tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22162321490062137422024-03-05T00:42:26.255-08:00Biking Alaska and Beyond...Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-25771900579621760872017-05-24T13:01:00.000-07:002017-05-24T13:04:25.124-07:00Forty Years of CyclingMy alarm went off at 5am, my final day and the home stretch! After a quick shower, I ate breakfast and browsed the map. It was about 90 miles from Socorro to my in-laws in Albuquerque. I’d be pedaling through very familiar territory now. As a youth I had bicycle trained and raced along these very roads. Forty years later I has feeling fit and in good form. If I got rolling early I’d be there by noon. I had my goal, and the spark of a challenge to make my ride fun, as I left the quiet rural roads for the congestion of Albuquerque.<br />
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The frontage road kept the Interstate in sight, though wandering in some hills. Up and down like a roller coaster. In a car one might even float a bit on the crests, the frequency tuned for 60 mph mayhem.<br />
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Then coming over one crest, in the arroyo bottom below, I saw several roadside crosses from an accident. A sadly familiar sight in the Hispanic influenced areas of the Southwest. Gringos get buried in the graveyard and their spirits’ haunted dying moments’ places are forgotten. Not so with the Hispanics, every NM highway has tearful monuments where the breath of life left this earth. Respectfully, I got off my bike and quietly looked closer. Young photographs, candles, toys for a lost child, Catholic icons and saints; a bench to reflect from and a mat to kneel on for heaven-sent prayers. One could feel the pain and loss here. A chaotic crash scene, multiple victims thrown widely, as evidenced by the distances between the crosses.<br />
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Was it drinking, drugs or just a fun ride on the hilly road a bit too fast? It didn’t matter ‘how’, the living were stuck with the ‘why’. I had lost a friend the same way during a high school prom night date. He was driving too fast and rolled his sports car coming down from the Sandia Peak Tramway after dinner at the Peak. His was date thrown through the sunroof and lived, the car rolled several times and he was crushed. His parents asked me to go to the police impound lot and go through the smashed car for any of his items, maybe provide them with clues. I remember their desperation, and we all still ask ‘why’?<br />
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The frontage road crossed back onto the eastern side of I-25. Now I was back in the fertile areas of the Rio Grande. Lots of nice farms coming into Los Lunas. Soon I was even in Belen. My cycling ‘career’ had begun here at the age of 14. In the 1970s, cycling was becoming a bit of a rage here in the USA. Finally, North America had finally heard of the Tour de France (70 years after it’s inception). Like the start of the running craze, hiking’s birth and the new Earth Day ethos, cycling was on the scene and challenging the V-8 engine. A new cycling concept, called the ‘Century Ride” (100 miles), was propelling the public into fitness training and commuting on bikes. One Saturday evening my father and I were watching the 10 o’clock news on TV (yeah, only 3 channels back then) and the sports commentator was doing his segment on this century ride tomorrow called The Tour of the Rio Grande Valley. Several possible loops, 25 miles, 50 miles, 75 miles and even 100 miles were possible. “Come on down to the University of New Mexico by 7am to register and pedal one of your choice.” I had no interest in any of that, in spite of having just trading in my heavy Schwinn Continental for a lightweight French bike just two weeks earlier. Besides, I didn’t even know how to fix the european style tubular tires, the casing being sewn together with the tube inside and the whole thing glued onto the rims. I didn’t even have a spare tire. Off to bed I went at 10:30pm not even dreaming about cycling.<br />
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At 6am my father dragged me out of bed and after a quick bowl of cereal took me down to the University to register. He said for me to just ride what I could and he’d pick me up somewhere along the way. His plan was to have a long breakfast at a downtown cafe, and read the newspaper, picking me up later. Well, he was a news junkie, so that probably meant he’d come after reading the Albuquerque Journal, the New York Times and the Washington Post!!<br />
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So off I pedaled, joining the mass of several hundred cyclists (who had most likely trained at least one day, unlike me). In tennis shoes, Levi blue jeans, one water bottle, no helmet and no spare tire I pedaled south along the Rio Grande valley. Well, the hours went by, I was having fun and just kept following other cyclists, I had no clue to which distance loop I was on or how far I was going. I just kept pedaling until my dad was going to pick me up. <br />
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My father finished his usual mega news reading session (thank God CNN hadn’t been invented yet) and he started driving his jeep on the 25 mile loop to find me. No luck, so he proudly thought I’d be on the 50 mile loop. I wasn’t there either. Worriedly, he sped up, and drove the 75 mile loop. Where was that kid?! 100 mile loop, impossible! Dad found me still pedaling along nearly 80 miles into the 100 mile loop. I was tired and running on empty as the aid stations didn’t really have much beyond oranges, apples and water. Dad drove to a convenience store to get me a few food items and I kept pedaling. My crotch was raw from wearing cotton underwear and ill-fitting blue jeans, and even the bottom of my feet hurt from the pedal pressure on the soft midsoles of my running shoes. In seven hours and 10 minutes I tiredly climbed the last grade to UNM. I was beat, but I was also hooked!<br />
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That crazy introduction to cycling gave this teenager a focus and purpose. For the next several years I would train before dawn, ride after school and barely hang onto the adult dominated peloton on Sunday group rides. I soon began to race, and as my body matured and grew stronger, I did better and better. Even as a junior racer (16 years), I broke the New Mexico State Hill Climb Championship time record for Senior Men. I made cycling friends and even got my first job as a teenager at a bike shop. Then I had a major growth spurt and everything fell apart as I struggled with severe knee pain. I had to stop cycling for several years, which broke my heart. I watched from the sidelines as my close friend and training partner win the USA National Road Championships and also become an Olympian. I forgot cycling, and like a first love, that ache will always be fresh.<br />
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Today I powered across the Rio Grande for the final time, I driving my pedals downward, round and round, quickly climbing up Gibson Avenue. Now I was a late-50’s man. My cycling racing career had been cut short during those Albuquerque times, but dammit, I was feeling fit now. Steadily I climbed towards Tramway Blvd. Now I was on Central Avenue in heavy Saturday shopping traffic. I had a goal, my in-laws by noon. I pushed hard, but all the traffic lights worked against me. Ten minutes after noon I reached my in-laws. A nice 90 mile day, the last day, capped off with a good climb from the river valley below and I was done.<br />
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In two nice tours I had ridden 758 miles from northern Colorado to the Mexican border. Tours which had given me good early season training goals to motivate me during the cold winter days. I had visited with family and friends, even done a wedding. Cycling hours filled with good reminiscing about youthful times growing up in the Southwest. Now I was done. It felt good, but not totally complete. Somehow I still needed to connect my Alaska ride to Colorado...that’s 3,400 miles in the middle to work on next. Back to the saddle for me!<br />
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Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-49427495392438907572017-05-24T12:48:00.002-07:002017-05-24T13:03:54.123-07:00Jornada del Muerto<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As planned, I was on my bike at dawn. This was the only portion of the ride with no towns for resupply along the way. I faced 78 miles of rolling desert hills and arroyos. Other than a quick hop onto the interstate to bypass a gorge, I would be pedaling the original ‘Camino Real’, appropriately numbered State Highway #1. In one stretch of 56 miles I had only one car pass me. I had packed four water bottles for this day.<br />
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This hilly road gave me a chance to use some different muscles; often I rose out of my saddle and cranked up the hills furiously against phantom competitors. I was certainly chasing Don Juan’s tilting windmills out here, a bit bored at times, my mind wandering. There was some internal clutter that the expansive western vista helped me throw away. The pavement was rough at times, not being a priority for the cash strapped NM highway department. Yet this road was an enjoyable route worthy of my two wheel explorations.<br />
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The early Spanish settlers faced a major stretch without water here. Wikipedia describes it, "The name <i>Journey of the Dead Man</i> probably originated with a German man who died there while fleeing the Inquisition
in the later 17th century, although due to the complete lack of water,
grazing or firewood the route through this area already had a negative
reputation. Although quite flat, the Jornada del Muerto took several
days to a week to cross and presented great difficulties to the earliest
Spanish travelers who were on foot with carts or wagons pulled by oxen. Bishop Tamaron traveling north on his visitation to New Mexico in 1760. Leaving the Paraje de Robledo traveling 5 leagues:
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<dl><dd>"On this day, the twelfth of the month and the sixth of the journey,
we came to the Jornada del Muerto. To prepare for it, a detour is made
to seek the river at a place called San Diego.
The night is spent there. Everything necessary is made ready. It is
about half a league from the river. Barrels are brought for the purpose.
These are filled with water for the people. On the morning of the
thirteenth the horses were taken to the river to drink. Somewhat later
all the food for the journey was prepared, and at half past seven we
left that post with considerable speed, stopping only to change horses.
During this interval we ate what there was, and we traveled in this
fashion until eight-thirty at night, when we halted opposite the Sierra
of Fray Cristobal."<br />
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"On the fourteenth day of May, the eighth day of our journey, we
made an early start. We reached the river at eleven‑thirty. The
livestock were so thirsty that they ran to reach the water. After this
fashion were the thirty leagues of this difficult stage traveled."<br />
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Finally, I left the desert and nearing Socorro I joined the Rio Grande river where It widens at Bosque del Apache Preserve. Thousands of migrating birds make this their winter home. One of the amazing sights to see are the sandhill cranes, thousands of them overwintering every year. I made a short stop at the visitors center and filled a water bottle. Looking at a USA nature preserve map, I marveled at how many preserves were in Alaska, places I had already been. I was like the migrating birds, north for summer work and returning south to winter. However their commute’s carbon footprint was much more ecological than mine. Alaska Airlines were my wings.<br />
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I was looking forward to reaching Socorro by noon. After a long ride along the typical industrial frontage road, I entered town. Perfect timing, lunch time, and a New Mexican burger chain ‘Blakes Lotaburger' was in sight. "A burger and a cool strawberry shake for me please!"<br />
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Soon the burger was eaten and the empty shake’s cup were tossed in the bin. I pedaled over to my hotel. A bit of a ‘dive’ at $58.00 per night, I thought. The decor was old but the room clean and on the quiet side of the building at least. The wifi worked and so did the A/C. Good enough for a touring cyclist. The attached restaurant was conveniently located for an early dinner.<br />
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I walked over to Walmart to get some fruit, yogurt, milk and cereal for tomorrow’s breakfast. I took several photos of the old Hammel Historical Society building nearby. I loved the old stonework. At least something remained of settlers past in town.<br />
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Then a bit of TV, a stretch and I fell asleep to the humming of the A/C unit.<br />
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Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-31499580704060678292017-05-24T12:23:00.002-07:002017-05-24T13:03:28.226-07:00"Whiskey is for drinking, water is for fighting!"At 7am I rolled northwards on Highway 185, leaving Las Cruces, NM behind. As my legs were warming up, with an easy spin, I said a quick prayer for my buddy who was going under anesthesia right then for his hernia operation. Too bad we couldn’t share some cycling together during this visit, but life’s timing was a bit off. Hopefully my visit would inspire his recovery and not depress him more with the forced layoff and rehab.<br />
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The massive pecan orchards shaded the road. In the old days these fields were planted with chilies, more appropriate for desert conditions. But a sort of false market condition was created through easy access to both irrigation and ground water pumping. These farmers were making money hand over fist with the combination of water and southwestern sunshine. In fact, often NM’s pecan production was #1 in the nation, mostly shipping the pecans to China. Georgia often tied NM’s production, but evidently the NM pecans were of higher quality and thus more desirable and profitable pound for pound. The easy access to water though was under serious threat by a lawsuit with Texas. Texas claims the extreme pumping of groundwater was actually sucking more surface water from the Rio Grande (that would have to eventually recharge the groundwater table below) than was allowed by treaty. Texas seems to have the winning argument and a looming collapse the NM pecan industry was worry-some.<br />
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I was not worried about the future of pecans as I enjoyed the tree shaded ride and coolness of the inefficiently and wastefully flooded orchards. With the cool of the morning, and this artificial air conditioning effect, I was clipping along quite nicely.<br />
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The historic Fort Sheldon came into views, a few slumping adobe walls visible. I decided to take a quick break and wheeled over to the visitors center to take a look. I was there too early to enter the grounds, the gates being locked. However, the grounds were quit lovely, being planted with a wide variety of native plants, many of them blooming. I enjoy taking a few photos before continuing northwards.<br />
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I was enjoying this quiet rural road tracing the Rio Grande. Water is life in the desert and I, like the conquistadors on the ‘Camino Real’, kept close to the river. It always surprises me how a river can carve through the arid desert and there is no further greening of the land beyond a few yards of the river. The Green River and Colorado River are the same way. Only dust, rocks and cactus beyond the river banks, weird!<br />
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My daydreaming was suddenly interrupted when three dogs sprinted out of a farm driveway in hot pursuit of me. Two of them were Great Danes and one really looked serious. I tried to accelerate but he had the jump on me and cut in front. As I yelled at him to stop, I clumsily reached behind my back for some pepper spray in my jersey pocket. As he closed within a few feet of me, snarling and barking, I somehow, quite desperately, thought to yell “Sit” to him. And it worked! He stopped and sat looking confusedly as me, just long enough for me to stand on the pedals and make my escape. That universal command used by every dog owner had done it’s charm. Whew, I’ll remember that trick again! I also relocated the pepper spray to my front side, now clipped onto the chest sternum strap of my Camel Back pack. I was now ready for a quick draw if need be.<br />
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The pecans fields finally gave way to the chili fields near the outskirts of Hatch, NM. Hatch has a long prideful tradition of chili production. As green chilis gained popularity nationally, autumn chili stands and roadside roasters had even made their way to Denver. Now Hatch was in competition with Pueblo’s chilis, and the ‘buy local’ movement was diminishing Hatch’s distribution into Colorado and beyond. I was sure looking forward to a ‘real chili’ meal in Hatch, but I was making too much early morning progress.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhucOQef11zib4EWr9xWuoZZm908JxPCEqSSKaOOPdoiA3pEOWGJ3MHZrrtvIWIusCqWEB3AfUztJEWZ3HxHCW0VVY-B6GrGt9SEZfsJv1I5559dIU5pLyV7_CG-wSaVbjyF1iBLxPI-IRx/s1600/20170504_093528.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhucOQef11zib4EWr9xWuoZZm908JxPCEqSSKaOOPdoiA3pEOWGJ3MHZrrtvIWIusCqWEB3AfUztJEWZ3HxHCW0VVY-B6GrGt9SEZfsJv1I5559dIU5pLyV7_CG-wSaVbjyF1iBLxPI-IRx/s400/20170504_093528.jpg" width="400" /></a>I had hoped to have lunch at Sparky’s restaurant in Hatch, which is a real institution with southern NM residents. Funky decor and killer green chili dishes. Sparky’s was closed, so instead I found a non-descript small local diner to enjoy my green chili fix. Foregoing high tech goo packets, I stuffed my gut with authentic Huevos Ranchos slathered in green chili sauce. Yummy!<br />
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With all my blood supply being seemingly shunted to my digestive tract instead of my legs, I wobbly and light-headedly rode out of Hatch. I had definitely overdone my meal and the desert heat was building. Like a sweating Sumo wrestler I worked my way northwards, the Rio Grande off in the distance, laughing at me.<br />
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Finally, I reached Truth or Consequences, NM by 1pm. The town’s weird name was from a 1950’s game show, having no relevance now. “T or C” is what New Mexicans call it. The town sits in a good position on the Rio Grande and even has natural hot springs, a real draw. But I was hot already and I needed was a cold shower, pronto! I found a quaint motel, reminiscent of Route 66 architecture, and checked-in. The owner’s sleepy dog had chosen my shaded doorway to rest, not budging at all when I lifted my bike over him. He was having a real siesta. <br />
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After a cool shower, a nap and stretching session, I washed my cycling clothes in the room’s hand basin; a routine all long distance cyclist share. <br />
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I walked down to a real local’s favorite restaurant, the Pacific Grill. It was quite busy with families and snowbird retirees. I too enjoyed my meal. Afterwards I found a mexican restaurant to buy a take-away burrito dinner, not for now, but the morning.<br />
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With the desert heat rising into the upper 80’s, I was determined to be already cycling as soon as the sun cracks the horizon in the morning (6:12am). It wasn’t possible to find any restaurant open early enough for that plan. So I had a good Plan B in place now. It had been a good day’s ride and I was already looking forward to tomorrow.<br />
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Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-61261029745000731392017-05-24T11:45:00.001-07:002017-05-24T13:03:04.904-07:00Pedaling the "Camino Real de Tierra Adentro"Arriving late morning in El Paso, the bus pulled into the station. A quick glance about showed it was fairly quiet, maybe a dozen folks waiting, and much cleaner and safer perhaps than the Denver bus station. No vagrants loitering about. I quickly reassembled my bike and tossed the cardboard box into a nearby dumpster. <br />
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I was ready to follow the “Camino Real de Tierra Adentro” (Spanish for Royal Road to the Interior Land) route north. This was originally a 1,600 miles trade route from Mexico City to San Juan Pueblo, New Mexico. The Spanish conquistadors (1511) preceded the European pilgrims (1620) into North America by more than 109 years! A fact overlooked in our northern european-centric migration myth building. With the current Trump “Build the Wall” mania and immigration debates, a simple look at our nation’s map will bear out the far earlier explorations and settlement from the southern direction. Spanish words naming our states: California, Nevada, New Mexico, Arizona, Texas, Colorado, Montana, Florida. Major cities named in Spanish: Los Angeles, San Bernadino, San Clemente, San Francisco, Santa Barbara, Las Cruces, Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Pueblo, El Paso, Amarillo, Loredo, etc. Spanish and Mexican heritage is the foundation story of much the of the western United States, with strong connections continuing today.<br />
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Entering the heavy traffic on South Mesa Street, I biked with my guard up, not sure how bike-aware they might be. It took about 30 minutes to gain my way out of the heavy, seemingly rollerball, traffic of the inner city. I felt some relief as I worked northwards into more industrial areas and the start of agricultural fields. Here were wide highway shoulders, tho often gravelly from vehicles making the many turns on and off the highway from the graveled business driveways. The riding certainly wasn’t postcard worthy, but it felt good to be finally pedaling on my journey.<br />
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The distance from El Paso, TX to my friends home in northern Las Cruces, NM was 49 miles. A good Day 1 intro for the muscles and butt. I’d be there mid-afternoon and already the temperature was in the low 80’s. My inner-thermostat was still calibrated for Colorado snows, and I really felt the heat. A kind landscape worker refilled my water bottle from his garden hose as I slathered on more suntan lotion. I was looking forward to some A/C soon! I crossed the Texas-New Mexico border and felt the joy of quick progress.<br />
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At the southern end of Las Cruces I pulled over at a Mom and Pop convenience store for something cool to drink. The wife didn’t speak english and got her husband to help me out at the register. Enjoying the store’s cool A/C, I lingered a bit and chatted with him. They had just been up to the Denver for the Gem and Mineral show and had an interest in rocks. He said many cyclists crossing the USA, via the southern route of Florida-California, pass by their store. They had even hosted cyclists for the night via the website WarmShowers.com, although were not currently listed on it. I would have never guessed that a tiny little shop like theirs would have a cycling connection. Travel is funny that way, often expanding one’s assumptions or even opinions of folks.<br />
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Refreshed for the last few miles through Las Cruces, I competed with the cars as there was no bike lane. Heavy road work meant detours and finally I entered the quiet rural outskirts of the northern end of town and my journey for the day was complete. I spent a pleasant evening catching up with my old high school buddy and his father, daughter and new son-in-law. His daughter’s wedding had been the impetus for my ride south from Colorado to Albuquerque last May; it was fun to continue the southern route by seeing them again, without all the wedding hoopla going on. Many stories were shared and it was a great evening with all.<br />
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Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-16093704754789534882017-05-24T11:32:00.001-07:002017-05-24T13:02:04.066-07:00Southwestern ConnectionWinter snows capped the Rockies and memories of last year’s bike tour to New Mexico were still strong, nearly twelve months later. It had been a great ride, albeit under stormy skies and hampered by my cycling partner’s illness. The driving force for that ride had been to attend an old friend’s daughter’s wedding in New Mexico. Logistics and the wedding location had meant a southern end point at Albuquerque (458 miles). A few more cycling days would have allowed me to push then all the way to the Mexican border at El Paso, TX. Now a year later I wanted to complete that southern leg of my ride.<br />
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Commitments this year meant an early May ride and a shortened preparation timeline. It seems like the specter of early or late season weather is a common element of my bike tours. I was sure hoping this would not mean a tough ride. This desert Southwest ride could be too warm, too cold and/or windy in early May. Having lived and cycled in NM for years, I dreaded the thought of sideways winds whipping up tumbleweeds and sandblasting grit in my eyes and gears. One Tour of the Rio Grande Valley century ride (100 miles) I had planned on finishing in close to four hours, but took nearly seven under horrific sandstorm winds. With this memory still vivid after 40 years, I packed four water bottles for long days in the saddle and three spare tubes for the inevitable goathead thorns. In a way, I dreaded this desert homecoming.<br />
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Usually one just flies from home to the start of one’s trip. However, it seemed one logical way might be to take the Greyhound Bus from Denver to El Paso, squeezing in an overnight with friends in Albuquerque southward. For only $70 fare and $20 bike box fee it was a deal compared with $173 airfare and $150 oversize bike fee charged American Airlines. By reversing my ride to be from El Paso to ABQ, I could be picked up by my wife at her parents at the ride’s conclusion in ABQ. Thus she would visit them and I could mix a family and cycling vacation. With this plan in place, I would leave at 6am in Denver, arriving ABQ 5PM. Then continuing at 5AM the next morning, I would arrive El Paso 9:50AM. It seemed like a pretty straight forward plan.<br />
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After leaving the frankly dismal and depressing Denver bus station (lots of homeless people crashing out there), the bus quickly made it’s way south on I-25. After a short Colorado Springs stop, I soon began a conversation with an 70-ish passenger from Poland. An interesting fellow, who was globe trotting in his senior years. His wife did not like to fly, but that wasn’t stopping him. He was on a three week bus tour here, his second trip now to the USA. As a civil engineer he had worked in Libya for two years, Saudi Arabia for a year and Finland for a year. His personal travels had taken him to the summit of Kilimanjaro, Cape Town, Australia, Asia and all over Europe. We had many places traveled in common, marveling we had both even been to Nordkapp, Norway, too. The time and miles flew by, and soon we arrived in ABQ. Marek planned to spend a day in ABQ, so I gave him advice on the sights to see and we parted ways. <br />
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After an enjoyable evening with friends and fitful rest in ABQ, I was soon rolling again southwards to El Paso. The bus ride from ABQ to El Paso is pretty boring on I-25; sage and cactus covered sandy plains, and seemingly waterless hills and mountains in the simmering distance. “Well, some rides you do to fill a blank spot on a map and calendar” I thought to myself. I hoped my journey by bike may find some new vistas (maybe only internal ones) along the banks of the Rio Grande river as it paralleled the highway. While in the 1500s, the Spanish conquistadors arduously trekked ‘al Norte’ along the Rio Grande, in hot heavy armor, I instead would be zipping along in lycra from air-conditioned motel to air-conditioned motel. Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-68779750687531356422016-06-01T09:47:00.000-07:002016-06-01T14:32:18.072-07:00HomecomingIt was another rainy morning. The forecast was for nearly 2" of rain along the eastern side of the Sandia Mountains, roughly 80 miles away. It had rained all night here in Espanola, NM. Clad once again in wool socks, neoprene booties and full rain gear, I turned on my flashing rear tail light and joined the 6:30 AM commuter traffic bound for Santa Fe, NM. After a few hectic miles of pedaling alongside the highway traffic, I found a peaceful frontage road to ride on. I climbed steadily out of the Espanola valley. I passed Camel Rock, which I remembered from my youth. I wondered if this frontage road had once been the main highway, now bypassed by the multi-lane highway nearby. Taking a couple photos here felt nostalgic.<br />
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Highway 89 was shade-covered by tall cottonwood trees. "A pretty spot" I thought as I cycled through Tesuque Pueblo. After a few miles I dropped into Santa Fe. I was still in rush hour morning traffic there. I was making good time, though wary of the dark rain-laden clouds. I stopped at a gas station and bought a sandwich, as I still hadn't had any breakfast due to my early start.<br />
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After battling through the construction zones on Cerrillos Road, I sped South out of Santa Fe. I began to lose elevation rapidly. That was not good, as I'd face lots of steep hills to regain elevation on the backside of Sandia Peak. I passed some fanciful wind vane bicycle art outside of Santa Fe.<br />
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Up and down I went, passing through the mining district of old Madrid. I was enjoying the distinctive southwestern landscape in spite of all the climbing involved.<br />
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All alone in my world, suddenly another cyclist appeared. Wow, another touring soul! I pulled over and we had a chat. His name was Greg, a college student from Tempe, AZ. He was headed to Colorado Springs to work as a camp counselor for the summer. He was camping out along the way, although often grabbing a couch for the night he'd located through a cycling site www.warmshowers.org. His ride was to be 750 miles long and he had 75 days to do it. Not exactly a rocket pace, but he was also killing time until the job started. He was quite the cycling novice and had no idea about clip-in pedals or even toe clips for his feet. His bike was a heavy steel steed. But he had spunk and youth on his side. I was sure he'd make a great youth counselor, already creating a good role model for the youth he'd soon meet. Fancy bike equipment was not needed, his 'can do' attitude surely would propel him the rest of the way!<br />
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I was making good time as I reached the eastern side of Sandia Peak. Albuquerque was just 15 miles away. It was chilly out, scud clouds hanging low. I treated myself to a coffee and pastry at a Cedar Crest bakery. I phoned home to have my wife forewarn my in-laws of my impending arrival. With a warm belly I raced down Tijeras Canyon, a fortuitous tailwind whisking me into Albuquerque, the "Duke City". Still wearing winter cycling tights, neoprene booties and rain jacket, I knocked on my in-law's door. In seven hours I had quickly ridden 90 miles and over 5,000' of steep hill climbing. My fifth day, and my last ride of the 458 miles, had been done in good form. An amazing route through central Colorado and northern New Mexico had been ridden. I was back in my old stomping grounds. It was time to visit family and friends and even dress up for a wedding! The tour had exceeded my expectations. A "Credit Card" type of speed touring using motels and cafes versus the full camping and remote Alaskan ride of last September. It was fun to go light and fast for a change. "What would be next ride" was already in the back of my mind!<br />
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<br />Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-78716376899650284382016-06-01T08:32:00.001-07:002016-06-02T11:48:10.665-07:00Steaming SouthThe morning dawned bright and clear. The cobalt blue skies of the American West lifted my spirits as I clipped into my pedals. I had a quick goodbye with Dan as he rolled over to sleep in (finally!) and await his car ride home. On the edge of Antonito, NM is the northern terminus of the Chama Toltec Scenic Railroad. This coal-fired steam train first began running in 1880. Now it is a popular tourist ride of 64 miles, chugging it's way through sage hills and alpine aspen groves. Although not officially running for the season yet, I was fortunate to be there as they were moving the steam engine around the switch yard. A big black coal plume bellowed skyward, pumping steam power to the big wheels. And a long toot of the whistle...magic!<br />
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With the whistle ringing in my ear, and New Mexico a few minutes ride away, I enjoyed the cool morning air. I reflected a bit more, with some melancholy, about Dan's dropping out. It sure had been a good time with him. We'd figure out some future adventure fun someday. Yeah for sure! I took photos at the NM border and pedaled into the home state of my youth. It felt good to be returning this way, by bike.<br />
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The miles passed quickly. The grass lands of the San Luis Valley gave way to rolling juniper and pinon pine covered hills. Alpine mountains were in the distance. A very quiet highway, perfect for cycling. After 64 miles I passed through Ojo Caliente, NM. Meaning "hot water" literally in Spanish. This is the bi-lingual "Land of Enchantment". No stopping at the hot springs for me; the upscale spa there would have been a wonderful respite. But I had miles to ride and a friend's wedding date to arrive by! I dropped into drier country now.<br />
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I finished my day's ride at Espanola, NM. I had ridden 87 miles. I called Dan up check in. He was still in Antonito, CO awaiting his ride. He was pretty bummed to not be riding; even a bit more so at not having left Colorado yet, and I was done pedaling for the day. We said our goodbyes and hung up. I celebrated my progress by having a large pizza delivered to my motel room. <br />
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<br />Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-80234375223517851022016-06-01T07:42:00.000-07:002016-06-02T11:50:11.036-07:00"Bust"Day 3 dawned with more rain and forecasted 'doom and gloom' on the motel TV. The low pressure system wasn't going to let up at all. In fact it was beginning to look like we'd be experiencing it into New Mexico now. This lingering winter weather was beginning to ruin my dreams of a sunny cycle South.<br />
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We quickly downed the burritos we had purchased the night before from a roadside food truck. We had a 107 mile ride ahead of us, beginning with a 2,000' climb up Poncha Pass. The sooner we hit the road the better. In the pre-dawn drizzle, and with low cloud ceiling, we cycled upwards in full rain gear, neoprene booties and a flashing tail light blinking our presence. <br />
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The grade up Poncha Pass was reasonable, in fact one I found my perfect rhythm on. Some climbs are so steep one really strains on the pedals. This one seemed ideal for me; a nice 90 rpm cadence and I quickly gained elevation on the 2,000' climb. Dan seemed to be dragging a bit, the cumulative exertions digging him deeper into his illness. Today would be another test for him.<br />
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We had a quick descent down Poncha Pass into the San Luis Valley. Now we were at the northern limits of the conquistadors explorations of 1599. This is the oldest area of Spanish influence in Colorado. It is full of rich history and worthy of a visit by both history buffs and nature lovers. The Great Sand Dunes National Park and Preserve is certainly unique, consisting of thirty square miles of sand dunes nestled at the base of the 14,000' tall snow capped San de Cristo Range. But there would be no viewing of the cloud shrouded peaks today, as we were chased by frequent rain squalls across the hundred mile long valley floor. Nor was there time in our demanding schedule to detour to the dunes. We were factory workers slaving away, turning the bicycle cranks round and round.<br />
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We took a short break in Alamosa, CO. Dan's energy was really slipping. We had another 27 miles to go. A strong wind was really picking up. For 17 miles we struggled to even stay upright, as we were slammed sideways frequently by the gusty blasts. We were punch drunk as we fought our way past Jack Dempsey's birthplace, Manassa CO.<br />
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By mile 107 Dan was beaten down. His bronchitis had won. His normally cheerful spirit was crushed. With just fumes in his tank, he said his last cycling prayer for this trip at the oldest church in Colorado. Just 6 miles from the NM state line, here in Antonito, CO, was the end for him. I couldn't blame him. He had started the trip sick and run down. This was a predictable conclusion. However he had battled mightily and we had grown closer over the days and rugged miles of this trip. It had been trench warfare for him. The weather had been wet, windy and not pleasant most of the way. These hadn't been conditions suitable for any sort of recuperation by him at all. So we enjoyed our last evening together over a tasty green chili New Mexican style dinner. It had been a memorable ride all in all, but now I would have to push on alone. A friend of Dan's from Santa Fe would drive up tomorrow and take him back home to Albuquerque. He was quite disappointed.<br />
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<br />Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-34781475492785128972016-05-31T09:35:00.000-07:002016-06-02T11:51:38.693-07:00Recovery RideThe next morning we both awoke, quite fried from our long ride the day before. It was raining outside and the weather channel promised more of that to come. The low pressure system up North, in western Idaho, was sliding South into Utah. It looked like we we going to be chased by it, at least to the New Mexico border, for the next two days<br />
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We climbed the seemingly small Trout Creek Pass and began a rapid loss of elevation into Buena Vista, CO. Skies began to brighten up a bit and snowy peaks showed their faces.<br />
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Dan was feeling better and having an 'easy day' seemed to be working for him. We continued southwards to Poncha Springs, CO. We ran into three Denver cyclists training for a trans-America ride (Washington to Maine). They were due to start in a month. Our main advise was to take less of whatever they thought they needed. They could buy something later if they really decided they needed it. Every pound counts in distance touring!<br />
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Our cozy 'Mom and Pop' motel greeted us at the end of our 'easy day' of 57 miles. We had climbed only 1,500' today, so that was nice.<br />
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We gave our cycling muscles some much needed therapy in the motel hot tub. Well-deserved!<br />
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<br />Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-9155647450727671182016-05-31T09:04:00.001-07:002016-06-01T14:13:59.761-07:00New Mexico or "Bust"!May 14th arrived and so had Dan, except he was nearly on death's doorstep. Fatigued from a stressful week in Indiana due to an unexpected funeral, and all clogged up by allergies and bronchitis, he had trekked up from NM half-doubting whether he should even ride. I hardly expected him to show up, but he gamely did, so our ride was still on. At 8:30am, we took last photos at Lake Granby and started South facing a real test of his health. Day 1 would entail 114 miles, 5,700' climbing and a high point of 11,538' at mile 100 no less!! Rain and snow were in the forecast, a low pressure system headed our way...<br />
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A least we are riding I thought, trying to repress doubts about Dan's health. I looked back and he was nowhere to be seen. I stopped, peered back, yet still couldn't spot him. He'd been on my wheel about three miles back, gee we were only seven miles from our start. Where was he? I got off my bike stretched a bit. After 10 minutes I started cycling back. A couple miles later he appeared... a flat tire already! We had three spare tubes to start with and now were down to just two. I was sure we'd need all three tubes for the goathead thorns of New Mexico. This was not promising!<br />
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By Kremmling CO, only 40 miles into our day, it was apparent that Dan was really suffering. There was no way he could stay on my rear wheel and draft, and I wasn't pushing it at all. At the gas station bathroom break he looked pretty grim. I gamely encouraged him, but this was going to be the mother-of-all suffer-fest days for him. The upcoming 5 mile stretch of road construction didn't help. While he privately suffered, I wondered about getting the likely-hood more flats on this gravel section with our skinny 25mm road tires?<br />
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We stopped, sipped from our water bottles, and talked. Dan needed help. He was just too sick to push it. The only solution that I could offer was to take some of his gear. So I strapped his extra-large 'bike packing' rear seat bag onto my bike and started off. It wasn't too heavy, but it at least gave Dan some moral support. He struggled onwards to Lake Dillion and Frisco. (In the photo, the large seat bag on the white bike is Dan's. He used that and a day pack. I used only a day pack))<br />
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We turned a short break into a long one at the Frisco Safeway store. We lounged in the sun, refueled our bodies. Dan was despondent, but I keep encouraging him. He had done 60 miles so far. After an hour we cycled to Breckenridge. The ski runs were still ski-able and the white-capped mountain views amazing.<br />
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As we climbed past 10,200', I was feeling the altitude and needed to shed Dan's gear. At least I had helped carry it for 30 miles and 2,000' of climbing. Dan would need carry it over the Pass, another 1,300' higher. Dan seemed stronger now, perhaps getting his second wind. He pushed the pace up the Pass, I drafted for the first time all day.<br />
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Near the summit of Hoosier Pass a storm blew in; so bad in fact a motorist stopped to see if we need a ride. Sleet blew sideways, and the altitude taxed our lungs. but no way were were going to stop now! Victory was a few pedal strokes away. Finally at mile 100 exactly, we to reached the summit. In stormy weather we took photos and enjoyed a fast (48 mph) 14 mile decent into Fairplay CO. An epic ride of 114 miles 5,700' of climbing up to 11,538' had been accomplished. A day for the personal record book that's for sure. Dan had suffered greatly, but he had done it!<br />
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Chow time ;)<br />
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<br />Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-77109636996346186922016-05-31T07:58:00.001-07:002016-06-02T11:53:45.982-07:00Speed TouringSoon after last Autumn's grueling but rewarding Alaska bike tour, I wondered what would be next on my biking agenda? The thought of another epic gravel road, self-supported tour was not so attractive yet to me. The ideal place for that would be Alaska again, or Canada. Lots of woods to camp in, mountains and rivers to enjoy. But this option would require another major commitment of time and resources to fly to and from suitable start and finish points. Perhaps something less ambitious logistically and lighter weight could be the solution?<br />
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Mid-winter I received a wedding invitation from an old high school friend down in New Mexico. He and I had done many epic backpacking trips together in New Mexico and Alaska. Going to his daughter's wedding would give us a chance to reconnect. Logistically it would be easy for me to bike down (455 miles) and have my wife drive down for the wedding a few days later, then we'd both return by car to Colorado. So now I had a date and a method to haul my tired butt and bike back home. All I needed was a speedy partner to draft all the way South!<br />
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Dan was definitely the "Man"! A former collegiate triathlete and still a training machine at age 31, he'd be the spur to my side to keep me training all winter. There's nothing like the ego of an aging ex-bike racer, like myself, to bite off more than one should. Dan and I had enjoyed friendly sparing over the years, battling it out on big mountain rides. I knew he'd be the right guy for this ride. Easy going, enthusiastic and fit, he'd be a great companion for the many days we'd spend together.<br />
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The winter passed with Dan training away in New Mexico and myself in Colorado. Frequent text message training reports were passed back and forth. Lots of friendly cagoling on each other's progress went on. Dan's Strava online reports were getting out of hand; his 100 mile rides and big vertical days (over 5,000') were getting me concerned. Was he going to burn out prematurely or just plainly leave me in his dust?! I did my normal weekend nordic skiing workouts but added 2-3 days cycling midweek. That was a real challenge during a seemingly wetter Winter and Spring than normal in Colorado. I had many unpleasant training days that's for sure. The dream of warm cycling in the New Mexico sun kept me spinning those gears winter-long. As we wheeled off, my longest training ride to date had only been 65 miles long...I was definitely counting on my nordic skiing fitness to save me!<br />
<br />Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-86495068357363024292015-10-07T09:01:00.002-07:002015-10-09T11:21:40.602-07:00A Few StatsI case you are planning to bike the Dalton Highway yourself, the mud and snow not withstanding, here's a few stats from my ride. My ride was from North to South. If there is to be any tailwind, it will be from the NE or NW typically. The hill climbs are supposed to be a bit harder going southward. The hardest hills are south of the Arctic Circle to Fox. The travel logistics are a bit easier if one flies first into Deadhorse and then finishes up in Fairbanks. June is normally the month of choice for good weather. July can be smoky from forest fires and August very rainy. September has snow beginning early in the month.<br />
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My trip dates: Sept 6th - 14th<br />
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Day 1. 48 miles Prudhoe Bay - Pump Station 2 area <br />
Day 2. 54 miles Pump Station 2 area - Pump Station 3 area<br />
Day 3. 53 miles Pump Station 3 area to 5 miles past Pump Station 4<br />
Day 4. 59 miles (Atigun Pass). Pump Station 4 - Dietrich River<br />
Day 5. 25 miles Dietrich River to Coldfoot<br />
Day 6. 60 miles Coldfoot to Arctic Circle<br />
Day 7. 60 miles Arctic Circle to Yukon River<br />
Day 8. 60 miles Yukon River to Elliot Highway Junction<br />
Day 9. 71 miles Elliot Highway Junction to Fox<br />
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Total mileage ridden 490 miles and total vertical climbed, a massive 33,348 feet!<br />
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Here's a graph showing the route's elevation profile. Note that the highest point is Atigun Pass at 4,738 ft. The hills really get frequent and steep after Coldfoot Camp, located halfway at 250 miles on the graph. One starts the trip at sea level in Prudhoe Bay.<br />
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Choice of bicycle is up to you. My earlier post on "The Bicycle" covers this subject. Just make sure you have super low gears for the hills and fat tires for the mud and gravel!<br />
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Lodging in Deadhorse is $160 per night at the Prudhoe Bay hotel, but includes unlimited meals and snacks at the workers' cafeteria. A room at the Coldfoot truck stop is $160 with meals extra. Typical Fairbanks lodging is $160-$180 per night during the summer tourist season. Fairbanks' campgrounds charge $25 for a single tent, but they close around Sept 1 for the winter.<br />
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No rental car company in Alaska will rent you a car or RV for use on the gravel Dalton Highway.<br />
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Pistols cannot be purchased by out of state residents, so you will have to bring your own or borrow one. Unloaded pistols (in locked case) and ammo can be shipped (separately from gun) inside your luggage to Alaska. Bear spray and air horns available everywhere in Fairbanks.<br />
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Fairbanks is the logistical hub/resupply center for the interior and arctic Alaska. There are major grocery stores and big box retailers in town. Prices are reasonable. Beaver Sports is a great outdoor gear/bike shop if you need camping or bike supplies. REI is also in town now. Goldstream Sports, on the edge of town, is the headquarters for hardcore cyclists/triathletes/nordic skiers. <br />
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You can fly and ship your bike via Alaska Airlines and Ravn Air to Deadhorse Airport. Prudhoe Bay Hotel is right across the street from the terminal.<br />
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There is no cell service for nearly 500 miles! Only two truck stops for 500 miles! Resupply can to mailed to the Coldfoot Camp post office (open just 3 afternoons a week). Be self-sufficient and enjoy this amazing and challenging wilderness bike ride!<br />
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A link to the BLM guide for cyclists doing the Dalton Highway: <cite class="_Rm"></cite><br />
<cite class="_Rm"><a href="https://www.alaskageographic.org/uploads/pdf/dalton-vg2014-web.pdf">https://www.alaskageographic.org/uploads/pdf/dalton-vg2014-web.pdf</a> </cite><br />
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<br />Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-47550939780776640492015-10-07T08:07:00.002-07:002015-10-09T10:22:29.913-07:00Furballs and FirearmsSeveral folks have asked me about the pistol they have seen in my photographs, and why it was needed? It is a bit difficult to explain this to folks who have not spent much time in the Alaskan bush. To an Alaskan having a firearm is quite normal, even expected. Alaska is a huge area with few roads and towns. Wildlife truly abounds here. They are a special part of the Alaskan experience. One routinely sees bears, wolves, moose, caribou. In an area 2 1/2 times the size of Texas, spanning 1,480 miles by 810 miles, one is always in Nature's backyard.<br />
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Bear encounters are routine in Alaska. In fact, at my field project this summer, we had encounters on a near daily basis for a month. Air horns generally scare them off and all personnel carry pepper spray. Scientists, Fish and Game personnel and geologists routinely carry a firearm in the field. I personally know a geologist that was severely mauled by a grizzly bear in 2010. I have also met another geologist that nearly lost his life in a bear attack.<br />
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Paranoia about bear attacks is not useful. Proper precautions with food handling, food storage and bear awareness in brushy areas is all that is normally needed. Pepper spray is very effective. In one study of 176 encounters where bear spray was used, only three people had injuries; and those injured only had scratches with no fatalities to humans or the bears.<br />
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Now a can of pepper spray is not as assuring as packing a big 'ole gun on one's hip, that's for sure! So most Alaskans carry a magnum-sized caliber pistol, assuming they don't already have a shotgun with slugs along too. Shotguns are the first choice, though not as convenient nor handy while working in the brush. Statistically firearms are not a better choice than bear spray. In 269 close-quarter encounters using a firearm, 151 people were still injured (some killed) by the bear and 172 bears killed. Handguns actually were slightly better at stopping the the bear's aggression than rifles, 84 versus 76.<br />
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So if handguns are less effective than bear spray, why did I find myself pedaling along with a massive .44 magnum pistol in my handlebar bag? Was this some Clint Eastwood "Dirty Harry" fantasy on my part?! Wolves, that is why.<br />
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These photos were taken from the inside of my work truck just 10 days before I started my bike ride. These three wolves were totally unafraid and surrounded my truck. The two projects I have worked in the Brooks Range have both had very active wolf packs in the area. At both locations wolves came through camp routinely. At camp closing day, 3 days before my ride, there were two wolves spotted down at our dirt airstrip. A single can of bear spray would not fend off several wolves intent on getting you. In some historical accounts people have been killed by large packs, even while armed. In one incident the remains of the person was surrounded by 16 wolves he had killed in defense before dying himself. A coworker of mine has seen a massive pack of nearly 60 wolves near our unoccupied project camp in winter, during an aerial reconnaissance.<br />
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A few selected wolf encounters:<br />
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2006 A wolf chases a bicyclist down the Dalton Highway; before being run over by a trucker, saving the cyclist<br />
2006 A wolf bit a woman near the Arctic Circle on the Dalton Highway<br />
2006 A group of bus tourists were approached by a wolf on the Dalton Highway<br />
2006 Motorcyclist was chased by a wolf on Dalton Highway<br />
2010 Jogger killed by two wolves in Alaska<br />
2012 Snowmobile rider attacked by wolf in Alaska<br />
2013 In two separate incidents cyclists were attacked by wolves and rescued by motorists in Canada<br />
2014 Female snowshoe hiker and her 4 dogs attacked by lone wolf in Alaska<br />
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This is not a rant about how we ought to be exterminating wolves, especially in the western USA. I find wolves and bears an interesting and necessary part of the ecosystem. Just be prepared if you go into their backyard... <br />
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For the touring cyclist or backpacker in Alaska, I'd recommend a lightweight handgun with 2 clips of ammo for wolf protection. Also bring along a small air horn and bear spray for the bears. You'll sleep well at night then!<br />
<br />Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-15826799905662987042015-10-06T09:08:00.000-07:002015-10-09T10:08:33.166-07:00Fairbanks or Bust!I was now within striking distance of Fairbanks. It was 74 miles to Fox and another 10 miles to Fairbanks. I could taste the cold beer on my lips now! My sleeping bag was wet once again and I was determined to make it to Fairbanks today, come hell or high water. What I didn't expect were even more extreme hills, more mud, plus freezing rain and snow. It seems nature was really trying to crush me. After 9 days of cycling, with only 2 months of exercise bike training under my belt, I dug about as deep into myself as I ever had before to complete my ride. Endless grades, under wet gloomy clouds, almost crushed my spirits. My feet were so numb from the wet slush that often I'd stop and walk to get the circulation flowing again. This in spite of wearing a polyester liner sock, a thick wool sock and neoprene cycling booties! My hands were frozen and useless, my Windstopper gloves totally soaked. Several times I'd have to stop and wring out all the icy water from my gloves.<br />
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<a href="http://www.screencast.com/users/GravelBikeRider/folders/Dalton%20Highway%202015/media/caf5754e-9c3c-4b6a-b996-c025707c4de9">VIDEO LINK</a><br />
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For nearly 20 miles I battled and clawed my way through slush and steep grades. I had a long terrifying descent down Wickersam Dome, in slush and thick fog. Definitely one of those "must not fall" situations. My rear brake was frozen open and unusable, plus the road surface was too slick to use my front brake. At high speed, on the edge of control, I sped down the mountain.<br />
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Near dusk I reach Fox and the welcoming lights of the the Silver Gulch Brewery. This was it, end of the ride. I was frozen top to bottom, there would be no more cycling into Fairbanks 10 miles away. Dripping wet I went inside and stripped off wet layers in the restroom. The rain pounded outside and darkness fell. I drank deeply of my first beer in 9 days. It had been a challenging ride and today was beyond category. Fox was enough, as I had cycled here many times before from Fairbanks. The link complete. Nearly 500 miles accomplished under trying conditions. That was something to be proud of. I was ready to go home now, finally.Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-52793358348601144842015-10-06T08:26:00.002-07:002015-10-09T10:01:48.713-07:00Hill Country HellSaying adieu to the Yukon River, I pedaled away in rain and cold 40 degree temperatures. The road was muddy, but not the same super-sticky variety of yesterday. The hills were a major challenge. So far I hadn't had to walk or push my bike for 350 miles. Today's hills would crush that record and my ego. Six different times I'd have to dismount and push my heavily-ladened bike up another muddy hill. This was like the hills of Kentucky, straight up and then straight down. Unnamed grades, repeating themselves over and over.<br />
<a href="http://www.screencast.com/users/GravelBikeRider/folders/Dalton%20Highway%202015/media/a35639f5-5c65-4e73-9e55-6508d6c1a408">VIDEO LINK</a><br />
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Often I'd go through vast areas of old burns too. Alaska is too big to economically put out forest fires, so they spread until autumn rains and winter snows extinguish them. Mid-summer Alaska is often quite smokey due to these fires. At least I didn't have that to contend with too!<br />
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Fairbanks had had lots of smoke this summer, pity the visitors doing their big Alaska adventure vacation. A photo from this summer's Fairbanks newspaper.<br />
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After a super hilly day I finally reached the Elliot Highway. The 414 mile Dalton Highway had been conquered, well, more like endured. I was psyched to reach this goal. The road junction signs were plastered with stickers and memorabilia from cyclists and motorcyclist who had passed this way. The goal to ride from the Arctic to Tierra del Fuego, at the tip of South America, is a "bucket list" goal for a few crazy souls. I enjoyed looking at the stickers and marveled at the adventures of the individuals they represented.<br />
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<a href="http://www.screencast.com/users/GravelBikeRider/folders/Dalton%20Highway%202015/media/20fe9680-0730-4328-9c3b-bbb045278118">VIDEO LINK</a><br />
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I spun down a side road and set my tent up for the night, dreams of Patagonia in my mind.<br />
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<br />Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-6072422594373952722015-10-06T07:13:00.000-07:002015-10-09T09:55:25.241-07:00Mud BaptismThe rain was pounding on my tent, Arctic Circle rain. The inside of my tent sagged low with water drops, soaking parts of my sleeping bag. In the semi-dawn I debated, would this be a rest day or not? In six days I hadn't taken a break at all. My knees were creaking from the effort and my thighs laced with lactic acid. A break would be nice, perhaps even needed. But could I stand a tent-bound day, while my sleeping bag got wetter and wetter?<br />
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I went outside the tent for a peek. Low grey clouds raced past the tree tops, but sort of a quartering tailwind. That was enough to have me eat a quick breakfast and roll my tent up in the rain. It was a soggy mess when I put it in it's stuff sack. The Yukon was 65 miles away, but a truck stop there was supposed to be open until the end of October. Perhaps another chance to dry out my gear? In wet conditions I cycled onto the very muddy road.<br />
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All day long I had to battle with the mug clogging my chain, gears and derailleurs. My chain started to hop erratically with the mud and rocks in it. At times only a couple gears would work properly. Even my fenders began to clog up with mud. I seemed the closer I got to the Yukon River the stickier the mud got.<br />
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Most cyclist I know are sort of gear heads. Any dirt they get on their bike they clean off immediately after a ride. A fastidious and a bit tech nerdy crowd. Any thoughts of cleaning my chain would have been ludicrous, as it would have been totally mud-clad within minutes again. With grit and grim "lubricating" the poor chain I soldiered on, having my own personal trench warfare experience.<br />
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I was nearly at my wits end when finally the Yukon River bridge appeared. The day's ride had been super hilly and the mud exasperating. Within sight of the bridge I ground to a halt, my fenders so clogged with mud that I had to once again clear with my tire iron. Shifting was impossible, I only had one usable gear!<br />
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<a href="http://www.screencast.com/users/GravelBikeRider/folders/Dalton%20Highway%202015/media/ed77c76f-f7f1-448f-ae7b-9b1d3063881e">VIDEO LINK</a><br />
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The Yukon River Camp was packed with caribou hunter trucks and boats. As only one of two places in Alaska that the Yukon River is accessible by road, hunters trailer boats there to gain access to remote hunting areas up or downriver. There were easily 100 trucks parked there.<br />
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Once in the cafe, finally out of the rain and mud, I regained my psyche. I grabbed a corner booth and unpacked my wet sleeping bag to dry out. I chatted with some truckers and a friendly waitress. As we chatted, it seems that after this job she was headed to the Dominican Republic to work for the Peace Corp. Another interesting personal connection along this road, as I had sailed there by sailboat from Florida within the past year. So many "coincidences", the world is smaller than one thinks, that's for sure.<br />
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The truckers reported that the mud ahead was supposed to not be as bad, but I'd have even more hills to battle. The forecast was for continued rain, ugh!<br />
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With no cell coverage to phone home, I begged to use the cafe's office computer to send a quick email home to check-in. The waitress was helpful and let me. After eating dinner, I dunked my bike into the Yukon River to cleanse it of the mud. In light rain, I found a nice grassy spot on the banks of the river to pitch my tent, still as wet on the inside as outside. I'd have to dry my sleeping bag in the morning again before pedaling off.<br />
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Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-19758889663629098172015-10-05T08:11:00.000-07:002015-10-09T10:47:08.662-07:00Arctic Circle or Bust!After a night in the rain, I rolled up my tent and got breakfast at the Coldfoot Camp cafe. I drug in my damp sleeping bag and grabbed a booth by the heater. After
chatting some more with the Chilean motorcyclist, I pedaled off into the rain
aiming for the Arctic Circle.<br />
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For awhile the pedaling was easy, still going downhill. There were fall colors everywhere. Although lightly drizzling, I made good time and was in good spirits.<br />
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I came upon a float plane left temporarily by caribou hunters. Want to trade?!<br />
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Finally
my luck seemed to run out. A real bitch of a grade faced me, climbing for several
miles up to a summit innocuously named "Gobblers Knob". Strangely it was
paved for awhile, way out here in the middle of nowhere. At the summit a sign
said I had pedaled past Prospect Creek, formerly the location of the coldest temp
recorded in North America. No winter pedaling here that's for sure.<br />
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The
cycling was now across broad valleys and then up steep hills. It was
progressively getting tougher. However there were lots of pretty views
and streams for filling my water bottle. A bit cool and grey, but I was psyched to reached the Arctic Circle shortly!<br />
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Pulling into the Arctic Circle parking lot, I met a group of about eight Chinese-Americans
posing with the sign. It turned out one was from Lyons, Colorado, just
down the road from home. A helpful BLM
Ranger took my photo. She was from Oregon, up for ten days, covering for a vacationing
local ranger. She was definitely glad to be escaping all the Oregon fires and
smoke.<br />
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I chose to not camp at the really nice looking BLM
sites at the Arctic Circle. The Arctic Circle sites are on a hill,
exposed to the wind and lack water. Dropping down the highway to the nearby Fish
Creek, I found a nice comfy and sheltered spot for the night.<br />
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<br />Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-32828751177444885682015-10-05T08:10:00.003-07:002015-10-09T10:48:35.653-07:00Halfway!I was surprised to see some grey clouds when I awoke on the banks of the Koyukuk River. At 2am I had a 'nature call' and was blessed with a starry sky laced with green Northern Lights. Now grey skies were building. I got rolling promptly, determined to reach Coldfoot Camp, the truck stop marking the halfway point of my journey. I couldn't resist one more photo of the massive marble Sukakak mountain before pedaling off. It looked like an Dolomite mountain transplanted from Italy.<br />
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The cycling went fast and easy, mostly flat. By 11:30 am I reached Coldfoot in increasingly wet conditions. I didn't care, I was halfway and ready for a big trucker-style lunch! I first paid for a shower ($14) and then threw my stinky clothes in the washer and dryer. For most of the afternoon I hung out, sipping coffee and trying to get wifi Internet access. No cell service here. The rain pounded the muddy parking lot outside.<br />
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Near dark, I accepted my fate and pitched my tent in the rain across the parking lot. Getting a room for the night would have cost me $160, so even my soggy tent looked inviting! I went back
into the cafe for a last coffee and met a just arrived Chilean fellow who was
trying to ride to Prudhoe Bay by motorcycle. He has been turned around
by snow about 40 miles away and was now heading south. He mentioned
that two vehicles with caribou hunters had also turned around. It seems
that in spite of the snowy conditions I went over Atigun Pass, things had
gotten much worse. I may have been the last person on two wheels
(motorized or not) to get through for the season. I had been pretty lucky. Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-25362604048535792772015-10-04T10:32:00.002-07:002015-10-09T09:33:08.515-07:00Atigun PassSurprise!!<br />
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<a href="http://www.screencast.com/users/GravelBikeRider/folders/Dalton%20Highway%202015/media/6c6b687b-56cc-474c-a2a8-4b3de8f43724">VIDEO LINK</a><br />
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Whoa, a frosty start to my big day of climbing Atigun Pass.
Surprisingly I wasn't bummed at all by finding snow this morning. In
fact it just added to the adventure of climbing over the Brooks Range's
highest pass at 4,739', with it's 12% grades. In fact this is Alaska's
highest year-round highway pass. A major challenge for the truckers supplying Prudhoe Bay, it normally means a push-a-thon by cyclists trying to cross it.<br />
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While
I was packing up my icy tent, a hunter stopped his camper and
brought me over some Starbucks coffee he had brewed. An angel in camo!
We had a short chat and then he was off to look for caribou. A kind fellow
and it reminded me of the corny "Hug a Hunter" ads being run on TV. I definitely
could have hugged him!<br />
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With a belly full of warm coffee and a recharged spirit I charged off for Atigun Pass. Tires slipping on the snowy road, I pedaled for all I was worth up that Pass. I needed to tack back and forth across the roadway, as the grade was so great. I pedaled the whole way up, out of the saddle, putting my full body weight into the cranks. Finally I topped out in dense clouds, tired but really pleased that I hadn't walked up it at all. Yeah!<br />
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The descent down the south side of Atigun Pass was a screamer, with a dangerous layer of loose gravel. I seriously doubted my chances with the narrow 38mm tires on my bike. Even with sparing use the the disk brakes, I could smell them smoking a bit. Like a runaway train I was totally committed. I raced downwards, with the fully weight of touring bags pushing me to my doom. This was one of those times one thinks about the consequences of a potential crash. The nearest clinic was 150 miles to the north in Prudhoe Bay and Fairbanks hospital 350 miles to the south, and with no ambulances in between. I kept telling myself to stay cool and calm, as the gravel flew beneath my wheels. Yikes!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.screencast.com/users/GravelBikeRider/folders/Dalton%20Highway%202015/media/199a714c-92dc-4a44-a486-22511b0dcc69">VIDEO LINK</a><br />
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Finally the grade moderated and I could stop and catch my breath. That had been a pretty "out there" descent. I now noticed that the clouds were thinning out to the south. It looked like Atigun Pass was acting as a sentinel, keeping the northern storm from crossing. So I enjoyed mile upon mile of downhill riding, with the weather improving with each pedal revolution. <br />
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I noticed that there was more fall colors now. The northern tundra had been quite brown, the autumn season advanced already, even in early September. But now hints of color were showing. And then I came around a bend and my first pine trees appeared! A road sign was placed there and said these this was the northernmost treeline. In fact this was equivalent to being at 12,000' in Colorado, the same vegetation zone. Pedaling off, I soon noticed more and more trees and color in the brush. It was sort of exciting viewing, given the sterile tundra I had just been in.<br />
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The mountains soon grew larger with wild rivers and peaks for mountaineers!<br />
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I had seen a mileage sigh for Dietrich, which turned out to be just a gated dirt road for an abandoned road construction camp from the 1970's. However there was one friendly resident. I'll call him "Dietrich", a friendly bird. He eagerly greeted me, seemingly well-versed on how to beg for my food. He took as much granola as I'd give him. Winter was coming and I was his grocery store!<br />
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By late afternoon I arrived at the banks of the Koyukuk River. A beautiful spot which made a great ending for a great day. Atigun Pass had been crossed in demanding conditions, yet in good style. As I set up my camp I meet some motorists from North Dakota. I invited them over to share this idyllic camp spot on the river. We were having a friendly chat when we discovered that my wife worked for the same company back home as his nephew did, and worked just down the hall from her! Crazy coincident. They offered me some pizza and beer and we enjoyed a campfire (my first) together. At 2am the northern lights danced above. Magic!<br />
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<br />Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-38295882344073814932015-10-03T10:00:00.001-07:002015-10-09T09:25:38.199-07:00Antarctic MemoriesDay 3 dawned overcast and somber, however there was no wind and it was peaceful. Dramatic views unfolded, proving once again that cloudy skies often add more drama to photographs than blue ones.<br />
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As I encountered longer and larger rolling hills, the remnants of autumn color were seen in the fireweed. It was only September 11th and the tundra was pretty brown now. A splash of color was welcome.<br />
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Finally at the top of one long hill I met my first snowbank! I was pretty excited, as I really am a winter person at heart. I documented the moment with a self-ie, filled my water bottles and pushed on into more and more frequent signs of winter.<br />
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I was now halfway through my day, a lot of hills had been climbed. Finally I crested out just above Toolik Lake and it's research station. Since it was shrouded in the fog below me, I decided to have a bite to eat while still in the sun, before descending. I took this video which I will note is a 180 degree panning shot. There are so many mountains in the background that it is easy to think this is a 360 view. This really is a spectacular area!<br />
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I had been anticipating arriving at Toolik Research Station for many months now. I knew of several friends that had worked there and wondered if any might be around? These were folks from my years of Antarctic work. Toolik Station had become a summer nest of employment for those who worked the austral summer in Antarctica. A type of employment migration with the seasons.<br />
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Pulling in, I was amazed at how similar it looked to a mini McMurdo Station, Antarctica. A hodge podge of buildings and WeatherHaven tent structures. No rime or reason to it's layout nor state-of-the-art design like the newer South Pole Station or the Kiwi Scott Base. Crappy American frontier sprawl. In the main admin buildings one was greeted by the cafeteria wash area first. Some entrance... I spoke to the dishwasher who knew of several of my friend, but they weren't in camp currently. Then a gal whom I had known 20 years ago rushed in, preoccupied with work. We spoke briefly, wondering what the hell had transpired over the past years to bring us together here in the Arctic; I on a bike and her doing the "same ole shit" but at a different latitude. She had to hurry off and so I pedaled away with sort of a funky mood, befitting the grey skies. I had hoped for a warm cup of coffee and conversation about the good old days. But here everyone was working and I wasn't even a worthy distraction. Into the fog I pedaled, hoping not to get flattened by the few truckers around. Thank God for the high-viz nerdy safety vest I was wearing. Many days it was definitely a lifesaver.<br />
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I then came upon a lovely stream flowing across the sledge grasses. I took a break, had some fun photography and reset my mood.<br />
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I was now entering the my first valley of the Brooks Range. Exciting glimpses of the peaks around me would appear and disappear in the clouds. I now had some feeling of the scale of the mountains growing around me. The pedaling was easy up this valley, but I sensed that soon I'd really have some serious climbing to do!<br />
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I came upon some highway workers drilling some test bore holes around a bridge. They were based out of Chandalar Camp over Atigun Pass. We bullshitted for awhile, each happy to chat to someone new. I forgot about Toolik and they said Atigun Pass was snowpacked and wondered if I would make it over? <br />
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The finally miles were still easy and I played cat and mouse with the leading edge of the storm clouds moving up the valley. It was moving as fast upslope as I was pedaling, the tailwind helping to push me. I sensed a storm was brewing but this had been a good day and Atigun Pass was tomorrow's big goal!<br />
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The cloud ceiling quickly lowered as I set up my tent. A feeling of snow was in the air...<br />
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<br />Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-60932239808316496342015-10-03T08:15:00.000-07:002015-10-09T09:18:34.962-07:00Frosty and FineDay Two dawned crisp and frosty, but clear. My snug little tent, a lightweight single hoop design from Sweden, was quite cozy. The alcohol stove burned nicely, using the automotive gas additive HEET that I had purchased in Prudhoe Bay. With no moving parts on this stove, there was nothing to fail nor heavy spares to carry. I did however forget to pack the pot support/windscreen from home. So in Fairbanks I had modified a peach can into a pot support. Punching out both ends with a can opener and adding combustion vent holes, it worked perfectly. Plus those peaches had tasted great too!<br />
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The day unfolded as one of gently rolling hills and modest grades. I was still breaking in my body and so far the route was cooperating. Every so often I'd see a pickup truck parked by the side of the road as this was caribou hunting season. Rifle hunters must not hunt within 5 miles of either side of the road and bow hunters 2.5 miles. This is to protect the caribou, as this road bisects their traditional breeding grounds. So a hunter has a real trek in front of them to get to the caribou, across the very uneven tundra. It is a real knee wreaking experience tramping through the tundra. I'd say the caribou have the advantage mostly. With no trees and open rolling terrain, they can spot any predator or hunter at a great distance. I chatted to several hunters throughout the day and only met one that had had any success. And that was a gal bow hunter no less!<br />
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I had been paralleling the pipeline thus far, sometimes at quite a distance and finally it crossed the road for the first time. Built above ground in this area due to the frozen permafrost below. A good portion of the pipeline is underground further down South, but here it is above ground. To keep the support stanchions from heating up from the sun and melting the permafrost below, they are cooled by a interesting radiator design. Each post has refrigerant running from it's base back up to fins at the top. A natural non-mechanical gravity heat pump system occurs. The warm liquid rises up to the fins, radiates and cools, sinks again to the base and draws any heat from the stanchion and rises again to cool above in the radiator fins. A smart design and no cost or pollution to run. A pretty forward thinking design, back in 1970's, when it was installed.<br />
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It was an ideal day for arctic cycling, temperatures had climbed up to the low 40's. The looming mountains were exciting to see growing taller and taller with each pedal stroke. Finally Pump Station 3 drew into view and I stopped at a nice river for a campsite. Although next to the road, there was fresh water and lovely boulders to sit on.<br />
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The day had been perfect, my body adjusting well, but tomorrow would bring me into striking distance for the steep Atigun Pass. There was much still ahead to think about!Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-86516012759641313782015-10-02T11:38:00.002-07:002015-10-09T09:09:03.510-07:00First MudThe ride out of Prudhoe Bay was chilly but nice. A NE wind gave me a quartering tailwind. The road was well-packed and traffic light. There are no towns, so all traffic consisted of semi trucks or work pickups. Not as busy as I imagined. In fact as my journey progressed I'd normally have 2-3 vehicles per hour pass by me. Sometimes I'd go an hour with no vehicles. Bliss! Just as the miles started to tick by, I soon ran into a construction zone of 8 miles. A massive flood last Spring by the Sag River had washed out several miles of the road, nearly paralyzing Prudhoe Bay for lack of supplies. The freshly repaired surface was my first taste of mud, though nothing of the devilish sort I'd run into later. <br />
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After my "first mud" initiation the touring was gentle. I slowly climbed up the arctic plain, which extended nearly 100 miles out to the coast. I had only "trained" for this ride by riding an exercise bicycle for 45 minutes per day while at the work field camp. For two months that exercise bike was my stress reliever and dream machine. Here I was actually cycling on wheels, finally! Not the ideal training for an undertaking of this magnitude, but I knew I could push my body hard after a lifetime of expeditions. The mind is the weakest link, and well I just was brain-dead after working so much, so it was a perfect situation!<br />
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There was plenty of water along the road on this marshy plain. I carried two 28oz water bottles and never had problems filling them. I used a UV SteriPen (4 AA batteries) to sterilize the water. Pretty quick too at 48 seconds per liter and no bad flavors or pump filters to clean like other methods.<br />
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This first day I mostly cycled without many thoughts, letting the Arctic enter my senses and shedding work and travel cares. My main entertainment was counting tire carcasses along the road and making sense of some weird signs. How does one exactly "Take care in a seismic zone"?<br />
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After 40 miles the coastal fog and cloud began to thin and I could see the white outline of the Brooks Range in the distance. That was exciting and a bit ominous too. I was really going there! <br />
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Pump Station 2 heralded my stop for the day. Unmanned, perhaps because of the screeching noise coming from it, it pushes the oil up to the Brooks Ranges' Atigun Pass. There are 15 pump stations along the 800 mile pipeline. I pedaled another couple miles to get away from the high pitched whine. As I stopped to unpack, a surveyor stopped to see if I needed anything. He was so helpful and insistent that I take something, that I asked for more water. This friendly fellow would drive past by me for the next two days and we always have a brief chat.<br />
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Finally I set up my tent and had a nice relaxing sun bath, quite content and excited to finally be "Doing It!<br />
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Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-84892632565412363932015-10-02T10:09:00.003-07:002015-10-09T09:06:04.419-07:00The BikeEvery knight needs his steed and mine was gonna be a mule. I needed a bike that could really go the distance, as there was only two places to stop in the whole 500 miles. Both were truck stops; Coldfoot Camp and Yukon River Camp. There would be be no towns to get any needed parts or groceries. Basically this was logistically more of a backpacking trip than a typical cycling trip. Normally in cycle touring one passes through some sort of town once or more times a day, all the while on paved roads. You just buy what you need for the day, keeping the weight down. I was planning on 8-10 days for this trip. I had even read of someone taking 14 days to do it. Imagine backpacking with two weeks of food on your back, plus the weight of a bike and tools!<br />
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My strategy was to take six days food initially and ship the other six days' worth to Coldfoot Camp, located halfway. This would greatly reduce the total weight, although even with that measure it still meant a much heavier bike than normal. Six days food gave me a reserve in case of bad weather. Gee, this whole trip was "bad weather" for normal cyclists!<br />
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I chose a new type a bike, called a gravel bike. These are the hot new thing in the bike industry. Apparently every one must dream of cycling the road less traveled (and less paved). It is a spin off of the cyclocross bike; with a stronger fork, wider tires, and frame eyelets for rack and fenders. I got a deal on a Fuji Tread just before I left home. Completely untried by me, it was shipped North, and here I got my first ride on it. It has an all aluminum frame and carbon fiber fork. Not the heavy steel touring frame one normally chooses for a road like this. In fact most people cycle this road on a mountain bike, with even wider tires and a very strong frame. But being a contrarian, I shed nearly 10 lbs of the weight by choosing this type of bike.<br />
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I upgraded the gearing as much as I could (limitations with drop bars index shifters and mtn bike derailleur interface) to get a semi low gear for the many hills and mountains I would face. Unfortunately that would not be low enough I'd find out, as I'd have to walk of several steep grades in the mud.<br />
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The waterproof handlebar bag and rear panniers proved to be god-sent in the rain and snow. Simple inner roll down tops, like kayak dry bags, kept my gear dry. <br />
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I moved my mountain bike's Crank Brother's Candy II pedals onto it. They proved once again to be totally functional no matter how much mud I threw at them. The cleat interface on the bottom of the cycling shoe also allows one to walk in the mud without clogging at all. Brilliant!<br />
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Lastly, I moved my 15 year old mountain bike saddle onto this bike. Although it has minimal padding, I never had a sore butt. A good fit beats more padding everyday. Most folks think a cushioned seat is more comfortable, but it only increases friction and chaffing. A proper fit support the bone contacts points, not the soft flesh of the crotch. Look at the Tour de France riders and how thin their saddles are. My saddle is only a $30 one, but it fits me perfectly. <br />
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I never weighed my bike and gear, not having access to a scale in Prudhoe Bay. But it didn't matter, I only took what I needed, even throwing out my titanium fork to save weight! The weight was what it was, and I was going anyway! It probably good not to focus on a number and instead stay psyched to pedal across the Arctic :)Gravel Riderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04834516359046647158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2216232149006213742.post-83755611453840169562015-10-02T08:33:00.000-07:002015-10-09T09:01:12.278-07:00Under Training and Over Dreaming!Every summer, when I trek North to Alaska for work in the mineral exploration industry, I try to make a plan for some adventure afterwards. Now that sounds logical given the location, but after a work schedule of 12+ hours per day and very few days off in these bush camps, well one normally is pretty fried at it's conclusion. The lure of home is definitely great. I've found most of my coworkers succumb to the thought of a cool beer (in the field we have "dry camps") and just plain chill-laxing at home. But I've always had the need for some adrenaline fix before heading southwards to my home. As I gazed out the Alaska Airlines plane's window, I seriously wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into this time!<br />
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This was supposed to be a bicycle trip, not a mountaineering one. The rugged Brooks Range spread out below me. Spanning 900 miles east to west, all well north of the Arctic Circle, it has only one gravel road threading through it. This is the Dalton Highway, aka "The Haul Road". It was built in 1974 to support the Trans-Alaska Pipeline construction. It is 414 miles long, then it joins the Elliot Highway for another 81 miles, before arriving in Fairbanks; a nearly 500 mile ride for me. After crossing the Brooks Range, I'd cycle past the Arctic Circle and Yukon River before tackling the rugged hill country outside of Fairbanks. Looking down out my plane's window I serious doubted my chances with this first winter snow of the season glistening below me. I could even make out the road cutting across the white tundra foothills. This was going to be epic for sure!<br />
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As the flight approached the arctic coastline, a layer of heavy cloud and sea fog appeared. The weather for the Deadhorse Airport was in the 20's and winds up to 35 mph. We touched down under a 200 foot cloud ceiling and taxied past grim petroleum industry buildings. Amid the gruff Carhartt-clad workers I really stood out, wearing sleek form-fitting spandex cycling tights and cycling shoes. I hadn't even brought jeans or tennis shoes for travel, as these would be too heavy and useless on a cycling trip.<br />
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I checked into the Prudhoe Bay Hotel across the muddy street. This is a facility for oil field workers and contractors, but is also open to any lost souls heading North on some wacky adventures. One dines in the cafeteria with all the workers and one definitely feels like an out-of-place Martian there! With the weather so crappy I stayed a couple of days, and keep busy with assembling my bike and a cycle tour about the area in search of stove fuel (at an auto parts store) and photo taking. <br />
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After a couple days of carbo-loading at the worker's cafeteria, the wind had lessened to 15 mph temperatures still a chilly 28F. This was as good as it was going to get, so I headed off through the mud. A Latvian couple, themselves doing a massive car road trip, stopped to take my picture. This was the real deal now!<br />
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