure. True statement.
I left Jim in Spokane, headed for the North Cascade Highway and the Wet Coast of Washington. The ride was uneventful, with light traffic and that huge wonderful bike. The bike just ate up those two lanes throughout the wheat lands, down and up through the canyons, and slowly, quietly through the little farm and ranch towns. I had never travelled this way before, and was once again impressed with what the pioneers had accomplished.
As I left Chelan, the clouds over the Cascades were threatening, and thunder could be heard. Just as I arrived in the vicinity of Pateros, the sky opened as if there were multiple fire hoses pointed straight down. I decided I would forgo camping for the night, and pulled into a hotel. There, I was able to get dried out, and a reasonably good meal.
From Pateros, I rode over the North Cascade Highway. I think the North Cascades are every bit as beautiful as the Tetons. However, there is more immediacy to the Cascades, as you are right in the middle of them. The Cascades are so much closer, whereas the Tetons are far off. And since you are in the midst of them, you get to ride all the ups and downs and twisty turns. It is a great ride, and I saw several other motorcyclists, including a set of four, each with a color coordinated single wheel trailer behind it. Quite cute, they were.
I rode over Deception Pass to Whidbey Island to have lunch with my best friend from High School, Jay Sigafoos, and his wife Carol. They are great friends, and had all their children and grand children there.
It was a fast trip, with light traffic and minimal road construction. Not too many trucks, but the Harley traffic headed East for Sturgis was ever present, and really loud. I met a few characters in rest stops where I stopped to "rest", the most memorable of whom was a fellow from Washington State, who wandered over bare-footed munching an apple. He wanted to tell me about his motorcycle (a very nice one) and why he wasn't riding it on this trip (defying belief) and how I needed one of his peer cookies that a holistic health friend of his baked especially for him. They kept him awake and rejuvenated, he explained. As I was leaving, he ran over with four of these beauties in a paper towel and handed them to me, once again stating they were very filling, energizing, and utterly beyond belief. I thanked him enthusiastically, and put them in my tank bag.
Later, at the next stop, fearful of what magical ingredients or stimulating chemical formulations might have been added to these gems, I politely disposed of them. All I needed was to get high and crash. The latter hurts, as I understand it.
Because of the fast moving I was doing, I didn't take any photos that day. I stopped at St. Regis and camped, finding a little place that the Harley's were ignoring.
The next day I was up and out of there, forgetting to turn my Spot on. This caused my support team to become concerned later in the day, when they made e-contact to check on my well being. I appreciate that.
I rolled into Spokane to visit with my old friend Jim Goeke for a little while over coffee. He was shocked, shocked, to see me on such a large bike. I explained I was expressing my inner self, that I had always wanted to be larger than life, and so I bought this particular bike: they just don't get much bigger or badder than a BMW R1200GS Adventure. True statement.
I left Jim in Spokane, headed for the North Cascade Highway and the Wet Coast of Washington. The ride was uneventful, with light traffic and that huge wonderful bike. The bike just ate up those two lanes throughout the wheat lands, down and up through the canyons, and slowly, quietly through the little farm and ranch towns. I had never travelled this way before, and was once again impressed with what the pioneers had accomplished.
As I left Chelan, the clouds over the Cascades were threatening, and thunder could be heard. Just as I arrived in the vicinity of Pateros, the sky opened as if there were multiple fire hoses pointed straight down. I decided I would forgo camping for the night, and pulled into a hotel. There, I was able to get dried out, and a reasonably good meal.
From Pateros, I rode over the North Cascade Highway. I think the North Cascades are every bit as beautiful as the Tetons. However, there is more immediacy to the Cascades, as you are right in the middle of them. The Cascades are so much closer, whereas the Tetons are far off. And since you are in the midst of them, you get to ride all the ups and downs and twisty turns. It is a great ride, and I saw several other motorcyclists, including a set of four, each with a color coordinated single wheel trailer behind it. Quite cute, they were.
I rode over Deception Pass to Whidbey Island to have lunch with my best friend from High School, Jay Sigafoos, and his wife Carol. They are great friends, and had all their children and grand children there.
After a typically fantastic lunch prepared by Carol, and was off to cross the Canadnian border and get a bit closer to home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)