Who would be crazy enough to take a grueling 3,200-mile bicycle expedition from Montana to Alaska for two and one-half months? And who would pay 2,600 US dollars to make such a difficult journey? Finally, who in their right mind would prepare for that trek by spending $3,000 more for a new mountain bike, new panniers, new tools, new spare parts, new camping equipment, new cycling clothes, and a new camera?
ME! I would! (I confess my insanity.)
In February 1994 I registered to join Adventure Cycling Association's self-contained "North Star" expedition. That was going to be my second extended bicycle tour. I took my first long-distance bike trip sixteen years ago when I pedaled around pancake-flat Holland for two weeks on an old no-gears Dutch bike that I rented from a train station for $9 per week. I had strapped my loaded backpack to the rear rack of the bicycle and stayed in youth hostels along the way.
Now I was about to embark on a ten-week journey over high mountain passes on a new 21-gear MB-2 Bridgestone that cost $900. And I would camp out during the entire expedition. My mountain bike was loaded with front and rear Ortlieb panniers as well as a two-person Sierra Designs tent, a REI sleeping bag, and a Therm-A-Rest air mattress. When I first mounted the bike in my driveway with all that weight, I lost my balance and nearly fell off. I took my pack mule bicycle on several shakedown rides around my hometown of Bellingham, Washington. Eventually, I got accustomed to riding the loaded rig.
In early June I loaded my bike, my gear and myself aboard a Greyhound bus and rode all night to the North Star expedition trailhead in Missoula, Montana. At that point there was no turning back. I was going north to Alaska by bicycle!
In Missoula I met my group leader, Chuck Penegor, who was a relatively large gentleman. My first thoughts were, "This fellow must be one hundred pounds overweight. And he bikes in sandals! How in the world could this guy lead our group to Alaska over all that rugged terrain?
First impressions are often deceiving. I soon learned that Chuck was a highly capable leader who had gone on the North Star expedition for the past four summers. His knowledge of the route, his experience in bicycle touring and camping, plus his leadership skills, quickly earned Chuck considerable respect among the other nine men and women in my group. Besides, the fellow had a wonderful sense of humor. For example, he told me that sometimes when he rode his bike, his protruding stomach would rest on his cyclometer and cancel it to zeros.
In spite of a steady downpour, the 28-mile shakedown ride that our group took before departing for Alaska was quite easy. I was ready for more. And the next day I got it. Several huge motorhomes zoomed by me, nearly clipping off my left panniers. I played "dodge-em" with gargantuan road graders in a muddy construction area. When I ran out of low gears, I pushed my loaded rig up several steep hills. My bike had only 21 gears; I wondered why they didn't sell bicycles with 51 gears! When I stopped to eat lunch, which invariably consisted of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, I asked myself, "For this I paid good money?"
I was the first person to arrive at our first night's stopover which was located in a spectacular mountain setting: Big Larch Campground in Lolo National Forest. Every day Chuck assigned two different group members to prepare supper. It usually included a pasta or rice dish, a mixed salad, and cookies -- all washed down by a powdered juice drink. There was plenty of food for everyone, and almost always we could help ourselves to seconds. We consumed five or six times the amount of food that we ate at home because of the tremendous amount of energy we expended by cycling 6-8 hours per day at an average daily distance of 55-60 miles.
Generally, we turned in for the night around 9:30 to get an early start the following morning. Our first two campgrounds had no showers, so at the end of the second day I jumped into ice-cold Swan Lake to wash up and shave. Several of my fellow group members biked to a nearby campground where they took showers for $2.50 each.
Breakfast was more predictable than supper: instant oatmeal and dry cereal with milk, orange juice, coffee, and hot chocolate. Nearly everyone in my group ate a second breakfast at a roadside cafe where they ordered pancakes, French toast, and eggs with sausage, bacon or ham. Not me! I paid my $2,600 fee to join the North Star expedition, so naturally I stuffed myself at breakfast in camp every morning.
During the first few weeks in the Rocky Mountains it was cold and sometimes rainy. Fortunately, I had brought along arm and leg warmers, rain pants, glove liners, Gore-Tex gloves, and most importantly, a Gore-Tex rain jacket. Unfortunately, the gloves were too warm and clammy, and the rain pants were not waterproof despite the manufacturer's claim to the contrary.
The first supreme physical challenge of the expedition was climbing up to Logan Pass (6,680 feet) on the Going to the Sun Highway in Glacier National Park. At first, the highway was relatively flat, but soon it zigzagged up along the side of a gigantic mountain. As I climbed higher, the road narrowed considerably. Sometimes when I looked up, I saw the road snaking upward and disappearing into the clouds. I wondered, "Will I make it? Can I make it?"
As I pedaled higher and higher in my lowest gear, I sweated like an elephant in labor. Occasionally, I stopped to catch my breath and to gulp down water from one of my two water bottles. But I did so just for a minute; I had to continue pedaling without lingering too long. Cars and motorhomes edged slowly around me, forcing me to bike alongside the low sidewalls on the narrow road. I tried not to look down at the valley below because I suffer from fear of heights. But once I glanced over the side and peered down at the Swan River. It looked like a long, skinny worm weaving its way along the valley floor far below me. I shuddered with fear and clenched my handlebars more tightly as my heart pounded rapidly like a drumbeat at a pow-wow.
I continued pedaling uphill very slowly. My legs protested the punishment and screamed out in excruciating pain. Sweat streamed from every pore in my body and dripped over my eyeglasses so I could barely see ahead. But I was determined to keep going forward. With every downward stroke of my pedals I kept telling myself aloud, "You can make it, Jim! Keep going! You're strong! You can do it! You'll get there! You paid your money for this trip!" I was going to reach the summit of Logan Pass if it killed me.
After 3 1/2 grueling hours, I finally made it to the top. And I was still alive.
The ride down Logan Pass was just as breathtaking as the ascent up it. Gravity launched my bike downhill like a bobsled headed toward hell. I held tightly onto my handlebars and zoomed down the highway. The sides of the road blurred and my cyclometer whirred: 20...25...30...35 miles per hour. I was flirting with death on a mountain! I braked intermittently to slow down my bike. Luckily, my cantilever brakes responded well, and I reached the base of the mountain safely. What a rush!
Every 7-10 days my fellow cyclists and I rested one full day in a variety of towns and parks in Canada and Alaska: Waterton Park, Lake Louise, Jasper, Prince George, Stewart, Watson Lake, Dawson City, Fairbanks, and Denali National Park and Preserve. On rest days we relaxed and recharged out mental and corporal batteries. Each person did his or her own thing: calling home, writing letters, washing clothes, cleaning bikes, hiking trails, and shopping for souvenirs.
During the expedition I felt many different negative and positive emotions in myself: the fear of breaking down in the boonies, the gloating over an ideal campsite, the jealousy over a seemingly unequal distribution of food, the anger over the lack of some people's table manners, the pride of conquering a mountain pass, the joy of whizzing down steep hills, the happiness of bicycling alone, and the love of good companionship.
As my riding companions and I cycled northward, the physical and emotional strain of the long expedition became increasingly apparent. Tempers flared over minor human failings, and rage built up against one group member who was treated like an outcast because he often failed to consider the feelings of others. This rage peaked when that person sat at a picnic table while another man was preparing supper. In an instant, two gallons of boiling water poured on that man's feet, causing second degree burns and his departure home to California.
Unfortunately, he was not the only group member we lost. Earlier, another fellow dropped out of the expedition when he injured his knees. He had come all the way from Belgium. After riding three days in tremendous headwinds, another man decided to return home to Oklahoma. "I've had it," he said with tears in his eyes. "I'm tired and I miss my wife." A few weeks later, another guy hit a pothole on the Top of the World Highway in Alaska and broke his left collar bone. The next day he was homeward bound to North Carolina.
I also had my own cross to bear. Before beginning the expedition, I had purchased a Softride suspension stem to cushion my ride, especially over hundreds of miles of gravel on the Robert Campbell Highway. The stem was several inches too short and no bike shop on the North Star route stocked an extension for it. As a result, my hands and wrists screamed with so much pain that my eyes often filled with tears, and I could not sleep well at night.
Eventually, fate came to my rescue. While cycling over the Robert Campbell Highway, several miners warned our group that five forest fires were raging twenty miles ahead of us. We waited for six hours on a bridge near Miner's Junction to receive more information about the progress of the fires. Finally, fearing that the smoke from the fires would endanger our safe passage, Chuck decided to turn back. The three youngest men in our group, however, insisted on cycling to Carmacks despite the apparent danger ahead. I called them "The Three Musketeers" for their bravery. The rest of us retreated sixty-eight miles to Watson Lake in a downpour. We rented a large van and a U-Haul trailer, and drove up the Alcan Highway to Whitehorse.
The next morning I went to the nearest bicycle shop and bought a longer stem for my mountain bike. The pain in my hands and wrists was relieved, and I began enjoying the expedition more than ever. As I cycled toward Carmacks I composed the following poem to describe my new-found happiness:
I have a new life with my bike that makes my feet light and gives me great might to trek over any speck of gravel and bramble. My wrists and hands hurt no more like afore, and my eyes see more and more of this beauty that I adore. Of course, I am speaking about my new stem.
In Carmacks we joined The Three Musketeers who made it unharmed past the forest fires. In fact, they proudly claimed that their ride on the rugged Robert Campbell Highway was the highlight of the expedition. For them it was a true adventure. For me it would have been sheer hell.
I had many more adventures on the North Star expedition. For example, at various campgrounds along the route, I encountered hordes of mean blood-sucking mosquitoes, nasty flesh-eating flies, and pesky food-stealing squirrels. In British Columbia two black bears threatened my safe passage. One bear was about one hundred yards directly in front of me, and the other bear was feeding in tall grass alongside the highway. Fortunately, a man in a pickup truck came by and saw my predicament. He stopped, stepped out of his truck with a 12-gauge shotgun, and fired it once into the air. Immediately, both bears scampered away, and I hightailed it down the highway as fast as I could pedal.
In addition to experiencing those unforgettable adventures, I also met several interesting people on the expedition. The most memorable person was Mighty Moe, a fellow who lived in a ramshackle trailer beside a beautiful lake along an isolated stretch of highway near the Yukon border. Moe was an elderly bachelor who had a long white beard and rosy cheeks. He was dressed in a shabby short-sleeved shirt and dirty baggy pants held up by an old leather belt.
I had heard all sorts of stories about Moe. Some people said that he used to work as a clown in a circus. Others claimed that Moe was an old sourdough who prospected for gold for many years but never struck it rich. And still others said that he was a trouble-making, good-for-nothing alcoholic. There was no doubt about one thing: Moe was a nonstop raconteur of tall tales. During my two-hour visit with him, he never once stopped talking to me.
Moe made his living mainly by renting camping space to visitors who arrived in their recreational vehicles. On his property he built many interesting things to see, including a variety of whimsical structures. One such structure was an old outhouse with an appropriate sign attached to it: "HOLES." The interior of the outhouse was wallpapered with outdated calendars, and it even had an old-fashioned telephone that was not connected to any telephone wire. "I put that phone in there just in case someone wanted to make a call to nowhere," Moe said with a chuckle.
Another interesting person I met was Robert Baker who was hunting mountain sheep from his small airplane. He landed directly on the Alaska Highway, taxied his plane to the gas pump at Dot Lake Lodge, and refueled. After chatting with the owner of the lodge, Robert took off on the highway into a spectacular sunset. It was a scene right out of the television series "Northern Exposure."
After a two-day visit in Fairbanks, I headed toward Denali National Park and Preserve. On the way there I saw a large sign beside the highway: "CAUTION: Windy Area Next Mile." That message was no joke. Several times tremendous headwinds knocked me off my bike as I rode toward Denali. At times I could not pedal faster than three miles per hour. My legs protested with pain as I pushed down harder and harder on the pedals. I inched forward very, very slowly.
To make matters worse that day, I experienced one of the most terrifying moments of the expedition. Shortly before arriving at the entrance to Denali, I approached a narrow bridge that spans the Nenana River flowing 174 feet below me. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw that a car was following very closely behind me. I could see that the car was loaded with a family and their camping gear. Undoubtedly, they were on their way to visit Denali, and it was obvious that the driver desperately wanted to pass me. I looked up ahead. On the other side of the highway two motorcycles were racing toward me. Instinctively, I stuck out my left hand to signal to the driver of the car behind me to slow down so I could cross the bridge safely. The strategy worked, but I was still shaking as the anxious fellow zoomed by me as soon as I reached the other side of the bridge.
Finally, I arrived at Denali which was one of the highlights of the North Star expedition. There was a great deal to see and do in the park: wildlife films, dog sled demonstrations, nature hikes, bus tours, and camping in remote areas. On a trek through Savage River Canyon, I was fortunate to glimpse a distant view of Mount McKinley, the highest mountain in North America at 20,320 feet. As I gazed at that magnificent snow-capped peak, I felt closer to Nature and the force that created me.
After spending two days at Denali, my group members
and I pedaled southward to Anchorage where we arrived two days
later. We enjoyed our last supper together at an excellent restaurant
located near our campground. We dined on zucchini with cheese,
grilled halibut, and strawberry cheese cake -- all of which we
washed down with cold draft beer. As we indulged, we chatted the
evening away about the unforgettable adventures that we had experienced
individually and collectively over the past seventy-three days.
I looked forward with great enthusiasm to my next long-distance
bicycle journey.
Note: Jim Hendrickson has just published CYCLING THE NORTH STAR, in which he describes in much greater detail his 3,200-mile self-contained bicycle expedition from Montana to Alaska. If you would like more information about this new book, please send an e-mail message to: cyclopath43@hotmail.com
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