North to Alaska!

Who would be crazy enough to take a grueling 3,200-mile bicycle expedition from Montana to Alaska for two and one-half months? Who would be nuts enough to pay 2,600 US dollars to make such a difficult journey? And who in their right mind would prepare for that trek by spending $3,000 more for a new mountain bike, new panniers, new tools, new spare parts, new camping equipment, new cycling clothes, and a new camera?
Me! I would! I confess my insanity. In February 1994 I registered to join Adventure Cycling Association's self-contained "North Star" expedition. That was going to be my second extended bicycle tour.
Sixteen years prior to this trip I pedaled around pancake-flat Holland for two weeks on a heavy no-gears Dutch bike that I rented from a train station for $9 per week. I had strapped my loaded backpack to the rear rack of the bicycle and stayed in youth hostels along the way.

My bicycle rig
Now I was about to embark on a ten-week journey over high mountain passes on a new 21-gear MB-2 Bridgestone bike that cost $900. This time I would camp out during the entire expedition.
My mountain bike was heavily loaded with front and rear Ortlieb panniers as well as a two-person Sierra Designs tent, a REI sleeping bag, and a full-length Therm-A-Rest air mattress. When I first mounted this two-wheeled pack mule in my driveway, I lost my balance and nearly fell off. However, I took the rig on several shakedown rides around my hometown of Bellingham, Washington and soon I became accustomed to riding it.

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Me and my loaded bike

Bound for Alaska
In early June I loaded my bike, my gear, and myself aboard a Greyhound bus and rode all night to the North Star expedition trailhead in Missoula, Montana. At that point there was no turning back. I was going north to Alaska by bicycle!
In Missoula I met my group leader, Chuck Penegor, who was a relatively large gentleman. I thought, "This fellow must be one hundred pounds overweight. And he bikes in sandals! How in the world could this guy lead our group over the rugged terrain in Alaska?"
First impressions are often deceiving. I soon learned that Chuck was a highly capable leader who had gone on the North Star expedition for the past four summers. His knowledge of the route, his experience in bicycle touring and camping, plus his leadership skills, quickly earned Chuck considerable respect among the other nine men and women in my group. Besides, the fellow had a wonderful sense of humor. For instance, he told me that while riding his bike, sometimes his protruding stomach rests on his cyclometer and cancels it to zeros!

Chuck Penegor, our tour leader

Chuck took our group on a 28-mile shakedown ride in a steady downpour. Afterwards I dried myself off and got ready for more adventures.
And the next day I had some. Several huge motorhomes zoomed by me, nearly clipping off my left panniers. I played "dodge-em" with gargantuan road graders in a muddy construction area. When I ran out of low gears, I dismounted my loaded rig and pushed it up several steep hills.

Going-to-the-Sun Highway
After pedaling one week in the Rocky Mountains, my body was in much better shape. I was ready to tackle one of the most difficult challenges of the North Star expedition: the ascent to Logan Pass on the Going-to-the-Sun Highway. This spectacular 52-mile highway in Glacier National Park crosses the Continental Divide at 6,680 feet above sea level.
At first the highway was relatively flat, but soon it zigzagged up along the side of a gigantic mountain. As I climbed higher, the road narrowed considerably. Sometimes when I looked up, I saw the road snaking upward and disappearing into the clouds. "Will I make it? Can I make it?" I wondered.
As I pedaled higher and higher in my lowest gear, I sweated like an elephant in labor. Occasionally, I stopped to catch my breath and to gulp down water from one of my two water bottles. But I did so just for a minute; I had to continue pedaling without lingering too long.
Cars and motorhomes edged slowly around me, forcing me to bike alongside the low walls on the narrow road. I tried not to look down at the valley below because I suffer from fear of heights. Once I glanced over the side and peered down at the Swan River. It looked like a long, skinny worm weaving its way along the valley floor far below me. I shuddered and clenched my handlebars more tightly as my heart pounded rapidly like a drumbeat at a pow-wow.
I continued pedaling uphill very slowly. My legs protested the strain and screamed from the excruciating pain. Sweat streamed from every pore in my body and dripped over my eyeglasses so I could barely see ahead. I was determined to keep going forward. With every downward stroke of my pedals I encouraged myself aloud: "You can make it, Jim! Keep going! You're strong! You can do it! You'll get there! You paid your money for this trip!" I was going to reach the summit of Logan Pass if it killed me.
After three and one-half grueling hours, I finally made it to the top. I was very tired but I was still alive.

Logan Pass at last!

The ride down Logan Pass was just as breathtaking as the ascent up it. Gravity grabbed my bike and yanked it downhill like a bobsled headed toward hell. I held tightly onto my handlebars and zoomed down the highway. The sides of the road blurred and my cyclometer whirred: 20...25...30...35 miles per hour. I was flirting with death on a mountain! I braked intermittently to slow down. Luckily my cantilever brakes responded well and I reached the base of the mountain safely. What a rush!

Daily routine
Each day Chuck assigned two different group members who prepared supper. Usually the meal included a pasta or rice dish, a mixed salad, and cookies -- all washed down by a powdered juice drink. There was plenty of food for everyone, and almost always we could help ourselves to a second helping. During the expedition we consumed five or six times the amount of food that we ate at home. Afterall, we cycled 6 to 8 hours per day at an average daily distance of 55-60 miles.

Supper! Come and get it!

Breakfast was more predictable than supper: instant oatmeal and dry cereal with milk, orange juice, coffee, and hot chocolate. Nearly everyone in my group ate a second breakfast at a roadside cafe where they ordered pancakes, French toast, and eggs with sausage, bacon or ham. Not me! I paid my $2,600 fee to join the North Star expedition, so naturally I stuffed myself at breakfast in camp every morning.
Every 7-10 days my fellow cyclists and I rested one full day in a variety of towns and parks in Canada and Alaska. On rest days we relaxed and recharged our mental and corporal batteries. Each person did his or her own thing: calling home, writing letters, washing clothes, cleaning the bike, hiking trails, and shopping for souvenirs.

Arrival at Jasper for a rest day

Expedition difficulties
As my riding companions and I cycled northward toward Alaska, the physical and emotional strain of the long expedition became increasingly apparent. Tempers flared over minor human failings, and rage built up against one group member who was treated like an outcast because he often failed to consider the feelings of others. This rage peaked when that person sat at a picnic table while another man was preparing supper. In an instant two gallons of boiling water poured on that man's feet, causing second-degree burns and his departure home to California.
Unfortunately, he was not the only group member we lost. Earlier, a young fellow from Belgium dropped out of the expedition when he injured his knees. He had come all the way from Belgium. After riding three days in tremendous headwinds, another man decided to return home to Oklahoma. "I've had it," he said with tears in his eyes. "I'm tired and I miss my wife." A few weeks later another guy hit a pothole on the Top of the World Highway in Alaska and broke his left collar bone. The next day he was homeward bound to North Carolina.
I also had my own cross to bear. Before beginning the expedition, I had purchased a Softride suspension stem to cushion my ride, especially over hundreds of miles of gravel on the Robert Campbell Highway. The stem was several inches too short and no bike shop on the North Star route stocked an extension for it. As a result, my hands and wrists hurt so much that my eyes often filled with tears, and I could not sleep well at night.
Eventually, fate came to my rescue. While cycling over the Robert Campbell Highway, several miners warned our group that five forest fires were raging twenty miles ahead of us. We waited for six hours on a bridge near Miner's Junction to receive more information about the progress of the fires. Finally, fearing that the smoke from the fires would endanger our safe passage, Chuck decided to turn back. The three youngest men in our group, however, insisted on cycling to Carmacks despite the apparent danger ahead. I called them "The Three Musketeers" for their bravery. The rest of us retreated sixty-eight miles to Watson Lake in a downpour. We rented a large van and a U-Haul trailer, and drove up the Alcan Highway to Whitehorse.

Waiting six frustrating hours near Miner's Junction

The next morning I went to the nearest bicycle shop and bought a longer stem for my mountain bike. The pain in my hands and wrists was relieved, and I began enjoying the expedition more than ever. As I cycled toward Carmacks I composed the following poem to describe my new-found happiness:

I have a new life
with my bike
that makes my feet light
and gives me great might
to trek
over any speck
of gravel and bramble.
My wrists and hands
hurt no more
like afore,
and my eyes see more and more
of this beauty that I adore.
Of course, I am
speaking about
my new stem.

In Carmacks we joined The Three Musketeers who made it unharmed past the forest fires. In fact, they proudly claimed that their rugged ride on the Robert Campbell Highway was the highlight of the expedition. For them it was a true adventure. For me it would have been sheer hell.
Apart from those caused by my short bicycle stem, I had my own difficulties on the North Star expedition. At various campgrounds along the route, I encountered hordes of mean blood-sucking mosquitoes, nasty flesh-eating flies, and pesky food-stealing squirrels. And in British Columbia two black bears threatened my safe passage. One bear was about one hundred yards directly in front of me, and the other bear was feeding in tall grass alongside the highway. Fortunately, a man in a pickup truck came by and saw my predicament. He stopped, stepped out of his truck with a 12-gauge shotgun, and fired it once into the air. Immediately, both bears scampered away, and I hightailed it down the highway as fast as I could pedal.

Unforgettable characters
In balance with these unfortunate difficulties during the expedition, I had the pleasure of meeting several very interesting people. Most memorable was Mighty Moe, a fellow who lived in a ramshackle trailer beside a beautiful lake along an isolated stretch of highway near the Yukon border. Moe was an elderly bachelor who had a long white beard and rosy cheeks. He was dressed in a shabby short-sleeved shirt and dirty baggy pants held up by an old leather belt.
I had heard many stories about Mighty Moe. Some people said that he used to work as a clown in a circus. Others claimed that Moe was an old sourdough who prospected for gold for many years but never struck it rich. And still others said that he was a trouble-making, good-for-nothing alcoholic. There was no doubt about one thing: Moe was a nonstop raconteur of tall tales. During our two-hour visit he never once stopped talking to me.

Mighty Moe

Moe made his living mainly by renting camping space to visitors who arrived in their recreational vehicles. On his property he built many interesting things to see, including a variety of whimsical structures. One such structure was an old outhouse with an appropriate sign attached to it: "HOLES." The interior of the outhouse was wallpapered with outdated calendars, and it even had an old-fashioned telephone that was not connected to any telephone wire. "I put that phone in there just in case someone wanted to make a call to nowhere," Moe said with a chuckle.
Another interesting person whom I met on the expedition was Robert Baker who was hunting mountain sheep with the use of his small airplane. He landed directly on the Alaska Highway, taxied his plane to the gas pump at Dot Lake Lodge, and refueled. After chatting with the owner of the lodge, Robert took off on the highway into a spectacular sunset. It was a scene right out of the television series "Northern Exposure."

Robert Baker feeds his hungry plane.

On to Denali
After a two-day visit in Fairbanks, I headed toward Denali National Park. On the way there I saw a large sign beside the highway: "CAUTION: Windy Area Next Mile." That message was no joke. Several times tremendous headwinds knocked me off my bike. At times I could not pedal faster than three miles per hour. My legs protested with pain as I pushed down harder and harder on the pedals. I inched forward very, very slowly.
To make matters worse that day, I experienced one of the most terrifying moments of the expedition. Shortly before arriving at the entrance to Denali I approached a narrow bridge that spans the Nenana River flowing 174 feet below me. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw that a car was following very closely behind me. I could see that the car was loaded with a family and their camping gear. Undoubtedly they were on their way to visit Denali, and it was obvious that the driver desperately wanted to pass me. I looked up ahead. On the other side of the highway two motorcycles were racing toward me. Instinctively, I stuck out my left hand to signal to the driver of the car behind me to slow down so I could cross the bridge safely. The strategy worked but I was still shaking as the anxious fellow zoomed by me as soon as I reached the other side of the bridge.
Finally I arrived at Denali which was one of the highlights of the North Star expedition. There was a great deal to see and do in the park: wildlife films, dog sled demonstrations, nature hikes, bus tours, and camping in remote areas. On a trek through Savage River Canyon, I was fortunate to glimpse a distant view of Mount McKinley, the highest mountain in North America at 20,320 feet. As I gazed at that magnificent snow-capped peak, I felt closer to Nature and the Force that created me.

A trek through Savage River Canyon in Denali National Park

Journey's end
After spending two days at Denali, my group members and I pedaled southward to Anchorage where we arrived two days later. We enjoyed our last supper together at an excellent restaurant located near our campground. We dined on zucchini with cheese, grilled halibut, and strawberry cheese cake -- all of which we washed down with cold draft beer.
As we indulged, we chatted the evening away about the unforgettable adventures that we had experienced individually and collectively over the past seventy-three days. I looked forward with great enthusiasm to my next long-distance bicycle journey.

Off to Bellingham by ferry