Perspectives of Jacob:        

 

        After meeting up with Sean in Seattle, we flew to Fairbanks arriving with weery red eyes at the bright Alaskan hour of about 3 AM. It was our first exposure to the sun masquerading as the moon.  We observed the wild beasts frozen in time behind their glass containers.  Grizzly bears, polar bears, wolves, and what seemed the most fearsome of all; the Alaskan Brown bear (arguably the largest carnivore). We passed out on the floor while waiting for our next flight as vacuums zoomed inches around us.    

         We took the time to check out the local paper to discover that a wolf had attacked a school teacher visiting the arctic circle along the Haul Road we would be travelling.  The article was filled with your trypical advice about holding your ground when a wolf/bear approaches you.  I took a moment to stand in front of the Alaskan Brown Bear frozen on it’s hindquarters with it’s powerful claws ready to attack and wielding a vicious smile.  It seemed almost humurous to sit there and watch this 9 foot bear growling at you.  Running seemed like a good idea to me.  Fortunately, I had purchased some bear repellent in hopes that it might give me those extra ounces of courage to remain standing.     

       

        Arriving in an airport named Deadhorse, offered less than a reassuring ring as we stepped out into the wind swept airstrip.  I was nervous that my bike would have been damaged en route.  It was the longest I’ve been without my bike in a long time, and was eager to be re-acquainted with my good two-wheeled friend and travelling companion.    

        Goat was waiting there with his bike all rigged up and ready to go.  After exploding our boxes and it’s contents across the entire baggage claim area, we began assembling these machines that are supposed to carry us around 20,000 miles.  Multiple oil-workers asked us questions with an overtone that implied explicitly that we must be crazy.  Considering our near future, it was difficult to argue.    

       

       We learned that the Arctic Ocean was protected by the oil companies and that if we wanted to go within any distance of it, we would either have to sail a boat there or pay for a tour, escorted by a security guard armed with armed with information designed to alter your previous conceived notions that the oil pipeline was bad for the environment.  The former was a ridiculous notion, and the latter still cost 35 dollars, almost a week’s worth of food.  So we began our journey.       

       We explored Prudhoe Bay enough to discover that we did not want to be there and after a bit of pathetic navigational challenges, we found ourselves on the Dalton Highway bound for Fairbanks.  Encouraged by the sign that said that our next services were 240 miles away we began moving.  Thought to ourselves that the mosquitoes sure aren’t that bad and fortunately the rain is light and sporadic.      

     

       Hunger took us as we began wasting away those precious calories riding through the wind and set down to make some food when we discovered that Goat did not bring a valuable piece of the stove.  We quickly learned why the natives used oil for a fuel, because the arctic tundra sure didn’t have any wood to burn.  Fortunately, the river carried some sticks down and with the help of a little unleaded fuel we were able to get the fire started.  Not to mention the lower half of my shirt and shorts.      

      

       The ride was rather flat and we were doing our best to adjust to the rigors of riding a rig weighing above 125 pounds.  Beat at the end of the day, we were nervous about the 5,000 foot Antigun Pass into the Brooks Range.  It seemed that the closer we got, the longer our rests became.  We adjusted quickly to the endless sunshine which allowed us to ride at our leisure and more importantly rest at our leisure, which at times occupied a good 17 hours before we found ourselves back on the bikes.     

      

       The mosquitoes found us quickly on our trip, and were remarkably large.  They could penetrate most anything I wore and I had flashbacks of the movie Jumanji where giant mosquitoes could puncture car roofs.  I quickly became accustomed to wearing my mosquito netting at night.  By the morning time, they would alll congregate at the top of our tent, and I could only help but believe that every single one of those mosquitoes was resting because they had a satisfying meal.      

     

    

        I have a journal that I attempt to write in every night, but find that I’m generally too tired to offer anything useful.  And as I browse through it, I also realize that the handwriting is so poor what has been written needs to be translated.  One of the most exciting things about this trip so far is the general sense of adventure the flows in and out of our endless days.  There are huge passes that people warn us about, challenges like starting a fire in the wet arctic to be able to eat, or being cautious of the wildlife that presents itself as a real danger.  So far every day has offered new and exciting challenges and obstacles.  The Dalton Road has proven to afford infinite variations of quality as if the road itself had an identity criss.  From thick mud, slopping up our drive train (giving up my shifters to ghosts who never seem to agree with my choice of gear ratios, to smooth dry pavement, or sharp bumpy rocks and hills that seem to ascend into the sky.    

         

       The Antigun Pass was our first real test, (a 5,000 foot pass).  Upon approaching it, you begin to see the contours of the moutain, which host the road that couldn’t possibly be used for trucker’s, etc.  Unfortunately, we quickly discovered that was in fact the road we needed to pass.  After about an hour we were at the top, quickly enjoying our accomplishment and view as we became eager to descend from the windy cold summit we were on.    

       

       Descending the pass was our first taste of the blessings of downhill, an exhilerating rush after the painful, slow ordeal of ascending miles of uphill.  We stopped to view the hilarious tourist trap claiming to be the furthest Northern Spruce on the Alaskan Pipeline.  Always eager for a photo-op, we stopped to enjoy the splendors of the tourist attraction.  The tree had been chopped down, and somehow through the magic of duct tape, they were able to fix it with a generous application surrounding the trunk’s wound.  A priceless moment captured on the digital camera we were pretending to know how to use.    

       

       Soon after, Mike came up on an old Schwinn bike he was mighty proud of toting a BOB (Beast of Burden) trailer.  An animated character who quickly managed to elevate our moods which had been sluggish after the exhausting rainy day.  He had great travel stories and exposed a piece of the bike touring community that we were, by default, a part of.  He handed us stickers that had his website on there, www.mikelikebike.com.  Which was a trip, because I had been to that website when I was planning our adventure.     

       

       Shortly after seeing mike, a BMW GS1200 motorcycle stopped and an eccentric longhair named Randy got off.  From what we gathered, he was a self-employed computer programmer who was taking an extra long vacation, leaving behind his wife, kids and all responsibilities.  He was full of life and stories of his bar-room belligerence en route.    

       

       Found ourselves in the town of Coldfoot, the first place offering well needed services, since our “planning” had necessarily been inadequate to prepare for the amount of food three hunger cyclists could consume.  After getting a trucker’s special of biscuits and gravy, eggs, pancakes, coffee and some grocery rations to extend our culinary comforts we were on our way.    

       

       After a long day of riding up hills that seemed to match the Antigun Pass; we were looking forward to camping at the nearby Arctic Circle.  Something about the imaginary line seemed to be worth our time.   As we were slowly rising in elevation along  another  hill, promising to expose a new horizon and the site of our home; a truck had slowed to tell us that they just reported seeing the wolf a mere 100 yds from the arctic circle.  Great, we could camp on this steep hillside or keep going past the campground.       

 

  

       With no sightings of the wolf, we began the final leg of our day.  Only to quickly see that if we wanted to sleep in peace that night, we were going to have to climb up a hill of unnatural proportions.  I had joked about the Antigun Pass having a sign that pointed straigh up and lead you to a hill that did precisely the same.  But this was Beaver’s Slide, and like a roller coaster, or water slide, at the top, you can not see the bottom or the grade. It just dips down instantly.  Approximately 3-4 miles long, with the last 2 miles becoming a steady 9% grade of rocky dirt road.  To all of you in Santa Cruz, it was about as steep as Miramar Rd. but a good 2 miles longer.  We zig-zagged to taper the grade, and after a grueling hour + we were at the top.  Pictures offered a pathetic portrayal of the road.  In a delirious punch-drunk type of state, we managed to make a fire (only with the help of petro-chemicals would this have been possible) cook our food and pass out.    

     

 

       

       Miraculously, my legs still seemed to function the next day and I had been able to keep a good pace.  Saw a Reindeer (Caribou) in the purple hills, passed finger rock (40 foot rock sticking out of the earth like a finger) and hillsides of fireweeds that covered the earth in a crimson red as if to extend the reflection of the fire that had preceeded it.       

     

       I was riding at about 30-35 kilometers/an hour (yes, kilometers.  I have not been able to figure out my bike computer and so it remains to show me distance/speed in kilometers).  I had looked back to see a trucker I wanted to leave room for on the road and kept my pace.  I veered to the right of the road and checked on the trucker which was still a good distance away and as I was turning back around I thought I saw an animal.  Potentially, a hallucination cooked up from exhaustion and twilight, I turned back around to see that there was really a wolf chasing after me.  After muttering some frightful profanities, I stood up and picked up the pace.  I knew in my mind that running was the last thing that you are supposed to do.  I quickly let that ridiculous notion evaporate from my mind as I pictured the wolf in full stride, as if I was watching a nature show capturing the slow-motion chase and kill of some predator on the plains of Africa.    

    
   

       It was clear to me that the wolf was going to catch me, and I began fumbling for the bear repellent in my handlebar bag, riding as hard as I could, all the while so as to buy some time.  I always imagined being able to act with a little more precision in times of dire need, but found myself struggling to operate the bike at the speed and handling the spray.  Eventually, I managed to get it out, but saw that the wolf was now within 10-15 feet and I haven’t taken off the safety.  I imagined if I stopped, the wolf would complete the chase with a flying leap to grab my throat.  I finished taking off the safety and saw the trucker driving behind me swerve and hit the wolf, and quickly pulling to the left to avoid hitting a very appreciative me.  I waved a thankful wave, a couple of them as if I was honoring this trucker who seemed to step in as my guardian angel.  He did not slow down a bit, just kept on going.    

       

       I veered back around to see that the wolf was hardly lifeless.  Breathing hard and wimpering in pain.  Its eyeball had departed its socket exposing a small strand of flesh keeping it intact.  There was a large wound on its head dripping blood, thickened as if it were magma flowing from a volcano slowed by time.  In an attempt to end this beast’s suffering I tried to smash it’s skull with a rock, but was amazed by its resillience.  It had been hit by a speeding trucker and a huge rock and was more than alive.  It seemed safely subdued and so I grabbed it by the scruff of it’s neck and began the difficult process of slicing its throat.  By then, my comrades had appeared in dismay of the scene.  To see me holding a bloody knife with a dying wolf at my feet did not readily resonate with their current paradigm of our trip (nor did it connect with mine).  After more than a comfortable share of cutting, the wolf was ending its stay in this world.    

         

       Thoroughly freaked out, we began riding again.  I observed the roadside with a bit more interest and pedaled at a considerably quicker adrenaline induced pace.  There was also some comfort in the belief that the wolf that had haunted our dreams and those of tourists on the Dalton was no longer in service.    

          

       After endless sunset vistas and a plethora of horizons we have found ourselves in Fairbanks, enjoying the comforts of food that does not originate as a dried powder.  We have been living like kings in the generous and hospitable hands of Sue and George Rainier (Our good friend Conor’s parents).