Anchorage to Healy

Following on from yesterday, I realized that I forgot to mention that, on the trip north from Anchorage to Healy, we passed through the Denali National Park and its treasure, mount McKinley. We were lucky with the weather and had a clear view of the beast, all except the last few hundred feet, which were covered by cumulus. The whole trip up to Denali was lovely too: we followed the Nenana river valley which was luxuriant with growth mostly, I believe, because the permafrost is fairly deep there which allows the soil to drain and the trees to grow. Even so, we passed thickly wooded areas of pine and solver birch wherein the composition changed constantly.

Yukon River Camp
During the ride north from Yukon River Camp to Coldfoot we climbed to the top of a small range of hill which was gloriously named “Gobbler’s Knob”. The view down the valley was gorgeous, so I pulled over to the left to park and bike and take a picture. As I pulled in, there was a large dog fox with browny ginger fur, standing at the side of the road , looking at me. It didn't seem startled of upset, just looked. Having decided that I didn't look particularly appetizing, he turned and wandered off. At that moment, the heavens opened with a thunderous hailstorm, so we abandoned the photoshoot and, as there was nowhere to shelter, we set off. The rain lasted about 100 yards, then the sun came out again and all returned to normal.

When we left Coldfoot camp for the final 240 miles to Prudhoe Bay we were chipper. Everything had been going well but a few miles out of Coldfoot, Graham pulled up alongside me to report that my bike was smoking. On checking we found that his was too, so I put it down to poor quality fuel, and we carried on. The landscape was hilly, always with mountains in the distance ahead, left and right. Most of the hills were forested with pine (spruce, I believe) although, in patches, the trees were very small – only a few feet high - and stunted. We found out that this is probably due to the permafrost being very close to the surface which prevents their roots from penetrating very far into the soil.

Brookes Mountains
After a 100 or so miles we approached the Brookes Range of mountains, to enter the Atigun Pass. More spectacular views of wondrous, snow-topped peaks. The pass climbed to nearly 5000 ft and from the top we could see both up and down the Atigun canyon. Astonishing views for which my superlatives seem inadequate. The road through the valley floor was deteriorating, becoming more rutted and muddier, but still fairly comfortable to ride. However, when we left the canyon we entered a much drier weather zone and the road became suddenly dusty and very bumpy with loose rocks, some the size of your fist. We slowed and rode carefully.

The scenery changed again: now we were in the Arctic tundra. Flat to distant mountains, with new spring flowers growing up through the thick sedge covering. Colours were a mixture of dark brown, ginger, and maroon; thousands of shallow pools reflected the blue sky so that the overall effect was mauves and purples dappled by bright spring green grasses, fading to turquoise in the far distance. Many of the pools, some of which would qualify as lakes, still had plenty of ice - some blue, some green - and snow, which reflected oxide-white the sun. The unusual thing about the tundra is that, despite the swampy pools, it is actually desert with rainfall of only five inches a year – half that of the Arizona desert. But, because the permafrost is so near the surface, the water cannot drain away and the sun never gets hot enough for long enough to evaporate the water. Unique and fabulous land.

Our opportunities to wonder at the landscape were reducing as the road was requiring more and more concentration, with builds up of ruts and deep gravel as well as larger rocks. Then, about 90 miles from Deadhorse, which is what the locals call Prudhoe Bay (pronounced by them, "Prudd-ho" Bay) it started to get cold. And it got colder, much colder very quickly. We switched on heated grips and waistcoats which helped but, even so, hands and feet were beginning to suffer. There was not much we could do: nowhere to stop and no point in doing so, so we ploughed on. Occasionally the scenery demanded that we just had to look up, like when we passed Franklyn Bluffs, huge ice cliffs in the distance. Because the land was flat and they were so far off it was difficult to judge their size, but they were biggies. By this time the temperature was pretty close to freezing but we only had twenty or so miles to go so we hung on.

Deadhorse
Deadhorse is a dump. From the first moment we clapped eyes on it, it was shrouded in freezing fog, and we left it still gloomy with freezing fog. It is just a motley collection of grey industrial building, nearly all related to either the fishing or oil industries. Roads were dirt and mud and we didn't really see any houses, just big industrial sheds. We followed the signs to the local gas station, imagining a warm place where we could sip some hot coffee and re-fuel he bikes for the morning. It was a shed. A small wooden shack just big enough to house two petrol pumps. Yup, hereabouts, the pumps are inside the buildings, with only their nozzles sticking out through the side of the shack. Slide in a credit card and fill up. Frozen to the bones we booked into the Arctic Oilman Hotel, a place recommended by someone down the road.

It was the usual collection of nailed together pref-fabs and cost $150 a night, shared facilities! The room smelled like it had been previously occupied by an unwashed, Gauloise-smoking oilman. Probably was. The Oilman Hotel had one saving grace: all food was free. Quite extraordinary. The restaurant of the hotel was large room with hot food served buffet-style down one side; a centre-aisle salad bar, with scrumptious fare; and, around the walls, were fridges, cold cabinets and display units with every conceivable sweet meat from fresh fruit to home-made choc-chip cookies. All free. Oh yes, and there was another room at the side for "snacks", which boasted an ice-cream machine. Us good guys didn't even try it out.

We ate well at the Oilman, albeit with a healthy breakfast of cereal and fruit – the only place we had so far encountered in the States where we could find such stuff. We packed up lunch and lugged out the luggage to load up the bikes. I was really cold and I was quite concerned about the bikes starting. The weather was virtually freezing, very foggy and just about as unhelpful as it could be to start an single cylinder bike. But eventually they grumbled into life and we left them running while we loaded them up. Then it was back south down the rocky Dalton Highway to Coldfoot, 240 miles away, to the next available fuel.

Before we left Deadhorse we sought a location for the essential photographic record of the official beginning of our journey. There had been no 'welcome to Purdhoe Bay' signs at the town limits, or any other recognisable feature that would suffice. It would also be nice to be able to send some postcards and both requirements might be satisfied at Deadhorse’s one general store. We only had to find it. Even bearing detailed directions we couldn't find the only shop in this semi habitation.

In order to attract the squillions of tourists who thunder through, the general store has decided to stand out from the surrounding large, industrial grey sheds by establishing itself in…a large, grey industrial shed. Albeit one with the stars and stripes hanging freezing and limp outside. Inside, however, all was warmth and light. Bouncy Debora who runs the joint was super-interested in what we were doing, took Polaroids of us, tacked us to the notice board and imprinted us on her website. We sent cards, lumbered into our riding gear and set off in the freezing fog, glowing internally like kids on Ready-Brek.

To our surprise the fog started to lift about 25 miles south and, after 35 we were riding in sunshine under clear blue skies, with the air temperature appropriately. All proceeded serenely, if somewhat bumpily, with a few heart stopping moments on deep gravel, until a mega rock rose up and smite my side stand a sufficiently hard blow to knock off the spring retaining lug. The side stand dropped thus activating the ignition safety cut-out switch and cutting the engine dead; the bike and rider bucked forward just as the side stand re-bounded up from the road with a bang which not only shook the bike but also re-connected the ignition circuit so the bike leapt forward with a backfire just as I was strategically positioned somewhere over the front wheel. We boing-boinged along for a bit until I could shut off the throttle and stop, bemused as to the cause of such behaviour. A bungee fixed it.

Coldfoot
The one clear advantage of Coldfoot is that it has the only bar on the 414 mile Dalton Highway. Mind you, you would miss it unless you looked hard and asked the specific question. Like so much of America, folks here are really confused about alcohol and refer to "using" it rather than drinking it. Still, however they wished to describe it I was happy to demonstrate that, after 240 miles of dirt road, it nourished the inner man most effectively. So we sat on the deck (terrace) and did justice to several Alaskan Ambers. The only pain was felt by the wallet. Yeeow! Beer's expensive here, three quid or more for a half pint, an American half pint that is, which is only 8 fluid ounces.

Coldfoot is the stop over point for tourist buses. People take a cruise up the Alaska coast to Anchorage, fly from there to Deadhorse and bus back to the ship. Some 95% are aged (er, senior) Americans, very friendly Bush supporters with no-one to talk to. A couple of English bikers en route to Latin America spread like wildfire and we were the center of everyone's attention, rather irritatingly at times. Still, mustn't be churlish. One day…

The following morning we filled with Coldfoot gas and headed south. About 50 yards out on the highway, both bikes coughed, spluttered and stopped. With great difficulty we got them going: they would only run on full choke and, mostly on main jet. But, as they warmed up, the firing became more even and we were able to carry on. However, after 30 miles my bike stopped dead with a huge backfire and loads of blue smoke. My heart sank. This was bad news indeed, except for the mosquitoes, that is, who tom-tommed their mates for an early lunch. We were sixty miles inside the arctic circle and the RAC don't up here. It was also very hot and humid but we could not shed clothes because of the outsized mosquitoes, which were around us like a fog. One bite from these guys may well be the end of a limb. So, in helmet with visor down I set about removing the plug in order to get some clue as to the problem. Extracting the plug from a Dominator fitted with large Acerbis tank, which straps across the front down tube, and engine bars that do the same, plus an extra horn which fills the only available space alongside the down tube, is somewhat difficult. It requires two, ballerina-sized, double jointed right hands. Even then the spark-plug spanner will only move half a flat and it will only do that while the exhaust pipe burns deeply into one of your right hands. Three quarters of an hour later, I emerge from under the bike in a lather of sweat but grasping a spark plug. The electrode had completely shut tight leaving no gap, so it was clear why the bike had stopped. But what caused the electrode to close? I had no idea: I'd never seen anything like it before. Having no alternative, I replaced the plug with a new one at which point the bike reluctantly started. It was no longer smoking but was seriously unhappy, missing and coughing. It must be crap fuel.

Heading South - Yukon River Camp
We decide that the only sensible course of action was to press on south since there was no fuel north of us other than Coldfoot's, which was probably the cause of the problem. We packed up all the tools and cleaned ourselves up the best we could and prepared to depart. In the time it had taken to get ready the bikes had cooled sufficiently that neither would now start. We tried bumping them (still dressed in full gear) but nothing. At this point we were frustrated and deeply pissed off. Plan B, the only one available to us, was to drain the crap fuel out of one bike and fill up with the 10 litres we carried in two spare cans, which was good fuel we had bought at Fairbanks. One bike would ride to the next fuel at Yukon River Camp, fill up and return with the re-filled cans for the second. However, we were still 100 miles from Yukon River, and 100 miles on dirt roads would be the outside limit on 10 litres of fuel. So we decided to drain out the main tank but leave a few litres in reserve and dilute this reserve crap with the good 10 litres of fuel. We decided to use my bike as I would likely to get there and back faster than Graham. We'd leave the tools with Graham who would drain off the bad fuel and change his plug, ready for my return. With the 10 litres of spare fuel on board, the carb drained, and the new plug heated with a lighter, my bike fired up immediately and I set off. Fifty miles later, with a loud backfire and a cloud of smoke, it died. Monty Python parrot dead.

I was desolate. Now I had no tools, no bike and there was no traffic. A giant truck stopped after half an hour but insurance-claim problems mean that they're forbidden to carry passengers. Sorry, buddy. Eventually a 4x4 came along and a kind couple drove me the two hours into Yukon River Camp.

The boys at Yukon remembered me, thankfully, and were eager to help. But, quite contrary to my expectations, they had no facility to recover broken down vehicles. Most recovery originates from Fairbanks and the humungous cost is paid for by insurance. Now I was feeling low. Two bikes stuck and no way to recover them.

Ron the chef had other ideas. He is a delightful, free-wheeler who has the can-do attitude. So, after we discovered that the Camp's chocolate teapot breakdown truck had no highway insurance he decide that we could easily get a couple of bikes in the back of his van. It didn't look like it to me, but there weren't too many options around, so OK, Ron, let's go. He disappears around the back of the building to dump junk out of the back of this van, only to emerge ten minutes later triumphantly towing a trailer. This latter platform looked like it has last been used to ferry cattle and was rather flimsy with bugger-all brackets to which to strap a bike. And it's dirt roads. Oh my gawd. let's go, then. Then, just as we were about to leave, Zak turned up to help.

Zak looked just like a dude from a Dumb and Dumber movie: wrap-around gold-reflective sunglasses, baggy long shorts, baseball cap on backwards. My confidence was inspired. It actually turned out that Zak was a good bloke, a zoology graduate from Utah (poor dear) who was very knowledgeable about the country, which made for an interesting journey. We passed my bike on the road in order to get to Graham as quickly as possible since the hero had been marooned by the side of the road for five hours. We arrived at Graham with the Ron's stereo on its third loop of The Wall and Dark Side of the Moon. Gareth would have approved.

Dear ole Graham was standing beside his bike talking to a bloke named John, who looked like a cross between Wild Bill Hitchcock and General Custer, but without an arrow through his hat. John had been fishing and had taken pity on the lonely-looking Graham so had kept him company. The greetings were loud and, as the last strains of the cavalry's bugle died away, the Ron & Zak Show decided that they did not have enough fuel to make the return trip so they had to go on to Coldfoot for supplies - a 60 mile round trip. They set off, John returned to his fishing while I stayed with Graham who relayed stories of how he had been kept supplied with drinks - and even a packed lunch - by passing truckers and insect repellent (which probably saved his life) from a kindly motorist. Amazing.

Within five minutes a pick-up truck bearing the Alyeska Pipeline Company's logo drew up and a lady, whom Graham described as "spunky", alighted with five gallons of premium unleaded. She had stopped previously, promising to try to bring some fuel but Graham had no hope of her finding any. But here she was, spunk to the fore, glugging the luverly juice into the bike. We stood back and admired. She laughed gaily, waved lightly and - in the blink of an eye - was gone.

The bike started first prod . We agreed that Graham should start out now for Yukon River on that basis that,if he made it, there would only be one bike to fix; if he didn't we'd sweep him up with the trailer. He made it back before we did, no trouble.

Ron, Zak and Pink Floyd returned and drove off to collect my bike. It was fairly straight-forward getting the bike up on the trailer, with the skeeter attack being more troublesome that the bike. But, with nowhere robust enough to tie the bike to, I just wrapped it up in rope, over, under and sideways around the trailer. I just held my breath as we lurched away with 90 miles of mostly dirt road to navigate. We made it, easily. Although I'm not sure of my relationship with the Floyd will ever be write the same.

IN the event, the 130 miles from Coldfoot took exactly twelve hours. I slept like a log and nine the following morning saw me staring, once more, at a flattened spark plug. This time, the central electrode had been bent sideways and its ceramic shroud mostly missing. Hell's teeth, something clouted this spark plug really hard and, to my knowledge, there's only one thin moving up and down in there that could have caused the damage. Depressed and mystified because I could not hear any knocking coming from the engine, I decided that we would have to get to Fairbanks, the nearest large town because spares were obviously going to be needed and DHL or UPS don't come this far north. At this moment, my mind wandered back to a conversation I had with Steve Abbott outside the Ace Cafe in London a couple of months ago just before he set off for his trip through the old USSR colonies on a KTM. "Why a KTM?" I asked, "Surely you'll never get spares for that when it breaks down?" "in the middle of nowhere," he said, "You can't get spares for anything." Si I re-gapped the old plug from Graham's bike, doubled the sealing washers to draw the plug out of the cylinder a little, and screwed it back home.

Now to Fairbanks
The 120 miles to Fairbanks, half on dirt roads, was heart-in-mouth riding. Every tiny sound was exaggerated and imagined to be the precursor of engine internal flying towards the Alaskan landscape - which was still very pretty but, somehow, not important. By keeping the revs between 3000 and 3750 all the way, we made it, arriving at the Honda dealer at 5.00 o'clock on Saturday 6th June. The mechanics gathered round to examine flattened spark plug and suck teeth like London plumbers about to give an estimate. It may have been water hammer but, if so, they'd never seen anything quite like it. Agreement was to ride the bike around on Sunday and see if it went bang.

It did, just as we were leaving Home Depot, an A380-sized DIY shed in northern Fairbanks. Worse, for the first time, replacing the plug resulted in a load clattering from the engine. The dealer recovered the bike first thing Monday and, by 4.00 o'clock the awfulness of the situation revealed itself as the head was removed: opposite the inlet vales, the piston has started to disintegrate and the resulting debris had pebble-dashed the head and the valves. New head, valves, guides, piston, and a rebore. Could this get worse? Well, yes, dais the dealer, there may not be spares for this bike in the country. But, on Tuesday, Honda found out (mostly because I told them) that the top end is the same as an XR650L and they had the bits, which would be here by Friday.

Jeff. 14/06/04