ANCHORAGE, Alaska — Tired of stressing about what your pale skin and flabby muscles are going to look like on the beach during your summer vacation?
Then do what I did. Trade in your shorts for long underwear, jump on your motorcycle and head north to Alaska.
For 15 days in July, traveling 5,133 miles, my dad, Tom, my uncle Tim and I were covered head to toe in winter clothes and only during the harshest downpours did I wish we had started the trip with a left turn to sunny California.
Instead, we took a right-hand turn out of Spokane with the goal of making it up to Alaska in six days, spending three days touring, then returning home.
We crossed the Canadian border in the middle of Washington and spent the next two days riding north through lower British Columbia to reach Kitwanga, the town at the start of the Cassiar Highway.
This remote stretch of pavement, also called Highway 37, stretches 456 miles and joins the Alaska Highway in the Yukon Territory. The key term here is “stretches of pavement.” We were warned there was plenty of road work.
What we didn’t expect was a major rainstorm to sweep through the area, making the conditions miserable.
During a second day of rain, there were discussions of heading home. But we pushed on.
For the most part, the only scenery we saw along the Cassiar were the bushes along the roadside. There were a couple of breaks in the weather, just long enough for us to gaze up at the Coast Mountains and realize what a beautiful area we had just gone through with our heads focused on the ground.
Once we hit the Alaska Highway, we headed east to a small town, Watson Lake, Yukon Territory, where we would camp among mosquitoes that almost carried our tents away.
The town is known for its Sign Post Forest, which is filled with more than 50,000 pieces of metal in the form of license plates and street signs from all over the world. I searched about a third of the area in 15 minutes but was unable to find evidence of my hometown, Spokane.
Watson Lake was our fourth night sleeping under the stars. We wanted to experience everything the outdoors had to offer and save a few bucks for gas. So we decided to camp every night — springing for a hotel room only if it were raining.
Somehow I persuaded my two riding partners, both over 50, to sleep on an inflatable mattress amid the mosquitoes for nine of our 14 nights on the road.
That brings me to my first “must have” item for the trip: A mosquito-net hat. There are few things worse than getting a mosquito bite on your head and not being able to scratch it because of your motorcycle helmet.
The next morning was our first full day on the Alaska Highway, which had noticeably more motor homes on the road. The crowded roads were tough to get used to after having the road to ourselves on the Cassiar.
The traffic increased as we reached Whitehorse, the capital city of the Yukon Territory.
We ventured into town in search of the free beer tours at the Yukon Brewing Company. I had read about the brewery in a local tourism magazine.
In the gift shop, I found about a dozen visitors filling up growlers (glass jugs for beer) and encouraging me to try the Yukon Red ale.
Avoiding franchise food joints was one of our unspoken rules. Only three of our 29 post-noon meals were at a chain restaurant we could find back home.
Of course, many of these small towns only had one or two options for food. Many times we were forced to eat at gas stations. But these weren’t the typical junk food stops that you find in the lower 48. We even stumbled on wonderful homemade soup at a fill-up station in Dease Lake, B.C., along the Cassiar Highway.
The day after our Yukon beer tour, we started hearing about road construction around Destruction Bay, which turned out to be some of the worst road conditions I have ever ridden on.
Farther up the highway, the road turned into a roller coaster. Up and down we went over these bumps that were identified by little orange flags about a foot off the ground. Our speed slowed down considerably after a couple of bumps sent us skyward off our seats.
The little orange flags eventually stopped appearing, just in time for us focus on the sign reading “Welcome to Alaska.”
After answering a few questions and showing the border guard our identification, I thought, “We did it!”
We made it through all of the challenges the weather threw our way, to arrive in the 49th state in one piece. Parts of me wanted to get off my bike and do a little dance but at this point, I knew my body wasn’t going to cooperate.
I nodded at my two riding partners with a major sense of relief and started snapping pictures of anything with the word “Alaska” on it.
We stayed the night in Tok, the first town we drove through. We spent the evening in a hotel drying our gear, power-washing our bikes, rejuvenating our spirits and discussing our options.
My dad thought we should head northwest to Fairbanks and Denali National Park. My uncle was set on visiting the Harley Davidson shop in Anchorage. I wanted to take the advice of my co-worker, a former Alaska tour guide, and travel southwest to Valdez.
I got my wish. We took the Richardson Highway to Valdez, and found it absolutely beautiful. It had everything motorcycle travelers love — curves, waterfalls, elevation gains, a mountain pass, glaciers and something we hadn’t seen in a while — sunshine.
The incredible scenery provided us with the strength we would need that day to travel more than 551 miles, taking us to Anchorage under the “midnight sun.”
The dim sunlight behind the mountains provided the necessary light to set up our tents at the free campsite the Harley Davidson shop offers next to its building.
I awoke to engines being revved up at the motorcycle rental shop next door and jealous thoughts consumed me. How nice it might have been to have flown up to Anchorage in a couple of hours, jumped on a rental bike for a trip to see Denali National Park or to touch your front tire in the Arctic Ocean.
Then my uncle reminded me of the old saying: “It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey.”
I knew he was right. Despite the rain, the mosquitoes and the sheer hard work of biking all those miles, I’ll always be able to say something that few others can claim: I rode my motorcycle to Alaska. And I’m glad I did.
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