Fairbanks, AK >> Arctic Circle >> Fairbanks, AK 410 miles ridden/16 hours
To the Arctic Circle!
The forecast miraculously changed for the better this morning, providing a 12-hour rainless window in which I could charge to the Arctic Circle and make it back to Fairbanks without getting wet. Nearly every rider I met cautioned that “As long as it doesn’t rain, you’ll be fine,” so I was sensitive to heeding this repeated warning. And based on dead reckoning, it looked like I’d need about 5.5 hours each way, which provided an hour of wiggle room for photos and whatnot. Perfect! Based on this, I wouldn’t need my camping gear, so I left everything but my gas can and camera bag at the campground.
Once on the Dalton Highway, however, reality soon set in: Even in good weather, it is slooooooow going. Despite the haul road being in fairly good condition and the dispersion of golf ball-like rocks kept to a minimum, the primarily packed dirt road takes time to navigate safely except along 8-mile patches of perfect pavement that appear out of nowhere and are located near absolutely nothing whatsoever.
On this road, vehicles with more than two wheels have an enormous advantage over motorcyclists, and the old axiom “Speed equals stability” can be quickly disproven after only a few minutes of trying to ride 35mph or faster. Although I did pass a pristine yellow Goldwing and a Road King on their return voyage while heading north, the vast majority of bikes at the various service stations along the way were off-roads or dual-sports.
Since driving slowly was actually working to my advantage for a change, by the time I made it to the Arctic Circle it was waaaaaaay later than I’d planned. Based on how things were going, another 60 miles north to Coldfoot would add 4 to 6 hours to my overall trip, but since I’d left all my supplies in Fairbanks, not only was staying overnight and pushing on to Deadhorse the next day not an option, but I also had to ditch my plan of seeing the majesty of the Gates of the Arctic National Park and Preserve, the northernmost park in the U.S. and the state’s second-largest (approximately 8.5 million acres).
There was a slow but steady trickle of tourists at the Arctic Circle Wayside – home to the famous sign marking the 66 degree 33 minute latitude. One of them, a Danish Beemer rider, offered to wait for me to accompany him on the trip back to Fairbanks, but I was so turned off by his “I wish the road had been a lot rougher” statement, I decided to pass. In hindsight, this may not have been the best decision…
Given the surrounding natural beauty and the ridiculousness of this rollercoaster-like road, I eventually got greedy for photos. And having made it this far without incident, I was feeling invincible and therefore thought nothing of trying to make a U-turn on this steep, skinny, shoulder-less, gravel highway to backtrack for a better shot.
As the bike approached the edge of the road toward instant death – not really, but pushing the bike up an 8’ loose dirt/rocky berm would be nearly impossible – I hit the front brake (a bad reaction I know… hadn’t I already learned this lesson?), locked up the front wheel, and the bike went down. Hard. But at least it was still on the road, so the best of a bad situation.
As if on cue, the only truck I’d seen for hours crested the hill as I was collecting my possessions and trying to hoist the bike back up. The driver slowed down to ask if I was OK, and when I gave the thumbs-up, he rolled on. A quick assessment of the damage: a broken running light, the left-hand mirror had snapped off, and the left floorboard was mangled. My ego was bruised, but I escaped bodily injury, so as long as I only drop the bike while going less than 5mph, I should survive this trip.
Annoyed by my own stupidity, I resumed my slow trip south, eventually having to pull over to let half a house pass. (I’d never seen that before!) Then, because I was massively behind schedule, my precipitation-less window closed and it started to rain. The red clay silt that formed the base layer of the road became a slippery sludge and the bike would occasionally get a mind of its own about where it wanted to go, regardless of where I had it pointed.
Hours later – and without further incident – I was back at the campground in Fairbanks. Sleep has never come so quickly before or since.
