Florida to Alaska on a Bicycle

From Florida to Alaska on a Bicycle

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I just started riding - with distant thoughts of someday ending up in Alaska... In March of 1996 I had just unloaded from my life one nuisance of a house. I found myself wondering what to do next and, for the first time in years, had nothing tying me down. 

It was a chance meeting with a copy of Signposts Alaska highways magazine that sparked my mind had had me thinking "Adventure". While leafing through this bible of roads of the great white north daydreaming to the pictures, one grabbed my attention - a picture of the Inuvik highway through the Yukon. A massive expanse of pure nothingness. One lone road weaving off into absolutely nowhere, shrinking to a wee hair as it vanished into the horizon.

It was like someone had built a road across the bleak terrain of some uninhabited planet. I imagined myself on that road. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to be there. It was like science fiction to imagine myself on that seemingly far away planet.

Only this was something reachable. This road was connected to other roads, which were connected to others, which were, in turn, connected to roads, which were connected to my driveway. This was something I could imagine that could also be real. I imagined myself getting to that road on my bicycle.

I decided I would go on an adventure on my bicycle - on the trip, which eventually took me to the brink of the Arctic Ocean. A journey through a real frozen tundra where trees couldn't grow, paved roads didn't exist, and where for many miles in any direction you were not likely to see another human being.

I started planning for this trip a year before I actually left. I don't know exactly when I decided I was going to go to Alaska. I knew I wanted to do an extended bicycle tour to those far-off gravel roads which led through nowhere, and which seemed to lead to nothing. My final destinations would ultimately be the Alaska Highway; and then the Dalton Highway - a trail of dirt and rocks, which starts north of Fairbanks, and north nearly 500 miles to Prudhoe Bay on the Arctic Ocean.

A road that existed for the sole purpose of transporting supplies to the Alaska oil fields. To a town that existed for no other reason than to house and feed people working the oil and the Alaska pipeline. It was hard to imagine myself actually being there. But with the proper planning and preparation I knew - I would at least be heading in that direction and, eventually would find myself there.

For one full year I planned and researched. I read bicycle magazines and postings in bicycle newsgroups on the Internet from people who had done long bike tours. I asked questions and read about what I should pack, what I should and shouldn't do, and other advice and suggestions that maybe aren't so apparent while sitting at home planning. I started obtaining the necessary supplies - a tent, sleeping bag, touring bags, rain cloths, etc. I bought a Sierra wood burning stove which would burn pine needles, pine cones, twigs, or just about anything that would burn. I took along a Sun Shower which was kind of like a big Sun Tea bag only with a solar panel and a spicket with a shower head. I had a pocket saw and an ax!

I started with too much stuff and, even thought I ended up sending many things back, still had too much stuff when I got there (based upon what other bicyclists carried). What can I say? I don't travel light. I took along a bag with safety pins, cloths pins, rubber bands, ... I had bike tools and spare parts, bungee cords, and everything I could possibly think of that I might possibly need.

Suffice it to say though - all the planning in the world won't prepare you for everything. A lot of stuff you just have to learn the hard way. I had originally planned to leave on March 1st, 1997 but ended up postponing it to April 1st. March might still be too cold, I reasoned, and I needed to save up some more money anyway.

It's a good thing I did. As it was, I started with only about $3,000 for the entire trip. I would have to budget to make it last and have enough for any emergencies or unexpected happening. I figured it would take me about four months to do the whole trip. I would attempt to get by on $70 - $80 a week.

I wasn't exactly sure what I was going to do when I got there. My imagination ran wild the year leading up to when I would actually leave. My head was full of pipe dreams.

One plan actually had me going all the way around the world. I was going to have a folding kayak on the back of my bike to cross oceans and other waterways. I would hike across Alaska and load my stuff in the kayak to cross the Bering Straight. Riding through Asia and Europe I planned to break out the kayak for the jaunt to Britain to Iceland to Greenland and then back to the US.

I actually had this idea in mind for a few months and did considerable research as to the feasibility of accomplishing it. Thinking back it sounds crazy but I think you have to be at least a little crazy to attempt any type of thing like this.

I then scaled it back to where I would just fly to Japan after finishing the bike trip. The Nagano Olympics were coming up the following year and I figured it would be pretty cool to head out there and check it out.

I was at the Atlanta Olympics, have always liked the Olympics and had a dose of Olympic fever. I even took a semester of Japanese in college to prepare me for Japan. When it got close to time to leave and I didn't have that much money, I planned to get a job in Alaska to finance the rest of the trip. Well that didn't happen either.

I wanted to go to Barrow, Alaska - the northernmost town in the USA. I researched the possibility of walking there from Deadhorse, or to at least charter a plane there. As I neared my destination, however, I resigned myself to just hitchhiking back to Florida. In the end, though, after all was said and done I ended up taking a plane back to Tampa. I guess the point I learned in all this is that plans can change - and it's not necessarily a bad thing. Part of the adventure is not knowing exactly what will happen. It took a year to come up with this. Setting a goal of such great magnitude will yield certain results upon acting on it and with enough planning, effort, determination, and a certain focus, can lead to quite a rewarding conclusion. Leaving My Driveway - the Hardest Part: April Fools It was on April 1st, 1997 that I left my driveway in Largo, Florida. April Fools Day. This may or may not be a coincidence. I will never know for sure, but no sooner than I left my driveway I was starting to feel that I may, possibly, be something of a fool - (actually what I was thinking was more along the lines of "WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING!!??) - but it was too late. I had already started. There was no turning back at this point without really looking like a fool. After all, I had already told everybody what I was doing. Of course, they all thought I was crazy for doing it. But being crazy is much cooler. Well once I had been riding awhile I started getting used to it. After all, I wasn't riding to Alaska today - I was only riding to my sister Carrie's house in Palm Harbor - a mere 23 miles away. And that's just what I did. Riding mainly on the Pinellas Trail and at one point getting a police escort from the Clearwater PD bicycle patrol where the trail ended, I made the 23-mile trip to my sister's house. This was the furthest I had ever ridden a bicycle in one day in my life - It would be the second shortest bike ride I would make for the next six months. I watched movies and rested. The next day I don't think I ever left the house. One day of riding and I was already taking a day off. I felt lazy and knew it was important to get going the next day to keep the momentum flowing, so day three I was out the door. One thing I would come to realize was that I would not make the kind of time I had originally planned. I had been thinking of a four-month trip averaging about 75 miles a day or more. In reality, I averaged more like 60 miles or less. I had great expectations but the truth was I was an inexperienced cyclist who had no clue about what it actually meant to ride a bicycle all day long. And did I mention I am lazy? My itinerary had me making it to a campground in Brooksville on day three - I didn't make it there until day four. Today I would ride till I had to find somewhere to camp on the side of the road. I pulled into what I thought was nothing but trees, but after unpacking most of my stuff and taking a look around, realized I was behind someone's house. Tired as I was and with darkness approaching, there was no way I was packing and leaving now. So I laid low and waited for it to get darker, then spread out a tarp and laid down. Now, April in Florida is already starting to get pretty hot. But, I soon realized, it does not mean the same at night. In fact it got pretty chilly. I first got up to break out my long johns and, later, to break out my sleeping bag for the first time. This was one aspect of my laziness I would soon lose - I quickly got very used to unpacking all of my stuff everyday - and repacking it the next morning - and unpacking - and packing - and unpacking - and packing - and...well anyway I made it through with just my sleeping bag which was soaked with morning dew the next day. I awoke at 5:45 AM and showered with the little remaining water in my water bottle which left most of the shampoo in my hair. Of all the things I deprived myself of on this trip, it was hot showers I missed the most. It's my fourth day riding today and I get my first experience with hills as I approach Brooksville. The total weight of my load, including my bicycle, is about 150 pounds, and with me on it about 340. I don't think I ever really took into consideration just how difficult pedaling up an incline would be - I've never lived anywhere close to a hill in my life. Being out of shape made it very fortunate for me to be starting my trip in flat Florida. The really cool thing about hills, though, is after you finally make it up you get to come back down. Coming down hills on winding roads I even exceeded 30mph. (This all seemed impressive to me at the time but one unique thing about this trip was that I started in flat Florida and the terrain grew increasingly steeper as the trip went on - flat Florida - Tennessee hills - Rocky Mountains - 12% grades on the Dalton Highway and the Brooks Range in Alaska). I felt like I was really on my way now riding down secluded country roads with no traffic. Fresh air and the sound of silence was not something I was used to living in the Tampa Bay area. I was finally leaving it all behind and it felt great. It took most of the day but I was nearing my originally planned day three destination in the Withlacoochee State Forest and decided I'd call it a day and stay the night in the Holder Mines campground near the town of Inverness. Getting to the campground was a challenge in itself. About a mile or so of sand roads so soft that it was impossible to ride, leaving no choice but to push. This was nearly equally impossible. But push I pushed. Sometimes I would try to push it off road but the sand spurs would quickly chase me back. Pushing a fully loaded bike through soft sand was not something I had planned - this trip would be full of unexpected surprises. I made it to my first campground, took a shower, and set up my tent for the very first time. I also broke out my little Sierra wood-burning stove which was pretty interesting. After scraping together pine needles and small twigs I was able to fire up my little stove. I feasted on canned beans, canned corn, and fried potatoes. It just doesn't get much better than this. The next morning I awoke realizing that after packing I would have to dig myself out of the campground via the sand roads to get back to the main road. I lucked out though. A park ranger came by in his truck and rode my stuff and me back to the main road. I needed water and noticed a church across the street where I stopped to fill up with their garden hose. It was there I realized my rear tire was flat - SANDSPURS! I came prepared though, but changing the tire meant unloading everything - (during a period of time in Canada where I had 8 flat tires in 9 days I figured a way to change the tires without unloading anything - laziness is the mother of invention...). After reloading my bike I figured it might be a good idea to pick the sand spurs out of my front tire too! hissssssssssssssssssss! Yep! Of course! time to fix another tire. I didn't get far that day. By this time my out of shape legs and body were feeling pretty sore. I stopped at Rainbow Springs State Park which wasn't on my map but looked good all the same. I try to stretch my money as far as possible - I only have about $3,000 for the entire trip - so I break off into a secluded section of woods. It is here I attempt to camp again without using my tent. Big mistake, for it is here I find myself in the midst of Mosquito Land. The sound of bugs buzzing in my ears all night is something I will not soon forget - and camping without a tent is a mistake I never make again - laziness loses out on this one. Well, I'm inspired now. It is my sixth day riding and I finally put some miles behind me. Today I rode 63.7 miles and the initial shock of riding a bicycle for hours everyday is finally wearing off. I made it to High Springs, a town about 20 miles northwest of Gainesville. I had planned to stop and do some laundry, then ride all the way to O'Leno State Park, where I would take the day off and rest. The Laundromat was closed though so I broke down and got a $25 motel. It is amazing after six days outdoors how much I appreciate this motel. Air conditioning. A bed. TV even! I rarely watch TV at home but I watched it all night here. Day seven - I ride the six miles to O'Leno State Park and prepare to relax. Relax I do. The park is named after the 19th century town of Leno which was originally called Keno after the gambling game. When they wanted to start a post office they decided to change the name reportedly, because the feds weren't too keen on a town named after gambling. The park is on the Santa Fe River which is sort of unique for two reasons. For one thing it, like the Suwannee and other rivers in Florida, is jet black due to the tannic acid which occurs naturally making it look like a river of black coffee. Another oddity is that the river disappears - at one point it suddenly sinks underground leaving a "river graveyard" of logs piled up at the terminus. About two miles later it resurfaces as if it had never left. It says in my journal, "tomorrow I will try to make it to Suwannee River State Park ''. I don't. I have now been on the road a whole week and on this eight day and after a late start I manage to ride 57 miles before finding myself in need of a place to stop for the night before it gets dark. (This will be a recurring theme throughout the course of the trip and something that I am always conscious of as the day wears on. I don't always make it before dark. Never really knowing where I will stay for the night is one of my top two concerns - right up there with where and when I can take a shower). Today I find a vacant lot down a dirt road. I don't want to get caught trespassing so always lay low in this situation. On this occasion I manage to get eaten alive by mosquitoes before getting set up, eating a can of Spaghettios, and making it into my tent. It is now Wednesday April 9th. I ride all day until almost dark. I made it to a KOA campground after riding more that 70 miles - this is easily my longest and hardest day so far. There were quite a few hills and I was hell bent on making some progress. A hot shower and the next day I do some laundry and go. I must have been worn out because I ride only 30 miles and camp in the woods by the road near Tallahassee. I couldn't have chosen a lousier spot. Thick brush with spiders, ticks, and ants. I whacked out a flat spot with my pocket saw (one of my more useful gadgets) set up, and stayed in my tent 'till the next morning. I try out my Sun Shower for the first time - I don't have time for the sun though and take a cold shower with one hand while holding the bag of water up with the other. I didn't always enjoy the ride today. I was on very narrow, winding roads with heavy traffic for much of the ride as I circumnavigated Florida's capital city of Tallahassee. I stopped to eat in the town of Havana where I talked to my sister Carrie on the phone. She was taking a vacation and planned to drive up and meet me for a couple of days. We planned to meet near Chattahoochee at a campground on Lake Seminole in Georgia. I am not planning on riding through Georgia - I am only staying at the Lake Seminole Campground that is just across the Florida border. Havana was a somewhat restored old city with a lot of red brick buildings. If I had known what lie in store for me after leaving Havana I might have just decided to stay. Yes, this is where the true flavor of adventure began to reveal itself and the last half of this day would give me a taste of what was to come. I missed my road after leaving Havana and was already very tired. I was on a very narrow route 12 heading toward the town of Quincy. The traffic was thick and I really started to question the choices of roads that Adventure Cycling had used. (This would not be the last time I had my doubts about narrow rural routes - they are often extremely narrow which isn't in itself bad unless it also has a fair amount of traffic. This is often the case). I was determined to make it to Chattahoochee today but it was getting late and I was still a long way from my destination. I had no idea how hilly Quincy would be. The hills were the steepest yet and to make matters worse, I couldn't find my turn-off. I ended up going back and forth, up and down the same steep hills trying to find my road but they weren't marked like anything it said on the map. I finally turned down one road hoping it was the right one. Fortunately, it was. Then it started to rain. I had not experienced rain up to this point but was quickly introduced to what would become a familiar theme throughout the trip. Now normally when it rains I am used to just going back inside, or getting in the car. Now I am just riding. I bought a rain suit but have never really used one, so I don't bother to try to stop and unpack it. I guess it just took some time for it to sink in that I was getting soaked. I finally stopped at a store in a town called Gretna. It had stopped raining for the most part so I changed into some dry clothes and put on my rain jacket while I talked to some kids hanging out on bikes in front of the store. I rode the rest of the way to Chattahoochee and finally into Georgia. I'm not planning on riding through Georgia but it is still a milestone knowing I have ridden a bicycle from my house to another state. This is my first experience with a Gore-Tex rain jacket. It is supposed to be "breathable" and well ventilated. This may be true compared to regular plastic raincoats but while riding a bicycle it was difficult to notice. It was still very hot and sweaty. I had to ask directions to the campground and didn't get there until after 8:00 PM. I was exhausted, and while waiting to use the phone to call my sister I was invited by a man to come help them eat some fish they had caught at the lake that day. I was more than happy to. In fact, I don't think I've ever been hungrier in my life. I ate, took a really great shower, pulled a tick out of me, then proceeded to set up my tent in the pouring rain and, by this time of night, the pitch dark. This is the first time I have ever used the rain fly on my tent and I would never again be able to set my tent up without it. I finally did call my sister to give directions to the place. She drove up the next day. It was the last time I would get to see anyone I knew for a long time so we took some time to see some sights. Lake Seminole is actually a dammed up reservoir where three rivers meet. The Jim Woodruff dam is pretty large - the largest dam I had ever seen. I was impressed. My sister did not come all that way to sleep in a wet tent so we ended up getting a motel that night and the next. I ended up taking two days off in a row and hoped the rest would freshen me up. It was also a good opportunity to clean and organize my bags. We drove to Torreya State Park on the Apalachicola River and walked the trails. It was nice to be able to ride around in a car and walk around. I hadn't been gone two weeks yet and it already seemed like a luxury. Torreya State Park was named after a rare form of tree which grew here and nowhere else in the world. It is extremely endangered and many people don't expect it to survive. It seems to me in the case of a tree it shouldn't be impossible to just make copies of the tree to allow it to propagate. It's not like endangered animals where you have to rely on them breeding and eating in captivity and all the delicate issues to be dealt with in keeping alive a member of the Animal Kingdom. But a tree? Just plant some seeds and keep them watered. I'm no botanist or anything so I guess there must be more to it than that. Please excuse my ignorance on the subject. (I tried to learn more about trees on the trip. I bought two books later on about trees and identifying leaves. I even collected leaves and attempted to identify them throughout the trip. There is plenty of time for such activities while alone on a bicycle for six months). Carrie and I had to drive all the way back to Quincy to find a cash machine. On the way back we were trying to figure out what to do next. I noticed an icon in my Florida DeLorme map indicating a place called Glen Julia Springs along the way. We drove up there and it looked like an abandoned park. It was eerie. Everything was overgrown. There was a lake and dilapidated dock at the end of this trail we walked and no sign of anyone having been there in a long time. That night we upgraded to a better class of cheap motel. This one, in contrast to the previous night's lodgings, had no cockroaches or used condoms on the floor. The next day my sister and I went our separate ways. I would not see anyone I knew again for almost six months. After two days without riding I was well rested. It was an easy ride to Florida Caverns State Park. It was only about 33 miles. It was over 70 miles to Lake Seminole the last day I rode. I used my ATM for the first time at a Winn Dixie in Marianna. I bought some little steaks and cooked them on a fire at the campground. I talked with some guy from Nashville while I ate then listened to some music on my tape player. ( I don't know why but it was the first time I had used my Walkman the whole trip. Normally I listen to music all the time but I ended up mailing it back after only using it once or twice). Well this day marked the end of two weeks of riding my bicycle. I was riding with the goal of Alaska in mind but I wasn't really riding to Alaska. I was riding to this town and that town. I was riding 12 miles to the next spot on my map. Then I would ride to the next spot. Waking up in the morning I would try to gauge how far I would go that day. I might set a goal of some certain town or park or campground which I may or may not reach. I may decide upon reaching the day's goal to ride a little further if it was still early. Alaska was too far off. When an entire day's riding moves me no more than a speck on my USA map it was hard to think of Alaska. After two weeks I was still in Florida. It is now April 15th. I have planned for a while to see the caverns. I've never been inside a cave before so this should be pretty cool. I went on the tour with a class of 11th graders from Thomasville, GA and their teacher. We walked through all the stalactites and stalagmites and had to admit it was pretty interesting. It was dark and damp and we had to duck much of the time. I never really thought of it before but much of it had to be carved out to be able to pass through at all. Otherwise they'd have no tourist attraction. Afterwards I talked with their teacher at the info displays. He wore a bright green suit coat and plaid pants. That was the highlight of the day though. For some reason I was feeling very lousy mentally and physically. It was a nice day but I didn't feel like riding. I went about 50 miles and stopped at Ponce DeLeon Springs State Recreation Area. It didn't have a campground but it had a trail and the park was closing, so I pushed my bike down the trail for a while trying to find a spot. It was a wet, swampy area full of mosquitoes so I couldn't wait to get set up but I figured I better wait to make sure no one was coming. It was here I decided it would be a nice time to try out my mosquito uniform for the first time. ( I told you I packed a lot of stuff ). It was a suit in a bag and you pour in a bottle of Deet and let it soak awhile. It worked great and was one of my best friends in mosquito infested areas for the transition phase between stopping the bike, and setting up and getting into the tent. I awoke at 5:30 the next morning to make it before the park opened. I swam and bathed in the springs. While in the bathroom I found an old ragged pair of short pants in the trash. I figured they would be useful for bathing out in the open so I used them for that purpose the remainder of the trip. They could get wet and soapy and dirty and it wouldn't matter. In October of 1996 I was doing tree work for a living. I drove up to the panhandle with a friend after hurricane Opal had wreaked its damage on the area. The place was a mess back then with fallen trees everywhere. The night before my birthday I slept on the hood of the pickup truck and woke up thinking about life. I was 29 years old and wanted to do something more than what I had been doing with my life. I imagine these were the earliest stages of what would become my bike trip. We met up with other tree cutting friends in Crestview and wound up with about 10 of us renting a house for a month where Jamie, Alex, and I bought tents and camped in the backyard. I had such a sense of freedom. This set a spark which would eventually lead to me offing my house the following April 1st. The spirit has evolved into this big adventure and now I find myself back in Crestview. I rode out to the house that was somewhat of a headquarters during our hurricane Opal experience but saw no one around and kept riding. I stopped in the town of Holt where some lady offered me directions to where I was going. When her car wouldn't start I went to help and my bike fell over damaging the seat. I rode about 62 miles that day making it to Blackwater River State Park. It wasn't really a campground. One of those free do it yourself spots right on the Blackwater River. I woke up freezing along the river. I bathed in this very cold, very clear river which is said to be "among the purest sand bottom rivers in the world" - whatever that means. Well, being so pure - and because I forgot to get water when I rode through town - I tried out my water purifier for the first time and the water tastes great. I don't know if it's because of the pure river or the filter or both. Time will tell - like tomorrow morning - I'll taste a little river water without the filter. This night is supposed to get to 42 degrees in Pensacola, which means even colder here inland. I decided to take the day off to rest. At this point I'm planning to make it to Big Lagoon State Park the following day. That will take me within several miles of the Alabama border. I can't help thinking of what a milestone that will be. It almost seems to me as spectacular as making it to Alaska at this point. But for now I enjoy the Blackwater River. I left my stuff in the woods and rode into town on an unloaded bicycle. It's amazing the contrast of riding without the big load. I'm flying into town like gangbusters - like Superman on a bicycle. I get my dad a B-day card, do a little shopping for food, and call my Mom, then talked to my sister - who decided to walk the Appalachian Trail with me the next year. I went to the other side of the river to take a picture of my camp. It was no real trail and I decided the best way to get back was to walk across the shallow, clear river. I realized while walking through the woods that the slash pines in Crestview after hurricane Opal weren't some unique species. They just had the outer bark blown off then revealing a smoother, lighter colored layer. How strange! I bathed in the Blackwater River again this morning and my thermometer said 40 degrees when I got out. I bet it got down to the 30's last night. Leaving the camp I missed my road because Indian Ford Rd. was called Bob Pitts Rd. westbound. I met two women riding bicycles from San Diego, CA to St. Augustine, FL using the same Adventure Cycling maps as I had. Jill from Mona Lake, CA wanted me to say "hi" to Frank in Barrow, AK. They warned me about a bridge that was out. The river is so clear and shallow, though, so there was no problem crossing it. Just like in the westerns, I forded the river. It took me seven trips back and forth with all my stuff. They said on the entire trip Florida has the rudest drivers. I would find that out myself and I hoped it was true. In fact, this revelation turned out to be prophetic as it was easily the worst stretch of riding as far as asshole drivers were concerned. I even had an oncoming 18-wheel semi tractor-trailer truck veer into my lane getting as close as possible and blaring his horn. They call the Florida Panhandle the Redneck Riviera. Go figure. I've heard much discussion listing Florida as the most dangerous state to ride a bicycle and I certainly didn't see much evidence to disprove this. I did make it to Big Lagoon eventually but not before missing another road. I was surprised to find that here, right on the beach, the camp fee was cheaper - $8 - than many of the others inland. I took the next day off here at the beach and had a great time. I got sunburned and walked trails and was feeling pretty good. Milestone - today is April 20th. Twenty days and 654 miles after leaving my house in Largo, I crossed the Alabama state line. All of the sudden things seemed brighter. Life was great as I rode down the street overlooking the beach. I finally left Florida behind and for the first time I felt as if I had really accomplished something. I was finally on my way. I met some more cyclists doing the San Diego - St. Augustine route. Almost all cross country bike tours seem to go west to east. The wind is generally from west to east (especially up north with the Jet Stream as I would come to find out the hard way later). Today I have to take a ferry to Dauphin Island where I find a campground with washing machines. I only have a handful of clothes so it is necessary to do wash about every five days. Dauphin Island is pretty cool. It's just a small old-time beach community with a lot of history. They even say some Welsh navigator landed there in the year 1170 and that the local Indians were still speaking a little Welsh when Europeans arrived several centuries later. Interesting. I was interested and curious about the next stretch of my trip after leaving Dauphin Island. The movie Forest Gump had just come out a few years earlier and I was now headed toward Bayou LaBatre - The shrimping community featured in the film. It was, in fact, a town that seemed to rely heavily on shrimping. I was a little surprised to find that there was no mention of the movie anywhere or their town's role in it. Well, at least one town hasn't been caught up in Hollywood exploitation and commercialism. I passed through with little notice. Apparently Forrest Gump and I aren't the only idiots who travel cross-country through this region by manual means. This was one of the points along Adventure Cycling's touring maps and I ran into yet another couple of people heading East along the San Diego - St. Augustine route. Once again I get to warn people about the bridge being out in Florida. (It will happen from time to time that I will pass bicyclists touring along the way and we exchange warnings and other news about what to expect up ahead. The sheer number of people who do this type of thing surprises me). This day would also see me passing into Mississippi. Today marks exactly three weeks on the trail and I wanted to make it at least to Mississippi - just to say I did. Well, it wasn't too far into Mississippi that I stopped. I came to a bridge on the Escatawpa River, which is Indian for Dog River. This is what the locals call it, I found out as I talked to a couple natives hanging out eating crawdads. Some kids were shooting rifles and pistols into the woods nearby. As it wasn't dark enough yet, I waited before setting up my tent. The two guys with the crawdads invited me over to eat with them. They had two large boxes full and we stood there eating them and talking and throwing the heads into the river. If you've ever had crayfish you know the heads make up more than half of the creature, and the natives of Mississippi and Louisiana often suck the slime out of them before tossing them. I didn't; and neither did Sparky and his friend. They soon left, and left me a whole box of them. More than I could or wanted to eat. So I set up my tent and did some fishing with my portable fishing pole and tackle box. (Another of the over packed items I eventually sent back). I was using the crawdads as bait but not catching anything, as I never do. Suddenly, someone pulled up. It was Sparky. He brought me a Tostinos pizza, a bag of chips, and a bottle of PowerAde. He said to me before he left, 'There are a lot of bad people in the world - just remember the good ones'. I got up the next morning around 5:30 or so. I am not a morning person, but I always get up early when I'm camping somewhere I maybe shouldn't be. Not that there is much traffic in these sparse rural areas but I feel better getting out as soon as possible after the sun rises. I made it today to the Desoto National Forest in Southern Mississippi. I am really out in the middle of nowhere and I end up camping out under a small bridge over Railroad Creek. Soon after I got there it started to rain. I set up quickly and ate a cold can of ravioli after taking a dip in the creek, which was freezing. It rained a lot and the bridge leaked. I was a little concerned that I would be flooded out but all went well. Today I rode a scant 14.5 miles to an old German P.O.W. camp in the Desoto National Forest. I found myself at a large clearing on a lake with concrete cells that housed the German prisoners during WWII. It was so secluded. For the next three days I had it virtually to myself. I set my tent inside one of the cells, which was barely tall enough to fit. It would certainly be cramped quarters for prisoners. I needed the rest. But I also planned these few days off for more strategic reasons. I thought upon reading my map, that it mentions the road from Poplarville, MS to Bogalusa, LA is a high speed, very busy two-laned road with no shoulders but later I realized they meant another stretch. Either way I planned on doing this stretch on a Sunday to avoid a lot of working traffic. I enjoy my three days here at the P.O.W. camp. I hike a lot, I attempt fishing again without luck. I can SEE fish. And they eat the little balls of bread I throw into the water. But when I put some on a hook they shy away from it, or carefully snag the bread off the hook without grabbing the hook. I guess fish are smarter than I give them credit for. I have a roaring fire going. There is plenty of wood here and my pocket saw sees plenty of use. [Journal entry: ' I still am without a theme or direction for the writing of this trip. I need to come up with something. It is so theme less.' - Three years later I still have no theme.] The first morning waking up at the P.O.W. camp and I am very stiff. Some girls brought a bunch of horses out here and walked them on a horse trail. I decided to walk the horse trail myself. I just had to watch where I walked. It ended up circling around and coming out on the other side of the lake. I finally have a chance to lay my Sun shower out to get hot and for the first time I actually take a hot shower with my shower in a bag. At this point I begin to feel as if I live in the German P.O.W. camp. This is the longest I've spent in one spot, and with very little human contact. A maintenance dude comes through to empty the trash cans and I talk with him a bit. Back home surrounded by people I don't usually have a lot to say and don't bother to talk to many people. It seems, though, that without being around people too much I talk to just about everyone I meet. The maintenance guy talks about WWII here. The German prisoners were brought here to cut down trees for the local peppermills. They then had to plant the rows of slash pines that now make up good chunks of the forest. I didn't waste my time trying to fish the lake anymore. In fact, I would never attempt to fish again. Instead I do a lot of walking on the Tuxachanie trail. I want to keep my legs loose and feel like this will help. As I head out for the trail some old man suggests I take a stick along in case I run into any wild dogs. That didn't seem very likely but I grabbed a perfectly good-looking stick on the way in anyway cuz it seemed like a pretty cool thing to do. I start thinking again about getting a boat or raft or at least, a tube. There is just too much water fun to be had. [Journal entry: 'It has been so peaceful and quiet these past three days - just sitting and making fires and going for walks. The stars never looked brighter than they did last night, set against the blackest of skies. I don't think it's just in my head. This place really is secluded. I was reading in my Backpacker magazine about backwoods etiquette and noisy campers. It quotes someone saying that campers aren't necessarily anti-social. They are just looking for solitude. - That's me!'] I had taken my walking stick and wrote on it my name, date and what I was doing and stashed it in the barbed wire fence. I spend my last night here then move on. Today it is raining. I stopped in the town of Perkinston, ate a burger in a place called O'Neal's, and grocery shopped at the local store. It rained and rained and I only traveled 30 miles. I stopped at a place called Rogers Lake Campground to camp. It was really just some lady's house. She caters to cyclists and charges $5.00 to camp and take a shower. Since it was raining she let me stay under her carport awning. It was very windy and I found out how difficult it was to set up a tent during a strong wind. The next day will be the alleged hell ride from Poplarville to Bogalusa, but the forecast calls for severe thunderstorms all day and night. I can't wait to hit the Natchez. (I've been looking ahead to the Natchez Trace Parkway for some time. It is part of the reason I chose this route to Alaska. Originally I had planned on heading due west to New Mexico, then heading due north along the Rocky Mountains. I had read about the Natchez Trace in the travel section of my local newspaper a while back. It is a trail that was basically formed by migrating animals thousands of years ago, then by Native Indians and most recently by settlers as a land route to the Mississippi River. I found out that Adventure Cycling has a map route that includes the Natchez Trace and changed my itinerary to head that way: north through the Mid-west along the Mississippi River. But that was all a few days away. Right now I was just trying to make it through the rain to Louisiana. [Journal entry: 'Yesterday I prepared for the hell ride from Poplarville to Bogalusa. The route I dreaded for so long and scheduled days off in Desoto Forest to ensure a Sunday crossing was indeed hell - but for an entirely different reason - Rain! It was a thunder and lightning monsoon from hell starting in Poplarville while on the phone with Mom and Dad - all the way to Bogalusa '] By the time I got to Franklinton I was soaked. I got a $25 motel and did laundry. This would be the last motel I would stay in for the remainder of the trip. One thing I noted: no matter how well you prepare; no matter how much rain gear you wear, and how well you put stuff in zip-lock bags to try to keep stuff dry - You WILL get wet anyway; and all your stuff will get wet also. There is no way to stay dry when you are out in the elements. It is wet and muddy and my tires constantly fling water and mud on me and everything else. I suppose there are wheel fenders; which may help, but I imagine you would still end up wet. With my mountain bike and me we looked like a slimy mud-monster after a day like this. Whatever! I'm in a motel now and the hot shower never felt better. I watched on TV about the survivors of the '96 Mount Everest disaster. My day suddenly seemed like a walk in the park. It is always fun to watch the local news and weather forecast. Today is April 28th. This day will mark four weeks on a bicycle. I woke up at the motel and watched the Today show which featured the volunteer summit. Again, for the third day in a row - I got rained on. My shoes haven't been dry for four days. I rode about 50 miles and stopped at a churchyard in a town called Chipola. I remember reading advice on a bicycle newsgroup which recommended churches as a good place to camp for the night. I hadn't tried it until now and it wasn't a pleasant experience. During the night someone was playing around, turning the lights off then on, then I hear a police radio blaring. No one ever tried to say anything to me so I stayed where I was. I guess they hoped I would either come out or just leave. This morning someone drove by my tent and honked. A wake-up call I guess. Anyway, I was out of there before 8:00 which was a good thing because I only averaged 7.8 mph today, and stopped a lot. I washed my hair at a Texaco in Centerville, and had a burger at Ola's place in Norwood. It is here I leave Louisiana behind. Louisiana is a mixed bag. It was like nowhere else I've ever been before. I only got to see the northern part of Eastern Louisiana and in some ways it is like a third world country. I never saw so much trash on the side of the roads - they are badly in need of an adopt a highway program. I mean layers of trash which must have taken years to accumulate. I guess I've always taken it for granted just how much trash people throw out their car windows, and that someone has to pick it up or it will be there forever. To see what all that trash amounts to boggles the mind. Then there's the road kill. Another thing that is easy to overlook is the fact that dead animals are regularly removed from our roads. If you would like an idea of what the roads would look like if roadkill wasn't scraped off the roads, one drive through Northeast Louisiana will clue you in. It isn't pretty. I won't even go into what waterlogged, sun baked dogs and cats look like after several weeks - or months even - but trust me that it isn't pleasant. Speaking of dogs, I also found Louisiana to be the dog-chase capital of the world. What became one of my biggest concerns early on were the tendencies in rural areas for people to let their dogs run loose. Unless I was going down a steep hill it was impossible to outrun a dog. I would have to slow down and confront them and often it was more than one dog at a time. Once it was two pit bulls who seemed fierce and intent on attacking - with one snarling and lunging at me from my left side and the other behind me so that I couldn't keep a good eye on it. It was a miracle I made it without getting bitten. In fact, I was never bitten by a dog the entire trip - and on several occasions there were as many as 6 - 8 dogs at one time. I had dogs chase from Florida through Missouri but there were more dogs in Louisiana than all the others put together. I really did like Louisiana. The smell of crawdads was everywhere. It has its certain charm, but the regions I traveled through are the poorest areas I've seen and it's hard to imagine this existing in the United States when I'm used to the areas that I've grown up around. [Journal entry: 'I'm beat, and these hills! I wish I had my atlas map handy. I could have covered more ground and gotten closer to Natchez. The Adventure Cycling maps don't list Homochitto National Forest or its boundaries so I hopped off at Dry Creek, southwest of Rosetta. Tomorrow is the last day of April and it is my goal to be on the Trace by then.'] Dry Creek was just that - a little creek. I ducked into the woods there in a place that looked like no people were around. That night, however, I was not alone. I heard the loud crunching sound of someone, or something walking by my tent. Then there were sounds I cannot describe. I leaned over to write in my journal: 'I need to remember the terrifying sounds I'm hearing now. It sounds like a loud chorus miles away echoing out across the woods in a strange, eerie, awful, crashing way - while the sound of helicopter blades fill the air.' The next morning I woke up and right next to my bike were large bones that I swear were not there the night before. I didn't know whether they looked like human bones or not and I took a picture. (Last year I saw the Blair Witch Project and in the scenes where the piles of rocks were outside their tent when they woke I immediately thought of that night on Dry Creek). I ran out of water on Liberty Road - a 20-mile stretch from Garden City to Natchez. I was rationing the last swallow as a sip every five miles when I came upon an old store/restaurant about seven miles from Natchez and had a great burger and a huge order of fries for around $2. It's the last day of the month and I finally make it to The Natchez Trace Parkway and Natchez state park. This trail appropriately begins in the city of Natchez, MS. Which overlooks the Mississippi River, which lies far down below a large cliff. I have never seen the Mississippi River before, or any river anywhere near as big - it is awesome. Florida rivers are all slow meandering creeks for all practical purposes. Now this is an actual body of water. Natchez is also the only city I've passed through of any size so far besides Pensacola. I've been waiting and searching for somewhere to develop some pictures and finally find a town large enough to have a Wal-Mart with a 24-hour photo shop. I develop several rolls of film and quickly head toward the post office before it closes. I don't even have much time to look at the pictures so I scribble a few notes on as many as I can, then throw them into a box of stuff I didn't need to lighten the load and mailed it back home. I am thinking of going to truck driving school when the trip is over. I find a spot at Natchez State Park and happily settle down. May: Natchez Trace, Rolling Hills, and the Ozarks Having made it to Natchez State Park, I felt I was beginning an entirely new chapter. The Natchez Trace itself was something I had wanted to explore long ago. A desire of mine that existed independent of my bike to Alaska plans, now was a part of the same trip. The trail is one created many thousands of years ago. Created by the footsteps of animals and ancient hunters, countless years of walking has eroded the land into what, in many areas, is a large ditch several feet deep. The Natchez, Chickasaw, and Choctaw Indians used it for many years - as did the Spanish, French, and then America settlers. Here I was standing on not just American History, but of a history that preceded it by many thousands of years. The Natchez Trace Parkway was a road built as close as possible to following the original footpath. The park consists of the road itself, and the land on either side amounting to a 438-mile long National park that is only about 1 feet wide. The road is only two lanes and not that wide but as a park trail the traffic consists mainly of tourists and is not at all heavy. There were frequent places to stop and camp for free. All told, it was one of the most enjoyable stretches of my trip, as I expected it to be. When I woke up at the Natchez State Park campground, it was not only a milestone for me geographically, but callender-wise as well. When I woke up, it was May 1st. One whole month had elapsed since I left my house in Largo, Florida. For an entire month I had spent the majority of my waking hours riding a bicycle. But riding in only one direction. Everyday I woke up, I woke up somewhere different - somewhere I had never waken up before - and from where I would never again. It was a one-way trip everyday. For fifty - sixty miles, or more, nearly everyday, I would ride - and, here I was, almost 1000 miles from my home. When I woke up today I took a long walk. In fact I spent much of the day walking. It may seem that after spending all day everyday riding a bicycle, that on a day off, the last thing I would want to do was spend it walking; but this is exactly what I tended to do. I must have been restless. I walked to Natchez Lake, which boasts the largest Large Mouth Bass ever caught in the state of Mississippi, weighing in at 18.15 pounds. After returning to the campground I hung out with Roy and his wife from Abilene, Texas. Both were widows whose first marriages each lasted 43 years. They fed me and I then I moved to a primitive campground. The following day I rode about 48 miles to Rocky Springs campground at the 55-mile marker. Rocky Springs was the name of a town that had thrived there on the Trace in the 19th century. All that remained of the town was its old church and a cemetery. Rocky Springs would turn out to be one of my favorite stops the entire trip. Not for beautiful scenery or great tales of adventure, but for the awesome sense of history I felt. It was a place I never wanted to leave - and a place that seemed as if I had been all my life. (Write a lot more here) It helped that there were many stop-offs along the way, and that I had two books to read about the Natchez, the area, and its history. But I could write volumes about this one 400-mile stretch of my trip. Sure, I guess the trip was still relatively a novelty at this point, only one month on the road; but I really immersed myself into the reality of this segment. On May 3rd, I walked up to see the town sight of Rocky Springs. The old church and cemetery are all that really remain of the town beside a couple of old safes and cisterns lying around. I almost get the feeling of being in a time warp. It is an eerie feeling and about as close as I will ever get to time travel. The entry in my journal captures a little of what I was feeling: 'Many of the ancestors of the original church members still hold church services there, and have recently placed fresh flowers on some of the graves, some of which are dated as early as the 1830's. Many small children are buried there too and the inscriptions often state how they still live on in the memories of their loved ones who are, by now, also dead. What happens to the memories then? All they have is a marble slab to tell of their existence. There is a recording overlooking the church that tells the tale of the now dead town. At first it asks the church: 'Where did your people go?'. It then goes on to describe the death of the town; how the rich loess soil for farming had all blown away from over farming leaving nothing left to sustain a town. It concludes by answering the question by acknowledging the cemetery. 'Your people never left at all, they drew closer to you'. This is certainly true with the relatives still keeping the old church alive. This is what history is all about. Holding the past and its people alive in the present. It's like the Trace itself with all its old history. 'Hundreds of years of travelers have worn the path down to its present size', the quote on the sign says'. And the sign: The Old Natchez Trace This is the Natchez Trace. For many years it served man well, but as with many things when its usefulness passed, it was abandoned. Over the years, this timeworn path has been a silent witness to honor and dishonor. It bears the prints of countless men. Walk down the shaded trail - leave your prints in the dust, not for others to see, but for the road to remember. Today would prove to be memorable. Actually, it would be later that evening that I would not soon forget. See, while I was taking a day off at Rocky Springs I did some calculating and realized I would have to ride an average of 75 miles a day six days a week to make the Dalton Highway on time. At the time, I was going by a map, which stated the Dalton Highway closed to traffic on September 1st. (This proved not to be the case, fortunately, for various reasons including El Nino, which few people knew about at the time.) At any rate I became hell-bent on making some progress. This new drive of mine to put some miles behind me created an interesting situation starting around Jackson, Mississippi. I was attempting to make it that night to a campground at Ratliff Ferry, which may or may not even exist from what I can tell from looking at the maps. Starving, I had stopped at a truck stop in Clinton and ate a huge meal of pancakes and grits. I then spent some time doing laundry and grocery shopping. This took up a good deal of time and it started getting dark before I even got out of Jackson. I was determined to at least make it out of the city and to a lower trafficked area to find a possible place to start. The Natchez Trace had not been constructed in the Jackson area and I was relying on Adventure Cycling maps to find my way around. I stopped to replace the battery in my headlight, as it was now completely dark. Ratliff Ferry was still 20 -25 miles away and I really had no idea what lay between. I finally found my way back to the Trace then remembering that a 10 mile stretch from mile marker 104 to 114 was supposed to be under construction beginning June of the previous year and scheduled for completion early this year. I soon found out the hard way it had not yet been completed. How much exactly was complete, I would soon find out. I was not about to take a detour at this point. In a pitch-black sky I slowly rode, able to see only the few feet in front of me that my little light could cast. I was really out in the middle of nowhere with woods on both sides and zero lights anywhere near. The road was in various stages of completion. I traveled the unfinished road sometimes paved, sometimes not. I had no idea what I would find, or whether a bridge would be out, or the road would just end. I approached several bridges with uneasy anticipation as to whether they were complete, and, one by one - I lucked out. All along the Ross Barnett Reservoir I meandered until, finally, the construction ended, and I was back in business. My pace slowed down, however, as I was incredibly hungry, and so weak I had practically zero energy. I hadn't eaten since Clinton early that day and it was now very late at night, and I still had about 10 miles to go to what I hoped would be a campground. At 11:15 that night I finally pulled into an eerie sight. A ghostly silent, dimly lit campground greeted me. Although there were several trailers lined up here and there, there were no signs of life, except for a dog, which followed me everywhere - barking all the while. A large old German Shepard slowly came to greet me, looking sad and tired. But no sign of humans. Rows of travel trailers - not a light anywhere. I pitched my tent between two of them and crawled into my sleeping bag completely exhausted. I was so tired and hungry my body could not warm the bag. I lay there cold the whole night not moving or shifting the entire time. I awoke exactly as I started. I talked to the lady the next day and got a key to take a hot shower. I then was on my way. I still had to make it to Jeff Busby campground 70 miles away. Well make it, I did. And a whole lot quicker than the previous day. My trip to Ratliff Ferry carried me about 76 miles, which was my longest ride to date. Today's ride would take me about 71 miles and I would pull into the campground at 7:15. I met a lot of people today. I met two New Yorkers who drove down just to bike the Natchez Trace and continue on to New Orleans. I met another guy who was making a round-about bicycle trip to Oregon by first heading south on the Natchez Trace, then heading West on Adventure Cycling's St. Augustine - San Diego route, then doing the Pacific to Oregon. He gave me his old bike pedals, which had harnesses - something I didn't have. (I didn't have a strong enough wrench and had to wait until a tire change at a Minnesota bike shop to have them installed - they work great). I stopped in a town called Kosciusko, named after a Polish freedom fighter who helped the Americans in the Revolutionary War and designed West Point. When I finally got to the Jeff Busby campground after traveling 70 miles that day, I met more people. I talked to a group of middle-aged bicycle tourists called the 'Over the Hill Gang'. They fed me hamburgers and chips and we talked about bike touring. I also talked to a couple of college graduates of Vanderbilt in Eastern Tennessee who were riding the trail. I've really been putting some miles behind me and I still need a haircut. May 7th, I make it to an exclusive bicycle only campground at the Tupelo Visitor Center. The traffic from Tombigbee National Forest through Tupelo really sucked. All kinds of traffic and a bunch of assholes. There are small wooden shelters here and I set my tent up inside of one. I can't wait to leave Tupelo behind, although I know the hills of Tennessee and Kentucky are gonna kill me. Yes, I was glad to leave Elvis's birthplace behind. I made it to a campground called Colbert Ferry. It is actually in Alabama. The Natchez trace clips the Northwestern corner of Alabama before ending in Tennessee near Nashville. It is a nice campground but is soaked from all the rain that day. I even used toilet paper to start a fire in my stove to cook Spagetios. Lighting a fire was tough that night but I eventually got it going. Today was pretty wet and miserable but the next day would be worse. I wake up here at Colbert Ferry as it has been raining most of the night. As I was packing to leave the rain got worse. Everything was soaked. The rain had mostly ended by the time I got going but not before ruining my cyclo-computer. (It never did work properly again, and I had to mail it back to the company, have them mail it back home - supposedly fixed, and then have it mailed back to me - by this time I was in Whitehorse, Yukon Territory, Canada). Also, I noticed my Gore-Tex rain jacket had a large patch on the back where the protective coating had been eaten off by some bike oil that had spilled on it. It was now ruined too. I stopped in the little town of Collinwood, TN, where I did some shopping. The people there were so friendly. I was so glad just to get to the Merriwether Lewis campground in Tennessee, though. Named after the Lewis in Lewis and Clark - the men hired by Thomas Jefferson to survey the newly acquired Louisiana Purchase in the first crossing of the continent by white people and, with the help of Sacajawea - young Shoshone Indian girl, the first whites to cross to the Pacific Ocean. I took a day off there to walk trails, do laundry and rest. I met some cool people there: This one guy named Don, an old surfer-hippy from Key West living in an old Volkswagen van off social security. He just went around staying at free campgrounds until he'd get kicked out. He'd fish and just hang out. He caught a bunch of Bluegills, which I cleaned. He cooked them and we ate. Ron Smith, a man who lived in Arizona part of the year and traveled around in his motor home, was very helpful, with information about campgrounds and stuff. I also met someone who said they saw me at Rocky Springs. I took some time to see the grave of Merriwether Lewis, and the spot in which he died, at The Grinder Inn. Officially the cause of death was murder but no one knows for sure who did it, or whether it was Lewis himself who pulled the trigger. Either way he died of a gunshot wound there in 1809 at the age of 35, and a stone marks the spot. What a day! It is Sunday, May 11th. Sundays seem set aside for adventure lately. I pulled into Loretta Lynn's Ranch campground around 10:00 PM after traveling a bumpy dirt road in the pitch dark - Déjà vu from last Sunday, when I arrived at my campground after 11 PM following the passage through the incomplete section of the Natchez Trace. I did finally leave the Trace today. As soon as I did I encountered a hill going straight up. This would be par for the course for the next three weeks or so. The bike maps weren't kidding when they said Tennessee was full of 'exhausting, roller-coaster hills'. Its seems like I would take an hour or more to escalate up one hill - then it would take about two or three minutes to come back down. I frequently hit speeds of more than 35 m.p.h. I could have gone faster but they were so winding and the turns so sharp, I often had to brake to make it around corners. I also did some laundry and grocery shopping in a town called Centerville. The girls at the grocery store were so sweet and friendly. I make sure to send them a post card when I get to Deadhorse. That's the way the people seem to be here in Western Tennessee, extremely friendly and outgoing. While I was doing laundry I talked to a guy there for a while who told me all about his county with great pride. He wanted to welcome me to Hickman County. Even with all the crazy hills, I made 67 miles. Of course, the 10 PM arrival time is the price I pay. I really don't like riding at night. I do have a headlight and rear light - and plenty of reflectors. But one thing that is especially negatory about night riding is eventually finding a place to camp. Sure the maps may list campgrounds, but they are not always accessible - and, sometimes, they're not even there. I was trying to find Loretta Lynn's place, and, in the dark, it is really easy to miss roads and places. Another encounter with a group of loose dogs surrounding me on a dark dirt road accented the night's adventure. I made it to the campground. The next day, May 12th's journal entry: 'What a rough day! One word - Hills. Only 53 miles and lots of stops to rest my legs.' That was really the story of the day - the hilliest to date for me. I spent the majority of the day traveling between 3 and 4 mph. I wish I could have stayed to check Loretta Lynn's Ranch out. There is just not enough time. I have been following a rough schedule of riding three to four days, then taking a day off. I wanted to start riding six days a week to make Fairbanks in time, but just have not been making it. I stopped at a campground in Dover and set up. No one was around to collect money or open the showers. I went across the street to use the bathroom at Cindy's Catfish Restaurant and wound up staying for a burger. I went back the next morning for the breakfast buffet. Still nobody around at the campground so I guess it's free. I made it into Kentucky today. Land Between the Lakes State Recreation Area is a region in Tennessee and Kentucky where two large lakes were created when they dammed the rivers. Kentucky has more miles of running water than any state except Alaska. I am here at Twin Lakes Lake access on Kentucky Lake of LBL. I paid $10 for a backcountry permit and am staying another night before heading to Illinois. This region has as many hills as Tennessee. I know - I talk about hills a lot. For someone who has lived his whole life in coastal Florida, and not done much bike riding to boot - much less with 150 lbs of stuff, these things are killing me! Anyway, I enjoy the rest here. I hiked and visited a planetarium at the visitor's center. I got to see the Mars show and, later that night, I was able to identify Mars in the night sky. I also learned how to find Leo the Lion. There was an interesting presentation and display at the visitor's center about moon shiners running liquor during the depression. Apparently, Land Between the Lakes was a thriving liquor production area during the Great Depression. Almost all the booze served in Northern bars at the time came from here. I write in my journal: 'I think I should start enjoying myself more and quit driving so hard to meet deadlines. Its getting to be like a regular job and that is not what I had intended. Maybe Fairbanks is a good riding destination. I'll still try for Deadhorse though for now.' I left my stuff out in the rain, and now had it all spread out on two picnic tables. I can't believe how much stuff I have with me and that it all fits on my bicycle. I decide, however, that it would be a good idea to send some unnecessary stuff back home. I also need some things. Sending stuff home is fairly simple. Receiving stuff in the mail is a bit more complicated. First it is necessary to look ahead on a map to determine a post office and zip code so my parents in Florida know where to send the things I need. It has to be far enough away so I am not stuck waiting, but if it gets there much earlier that I do, I risk having the Post office send it back. I will pick up a package at the town of Karnak in the southernmost tip of Illinois. For now, though, I leave Land Between the Lakes - but not before doing some shopping in the visitor's center. I bought a book called 'The Pictorial History of the Natchez Trace', and a little guidebook of trees. The man at the center, 'Roger', wanted me to be sure to mention his name when I wrote about my trip so here it is, dude. It started out rainy and my bike computer doesn't work at all anymore. Kentucky was pretty hilly too, but not like Tennessee. I figured I could find an ATM somewhere, and spent all my money on those books at LBL. Well, there was no ATM in Smithland, KY, so I spent my last dollars at a food stand on a burger and some fries. I got my first glimpse of the Ohio River near Birdsville. I was starving and trying to find somewhere for food and water, which I finally got in a place called Joy. It had been pretty cold the past couple days (60's), and the people in Joy said it wasn't always like that. I wondered if it was always as windy, though, cuz it was like gale force winds I had to plow through - which is still better than hills. On Route 1608 I took a picture of nothing but grass and sky - don't ask me why. Perhaps a prelude to the expanse of nothingness that would greet me in Northern Alaska. It's the raw simplicity of it that draws me to ponder it. As if I can look in at the purity of it all come to some sort of epiphany. Nothing remarkable has come to me yet. I stopped at a store in a town called Tolu. The man there told me the ferry across the Ohio River to Cave-In-Rock, Illinois (actual name), ran until 10:00. Good. I thought I might have to camp out on the Kentucky side of the River as it was getting late. He gave me a souvenir pen of Tolu, and I bought some chili cheese dogs with my last change. As it was, I made it to the ferry at 7:00, crossed the Ohio River, and made it to Cave-In-Rock. The strange name of this town is derived from the cave overlooking the Ohio River, which was a haven for bandits as they ambushed boats coming down the river. (write more stuff here)I wrote a check for the $7 camp fee and, to my consternation, the place had no showers. I got a maintenance guy to let me use a sink to wash my hair and stuff the next morning, and headed out once more, in my quest for an ATM machine. Elizabethtown, Illinois (population 427) was a large enough small-town, apparently, to have an ATM. They were also large enough to have a barbershop - ala Floyd's of Mayberry - and I stopped in for a haircut. 'Cut it all off', I told the barber as I explained about my trip. My hair was pretty shaggy at the time and he remarked about the profound change in my appearance the close-cropped buzz had wrought. I didn't care. After all those many days without showers, all those days dealing with the rain, the mud, and ticks in my head - I was more than ready to lose my hair. All of it, practically. I didn't know what to expect, and after it was over and I got to look at it, I didn't know what to think. I had never in my life had my hair anywhere close to this short. In fact, my hair was usually pretty long. I've had it down close to my waist before and now it couldn't be more than a quarter of an inch long. The barber told me bicyclists used to come through this town a lot more about five years ago. Just a passing fad, I guess. Apparently, I had missed bike touring's heyday. My trip was taking place after the popularity had peaked, but what the hell - When I first made my plans to ride a bicycle across the continent, I didn't realize that ANYONE did anything like this. The year I planned and researched, I came to the realization that it was actually a popular activity, and in fact, a whole line of equipment - from bike touring bags, to Adventure Cycling maps were created for just this business of going on long bicycle tours. Well, I was still immersed in my bike trip. I still had many towns to pass through. More importantly, right now, I had to make it to Karnak to pick up my package. Today was Friday. While in the town of Golconda I called the town of Karnak to see if the post office would be opened on Saturday. It was - from 9:00-9:30 AM. But, he said, a girl would be there at 7AM. The hell with that! - I decided to camp out in the Shawnee National Forest. I took the 'gravel alternative route' from my Adventure Cycling map, which only showed 7 miles of gravel - which had since been paved so, no gravel. I tried at one point to pull off and camp but was not happy with the spot. I really had no intention of trying to make it to Karnak that day but that is exactly what I ended up doing. I got there way after 10:00 PM. It said in the map there was a Lion's Club campground east of town but I couldn't find it. I almost got killed twice on the way here though. Once by an 18-wheeler turning into my path while I was stopped at a stop sign, and another time when I heard tire screeching and had to swerve into a ditch. This is the last time I'm riding at night, I decided. When I finally got to the town of Karnak, I asked a man working on a truck about the campground. He told me there was a Lion's Club a mile west of town but there was no campground - just a couple of picnic tables. That was good enough for me. I set up under a picnic table shelter. The next morning I heard people across the street making remarks to each other about my tent. I'm up, out of there, and at the post office at 7:00 AM. To find the girl, and my package, waiting. I'm now in search of a Laundromat. Of course. It is always those same things I spend constantly trying to locate: A camp, food, water, Laundromat spot, and last but not least, a shower. In the town of Ullin, nothing. Then I hit Tamms and am able to do laundry. I still haven't had a hot shower since Loretta Lynn's in Tennessee. I get to a free campground in the Shawnee National Forest on the Grapevine Trail, near the town of McClure. It has water and toilets. Very nice. A nice place to spend a couple days relaxing. I am enjoying this campground. No one around the whole time - nothing but peace and tranquility. I've been exploring the trails and using my tree book to identify leaves and figuring out what type of tree is what. I am learning the constellations in my star book. I have never been this close to raw nature. It has always been there, but I never really took the time to notice. I am also reading my Natchez Trace books. I read about the Indians and settlers and their brutal methods of torture. The Natchez Indians would scalp their prisoners alive, then burn them slowly to death for three days and three nights. The colonists would, in turn, do equally brutal things to the Indians. Ah! Human Nature. I could say how great it is to live in the 20th Century, but all it takes is a look into Nazi Germany, or the recent events in Yugoslavia, Rwanda, and elsewhere in the world to realize that Human Nature doesn't change much, only the social structures which harness the more destructive tendencies, and prevent most people from acting on them. It is such a paradox - the sublime, delicate beauty, set side by side with the stark, destructive brutality - all shaping the existence of this world. I'm thinking also of all the things I need to do in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. I am planning on sending some unnecessary stuff back. One of the things I'm sending back is by tape player and tapes. I'm sitting and listening to them for the last time and thinking about how much I love music. I hear music all the time in my head, as I'm riding. I have only listened to my tapes 2-3 times, however, and decide I don't need them. I will have to rely on my imagination for music as I have anyway. Its strange how much this trip can take out of me. I'm thinking about how much I love music, but at the same time, I'm sending it back because I can't focus on listening. All my focus is on my trip. I have been so close to the Mississippi River since I first saw it in Natchez, Mississippi. I have not even seen it again, though, since that day. Today, I finally cross it. Here I am in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. With nearly 35,000 people, it is one of the largest cities I've passed through my entire trip. After spending so much time going through tiny little towns and rarely seeming people, and many days camping with no people around at all, being in a city like Cape Girardeau is somewhat of a shock. It may as well be a booming metropolis to me. I found the post office, took care of business, and was on my way. Back to what I was used to by now. I made it to what I thought was the Mark Twain National Forrest. It was pitch dark and I was just trying to find a spot that didn't have a fence and 'No Trespassing' signs. I hadn't made the progress I thought I had that day. The spot I eventually settled on, I found out the next day, wasn't quite in Mark Twain yet. Today is May 21st. I only traveled about 30 miles today, deserting the trail early by ducking into the woods in no particular spot. I shove my bike well into the woods looking for some sort of clearing and, without setting up or unloading anything, go for a little walk to find the perfect spot. I'm not seeming to find the perfect spot but soon come to what looks like a riverbed. I start following this dry bed a little. Where there is a riverbed here must be water, and that would be a welcome treat at this point. I almost always have a little water for drinking, but a body of water is an extra bonus at any camp spot for washing and such. After walking for what I eventually considered too long, I turned back to retrace my steps back along the dry riverbed. I had one problem, though. I didn't come across anything resembling anything I remembered seeing before. In other words: I was lost. Strangely, I had just been thinking about how I had never gotten lost in the woods before. I turned in the direction I thought I'd entered the river bed and started walking in the hopes of seeing something, anything, familiar. I didn't. I kept thinking certain scenes looked vaguely familiar. But the truth is, one tree looks like another out in the woods. I kept walking, though, thinking I would certainly see my bicycle just around the next tree. I didn't. The trees started getting closer together, and the brush was getting thicker and thicker. It became difficult to walk. My feet were tangled in the brush and soon I had to push and pull through brush and branches with my hands in order to move. I backtracked more than once in the hope of at least returning to where I once was where the brush was not so thick. Soon, I had lost all direction and wasn't sure which way I should even go. By now, I was getting worried. I had heard tales of people getting lost in the woods but that had always seemed to be WAY out in the woods. I had heard stories of finding the bodies of people lost in the woods for weeks when they were within several feet of their camp or a road, and it seemed ridiculous. Now, I was beginning to see how it could happen. With no direction or landmarks - if you don't know which way you need to be headed its impossible to know which way to go. You are either walking toward, and getting closer to where you need to be, or you're walking away, and getting further from it. I was beginning to start thinking of all these things. It was thick and dense as could be and I just kept plowing through all the brush. It was kind of like going up hills where you imaging the next hill to be the last. I just kept hoping something familiar would appear - as I thought of starving and not having water and it may be getting dark and I'd have to sleep where I stood. I listened for cars but heard either none or some - I couldn't tell if it was just wind. I eventually came to where I saw a sign - a road. It was about 150 feet from where I had entered the woods in the first place. I walked back up the road to my entry point, set up camp, ate, and went to bed relieved at my good fortune - and by my awesome tracking skills, of course. On the road again the next day. Southeastern Missouri is part of the Ozark Plateau. Tennessee had roller coaster hills - but these were mountains. I mentioned at the beginning how I, a life-long Floridian was a complete stranger to hills, and that I was very fortunate to be starting in Florida. I really was. If I had to deal with mountains FIRST, there is no way I could have continued. Missouri was as rough to me now as Tennessee was earlier. My first two weeks I struggled and grieved about the hills in FLORIDA. I know I have to be getting in better shape as I go along, and that I must be getting stronger, but the terrain keeps managing to up the ante on my training regiment. I ate lunch in the town of Cherokee Pass at some drive-up hamburger stop. I've felt like I was going to die a few times. This route is terrible for a bicycle. Narrow, winding, up-hill with low sight lines. A guy in a tow truck almost hit me and came back to tell me how dangerous it was to be riding a bike. A lot of redneck type racing around these little roads. There is a very interesting sounding park on my route but it is several miles off the trail. Johnson's Shut-Ins State Park - the name itself sounded intriguing. It jumped off the map and caught my eye a long time ago as I pondered the maps and what I was going to do. I talked to a lady at a store/house in a town called Jewett. She said it was one of the most beautiful places on Earth. That was the final straw. After debating whether to go, or not, I finally made the decision to do it. I really didn't want to go this far off my route, and if I had realized how far, and the steep up and down hills that led to it, I don't think I'd have attempted it. The lady from Jewett said it was one of the most beautiful places on Earth - and I think she may be right. I am very glad I came. I am staying for a couple of days to rest. I am having the best time that I've had on the trip so far here at this magical place. It is near the top of a mountain and the fresh, clear water cascades down and through volcanic lava formations that have been worn smooth from thousands of years of water erosion. They are very close together and are given the geological name of Shut-Ins - Hence the park's name. They are like nowhere else. It is like a natural water amusement park, and everyone plays among the shut-ins. I bought some flip-flops and an inflatable raft - along with another book on trees and one on stars. Paradise. If Johnson's Shut-Ins was paradise, then the road that leads to and from it must be Purgatory. And the ride from there to where I am today was Hell itself. Mostly it just rained - and sometimes that is bad enough. It is when it does nothing BUT rain - and for days sometimes, that it can make me insane. Like Chinese water torture, it becomes, at times, unbearable. And then the hills. I don't go too far today either - about 37 miles. I pulled into Wild Bear Ridge Campground at Council Bluff Lake - Still in Mark Twain National Forest (which is actually several forests bunched together in Southern Missouri). I hate to pay $7 for a campground with no showers. To me the money I pay for a campground is FOR the showers. A campground without showers is a free campground - it's called the woods. Anyway, I pay, and I'm here. The only thing that kept me going today is knowing someday I could look back and this and laugh. But not today. I've wasted an hour trying to light a fire in all this wetness. I also wasted a whole section of my journal notebook trying in vain to light it. Page after page, I tore from my book and was no closer to having a fire than when I first stared. I wish I hadn't done that. Never again. The fact that I never get a fire going makes it even worse. For the first and only time on my trip I fail in an attempt to start a fire. I am sitting and thinking about how it has done nothing but rain for two days. I start thinking too much. I am paranoid about getting Lyme disease from tick bites and plan on getting a tick shot in Potosi, the next town on my route. The morning of May 26th was my worst. I didn't wanna get up. I didn't wanna pack up. And I REALLY didn't wanna ride. But I did. I didn't get far - I got to Potosi. But I did keep moving. Again, in lousy, cloudy, cold, wet weather. I ate like a pig at the KFC buffet, and I camped out at the city park, where a volleyball game/cookout was ending. I talked to the people a while and they gave me their last three Pepsis. May 27th was not much better. In fact, it was worse in that it stayed cold and cloudy all day - but at least it didn't rain until late that night - long after I had settled in at Meramec State Park. This place is kind of strange. It is flat and full of neat rows of very large Cottonwood Trees, which drop little cotton like buds everywhere. Some people came by to tell me they were leaving and that I could have the rest of their firewood at their campsite. I almost switched sites rather than have to carry back all the wood, but when I went up there, the campground host had snatched it all. When I told them it was left for me they drove it back to my site for me. There is really plenty of wood here. Scattered around too - and when I got back from the store someone had left several cardboard boxes with construction wood scraps at my fire ring. I am right on the Meramec River, which is a pretty muddy river. This park is pretty laid back and quiet. The most remarkable thing, though, are the deer. They wander about, not too concerned with people around them. I got my best deer pictures here, as the deer seem to be less timid than other places. I've seen deer now in Florida, Tennessee, Kentucky, and now, Missouri. I still feel unmotivated and lacking in enthusiasm for continuing to ride. This, I hope will end after a little less steep riding occurs - if that ever happens. I stop the next day at a Burger King in the town of Sullivan. I have now reached the 2000-mile mark on my trip. ******stop to talk to me as I eat. They ask to take my picture, and afterwards, they pay for my lunch. Back in Florida they mail me copies of the pictures. I lose my trail about 6 miles south of Washington and take a detour through Union before making to Washington, on the Missouri River. There is an alternative spur that heads to St. Louis that I had, at one point debated taking. That is out of the question now, with the way I've burned myself out. It is called over training in sports, I guess, but these past 3 weeks or so have seen me push myself to far for too long. Spending 8 or more hours a day riding an overloaded bicycle up steep hills has taken its toll on me physically, mentally, and spiritually. I am lethargic and irritable much of the time. I do not want to take any unnecessary detours. Riding has become a chore that I do not look forward to. It is nice, however, to cross the Missouri River. A big milestone. I'm pretty familiar with the Lewis and Clark expedition, as I've been reading a lot about it. Their famous trek started in St. Louis at the symbolic entry point to the West. I am now about to embark on a similar route to the West, which will parallel theirs at many points. Looking back, crossing the Missouri would turn out to be a turning point in my journey. Getting North of this great river launched me into a new phase of my trip. Within a week, I would have a whole new attitude, as I found myself in an entirely different terrain. But, for now, I still had some hills to climb. Actually, today, I only had to set up camp in the town of Dutzow. I am just on the other side of the Missouri River. Dutzow is a town of German immigrants and it shows in a sandwich shop near the spot I am camped. I don't think I am supposed to camp here but I am anyway. As it turns out, I stay the following day also, as it, of course, RAINS!. It is 2:30 PM. I sit in my tent still listening to the rain, which has continued since early this morning. I ate a very good sandwich at the Dutzow Deli this morning and, otherwise, have not left my tent. Today is shot but perhaps for the better with my stiff legs needing the rest. As it is I am sitting off the Katy Trail - a crude gravel rail-to-trail that will someday stretch from St. Louis - West. Its not a campground - a picnic table with pit toilet nearby, but no one has complained I am depressed as my spirits seem to rise as high as my mileage. I hope to make good mileage gains in June. As it turned out, the police did come to my tent to let me know that camping was not allowed. I told them I was only staying because of the rain. They didn't seem to mind too much but were obligated to let me know. They just wanted to make sure I wasn't establishing a permanent residence there at the side of the trail. After riding about 42 miles today, I reached Cuivre River State Park and almost immediately met up with Dave Westphal, riding his bicycle up and down the road leading through the park. An avid cyclist, he was a scoutmaster leading a Boy Scout troop in which his son was a member. The troop was camping out there that weekend and he invited me to hang out with them that night. I made shish-ke-bobs, and went hiking around the lake with them. We hung out around the fire, as the troop of sixth-graders was full of questions about my bike trip. The next morning I ate breakfast with them and was on my way. June: Following the Mississippi River to its Origin Here again was another day in which I had a specific destination. Normally, I would have a tentative destination in mind that I may or may not reach, and for the most part, it wasn't that important. Today, however, I was awaiting a package in a town called Ashburn. Ashburn was merely a name on my bike maps with a zip code. This is all the information I needed in order to get a package sent to me. This, and that it had a population of 89, was all I knew about the little town of Ashburn. I would come to learn a whole lot more about the town and its people in the coming couple of days. When I reached Ashburn, it was already dark, so I headed on through to find a place to camp at the DuPont Reservation Wildlife Area - an old dynamite plant donated to the state when the company shut down in the 1930's. I rode through mosquitoes and gnats as thick as smoke to this area on the muddy banks of the Mississippi River. It was apparently rather waterlogged due to flooding and I found a relatively dry spot to set up, surrounded by the muck. This was one instance where my mosquito uniform really came in handy while setting up. I cant' imagine setting up without it. As it was, I was jumping, and shaking, and waving my arms and legs around while digging through my bags to get the uniform. The following morning I headed to the Ashburn post office to pick up my package and, to my surprise, was greeted enthusiastically by postmaster Betty Jean Clark. She had been waiting for my arrival. Apparently, in a town of 80 or so people the postal clerk knows all the residents rather well. After receiving my package with an unfamiliar name, she called the number to see if there was a mistake. Instead she talked to my Mother who informed here of my trip and story. This was quite an event I guess, as, upon my arrival, she called several people in town who came by to see. Several citizens came out to this crazy cyclist from Florida who was on his way to Alaska. They took pictures and one lady even brought me a homemade lunch. Betty Jean Clark, it seems, also happens to write for the local postal journal. Many of the nations smaller post offices are being phased out due to administrative costs and such. She wrote an article about my trip and choice of small post offices for the receipt of packages. I enjoyed staying there on the Mississippi River. I was completely alone and it was the first time I truly got a chance to see the river. I caught a glimpse of it in Natchez, MS from high on a cliff, and I crossed it going into Cape Girardeau, MO, where I had to spend my time concentrating on riding my bike across the large metal bridge. Now I was camped out right on it. I watched the barges contest their way up and down the river. It was not the cleanest body of water I've encountered - but it was the Mississippi. That legendary river. Larger than life. The first truly American landmark that I had come across. The historical river, immortalized by Mark Twain in such tales as Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. The town of Ashburn is less than 20 miles south of Hannibal - Mark Twain's hometown. This was to be the next town I would pass through after leaving Ashburn, and the last stretch of land I would ride in the state of Missouri. I would leave Missouri behind to experience quite a sheer variation in terrain. When I left Missouri in my wake, I also, more or less, dispensed with hills. I was a new cyclist. I would not again endure such vertical challenges, endlessly abrupt altitude changes until I was well into Canada. I had a reprieve from the daily grind of never-ending leg crunches. I was in the Mississippi River flood plain. A flatter stretch of land did not exist - not even in Florida. These new horizontal surfaces were a welcome relief. A much needed and long overdue cool down period for my riding and me. After two months of riding I felt like I was finally in shape. I did get a late start and am just glad to make it to Quincy, Illinois. I even spent $12 on a campground - a small fortune. The people there were cool and they could tell I wasn't happy about the price, but they didn't own the place. They let me do some free laundry though and didn't charge me for some post cards I wanted to buy. It is difficult sometimes going to campgrounds on a bicycle because most are set up for vehicles with hook-ups for water and electricity. A bike doesn't take up much space and I often camp in an area that isn't even a real spot. Some campgrounds account for this and will charge only $3 - $5 or a little more to camp, but others only have their set prices. June 4th took me further north through eastern Illinois. I went through a town called Warsaw where a man in the street invited me to get drunk at the bar that night. I passed, and continued on to Hamilton where I got on the Great River Road. This was a very scenic section of road along the Mississippi River, with lots of trees and rocks and cliff-sides running adjacent to the winding road. I met a group of Amish people fishing in the river at a roadside stop. They asked me questions about my trip. They had traveled all the way from New York to visit relatives in Northern Illinois. My next stop was Nauvoo, which was the birthplace of the Mormon religion. Church founder Joseph Smith named the town, which is said to mean ????????? After the Mormons left, the town was settled by Icarians, a group of French communists. They only lasted about 10 years. I stopped at a burger joint where I spoke to the owners, who spend winters in Dade City, Florida - about 40 miles from where I live. I spent a good deal of time in Nauvoo, but didn't have far to go to get to Dallas City, where I planned to camp at the city park. When I arrived shortly before dark, there was a little league baseball game going on. It said on the map that camping was allowed with the permission of the local police. It was very crowded due to the game and I retreated to the far end of the park under a picnic shelter - a popular choice of camping spots when I am able to find one. There didn't seem to be any fresh water around. While I was asking around, a lady offered me her water from a thermos she carried with her from Wisconsin. I told her about my trip and how I would be heading through Wisconsin - this is actually literally true - twice, in fact, I will be crossing the river into Wisconsin and camping. It's on the bicycle maps and it will get me another state under my belt. While getting the water, a police car drove by, so I asked him about camping. He didn't mind at all. So now, at least, I'm legal. Its always nice peace of mind to know I won't get kicked out of my spot, even though it never happens. The game finally ends, everybody leaves, and I am left alone - but not in peace and quiet. There is a very loud train that goes by my tent every 15 minutes, it seems. All night it runs, and there are houses here too. I guess they must just get used to it. I did actually; I had no trouble falling asleep. The one time in the life of this insomniac I actually am able to fall easily asleep - after riding a bicycle all day. The next day I awake and, go to the river to bath. This river is filthy. I fill my shower bag and take a nasty Mississippi River shower. While riding through the town of Lomax, I meet a man named Gene Roark who tells me of these German Cyclists he allowed to stay at his house one time. He gives me his address and asks me to send him a card when I get to Alaska, which I do. I have been acquiring a list of people who ask for cards from Alaska. (Rehash list o f people here) I meet interesting people wherever I go. I guess when you are riding a bicycle loaded with stuff, people are inclined to come shoot the breeze with you. It was incredible. No matter where I was people would come up to me and start talking, asking questions; People I would not normally expect to come up and start a conversation with a complete stranger would now invite me to dinner, or to take a shower at their house, bring me food, or even money. I meet this one old guy with no fingers on a bicycle, riding down the road at the Big River State Forest. He complains about the government selling parklands, and the rudeness of motorists in Henderson County. I have been through Florida, allegedly the rudest state in the nation concerning cyclists, and the South in general, where I ran into my share of assholes - so if there was rudeness up here, I didn't really notice it. Not since Louisiana, Missouri have I experienced blatant rudeness. In fact, the further north I proceed, the friendlier people seem to get. I am, once again, in the Mississippi River flood plain, a very flat low-lying terrain. My path takes me three miles off the main road to a free campground on the Mississippi River called Blanchard Island. There, I meet this guy camping who, it turns out, lives in the area and is just camping out at different spots for the hell of it. Barry Wakeland is 18 and I hang out with him and drink beer and make fires. His girlfriend and sister work in a factory across the river in Muscatine, Iowa - a large city for what I've been used to with a population of almost 40,000. I will be passing through Muscatine when I leave, but I get a preview of the city several times as I drive with Barry to town to get beer or to take his girlfriend to work. They live in Illinois, but their postal addresses are for Iowa. The Illinois side of the river is so sparsely populated. I wind up hanging out with them for two days and three nights. It is the first time on my trip I really hang with the locals. I meet Barry's father, Pete and a friend of theirs, Jim. We went out to a piece of property they bought with money Barry's aunt won on a Mississippi River boat. We did 360's in an old truck on the property and partied some more with Pete, Michelle, at the campground. I could have ended up staying there forever if I didn't eventually motivate myself to leave. It was too easy to stay, since I was having so much fun. Barry wanted me to go to some races on June 8th, three days after arriving there. I wanted to but I had to get going. (Talk about steep hill) I finally left Blanchard Island, and my new friends, behind and headed over the bridge across the Mississippi River for the last time, and the first time on my bicycle - into Muscatine, IA. Muscatine was a big enough city for me to get lost. I was searching for a bicycle path listed on my bike map. I never found it wound up heading straight to the highway. Upon leaving Muscatine, I found Iowa to be, well, pretty much like I expected Iowa to be - flat, and surrounded by cornfields. I spent most of the entire day riding due north on road Y14. The scenery didn't change too much, but it was nice, peaceful. At a town called Massillon, I pulled into a camping spot in the county park, which was right on the Wapsipinicon River. While there I was given some firewood by a couple in an RV. While telling them of my trip they said that they heard of me on TV and the radio. Apparently, Mary Jean Clark of the Ashburn, Missouri post office had called CNN. This stretch of Midwest through Minnesota offered me similar notoriety, as I was interview by two small town newspapers. It is June 9th, and I am beginning to experience a nagging aspect of Iowa - namely, gnats. I have never seen anything quite like it. They are like clouds - I had to wrap a shirt around my head all day long. There are actually hills in Iowa. But more like the benign Florida variety than the Tennessee/Kentucky/Missouri type, so it was hard to even call them hills. The wind rushed in very strongly from the East and, even though I was heading north, it was very noticeable and affected my riding. It is interesting the surprises that can hit you out of nowhere. I had never heard of a town called Dyersville, Iowa. I have seen a movie called Field of Dreams. While riding through an endless series of cornfields and, effectively lost in meditation that the monotony can bring, I passed a sign reading: 'Thanks for visiting Field of Dreams movie site'. What?! I had to turn around to be sure of what I had just read. After a little more riding in the direction I had just come I realized that, yes, this was, in fact, the road to the site where the movie was filmed. The house and baseball field were still there, right in the middle of the cornfields. Of course, tourist stands had now been added. I experienced the Field of Dreams, bought some souvenirs, and headed into the town of Dyersville, where I camped that night at the city park. The next day,[talk about gravel road] I planned to make it to a campground in Marquette, but for some reason, I was very tired. I'm being maybe a little paranoid and hypochondriacally,{maybe put this somewhere else[ still thinking of tick bites and Lyme disease ]}but I am probably just lethargic from over training, not eating enough of the things I should, and I definitely don't drink enough water. For whatever reason, I ride by the town of Elkader and see a campground. I am still about 35 miles from my destination and almost turn around - then I do turn around. I hesitate, starting to head on back to the highway, but am drawn, finally, by a combination of fatigue and laziness, to circle back to the comforts of the campground here in Elkader, Iowa. I never regret stopping, after the guilt wears off. I know in my mind I shouldn't feel this way - I do have deadlines though. This is supposed to be a vacation, something fun - but in truth, there is nothing really fun about it at all. I am beginning to think that fun is something just for kids. This trip is rewarding - it is fulfilling in respect to being on a mission and in setting goals, and pursuing, and accomplishing them. But I start to realize that the only time in life I can say I am actually having fun is as a child in all innocence. While not under the influence of drugs or alcohol, there is excitement, there is self-gratification, there is even wonder and amazement - but there is nothing called fun. This trip is difficult, it is often agonizingly painful, and I am suffering a good deal of the time. Why am I doing it, I often ask myself. To see what happens next? The exhilaration of accomplishing a long-term goal? Having some thing to write about? I have had this conversation not only with myself, but with other cyclists I've passed along the way. We all agree on one thing - it isn't fun. It is, however, the most positive and rewarding thing I have ever done. It may just all come down to semantics - An adventure is a grown-ups version of fun. It is always the dilemma I am in, though. To stop or to keep going. When I keep going I realize I am just pushing myself and it takes away from the enjoyment somewhat. But as long as I have put at least a decent amount of miles behind me - how much is 'decent'? - I am always satisfied, once I've set up and can relax. Especially when there is still enough daylight to walk around and do things. Today I went about 41 miles. I guess if I go 40 miles or more - it is decent. Elkader turns out to be a pretty nice little town. It is a town with some history, reflected in its old style buildings and cobblestone bridge, which spans the Turkey River. I am enjoying taking a day off here in Elkader. A lady I talked to at the camp passes me as I explore downtown and is pleased that I am interested in seeing here city. The people in these midwestern small towns are proud of their communities and it always shows. The way the town is maintained, the neatness and cleanliness of the parks and public places, and the general attitude displayed as the people walk around the town is indicative of the esteem they feel and their sense of community.[talk about politics and racism] Another cyclist camps out next to me and we have a huge pile of wood at our disposal that we use quite liberally to rage an awesome campfire. He goes off to a bar and I stay to be hypnotized by the fire on into the night. Demons leap from out of the fire as I exorcize my own demons. I have been irritable lately. While walking through town during the day I flipped off some guy on a backhoe and we exchanged words. It is probably a good thing I stopped, I really needed the rest. I bought two tires in town but later walked back to return them because they were ugly, with whitewalls. I don't know why it didn't really hit me when I was at the store buying them in the first place. Now, when I think of Iowa, I think of flat. I don't know how many people realize, though, that Iowa has a Northeastern section that defies everything the rest of the state seems to encompass. Cliffs - steep roads. Overlooking the Mississippi River, we come across terrain that has been worn down over the eons, creating its own miniature canyons. It is entertaining to once again come upon the Mississippi, but I am fully expecting to see it again and again. The Adventure Cycling maps call this the Great River Route with the Mighty Mississippi as the centerpiece. Here, once again on the brink of the now familiar river, I pull into a town called Lansing, and am, once again, trying to find somewhere to camp before it gets dark. The sign says Mosswersomething Park - that way. So I go that way. The road winds up a mountain like a broken spring, and I am forced to push my bike up a seemingly endless sharp corner of which there is no ending. I am resolved, at this point, that when it does finally end, that is where I am camping, whether I am supposed to or not. When I do get there, of course, the signs say 'no camping'. I stash my stuff in a picnic shelter and enjoy the unbelievable view overlooking the Mississippi with all its islands, and the bluffs across the way in Wisconsin. The park closed at 9:00 PM and the sun set at 8:48, so I waited in the woods on a small cliff overlooking a bend in the road coming up. After watching a cop drive up, and then back down after that, the park was mine. I got up early to wash my hair at the water fountain, but not early enough to beat the maintenance guy who drove up just then. On the way back down the mountain (which was named after a famous sculptress from the 1850's who won a footrace up it during a steamboat layover) I was flying down the steep winding road when I suddenly deeply regretted not tightening my very loose brakes. I found myself in a bad situation. The very last turn coming down the hill sharply turned at a 90-degree angle. I couldn't stop going around the last steep corner with the railing ahead. Sure I was going to crash, I threw it sideways like the motorcycles in the races on TV going around the bend. I didn't wipe out or skip, I just flung around real quick and found myself, again, immediately in a grass patch with a 5-6 foot drop ahead. I threw it harder sideways again, and skidded sideways through the grass, several feet with the back tire in front and the front one in back. That was close. Today's excitement would not end there. This road heading North along the Mississippi River was the only one headed this direction anywhere close to where I was. The sign said that the bridge was out 8 miles ahead. I took my chances. I did not want a long detour and was concentrating on what my options would be in the case of the bridge being out. There was a railroad track paralleling the road so I figured that, at the very least, I could cross on it. I started thinking of the movie 'Stand by Me', for some reason. I was remembering the time at the Indian Ford Bridge in the Blackwater State Forest. As it turns out, I didn't need to stop - in fact, I didn't stop at all. The bridge was out, like the sign said, but the construction crew had a makeshift bridge made out of wood. I flew right through the construction site and across the slipshod mess of boards that spanned the little river before anyone could tell me I wasn't allowed. I finally made it to Minnesota and I am so glad. My attitude has been elevated by another milestone. I drive of my route to find this campground listed on the map. A lady had the campground set up in here yard which, to my horror, I find is $15. No deal, but she tells me to go to Winona Prairie Island. (People up here really do talk like they do in the movie Fargo) I make it to Winona and it is not much better at $12. It was a nice night, though. I left the rain fly off my tent, even though it was windy, and got good nights sleep. I woke up the next morning, bought a loaf of bread, peanut butter, and jelly at the campground office. At this point in the trip I am pretty sick of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. My diet doesn't vary too much on this trip, and along with, canned beans, canned corn, and Spagetios, stale, bland sandwiches are what I eat most of the time. I can't complain, though, I do stop for burgers from time to time, and snack on cookies, candy, and other high sugar, high carbohydrate foods. This is one occasion I know my body burns most of what I eat. I do think I'm not getting enough food, and especially protein, though. The riding has pretty easy the last couple of days, since I arrived in Minnesota. I don't know how much of that is merely a psychological boost from having made it this far, but I do know the weather is great. The sun is bright and hot and the breeze is cool. It's been in the 80's during the day and the mid to upper 50's at night, which is perfect. The terrain is relatively flat except when I leave the river to cross the bluffs. After leaving Winona, I rode through Wabasha, and up a long, steep hill with a rest area on top where I stopped to eat an apple. A group of women drove up on motorcycles, and stopped to take pictures. We helped each other take pictures of each other and they interviewed me for a magazine called 'Women of Wheels'. They were on their way to Lancaster, Pennsylvania for a get-together. I made it to Kruger Park, which I though was supposed to be free, but I should have know better, seeing as this is Minnesota and their camping fees are nothing short of robbery. As I sit here at this isolated, primitive campground near Wabasha, MN, I decide to take the day off and relax. I read a lot of my Backpacker and Outside magazines. I have a good time making a fire and just relaxing. I met a couple who were there mountain biking with these hugely expensive mountain bikes with all types of expensive parts. They were amazed and impressed at me heading to Alaska on a one hundred and something dollar Motiv steel body bicycle, and they couldn't believe how much stuff I was taking with me, as they surveyed my campground with all my stuff laid out. We talked about mountain biking and lightweight bike components and how expensive they were and such. As I sat there at Kruger Park, I resigned myself to taking a full six months to get to Fairbanks, if necessary. I need to figure it all out. I made my way out of there, glad to have not paid. The ATM at the grocery in Lake City only gave a choice of taking $20 or $100. I didn't want that much but took the $100. It is good that I did. I bought $35 worth of groceries, and, finally finding a bike shop in Red Wing, I bought two new tires for $46. I bought road tires this time to try something new. They were quite a contrast to the mountain bike tires I had been using the entire trip up to that point. They were 1.5's and smoother that smooth. The riding became much smoother and easier with these new tires but it would not be without a price. The mountain bike tires had taken me about 2700 miles from Florida to Minnesota, and the only flats I got were from those sandspurs near Brooksville, Florida on my fourth day of riding. This display of ruggedness would not be the case with these new tires, however. It goes to figure that, an hour after I pulled out of Red Wing with my new tires, I would find myself on the worst road of the entire trip up to that point. I had just passed into the state of Wisconsin, and was making my merry way down highway 35. I am not inclined to take detours on a bicycle, as it would take me an immeasurable distance from my path. I have always taken my chances and come out all right in the end, though it was pretty hairy during those treks not knowing if I would definitely make it through. Having no idea what lie up ahead, and what obstacles might greet me could be nerve-racking, but was all part of the adventure. I realized this as I encountered these little quirks and this is why I was not ever too concerned. I realized that if the trail didn't go through it was not the end of the world. At worst, I would have to backtrack and, possible end up camping out right there if it got too late. Besides, it always gives me more material to write about later. Well, highway 35 turned out to be the worst road simply because it became more and more primitive as I went along. The new tires got a good initiation going downhill on a dirt and rock road, and held out great - and with 85pounds of pressure in them. First gravel, and big rocks, then packed dirt, then soft sand, which I could not ride through. I no longer had my mountain bike tires, and was starting to regret it, but then the road got to the point where mountain bike tires wouldn't have helped me anyway. I was now pushing. To where, and for how long, I didn't know. I finally made to where the construction - or destruction - of the road ended. There were a couple of people at their house to greet me as I ducked under the construction barriers. They talked of bicyclists riding through and camping in their yard. I was almost inclined to ask them if I could do the same, but didn't, and continued on to Prescott, Wisconsin. Here I find myself at Freedom Park - named for an Eagle they released here in the 80's. It's a nice city park with camping, occupied mainly by RVs and small trailers. I am set up at the far end on a bluff overlooking the St, Croix River, and the view is unbelievably beautiful. I walked down to the town of Prescott to call home and reflect upon how good I feel now, and that I must be getting in shape. I walk back in time to watch a really cool sunset. Today, I ride from Prescott, Wisconsin to Osceola, Wisconsin, with a little Minnesota in between. It was cloudy and cold most of the day. I have been riding faster, which is good because I need to get more miles behind me. I have only been going around 50 miles a day lately, and the terrain hasn't been too bad. I am looking forward to getting into northern Minnesota, which is supposed to be very flat, and with many lakes. Upon arriving in Osceola, I immediately search for the post office, as I am scheduled to pick up a package here. I get a $20 bill from my dad, some stamps, etc. I also need a Laundromat pretty bad, and am delighted to find one here. I was going to crash in this secluded spot but after making some phone calls I find a campground for $5 and head there. I made a sack of bologna and cheese sandwiches, then ate three of them, some donuts, a banana, and a pear. I noticed that a couple bananas and a pack of sugar wafers had fallen out - probably going down that rocky hill of a detour the day before. June the 18th. I eat at a Hardys (mistake) and attempt to make it to Ogilvie. It is cloudy and cold all day and I stumble across a campground that will charge me only $3 a day since I'm on a bike. I decide to stop here, and take a day off as well. This place has a swimming pool. I broke out the new inflatable raft that I got at Johnson's Shut-Ins State Park in Missouri when I exchanged the one with a hole. I walked up to a lake and swam in the pool a couple times. After leaving Springvale, I was headed north. The Adventure Cycling map that goes from Stark, MN to Fargo, North Dakota has two choices of route in which to accomplish this. One is pretty straightforward, and shorter, but the longer one takes you through more interesting scenes. I take the longer route. I definitely am not taking the short cut to Alaska. My trail zigzags here and there, and my final mileage of 7100 miles is plenty more than a direct route would have yielded. It is important for me to balance the desire to make good time with the desire to enjoy my trip, and I'm not in that crazy of a hurry yet. Either way, I end up breaking my world record today by riding 82 miles to get to the town of Aitkin. While doing some shopping I meet a red-haired girl from The University of Wisconsin majoring in Environmental science. She is down here to teach some class for a couple days and she ends up camping in the city park where I go. She has a job, which involves paddling around lakes in northern Wisconsin counting frogs. The next morning when I awoke, there was someone from the local paper there to interview me about my trip, and take some pictures. On the way, I stopped in a town called Pallisade to grab a burger to eat. I talked to the girl behind the counter about my trip, and she gave me her address, and asked me to send her a card from anywhere. I did. I sent her several cards from several places, including, of course, Alaska. I make it to Judy Garland's hometown of Grand Rapids getting my second highest mileage of 78 miles. I camped out in a clearing in the woods near Pokegama Lake. June 22nd, and I am on my way, having cruised about 6-7 miles, when I realized I had left my cooler behind in the woods. I was talking with some cyclist who was going from Seattle to Pittsburgh. After he left I wanted to eat something and the cooler that straps to my handlebars was not there. I backtracked to get it and wasted a bunch of time, but I also had to pace my self on this Sunday so as not to pass my next mail pick-up. It also caused me to get the 3000th mile of my trip on the return trip toward Grand Rapids. Even so I go 67 miles today as I make it to the Leetch Lake Indian Reservation. I am on Cass Lake at the Knudsen Dam. It is actually the Mississippi River again. As it flows through endless lakes such as this I sit and reacquaint myself with this once great river that has followed me for most of my trip. As the distance remaining to Alaska shrinks, so does the river. I have watched it go from a monstrous body of water, crossing it on massive bridges, which themselves are great structures, to a mere stream that I've crossed on tiny footbridges. Today I sit at a small dam as what's left of the mighty Mississippi dumps into the Cass Lake. I have reached a campground with Christmas trees. They are Spruce or something and I think they are just great. The mosquitoes and flies here are the worst they have ever been. Minnesota has an incredibly annoying pest in the form of a large fly that has a sharp bite. In Florida the flies are small and don't bite, but these huge bugs not only bite - actually they bite a chunk out of your skin, then lap up the blood that pools up in the hole - but they are able to keep up with me on my bike. No matter how fast I go these things fly right along with me, circling me as if I were standing still. Mocking me as I pedal my ass off, they buzz in my face, and bite me every chance they get. I get no greater pleasure that when I am able to smack one, then watch as it tumbles to the road. The mosquitoes are annoying but usually fly very slow. It is when I have stopped that I have to deal with those bloodsuckers. I am stopped now. This is beautiful country, and very scenic campground. I would like to say I really enjoyed it and the day off I took here, but between the bugs and the frequent rain, I rarely left my tent. The following day was all rain too. I didn't go all that far today. I missed a road and ended up in a town called Lavinia, north of Bemidji. I stopped to do laundry and talked to the man in the store where I bought some more junk food. Upon mentioning that I was from Florida, he asked me why I talked like a Yankee. I didn't know what he was talking about. I though he was accusing me of having a New York accent, as that is what I think of when I think of Yankee, but he was making the point that I didn't have a southern accent. I explained that, although Florida is geographically in the south, it is not a true southern state. I live in the Tampa Bay area, which is a metropolis of over two million people. Furthermore, most of the population of Florida is actually from up north. In fact, only about 30% of Florida's population was actually born there. I'm one of the minority who can actually call myself a Florida native, but my dad is from New Jersey, and my mom is from Milwaukee. It is something you tend to notice in Florida mainly in rural areas that the southern accents start to come out, and of course, you hear the 'Yankee' accents everywhere. I never though of myself as even having an accent. I have heard the thick southern accents for most of my trip as I moved through the south. Then around Iowa, I start noticing the Midwest 'Fargo' accent which really becomes apparent in Minnesota. It is almost like a Canadian accent up here. Not quite, it wasn't until I actually got to Canada that I noticed the distinction and until then, had not connected the two. While I was doing laundry, the man who commented on my accent called the Bemidji newspaper, and I was surprised to have a reporter approach me and start asking me questions. Twice this has happened to me and both times it was in Minnesota. Well, I passed through Bemidji, and the weather started clearing up. I was trying, again, to pace myself, in order to not pass a mail pick-up destination. I was due to pick up a package in a town called Lake Itasca. I didn't really need to make all these mail stops, but I guess the novelty of getting mail out here, far from home, at these little post offices, along with my mom's obvious joy in sending stuff, bound and compelled this ritual to continue. Well this caused me to camp out in the woods near the town of Becida - that is if you want to call something with a population of 10 a town. (It even is listed as having a post office, though that is no longer the case). This was a really strange night. I set up my came out here in the middle of nowhere, and spent considerable time in an attempt to tie my food bags up. The trees didn't really have branches, so I was trying to rig it by tying a rope around one and pulling it tight around a sort of leaning tree, and I managed to sort of make it work. It is very important to tie up the food, and anything that ever had food in it. I read plenty about the topic in newsgroups and outdoors magazines but still had to find out the hard way with squirrels, raccoons, and other critters getting into, and chewing up my stuff. I didn't even make it out of Florida without having my bags shredded on several occasions. My little handle bar had long since had the zipper chewed of it. Well, those were little animals. Now I am in bear country. I'm the type of person who always seems to have to learn everything the hard way, but I don't want to find out the hard way what bears can do. (As it would turn out, this was almost the case). As I lie awake that night I am thinking about how unbelievably silent it is way out here in the middle of nowhere. While I'm reflecting on the incredible peacefulness of being so far removed from civilization, loud country music suddenly starts blaring from absolutely nowhere - weird! My pacing it to Itasca was a waste. When I got there, there was no there there. The place didn't exist. There was a store, which used to act as a post office but since they no longer did that, they sent my stuff to Park Rapids, wherever that is. I had to call Park Rapids and have them forward it to Rugby, North Dakota - just a name with a zip code, which happened to be on my trail. I had no idea how far away it was or when I'd be there, but it was the geographical center of North America, so it had to be a really special place to pick up mail. I am here in Itasca on my way to Lake Itasca. I have been looking forward to seeing this lake. This is not just any old lake. According to the people who somehow are able to figure out stuff about the face of the Earth that are not immediately obvious - or remotely figure-outable as far as I can tell - according to these wise souls, this lake, Lake Itasca, is the source of the Mississippi River. It is hard to believe, after having traced this river for all this time, that this huge river had come down to a small trickle of water, flowing out of this inconspicuous lake. I made it to a town called Callaway. This will be my last night camping in Minnesota. It has been eleven days since I first arrived in Land of 10,000 lakes. This is by far the longest I've spent in any one state. Apart from the horseflies and the high costs, I liked Minnesota. The people of Iowa and Minnesota have been among the friendliest I've ever met. In many respects, I am also leaving behind the world, as I've always known it. Trees, humidity, people - have always been plentiful to me. The coming weeks and months would see these things slowly start to fade away. For now, I was looking forward to Fargo, North Dakota. Not sure exactly why. The movie 'Fargo' was one of my favorites, and a topic I've brought up a lot in conversations with Minnesotans, as the majority of the movie takes place in their state. Curiously, though, it was not too popular a flick with the people here. As a rather violent, dark comedy, it did not win too many fans in the predominantly rural areas I passed through. Apparently, residents weren't too flattered with the parody of their accents and mannerisms. Though the movie's characters are supposedly exaggerated, to my untrained ears, they were pretty accurate. I don't know what I was expecting in the city of Fargo, but the novelty of heading there was enough to keep me excited. Fargo, with a population of around 74,000, would also be the largest city I'd pass through after nearly three months on the road. My last morning in Minnesota saw me eating breakfast at a small diner in Callaway. A man overheard my conversation with the people at the table next to me about my trip. Excitedly, he interrupted to let me know he read about me in the Bemidji newspaper. I had forgotten all about the man at the Laundromat in Lavinia, and the interview. I hadn't even gotten a paper in Bemidji, so I never got to see what it said. I entered Fargo from the north and rode almost the entire length of the city to get to my campground at Lindenwood Park. I camped on the bank of the Red River. 1997 was the year of the great flood of the Red River, and the watermark was visible twenty something feet up the trees. Many trees had garbage, and large objects wedged in their upper reaches. I decided to take the day off there in Fargo. I've done a lot of walking on my days off, but never as much as I did in Fargo. I realized this was my best opportunity to find a doctor to check me for Lyme disease. I walked in to the health clinic and described my situation. The doctor told me that the type of ticks I described were not the type that carry the disease - that the Lyme disease ticks were much smaller, and dark in color. I was relieved to hear that. I guess it was all in my head, and reasoned my lethargy was just from over training. I walked all over town. I passed a guy on the street who looked just like an old roommate of mine from years ago. I called out his name, 'Tom', and he turned around. I repeated 'Tom', and he said 'Yeah'. I couldn't believe it, what are the odds of seeing my old Florida friend up here in North Dakota. He didn't seem to recognize me so to make sure it was him I said his last name. He said that wasn't his name. Wow! That was strange. I wanted to see a movie. I had not seen a movie since 'The Wizard of Oz' at my sister's house in Palm Harbor. I thought it would be cool to see the movie 'Fargo' in Fargo but it was no longer playing anywhere. (Yeah, I get ideas like that). I made it to the mall and saw a movie called 'Devils Own' with Brad Pitt and Harrison Ford. It wasn't that great. I was totally exhausted from walking all day. It was very hot to top it off - in the mid 90's. It couldn't have been hotter in Florida, I thought. The lack of humidity was the only difference. I guess it gets hot just about everywhere. That night on the Red River, I was able to find the constellations of Bootes and Corona Borealis. Its fun to reach milestones. Geography and time are not the only yardsticks I use to gauge my progress. Passing into another state or another month are definitely causes for celebration, but today as I leave Fargo, I pass into another Adventure Cycling map. Each map covers 300-400 miles or so, and this new map I unfold will guide me the 310 miles from Fargo, ND to Minot, ND. I don't eat up too much of this map today - I go about 44 miles to a free campground on the Erie dam. Although it was cloudy all day, I like it here now; it's nice here, overlooking a lake. At night I am able to find my star constellations in the night sky again, only this time even clearer. I am out in the middle of nowhere and I have never seen so many stars in the sky. I even thought I saw the Little Dipper. North Dakota is very different to me. It the towns are like small islands on a sea of green. Very tiny little spots separated by miles of nothing. There are few trees. It is possible to see the horizon in every direction. I pass through the small towns, which seem like oasises as I approach. Are they really there? Page was there when I passed through, but the people weren't. It was like a ghost town. It was Sunday and everything was closed. I talked to the man who ran the store, in front of his house. He gave me water and mentioned he had cyclists from Seattle staying with him. Bicyclists from Seattle. That would become a familiar refrain in the coming weeks. Riding a bicycle from Seattle to the east coast is, apparently, an extremely popular idea. Everyday as I headed west, I passed countless cyclists on their way East. I passed a guy in Hope going from Seattle to Boston. I also met cyclists doing less conventional treks. In Cooperstown, I met a man in his 50's riding a bicycle made in the 50's from Minneapolis, where he now lives, to his hometown nearby, to celebrate its centennial. He, like me, had never done anything like this before. He had been riding his one-speed antique everyday, traveling over 100 miles a day. He woke up very early everyday and rode into the night. I knew I would have to have a 100-mile day someday. I'm not an early riser, and by the time I get all my stuff packed to go, it is usually around noon, if not well past it. I'm definitely not racing, or going for any time records. Even as the approaching winter season threatens to bar me from the northernmost reaches of my planned destination, I still refuse to ride like a maniac to get there. Even so, I have been pushing myself continually, as I still have one eye on the calendar. Always prepared for a plan B, I am hurrying, but not demanding. 72 miles is as far as I go today. I make it to the town of Binsford. On this, the last day of June, I am riding through Fort Totten, a Sioux Indian Reservation. There has been a lot of flooding. I stop in a tiny town called Tokio to get some stuff. A man tells me the road I was planning to take is completely underwater. The nice thing about North Dakota is the roads are on a grid, so it is easily to figure out how to go around obstacles. I detour my way around and finally make it to my stop in Minnewaukan. For another day, I don't make 100 miles, but I do set my personal record of 84 miles. The place I camp is free and has hot showers. It is also on a lake that, according to the map, isn't supposed to be a lake. July: The Great Plains and into Canada July 1st. I have been traveling three months now. I am in Minnewaukan, North Dakota, on a cold, very windy, very rainy day. A group from an organized Adventure Cycling tour, going from Seattle to Maine pulled into the park some time after I arrived. The entire landscape has been altered in this area due to flooding. The park lies on the shore of a very large lake. On the map, the lake is nowhere near the city, much less the park. Entire roads have been swallowed up, and new boundaries have been drawn on maps. This would be the only time heading west, that the wind would be blowing from the East. I could ride with a strong wind at my back today, but I choose to take my day off. Tonight would be even worse as far as the weather went. Gale force winds tossed and crushed my tent all night. I had to leave the tent to pound the stakes back in as several were uprooted. By the following morning, the wind had calmed down, but the nagging rain remained. I put on my full rain suit for the very first time. I even had the hood on under my helmet. It was so windy, cold, and wet. Heading west on highway 19 through the strong winds and rain was miserable. When the rain finally subsided a bit, I was greeted by a medium sized, brown dog. He started playing chase and run with me about 8 -10 miles from Esmond. He would run this way then that, and followed me all the way to Esmond. A priest drove by me on my way into town. Father Fish invited me over to the church to stay. We drove into the town of Rugby where we ate pizza and drank a pitcher of beer. He was a retired autoworker from Michigan who, after his wife died, decided to become a priest. He now lived in a house connected to a church in the small town of Esmond, out here in the center of North Dakota. With a population of 196, I thought it odd for Esmond to have this large church, as well as a good-sized school. But this is the way of the small town and small town farmer. People own large tracts of land for farming and, consequently are spread out over a large area. The town is the centrally located spot in which they can come together for communal activities. Their houses are much farther apart, and neighbors live a good distance from each other. It was strange staying in an actual house. It had been three months since I had slept in a house, and not since the motel in Franklinton, Louisiana back in April had I slept in a bed. Now, I had the private guest room in this church. The next day I made the trek to Rugby, the geographical center of North America, of my own power. Just like in Muscatine, Iowa, I had previewed the route and town by car, so now by bike, this section was not a complete surprise. I got plenty of experience riding through Rugby. I realized I needed to pick up my package that had been forwarded from Itasca, Minnesota. I tried in vain to find a grocery with an ATM and backtracked several times. I did finally make it to the post office in time. I finally made it to my destination in the town of Towner, where I camped out in the customary city park, under the picnic shelter. I opened my package to find that my dad had sent me a small radio and headphones, which wore like a necklace. A little girl, Mary, and her family were there for a family reunion and town centennial. They own a construction company in Seattle and do work in Alaska. As I prepared to leave the next day, Mary gave me their address to send a post card from Alaska. (Unfortunately, the address must have been incorrect as the card was returned as no such address). Well, today is the Forth of July. I made it to the town of Surrey, a few miles east of Minot. I found the usual city park campground and prepared to take the day off there for the Fourth. There was a small gathering that night to watch fireworks, and a group of kids had their own small fireworks celebration. I stayed there the next day to rest. I was listening to my new radio and heard that Charles Kurault had just died of Lupus. That sucks. I remember watching his 'On the Road' shows on TV as a kid, and I always wished I could do what he was doing. They played a recording he made at the age of 14 of an essay/poem he wrote. He was a poet and a great storyteller, and it is too bad he had to go. This trip is my 'On the Road'. The next morning as I packed up, I noticed several pin-sized holes burned into my tent cover - tiny mementos of my trip, and testament to an Independence Day celebration. It was a short jaunt to the city of Minot. With a population of around 35,000, it is no huge city, but one that I have been aware of since I was a child. It is, apparently large enough to have a university, and a football team to boot. Many years ago, my Tampa Bay Buccaneers had a quarterback named Randy Hedberg who was drafted from Minot State. It is the odd football player that gets drafted into the NFL, and makes the team, and the local slogan here in Tampa Bay was 'Why not Minot?' A childhood memory of such a trivial thing as that is enough to give certain meaning to the arrival. Most towns are no more than names on a map, and speculation as to what lies around the next bend are always left to the imagination. Even a vague point of reference as this can spark a certain interest in reaching that town as a milestone. It was something to look forward to. The Curiosity of matching the name with the actual experience of it added excitement to rides that can be, at times, rather uninspiring. I found that even a short sentence mentioning a certain point was enough to do this at times. One short phrase to spark the imagination, and plenty of long hours, days, and weeks to think about it, and level of enthusiasm can be great upon approaching it. For close to 20 years I had been aware of a town called Minot. Now I was riding a bicycle through it, and it is no longer a mystery, left only to the imagination. Well I peddled through Minot today, getting most of my goals done with the exception of finding a cyclo Computer (All the stores were closed or they just didn't have them). I did buy a pair of cycling gloves, though. I mailed my broken computer to the company - $6.17 U.P.S. - what a rip-off! It was a long, quiet, peaceful ride after leaving Minot. I have always daydreamed as I ride, and now that I have a radio, I hear music too. I still daydream as I listen but it gives me an audio perspective of my trip. I hear all the local stations of the area and its just another way of traveling and observing my progress as I move out of one area, and into a new one. It was interesting to tune into stations I had never heard before, with references to different local cities and businesses. They played some song by a new band called Hanson. Small towns in North Dakota are like islands on a sea of wheat fields. Right now, I was in the middle of an ocean. The map says 'no services next 42 miles' after leaving Minot. I would have a long way to go before I reached another island. That island would be the town of Parshall. I asked a couple where the park was and they pointed it out to me. It was one of the most remote, barren, and un-kept-up city parks I can recall. As I was figuring things out, came by again and offered to let me take a shower and use the phone at their house. It had been four days since I had had a shower - not since the Catholic church in Esmond - and that sounded like a good idea. But I like to take a shower in the morning so I figured I could hold out another day. They said it would be all right to come by in the morning. That night they took me out to Tastee-Freeze for a burger. They had a 5 year-old daughter who giggled a lot, and her mother said that that's what to expect at age 5. This is an odd town. Dogs roam around everywhere, and there are a lot of Indians. The layout has a strange feel to it. It is island-like, but even more so - very secluded. These people are very nice. The next day I pay a visit to my new friends to take my shower. I get their E-mail address but when I try it in Florida months later, it does not work. This stretch of North Dakota was bad for getting addresses. That makes two that didn't go through and, as far as I know, the only two on the whole trip. I am thinking ahead to Montana somewhat. It is one of the places I have always wanted to go, and now, it was only a couple days away. It was a wicked headwind I plowed through today. I was excited about riding through the Badlands area o highway 1804. For this stretch of road the map states 'few services next 70 miles'. They don't call these the Badlands for nothing. It looks like grassy canyons sloping upward and downward. There were no structures that I can recall, only raw nature, and it was beautiful. These were the steepest climbs I have had for a while. This part of the route is roughly the area Louis and Clark traveled on their famous journey, and the large body of water is named Lake Sakakawea after the young Indian girl who guided the expedition through hostile land, hostile weather, and hostile Indians, and probably, enabled them to complete a mission which would have been unsuccessful without her. Before making it to the badlands I stopped in Newtown. It was here I started seeing cyclists who were a part of a large Cycle America tour heading east. I talked to their van driver and she gave me a brochure and some Mounds bars. I was seeing other cyclists on their tour as I passed through the badlands and talked to a guy who has done a lot of touring and tried to persuade me to go through Banff and Jasper on my way through Canada. All in all it was a tough day. Strong wind AND hills. It was nearing sunset when I pulled off on the side of the road and set up my tent. It was not the first time I just pulled off to the side of the road to camp, but it was the first time when there were no trees or anything. It was just bare land everywhere. No buildings -nothing, the whole day, and I didn't know how I felt about it. Apparently North Dakota is a place where you can just do that, so I did. The next morning I got up around 7:00 AM, which is extremely early for me, but typical when I am camped out in the open. I stopped at a campground for water and asked about a shower. The lady said there was no shower, but when I went to get the water, I saw a shower right there. What a Liar! Her husband liked my radio and wrote down the part number. The wind wasn't nearly as bad today. It's interesting how the dry air masks how much you sweat. After living my life in Florida where there is constantly high humidity, it was a shock to actually experience the dryness of the plains. I don't feel so hot and I'm not at all wet but I'm covered with salt and am drinking quite a bit more water than usual without having to stop to pee much at all. I guess the sweat must evaporate straight from the pores. I get to Williston and talk to an airline pilot who has done bike tours in Australia and Great Britain. I finally managed to find a bicycle shop and buy a new, cheap cyclo-computer for $30. I am so glad now to just have one. I cross into Montana, another long time place that existed only in my imagination. Now, here I was. The sign immediately upon entering the state lists the speed limit. For daytime driving the speed limit is whatever you think is 'reasonable and prudent'. For me, I rarely get above 10 m.p.h. The Jet Stream is not kind to cyclists headed west. I have a package waiting for me in Culbertson, so that is where I stop. The next day I plan to pick up my package and take the day off. Upon awaking in Culbertson I head out to find the post office. Today's package is of particular interest to me. Before I left my house, I left a pile of stuff I knew I would want for the portion of the trip when I got to Canada. The Alaska mileposts book, maps of Canada, and literature concerning this stretch. It was hot and sunny today, and I lay down, relaxed, and soaked up some rays as if I were on a Florida beach. A couple cyclists pulled in that day to camp. Both were heading from Seattle. One man was from Switzerland, and he had flown to Seattle from Switzerland, and was cycling to Montreal. We walked up to a restaurant to eat lunch and exchange bike trip stories. Making it to Montana was a milestone for me. It would be my last state before hitting Canada, and I had never been outside the United States before. For now, I was just enjoying being in Montana, even though Highway 2 was a bit monotonous. It was very hot, sunny, and windy, but I was making good time throughout Montana because I was more enthusiastic. I don't mind the heat without all the humidity, and as long as it doesn't rain, I can't complain. Shortly after leaving Culbertson, I crossed into the Ft. Peck Indian Reservation. My main priority leaving Culbertson was to find a Laundromat. I stopped in the town of Poplarville and immediately found a place to do cloths. I changed cloths in the bar next door. Little did I realize I would end up leaving my socks in the dryer - including the wool ones I got from the priest in Esmond, ND. I would not find that out until two days later. This day would take me to a park in the town of Wolf Point, still in the Reservation. An Indian was playing catch with a boy right by my tent. I was sitting at a picnic table. He sat down and we talked. He was there with one of his relatives, drinking whiskey mixed in a bottle of Pepsi and I drank some with them. He talked about the way the government mistreats the Indians. He talked about how the government would recruit Indians whenever there was a forest fire, to fly in and battle the blaze. It appeared as if a storm were approaching. He stood up and started reading the clouds. Waving his arms in the air he forecast the possibilities. Depending on what this cloud formation did or where that one move he described what might happen. He told me his brother was coming to pick him up, and if it ended up raining they would come back to get me to stay at their place, but the weather ended up being alright. I had a long ride to Hinsdale today. I arrived at the park after riding 82 miles. I encountered the worst mosquitoes that could possibly exist. These things were like super charged, genetically engineered monster mosquitoes. They were smaller than regular skeeters, but they were fast. They stung a lot harder and were impossible to get away from. Riding from Hinsdale to Malta the next day was like something out of a horror flick. Normally, riding a bicycle is a sure fire way to escape mosquitoes - but not these. No matter how fast I rode they kept up with me, and managed to find my peddling legs. They could even buzz along, hovering up and down as my legs moved, to land as they pleased. I finally bought a can of insect repellant, as I was not planning to wear my mosquito suit while riding. In between this entire psychotic mosquito war zone, I hit my 4,000th mile near the town of Saco. That Night in Hinsdale, though, was a trip. After battling the mutant skeeters and getting in my tent, some kids walked up and camped right near me. They were drinking and partying all night, and I laid there awake the whole night listening to them get drunker and drunker, until they finally started getting in fistfights with each other. Also that evening, a Mosquito truck came through and sprayed the place, so the next morning wasn't such a rude awakening. It wasn't all that great, though. My tire was flat. This was the first time these skinny street tires had gotten a flat since I bought them in Red Wing, Minnesota. It would not even be close to being the last time either. I fixed the tire and took a Sun Shower shower in the porta poddie, which was a big pipe set on one end. I took a short ride to Malta today because I decided not to take anymore days off, and it was too far to the next place. There at the park were an Englishman from New Jersey, and an old man in his 70's who was riding from Alaska to Ohio. I had met many cyclists touring as our paths crossed on this trip, but this is the first person besides me who had Alaska on his itinerary. He was also about twice as old as the average cyclist who I passed. This was no lazing retiree. He has walked the Appalachean Trail. Not once, but twice - the first time when he was 63 years old. (Talk more a bout the old guy) There was a wedding there so we all camped out in the shelter at the other side of the park. The next day some ladies came by and gave me a cinnamon roll. I showered at the truck stop for $2 the next morning and here I bought my can of Off. Nowhere could I find the bottles of Deet that came with my mosquito suit. The suit was starting to be dry of its repellant so I would end up just spraying it with Off. I passed so many cyclists heading east from Seattle, that I couldn't possibly remember them all. One guy stops and asks, 'Are you Eric?' They had met the couple on the tandem I had talked to in Culbertson. I spoke to a couple at a restaurant that was closed, and note that most of the cyclists have been older - middle aged and up. They are probably doing this now because they can. After the kids are all grown up, and/or they have enough money to live comfortably. I talked to some Indians at a store in Ft. Belknap Agency who ask me where I'm headed and they say to say hi to the Eskimos. I sit and share my lunch with a pregnant black dog there begging. Chinook had a place called Waterworks Park at a water treatment plant. There they allowed camping and had free showers. Crazy shower, though. You have to hold the button in and it's hard - water goes everywhere too. It's July 14th, and I pass through the city of Havre (pronounced - Have-er, not how Brett Favre pronounces his name). I ate at an all-you-can-eat KFC and I have never eaten so much in my life at one sitting. It was amazing. Riding a bike all day really gives me a huge appetite. It has been so windy, especially today. I ride all day and don't seem to get anywhere. I make it to the town of Rudyard. July 15th. I got a sunburn today on my arms on parts that were already dark tan. My lips are chapped to the point of bleeding. I break out the Vaseline but it is too late. My lip is split right down the middle. Another day in a row of strong head winds - another day where I ride all day and go a mere 63 miles. I stopped in the town of Chester to withdraw $400 before I get to Canada. I'm not sure at this point how the ATMs work up there for an American bank. I showered this morning with a hose of ice-cold well water. I went to a rest stop to eat where a group of cyclists were hanging out. I called my dad there and found that my uncle Don had just died. There was not much else between Chester and Shelby. I stopped at a bar in Golota to fill up on water and there was no one there but the bartender. It was like one of those movies where they're out in the desert and nothing but little worn out gas stations dot the roads from time to time. I made it to the town of Shelby where I set up camp. It would be my last camp in the USA and I decided to take the day off to fix my bike a little. The campground was right at the top of a dammed up lake, with the town of Shelby down below, which I admired that night from atop the dam hill. Wow! This is my last day in the USA. It's hard to believe I will have ridden my bicycle all the way to Canada. I did my laundry, some shopping, and fixed my bike. I changed the tires around to put the worn out one in front. When I did this I noticed a broken spoke, which I replaced. That is the first time I ever did anything to a bike other than change a tire. I called Motiv, the maker of the bike, to tell him I was about to pass into Canada. Today was going to be the biggest milestone thus far on the trip. I was to ride into Canada. Before I made it there, however, I still had some interesting things to think about here in the US. I had been debating for a long time whether to go up the Riding to the Sun road. It is steep and narrow, winding up the rocky mountains of a road. I had decided to forgo such an episode and head straight to Canada from Cut Bank. The snowman statue that welcomes westbound visitors to Cut Bank bills its town as the coldest in the US. This is not something I can determine for myself here on this hot, sunny day in July. The ride north, out of town gave a clearer indication as to what type of country I was in. I didn't see much along the way that would tell aliens from another planet that this one was habited, besides the road itself. In fact, the ride from Cut bank to my destination across the Canadian border was the most stark, barren, and secluded stretch of road I had ever encountered. The entire day passed by without me passing many signs of humans. July 17th. I'm headed for Canada. It was such a strange surrealistic ride. It wasn't as windy today, but cool and cloudy with some rain here and there. I passed the day riding through a Blackfoot Indian reservation but I didn't see any Indians - In fact I didn't see much of anything at all. It was like riding in a trance with little outside stimulation and practically no traffic. I like it. There was nothing but rolling, treeless landscape all the way to the Canadian border, with the occasional 'butte' to break the monotony - I guess a butte is like a hill with a flat top. I was at high altitude, about 4000 feet. At the Canadian border I was asked questions about how long I'd be in Canada, and how much money I had. I said $400 and she told me you usually need $500 but since I was on a bike it was ok. She asked about guns and weapons and passed be on through. About seven miles past the border I came to the Milk River and the Del Bonita campground. I set up in the shelter and hung out the rest of the night in complete solitude and spooky quiet. It was the most desolate area I had ever been. I did not hear a single vehicle drive past the entire night. The only sound was the rush of the Milk River as it roared by. The fastest river I had ever seen. These first several days in Canada would prove to be the easiest of my entire trip. I was heading due north, coming down off the 4000-foot elevation in northern Montana, and had the wind at my back the entire time. Not surprisingly I had my three longest mileage days starting with 84.3 today, which would be a short-lived world record for me. This made for a pleasant introduction to Canada. I was enjoying Canada's roads too. It was secluded and the roads were well paved and had the extra shoulder lane to ride in anyway. It was so smooth and quiet and I finally came to a town called Magrath where I ate and exchanged money at $1.38 to $1US. This was the first time I had been out of the USA and subsequently, the first time to use foreign currency so it was pretty cool. It was fun spending all this different colored paper money, and the $1 'loonie' and $2 'toonie' coins. I'm like a little kid playing some board game with fake money. The only town of size I passed through was Lethbridge, and it was my first taste of Canadian cities. Very clean, modern, and organized. Large parks with trails which made it easy to get around. I made it to Fort McLeod, Alberta and the Old Man River campground. I tried for a while to find a spot in this totally packed campground when the campground hosts told me I could camp in their spot with them. I haven't paid for a camping spot since Fargo, North Dakota and am glad to be saving the money. I hung out and tried to get used to the fact that I was in Canada. I even set my cyclo-computer from miles to kilometers to try to get a feel for the metric system. I don't know if I ever really got a feel for the metric system and kilometers in the short time I was in Canada, but it sure looked cool raking up all those kilometers. It would just so happen that these first two days on metric units would end up being my longest daily rides. Today I went 153 kilometers, which, being around 94 miles, beat my old record set yesterday by 10 miles. There was plenty of daylight left, and I wasn't even tired yet at the time. I could have easily gone past the 100 mile mark, but was at a park in Calgary talking to these people and decided to just camp there so I could see a little of Calgary the next day. I didn't realize that camping was not allowed there so I went behind a row of tall bushes to be discreet. While riding though Calgary on their massive trail system, which is great, I stopped at a bathroom to wash up. I couldn't believe how nice this was. Trails and parks lead all over the entire city. With the wind at my back I was flying again. I got a flat tire and stopped, unloaded, fixed it, reloaded without leaning the bike on anything, and watched as it promptly went flat again. This time, out of sheer impatience and frustration, changed the tire without unloading anything, while the bike lay on its side. Even so, I made it over 90 miles again to the city of Innisfail. Today, I would pay to camp. Today is July 21st. I leave Innisfail and get another flat tire. These skinny road tires have worn out their usefulness. This time it is a piece of glass in the well-worn front tire. I duct taped the tire a little to help keep it until I can get new tires. Today I made it to the Lions Park in the town of Millet, just south of Edmonton. I can't help thinking how lucky I am having the wind at my back all these days in a row. What a difference it makes, especially compared to how it is going against the wind! I have been looking forward to reaching Edmonton for a long time. Calgary and Edmonton are the only large metropolitan cities I have been through on my trip, and Edmonton has what has been described as the biggest mall in the world. A couple kids I talked to the day before said I would need a whole day to really seen the whole thing. I was only planning on spending a couple hours there, but ended up staying more than four hours. Edmonton has bike trails throughout the city also. A psychologist on a bicycle toured me through Edmonton a little bit, and another cyclist took me as far as the West Edmonton Mall. One of the things that concerned me during the planning stages of the trip was what to do with my bike and all my stuff when I needed to go inside. I worried about shopping and visiting attractions or whatever, and how would I keep my stuff safe. I had been pretty lucky. Passing through mainly small towns and shopping in small stores had been fairly simple. I had even been to a Wal-Mart here and there and just tried to be in and out as quickly as possible. I hadn't even locked it up anywhere. But I wanted to spend some time in the West Edmonton Mall without having to concern myself with my stuff. I ended up wheeling it to the security booth where they led me to a stairwell in back that gets little traffic. I locked it to the rail and went on my way. This mall is huge. Submarine rides. Live dolphin shows. A ship floating in the middle of it all. It has a beach fully enclosed, with warm air and waves. A large waterslide. Another section of the mall has an entire fair with games and carnival rides - including roller coasters. Those kids were right. I had only been there four hours and hadn't even scratched the surface of what was there. I had planned to make it to the town of Onoway, but with my prolonged stay here in Edmonton I only got as far as the Lions Club park somewhere to the west of Stoney Plain. I had planned on making it to Onoway and taking the day off, but my overstay at the mall meant I would have to spend today riding the 20 something miles to Onoway - then take the day off. My tires are really becoming a nuisance now. I expect upon waking for the tire to be flat. I took it to a garage were the guy puts air in it and it blows out another hole. The stores don't have my tires so I need to patch it up some more and ride. It is now full of duct tape. I have been picking up pieces of tires from the road and attempted to melt them down to pour in the holes but I don't have enough heat to do it. I do manage to make it the 20 miles to Onoway. It's another shitty day - cloudy and cool, and the park is lousy and run-down, but it's free so how can I complain. I am starting to get the sensation of this trip coming to an end. It seems it will soon be over and I miss it already. It may seem like the trip will be over soon at the rate I've been traveling through Alberta, but this sensation would not last long. I had been making the best mileages of the trip since I left Cut Bank Montana. But as sure as the last half of July was a time of ease and plenty speed and miles, the rest of the trip would more than make up for it, for I still had the Canadian Rockies to content with, not to mention what Alaska itself had in store. These last couple of months would make the hills of Tennessee and Missouri seem like speed bumps. I didn't realize it at the time, but these last few days in Alberta would be an easy period that I would not get to repeat very often for the remainder of the trip. It was a nice flat ride to Whitecourt today, and I was really enjoying myself. I stopped in Sanguido on the way and took a free shower. I got another flat tire today, and it was in the same spot I had duct taped before. I duct taped a dime to the inside of the tire over the hole since duct tape alone was obviously not enough. Now I was at the Lion's Club Campground (where else?) in Whitecourt. The temperature had dropped rapidly and was now pretty chilly. I started a campfire for the first time in a long while. I was happy as I lay in my tent listening to a local Whitecourt radio station. It was playing all different types of music and I thought about how when I got back to Florida I will miss this trip and all these great moments and I guess I got about as close as I ever have to grasping the moment in the present tense. I imagined being back home and how distant and surreal all these places will seem. Everyday brings new surroundings and I'll probably not see, and for sure wont' experience ever again. It will be strange. Well, moment over. Today is a lousy day. For some reason, I liked today, so it was alright but I got rained on three separate occasions, and I didn't go too far - about 54 miles - and made it to Fox Creek. There really was nothing in between Whitecourt and Fox Creek. I staked out a campsite at a damp campground. I took the opportunity to photograph my Canadian money in the bathroom there. July 26th. Today was awful. It was raining when I woke up and it was raining when I got to Valley view and it rained most of the time in between. It was cold, wet, and windy the whole day. It was amazing how quickly time flew today. Of course, I didn't leave until after noon, but I guess I was in a rain-numb trance. There was, again, not much between my starting and ending points. I stopped at a gas station in Little Stoney to get water and had to dump it back out because it was the worst I ever tasted. As I was leaving I noticed my tire was mostly flat up front. Instead of fixing it then and there I filled it up some and took off. That was the wrong thing to do. It went flat about a mile away and I had to walk it back to fix it. I will run out of patches at the rate I am going. I almost stayed the night at a primitive campground in the town of Little Smokey. It had no water and I decided to leave, to press on, since there was no reason to stay. I pulled into a campground in Valleyview during the pouring rain. There was a laundry there and I tried to dry my shoes but the lady pulled them out because they were noisy. I talked to her and she said to go ahead but they never really got dry. They have good radio stations up here with plenty of alternative type music. I'm waiting for the weather report hoping it says something good. Today I would make it to Grand Prairie. My last stop in Alberta. It only rained part of the day and, yes, I had a flat tire. The dime wore right through - I now had a large circular hole in my tire and knew I would have to get new tires soon. It kind of quit raining the last half of the day and I make it to Grand Prairie where the campground office was closed, so it was free. I got the shower number from a cyclist named Jeff from California. He was riding from Alaska and was on his way to Montana. He said Dawson Creek had an $8 campground with a $2 off coupon that you could get from the tourist information booth. I reached my 5000th mile here in Grand Prairie - which really makes it sound far. Fortunately Grand Prairie was a fairly large city, and the next day I went to a department store that had tires for sale. This time, I bought a pair of thick road tires - two for $60. The thickest I could find. I'll put them on in Dawson Creek. These would be the tires that would carry me the length of the Alaska Highway. I didn't get to Dawson Creek until later today and the tourist information booth was closed, but they let me have the discount at the campground anyway. Tomorrow I'm taking the day off to see Dawson Creek, but I have to go find my rain cover, which blew off somewhere. Dawson Creek is the beginning of the Alaska Highway. ****miles of rough road that until a few years ago wasn't even paved the whole way. It was constructed in a matter of months during WWI so troops could move supplies and personnel to Alaska in case of a Japanese attack. Even as it stood now, it was a rough road by any standards. I was taking the day off, but had to backtrack to find my rain cover. It was not a really huge deal, but after all we had been through together, I knew I would really miss it. I rode a 25 mile round trip to no avail. I would have to do without my beloved rain cover. I spent that day cruising around Dawson Creek, watching films about the Alaska Highway at the tourist center. I bought seven post cards but lost them somewhere. I put on my new tires and was ready for the Alaska Highway. I picked the wrong time to lose my rain cover. My first day traveling the Alaska Highway it rained all day till at least 8:00PM. Everything was soaked. It was possibly my most miserable day. I bought plastic sacks to cover my stuff, which helped a little. I was riding in the pitch dark. Even after swearing in southern Illinois that I would never do that again after nearly being run over trying to make it to ****. I ate at a Wendy's upon entering Port St. Johns and blew through the whole town without stopping. I finally lumbered into the Charlie Lake Rotary RV Park. It was the dead of night. I was soaking wet, freezing cold, and thoroughly beat. They had a laundry where I dried everything - even things you would not normally expect in a cloths dryer. This is one night I slept very well. Come to think of it, I always sleep well on this trip. At home, I'm an insomniac. This is not a problem here. I took my time getting ready the next day. I remember just sitting at the picnic table listening to the radio. I don't think that after the day before, I was looking forward much to riding today. Well, ride I did. I met two Japanese cyclists who were riding from Anchorage to Tierra Del Fuego, Argentina, at the southernmost tip of South America. I had heard of people riding from Deadhorse, Alaska to Tierra Del Fuego - which is the longest you can ride from point A to point B on a road in the entire planet. I was going to try for at least the northernmost point, but had no desire at the time to hit the southern extreme. I only go about 50 a day these past two days but it is up and down hills all day. The Alaska Highway is marked with mileposts for it's entire length. At milepost 101 is a town called Wonowon - get it? It used to be called Blueberry but now goes by its milepost numbered name - Those Canadians! Today is the last day of July. It has been four months of riding for me on a trip I had originally planned to total four months. By rough calculations, I was still about 2000 miles away from Deadhorse and it was looking like I would not be able to make it past Fairbanks due to the weather and the impending closure of the Dalton Highway on September 1st. I was still planning to try. To go as far as I could possibly go. August: After Much Great Wilderness – Alaska! Here it is, another month. I begin it by taking the day off, here at Wonowon. This is the trashiest pay campground I've been in. There are some tree dudes staying here in travel trailers. I ate at the café here for lunch - all you can eat buffet. There was a man hitchhiking on the side of the road and one of the tree workers invited him up to join them for lunch. It started to get pretty cold late that afternoon and I started a campfire. By that evening it was colder still. With all the rain and wetness, the fire was a welcome companion and I spent most of the time playing with it. This is the first day I haven't ridden my bicycle since I was in Montana. I am thinking about the fact that I have no idea what I will do when this trip is over. This is the day I hit true mountains. Pink Mountain. Sikani Chief. The Alaska Highway is rough and steeply graded, and the narrow roads wind sharply up and down the ever-present mountains. I enjoyed another all-you-can-eat buffet at the Husky in Wonowon before leaving for what would be my last decent meal for a long time to come. I figure I should be in great shape by the time I get to Alaska after plowing through all these mountains, if it doesn't kill me first, which it won't because it is actually easier for me than the hills of Tennessee and Missouri. I have done much riding since that time and as a result, have accumulated huge leg muscles. I paid $2 for a loaf of bread at Pink Mountain - white bread. I was going to buy the other loaf - wheat bread, but there were a couple sliced taken out. I also paid $3.55 for a small package of cheese. These prices would seem cheap the further I ventured into the wilderness that is northern Canada. This is, of course, Canadian dollars, but expensive nonetheless. I am in desperate need of a new freewheel and chain wheel. I cannot even ride hard without them skipping - the teeth are worn down to the extreme, which I suppose is to be expected after more than 5000 miles of a heavy load taken over all these steep climbs. The #2 wheel I can no longer use at all. It was chilly today but, at least, it was sunny for a change. I made it to the Buckinghorse River Lodge which was just a few trailers and free camping for me. I found a grassy spot near an old dilapidated wall. They charged $3 for a shower though and breakfast was $10. It seems like I'm on a spending spree. Nothing is cheap this far north and away from civilization. I only started with $3,000 and, fortunately, conserved my money pretty well the first half of the trip. There are very few stores and when there are the prices are crazy. I paid $3 for a loaf of bread and $.75 a piece for bananas. I have been thinking of my original plans. Back in March and April of 1996 I wanted to go to Yellowknife, NWT or Inuvik. I still would like to do it but I can't go everywhere. Reading this Milepost book is bringing back memories of when this was all a pipe dream. Just looking at pictures and reading and imagining. It is hard to believe sometimes that I am actually doing it. It got below freezing last night. I woke up this morning in Prophet River and there was frost covering the grass. Several hours later it was hot. It rained most of the first part of the day and my feet stayed wet the whole day. In fact, it was one of the hottest days I can remember, but the wind was on my side and it seemed I went mostly downhill. I cruised down the steepest hill on my way into Ft. Nelson, and on my way up the chain gear system finally bit it. I had to push my bike up the hill the rest of the way into Ft. Nelson. After reaching Ft. Nelson at the top of the hill I was able to ride again carefully, as long as I didn't try to pedal too hard so the chain wouldn't skip. Unfortunately, I came to find the only bicycle shop in town was closed that day on account of it being British Columbia Day. But it was no big deal. The West End Campground was close to the bike shop so I stayed there for the night. It was hard to sleep that night. There were a bunch of Indians tripping on acid all night and it was loud. All the tent campers shared one large spot so it was interesting. This morning I woke up and took my bike to the shop to replace the chain wheels. The guy there - Brady, put on the new chain and freewheel but didn't have the right sized chain-crank so he took the one off his bike and used the smallest two wheels. I don't have the third, largest wheel now but I rarely use that one anyway. I did some grocery shopping while waiting for my bike and took another $300 out of the strapped-for-cash-machine. I had found a 5 gallon bucket on the side of the road the day before which I had planned on using to guard my food from the bears which, are supposed to be pretty thick up here. I cleaned it up some but it proved to be too cumbersome to carry so I decided to put that idea on hold for a while. I traveled less than 50 miles today to the Husky in the town of Steamboat. There was really nothing between Ft. Nelson and here. This last climb to Steamboat was a 10% graded monster. This other cyclist happened to be riding up at the same time as me and we were talking as we rode. I don't know how I managed to talk but it seemed to help pass the time and make the climb not seem as long. I think that is one of the reasons this trip is so tiring and grueling and mentally frustrating at times. I am traveling alone and I know it is always easier to work out with a partner. This spot at Steamboat is really just one of those RV camping spots but I at least have a picnic table. I woke up this morning and ate a can of corned beef hash. Today would be my steepest and most difficult day of my trip. I am headed up the Canadian Rockies and I only went about 22 miles today for my shortest trip to date. I'm at a place called Tetsa River Outfitters, which is a place where they take people on horseback expeditions into the mountains. Earlier in the day the Alaska Highway was under construction and, for about two or three miles there was no road. I had to ride in the back of a pilot truck for this stretch because traffic could only go in spurts following a pilot truck, so cyclists weren't allowed to ride. I rode with a Japanese cyclist for this stretch which was the only point in the entire trip in which I did not ride my bike, except for the ferry ride across the Ohio River from Kentucky to Illinois - and, of course, the ferry ride to Dauphin Island in Alabama. But that's ok. This torn up section of road was nothing but extremely slippery mud. To emphasize this point, the moment I got out of the truck and mounted my bike, the wheels immediately slid out from under me and I ate the turf, right in from of people in cars who immediately started laughing and throwing tomatoes at me and spitting and flinging hatchets but anyway, I eventually made it to Tetsa River Outfitters. It was a very hot day with many steep climbs, and construction for more than 10 miles, so I guess it was no great surprise I was tired and not feeling so great when I pulled into the Tetsa River Outfitters after only having ridden 22 miles for the day. After setting up it started to look like rain. I hadn't planned on taking the next day off but it rained all night and does not seem to be letting up. I am heading up the Canadian Rockies, and am most of the way up. I wake up this morning with it still raining. Last night two RVs of German tourists pulled up to camp next to me. This morning the two women woke me up with breakfast of a hotdog, a ham sandwich, and a large cup of coffee. I sat in the RV with one of the families and talked but they didn't know much English, but it was still better than my German, even though I took German for three years in High School. So much for language learning in a classroom without ever having to speak it. It rained all day and all night. The shower wasn't working because all the water running down the mountain keeps knocking the pipe out of place, the guy that works at the place says. It was a strange day because, except to take a shower, I never left my tent. I drank the large cup of coffee the German women gave me and I haven't been used to drinking much caffeine. I think I was hallucinating or generally just slipping into insanity. I slipped in and out of sleep many times. I started taking really deep breaths for a prolonged period of time to see what it would do. I started getting tingly all over and felt my head rush. I was hearing wild animals all night. The next day I was so glad to be leaving. I had some really cool dreams last night in my all day rain-in but I can't remember them. I met an Asian or Indian looking girl with real short hair and her friend. I talked for a while to her as I fixed a flat tire. They are heading to Alaska too. I had to take a shower at the owner's house because the pipe got knocked over again. Before I left I remembered I had to fill my water bottles up. The water was brown and full of dirt but I drank it all day anyway. Even the dirt tasted pretty good. The ride to Tetsa was the shortest of my trip but I would break that short-lived short record today. I was so tired and was climbing the highest summit on the Alaska Highway - Summit Lake. When I finally reached it I decided to go no further. A total of 16 miles for the day and I was already ready to camp. While I was there I ran into the two girls I met in Tetsa. I talked to the Asian girl some more and when she left I wished I had her picture or address or something. For some reason I still think about her even today. If I had taken her picture or got her address I probably wouldn't think of her at all. What a crazy day. I started on the top of Summit Lake - the highest point on the Alaska Highway - and cross the Rocky Mountains to the Western side. This was the most unbelievable scenic experience I have ever had. It was unbelievable to me, one who had never really seen mountains before, having lived a life of Florida. All the colors and textures, not only of the mountains, but the sky's and lakes too. I went through all the film in both my cameras and regretted it later on in the day when I was out of film and came upon things I had to have pictures of. The campground I had originally planned on camping at was closed so I headed on toward Muncho Lake. I was really regretting running out of film. I saw a moose and a large cat that must have been a bobcat or something. It was starting to become duskish and I still had some riding to do. I had already taken pictures of mountain sheep earlier in the day and now the wildlife is really coming out. I didn't see any bears but started singing anyway and then the derailleur wheel fell off for the second time today. The first time it fell all the way off and I had to walk all the way down the road to find it. There are obviously some parts of the derailleur mechanism missing but I know little about bike mechanics and nothing about detailers. I'm not even sure of what it is supposed to look like. I have a bike repair book with me but its hard to tell what parts are missing so I just put it together the best I can and head on. I ended up camping at a spot in the Muncho Lake region after having traveled 63 miles - nearly twice the distance I managed to ride in the previous three days put together. I woke up today and bought $20 worth of film and a $4 loaf of homemade bread which was, at least, the only fresh bread I've had since being in Canada. Today was pretty easy ridding but the gnats are really bad. Muncho Lake is this long narrow lake with its strange bluish-green colored water. It is really difficult to describe but apparently gets its color from having a large copper content. It is beautiful - especially from a distance when viewed from above on the mountainside. I only traveled about 40 miles to Liard Hot Springs. They were really nice. One side was really hot and no one was there. Most people were near the waterfall part which is where I started. It was nice and hot. It was too hot when I switched to the hotter part. I talked to a guy with a little girl. He had come 17 years earlier - before all the platforms were built. The springs are contained within a state park and boardwalks trail all throughout the park and surround the springs. There was a German lady there who seemed to really like the hot end but I felt like I had just run a marathon. I was trying to catch my breath and started feeling really dizzy after I got out. I'm in a dilemma because tomorrow the campgrounds are 30 and 90 miles away. Today is August 11th. I wake up at Trapper Ray's Campground, across the street from the Liard River Provincial Park. Last night some animal was snorting around my tent making noise and eating something. The people who set up next to me had someone with them who was snoring louder than the animal. Today I saw a bear cub run across the road ahead of me at Kilometer marker 815. The car that passed me had slowed to avoid something which, at first, seemed like a dog - woofing and stuff, but after it ran by the car I saw that it was a black bear cub. I didn't have time to get its picture. By the time I got my camera out it had made it back into the woods. I waited a while and nothing happened, so I proceeded with caution. I didn't want to see its mother. I made it to Whirlpool Canyon on the Liard River. It's a do-it-yourself free campground nestled at a sharp curve in the Liard River which cascades over some large rocks producing a waterfall rapids effect. There is a large amount of driftwood beached at the point where the river swerves. I've never seen so much firewood before. It looks like years of accumulated wood. Whole trees, washed up into one large pile. Not surprisingly, I had a good fire that night. That night was pretty busy. A bunch of people ended up hanging out at my fire talking. A man cycling from Deadhorse to Fairbanks had stopped because his little boy missed him. He was hitchhiking to Cheyenne, Wyoming to buy a truck to drive back to his home north of the twin cities in Minnesota. He was there with a guy who gave him a ride from Whitehorse, Yukon, and was himself driving to Vancouver. Some people from Wasilla, Alaska had joined us. The man worked in Barrow, Alaska a little and described it as dirty. His wife was half Eskimo. They were waiting for the meteor showers from Persius and I looked it up in my Star guide. The cyclists last name was Mayo and had cycled up to a town called Mayo for the novelty of it, I guess. Since he was done riding he gave me his protein powder. The following morning I got up and prepared to be on my way. There were no showers or water at Whirlpool canyon. I filtered some drinking water from the extremely silty Liard River. I think this finally did my water filter in. It got exceedingly difficult to pump and I was never able to really use in again after that. I was headed through an extremely bleak section of terrain. There was nothing around and I pulled into what was listed on the map as Fireside. It was really just a little gas station that charged RVs to park for the night. It was here I met the most obnoxious person I had the displeasure of meeting for the entire trip. I ask if they have showers - 'No!' 'Can I get some water?' - 'I'm busy - yer just gonna hafta wait!' She asked me if I was gonna buy something. I needed to buy some food so I said yes. In the café she started to fill my bottles then stopped to make sure I bought something. They didn't have bread or anything so I bought a muffin. The whole area is void of trees and I found out later that a big fire had swept through several years before and destroyed acres of forest. I made it to Contact Creek, Yukon Territory and am planning on taking a day off here at the Iron Creek Lodge. I was treated to breakfast from a couple camping there. They told me they live in Williams Lake, BC but I am guessing they probably live up on the shore somewhere near the lake. I met the lady as I was walking up to do laundry. We both arrived at the same time and I had put my cloths in the washer that said dollars only. The only other washer said quarters only and I asked her which one she preferred. She had no quarters and was ecstatic that I let her have the dollar machine - so much so that she put a dollar in my dryer while I was away getting dollars. The nest morning her and her husband took my to breakfast and gave me their address and that of another couple living in Vancouver. They really were just interested in my trip and asked many questions. The showers were fucked up. I put a dollar in, washed my hair, and it shut off after less than 2 minutes. I was wet and all soaped up and went to get another dollar only to find I had none. I had to rinse off in the sink and the floor had no drain. Apparently, the next people did the same thing. Now, some guy says a tree-planting farm is camping here and putting up 40 tents. Ravens are everywhere around here but they don't say 'Nevermore' or anything. They just scream and make really strange sounds. Ravens are cool. They sound almost human. I rested today. Here I am camped on the shore of a lake stocked with Rainbow Trout. I man here with his family goes out fishing with his two sons and catches some fish. He promises me their next trip out he'll get me a fish and he does. I think these fish are specially bred. He gives me a 'Rainbow' which I clean and cook over my campfire, built in a large metal fire pit which looks like a big wok. The fish meat itself is pink, just like salmon. I walk through the woods here as I do everyplace I stop. Especially on days off I have a tendency to really walk and get a good look around. The trees up north are not like anything I'm used to seeing in Florida. They are mostly spruce and stuff, with their tiny pinecones. The tree planters settle in with their large entourage. I get a chance to speak with several of them and become very interested in their work. They are employed by a company which is responsible for following the lumber companies around, planting tree saplings after the old trees have been cut down. They get paid per tree and can make several hundred dollars a day depending on how fast they are. They say in your first year you don't make much money but with practice after several seasons of backbreaking work, you can make some pretty good money in the three months of planting season. The road dipped back down into British Columbia today. Several times, in fact. Actually The Alaska Highway crosses and recrossed the Yukon Territory - British Columbia border 7 times. Today's journey took me through Watson Lake and its famous signpost forest. I had heard about and seen pictures of Watson Lake and its signpost forest but I never realized just how big it was. It's been a tradition here for years for tourists and passers by to leave a sign from their hometown - be it a street sign, city limit sign, or whatever. This forest of signs first sprouted back during WWII and the construction of the Alaska Highway by a homesick soldier who posted a sign bearing the name of his hometown and the mileage to it from where he now stood. Now there were hundreds, maybe thousands of signs from all over the world. I also went to a laser light planetarium type show. It is supposed to be the only one in North America and the presentation was about the northern lights. It rained most of the day. It was cold and wet that day and I dried my shoes and stuff at the Laundromat. I was headed toward a campground at Jct 37 but when I got there they wanted $11.70 to camp so I went up the road to The Northern Beaver Post and camped for free in the woods. This morning I had pancakes at the restaurant at Northern Beaver Post and showered for $3 at Jct37. There I met this hippie dude who couldn't decide whether to go home to Wisconsin and get a job or to go to California and get his pot plants. While in Whitehorse he smoked some killer buds and got real paranoid about going back to California to get his plants. He also owned an acre of land in Alaska and was facing a real dilemma about what to do. I would have loved to help but this was just something was going to have to decide on his own. For me my life had become incredibly simple these past several months. Although this trip could be grueling and downright painful and torturous at times, there was an incredible simplicity about having a single goal. The goal was set, and I wasn't deviating from it. I stopped at a day campground and took a nap on a picnic table. I must have narcolepsy or something. I can be tired for no apparent reason, and it doesn't always have anything to do with how much sleep I got. I'm kind of disappointed. I though that this trip would get me into great physical shape and I would be constantly bursting with energy. I expected to be alert, awake, and alive. I thought maybe I would reach the point where I had a clear head, clarity of though and was able to live in the present tense. I was expecting all kinds of magical things to happen which never happened. The one change I noticed was that this trip at least seemed to cure my insomnia. Never in my life have I been able to fall asleep so quickly. No lying awake tossing and turning for eons until I eventually drift off to sleep - no, now its like I lay back and its good night Eric. Lights out see ya! I got to a spot called Rancheria. These places like Ranceria are listed on the map like any city or town would be, but in actuality, I don't see evidence of the existence of anything but perhaps a gas station, store, campground, or other such stopping spot. Out here in the middle of nowhere, any sign of organization of any type gathering spot is worthy of a name on a map I guess. I passed by the lone edifice and evidence of Rancheria's existence and pulled off into the woods onto a trail which led to the Rancheria River. I cooked, ate, and stashed my food on/in an old abandoned camper topper and set up my tent some distance away. Seclusion. Only went 30 miles today. Nowhere near the Morley River Resort as I have planned. In fact, I'm back in British Columbia again. I'm listening to 'Name' by the Goo Goo Dolls on a far away, late at night, AM radio station as I sit in my tent in the woods on a cliff overlooking a wide section of the Swift River called Swan Lake. It is incredibly cool to be here. There are remnants of someone else having camped here with a makeshift fire pit and table. This would be a perfect spot to have a house or cabin with a storybook view of the lake from high up above. I didn't go far today partly because I didn't get up and going until about 2PM. It was freezing out when I awoke which always will make me stay in my sleeping bag just a little bit longer. It's a tough thing to do, getting out of a warm sleeping bag to face a frigid morning. I took my $3 shower at the Rancheria Hotel/Motel/RV Park. I managed to cross the Continental Divide which was an uneventful event. In fact, I don't think I even remember crossing it. The day started out chilly but now is not even cold - Weird! My day off here at Swan Lake was pretty cool. I just hung out here at this nice secluded spot. I went down to the lake and talked to some Indians who were camped out and preparing to hunt some Moose. For the most part I did absolutely nothing but hang around and make fires. I guess this is what it is all about. I had wanted to make it to Mukluk Annie's [talk about ad in Mileposts] for the salmon bake. I had been planning it for some time. I was running late but was still optimistic I might make it in time. It was supposed to close at 9PM and I got there at 8:30, but unfortunately they closed at 8PM because the tourist season was drawing to a close - and after hauling ass to get there in time! Oh Well! The worse thing this does is illustrate a bad sign. Tourist season is waning. Winter will be here soon, and I'm not even in Alaska yet. Getting to the Alaska border is not the end of my destination. There will still be almost 1000 miles to go to get to Deadhorse after crossing into Alaska. I am still racing against time and am not spank mankinly optimistic about getting past Fairbanks. Mukluk Annie's was not a total loss, however. They offered free camping for customers and, even though I missed Mukluk Annie's Salmon Bake, I had Mukluk Chucks Unique Yukon Breakfast the following morning. It was an all-you-can-eat breakfast and I ate with a couple from Portland, Oregon who had given me firewood and pitch the evening before. They talked about their son who was a Computer Engineering student and was getting all kinds of job offers while still in school. I think I want to be a computer Engineer when this trip is over. This may sound a bit repetitive, but today started out raining, and was cloudy and cold all day. The air is thick with gnats. I made it to a spot past Jake's Corner - an old gravel pit at km1394. There are plenty of these old gravel pits at various spots along the Alaska Highway. They need these for the construction and constant maintenance of the highway. And so campers have a hard flat surface to sleep on. It felt pretty cool when I would roll of my air mattress, all the little rocks. Until the early 90's the Alaska Highway was still not completely paved. Even now, the road conditions pretty much suck a good deal of the time. There was no way to put the tent stakes into the ground though. It was like trying to push nails through concrete. I ended up finding some big rocks to tie the springs to. I've been eating a lot a candy lately. I learned that candy is a good source of sugar, and you just can't get enough sugar when you're doing cross-country type activities - or maybe that's water, I forget. But its also cool getting candy bars here in Canada because they have different types and brands than they do in the U.S. You can't get M and M's or Hershey's or $100,000 bars, but they have all their own brands. In fact, all the name brands of food I'm used to seeing in the grocery store don't exist here. And everything is labeled in both English and French. Everywhere I went I bought candy. And The Pioneer Campground store was no exception. I made it here to this campground which is just as you are entering Whitehorse, Yukon Territory. Not only is Whitehorse the capital and largest city, but also it is practically the only city in Yukon. About ***% of the total population of the Yukon lives here, and it is still a small city. I'm planning on taking a couple days off to explore Whitehorse. I woke up at the campground here in Whitehorse. Actually it is really before Whitehorse and it was still a few miles to get into town. I set out walking toward town ready for a day of exploring but didn't get very far before someone stopped and offered me a ride. I spent most of the day walking around town. I decided to see a movie at the local theater. I stopped at a bar called Bonanza Inn and drank beer for the first time since hanging out with those guys in Iowa. After talking to the people next to be a bit my bike trip naturally came up and I wound up having a beer bought for me, then another and I don't recall how many exactly. Either way I ended up missing the first showing of the movie. I was talking the whole night to the bartender Niki who was playing John Cougar's 'American Fool' CD. This was one of the first albums I ever bought as a child and was one of my favorites as it was Niki's so we played it all night and had a good time before I stumbled out of the bar toward the movie theater. I was a movie called 'Even Horizon' and I can't say I remember much about if it was good or bad. This night's adventure had only just begun. After the movie was over I found myself in Whitehorse late at night with quite a long way to walk to get home. Somehow I ended up crossing the Yukon River into a completely different neighborhood and walking quite a long distance before realizing I was on the wrong side of the river. I came upon a large dam/reservoir. The water was rushing through with such force the water crashed and exploded many feet in the air and became a fine mist which was getting me wet even though I was probably 40-50 feet away from the bank of the river. It was awesome and I was reminded of how city of Whitehorse had originally gotten its name. The Yukon River was suddenly narrowed by gorges in the town's vicinity causing the water to crash and heave up in white water rapids that resembled the galloping of white horses. I wondered if the dam was constructed to maintain the integrity of the town's namesake by preserving the white horses. Of course, I was pretty drunk at the time. Well here I was on the wrong side of the river and the only bridge I knew of was the one I had mistakenly crossed. The dam was surrounded by 10-12 feet tall chain link fences but that was the only way through so up I climbed, crossing the dam with its water pounding so loud I couldn't hear my hand in front of my face. Across the dam was another fence to climb. The hardest part about climbing a fence is getting over the top with the points sticking up and over the top I go hoping not to get my clothes caught on the way down. Now I'm on the side with all the dirt. Somehow I am still nowhere near any thing I recognize and, after climbing another smaller though no less annoying chain-link fence and which finally managed to cut the shit out of me and my drunken hand, I staggered off into the ever darkening realm of dirt, leaving the dam and seemingly any trace of civilization behind. I was not sure of where I was or where I was headed. I knew I was going away from the Yukon River which was the roundabout direction of the Alaska Highway which was where my campground existed. I knew which direction to wander in if I could make it to this road. The problem was finding it in the first place. I was obviously in some sort of construction/destruction area because it was nothing but soft dirt and trees. I had no light so basically had to stumble along to the starlight in the gap where there were no trees. This strategy seemed to work as I was finally reunited with the Alaska Highway. I still had to get to my tent. I still had several miles to walk though I didn't know it at the time since I had no clue at what point my little detour had deposited me. One thing I can be sure of was that I was still pretty buzzed. I sang Oasis's 'Cannonball' at the top of my lungs the entire trip along the highway, all the way to the entrance of the campground. I don't know how much of my concert may have subconsciously been for the potential bear audience which may have been in the area. Like people up here so much enjoy, the man who gave my the ride into town had regaled be with his own personal bear tale of a kid on a bicycle being attacked and eaten on this very highway several years earlier. Today I took the bus into Whitehorse. I'm tired and hung over and my left leg is killing me, presumably from my fence jumping activities. I ate Chicken Chow Mien at the Canton Chinese Restaurant and I believe it is the best Chinese food I've ever had. The lady here was real nice and I was talking to her about my trip. Its been raining on and off all day and is getting pretty cold. I called it an early day making it back to the campground and calling home. I talked to my sister as it was here 29th birthday. I became attached to the strange charm of Whitehorse. Anywhere else on the continent and its just another small town. Here in the Yukon though, it's the only considerable concentration of people for more than 500 miles in any direction. It had its modern buildings and typical town-type things like stores, and bars, and movie theaters. Then it had things like the three-story log cabin, the Yukon River and the quality of having absolutely nothing bordering it on just about every side. Like an Island in the woods. I left this island reluctantly. It is so hard to get moving again after taking two days off. It seems like an eternity since I've ridden a bike and the biggest challenge seems to be just getting the hell out of town. I had to patch my bike computer wire together after severing it somewhere. Well, I am out of town which around here means being out of and away from everything. I'm back to feeling depressed and lethargic, and the fact that it is cold and cloudy all day doesn't help. I can't wait to get to Alaska. With only around 250 miles to go to get to the Alaska border I can feel it getting closer, but not close enough. I manage to ride a meager 48 miles today, just south of a place called Champagne, near the Mendenhall River. About halfway from Whitehorse to where I am now I hit my 6000th mile. There was really no landmark type thing to say, 'I hit 6000 miles here', which I guess is kind of fitting. There is something wrong with my water filter. I am thinking it must be clogged but I know nothing about water filters. All I know is I cannot get water to go through it except for a small trickle, and with great difficulty. I get water at a place by the Mendenhall River Bridge. I make it to Pine Lake Yukon government campground. Here I met April and Lucy, two girls traveling to Alaska to go hiking in the mountains. They were coming from San Francisco where they lived. They stayed at Liard River Campground the night before and they said the springs and trails had been closed. We talked about the bear attack. I got up this morning and went to April and Lucy's tent. April was gone but Lucy was there and made me an apple pancake. I was on my way. I stopped at a rec center at Haines Junction to take a shower. I talked to a man there about the bear attacks and he was explaining about how all the towns in the area had fenced in their garbage dumps. Apparently the bears had become dependant on the food from the dumps for survival. The attack at Liard River was the most people ever attacked by a single bear on record. The bears were starving. Their main source of food had suddenly been cut off and they were desperate to eat. Here I was witnessing first hand a principle that I had long been aware of but not given much thought to the implications. Don't feed the animals. Don't feed the bears. I ride along Kluane Lake for the last part of the day. I see mountain sheep high upon a mountain through a telescope and a can barely make out the little white dots with my eye when it's naked. The Kluane National Park is just to the south of the highway and you can see snow on the tops of the mountains. I watched a slide presentation about the park and it is pretty amazing. The interior of the park is all glaciers and [say more]. I start wondering how April and Lucy are dong on their hike. As much as I seem to want this trip to end I know I will be sad when it is over. I made it to the Bayshore. Which is a restaurant right on Kluane Lake which allows camping. I find a spot on the Lakeshore and make a fire and eat and stare at the incredible view of the mountains with their glaciers and there in the biting cold dusk as the sun sets over the mountains I feel really good even though I've had an exhausting day. I realize this is why I came on this trip. I need to send my postcards. I will be out of Canada in probably two days and I want them to have a Canadian postmark. I ride today as far as the Kluane Wilderness Village which costs $8 to camp and an extra $2 for showers which is typical. All throughout Canada and even in Montana they have coin-operated showers. I didn't find a place to turn off sooner for free cuz I was too preoccupied by being pissed off at my piece of shit cyclo-computer which is fucking up again. I talked to an older lady at a rest stop who has lived in the Alaskan wilderness for the past eight years. I think she was originally from New Jersey. Now she lives 30 miles from a mountain that was called Denali for maybe thousands of years and has been called Mt. McKinley for less than 100 which doesn't make the people who have been calling it Denali too happy. I can't say I blame them - especially when you consider President Mc Kinley never even set foot in Alaska during his lifetime. This lady was now living in a cabin in the Denali National Park with no water or electricity. She gave me grapefruit juice and an orange. It seemed a bit odd - a guy living in Florida receiving citrus from a lady living in Alaska but at this point in the trip I'm willing to accept just about anything. My derailleur wheel came loose again so I put the screw on the other side so the direction the wheel spun would tighten the screw instead twisting it out. It seems to be working so far. I was having a difficult time finding a spot to camp. I went to this place called Bear Flats and no one was around so I ended up going down an abandoned trail behind the place that led way out into the woods. I went as far down the trail as I could before a log blocked my bike from going any further. I left my bike there and set my tent up far off into the brush. There were caribou tracks in the mud. I left my food bags open and left them on the bike so that maybe they wouldn't get torn off. No animal was heard throughout the night and nothing was touched. I ended up spending over $20 at the White River Lodge on a shower, breakfast, and junk food. They people who ran the place and cooked were pretty cool and they spoke the harshest, nastiest sounding version of French I've ever heard. I just hope they weren't speaking much French while they were cooking my food. I only went about 35 miles today to Beaver Creek. It is only about 20 miles to Alaska now but I'll save it for tomorrow so I can make it to Deadman Lake and then Tok the next day so I can catch a Salmon Bake. I wrote a song in my head called Horsehead Nebulon but I can't remember it now. Something about 'my baby's a Horsehead Nebulon ' or something and it sounds sort of like a country song. There was still daylight at 10-11 o'clock tonight here at the campground in Beaver Creek. I am feeling pretty skippy because I know I'll be in Alaska tomorrow. It is hard to believe at this point how far I've come. This morning I got up and left and met this red haired girl hitch hiking on the highway. I talked to her and she gave me three cinnamon rolls someone had given her. I made it the little 20-mile stretch to the Alaska border this Friday afternoon, August 29th. It couldn't be a nicer day. Bright and sunny and nothing to complain about. I stop for a while at the borders to take pictures and stuff. The world has been trimmed along the US - Canadian border leaving a 20?????? Foot wide trench of treeless space as far as you could see in either direction. It was like being on gigantic map (actual size). I didn't have much time to be too happy-skippy about making it to Alaska though. It seems like as soon as I crossed the border the road inclined steeply and it took forever to get to the official border crossing station. At the station they asked the usual questions: do you have any guns or weapons, over $10,000 in cash. I started laughing at the last question. I never answered. He let me through. I made it to my destination of Deadman Lake Campground about 30 miles into Alaska. It's a free campground on a lake with a dock. Upon approaching the campground I met a Dutch guy hitch hiking with a large backpack. He was sitting on the side of the highway which was not seeing any traffic. I invited him to eat when I set up camp. A couple hours later he showed up while I was cooking canned corn, canned beans, and pepperoni samiches and we ate. He told me his travel tales and of this trip he made up in [talk about it] I woke up the next morning to find out I went to bed an hour after Aurora Borealis lit up the sky. Alvin told about this and I swear to myself never to go to bed early anymore. I am starting to think this Aurora Borealis thing is all a myth like Santa Claus that supposedly only occurs right after going to sleep. It is just too magical and mystical to be true. I will believe it is real only when I see it with my own eyes. At this point I hold out as much hope of that happening as seeing Santa Claus. Saturday, August 30th, 1997. I wake up today for the first time in Alaska. Alvin took off hitch hiking again to parts unknown. I am thinking of his plan. No goals. No time limits. No hurrying to make it somewhere before it snows. It is how I spend my time when I take a day off like today. I have nothing to do or accomplish today. I walk around the woods and think. I met a couple here at the lake. The Bakers. We talked about jobs on the Prudhoe Bay oil fields. He worked on them several years ago. He told of extremely high pay and extremely low temperatures. The type of cloths you wear. Bunny boots. The way the camps are set up and run. The incredibly unlimited amount of food to eat. The polar bear that crashed through the glass and grabbed a guy. They fed me ravioli, bread, and raspberry tea, and when we were through he threw me $15 in cash. A five-dollar bill and a ten-dollar bill. It was the first American money I had seen in over six weeks. I just stood and stared at it. It looked so odd, these dark green bills. It is funny how you can be around something your whole life and after a few short weeks away from it becomes strange and foreign looking. I had become accustomed to the multi-colored Canadian money and now my own money was foreign. Later this night I pull out my little radio to see if I can pick up any stations. I have been so far away from everything that finding a station has been difficult and I had given up. I cruise up and down the dial until I picked something up. The news. They are breaking news that someone had just died. The station is fading in and out. They refer to the person who died as 'The Princess'. I listen some more. They say that Diana is dead. Today is the last day of August. I really want to make it to the Salmon bake in Tok. I missed the one at Mukluk Annie's. Now that I'm in Alaska I've already missed an Aurora. I don't want to miss the Salmon. I did make it in time with plenty to spare. It was worth it. I had the King Salmon and all-you-can-eat-buffet. It was the best food I've had the entire trip and most definitely beats canned corn and beans. I made a nice campfire and sat up for hours waiting for the northern lights. They never came. September: The End of the Alaska Highway. It is now September 1st. I know now that the Dalton Highway will not close to the public today (as had previously been the case), which had been a concern of mine throughout the trip. The government may not close it down but I am still concerned Mother Nature might. I am taking the day off here at the Gateway Salmon Bake. The food is great. I ordered the King Salmon and can 't believe food can taste this good. With the all-you-can-eat buffet I eat more food than I normally eat in two days. I built a fire that night and waited for the Northern Lights, which never came. I took the next day off to rest, but mainly I just want to have another fish buffet. I explore the town of Tok for a while including the visitor center where I watched a film about Brown Bears and their behavior. They had many large animals stuffed including a large Brown Bear, a Musk Ox, a Walrus, and a Caribou. I picked up another package today at the Post Office and mailed several more rolls of film back to be developed later. I realize when I get back to Florida I will have more than 30 rolls of film to develop. I had the Halibut tonight at the Salmon bake which wasn't nearly as good as the King Salmon. On the second of September I made it to Dot Lake. Not much here. I bought a new rope just like the old one and received a new bike cover in the mail so I'm back to normal. I sit and stare at the Big Dipper - still trying to catch a glimpse of those elusive Northern Lights. I think about the Bakers and contemplate getting a job at the oil rigs when I reach Prudhoe Bay. September 3rd - I broke four spokes today and only had three to replace them so I'm still one spoke short on my back tire. I stop for the night at Bergstad's campground in Delta Junction. It was a real nice day today. No clouds, and it wasn't that cold. I took a hot shower shortly afterwards since it had been a while since I had one. This campground, like many others, was just some lady's house and a very large front yard. She told me about how sometimes Moose will come right up to the house. Minutes after talking to her on the way back to my tent I looked up to see a Moose standing right in front of me. I went to get my camera and tried not to startle it. It was looking right at me and started to head the other way but I got a couple pictures. The following morning I got up to take another shower and overheard a conversation between two Moose hunters. They were trying to pretend to each other that they only take showers about every six months but since it only cost a couple quarters they might as well, just for something to do. I made it to a State Recreation Area on the Salcha River since the lodge was RV only. I made a fire and listened to a local station, and a song called "Yukon Women". I stopped in the town of North Pole which has a very busy post office around Christmas time. The lady at the visitor center called the post office to get information about the Dalton Highway for me. I called Mom and Dad and they had just sent my other jacket the day before so it probably won't make it to Fairbanks in time. I made it to Fairbanks, Alaska on September 5th. I stayed at some campground in the center of town but it was a pay campground with no showers so the next day I took off for the Norwood Campground across from Alaskaland. Alaskaland is like a large amusement park type place for tourists. It was mainly closed except for a few bars, including The Palace, which had a live musical play called 'Into the Bush' I thought it was great and wanted to see it again on my way back down but it ended that Saturday. I hung around Fairbanks for another day to explore the town. I left my bike helmet at the bike shop and it was closed Sunday. I did some grocery shopping and bike repair stuff to prepare myself for the 500 mile journey ahead, including the Dalton Highway. I didn't want to take any chances since I was ultimately leaving civilization behind at this point. I spent around $110 at the bike shop and left Monday morning for the Dalton. Heading north from Fairbanks is kind of like blasting off for the Moon. Fairbanks is the northern most actual city in the Western Hemisphere and leaving it to head north is a venture into the unknown. There is a truck stop called Coldfoot a little more than halfway between Fairbanks and the Arctic Ocean but other than that there is nothing but stunted trees for the first 300 miles and open tundra past the Brooks Range. Miles of wilderness with nothing but the Alaska pipeline to assure me that humans have been here before. That, and the road itself, but that's another story. The 500 miles of road from Alaska to Deadhorse is little more than a trail of dirt and rocks spread across the open wilderness. Something for the trucks to drive on as they haul their supplies for the workers on the Prudhoe oil fields and the other inhabitants of Deadhorse. It was not graded like a regular highway would have been. There is not much leveling of the land to make it flatter. It pretty much follows the natural lay of the land and consequently has some pretty steep spots with 12% grades and crazy twists and turns. My first day out of Fairbanks and I travel less than 25 miles and camp out by a river near the Chatanika bridge. The next day I don't get much further, about 34 miles. The Elliot highway is still paved at this point and I meet a man who is sitting in a chair by the road with a bunch of objects scattered around him. I guess he is a typical Alaska eccentric. Someone who just wants to get away from it all and be his odd self with no one around to bother him. He invited me to his cabin and showed me a magazine article featuring him and his colorful array of junk which fills both his yard and cabin. He told me he used to work at the Prudhoe Bay oil fields and was a truck driver. Shortly after leaving his abode the pavement ran out and I was now on a gravel road. I ended up crashing in an old gravel pit. Today is the day I finally make it to the sacred Dalton Highway. It is a stark contrast to any road I have ever been on. You can tell right off your leaving it all behind as start heading down this road. This is the last road I will ever have to turn on for my little trip and in that respect it's a great milestone, but the trip is far from over at this point and I would come to realize later, it was just the beginning of an entirely unique adventure. I still had more than 400 miles to go which in a 7000 mile plus trip does not seem like much but it would be more difficult than any 1000 stretch I had made. This road was made of rocks and dirt. Not just little tiny rocks either. There were a good deal of softball size and larger stones making up this road. It seemed to go straight up and straight down at times. It would go straight up and straight down while at the same time going what seemed like 180 degree turns. I was happy just to make it to Lost Creek Culvert at mile 5.6 which would be the first pipeline access road. The Dalton Highway: The End of the Road The bumper sticker is still pinned to the bulletin board in my room: I survived the Dalton Highway Prudhoe Bay, Alaska The word 'Highway' seems to be a bit of an exaggeration in describing the trail of dirt and rock and mud that stretches some 414 miles from the tiny town of Livengood, Alaska and to the Prudhoe Bay oil fields on the Arctic Ocean. It's been nearly five years since I completed a 7100-mile bicycle trip from Largo, Florida to Prudhoe Bay, Alaska and can clearly remember buying the sticker at the little store in the makeshift community of Deadhorse, Alaska. That sticker expressed accurately my feelings at that moment. After two weeks of pushing and pedaling a fully loaded bicycle - through snow and wind and ice-cold mud - up steep narrow banks while at times dodging roaring semi trucks- I had finally completed a journey that, at times, I though I could not possibly finish. Part of the difficulty was the time of year I found myself up here in the northern most reaches of Alaska. It was September - the sixth month of a Florida to Alaska bicycle trip I had planned to complete in four-months. I had misjudged the time it would take and was now in a race against the approaching winter. If not for a little known at the time weather phenominon called El Nino this final Dalton Highway stretch of my trip would not even have been possible. The Dalton Highway was the last stretch of a very long journey. After having ridden a bicycle some 6700 miles across the North American continent another 414 miles should be a piece of cake - right? Well, actually I knew better - and as I prepared to make that final trek from Fairbanks I anxiously anticipated what the infamous Dalton Highway would be like. I had heard and real a lot about the old 'haul road' as the locals call it, but nothing could prepare me for the actual journey itself. The 74-mile stretch from Fairbanks to Livingood - the point where the Dalton Highway begins was uneventful. The Elliot Highway is paved for the most part. The weather was nice - in fact, the temperature had been in the 80's the day before. As I pedaled up the Elliot on a nice cool, sunny day enjoying the sight of endless yellow trees and a bright blue sky I couldn't help but think that after more than five months in the elements I could handle anything. I was confident I was in great shape, and my legs were never stronger. I knew this would be the toughest portion of my trip but I had just been through more than five months of the toughest training and preparation. Certainly I should be able to handle this final stretch with no problems - or so I though. The Dalton highway was named for James Dalton, an engineer who contributed to the exploration of oil in the frozen tundra of Alaska's North Slope - the northernmost chunk of land in the US. The North Slope was frozen nine months out of the year, and was composed primarily of perm a-frost. The highway was built in 1974 during the construction of the Alaska pipeline as a haul road to move people and supplies back and forth to Prudhoe Bay on the Arctic Ocean. Right away I could tell I was 'leaving it all behind'. I suddenly found myself on the most secluded highway of the entire Western Hemisphere and I could sense the stark isolation I would soon be subjecting myself to. For more than a year now I had been eyeballing that line on the Alaska map - the thin wavering line that stretched from the point marked Fairbanks up to the Arctic Ocean. All this time to ponder what it would be like had my imagination running wild. I had finally reached the road that had become in my mind an almost mystically unrealistic place. When I made that right turn at Livingood, I had reached the mythical Dalton Highway, and I was aware that this would be the last road of my journey. Still, there was no sigh of relief at this point and, in fact, I had the feeling of this being just the beginning of an entirely different adventure, for I still had this one last road to travel. And what a long hard road it would be. It's a stark contrast to any road I've ever been on in my life. It was not so much a road as it was a humongous trail of dirt, mud, and rocks. And not just little rocks either - there was a good deal of softball size stones and, unbelievably, some even larger. If anything, the Dalton highway is a slave to the terrain - the natural lay of the land. Not much altering was done to the surface it was not graded near as thoroughly as a regular highway would have been and consequently has some pretty steep spots with 12% grades and crazy twists and turns at spots. Often the road seemed to go straight up and straight down. And it seemed to go straight up and straight down while at the same time going what seemed like 180 degree turns - around mountains, around hills. No sir, the Dalton Highway was not constructed with the typical passenger vehicle in mind. In fact, public travel was not even allowed at first - it was originally restricted to the first 55 miles of highway, which only allowed private vehicles to go as far as the Yukon River bridge. It is not a path for the faint of heart, and most definitely not for flimsy vehicles. If you are planning to enter your car in a car show in the near future, I would recommend keeping it as far away from the Dalton Highway as possible. This road eats cars for breakfast. To call this road rough is a major understatement. Rocks, ruts, dust, soft shoulders, and large, speeding trucks make this road not only challenging, but actually quite dangerous if your not constantly alert. A good practice is to pull off to the side when a semi-truck is approaching - and on a bicycle it is absolutely necessary. This is one road that will never be paved - some sections of the road in the far northern region have plastic foam insulation under them to prevent the permafrost from thawing as passing vehicles heat the surface. The annual freezing and melting of the ground causes what they call 'frost heaves' on paved roads - a phenomenon discovered the hard way after having paved certain sections of the Alaska Highway only to be destroyed as the pavement contracts and expands causing wrinkles to form in the asphalt. My first day cycling the Dalton I was happy just to make it to the first pipeline access road at mile marker 5.6. or Lost Creek Culvert. This would be the first of many so called access roads, with their trademark 'goalposts' adorning the entrance. I'm camped out in the middle of a wild blueberry patch which I, of course, had to sample. They are tangier than store bought blueberries but I still eat plenty. I guess the novelty of foraging for my own food is hard to resist - I ate plenty of wild cranberries, and I hate cranberries. If ever there was a road built strictly for utilitarian reason this one is it, if not for oil having been discovered at Prudhoe Bay this road would not even have existed - Its about the last place on Earth anybody would dream of building a road. The Dalton Highway was built for one reason and one reason only - oil. More specifically, it was constructed as a means of transporting supplies to and from the Prudhoe Bay oil fields Oh yes, there is oil somewhere up there in that frozen wasteland, and this is not something you'll likely be able to forget if you happen to be traveling this region of Alaska - there is one little structure that for 800 miles is difficult to ignore. Yes, the Alaska pipeline stretches out across the full length of the state - 800 miles - from Valdez on the south coast through the entire stretch of the Dalton. It was built between 1974 and 1976, is 48 inches in diameter, and more than half of this humongous metal snake is above ground. There are 10 pump stations along the Dalton Highway to keep the endless flow of crude oil moving toward the awaiting oil ships in Prince William Sound. For all practical purposes, if you see another human up here they are likely to fall into one of three categories - Tourists, hunters, and workers. Of the people who work up here they are also likely to fall into one of three professions. The people up here either work at the oilfields, for the pipeline security forces, or for the highway maintenance crew that deal with the road itself. I met a man named Dean, one of the highway workers, while he was operating a backhoe on a section of the highway. Just on of the many sections of a road that is in constant need of maintenance. Dean also ran a little truck stop restaurant stand at the 5-mile camp (so named for being 5 miles north of the Yukon River) during the brief summer period when everything within 1000 miles isn't frozen solid. He let me use a trailer that sat on the now vacant property. After having spent night after night in a tent the trailer was like staying in a luxury suite in a posh hotel. The weather was starting to get cold at this point and it seemed that the further north I traveled the foggier it became. It was an odd pleasure that there was a heater in the trailer. The Bureau of Land Management manages much of the land along the highway north of the Yukon River. Dean drove me to his house the next day so I could take a shower. Actually it was a state owned house and it was not anyone's permanent residence. The workers in this secluded northern half of Alaska mainly live in either Fairbanks or Anchorage. They fly back and forth to their jobs on the Dalton in alternating one or two week shifts. They work for a week or two, then fly home and have a week of two off. Dean worked every other week. There aren't really many permanent residents up here except the Eskimos who live in small communities scattered throughout the region. I've been told on several occasions that the weather has been unseasonably warm. 'Usually by this time of the year it's 20 below with two feet of snow on the ground' is a typical statement I'll hear. Everyone seems perplexed as to why winter hasn't started yet. It probably gets into the 50's during the day and the 20's or 30's at night and there has been no snow yet, and here it is mid-September in northern Alaska. It wouldn't be until later, long after returning to Florida, that I would learn of a newly discovered phenomenon called 'El Nino' which caused strange shifts in weather patterns. Not many people were aware of it at the time. This has been a really fortunate quirk for my trip. If 1997 hadn't been an El Nino year I would not have been able to travel past Fairbanks. I stayed for two days and nights in Deans trailer and it was difficult to have to leave it behind. I filled my many water bottles up in an Artesian well on the property and I was on my way again. The altitude rises above the tree line as a plateau rises abruptly at a spot just south of the Arctic Circle. It's a strange landscape on an old primitive hunting ground. Strange rock formations called tors jut out from the ground. Apparently the frozen ground causes underground rocks to be squeezed up above the surface, some of which are around 40 feet high. One tor in particular, named 'Finger Rock' looks like a giant finger pointing up to the sky. I've been told bush pilots have been using it for years as a navigation tool - Mother Nature's friendly assistance, pointing them in the right direction. As far as my direction was concerned, I had only to keep heading north, up the only road available. Next stop - the Arctic Circle. The speedometer hit 43.6 m.p.h. as I descended the plateau, leaving Finger Rock and it's family of tors behind. It was the fastest speed of the trip and it couldn't have happened at a more stimulating spot. Everything shook violently as I hurled rapidly down rocky dusty incline. I couldn't have slowed down if I wanted to. My brakes had long ago worn down to near uselessness - especially at this speed. All I could do was look ahead and keep it as steady as possible - I was at the mercy of the road, and it felt great. I made it to the Arctic Circle. There's a rest stop display designating where the imaginary circle is. There's nothing there to see, of course, the Arctic Circle is just a latitude distinction to describe the southernmost point in which the sun doesn't rise some point in the winter and doesn't set at some point in the summer. For me it is another milestone. And to the handfuls of tourists who make it this far from civilization, something to tell people about. A group of bow-hunters stopped by and took my picture against the backdrop of the [densely packed spruce trees] - and a wooden sign to let you know the [where your'e at]. One of the guys made a comment to me that made the assumption I was heading back south. When I told them I was heading north they looked at each other and started laughing - obviously they hadn't heard of El Nino either. In the year 1900, gold prospectors traveling up the Koyukuk River in search of precious metal and battling against the oncoming winter reached a point in which they felt they could go no further and headed back - they got 'cold feet' as is said. Now there exists a town at that spot called, appropriately enough - Coldfoot. Calling it a town greatly exaggerates its size, but not its importance. It's really not much more than a truck stop with a little restaurant and one of those pre-fabricated hotels, but it's the only hint of civilization along the Dalton highway and the last place to get food or gas for another 240 miles. I was counting on a least finding a store so I could buy some much needed food supplies for the longest stretch of uninhabited wilderness (I've since learned of a small store in the 'town' of Wiseman, which is a few miles off the highway nearby). I was able to buy bread, cheese and peanut butter from the restaurant. They pulled out four frozen loaves of what would turn out to be the stalest bread I've ever seen. It must have been years old. The crust turned to powder when it thawed out. In addition to the restaurant/gas station/post office, Coldfoot had a 'motel'. What they call motels up here are really just converted workers camp housing trailers. I wasn't going to spend the outrageously inflated prices to stay in one of the little cells but I did buy a shower which I took in one of the closet sized rooms. I also took advantage of the heated lobby type area to relax in the warm confines and read magazines and the many news articles on their bulletin board. Coldfoot really is a truck stop and the vast majority of people who utilize the services here are truckers, so it stands to reason that most of the news revolves around trucking and extreme cold and the results of the two forces meet. In particular, the news concerns the perilous plight of the truckers who make the 500 mile trip each way from Fairbanks to Deadhorse in the most extreme winter conditions on possibly the worst road anywhere in the United States - And the climax of this trip is, no doubt, The Brooks Range. The climax of the Brooks Range is the Atigun Pass. On article was featured on the bulletin board there in the lobby of the so called Motel about the dangers of the Atigun Pass and how many trucks have fallen off. A fallen semi was pictured lying on its side at the bottom of the pass. The narrow, unstable, winding, frozen pass - crudely chiseled out of the Brooks Range highlights the single most dangerous truck route anywhere in the states. The road is so steep in places the trucks must get a fast moving head start in order to gain the momentum needed to climb the peaks in the road. This is often done in winding sections of iced-over road. Trucks are constantly seen stopped on the side where the driver must meticulously place chains around the 18 wheels of his truck. Consequently they are paid very well for the job. In 1997 they were making $2,000 or more for a load which some would attempt in one day but most drivers usually stopped in Coldfoot for the night. When I woke up the next day after camping in front of the hotel. I didn't want to continue. I sat there and though about whether I should turn around and start hitchhiking to Fairbanks. I don't know if the spirits of the would be gold miners of 100 years ago were trying to tell me something or not but I was getting a case of the 'cold feet' myself. I didn't feel like I could continue and at one point had even made up my mind to turn back. It was after 1:00 PM and I was sitting there in Coldfoot trying to motivate myself to do something. For a long time I just sat there trying to thing of a reason I shouldn't just turn around right there. It was 240 miles to Deadhorse and I was aware it would be the toughest part of the trip. The Brooks Range was up ahead and it was getting colder by the day. I would be above the tree line with no wood to burn and no more places to stop for anything. There would be nothing for those 240 miles, possibly including water. I had a strange feeling about making that right turn and heading north. For the first time on my trip I was actually dreading the though of going any further. Ultimately, something inside me decided for me that it would be a shame to make it all this way and not to finish. A sudden reflex propelled me from my seat and, without thinking, I hopped on my bike and headed north. I turned down an access road at a point the maps call Dietrich camp. It's a typical scenario. When I look for a place to camp the access roads make for a perfect choice. For one thing, they usually have the 'goal-post' type structures over the entrance to insure no truck too tall to clear the pipeline will be able to pass through and damage it. These make really convenient structures to hang my food out of the reach of hungry animals. The trees this far north are so stunted due to the permanently frozen ground they fail to grow much bigger than Christmas trees. I had just pulled in and leaned my bike against the goal post when I noticed an animal up ahead on the dirt trail just past the pipeline - a bear. It looked small from a distance so I thought it was a cub. I snapped a quick picture and it wandered into the woods. Hoping to see it again for a better picture I stood there with my camera and waited. There I stood cursing it's departure and ruining my photo op when it finally emerged from the bush much closer. I see that it's not a cub but rather a fairly large Grizzly Bear and I can feel the adrenaline in my body pumping. Still about 300 feet away it starts zig-zagging toward me and I get a couple pictures. At this point I am no longer anxious to be taking pictures. The rational part of me starts to take over and begin to wish it would start heading in another direction. The bear continues its zig-zag path toward me and I start walking in the opposite direction - toward the highway. Suddenly, I realize that I haven't tied my food up yet and that the scent is probably what is attracting the bear. My food is still on my bike and the bear is downwind. By now I have made it to the highway but there is really nowhere for me to go out here. I picked up two big rocks and started banging them together. The rocks break but the bear hears the noise. It momentarily sits up on its haunches - like a really big gerbil - then runs off into the woods. I realize that the threat of a bear attack is slim and that even in a face to face encounter the bear is likely not to want anything to do with you. I've read enough about it to know that up in these remote regions where bears and humans don't frequently meet, that a bear is likely to avoid us as we are of them. Still, I can't help but recall that rush of adrenaline I felt seeing a real live bear out there in its natural habitat. No cages , no fences, no man-made structures of any kind that I could use to my advantage. If a bear wanted to get me there is nothing I could do about it. I had no weapons but a small canister of pepper spray. For all the stories I've heard about bear encounters - good and bad - I am suddenly struck with the stark reality of the situation. Even after hearing of the bears killing those people at the camp the day after I left didn't hit home with the clarity that seeing one from a distance. I was glad my bear encounter came at the tail end of the trip. I figured I only had possibly four days left and it would just be my luck to make it all this way only to get killed by a bear. I had always wanted to see a bear and now I had. I would at this point be perfectly satisfied to finish the trip without seeing another one. All this excitement and adventure had me psyched, but I'd soon realize that this had all been just a warm-up. I had no idea at the time but the day after the bear encounter was to be the most challenging and exhausting day of the whole trip. Today I would cross the Atigun Pass of the Brooks Range. The Brooks Range is a string of mountains that stretch east to west across the top of Alaska dividing the North Slope from the rest of the state. I reached the foot of the mountains late in the afternoon. I first had to ascend a winding ramp to reach the Chandalar Shelf, a plateau, which gave me a nice little rest - sort of. It took about and hour and a half to push my bike up this incline to get to it. As I rode across the shelf I figured I'd done the hard part but as I circles left around a bend I was greeted with the sight of the ACTUAL Atigun Pass. Up to this point I had only seen snow on mountaintops - now I was IN the mountaintops. And there, in front of my face, was a massive snowy white pair of mountains, and there, on the side of one of the mountains I could make out a diagonal line running along the mountain. This was the road upon which I needed to ride, and there on that road was what looked like a little miniature toy semi-trailer truck making its way down the mountain. Even so it didn't look like it was that long from where I stood. It only seemed high. The high point of the pass I could see with my own eyes so it couldn't b that far. It was probably about a mile. I started pushing my bike up the mountain at about 8:00. About 3 hours later, under the pitch black dead of night after an extreme temperature drop that made the road into a giant mud Popsicle, I finally reached the top. It was now around 11:00 PM. Three miles per hour is pretty slow - but three hours per mile .? By this time it had been dark for some time. The road, my bike, and everything else were frozen. My bike was caked with frozen mud and when I tried to descend all the gears were frozen and I couldn't shift or brake. I had only my bike headlight to aid my sight and as I descended the ice-covered mountain mud road I realized that I would not be able to stop my bike if I started rolling too fast. I had my feet flat on the ground and hands on what was left of the brakes and just followed the reflection the light made on the edge of the road. During this time a truck came by. I grinded to a stop and got all the way off the road. I was trying to find somewhere to camp for the night but couldn't see anything. When the road became sort of horizontal again I started shining my light to the side of the road to find a spot. I located an access road, buried my food under some large rocks, and set up my tent. I had never been so cold in my life. My regular gloves had gotten wet the night before when it rained so I had been wearing fingertipless sports gloves and I could no longer feel my fingers. Some of them I couldn't even bend and I had a hard time setting up my tent. When I finally got it all together there was still one finger that I couldn't feel and seemed like it was frozen almost solid. I started sucking on it and that seemed to work. I had no trouble getting to sleep that night. The next day I was glad just to be making some progress as I made my way up the road. I filled up my water bottles at pump station #4, ate some stale peanut butter sandwiches, and continued my journey when I was promptly greeted by some more steep hills. I had stopped to rest when a bow-hunter named Mike came by and offered me a beer and a place to stash my food for the night. We agreed to meet up in a little bit and I rode off to find a campsite. The sky had been covered with clouds all day long and ended just above the horizon. I had not seen the sun all day but now that it was setting it crept below the clouds as it started to dip below the horizon and it created the strangest lighting effect I have ever seen. I'm not sure I can accurately describe it but it was like being on some strange planet. The oddest shade of red filled not only the sky, but it seemed to saturate the atmosphere. Everything had this eerie red glow to it. The grass of the tundra took on the red hue combining with the greenish brown and appeared to light up like a dull neon light. I could only just stand there in awe, not quite knowing what to think or feel, then just as quickly the sun finished its descent below the horizon and it was over - weird! The following day I would encounter an interesting little piece of Dalton Highway style engineering called the 'Ice Cut' - a steep hunk of rock where as little chiseling as possible was done to create a narrow path up and over its monstrous peak. This section was so steep that even pushing my bike presented a great difficulty. It took what seemed like an hour to traverse the length of which probably totaled less than 250 feet. There I was on top of the Ice Cut looking down upon the vastness as it sunk deeper and deeper toward the horizon. Its always a thrill to be standing on top of some peak that took forever to climb knowing the descent will take only minutes or seconds. It's a well-deserved reward to enjoy the rapid descent down some mountain road where I and my bike are propelled by gravity to reach speeds in excess of 40 mph. Upon completing this climb I met one of the many Alyska security guards passing by in their by now familiar red trucks. Out on this vast lonely stretch of never-ending highway where the miles outnumber the vehicles by more than 10 to 1, it is common that two approaching vehicles stop so that the occupants may talk. Merrily he sat and sang the praises of a life of working in such a desolate spot on the planet. Up and down the Dalton Highway he travels; day after day the same route and the same scene and he gave no impression he was tired of it. I got the impression that he relished the solitude of working out here. he mentioned the strange phenomena of light from the night before and how it was like being on some strange planet - the same thoughts that had gone through my mind. I couldn't help but think back to that moment as I stood there, alone in the middle of a sea of tundra, experiencing the most ethereal moment of my life and that, somewhere else at that same moment some one else experienced the same thing. Mother nature alone is capable of forming these connections between her subjects. I met Mike again at an access road and we drank a few beers. He comes up here every September from Michigan for his birthday to hunt Caribou. Its illegal to hunt Caribou with guns so they have to use a bow and arrow - like Ted Nugent. I woke up the next morning and my tent was covered with snow and the entire landscape is no longer a dull green-brown but now luminates with an illustrious white as far as the eye can see in every direction. This is the first time I have ever seen such a scene as this is the first time I've ever seen snow outside of Florida. It makes for interesting riding. I ride in the tracks the trucks have made which have now turned to mud - more mud, ice cold mud! I've been aware for some time that I'm racing against the arrival of winter. The sudden sight of this snow-covered tundra instills me with a new sense of urgency. I am extremely impatient to reach Deadhorse now. I awoke this morning with a coughing, runny-nose cold and the sight of snow is certainly contributing to quick-freeze of my new mental state. I try to push myself to go further. I'm really hungry and tired and now starting to get sick and now that it's starting to snow I realize my luck is running out with the weather. There's no way I'm going to fall short after making it this far. I ride on until dark. I'm now in the true frozen tundra of the North Slope. It's completely flat as it slopes down toward the Arctic Ocean. There is absolutely nothing to look at this point. The sky is completely filled with a white fog so dense I can barely see much further than a few feet ahead. I camped out in front of pump station #2 that night. It would be my last night on the road. When I woke up on Sunday, September 21st I knew that this would be my last day of riding. I was less than 60 miles from Deadhorse. After six months on the road I was finally down to my last day. A man named Joe Pruit stopped by as I was packing up. He was a public service officer for the town of Deadhorse - the only police officer in the town. I met Mike again and he offered me a ride back to Fairbanks after I made it to town. I pulled into Deadhorse before it got dark. A misty white chill filled the air and I didn't quite know what to do now that I had made it. It gave me a strange feeling pulling into Deadhorse. There's not much around but Pre-fabricated buildings. It looks like a makeshift town of trailers and metal warehouses. It's a hard-working town that exists only to supply the oilfields and to house and feed the people who work on them. The two weeks that this shift of residents inhabit is a rough one. Everyone is too tired after a long day of work and this gives the impression of frozen arctic ghost town. I started to look around for a place to camp and Joe Pruit pulled up. I asked him if there was anywhere I could take a shower and he led me to the Arctic Slope Motel, which was also where his office was located. The Arctic Slope is not so much a motel as it is living quarters for the many workers flown in to work the oilfields and other necessary duties required to keep things operating in the makeshift community of Deadhorse. A room for a regular tourist would cost about $100. I guess my situation makes me special - I stay for free. They are actually pretty luxurious and the food can't be beat. They have a chef that makes all the food and the workers eat all they want free of charge. I had talked to another adventure cyclist I met at a campground in British Columbia and he was telling me about these arctic workers residences and the tons of gourmet food and I was only half paying attention. I guess what he was saying didn't seem real and Deadhorse was so far ahead in my future at that point I couldn't envision actually being there. For a trip that takes over 7000 miles and six months to complete it almost impossible to function with Alaska as the goal. Its is more like the next state - the next town - or even just the top of that next hill - the only goal at the moment - my only destination. Now that I was here it seemed to good to be true. The heat, the hot shower, all this food, The man that ran the place let me sleep on the couch in the TV room and I ate like I'd never eaten before. I sat on a nice comfortable couch and watched TV all night feeling as if I'd been plucked from some terrible frozen battle-field and transported to some euphoric ethereal plane. I hung out there a couple nights waiting for Mike to come back and get me for the return trip to Fairbanks. I did not mind the wait. After being out in the elements all this time freezing, and with little to eat, it was near surrealistic euphoria to be in the comfort of this heated luxury with an unlimited banquet of all-you-can-eat fine food and hot showers to boot. The timing couldn't have been better either. The first night I sucumed to a full-blown cold that I can't imagine having to recover from by freezing in my tent eating canned spagettios. Six months it has taken me to bike the 7109 miles from Largo, Florida to Deadhorse, Alaska. And like any decent adventure story where you would expect the climax and resolution to be at the end, my Dalton Highway trek certainly insured that this would be the case for me as this was one wild 414 mile stretch of road I will never forget.