by Ted Hutz
But why Alaska, they said? Arco and BP had constructed an "Oil Haul Road", from the Yukon River to Prudhoe Bay paralleling the pipeline. The northern half was turned over to the State of Alaska and opened to the public in the summer of 1995. Prior to that, one could travel 250 miles north of Fairbanks to the Coldfoot Roadhouse and no further. Now you can go all the way to the Arctic Ocean and briefly dip your foot into that frigid water. Prudhoe Bay, is the furthest north one can continuously motor from the lower 48. Also, when I was a young buck of nineteen, I emigrated to Alaska. I lived there from 1948 to 1955. It would be interesting to see the change in Anchorage and Fairbanks over that period of time. Wednesday, early in June, I departed from Lodi.
As I went up the valley on I-5, stewing in my own sweat, I thought what is it about women, and wives in particular? Right after the carping and bitching because I am going off again to the ends of the earth, why don't I just stay gone, never to return again if that is how little I care for my wife, four children, four grandchildren and the dog? I am instructed to carry along a parachute, a life preserver and a cellular phone. Well, the cell phone, anyway. They see me in a ditch up north of the Brooks Range, with the bike on top of me, punching in 911. What could be done? Send a helicopter? I would need mosquito repellent more than anything else... make a note in your head Ted, to get bug oil in Northern B.C. where they know what works the best.
It took two days to get to Lake Chelan, Washington, where I stopped to visit my friend, Buzz. He lives right on the lake in a nice home with a dock, a four car garage and lots of toys. Buzz doesn't like free-loaders, so whenever I stop by, he puts me to work. Last year, I did two days duty in the driveway, nailing blocking into some trusses which were destined to be the new garage. This year, Buzz and I went into his apple orchard and raked up prunings, loaded them into a flatbed trailer and hauled them off to the dump site. Afterwards, we went into the lake and zoomed up and down on his two hot-rod jet skis. I escaped early Sunday morning before Buzz thought of something else. North to the border at Osoyoos, B.C.
At the border, I noticed again how relaxed and courteous the Canadian Customs Officials are. I wish our people were the same. The Canadians are persistent only in a mental game of inquiring what handgun or self defense item you might be carrying. Don't pack iron in Canada. They are up tight about it, and you won't need a gun anyway. It is a nice, peaceful friendly country. No Mace either.
Osoyoos is a resort town for Canadians. The Okanagon River is dammed up and they have a long, skinny lake with prosperous downtown. Gasoline is dispatched by the liter. Four liters makes a trifle more than a gallon. The cost of unscrambling the money conversion will be $1.50 to $1.60 at the cheapest pump. A kilometer of distance is .63 miles or better explained, a speed of 100 klicks is 63 mph and will sometimes get you a ticket.
Take Highway 3 north and west of Osoyoos. It is a good road through spectacular country. As you head north, you see a fair amount of farming, the larger towns are built around lumber and pulp mills. Around Kamloops it is semi-arid like the foothills in the San Joaquin Valley, but with mostly clean water cascading down lots of rivers. It has to be super for rafting and canoeing, but I saw no activity.
Late Sunday afternoon I reached Williams Lake. The starter on the bike was acting up. Sometimes it would start and sometimes it went on holiday. This needed attention, before I ran out of hills to park on. A kid working in the Petro-Canada station had a bike. He suggested I go to Dave Graf at "New Life Cycle". The business name troubled me, but I drove out there regardless, just off the main highway, to check it out. The shop looked like an old packing shed with a ramp. Loading dock and floors at different levels. Around in back, standing in the tall weeds were cannibalized bikes, with the bars coming up above the grass. It looked like a herd of caribou. Dave is my man, I thought! He works on everything and makes do with lots of used stuff. Monday, 8am, I was there. Dave checked out the bar switch, relay and solenoid as all okay. So it was something inside the starter? Well, Dave had never worked on a BMW before, although he had every other conceivable part hanging on the walls of his shop. So, it meant back down the highway, sixty miles south, and then off to the east to Edmonton, five hundred miles away. If you ever get stranded at Williams Lake, be sure and go see Dave Graf. He is a sweet guy and once before he worked on a BMW.
Going toward Edmonton from B.C., one proceeds along and up the Thompson River, over a low pass, down the head waters of the Fraser River, and the uphill to the east through Jasper Park. It is a pretty ride, similar to our Highway 88 and Hope Valley down to Woffords. You will see some elk and lots of tourist vehicles. Get out of the Park before sundown. The accommodations are terribly high priced. On the subject of accommodation, I must warn you, Canada lacks a chain of inexpensive motels, such as the Motel 6. With your negotiating antenna on high, $50 Canadian is the low end. That is $35 U.S.
Arrived in Edmonton at 10 am Tuesday. I had a difficult time locating the dealership. It is right on the main East-West Highway and is part and parcel of the BMW automobile dealership, normally, the last place to look. I saw that arrangement once in Guatemala City. I went into the Service Department when no one was looking. The manager took me over to the one mechanic who worked on their bikes. He quickly told me they had a bulletin advising that this problem occurred when the starter got grunged up with dirt and grease. I thought about those "training rides" on the dirt down in Baja last January with Bruce Cleeton. Using their socket wrenches and the handy-dandy BMW tool kit, I got the starter out onto Poul Green's bench. Poul completely disassembled the starter and all of its tiny parts, cleaned them and reassembled them. This took some time, because he was frequently interrupted by phone calls and writing service orders. Also, I helped by watching every move and asking stupid questions.
Poul breeds Pug dogs for a side business. If your bike breaks down in Alberta, or you have a yen to view some remarkably ugly little dogs, go see Poul. He is a very sharp young guy, but personally, I prefer Golden Retrievers.
I left Edmonton at 2 PM, heading back west to pick up Highway 43 North, which heads up into the Peace River Country. The sky clouded up toward the mountains and I said my "no rain" prayers and hoped to duck between the light showers. I made it up to Valley View, on of those dying farm towns with the wide main street, vacant lots and empty store buildings. The hotel looked almost defunct, but a young couple had purchased it. Remodeling was in progress. The bar, of course, was up and running. The lounge was torn apart and that is where the GS spent the night. Upstairs most of the rooms had been in a cyclone, but the new owner found one where the bed was made, the toilet flushed and the door locked. You cannot beat $26 Canadian, including covered parking.
Wednesday morning I had breakfast in Grand Prairie, a thriving small city with seven story hotels at either end of the town, shopping centers, etc. I wanted to buy a hand bicycle pump and a tube patch kit. I was directed to TWO different stores downtown that sold sporting goods. What a surprise! When my wife and I drove through here in March of 1953 all the roads north of Edmonton were dirt. We came through just BEFORE the thaw, missing all the muck and slop. Now it is all paved and up to date. Most of the land adjoining the highway is in farms and from the look of the farmers' houses and barns they are quite successful. The Canadians are really doing a good job of developing the prairie provinces to the north. The oil and gas explorations pushed roads into the bush, the loggers followed, and now in some areas they are putting the ground into cultivation.
Before noon, I passed through Dawson Creek, where the Alaska Highway begins. The original 1500 mile road was thrown together in 1942 by the American Army in six months. It closely followed the terrain. Up, over, down and round about. An ideal motorcycle layout, except it was gravel. In March of'53, my wife and I struggled along it in our 1949 Hudson "super six" pulling a 31 foot house trailer until Suicide Hill at mile 115, where the right axle bearing seized, snapping the axle and sending bits of steel into the crown and pinion gears. We were towed to the mile 127 roadhouse and stayed there for ten days while parts were flown in from Detroit. I stopped after mile 101 and talked to the postmistress. She had been there for thirty years, but did not know the people I remembered. She predicted that I would find everything different because the highway had been totally realigned, relocated, re-cut, filled and graded, and paved as well. The old places were bypassed. Now the Alaska Highway is 100% paved, except for those few areas they have torn up to regrade. With average skill, one could do most of it at 80 mph.
I kept looking for familiar landmarks, but she was correct. I wondered what happened to Buck and Jane, our hosts, and crazy Gordon the hired hand. I stopped at the next roadhouse and was told to ask Jim Anderson, the "outlaw pilot", he knew everybody. So down the hill to the emergency strip where I recognized the shack containing the hand-cranked phone we used 43 years ago. Jim was gone, but the yard was full of discarded cars, trucks, tractors, snowcat, airplane parts and other miscellaneous items. I will try to look up Jim on the way home. His folks had operated the Indian Trading Post near the airport years ago. The Indians were gone as well.
Late that afternoon, I reached Fort Nelson. This is now a progressive small town. It has six or seven nice new motels and restaurants. Also several gas stations, a real downtown shopping area, etc., all fueled by proximity to four large wood processing plants. There is full-time all-season work available at Fort Nelson. Just north of town they are clearing land and putting in hay. This surprises me because it is almost 60 degrees north. This is less than 100 miles south as the crow flies from the Northwest Territory/Yukon border. But on the hillsides with a gentle slope to the south, they get stronger sunlight and potentially a longer growing season. Maybe it will produce.
Thursday morning I headed out to Watson Lake, home of the 36,000 signposts. It all began with the signposts at Watson Lake during the Alcan construction. A G.I. posted a hand lettered sign with the distance to his hometown. Now it is acres of billboards covered with stolen signs from all over the world. You are not supposed to hand letter signs now. They must be genuine city limit type signs.
On the way there, you go up into the mountains around Muncho Lake, through passes of 3500 to 4000 feet. There is lots of game. I saw moose, caribou and a bear by the side of the road. Rounding a corner, I saw a mountain sheep ram crossing the road 100 yards ahead. I eased off on the throttle and to admire him, when just ahead on the left, came another ram. It was too late to put the brakes on, but I swerved away from him. However, Mr. Ram would have none of my dodging tactics. He accelerated. My life flashed in front of my mind's eye in a split second. I looked down through the windshield and there went the ram's hindquarters, moving fast. We missed colliding by less than an inch. I forgot, sheep are herd animals. When you see one, watch out for the rest of the group.
Then it started to rain. In the north country, rain is not cold as you would expect. No, Pardner, it is REFRIGERATED RAIN that falls on you. Thank goodness, Mike Miller (the previous GS owner), was a softie and installed heated grips. That took the pain away. I arrived at Wastson Lake cold and wet. I stayed there, but I do not recommend it. Nothing there other than the signs, high priced accommodations and so-so restaurants. It is better to push on to Whitehorse, which I did on Friday.
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