We cross back into the greatest country on earth without an issue. Even my friend, El Coco Loco, The Tubby Terrorist I call Dark Meat Snack, is allowed in without incident.

With aplomb, we savor the grandeur that is Glacier National Park. The under construction ‘Going To The Sun Road’ is open, providing us with more mountain road gravel riding fun.

Along with this death defying balancing act, we witness an award winning wildlife performance. At another animal created traffic jam, we watch in awe as a magical unicorn and her baby unicornette defy gravity, effortlessly walking down an impossible looking cliff.

Then, in full view of thousands of tourists, in front of hundreds of cameras, the unicorn unceremoniously squats down and without a care in the world drops a massive, magical unicorn dump. Priceless!

Kalispel casts its spell on us that night. A late night Map-kin session indicates that the excellent Idaho Route 12 is between us and home, we set out the next morning with ambitious plans to conquer this road.

We reach Missoula at 1 PM for fuel, and a strange feeling of déjà vu comes over me. I see an Irish pub and a hotel, and realize that Dark Meat and I stayed in Missoula a year before on our failed attempt at conquering the Going To The Sun highway. In that very Irish pub the game of Tabasco-Guinness Shuffleboard was invented.

All of a sudden, the motivation to move is gone. We sit in the lot, staring at the pub. Everyone’s thinking it, but nobody says it. Finally, the contemplative silence is broken.

“You know…” Fiona starts off.

I continue her thought, “…we’ve got enough time to get home. We cooooulllld just….”

“… stop here…” adds Dark Meat.

“… and play Tabasco-Guinness Shuffleboard for the rest of the day!”

The rules are simple. First, a pint of Guinness® brand Irish stout is emptied. This is very important, the glass must be empty. Then, that empty pint is set up at the end of a long table. Two half-full bottles of Tabasco© brand pepper sauce are then set up at the opposite end of the table. Using the non-dominant hand, each contestant pushes the bottle toward the empty glass. The Tabasco© brand pepper sauce bottle that ends up closest to the Guinness® brand Irish stout glass without touching is deemed the winner. The loser pays for the round.

The Olympics of Tabasco-Guinness Shuffleboard commences, and the game lasts well into the night. The next morning, our will restored, we conquer the awesomeness that is Idaho’s Route 12.

Indicators that our ride is almost over start appearing, as evidence of civilization starts creeping back. In the last ten days, we’ve seen more bears than red lights. Somehow the people we’ve met have survived without strip malls, without Wal-Marts, but we start seeing those blights again. We run the first red light we see, just because we can.

Consulting the map, we delay the inevitable as long as possible, hiding from over-edification as must as we can. Our improvised route keeps us off the interstate, and we log a long, high mile but Wal-Mart free day.

The gas station town of Jordan Valley becomes our home for the night.

You know you’ve successfully dodged civilization when you have to rent a motel room from a gas station.

The road rolls on; the threat of The End Of The Ride looms larger and larger.

On our last day, we bob and weave, dodging the extreme heat of Death Valley. Eyeballs greedily soak up the remaining sights as that melancholy feeling falls over me once again. The gap between us and home decreases until finally we hit our turn signals for the last time, roll up our driveway, and for the last time on this ride, toast the Best Day, Best Ride, and Best Friends Ever!

Without missing a beat, Dark Meat Snack and Sleeping Beauty retire to the pool to cool down, while I take a moment for myself, both to reflect on the ride, and hide my sadness that is it over.

The Entire 6956 Mile Route

In my post-ride depression, I check my neglected email account for the first time in two weeks. One message, from a man I met every-so-briefly on April’s annual Road to Wrestlemania ride catches my eye.

Seventeen days and thousands of miles have passed. That’s a long time to be stuck with the same people. Surprisingly, to this point, nobody in the group has murdered anyone else. Scenery overload and road loopiness has definitely set in; things that would never be considered funny set everyone into giggle fits. There’s not much that can be done about either issue, the scenery overload continues as we begin our southward stab on the Yellowhead Highway toward the even more picturesque Promenade des Glaciers, better known as the Icefield Highway. And the loopiness? It’s much preferable to murder.

Well, maybe….

Anyway, more mountains pop up on all sides, again each one completely different than the rest.

Overwhelmed by the stunning deluge of imagery, my eyeballs go into panoramic overload, unable to completely process this total immersion in spectacular mountain majesty. At that moment, I realize that the objective for this ride has not only been met, it has been far surpassed. I am snapped out of this reverie when brake lights break out like an ugly rash. A gaggle of cars have haphazardly parked all along the road. This is the best way to find wildlife, simply look for a traffic jam.

The reason for the blockade? An antenna enhanced critter happily and obliviously grazing away on the side of the road.

I can’t help myself, so I jump off and shoot it.

Does this jacket make me look fat, or is it just the fat that makes me look gigantic in the jacket? Wrong. The correct answer is none of the above. Remember, I’m still suffering from post traumatic sting syndrome. The swelling from the previous day’s bee stings has inflated my normally ripped physique, the aftermath is still evident. Yeah, that’s the ticket!

Nestled in the collective crotches of the Victoria Cross Ranges, Pyramid Mountain, Maligne Ranges and Indian Ridge, Jasper is a perfect place to unwind after a long day of riding. Turns out that everyone in the world is aware of that fact. As we enter the bustling ski town, I briefly worry about finding a room.

The first hotel we see has a gigantic Vacancy sign illuminated. Perfect, right? who needs reservations anyway? Reservations are for wieners, we’re adventurers!

At the desk, the usual I-Need-A-Room dance begins.

“Two rooms please?”

“Sorry, sir, we’re sold out.”

“Really? I’m sorry. That’s my fault. I got confused when I saw your Vacancy sign out front, please forgive me.”

Who’s a wiener now?

Oblivious tourists clog the roads, making appealing targets. Frustrated, I think to myself, “These people all have rooms, maybe if I send a few to the hospital, something will open up?”

A massive barrage of phone calls later, we finally locate the last two rooms in all of Jasper, conveniently located up many flights of stairs, and sharing a single bathroom with an entire floor. What an adventure!

The Best Day Ever is toasted from a rooftop restaurant. And from a local bar. Then a brewery…

The ocular overload continues the next day, with gawking stops at the Columbia Icefield Glacier:

Mount Athabasca:

Random snow cones:

And pre-bottled pure mountain water:

We roll through more of the same until we reach the funky enclave of Radium Hot Springs.

Upon finding this delightful weirdness, there is no doubt this town will be our final stop in the The People’s Republic of Canuckistan. Supremely pleased, we celebrate the greatest twenty four hour period in history with something that begins with ‘A’ and ends with ‘Glass of Twelve Year Old Macallan.’

The border of the USA looms large, and, as always happens, our finite supply of free time is running out.

Click here for the earth shattering finale to this epic tale!

Until this point on this trip, we’ve been fairly fortunate. Not only has the weather been generally favorable, the roads unparalleled, the company funny and fun, we’ve also been fortunate enough to spy ‘The Big Three’ animals that everyone comes to Alaska hoping to see. In no particular order, we’ve seen cows:

Pigeons:

And of course, the animal Alaska is most famous for, Dogs:

Thus far, all our wildlife viewing has been up close and personal, but also fun and completely attack free. But now we’re stuck, eyeball to eyeball, hearts pounding as we face down the biggest and baddest animal of them all, bigger and badder than the Big Three combined.

Just when things look like they are about to get all splattery, something comes along. More specifically, a truck races through our standoff, startling Mama Buffalo enough that we are able to squirt through before she turned us into Grade A Ground Human.

Wheeeewwww! That was a close call! If you ask me, it was a little too close, and unfortunately it’s not even the last close call of the day. We still need to find a place to sleep.

Glad to be in three individual, intact pieces, our group shuffles away from the buffalo, following the deserted road for mile after hotel free mile. At the perfect time, that time between the end of hope and the beginning of despair, the perfect place magically appears in the woods like an oasis. Either they have forgotten to illuminate the NO part of their Vacancy sign, or we have caught another very lucky break.

It’s late. We’re tired, but hopeful. At the desk, I kick off the most tedious conversation of all time.

“Hi.” I begin. “Do you have rooms for tonight?”

“Rooms? Hmm… ” The clerk shuffles some papers, then looks out the window. The sun is setting out there. Yep. Sure is. Though we both can see this fact, it takes a minute for this information to register with this man. Finally he looks back at me. “Yes. I have rooms.”

“Great! We’ll take two!”

“Well, wait a minute…” He then waits a full minute in silence, before turning a few pages in the hotel register book. “Ummm… Now, let me… check the right day…” Thankfully, he doesn’t wait a full day, just pauses for a really, really long time. Collectively, we hold our breath, waiting to learn our fate.

“Ah, yes. Here is today. Umm… Yes. I have rooms available today.”

“Great! We’ll take two!”

He scratches his nose, looks at us like he is seeing us for the first time, then continues, “I have two inexpensive rooms with bath tubs only…”

“Great! We’ll take….”

Continuing his last thought, the man cuts me off, “…and I have a two room suite, with full bathroom, but it is expensive.”

It takes more precious time to learn the difference in price between the cheap rooms and the suite is $20. After more banter, we finally are allowed to rent the suite. And I have to say, while it took a while to get there, the effort is worth it. The lakefront cabin suite is mighty sweet!

It’s hard to leave the next morning. The resort books three day float plane trips to really remote cabins, which sounds so perfect that I have a hard time believing it is real. Now I have another place to add to my bottomless bucket list.

Sadly, there isn’t enough time to ride in a plane that intentionally floats on water, so it’s back on the road again for us. We have about 2400 miles to go, and less than a week to do it in. Horny Canadian wildlife greet us on another fine morning in their country.

The road is fantastical as well, supplying an endless variation of curves, hills and of course, scenery. We continue to chip away at the remaining miles.

We stop at Testa River Outfitters, to fuel up man, woman, and machine.

The entire day pretty much flows by. Thoughts come and go, and I start to get bored. I reach back to grab Sleeping Beauty’s hand, and a spontaneous thumb wrestling war breaks out. We go at it, back and forth, having our own private Thumb Wrestlemania while speeding down the Alcan highway. I am sad to say that while I am still the heavy weight of our relationship, after twenty rounds, Sleeping Beauty is declared the Official Thumb Wrestlemania Champion of the World!

We wind our way down the highway, until, with very little fanfare, we reach another milestone on this oddysy; the famous ‘Start of the Alcan‘ sign.

I’ll admit, after ten days of nearly constant motion, the three of us arrive at the sign a little loopy and road weary. We make ourselves laugh until we’re drooling by imitating the way random strangers would help us capture this historic moment if we asked them to take our picture in front of the sign.

And with this accomplishment, the most difficult two thirds of our ride is officially complete. We toast the Best Day Ever right in the parking lot, and mentally prepare for the final thrust through Canada, back into the USA for good, and – unless I can talk them out of it – home and the inevitable end of our ride.

The End? Not even close! Click here for more.

The desk clerk in Whitehorse greets us with a hardy, “Good Afternoon!” It’s 9:30 at night, but he’s not completely nuts, it’s still bright enough outside to be the middle of the day. After securing rooms in an actual hotel, taking actual showers and using an actual hairdryer, an emergency Macallan inspired Map-kin strategy session ensues.

Democratically, I decide for everyone else that while Valdez, which lies exactly six hundred-forty miles southwest of our present position is technically reachable, it will require a lot of high mile days on the back end to get home. The time we spent waiting for the campfire to calm down has eaten into our days. We consult iPhones, Google Maps and the GPS, as well as good old analog AAA paper map, and come up with a decent Plan B.

Haines is in Alaska, which means there will be a Welcome To Alaska sign nearby. While Alaska is not an island at all, I have something special planned for this unsuspecting state just the same. Haines is also served by the Alaskan Marine Highway, so if we’re lucky we’ll be able to roll into Haines and catch a ferry to nearby Skagway, enabling all of our eyeballs to have even more Alaskan sights in front of them.

Satisfied, Dark Meat succumbs to the lure of the telephone, and Fiona and I wander around Whitehorse, finding the strangest Canadian power duo band ever. Along with six locals, we enjoy the weirdest cover tunes ever heard, until the sky finally turns a little less bright, and we fade off to bed.

The Alcan highway is a pleasure. We twist the right grip hard, and enjoy the breeze that only a high speed cruise can provide. As some point, while we’re traveling at ** MPH, a blue Toyota truck zooms past us at ** plus 20 MPH and rapidly disappears into the distance. Rounding one of the several million beautiful curves the Alcan offers, we see that the Mounties have caught and pulled over their man, and are in the process of writing him a ticket worth at least $***. Better him than me!

And on we go.

The road into Haines is a special kind of mind numbing beauty. The distant mountains suddenly loom large over our heads, each one completely different than the next. It’s as if Industrial Light and Magic chose this area to store prop mountains for the movie version of Northern Exposure.

The kilometers turn into miles again as we reach the border. After a quick glance at our documents, we are allowed back into the USA, but not before stopping in front of the ultimate prize of the trip.

ALASKAAAAA!!! WOO!!!!!

Since it is not technically an island, I cannot technically claim Alaska for the Kingdom of Rhode Island. But nothing is stopping me from making the expansive lands of Alaska an official protectorate of the Fiefdom of Frenchy!

All this monkeying around causes us to miss the ferry to French Skagway, which is by no means a disaster. We secure decent rooms in a decent motel in French Haines, and sit in front of our rooms for the traditional toast.

A little kid on a Schwinn rides past, slows down, gawks at me and says, “Hey! You! You look like somebody famous, like from a record or CD!”

“Oh yeah? Who?”

“Like somebody from ABBA! You know that band?” Just to make sure I do, he then spells it for me, “A-B-B-A.”

I think I just got punked by an eight year old, and am not sure what to do next. The woman sitting next to us outside her room gets a good laugh out of it, while the kid speeds off on his bicycle.

After some pleasant chit-chat, the lady tells us she had been diagnosed with cancer for a second time, and Alaska has always been high on her bucket list. So, one day she packed up her dog, rented a car and is enjoying the hell out of herself, the road, the stories and the characters she’s met. She isn’t sad, she isn’t depressed, she is doing the same thing that we are, making the best of the time we have.

That’s heavy.

After she excuses herself, all three of us wander to a local dive bar for a beverage. As soon as we sit, three amazingly, astoundingly drunk local patrons slur at us from across the bar. “Ya wanna live in Haines, ya gotta really lower yer standards! This town’s nuthin’ but th’ same people in th’ same stools talkin’ ’bout th’ same shit all th’ time. If ya don’t like ‘em, ya can always shoot ‘em!”

Knowing this won’t end well, we sneak out, and visit the most incredible museum of all time.

Yes, we visit the Hammer Museum, the only museum in the world of its kind. I admit, I want to walk in there to have a chuckle, but it turns out the place is seriously cool. Dave, the Hammer Museum owner and an incredibly enthusiastic man gives us the history of this unique place. He lived in the wilds of Alaska without electricity, desiring to be completely self sufficient. His hammer collection grew, and in 2001, he and his wife purchased a building in French Haines. They turned their purchase into the Hammer Museum, a quirky but awesome place.

The next morning, we are up early to queue for the ferry to Skagway. Dark Meat Snack seems nervous on board. It doesn’t take long to figure out why.

Significant risk of attack? Attack by what, The Pirates of the Taliban? That isn’t the only sign that strikes fear into the dark heart of Dark Meat.

French Skagway is everything that French Haines isn’t. This town looks like the set for The Love Boat Comes To Alaska. Three enormous cruise ships are moored in the port, puking tourists out by the thousands. I overhear one couple actually say this as they step off the shuttle bus: “Ohhhh, Haaarrry! Looook!! We’re in Alaaaaskeeeerr!”

“Lets go buy something!”

Ready to get out of Alaaaaskeeeerr and back to Alaska, we hightail it for the highway. The scenery out of French Skagway is equally as breath taking as the scenery into French Haines was.

As a bonus, the border crossing is simple and hassle free.

Back in the Yukon and on the Alcan highway, we make up for lost time. There I am, happily cruising along at a high rate of speed, when suddenly I am hit in the neck by a small caliber insect. The impact knocks my head back, waking Sleeping Beauty from her nap. Because I am so tough and strong, I carry on until the stunned-but-not-quite-dead insect wakes up inside my shirt and demonstrates his displeasure by stinging me five times in my belly. I then lose all dignity, howling like a bitch while I somehow manage to park Rain Cloud Follows, wake Sleeping Beauty up and get her off the bike and rip off my jacket all in one motion. That little bastard got me good, making my incredibly ripped set of abs and impossibly flat stomach swell up to at least ten times its normal size.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Hammering back to Watson Lake, our planned home for the night, we are shocked to see more thick smoke. In our absence, the fires have gotten worse. Route 37 is completely closed now. Nobody is waiting to go through. Watson Lake is completely covered by a blanket of white smoke.

Smokey or not, we stop by the world famous Signpost Forest.

67,000 ‘Welcome To…’ signs are too tempting to pass by. With the application of a single sticker, I make the largest land acquisition in history, claiming all 67,000 territories for the Kingdom of Rhode Island. Welcome to the kingdom, one and all!

We’d planned to stop for the night in Watson Lake, but we’d also planned for Watson Lake to have breathable air. Heading further down the Alcan, we look for the next suitable place to stop.

The next place to stop is about eighty miles down the road. It is closed down. That is bad. We continue. The next place after that is actually open, but has no vacancy.

After charging us the Canadian equivalent of an arm and a leg for a junk food dinner, the woman at the register puts on her best Scare-The-Tourist act. “Good luck finding a place with an empty room. People are leaving Watson Lake because of the smoke. There aren’t many rooms between here and Dawson Creek, and they’re all gonna be full.” No sense wasting a Boo-Boo face on her, we walk out to choke down our stale but expensive dinner.

Obviously not satisfied with her attempt to ruin our day, she returns with more good cheer. “Oh yeah, forgot to mention, but be really careful for the buffalo. They’re all over the place, and extremely hard to see at night. Wouldn’t want to hit one of those heavy buggers in the dark, now wouldja?”

Finally satisfied with her dismal warnings, she goes back in the store, flips the Open sign to Closed, switches off the lights, then turns into a bat and flies away into the night.

Thanks!

Buffalo? Whatever. It’s getting dark, and we don’t have a place to sleep again. One disaster at a time, right? Right. Let’s go.

Five miles down the road, we meet this guy.

Oh, shit! She wasn’t kidding! That thing is huge! It is right at the side of the road, blissfully munching away. Did I mention this buffalo is HUGE! We creep by this hulking mass of pre-ground burger as quietly and tentatively as we can. Safely past the beast, we are positively giddy at the sighting.

So giddy that we nearly plow into the buffalo’s entire extended family right around the next corner.

I stop in my tracks, surrounded by tons and tons of angry looking beef. Dark Meat, no longer the darkest meat on the street, bravely puts Rain Cloud Follows between himself and the biggest of the buffalo. Sleeping Beauty, insane or blissfully unaware, decides this is the perfect time to channel the Buffalo Whisperer, and jumps off the bike to snap a few pics.

A mother buffalo with baby buffalet calf by her side stops eating and starts giving us the hairy eyeball. A very big, very angry, and waaay to close to us hairy eyeball. She snorts her displeasure, just to be clear. Fiona stops fucking around with the camera and nervously jumps back on the bike. A three way French-Trini-Buffalo Mexican standoff commences.

Out in the middle of North East B.F.E., all by ourselves, stopped on a deserted road, on two motorcycles that offer little to no protection from any form of buffalo attack, things stop being fun and suddenly become very, very serious.

Seriousness? On this blog? Say it ain’t so! Click here for more.

Funny how precious a simple chain of hydrocarbon molecules can be, and how much the lack of that precious chain of combustibles can weigh on a mind. It’s pretty simple. I don’t have enough gas to get back to any hotel. Dark Meat ‘might’ have enough, but that doesn’t help me much. By the time he reached far-off Dease Lake, the gas station would surely be closed for the night.

Among the other clutter in my head, one other thing weighs on my mind, in fact it’s burned in there. Miles back, as we raced along the government supported racetrack, we had our first glimpse of wildlife.

I try to convince myself it was just a really big dog, but even the idea of spending a night in the woods with really big, really hungry, freely roaming dogs doesn’t appeal to me much.

So it’s time to figure something out. We decide to head back down the Cassiar, and find some luck. There were a few random, mostly abandoned looking buildings we passed on the way up. Who knows, maybe one of them will turn out to be a huge gasoline refinery giving out free samples. One thing I know from years of motorcycling is that mo matter what, something will come up.

It always does.

Being as cynical a skeptic as I usually am, I doubt the report of no gas at the last station, and make that our first stop.

So much for that great idea. The nearest ‘convenience’ store is also closed, with a similarly frank message taped to the door.

We’ve been out for a few days already, and dates lose significance when they don’t matter. However, I am pretty sure we have slid into the month of August. But that road is still closed. Still no luck to be found, so back down the road we go.

About forty miles later, in the comically named town of Jade City, we find a real gem, literally. Jade City, as far as we can tell, consists of a few out of business shops, and one still open gift store; The Cassiar Mountain Jade Store, specializing in… wait for it… Jade. Brilliant, I know.

Unfortunately, due to the distinct lack of available pumps, we immediately realize the Jade Store doesn’t specialize in hydrocarbon compound vending. We venture inside to see if they might specialize in hot food distribution, or at least have an idea where we might spend the rapidly approaching night.

Fiona wastes no time. She immediately finds the Jade Store owner, and applying her best Boo-Boo face innocently asks, “Is there any chance there might be accommodations in this city? We’re kind of in a jam.” Resistance to the Boo-Boo face is nearly impossible, and I am interested to see the outcome.

The owner curtly replies, “City? HA! Thirty-four people live in this city.” With a shrug she continues, “No hotels here. Closest hotel is in Dease Lake.”

Wow! Epic fail for the power of the Boo-Boo face! This is worse than I thought.

Not sure what to do next, we wander over to the candy shelf and start stocking up for what could very possibly turn out to be a very long night. As we are trying to figure out if Peanut Butter Cups have more nutritional content that Mars Bars, the owner comes back and says in a low voice, “You know, I do have a bunk house out back that’s partially empty. Business has been down because of the fire. Some of the workers are on a little vacation.” Pointing to the young girl working the cash register she goes on, “The only one staying in the bunk house right now is her. If it’s all right with her, I guess you three could stay in there.”

All three of us apply our best Boo-Boo faces, and after some careful consideration the girl slowly nods her approval. She has her own room, and thus will be spared the stench that always radiates from my boots when I take them off. Lucky her! We are saved from at least one problem, and as I’ve learned from years of live television production, the best course of action is always to deal with one disaster at a time.

Dinner consists of a bowl of Ramen noodle soup and a Coke. Turns our that Ramen noodle soup has more nutritional content than either a Peanut Butter Cup OR a Mars bar, but then again, the Styrofoam bowl the soup comes in probably does too.

After dinner we are ushered out back to our home for the evening. As we head there, we are given the lowdown on the place.

“There are no toilets, just an outhouse. The generator goes off at 10:30, and doesn’t come back on until six.” Pointing at Fiona and me, she says, “There’s a fold out couch for the two of you, and a single bed for him. It’s not the best, but it is the best we’ve got.”

“Sounds perfect! Thank you so much!”

The bunk house is admittedly a bit rustic and spartan, but, in my book, rustic and spartan beats being bear food any day. I try to convince my beautiful girlfriend that it is romantic, though it is obviously far from romantic. Sleeping Beauty is a trooper, laughing and rolling with the punches, at least until nature calls. She says, “Some girls get to go to the beach for vacation, but me? I get… THIS!”

To entertain ourselves, we toast the Best Day Ever while sitting in the middle of the deserted Cassiar Highway. Our Macallan supply dips precariously low, nearly as low as the supply of fuel in my tank. We sit in the middle of the road for about twenty minutes, until suddenly a Jeep with New York license plates comes over the distant hill.

The young couple stop and ask about road and hotel status. They get the good news; there are no hotels, no gas, and the closed road is won’t be open until 7:30 the following morning. The female passenger doesn’t take that last bit of news particularly well. In her best Jersey Shore accent, she wails, “Oh no! I am NAWT getting up that early!” Glaring at her bewildered boyfriend, she adds, “And I am NAWT sleeping in this Jeep!”

Good luck with all that.

Best Day Ever juice supply exhausted, tolerance for the day exhausted as well, Fiona and I retire to the comfort of the bunk house, climb into the sofa bed and are instantly asleep, ready for whatever the next day might bring; ready to face one more disaster at a time.

Six AM. Cold out. Clear too. There’s a fire up ahead, and we have high hopes that we’ll cross it today.

The forty mile slog back to the closure drains another half from my nearly empty gas tank. I know there is a gas station directly on the other side of the closure, but there’s no way to know if they have gas or not.

One disaster at a time.

We arrive at seven, and it doesn’t look like anything has changed from the night before. One of the forestry workers comes over and starts chatting, assuring us they want everyone to get through too. He whines a bit about how difficult the public can be, then walks away. With not much else to do, we sit and wait for the magical hour to arrive.

The magical hour comes and goes. Nothing happens. The magical next hour comes and goes too.

A kind gentleman comes over and offers coffee, saying he and his wife have plenty in their trailer. Since we have nothing but a bottle of water, we happily accept. As she hands out the first warm cup of goodness, his wife calls down from the trailer, “Anybody want toast? I have home made jam too!”

Disaster or Best Day Ever?

Two hours, two coffees and two jam covered toasts after the magical hour has passed, a helicopter approaches, circles overhead, then lands in the middle of the road.

Surely this is going to be good news.

Nervously, everyone waits with fingers crossed as the pilot and highway worker confer, safely out of earshot.

After a lengthy discussion, the man with the orange X on his vest walks back and shakes his head. “No go. Visibility is too poor right now. It doesn’t look too good for today. We’ll try again at eleven.”

Great. A man, clearly frustrated, shouts, “WHAT!?!? TRY AGAIN AT ELEVEN?!? I’VE BEEN HERE FOR TWO DAYS!! ELEVEN?!?! FUCK THAT!!” He gets in his car, slams the door and screeches off on a long journey back to the only alternate route. Nobody seems terribly upset at his departure.

Weird Fan Man from the ferry and Hyder shows up again. Funny how we keep running into the same people on this road, but I guess when there is only one road, you’re bound to run into the same travelers over and over. We ask if his whirly-gig could support a bike, and offer cash to fly us over the fire. He laughs. A lady walks by and says we should start a Scrabble game.

“Scrabble? Hell, let’s play poker for gasoline!” I reply.

The day progresses, and we sit and wait, without much progress. This random band of refugees starts to resemble a reality show. One guy comes over and says he wants to run the barricade, he just needs a few more people to go with him. A chatterbox corners us and talks at us for what seems like a year. Graciously, we are offered free coffee refills.

Eleven comes and goes, and nothing happens.

Two ladies on motorcycles ride up from the back of the line. They introduce themselves as Maria and Haley, two friends (and fellow bloggers) from Dark Meat’s favorite city of Victoria, traveling together on their first long, epic motorcycling adventure.

Their blog can be found here. Check it out, it’s worth the read.

The four of us pass time telling stories. Abi waxes poetic on his love of Victorian Customs agents. Fiona remarks about how clean their motorcycles are. Parked next to their sparkling motors, our poor machines look like a pile of hot garbage. Maria asks if we’ve taken the Lemon Pledge.

Lemon Pledge? Thinking we might be about to join a secret society, I naively reply, “No. What’s that?”

Maria walks away and comes back with a plastic bag in hand. She shakes it, and out falls a can of Lemon Pledge furniture polish. They tell us they use Pledge on everything from helmet visors to headlights, and it makes them clean and shiny.

Orange X man’s radio crackles and interrupts our fascinating furniture polish conversation. “CRRRZZTTT! Still doesn’t look good. Visibility is very poor. CRRRZZZTTTT! We’ll make the final decision for the day at one.”

Final decision? For the day? As in, we might not get through at all today? Uh oh. I don’t even have enough gas to get back to Jade City now. Great. Another Plan B discussion begins. With my gauge almost on ‘E’ does it make sense to wait one more day to try and get through? We decide to wait until the final decision for the day is made to make our decision.

One disaster at a time.

A couple of Punjabi men that Abi was talking to shrugged and said they’d waited long enough, it was time to turn around and head home. Abi said to them, “Well, maybe next time.”

The older man wisely replied, “Next time? Who knows if there will be a next time? My next breath is not guaranteed.”

At one, the crowd grows around Orange X Man. A guitar wielding man strolls up, strumming and singing, “Don’t be angry, they’re just doing their job.” CRRRZZZTTTT! The radio crackles again, silence, then a huge cheer erupts from the crowd. The winds have shifted enough to blow the smoke off the road. We are on our way outta here!

People run to their cars as we rush to suit up. Without an announcement or any kind of warning, the pilot car suddenly takes off as I struggle to get my riding pants on. Cars, trucks and campers, some of which have been waiting for days gun their way into the gap. Our group of four riders end up squarely in the middle of the pack, racing toward the unknown of the fire.

I glance down at my fuel gauge. It’s flashing, which means there isn’t much fuel in there at all. I guess two disasters at a time is the rule of the moment. I hope that in this case ‘E‘ means Enough, because the idea running out of gas in a forest fire is so absurdly horrifying it’s almost funny.

Things go from not too bad to waay too bad in minutes. Thick, choking smoke quickly fills the air as ash swirls on the road. The land is scorched, and in some places still burning. Acrid smoke rises from the ground, entire stands of trees are torched and mangled. Helicopters keep watch on our convoy from above, ready to warn the pilot car if a flaming tree falls in our path, or some dumb French knucklehead runs out of fuel on the drive through the fire.

In the midst of the smoke and swirling ash, my fuel gauge enters countdown mode. Countdown mode is the fun way the engineers in Japan, guys that will never need or use this exciting mode, came up with to let you know you’re dangerously close to running out of fuel. With about twenty miles of fuel left in Rain Cloud Follows, we suddenly take a breath of fresh, smokeless air. Hooray! We’ve made it through the fire!

Reaching the junction of the Cassiar and Alcan feels like a complete victory. Pouring an entire tankful of fresh hydrocarbon molecules into Rain Cloud Follows feels even better. Though we’ve lost a day waiting to get through, Alaska is still obtainable, though probably not all the way to Valdez.

We offer to buy Maria and Haley drinks in Whitehorse if they can find us, then, with a wave we race off to our next stop, and the continuation of our Alaskan Adventure.

Alaska! Finally! Click here to read more.