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!

Author: frenchy