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.

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Underway at last in Super Natural British Columbia! Took long enough to get to this point, didn’t it? Yes. It did. But we’re here now, and that’s all that matters.

The scenery right away is stunning, with soaring mountains surrounding our little party of explorers.

We bob and weave around Lower Middle B.C. for a while, finally reaching the gas station town of Kitwanga, which is the junction with Route 37, better known as the Stewart-Cassiar Highway, best known as our planned ingress path into the Great White North. Our motorcycles pose in front of the first real sign that proves that the Alaskan Adventure is, in fact, going to Alaska.

Another sign, perched at the beginning of Route 37, says differently.

The sign blinks with even worse news.

Oh shit. This is bad. Really bad. The Alaskan Adventure may not, in fact, be going to Alaska at all.

I consult my Map-kin, and it looks bad. Though it isn’t to scale, or even close to geographically correct, my hand drawn cartographic masterpiece shows only two ways to drive to Alaska: The Stewart-Cassiar Highway, which we are now parked at the beginning of, or the Alcan Highway, which lies approximately 500 Killer-Meters to our east. And one of those, as we’ve just learned, is not open.

We sit in the Petro Canada parking lot and start coming up with a Plan B. Most good riders have a Plan B handy. Most good riders would also probably find out about such trip-threatening road conditions ahead of time. We are not that type. So, fueled with fear and a shot of 5 Hour Energy™, we strategize. Do we hammer for the far off Alcan and drastically change our entire plan? Do we risk riding up the Cassiar to the closure point, in hopes that by the time we get there they will have put out the fire? Should we skip Alaska altogether and head for Banff?

Or should we have just done what the sign back in Olympia implored us to do in the first place?

It’s agonizing.

After some debate, our merry band of Alaskan Adventurers decides Plan B be damned, we’ll gladly take our chances and stick with Plan A. We head north for Hyder, which will mean at least we technically made it into Alaska.

Once on the Cassiar highway, we switch into Fuel Hog mode, which means filling up at every gas station whether we need it or not. Gasoline can become a problem on roads such as this, because while there are technically enough stations to keep machines fueled to the next stop, sometimes those stations run out of gas or go out of business. As an added measure of protection, Dark Meat fills the little red Jug-o-Gas kindly donated a few days ago by Barb and Vic, who I’ve since learned are the creators of the world-famous Sheepskin Buttpad and owners of the excellent motorcycling store Alaska Leather.

Decision made, we set sights on Hyder, Alaska. We enjoy the nearly deserted, supposedly closed and at-some-point-far-ahead probably burning road.

Then, on the road to Hyder, we glimpse a wee bit of the white that the Great White North is so famous for.

The Bear Glacier

Up Close

The road winds us to our ultimate goal, the town of Hyder, Alaska. Just before we cross from the well paved streets of British Columbia to the gravelly frontier town of Hyder, Fiona, glimpsing the town for the first time, asks me, “Is this place real?”

Oh yeah, it’s real all right. We find a room at the Sealaska Inn, and walk down to the bar to get properly familiarized with the town, through a frightening process called getting ‘Hyderized.’

Nervously, we line up at the bar, and the bartendress pours three shots from a bottle in a paper bag. “The rule is you have to finish in one swig. Anyone that doesn’t finish or pukes has to buy the whole bar a round.”

And right after:

The bartendress takes one of the empty glasses, pours out what little liquid remains, then proceeds to light it on fire on the bar top. “That’s what is happening to your insides right now. Congratulations, you’ve been Hyderized!”

She hands us official certificates, explaining that now it is official, we’ll never have to do that again.

We strike up a conversation with JD, a biker that witnessed our painful Hyderization. He tells us he rode down Route 37 that morning, and gives us the tremendous news that the road is open, with pilot cars ferrying cars through the fire area.

“How bad is the fire?”

“Oh, it’s bad,” he replies with a smile, “but you’ll get through all right.”

With that we pose for a quick snapshot with our new friend, and head home for the night. In the parking lot, we are stunned to see the weird car from the ferry, the one with the huge fan on it.

The Fan Behind The Dark Meat

The driver explains the fan is part of a para-sailing contraption he learned how to fly and is now taking home. Alaska, even this little part of it is full of characters. I wish we’d gotten a better picture of his contraption, it was pretty funny, but in our Hyderized state it probably wouldn’t have come out too clearly anyway.

Before retiring for the night, we stop off in Dark Meat’s room, and use his license to chop up and snort fat lines of cocaine to celebrate the Best Day ever.

Just kidding.

The next morning we roll from the US back into BC early, secure in the knowledge that the road is open; we’ll get through the fires. We continue in Fuel Hog mode, stopping off at every station along the way to fill our tanks.

And, for those that have them, call and check in with the wife.

The day goes by, and by 4 PM we reach the town of Dease Lake, where we are instantly confused.

The sign says the road is closed, but a very un-photogenic construction sign right next to the evil closure sign said that the road might in fact be open, with pilot cars running between 8 AM and 6 PM.

6PM? It’s 4 PM now, and we are exactly two hours away from the closure. Decision time once again.

We decide to go for it, and turn Route 37 into our very own Stewart-Cassiar International Speedway.

Mother Nature chooses this moment to cue the clouds, and the rains come down for the first time on our trip.

I think to myself that the rain can only help our cause, and imagine the huge parade for Rain Cloud Follows that will be thrown for single-handedly putting out the fires. That pipe dream goes up in smoke, as the rain ends well before the road does.

We pass a gas station with two motorcycles filling up. I notice that I have quite a bit less than a quarter tank of gas, but break the Fuel Hog rule anyway and speed past with a quick wave. No time to stop! We need to get through!

At 5:45 PM, 640 KM from the start of the road, 200 KM from the nearest town with accommodations, we reach the dreaded closure point. Noticing people camping in the rest area, I trepidatiously ride up to the blockade and inquire when we can go through.

With arms firmly crossed, the dude ruins our trip by saying, “Not today. Fire got worse. No visibility. Road’s closed for the night. We’re going to try to go through tomorrow around 7:30 AM. Come back then.”

Umm… shit. This is bad. We confer, and decide that even though it is far away, we’re going to have to ride the 124.27 miles back to Dease Lake. Abi pours the contents of his Jug-o-Gas into his tank, as I plan to fill up at the last station we passed.

Just then the two bikers we saw filling up pull up with more fantastic news. “There’s no gas at that station.”

Without enough gas to get back to the only lodging we’ve seen, without a tent, without anything that can reasonably be called food, and with night quickly approaching, I realize that for once, right now, we are well and truly fucked.

What will happen next? Click here to find out!

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Almost.

When I had my pre-ride Map-kin strategizing session, which admittedly lasted about ten minutes, I noticed there were two choices to reach Alaska from Vancouver Rhode Island. One was to take a ferry from the town of Nanaimo to the city of Vancouver and ride north. Not a bad way to go, if you want to be honest when you say you ‘rode to Alaska’ because that would involve the most actual roads. The second, more appealing option was to take a ferry from Port Hardy to Prince Rupert in British Columbia. This would avoid a lot of boring roads, let us cross an ‘Inside Passage’ cruise off the bucket list, and plop us right down at the start of all the really good stuff.

The choice is clear. Pure honesty is out, and we’re still ‘Riding to Alaska’ just some of it is riding on a boat. Whatever.

M.V. Northern Expedition

It’s 6 AM, and faced with a full day to do nothing but float around looking at scenery, read my book, and goof off hanging out with my beautiful girlfriend (and of course Dark Meat Snack) it’s already the Best Day Ever. To sweeten the deal even further, we pool all our Loonies and rent a private cabin, complete with a shower, beds and a TV.

Speaking of Loonies, we’ve only been in Canada for a day, and already I have a pocket full of change that weighs several metric tons.

This is Canadian money, which is similar to real money. However, instead of bills, these crafty Canadians use coins for dollars. The gold coins, worth a dollar, are called Loonies. The two-toned coins, worth, you guessed it… two dollars, are called… wait for it… Twonies!! Ha! I guarantee there are Canadians that have change jars worth several million dollars. On board the M.V. Frenchy Expedition, we spend the rest of our loose Loonies and Twonies on beer and sandwiches.

And the scenery? Well, I have to say it’s probably the best value for the Loonie, and we all agree taking the ship beat riding, at least for that day.

And on and on and on it goes. We relax. We smoke cigars. We watch things jumping out of the ocean.

We cheer for little boats pulling big things behind them.

We nap. We laugh. We eat.

We do a whole lot of nothing, and completely enjoy all there is to enjoy on this restful interlude.

At 10:30 PM the ship shudders, slows, and the announcement crackles throughout the cabin. “Ahoy, maties! Please prepare to disembark. Drivers, report to your vehicles at this time.”

First View of Prince Rupert

The race is on, and I want to win. Rain Cloud Follows deboats the ferry right behind a BMW F800 and before a car with a gigantic, weird looking fan attached to the back of it. Not bad really, since in my book second place isn’t first loser, it’s the vice-winner!

Exhausted from his long day of resting, lounging and relaxing, Dark Meat Snack immediately disappears to his hotel room to call the wife, while Sleeping Beauty and I enjoy the finest nightlife that Prince Rupert has to offer; watching the locals tear up the dance floor while a Canadian power trio band plays all my favorite hits from the Eighties. I consult the rulebook to see if it is permissible to toast the Best Day Ever twice.

Hooray! It is not only permissible, it is encouraged!

Fiona and I hang with the dancing locals as long as we can, blissfully unaware that the very next day the entire ride is about to go up in flames.

Flames?!?! Click here to read on!

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And so, the preamble to this adventure came to a close. Sadly, our faithful machines were bagged tagged and chained together in a scary parking lot, awaiting our eventual return.

After removing my shoes in the name of safety at the soulless airport, I climb into the belly of the whale once again; insert the metal buckle into the fastener low and tight across my hips once again, and, what took three excellent days to achieve is undone in less than two hours. Our flight lands at LAX, where a four hour delay due to typically broken airplane equipment has us both on the verge of screaming, if only to be arrested and at least removed from the soulless airport. Air travel couldn’t be worse, more degrading, uncomfortable, ridiculous or horrible. I calculate time passage by the inane repeating announcement that begins, “the transportation security administration has decreed…” There are six announcements to the hour. We hear twenty-four before mercifully placed on a patched together aircraft and are finally transported to work.

Work is the usual blur of hotel, arena, bus, hotel. San Antonio became Corpus Christi became Laredo became San Antonio again. Sleep became a precious commodity. So did patience. TV shows blur by in that fast-slow manner that only television productions can. Four days hence, our pound of flesh is exacted, and we were released to relive the horrors of air travel once again.

It’s Not ALL Bad

Sleeping Beauty arrives safely in Seattle the night before Dark Meat and me. My beautiful girlfriend texts me the hotel I’d booked for her is ‘like heaven.’ I text her back to ‘not get too used to it.’

Happily reunited, and happily finished with air travel for the foreseeable future, our merry band of adventurers is finally mounted up and finally on the Road to Alaska.

Captain Bill – The Best!

After lunch with an old friend in Port Angeles, we board the ferry for Vancouver Island. Ninety pleasant minutes later, we’re transported across the ocean and to another world.

Canadian Customs and Immigration is strange. The agents are polite, yet firm. During ferry deboating, Abi and I get separated. The last time I cleared Customs with Fiona, we were waved out of line and sent into the office,which is the Customs and Immigration version of the penalty box. The reason we were pulled in? Fiona had never been to Canada before. The Customs agent deemed her Canadian-virgin status highly suspicious, and every manner of background check was run on poor Sleeping Beauty. Forty-five boring minutes later, she was de-virginized, and allowed into the beautiful land of Kanuckistan.

The Customs agent that greets us is bored. He asks us a few perfunctory questions, barely glances at our passports, then dismisses us with a half-wave. I’m confused; do we have to go to the penalty box? I decide if that’s what his half-wave meant, he’ll let us know, but until then, I am getting the hell out of Customs! We pull out to the main street of Victoria to wait for Abi.

And we wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

Forty-five minutes pass. Sleeping Beauty gets curious and walks over to see what the holdup is. She spies Abi, arms folded, standing far away from his motorcycle as two customs agents tear through every single item in his possession. Bags are ripped open, dirty clothes and junk are spread about, both agents intent on finding something suspicious.

This, unfortunately, is the downside to traveling with a terrorist lookalike.

An hour and a half later, he’s released and finally rolls up to us, shaking his head.

“What happened?

“When I gave them my passport, the agent asked for a second form of identification from me. She took it, went into the office, and came back about two minutes later, looking pissed. She told me they ran a customary test on my license and detected traces of cocaine! They made me pull over, and opened everything up. I even had to take the fucking seat off my bike!”

Wait a minute. Cocaine? Jeez, you think you know a person and all the while, right under your nose, they’re a crackhead! Unbelievable the things you learn on a long motorcycle trip!

Actually, I have to say that I’ve known Dark Meat Snack for half my life, and honestly, the kid can barely finish a beer. And besides that, from what I know of it, cocaine is expensive, and Abi is definitely a… spendthrift. There is no way there were traces of cocaine on his license, unless the TSA agent that checked it in San Antonio was also a junkie.

After that rude introduction to Vancouver Island, we drown our sorrows at a great little Irish Pub. Pretty soon, pints of Guinness work their magic; we’re all laughing over the incident, and trying to figure out where Dark Meat hid his drugs. I guess the stash is in his little red gas can. He tells me I don’t want to know where they are hidden.

The next morning we are just about loaded up when a hotel worker approaches. After the usual round of, ‘Gosh! Did you ride those things all the way here?’ ends, he recommends we go see a stand of gigantic trees that are, in his words, “mighty impressive!” Tracing the route to the trees on my map he exclaims, “They’re huge! Twenty people can join hands around them! These trees have been there since Jesus planted them!”

Circling the Jesus trees on the map, I thank the man, and we aim our bikes in that direction.

The ride from Victoria to Port Hardy happens in two parts. The first part is great – that is, if you enjoy row after row of used RV lots, Wal-marts and strip malls. I flip my iPod over to the ‘Angry White Man Music’ playlist and muddle through the suburbs as quickly as possible. The Jesus trees are impressive, and a worthwhile detour.

The second part of the ride sucks, unless you enjoy winding open roads, little to no traffic, zero police supervision, spectacular mountain vistas and occasional curious wildlife. Thanks to the decided lack of Mounties on the northern half of Vancouver Island, we make up plenty of time on the way to Port Hardy.

Finally, I find the well hidden ‘Welcome to…’ sign, and happily claim Vancouver Island for the Kingdom of Rhode Island. Welcome to Vancouver Rhode Island!

As we wind our way to the end of the road, there are huge swaths of mountain that have been clear cut of all trees. I think to myself these mountains look like freshly shorn sheep, and while it might be a shame the trees are gone, there are signs explaining their replanting efforts, and besides all that, someday I want to own a  log cabin.

While I think these inane thoughts, a newly appointed resident of the Kingdom of Vancouver Rhode Island pokes his head up to say hello.

Frenchy the Bear

There are also other wondrous sights to behold in the north parts of Vancouver Rhode Island.

In Port Hardy, we dine in the height of luxury. Subway foot-longs, Baked Lays and medium American Champagnes – Coca-Cola. Awesome.

While choking down this ‘meal’, we’re treated to some authentic Port Hardy dinner theater, as a policeman in the parking lot arrests a town drunk. After dinner, Dark Meat fades away to check in with the wife (that’s going to take me a while to get used to saying) while Fiona and I pop into a pub for a nightcap. The five-thirty port call for the ferry to take us to Prince Rupert is fast-approaching, and while we enjoy the cute bartender’s tales of life in a small town, we soon fade away as well, content with thoughts of better days and better roads – as always – swirling in my tiny little brain.

More? Click HERE!

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I wake up happy, because not only are there no rain clouds to contend with, but, as far as I know at this point, the worst of the long journey is already behind us. The slog up the I-5 is over, and as a bonus, there is a nearby territory that I am ready to claim for the ever-expanding Kingdom of Rhode Island.

Yes. I know. Whiskeytown is not technically an island, but then again, Rhode Island technically isn’t either. When I am done this Global Not-Technically-An-Island Expansion, I will have difficulty deciding if I should have my palace built in Whiskeytown, or its nearby neighbor:

Dark Meat Snack decides this is the perfect day to try out a new contraption, his twelve dollar Taiwanese Cambelback knockoff.

Umm, I don’t even know what to say, but trust me, it gets even more ridiculous, especially when Dark Meat tries to drink with his helmet on.

Copious amounts of laughter ensue as Goofy McGooferson continues to try and figure out how to interface  his twelve dollar farkle with his much more expensive helmet.

I will say this much for Dark Meat. He’s a stubborn little bastard, and after a few hours, he finally managed to take a quick drink out of his new toy.

I recommend improving the system by filling the bladder with Macallan.

The curves undulate and swerve, twisting, arcing, winding and bending in a dazzling sequence of seemingly endless deviations from yesterday’s straight line boredom. By nine in the morning, this day is already the Best Day Ever, and the scenery and splendor of the Pacific Coast Highway promises to elevate the mood even higher.

Oregon welcomes us in that peculiar way that only Oregon can.

The gas stations in Oregon are staffed by helpful attendants that are all too happy to scurry over to your motorcycle, offering helpful advice such as how to swipe your credit card and where to put the nozzle. Some of these helpful buggers will even pantomime the entire ‘Filling And Paying’ routine, just in case you are a bit slow on the uptake. I have no idea how people in the other forty-nine states manage without such helpful advice.

After marveling at the beautiful Oregon coastline for a few miles, Dark Meat signals me and says, “I’m tired of the fucking ocean.” Peering at the map, I find Oregon Route 33; the smallest gray line from the coast back to the highway. Route 33 turns out to be the most challenging road I’ve ever ridden. The entire route consisted of a tight single lane road, complete with speeding oncoming trucks, deer, gravel, rock slides, more deer, and sheer drop-offs with no guardrail; all requiring 100% concentration and focus. This accidental detour is best characterized as a triple black diamond class A bitch of a road.

This road makes the Tail of the Dragon look like a puny lizard. By the time we reach the highway at the other end I am completely soaked in sweat, sore, tired and supremely happy. I don’t even mind that this detour means more highway time to keep on schedule, the ‘Highway Penalty’ was absolutely worth the trip.

Even the next day, while serving the Highway Penalty sentence, I am happy, although a bit freaked out by a completely random occurrence. The day before, while cruising up the Pacific Coast Highway, we passed a hitch-hiker. I waved and shrugged at my empty back seat. He smiled a knowing smile and offered a half wave. I didn’t think anything more of it until the next day when I see THE EXACT SAME GUY at the highway on ramp trying to hitch a ride . He offers me the same knowing smile and half wave. I’m too stunned to return the gesture.

We stop at a motorcycle shop to get some supplies. Dark Meat replaces his well scratched face shield, and I pick up and install what I consider to be a perfect addition to Rain Cloud Follows.

Finally we can take the highway no more, and duck back onto another excellent road leading to the coast. More twists and turns greet us, along with this embarrassing abomination:

Speechless.

We end our day in Olympia, Washington. I’m lured to a comfy looking place to sleep not only by its colorful sign, but also the offer of ‘Free TV.’

The next morning is spent taking the longest route possible to the airport. Sadly, we park and bag our bikes at the nicer, much more upscale hotel that Fiona will be meeting us at after our tripus-interruptus WWE work hiatus ends four days hence.

The Entire 1537 Mile Preamble Route
The good stuff starts here.

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1) Get on bike.

2) Ride North.

3) Turn around in Alaska.

4) Ride South.

Alaskan Map-kin

My most recent  Map-kin perfectly illustrates the beautiful simplicity of this plan. My eyeballs have grown tired of looking at the same things all the time, so I came up with this little route to put some new things in front of them. Granted this Map-kin required a few extra sheets of two-ply Bounty cartography material, but there is a reason for that. Alaska, as I learned while making the map, is pretty far away. This route will also necessitate a return to Canada, a strange land rumored to be so polite that the natives routinely say Thank You to ATM machines.

My first experience with Canada was around the time I was a nineteen year old tadpole, in my friend Troy’s basement. Troy had somehow acquired a bottle of Canadian Mist whiskey, and, over the course of an extremely long and increasingly fuzzy evening, things went from bad to worse to really really bad. Like your first girlfriend that really breaks your heart, you never forget the name of the first bottle of poison that nearly kills you. Canadian Mist. Still makes me shudder. I remember at the time thinking to myself, “Hmm, the nose on this whiskey is a mixture of stale oranges and rubbing alcohol, with a finish of burnt tire! Wow, this is not a pleasant experience at all! Canada is not to be trusted!” I woke up two days later.

My experiences with both whiskey and Canada have improved markedly since that first initial sting.

Over a few such tasty adult beverages one fine evening, I mentioned the plan to my long time riding partner Dark Meat Snack. To my surprise, he agreed to the entire sixteen day route. Abi usually needs to be gently prodded, poked, then physically threatened before agreeing to one of my lame-brained riding ideas. But this time, he had a legitimate reason to turn me down.He was tired, but for a good reason. During the previous two weeks, Abi had been in his homeland of Trinidad, becoming a married man.

Aladin and Mrs. Aladin

Packing for this trip is the usual game of hide and seek; looking for a missing boot, searching for the spare keys, dragging long-lost musty and dirty riding gear out of storage, and loading thirty pounds of shit in to a five pound bag. When I finish packing, it looks like I’m ready to go on an Arctic Expedition, which, knowing my penchant for getting ‘un-found’, may just happen. I also made sure to pack one of the most important ingredients of all to a successful overland adventure – a liter of beautiful fiery amber Scottish spirits for toasting what surely will be a string of Best Day Evers.

Even the simplest of my plans have a tendency of getting complicated awfully quickly. In order to keep ourselves employed, which will keep these riding trips funded, Dark Meat and I will have to take this trip in two stages. The first stage is more like a preamble, a three day jaunt up to Seattle. Once there, we will park the bikes for a few days and fly to Texas to work three days of World Wrestling Entertainment shows.  Sleeping Beauty, my ever patient and understanding girlfriend, will be joining us in Seattle for the second stage of the trip, a sixteen day blast as far north as we can get before we have to turn around and head home.

The following morning at o’dark o’clock, Dark Meat and I load up and, with no real objective in mind other than to reach Seattle in three days, being sure to arrive in time to catch that all important flight to get us to work. Unburdened by a plan, we head out on the long and boring highway. A few hours later at breakfast in Gorman, we take our first peak at a real map, and make our first real route decision of the trip. In order to have at least one really fun riding days on this preamble, we decide to slog up the interstate for the majority of the first day. The map’s promise of fun looking little gray squiggles further ahead is the only thing that keeps me going. The highway is boring, but at least it is long and hot.

Our first fuel stop turned into a half hour biker bullshit-fest, as three different guys came up to ask where we were heading. There is something decidedly delicious about casually replying, “Alaska.” Every time I said it, I couldn’t help but crack a smile. Alaska, baby!

Rolling up the straight ribbon of asphalt known in my adopted home state as ‘The I-5′ we make an unscheduled stop in Abi’s homeland of Trinidad, where he gives me a tour of his old stomping grounds.

First he showed me where his bride picked him out.

Then we toured Trinidad’s many civil service buildings. First, the fire station.

Next door, the honest-to-God Trinidad, CA police station.

The center for the Arts.

All this walking and tour-giving made Dark Meat Snack tired. He told me to wait for him while he went to relax a bit.

After getting a hot stone massage, cucumber wrap and pedicure, Dark Meat and I took one last stroll down Main Street, noticing a pair of sexy black KTM dual sport motorcycles. An in the What-A-Small-World department, the bikes (and riders) were from none other than Alaska. Noticing the small gas can strapped to one of the bikes, Abi asked the man, a dead ringer for Kenny Loggins, if we’d need one too. He replied, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe? Sometimes up that way gas stations run out of gas.” Then Mr. Loggins added, “You know what? Take this one. We’re done with it anyway.”

It got so hot on the highway that I felt the waterworks kick in as my auxiliary armpit pumps went into overdrive. Water poured down my sleeve as the thermometer continued to rise.

120 Degrees? Where are we, Death Valley?

At the final gas stop of the day, my turkey thermometer had finally popped. Overwhelmed by the heat, I had to endure one of those questions from an air conditioned queen; a question that usually makes me chuckle. The question? “How do you guys stand wearing all that hot motorcycling gear in this heat?” How do you make someone like this understand the sublime pleasure of peeling all that hot, smelly gear off at the end of the day? I contemplated an answer, while Dark Meat, in a dark, much less diplomatic mood, replied, “Why don’t you just get back in your air conditioned car and drive to Six Flags?”

Six-hundred eleven miles later, thankfully turned off the mind numbingly hot and dull  I-5, heading  towards better, funner roads, my smile grew wider. We holed up for the night in the first of what will probably be many lower-priced hotels, toasted the Best Day Ever, reflected on all that had happened on Day One of this Preamble ride, and, supremely happy and satisfied, fell almost immediately unconscious, with visions of better roads and even better days dancing in my head.

The next part can be found here.

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