Alaskan Adventure
- Thread starter Frenchy750
- Start date
Help Support Yamaha FJR Motorcycle Forum:
gregory
Great things are afoot
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOO!
OOOOOO!
Frenchy750
Well-known member
- Joined
- Oct 30, 2006
- Messages
- 128
- Reaction score
- 6
Alaskan Adventure - Down In Flames
Underway at last in Super Natural British Columbia! Took long enough to
get to this point, didn't it? Yes. It did. But we're here now, and
that's all that matters.
The scenery right away is stunning, with soaring mountains surrounding our little party of explorers.
We bob and weave around Lower Middle B.C. for a while, finally reaching
the gas station town of Kitwanga, which is the junction with Route 37,
better known as the Stewart-Cassiar Highway, best known as our planned
ingress path into the Great White North. Our motorcycles pose in front
of the first real sign that proves that the Alaskan Adventure is, in
fact, going to Alaska.
Another sign, perched at the beginning of Route 37, says differently.
The sign blinks with even worse news.
Oh ****. This is bad. Really bad. The Alaskan Adventure may not, in fact, be going to Alaska at all.
I consult my Map-kin, and it looks bad. Though it isn't to scale, or
even close to geographically correct, my hand drawn cartographic
masterpiece shows only two ways to drive to Alaska: The Stewart-Cassiar
Highway, which we are now parked at the beginning of, or the Alcan
Highway, which lies approximately 500 Killer-Meters to our east. And one
of those, as we've just learned, is not open.
We sit in the Petro Canada parking lot and start coming up with a Plan
B. Most good riders have a Plan B handy. Most good riders would also
probably find out about such trip-threatening road conditions ahead of
time. We are not that type. So, fueled with fear and a shot of 5 Hour
Energy™, we strategize. Do we hammer for the far off Alcan and
drastically change our entire plan? Do we risk riding up the Cassiar to
the closure point, in hopes that by the time we get there they will
have put out the fire? Should we skip Alaska altogether and head for
Banff?
Or should we have just done what the sign back in Olympia implored us to do in the first place?
It's agonizing.
After some debate, our merry band of Alaskan Adventurers decides Plan B
be damned, we'll gladly take our chances and stick with Plan A. We head
north for Hyder, which will mean at least we technically made it into
Alaska.
Once on the Cassiar highway, we switch into Fuel Hog mode, which means
filling up at every gas station whether we need it or not. Gasoline can
become a problem on roads such as this, because while there are
technically enough stations to keep machines fueled to the next stop,
sometimes those stations run out of gas or go out of business. As an
added measure of protection, Dark Meat fills the little red Jug-o-Gas
kindly donated a few days ago by Barb and Vic, who I've since learned
are the creators of the world-famous Sheepskin Buttpad and owners of
the excellent motorcycling store Alaska Leather.
Decision made, we set sights on Hyder, Alaska. We enjoy the nearly
deserted, supposedly closed and at-some-point-far-ahead probably burning
road.
Then, on the road to Hyder, we glimpse a wee bit of the white that the Great White North is so famous for.
The Bear Glacier
Up Close
The road winds us to our ultimate goal, the town of Hyder, Alaska. Just
before we cross from the well paved streets of British Columbia to the
gravelly frontier town of Hyder, Fiona, glimpsing the town for the
first time, asks me, "Is this place real?"
Oh yeah, it's real all right. We find a room at the Sealaska Inn, and
walk down to the bar to get properly familiarized with the town, through
a frightening process called getting 'Hyderized.'
Nervously, we line up at the bar, and the bartendress pours three shots
from a bottle in a paper bag. "The rule is you have to finish in one
swig. Anyone that doesn't finish or pukes has to buy the whole bar a
round."
And right after:
The bartendress takes one of the empty glasses, pours out what little
liquid remains, then proceeds to light it on fire on the bar top.
"That's what is happening to your insides right now. Congratulations,
you've been Hyderized!"
She hands us official certificates, explaining that now that it is official, we'll never have to do that again.
We strike up a conversation with JD, a biker that witnessed our painful
Hyderization. He tells us he rode down Route 37 that morning, and gives
us the tremendous news that the road is open, with pilot cars ferrying
cars through the fire area.
"How bad is the fire?"
"Oh, it's bad," he replies with a smile, "but you'll get through all right."
With that we pose for a quick snapshot with our new friend, and head
home for the night. In the parking lot, we are stunned to see the weird
car from the ferry, the one with the huge fan on it.
The Fan Behind The Dark Meat
The driver explains the fan is part of a para-sailing contraption he
learned how to fly and is now taking home. Alaska, even this little part
of it is full of characters. I wish we'd gotten a better picture of
his contraption, it was pretty funny, but in our Hyderized state it
probably wouldn't have come out too clearly anyway.
Before retiring for the night, we stop off in Dark Meat's room, and use
his license to chop up and snort fat lines of cocaine to celebrate the
Best Day ever.
Just kidding.
The next morning we roll from the US back into BC early, secure in the
knowledge that the road is open; we'll get through the fires. We
continue in Fuel Hog mode, stopping off at every station along the way
to fill our tanks.
And, for those that have them, call and check in with the wife.
The day goes by, and by 4 PM we reach the town of Dease Lake, where we are instantly confused.
The sign says the road is closed, but a very un-photogenic construction
sign right next to the evil closure sign said that the road might in
fact be open, with pilot cars running between 8 AM and 6 PM.
6PM? It's 4 PM now, and we are exactly two hours away from the closure. Decision time once again.
We decide to go for it, and turn Route 37 into our very own Stewart-Cassiar International Speedway.
Mother Nature chooses this moment to cue the clouds, and the rains come down for the first time on our trip.
I think to myself that the rain can only help our cause, and imagine the huge parade for Rain Cloud Follows that
will be thrown for single-handedly putting out the fires. That pipe
dream goes up in smoke, as the rain ends well before the road does.
We pass a gas station with two motorcycles filling up. I notice that I
have quite a bit less than a quarter tank of gas, but break the Fuel Hog
rule anyway and speed past with a quick wave. No time to stop! We need
to get through!
At 5:45 PM, 640 KM from the start of the road, 200 KM from the nearest
town with accommodations, we reach the dreaded closure point. Noticing
people camping in the rest area, I trepidatiously ride up to the
blockade and inquire when we can go through.
With arms firmly crossed, the dude ruins our trip by saying, "Not today.
Fire got worse. No visibility. Road's closed for the night. We're
going to try to go through tomorrow around 7:30 AM. Come back then."
Umm... ****. This is bad. We confer, and decide that even though it is
far away, we're going to have to ride the 124.27 miles back to Dease
Lake. Abi pours the contents of his Jug-o-Gas into his tank, as I plan
to fill up at the last station we passed.
Just then the two bikers we saw filling up pull up with more fantastic news. "There's no gas at that station."
Without enough gas to get back to the only lodging we've seen, without a
tent, without anything that can reasonably be called food, and with
night quickly approaching, I realize that for once, right now, we are
well and truly ******.
Underway at last in Super Natural British Columbia! Took long enough to
get to this point, didn't it? Yes. It did. But we're here now, and
that's all that matters.
The scenery right away is stunning, with soaring mountains surrounding our little party of explorers.
We bob and weave around Lower Middle B.C. for a while, finally reaching
the gas station town of Kitwanga, which is the junction with Route 37,
better known as the Stewart-Cassiar Highway, best known as our planned
ingress path into the Great White North. Our motorcycles pose in front
of the first real sign that proves that the Alaskan Adventure is, in
fact, going to Alaska.
Another sign, perched at the beginning of Route 37, says differently.
The sign blinks with even worse news.
Oh ****. This is bad. Really bad. The Alaskan Adventure may not, in fact, be going to Alaska at all.
I consult my Map-kin, and it looks bad. Though it isn't to scale, or
even close to geographically correct, my hand drawn cartographic
masterpiece shows only two ways to drive to Alaska: The Stewart-Cassiar
Highway, which we are now parked at the beginning of, or the Alcan
Highway, which lies approximately 500 Killer-Meters to our east. And one
of those, as we've just learned, is not open.
We sit in the Petro Canada parking lot and start coming up with a Plan
B. Most good riders have a Plan B handy. Most good riders would also
probably find out about such trip-threatening road conditions ahead of
time. We are not that type. So, fueled with fear and a shot of 5 Hour
Energy™, we strategize. Do we hammer for the far off Alcan and
drastically change our entire plan? Do we risk riding up the Cassiar to
the closure point, in hopes that by the time we get there they will
have put out the fire? Should we skip Alaska altogether and head for
Banff?
Or should we have just done what the sign back in Olympia implored us to do in the first place?
It's agonizing.
After some debate, our merry band of Alaskan Adventurers decides Plan B
be damned, we'll gladly take our chances and stick with Plan A. We head
north for Hyder, which will mean at least we technically made it into
Alaska.
Once on the Cassiar highway, we switch into Fuel Hog mode, which means
filling up at every gas station whether we need it or not. Gasoline can
become a problem on roads such as this, because while there are
technically enough stations to keep machines fueled to the next stop,
sometimes those stations run out of gas or go out of business. As an
added measure of protection, Dark Meat fills the little red Jug-o-Gas
kindly donated a few days ago by Barb and Vic, who I've since learned
are the creators of the world-famous Sheepskin Buttpad and owners of
the excellent motorcycling store Alaska Leather.
Decision made, we set sights on Hyder, Alaska. We enjoy the nearly
deserted, supposedly closed and at-some-point-far-ahead probably burning
road.
Then, on the road to Hyder, we glimpse a wee bit of the white that the Great White North is so famous for.
The Bear Glacier
Up Close
The road winds us to our ultimate goal, the town of Hyder, Alaska. Just
before we cross from the well paved streets of British Columbia to the
gravelly frontier town of Hyder, Fiona, glimpsing the town for the
first time, asks me, "Is this place real?"
Oh yeah, it's real all right. We find a room at the Sealaska Inn, and
walk down to the bar to get properly familiarized with the town, through
a frightening process called getting 'Hyderized.'
Nervously, we line up at the bar, and the bartendress pours three shots
from a bottle in a paper bag. "The rule is you have to finish in one
swig. Anyone that doesn't finish or pukes has to buy the whole bar a
round."
And right after:
The bartendress takes one of the empty glasses, pours out what little
liquid remains, then proceeds to light it on fire on the bar top.
"That's what is happening to your insides right now. Congratulations,
you've been Hyderized!"
She hands us official certificates, explaining that now that it is official, we'll never have to do that again.
We strike up a conversation with JD, a biker that witnessed our painful
Hyderization. He tells us he rode down Route 37 that morning, and gives
us the tremendous news that the road is open, with pilot cars ferrying
cars through the fire area.
"How bad is the fire?"
"Oh, it's bad," he replies with a smile, "but you'll get through all right."
With that we pose for a quick snapshot with our new friend, and head
home for the night. In the parking lot, we are stunned to see the weird
car from the ferry, the one with the huge fan on it.
The Fan Behind The Dark Meat
The driver explains the fan is part of a para-sailing contraption he
learned how to fly and is now taking home. Alaska, even this little part
of it is full of characters. I wish we'd gotten a better picture of
his contraption, it was pretty funny, but in our Hyderized state it
probably wouldn't have come out too clearly anyway.
Before retiring for the night, we stop off in Dark Meat's room, and use
his license to chop up and snort fat lines of cocaine to celebrate the
Best Day ever.
Just kidding.
The next morning we roll from the US back into BC early, secure in the
knowledge that the road is open; we'll get through the fires. We
continue in Fuel Hog mode, stopping off at every station along the way
to fill our tanks.
And, for those that have them, call and check in with the wife.
The day goes by, and by 4 PM we reach the town of Dease Lake, where we are instantly confused.
The sign says the road is closed, but a very un-photogenic construction
sign right next to the evil closure sign said that the road might in
fact be open, with pilot cars running between 8 AM and 6 PM.
6PM? It's 4 PM now, and we are exactly two hours away from the closure. Decision time once again.
We decide to go for it, and turn Route 37 into our very own Stewart-Cassiar International Speedway.
Mother Nature chooses this moment to cue the clouds, and the rains come down for the first time on our trip.
I think to myself that the rain can only help our cause, and imagine the huge parade for Rain Cloud Follows that
will be thrown for single-handedly putting out the fires. That pipe
dream goes up in smoke, as the rain ends well before the road does.
We pass a gas station with two motorcycles filling up. I notice that I
have quite a bit less than a quarter tank of gas, but break the Fuel Hog
rule anyway and speed past with a quick wave. No time to stop! We need
to get through!
At 5:45 PM, 640 KM from the start of the road, 200 KM from the nearest
town with accommodations, we reach the dreaded closure point. Noticing
people camping in the rest area, I trepidatiously ride up to the
blockade and inquire when we can go through.
With arms firmly crossed, the dude ruins our trip by saying, "Not today.
Fire got worse. No visibility. Road's closed for the night. We're
going to try to go through tomorrow around 7:30 AM. Come back then."
Umm... ****. This is bad. We confer, and decide that even though it is
far away, we're going to have to ride the 124.27 miles back to Dease
Lake. Abi pours the contents of his Jug-o-Gas into his tank, as I plan
to fill up at the last station we passed.
Just then the two bikers we saw filling up pull up with more fantastic news. "There's no gas at that station."
Without enough gas to get back to the only lodging we've seen, without a
tent, without anything that can reasonably be called food, and with
night quickly approaching, I realize that for once, right now, we are
well and truly ******.
Last edited by a moderator:
escapefjrtist
Searching for Dry Roads
Great reading Frenchy...can't wait to see how this turns out!
--G
--G
Khunajawdge
Toto El Mundo!
BugR
Well-known member
The start of all true adventure stories :clapping:
Please tell me you did pack a fuel syphon.
Chris
MCML
Not All Who Wander Are Lost
Great ride! Great write up!
I don't know if the post Hyder-ized salutes were inspired by TWN or if it was merely coincidental but either way:
When Bluestreek and I rode up the Cassiar, the following year, it was dry. In the rain that road must have been something else altogether....even without the closure and lack of fuel.
You've earned that pre-ride McCallan's. When you get back to L.A., p m me here. I'll find a bottle of Super Nova, or something like it, to toast your adventure.
I don't know if the post Hyder-ized salutes were inspired by TWN or if it was merely coincidental but either way:
When Bluestreek and I rode up the Cassiar, the following year, it was dry. In the rain that road must have been something else altogether....even without the closure and lack of fuel.
You've earned that pre-ride McCallan's. When you get back to L.A., p m me here. I'll find a bottle of Super Nova, or something like it, to toast your adventure.
Last edited by a moderator:
beemerdons
Certifiable Old Fart
Fantastic Ride Report, Frenchy; keep it coming, Brother; I am really enjoying the hell out of riding along with you fine folks; Bravo!
SacramentoMike
Not Safe For Work
Keep it coming? Hell, they're still up there, 124.27 miles north of Dease Lake, without gas, starving. Too bad, dammit.
Last edited by a moderator:
beemerdons
Certifiable Old Fart
Trust me Mike, I worked in Alaska for years, riding my bike up every May; someone will be coming to their aid shortly. Canadians are the nicest people in the world and very helpful!
Keep it coming? Hell, they're still up there, 124.27 miles north of Dease Lake, without gas, starving. Too bad, dammit.
Last edited by a moderator:
SacramentoMike
Not Safe For Work
Trust me Mike, I worked in Alaska for years, riding my bike up every May; someone will be coming to their aid shortly. Canadians are the nicest people in the world and very helpful!
Keep it coming? Hell, they're still up there, 124.27 miles north of Dease Lake, without gas, starving. Too bad, dammit.
I think we all know who you're trying to kiss up to, Stanley. <_<
beemerdons
Certifiable Old Fart
FastJoyRide? I did go for a swim with Dave at CFR!Trust me Mike, I worked in Alaska for years, riding my bike up every May; someone will be coming to their aid shortly. Canadians are the nicest people in the world and very helpful!
Keep it coming? Hell, they're still up there, 124.27 miles north of Dease Lake, without gas, starving. Too bad, dammit.
I think we all know who you're trying to kiss up to, Stanley. <_<
rogdeb
Scouser
Wonderful stuff Frenchy :clapping: :clapping: :clapping: :yahoo:
Wish I had the patience to do reports like this, and I hope your gassed by now
Wish I had the patience to do reports like this, and I hope your gassed by now
bikerskier
Well-known member
- Joined
- Nov 30, 2005
- Messages
- 1,060
- Reaction score
- 97
I absolutely love this ride report
You do know that a fuel siphon is simply 4-5' of hose and a bucket. Right!
Have some experience with that in my misbegotten youth. More than several occasions when a bit short on currency of the realm...
You do know that a fuel siphon is simply 4-5' of hose and a bucket. Right!
Have some experience with that in my misbegotten youth. More than several occasions when a bit short on currency of the realm...
beemerdons
Certifiable Old Fart
bikerskier: Growing up in Morro Bay, California; we young punks used to call that a "Bakersfield Credit Card"!
Frenchy750
Well-known member
- Joined
- Oct 30, 2006
- Messages
- 128
- Reaction score
- 6
Alaskan Adventure - Up Through The Ashes
Funny how precious a simple chain of hydrocarbon molecules can be, and how much the lack of that precious chain of combustibles can weigh on a mind. It's pretty simple. I don't have enough gas to get back to any hotel. Dark Meat 'might' have enough, but that doesn't help me much. By the time he reached far-off Dease Lake, the gas station would surely be closed for the night.
Among the other clutter in my head, one other thing weighs on my mind, in fact it's burned in there. Miles back, as we raced along the government supported racetrack, we had our first glimpse of wildlife.
I try to convince myself it was just a really big dog, but even the idea of spending a night in the woods with really big, really hungry, freely roaming dogs doesn't appeal to me much.
So it's time to figure something out. We decide to head back down the Cassiar, and find some luck. There were a few random, mostly abandoned looking buildings we passed on the way up. Who knows, maybe one of them will turn out to be a huge gasoline refinery giving out free samples. One thing I know from years of motorcycling is something will come up.
It always does.
Being as cynical a skeptic as I can, I doubt the report of no gas at the last station, and make that our first stop.
So much for that great idea. The nearest 'convenience' store is also closed, with a similarly frank message taped to the door.
We've been out for a few days already, and dates lose significance when they don't matter. However, I am pretty sure we have slid into the month of August already. But that road is still closed. Still no luck to be found, so back down the road we go.
About forty miles later, in the comically named town of Jade City, we find a real gem, literally. Jade City, as far as we can tell, consists of a few out of business shops, and one still open gift store; The Cassiar Mountain Jade Store, specializing in... wait for it... Jade. Brilliant, I know.
Unfortunately, due to the distinct lack of available pumps, we immediately realize the Jade Store doesn't specialize in hydrocarbon compound vending. We venture inside to see if they might specialize in hot food distribution, or at least have an idea where we might spend the rapidly approaching night.
Fiona wastes no time. She immediately finds the Jade Store owner, and applying her best Boo-Boo face innocently asks, "Is there any chance there might be accommodations in this city? We're kind of in a jam." Resistance to the Boo-Boo face is nearly impossible, and I am interested to see the outcome.
The owner curtly replies, "City? HA! Thirty-four people live in this city." With a shrug she continues, "No hotels here. Closest hotel is in Dease Lake."
Wow! Epic fail for the power of the Boo-Boo face! This is worse than I thought.
Not sure what to do next, we wander over to the candy shelf and start stocking up for what could very possibly turn out to be a very long night. As we are trying to figure out if Peanut Butter Cups have more nutritional content that Mars Bars, the owner comes back and says in a low voice, "You know, I do have a bunk house out back that's partially empty. Business has been down because of the fire. Some of the workers are on a little vacation." Pointing to the young girl working the cash register she goes on, "The only one staying in the bunk house right now is her. If it's all right with her, I guess you three could stay in there."
All three of us apply our best Boo-Boo faces, and after some careful consideration the girl slowly nods her approval. She has her own room, and thus will be spared the stench that always radiates from my boots when I take them off. Lucky her! We are saved from at least one problem, and as I've learned from years of live television production, the best course of action is always to deal with one disaster at a time.
Dinner consists of a bowl of Ramen noodle soup and a Coke. Turns our that Ramen noodle soup has more nutritional content than either a Peanut Butter Cup OR a Mars bar, but then again, the Styrofoam bowl the soup comes in probably does too.
After dinner we are ushered out back to our home for the evening. As we head there, we are given the lowdown on the place.
"There are no toilets, just an outhouse. The generator goes off at 10:30, and doesn't come back on until six." Pointing at Fiona and me, she says, "There's a fold out couch for the two of you, and a single bed for him. It's not the best, but it is the best we've got."
"Sounds perfect! Thank you so much!"
The bunk house is admittedly a bit rustic and spartan, but, in my book, rustic and spartan beats being bear food any day. I try to convince my beautiful girlfriend that it is romantic, though it is far from romantic. Sleeping Beauty is a trooper, laughing and rolling with the punches, at least until nature calls. She says, "Some girls get to go to the beach for vacation, but me? I get... THIS!"
To entertain ourselves, we toast the Best Day Ever while sitting in the middle of the deserted Cassiar Highway. Our Macallan supply dips precariously low, nearly as low as the supply of fuel in my tank. We sit in the middle of the road for about twenty minutes, until suddenly a Jeep with New York license plates comes over the distant hill.
The young couple stop and ask about road and hotel status. They get the lowdown; there are no hotels, no gas, and the road is supposed to be open at 7:30 the following morning. The female passenger doesn't take that last bit of news particularly well. In her best Jersey Shore accent, she wails, "Oh no! I am NAWT getting up that early!" Glaring at her bewildered boyfriend, she adds, "And I am NAWT sleeping in this Jeep!"
Good luck with all that.
Best Day Ever juice supply exhausted, tolerance for the day exhausted as well, Fiona and I retire to the comfort of the bunk house, climb into the sofa bed and are instantly asleep, ready for whatever the next day might bring; ready to face one more disaster at a time.
Six AM. Cold out. Clear too. There's a fire up ahead, and we have high hopes that we'll cross it today.
The forty mile slog back to the closure drains another half from my nearly empty gas tank. I know there is a gas station directly on the other side of the closure, but there's no way to know if they have gas or not.
One disaster at a time.
We arrive at seven, and it doesn't look like anything has changed from the night before. One of the forestry workers comes over and starts chatting, assuring us they want everyone to get through too. He whines a bit about how difficult the public can be, then walks away. With not much else to do, we sit and wait for the magical hour to arrive.
The magical hour comes and goes. Nothing happens. The magical next hour comes and goes too.
A kind gentleman comes over and offers coffee, saying he and his wife have plenty in their trailer. Since we have nothing but a bottle of water, we happily accept. As she hands out the first warm cup of goodness, his wife calls down from the trailer, "Anybody want toast? I have home made jam too!"
Disaster or Best Day Ever?
Two hours, two coffees and two jam covered toasts after the magical hour has passed, a helicopter approaches, circles overhead, then lands in the middle of the road.
Surely this is going to be good news.
Nervously, everyone waits with fingers crossed as the pilot and highway worker confer, safely out of earshot.
After a lengthy discussion, the man with the orange X on his vest walks back and shakes his head. "No go. Visibility is too poor right now. It doesn't look too good for today. We'll try again at eleven."
Great. A man, clearly frustrated, shouts, "WHAT!?!? TRY AGAIN AT ELEVEN?!? I'VE BEEN HERE FOR TWO DAYS!! ELEVEN?!?! **** THAT!!" He gets in his car, slams the door and screeches off on a long journey back to the only alternate route. Nobody seems terribly upset at his departure.
Weird Fan Man from the ferry and Hyder shows up again. Funny how we keep running into the same people on this road, but I guess when there is only one road, you're bound to run into the same travelers over and over. We ask if his whirly-gig could support a bike, and offer cash to fly us over the fire. He laughs. A lady walks by and says we should start a Scrabble game.
"Scrabble? Hell, let's play poker for gasoline!" I reply.
The day progresses, and we sit and wait, without much progress. This random band of refugees starts to resemble a reality show. One guy comes over and says he wants to run the barricade, he just needs a few more people to go with him. A chatterbox corners us and talks at us for what seems like a year. Graciously, we are offered free coffee refills.
Eleven comes and goes, and nothing happens.
Two ladies on motorcycles ride up from the back of the line. They introduce themselves as Maria and Haley, two friends (and fellow bloggers) from Dark Meat's favorite city of Victoria, traveling together on their first long, epic motorcycling adventure.
Their blog can be found here. Check it out, it's worth the read.
The four of us pass time telling stories. Abi waxes poetic on his love of Victorian Customs agents. Fiona remarks about how clean their motorcycles are. Parked next to their sparkling motors, our poor machines look like a pile of hot garbage. Maria asks if we've taken the Lemon Pledge.
Lemon Pledge? Thinking we might be about to join a secret society, I naively reply, "No. What's that?"
Maria walks away and comes back with a plastic bag in hand. She shakes it, and out falls a can of Lemon Pledge furniture polish. They tell us they use Pledge on everything from helmet visors to headlights, and it makes them clean and shiny.
Orange X man's radio crackles and interrupts our fascinating furniture polish conversation. "CRRRZZTTT! Still doesn't look good. Visibility is very poor. CRRRZZZTTTT! We'll make the final decision for the day at one."
Final decision? For the day? As in, we might not get through at all today? Uh oh. I don't even have enough gas to get back to Jade City now. Great. Another Plan B discussion begins. With my gauge almost on 'E' does it make sense to wait one more day to try and get through? We decide to wait until the final decision for the day is made to make our decision.
One disaster at a time.
A couple of Punjabi men that Abi was talking to shrugged and said they'd waited long enough, it was time to turn around and head home. Abi said to them, "Well, maybe next time."
The older man wisely replied, "Next time? Who knows if there will be a next time? My next breath is not guaranteed."
At one, the crowd grows around Orange X Man. A guitar wielding man strolls up, strumming and singing, "Don't be angry, they're just doing their job." CRRRZZZTTTT! The radio crackles again, silence, then a huge cheer erupts from the crowd. The winds have shifted enough to blow the smoke off the road. We are on our way outta here!
People run to their cars as we rush to suit up. Without an announcement or any kind of warning, the pilot car suddenly takes off as I struggle to get my riding pants on. Cars, trucks and campers, some of which have been waiting for days gun their way into the gap. Our group of four riders end up squarely in the middle of the pack, racing toward the unknown of the fire.
I glance down at my fuel gauge. It's flashing, which means there isn't much fuel in there at all. I guess two disasters at a time is the rule of the moment. I hope that in this case 'E' means Enough, because the idea running out of gas in a forest fire is so absurdly horrifying it's almost funny.
Things go from not too bad to waay too bad in minutes. Thick, choking smoke quickly fills the air as ash swirls on the road. The land is scorched, and in some places still burning. Acrid smoke rises from the ground, entire stands of trees are torched and mangled. Helicopters keep watch on our convoy from above, ready to warn the pilot car if a flaming tree falls in our path, or some dumb French knucklehead runs out of fuel on the drive through the fire.
In the midst of the smoke and swirling ash, my fuel gauge enters countdown mode. Countdown mode is the fun way the engineers in Japan, guys that will never need or use this exciting mode, came up with to let you know you're dangerously close to running out of fuel. With about twenty miles of fuel left in Rain Cloud Follows, we suddenly take a breath of fresh, smokeless air. Hooray! We've made it through the fire!
Reaching the junction of the Cassiar and Alcan feels like a complete victory. Pouring an entire tankful of fresh hydrocarbon molecules into Rain Cloud Follows feels even better. Though we've lost a day waiting to get through, Alaska is still obtainable, though probably not all the way to Valdez.
We offer to buy Maria and Haley drinks in Whitehorse if they can find us, then, with a wave we race off to our next stop, and the continuation of our Alaskan Adventure.
Funny how precious a simple chain of hydrocarbon molecules can be, and how much the lack of that precious chain of combustibles can weigh on a mind. It's pretty simple. I don't have enough gas to get back to any hotel. Dark Meat 'might' have enough, but that doesn't help me much. By the time he reached far-off Dease Lake, the gas station would surely be closed for the night.
Among the other clutter in my head, one other thing weighs on my mind, in fact it's burned in there. Miles back, as we raced along the government supported racetrack, we had our first glimpse of wildlife.
I try to convince myself it was just a really big dog, but even the idea of spending a night in the woods with really big, really hungry, freely roaming dogs doesn't appeal to me much.
So it's time to figure something out. We decide to head back down the Cassiar, and find some luck. There were a few random, mostly abandoned looking buildings we passed on the way up. Who knows, maybe one of them will turn out to be a huge gasoline refinery giving out free samples. One thing I know from years of motorcycling is something will come up.
It always does.
Being as cynical a skeptic as I can, I doubt the report of no gas at the last station, and make that our first stop.
So much for that great idea. The nearest 'convenience' store is also closed, with a similarly frank message taped to the door.
We've been out for a few days already, and dates lose significance when they don't matter. However, I am pretty sure we have slid into the month of August already. But that road is still closed. Still no luck to be found, so back down the road we go.
About forty miles later, in the comically named town of Jade City, we find a real gem, literally. Jade City, as far as we can tell, consists of a few out of business shops, and one still open gift store; The Cassiar Mountain Jade Store, specializing in... wait for it... Jade. Brilliant, I know.
Unfortunately, due to the distinct lack of available pumps, we immediately realize the Jade Store doesn't specialize in hydrocarbon compound vending. We venture inside to see if they might specialize in hot food distribution, or at least have an idea where we might spend the rapidly approaching night.
Fiona wastes no time. She immediately finds the Jade Store owner, and applying her best Boo-Boo face innocently asks, "Is there any chance there might be accommodations in this city? We're kind of in a jam." Resistance to the Boo-Boo face is nearly impossible, and I am interested to see the outcome.
The owner curtly replies, "City? HA! Thirty-four people live in this city." With a shrug she continues, "No hotels here. Closest hotel is in Dease Lake."
Wow! Epic fail for the power of the Boo-Boo face! This is worse than I thought.
Not sure what to do next, we wander over to the candy shelf and start stocking up for what could very possibly turn out to be a very long night. As we are trying to figure out if Peanut Butter Cups have more nutritional content that Mars Bars, the owner comes back and says in a low voice, "You know, I do have a bunk house out back that's partially empty. Business has been down because of the fire. Some of the workers are on a little vacation." Pointing to the young girl working the cash register she goes on, "The only one staying in the bunk house right now is her. If it's all right with her, I guess you three could stay in there."
All three of us apply our best Boo-Boo faces, and after some careful consideration the girl slowly nods her approval. She has her own room, and thus will be spared the stench that always radiates from my boots when I take them off. Lucky her! We are saved from at least one problem, and as I've learned from years of live television production, the best course of action is always to deal with one disaster at a time.
Dinner consists of a bowl of Ramen noodle soup and a Coke. Turns our that Ramen noodle soup has more nutritional content than either a Peanut Butter Cup OR a Mars bar, but then again, the Styrofoam bowl the soup comes in probably does too.
After dinner we are ushered out back to our home for the evening. As we head there, we are given the lowdown on the place.
"There are no toilets, just an outhouse. The generator goes off at 10:30, and doesn't come back on until six." Pointing at Fiona and me, she says, "There's a fold out couch for the two of you, and a single bed for him. It's not the best, but it is the best we've got."
"Sounds perfect! Thank you so much!"
The bunk house is admittedly a bit rustic and spartan, but, in my book, rustic and spartan beats being bear food any day. I try to convince my beautiful girlfriend that it is romantic, though it is far from romantic. Sleeping Beauty is a trooper, laughing and rolling with the punches, at least until nature calls. She says, "Some girls get to go to the beach for vacation, but me? I get... THIS!"
To entertain ourselves, we toast the Best Day Ever while sitting in the middle of the deserted Cassiar Highway. Our Macallan supply dips precariously low, nearly as low as the supply of fuel in my tank. We sit in the middle of the road for about twenty minutes, until suddenly a Jeep with New York license plates comes over the distant hill.
The young couple stop and ask about road and hotel status. They get the lowdown; there are no hotels, no gas, and the road is supposed to be open at 7:30 the following morning. The female passenger doesn't take that last bit of news particularly well. In her best Jersey Shore accent, she wails, "Oh no! I am NAWT getting up that early!" Glaring at her bewildered boyfriend, she adds, "And I am NAWT sleeping in this Jeep!"
Good luck with all that.
Best Day Ever juice supply exhausted, tolerance for the day exhausted as well, Fiona and I retire to the comfort of the bunk house, climb into the sofa bed and are instantly asleep, ready for whatever the next day might bring; ready to face one more disaster at a time.
Six AM. Cold out. Clear too. There's a fire up ahead, and we have high hopes that we'll cross it today.
The forty mile slog back to the closure drains another half from my nearly empty gas tank. I know there is a gas station directly on the other side of the closure, but there's no way to know if they have gas or not.
One disaster at a time.
We arrive at seven, and it doesn't look like anything has changed from the night before. One of the forestry workers comes over and starts chatting, assuring us they want everyone to get through too. He whines a bit about how difficult the public can be, then walks away. With not much else to do, we sit and wait for the magical hour to arrive.
The magical hour comes and goes. Nothing happens. The magical next hour comes and goes too.
A kind gentleman comes over and offers coffee, saying he and his wife have plenty in their trailer. Since we have nothing but a bottle of water, we happily accept. As she hands out the first warm cup of goodness, his wife calls down from the trailer, "Anybody want toast? I have home made jam too!"
Disaster or Best Day Ever?
Two hours, two coffees and two jam covered toasts after the magical hour has passed, a helicopter approaches, circles overhead, then lands in the middle of the road.
Surely this is going to be good news.
Nervously, everyone waits with fingers crossed as the pilot and highway worker confer, safely out of earshot.
After a lengthy discussion, the man with the orange X on his vest walks back and shakes his head. "No go. Visibility is too poor right now. It doesn't look too good for today. We'll try again at eleven."
Great. A man, clearly frustrated, shouts, "WHAT!?!? TRY AGAIN AT ELEVEN?!? I'VE BEEN HERE FOR TWO DAYS!! ELEVEN?!?! **** THAT!!" He gets in his car, slams the door and screeches off on a long journey back to the only alternate route. Nobody seems terribly upset at his departure.
Weird Fan Man from the ferry and Hyder shows up again. Funny how we keep running into the same people on this road, but I guess when there is only one road, you're bound to run into the same travelers over and over. We ask if his whirly-gig could support a bike, and offer cash to fly us over the fire. He laughs. A lady walks by and says we should start a Scrabble game.
"Scrabble? Hell, let's play poker for gasoline!" I reply.
The day progresses, and we sit and wait, without much progress. This random band of refugees starts to resemble a reality show. One guy comes over and says he wants to run the barricade, he just needs a few more people to go with him. A chatterbox corners us and talks at us for what seems like a year. Graciously, we are offered free coffee refills.
Eleven comes and goes, and nothing happens.
Two ladies on motorcycles ride up from the back of the line. They introduce themselves as Maria and Haley, two friends (and fellow bloggers) from Dark Meat's favorite city of Victoria, traveling together on their first long, epic motorcycling adventure.
Their blog can be found here. Check it out, it's worth the read.
The four of us pass time telling stories. Abi waxes poetic on his love of Victorian Customs agents. Fiona remarks about how clean their motorcycles are. Parked next to their sparkling motors, our poor machines look like a pile of hot garbage. Maria asks if we've taken the Lemon Pledge.
Lemon Pledge? Thinking we might be about to join a secret society, I naively reply, "No. What's that?"
Maria walks away and comes back with a plastic bag in hand. She shakes it, and out falls a can of Lemon Pledge furniture polish. They tell us they use Pledge on everything from helmet visors to headlights, and it makes them clean and shiny.
Orange X man's radio crackles and interrupts our fascinating furniture polish conversation. "CRRRZZTTT! Still doesn't look good. Visibility is very poor. CRRRZZZTTTT! We'll make the final decision for the day at one."
Final decision? For the day? As in, we might not get through at all today? Uh oh. I don't even have enough gas to get back to Jade City now. Great. Another Plan B discussion begins. With my gauge almost on 'E' does it make sense to wait one more day to try and get through? We decide to wait until the final decision for the day is made to make our decision.
One disaster at a time.
A couple of Punjabi men that Abi was talking to shrugged and said they'd waited long enough, it was time to turn around and head home. Abi said to them, "Well, maybe next time."
The older man wisely replied, "Next time? Who knows if there will be a next time? My next breath is not guaranteed."
At one, the crowd grows around Orange X Man. A guitar wielding man strolls up, strumming and singing, "Don't be angry, they're just doing their job." CRRRZZZTTTT! The radio crackles again, silence, then a huge cheer erupts from the crowd. The winds have shifted enough to blow the smoke off the road. We are on our way outta here!
People run to their cars as we rush to suit up. Without an announcement or any kind of warning, the pilot car suddenly takes off as I struggle to get my riding pants on. Cars, trucks and campers, some of which have been waiting for days gun their way into the gap. Our group of four riders end up squarely in the middle of the pack, racing toward the unknown of the fire.
I glance down at my fuel gauge. It's flashing, which means there isn't much fuel in there at all. I guess two disasters at a time is the rule of the moment. I hope that in this case 'E' means Enough, because the idea running out of gas in a forest fire is so absurdly horrifying it's almost funny.
Things go from not too bad to waay too bad in minutes. Thick, choking smoke quickly fills the air as ash swirls on the road. The land is scorched, and in some places still burning. Acrid smoke rises from the ground, entire stands of trees are torched and mangled. Helicopters keep watch on our convoy from above, ready to warn the pilot car if a flaming tree falls in our path, or some dumb French knucklehead runs out of fuel on the drive through the fire.
In the midst of the smoke and swirling ash, my fuel gauge enters countdown mode. Countdown mode is the fun way the engineers in Japan, guys that will never need or use this exciting mode, came up with to let you know you're dangerously close to running out of fuel. With about twenty miles of fuel left in Rain Cloud Follows, we suddenly take a breath of fresh, smokeless air. Hooray! We've made it through the fire!
Reaching the junction of the Cassiar and Alcan feels like a complete victory. Pouring an entire tankful of fresh hydrocarbon molecules into Rain Cloud Follows feels even better. Though we've lost a day waiting to get through, Alaska is still obtainable, though probably not all the way to Valdez.
We offer to buy Maria and Haley drinks in Whitehorse if they can find us, then, with a wave we race off to our next stop, and the continuation of our Alaskan Adventure.
Last edited by a moderator:
MEM
Well-known member
FUN read !
Waiting with bated breath for the next instalment
Waiting with bated breath for the next instalment
Bungie
FrostBack #2 - IBA # 44620
Hells ya!
escapefjrtist
Searching for Dry Roads
Another excellent installment Frenchy! Can't wait for the next one...
--G
--G
Niehart
Pie Smuggler
Frenchy, you tell a damn good story. Liking it a lot.
