July 27, Day 11  Wednesday       I awake on the floor of a tiny cabin. Wet motorcycle clothing and assorted leather goods lay drooped over any surface that will hold something enabling them to dry. The only heat is from a potbelly stove in the corner. Dan, Greg, Bob, and I arise around eight. There are only three beds in the cramped tiny cabin but I’m actually happy to sleep on the floor. I would have even slept on the ground outside the cabin but they insisted there was enough room. Just to have a roof over my head was nice.     The cabin is adjacent from the main house in a grove of pine trees. The main house is a large hand built two-story log home. From the outside, it doesn’t look like those made to order log houses you can buy and put together yourself. This thing really looks like the guy bought the land, cut down a bunch of trees and slapped them together.     The four of us clamor over each other to get situated and head into the house for breakfast. A long table made from planks sits in the middle of the dining room. The benches on each side of the table are made from trees split down the middle. I think to myself, this place is for real. It is noticeably unfinished on the inside too.     Doesn’t matter to me though. I am engrossed in conversation with a Canadian couple with a ten-year-old son. They’re from Edmonton and stayed upstairs for the night. Once they find out I am a Marine, they are intensely curious as to what the American military is like. I am just as interested in what the Canadian military is like. They seem to laugh at this. When I ask why, Anne, the wife asks me who the great neighbor of Canada is.

"America," I reply.     "Of course," she says, "and this is why we don’t need a very large military. No one will ever mess with us because of who our neighbor is." That makes sense to me I suppose. It seems to be a rather easy answer. "We’re friends now but did you know the United States once invaded Canada?" Seeing my surprise, she senses my curiosity. I know I am walking into a bit of historic stuff as I try to remember my U.S. History class way back in high school.     "That was the War of 1812," I reply not knowing much more than that or if that is the right answer but acting confident. It has to be, we didn’t invade during the Revolutionary War, did we? We even had military history classes in Boot Camp. That must be it.     "The U.S. invaded Canada three times in 1812 and all of them failed. The British got the Creek Indians to fight for them and in return planned to invade the United States. Two years later in 1814, the Creek Indians invaded in a 3-part invasion. They pushed into the U.S. but were defeated. Do you know who led the U.S. victory in that battle?" Anne asked looking directly at me. Everyone else is engrossed in his or her own conversations. No way out of this one. I don’t know the answer.     "Andrew Jackson. Thee Andrew Jackson," Anne added for emphasis looking at me across the table. Somebody hand me some more pancakes. Where’s the bacon?     "So how did the war end?" I ask thinking that obviously the U.S. must have won because we’re all friends now having this nice conversation.     "Battle of New Orleans," she came back not even missing a beat. "The British were creamed. 700 killed and 1400 wounded while the U.S. losses were only 8 and 13 respectively. The war was over for the British and a treaty was signed ending the war."     While dining on more pancakes and scrambled eggs, we continue to cover a variety of topics ranging all over the place. The Canadian government- I am curious as to how it works or how it is different than our democracy. Anne’s husband, Michael, seems to know a lot about Canada in general. Anne seems real good at the history stuff.     "There’s 30 million people here, yet we’re the second largest country in the world," he says. This I understand, tons of space up here and not many people.     "Montreal, 1967. Wasn’t there some sort of celebration thing going on back then?" I ask. I think my mom once told me something about this.     "That was the 100th Anniversary of Canada." Michael says spearing a steaming hash brown and taking a gulp of orange juice. The bacon smells great. I’ve got to get me some more of that.     "But there must have been a lot of people running around before that. The US declared its independence in 1776. What about Canadians?" I am not sure if I am just plain curious or making conversation. Come to think of it, I really don’t know that much about Canada at all.     "France and Britain went back and forth in the 16 and 1700’s for Canada. But then they started fighting and eventually Britain won, in the mid-1700’s I think it was," Michael says looking at Anne.     "Treaty of Paris," Anne added. This lady should be on a game show. "Britain made Canada independent in 1867, they didn’t want to repeat losing another colony like they did with the United States. Thus the World’s Fair celebrating 100 years of independence took place in Montreal. But we are all British subjects. You have a president, we have our queen." I never thought of that.     Clinton, now that subject gets everyone involved. The Harley guys are split on whether he’s a good president. Michael and Anne are very interested in our views since he isn’t their president. I am indifferent; my dad was one who always stayed out of the political debates. I must get it from him.     Then the subject swings back to Canada, Anne adds something about Quebec wanting to become their own country. They actually want to be separated from Canada, their own country, that sort of thing. This gets me interested. Something like this is happening in California lately where there is talk of making Northern and Southern California into two separate states.     "The French in Quebec want to be their own country," Michael pipes in. "A couple years ago, there was a vote and it was barely defeated to not allow Quebec to form there own country. There is going to be another vote in about a year from now."     "We hope it doesn’t happen," says Anne. "What if Wisconsin wanted to be it’s own country?" Anne asks looking at me. I really don’t have an answer for that. Never really thought about it.     Harleys, health care, OJ Simpson, our trips and on and on the conversation goes. Our host, Peter, says that a great majority of Alaska isn’t owned or inhabited by anyone. There are 54 million acres managed by the Bureau of Land Management. I can attest to that. I add that coming up the Cassiar Highway, the towns have populations of like ‘12’.     Then on to the Canadian taxes- 14% sales tax, they call it GST, which stands for government sales tax (and we think 7.75% is bad). Michael and Anne say it can add up to a lot of money, especially when buying big items. But they add that a lot more things are free in Canada than in the States, stuff like schooling and health care.     After breakfast, Peter is off to feed his dogs. I accompany him out to the backyard as a tiger striped cat follows at our heels. He raises sled dogs and there are probably 20 or so dogs behind the house. He says the Alaskan Sled Dog isn’t an exact breed like a German Shepherd or Collie. Instead they are combinations of several, but nevertheless bred for smarts and stamina. As we approach the pens, there are dogs everywhere barking, sheesh, relax, is it me or are they always like this. Peter says laughing they just want to get to know me.     "This is my prize," he says walking up to a dog that is all white with bright eyes. "This is Muki. She’s my lead dog." He says petting her. Muki acts as though she hasn’t seen him in years, licking his face in heaps of sloppy licks. "Have you ever heard of the Iditarod Dog Race?" I haven’t. "It’s a 1200 mile race from Wasilla to Nome all the way across Alaska. The other year, we had 84 entries. These dogs are trained to run that race." I have trouble picturing this. It just sounds really cold. "The race is run over several days over a planned route across Alaska. There are quite a few checkpoints to rest the dogs and lots of bush pilots volunteer their time to support the race."     "Why do you race?" I ask.     "It’s incredible!" Peter replies, his eyes lighting up. "We don’t use maps or GPS systems or radios, nothing like that. The dogs and I race on instinct and a remembrance of the trail. Much of it is even done at night. I don’t think I can quite describe the exact reason. Why do you ride motorcycles?"     "It’s my life, I love the ride, the feel, the acceleration, the wind in my face, the brotherhood, the freedom..."     "Well, there you go, that’s why. Yeah, the conditions can be really wild, the other year it was 30 below or so at one point, hard to tell when you’re out there, the wind was just blowin’. The dogs and I barely made it thorough the Yukon River section. There is one point where we run up the Yukon River for some distance. The dogs and I fell through the ice and we raced to make a fire once we reached the opposite shore. See, the river melts and water flows over the ice, then refreezes. However, this ice can be very unstable and under the snow, it’s really hard to tell. Once we made it to the other side, we had minutes to get a fire going or we would have froze to death out there." His eyes are wild. He sounds like me talking about motorcycles and riding long distances. "Obviously we made it," he added chuckling through his thick brown beard, "but that was indeed a wild time out there. You know how this whole thing got started?"     "No," I reply but I bet you’re going to tell me. It’s just him and I out behind the house. Everyone else is out in front by the motorcycles chatting.     "1925. There was a diphtheria outbreak in Nome and no one could reach the town since it was the middle of winter. They called in to Anchorage and pleaded for help. It was decided to send out the dog sled teams. Kind of like the Pony Express, just a lot colder," he grinned to himself not looking at me to see if I caught the joke. "The dog teams made it in one week. The lead dog that brought in the last team was named Balto. There’s a statue of him in New York City’s Central Park, you know."     "Really?" I say. Actually I didn’t know that and I have been to Central Park. I must have missed the statue. It’s a big park.

"In fact, Balto was so famous, when he died, they stuff ‘em and he’s in Cleveland in the Natural History Museum there. There’s been a race every year since then. There’s a lot of people round here in Tok who have sled dogs too." The dogs seem to settle down as we walk back to the others past the tall pine trees that surround the house. It smells very fresh around here. Everybody is packing up and taking pictures together. Michael and Anne are packing up their Toyota Landcruiser and their son is already sitting in the back playing a Gameboy. I swear to myself to never have one child. They are heading up to Fairbanks from here.

My Harley buddies are heading for Anchorage and hope to head over to Mt. McKinley and be apart of the lucky ten percent. I am heading toward the Arctic Circle.     Outside of Tok, I turn north onto the Top of the World Highway, also known as the Taylor Highway. The road has the highest latitude of any east-west road in North America. The first 5 miles are a bit surprising in that the road is built over sand dunes. More wonderment. When I think of Alaska, I just don’t think of sand dunes. As quickly as they present themselves, they’re gone, lost in the endless miles of the road.     The road is cut across the tops of mountain ridges for hundreds of miles and thus the name. On either side, one can see as far as the eye can see. Overnight, the storms blew eastward. Above in the blue sky, billows of white puffy clouds accompany me on my journey.     The road begins to rise in elevation up to Mount Fairplay. I reach the summit and the sight is mind boggling. "Wow", is the only word that can possibly describe it. I have never seen such a beautiful sight. I can see for at least 30 miles across tree covered valleys and lazy mountain ridges that are layered into the horizon. I ride slowly only looking forward to make sure I am still on the road which has turned to gravel. My head is craned to the left. It is a mesmerizing scene. I can’t even go on anymore. I pull over and pop out the kickstand. Shutting the bike off and it is only silence that I hear.

View from the Top of the World Highway

Absolute pure silence. A slight breeze wafts across this quiet land tickling blades of brilliant green grass. Real silence, the kind one can only dream about, not a sound. I move my foot on the gravel and the sound seems to shatter this perfect world. I walk off the road and hike up a gentle grassy slope and stop just plopping down on the ground. What a perfect world. The last undiscovered untouched paradise. Probably a little cold in winter though.

View in the other direction

I fill out 9 different postcards. A Goldwing rides by. We wave. A Paris Dakar goes by with a tire on the back. We wave. I write and write and don’t want to leave. Do I have to go back to my life. Oh well, the road only goes in one direction.     Gravel sucks.      They call it hardpack, but it’s glorified gravel. This is a very heavy bike, with Metzeler ML2 Marathon’s for tires. They’re high mileage touring tires designed for many, many miles. Sometimes I make it up to 45, then the bike gets skittish on the gravel and it’s down to 15 miles per hour. Then 30 for awhile. The bike is sliding all over the place but I never get close to dumping it or losing the front wheel. But it is very slow going. Ever driven 200 miles at 30 miles per hour. You don’t get there very fast. At some corners, and sometimes without any warning, ripples in the gravel scare the bejeezers out of me. The bike shudders and everything rattles. I glide over the ripples and motor on.    The view of the Forty Mile River in the distance makes up for the riding conditions. I have never seen terrain like this. I start to get so far north, trees are infrequent in most places. Just grassy gentle rolling mountainous terrain. The road has no guard rails and at times the drop would be hundreds of feet down sloping hills. It’s not the Rockies. It’s like western Kansas amplified by a hundred.

Still mining for gold

Upon entering the Forty Mile Mining District, they are still gold mining here. Huge trams are pouring tons of rock into shifters that seek even a few nuggets upon tons of rock. I reach a sign made from old boards along the road with the words cut into the wood.     It reads: The Taylor Highway leads through some of the earliest and richest gold mining country in Alaska to the city of Eagle on the Yukon River. Gold was discovered by Franklin in 1886 and the old town of Forty-Mile was located on the Yukon River at the mouth of the Forty Mile River. A riverboat trip from Eagle will take you to this historic town. The Chicken Creek area was also a rich gold mining area at about the same time. Wade creek was another rich area and the remains of an old dredge still stand along the road. The old horse and wagon trail used by the early day miners and freighters is still visible in many places and the present highway often parallels this trail. The largest herd of caribou in Alaska crosses the Taylor Highway each fall on it’s annual migration. This is truly a sportsman’s paradise with an abundance of fish and game.     I stop in the town of Chicken, population 37, to mail the postcards. I pull up to the Chicken Mercantile Emporium. I just like the sound of the word ‘Emporium’ in a town of 37 people. The Chicken Mercantile Emporium is next to the Chicken Liquor Store, which is next to the Chicken Saloon, which is next to the Chicken Café. That’s pretty much about it.     Chicken?      What’s that all about I think as I pump the gas. As I pay, I have to ask. The guy says that the word chicken is a common name in these parts of ptarmigan. I don’t know what that word means either, but he continues anyway.     When the gold miners came to this area, they wanted to name their camp ptarmigan but couldn’t spell it. In turn, they settled on Chicken instead and the name stuck. A ptarmigan is a subalpine bird that turns white in the winter and thus the word chicken. It doesn’t really fly and it’s main defense is that it freezes when a predator nears. At the last possible second, it beats its wings, flies into the air a short distance away from the danger. In the summer, its colors change to blend in with the summer environment making it difficult to detect.     He adds that author Ann Purdy wrote the book Tisha about the area. She wrote about her younger days as a schoolteacher in the Alaskan Bush. He offers me an autographed copy but I say that’s okay.     I ask about the gold mining that I saw a couple miles back. He says that even before the 1887-98 Klondike Gold Rush, miners were pulling gold out of the streams and rivers. The first major placer strike was in 1896, three years before the rush that sent thousands to the Yukon in search of gold. And even before that, the Lost Chicken Hill Mine was operating in 1895, he says with a proud smile. He encourages me to check out an abandoned dredge a few miles up the road.

Jack Wade Gold Mining Dredge

I walk out as a tiny single engine white plane lands on the airstrip a short distance away. I have to wonder about these bush planes. I see them everywhere and there have been airstrips all along the way. It’s probably easier than having a car. It would seem the only people who have cars around here are the tourists.  A few miles later, there it is. The Jack Wade No. 1 dredge. It’s huge, bigger than a house. It dates back to 1934 and was originally placed at the mouth of the nearby Butte Creek. The boom is still hanging there where they left it. Brown steel cables dangle from it, just rusting away.  The dredge was one of the original bucket line dredges used in the area. It probably made somebody rich, now it just sits here, existing for people like me to gape at it.

I pass up the turnoff north to Eagle. It’s another gold mining community 65 miles away that had its heyday at the turn of the century. There are probably some great views I bet from the road but it’s a dead-end. Not enough incentive.     I finally make it to the Canadian border and another cute young lady asks a couple stupid questions. Are you a mass murderer? Are you nice to your mother? Who won the 1952 World Series? Who is Margaret Thatcher’s first cousin? What is the square root of 361? That sort of thing.     The border house is perched at the crest of a hill. Looking out, the view is incredible. I have to stop and just pause for the view. A traveler behind me sees the same thing. He even snaps a picture of the bike and I against the backdrop of this.  Near that is a sign that says Nuclear Weapons Free Zone. Another odd sight. Does that mean I won’t bump into any missile silos around here or that if there’s a nuclear war, all I need to do is come on up to the Yukon to avoid the carnage as Russia and us go head to head? Meanwhile the missiles streak overhead. How’s that for irony. As if you could escape nuclear weapons.

U.S. Border House

Canada's Yukon Territory - Nuclear Free

Once back in Canada, the road improves dramatically. I actually ride along at a steady 55 miles per hour at times on the hard pack. Must be that nifty Canadian dirt, much higher quality than the American stuff. I even pass by a rather dilapidated looking sod-roofed cabin, the McCormick Transportation Company.  It used to be a stopping place for the sourdoughs that traveled this route. I can’t really imagine making this journey back then. I am up above the tree line and I bet the weather must get wild in winter.

Tooling along daydreaming, dum de dum, then, whamo! I hit a pothole and get launched into the air. So much for Canadian praises. The left hardbag breaks loose and goes hurtling down the road like a bowling ball. Now there’s a sight. Amazingly, it doesn’t break open but it bears the scratches of being chucked down a gravel road. Evidently, the accident yesterday may have jarred loose the brackets that hold the hardbag on. I pull out a hammer from the other hardbag and pound the bracket back in place. What every world traveler needs, the ubiquitous hammer. It works and I slide the bag back in place.

Yours Truly on the Top of the World Highway

Then I notice that the lock is missing. I look down to see if it fell out, nope, no lock. Now understand I am on a two-lane gravel road in the middle of nowhere. The lock is a little silver piece of metal a half-inch thick and an inch long. The hardbag just tumbled a hundred feet down that same road covered in little rocks, all about a half-inch thick and an inch long as I was going 50 miles per hour. What are the odds of finding the lock? Did I mention that without the lock, the hardbag is shut permanently? I would probably have to break it open. That hammer might get some more use. Non-stop adventure. This is the stuff they never teach you in Travel 101.   I start searching military style. Back then we would walk the parade deck, arm length apart, all staring intently at the ground. The rule was- if it was bigger than your fingernail and didn’t grow or have eyes, you picked it up. Slow steps, my head down, I walk back up the road. I don’t see anything. I can’t find anything. This is impossible. It’s probably lost forever in lock heaven.     I keep looking. 5 minutes go by. Then, miraculously, there it is, lying right in the middle of the road waiting for me to find it. Taking it back to the bike, I try to figure out how this thing works. It snaps right back in and I open the hard bag with the key. Works just like new. If only all of life were this easy.

170 Miles of Gravel Road

After 170 miles of gravel and 5 hours later, I reach an overlook of Dawson City. It’s near the government campground and the view of the city is impressive. I check the hardbag to make sure it is tight. At the bottom of the hill is a ferry, the George Black, to get across the Yukon River to the town.     After the ferry ride, I ride into Dawson City, Yukon. I am 200 miles from the Arctic Circle. On June 21st, there is 21 hours of daylight and a big yearly celebration at the top of the Dome. The sun can be seen barely falling beneath the peaks of the Ogilvie Mountains to the north. I ride through the town and spot the Dawson City Museum. It looks like a good place to rest for a bit and stretch my legs. It’s housed in a beautiful turn of the century structure that used to be the Old Territorial Administration Building     In late 1896, George Carmack made a claim along the nearby Rabbit Creek. In less than three weeks, the entire 120 miles of water front along the creek was littered with claims every 500 feet. Within months, $30 million dollars in gold was pulled from the area creeks worth over a billion dollars in today’s money. Prospectors returning to San Francisco and the Seattle brought back gold worth $24,000 to $140,000 apiece in 1896 dollars (which must have must have been like a zillion dollars back then!)     When news reached southward of the huge strikes on the Klondike and it’s many tributaries, headlines of "A Ton of Gold!" appeared. In the depressed times of 1896, hordes of gold seekers headed this way. Some came up the Golden Stairway over the Chilkoot Pass that I drove near a few days ago. Others even made the trip via ship all the way around Alaska and into the port of St. Michael. From there, it was an upriver journey by steamer to Dawson City.     When the first stampede of men occurred in 1897- over 100,000 strong, there wasn’t even a town here when they arrived. The flood of men came so fast as the winter approached, there weren’t any supplies or much of anything to sustain that many people. Steamers set out from St. Michael to reach Dawson City with freight and supplies to survive the winter. Although most made it, three didn’t. The steamers were frozen in the winter ice 200 miles away. They remained here until the spring when the river thawed.     In the spring of 1897, the gold rush enabled the town of Dawson City to spring up from a wilderness. Dawson City was originally designed as a town for 30,000 people. Every single board, nail, hammer, everything had to come in by steamer to build the town. In three years flat, it was the largest city north of San Francisco and west of Winnipeg. Ironically, within a few years and when the Nome gold strike became news at the turn of century, the town emptied leaving a fraction of the people who originally settled there. A ghost town was left.     Many of the owners of the buildings erected kept their ownership yet did nothing to maintain the condition of the structures as the years wore on. The town fell into disrepair, and many of the original buildings were left for decades untouched. Up until the 1960’s, the town deteriorated until someone must have realized the historical significance of this place in Canadian and American history.     Since then the place has really been fixed up and restored to look the way it did in 1897. There is a movie at the museum too, Dawson City at -40º. It sound’s interesting but I skip it. All the cold temperatures that have accompanied each town are all staggering to me. Some of the stuff I read about on the pipeline said windchills could get down to -141º in the northern pumping stations. The coldest I can remember is -65º below zero wind-chill growing up in Wisconsin and that was intensely cold.     A block or so away is Jack London’s cabin, which is built from half of the original logs from his cabin in the bush. The cabin has been transplanted to here as a local attraction. I wonder about the other logs and the sign says they are in Jack London Square in San Francisco. But of course. Who’s buried in Grant’s tomb? I will have to visit that someday. I was never much of a Jack London fan but this trip has sparked my interest. It keeps reminding me of the movie, White Fang.     I drive through the rest of the restored late 1880’s gold rush town. Some of the streets are still dirt even with wood sidewalks. After pulling into the first gas station I see, a BMW Paris Dakar rides in, with the tire bungeed on the back. He’s a biker; I’m a biker. We start talking. Then I realize he’s the guy from last night in Tok.     "You were in Tok last night," I say in the middle of our conversation. He answers cautiously as if how would I know that if we’ve never met. I mention the couple from last night pointing him out. Then when I was taking a rest earlier in the day, I recognize him as motoring by me then too. Can’t miss that tire. This is actually our third time meeting.     Mark Williams is from Ithaca, New York. We talk briefly and I tell him of the distance I have covered in the last few days. He jokes about my hurried approach to traveling. I ask him when he’s got to be back.     "September," he nonchalantly replies, "I do this every year, 3 months straight." Wow. I’m instantly intrigued. I bet this guy has some stories. We don’t talk a whole lot but he’s still sort of laughing at me for having a "Californian mentality" about touring as far as I can and trying to see so many things in such a short amount of time.     He removes his helmet and he has long matted shoulder length hair. Uncombed and wild like from wearing the helmet day after day. I don’t ask his age but I figure he’s in his early thirties. He just seems young although he has a couple gray hairs mixed in there.     We part ways and I scream out of Dawson City doing a level 80 miles per hour down the straights, which roll on for miles. Just outside the town are tailings for a good five miles. Tons of it, just piles of rock left over from all the mining. Amazing! The road is perfectly straight, perfectly level cutting right through the forests. No towns, no side roads, nothing. Just a road and forest. The Yukon Territory.     25 miles out of Dawson City, I roll to a stop by the road that leads to Inuvik. The Dempster Highway is 461 miles of gravel to the top of the world. There is no gas for 232 miles until you reach Eagle Plains, the ‘Oasis in the Wilderness’, which is little more than a few buildings on a plateau. I have read about this road in articles in motorcycle magazines and other publications over the years. It’s coated with calcium chloride and everything I have read warns to wash the stuff off your bike at the first chance you get. If you don’t, it will still be there several years later. Just north of Eagle Plains is the Arctic Circle.     I am tempted to head for Inuvik anyway. It’s the largest town north of the Arctic Circle. 3400 people living in a place where there are no more roads. The town which sounds as though it were some sort of Eskimo settlement, there for several hundred years, is actually an oil town built in the 1950’s to support the oil exploration of the Mackenzie River Delta. The oil money left long ago to offshore sites but many relics of the oil days still exist in the unchanging tundra.     It’s so far north, in May, they have 57 days of sunlight. Inuvik means ‘place of man’ and was built entirely on permafrost. All the buildings are on stilts to prevent the permafrost underneath from melting. Even the water and sewage pipes are above ground and heated in the winter. At Inuvik, the road ends here and I would have to charter a plane just to get to the Inuit settlement of Tuktoyatuk 90 miles to the north. In the winter, the rivers freeze over and are used as roads. The 920 people still hunt beluga whales for food in the waters of the Arctic Ocean. I decide not to and head south.     20 miles later near Stone Boat Swamp I’m hitting a few gravel patches here and there. I see them coming a long way off, slow up, skit across and then head on down the highway. Then I pop over a hill and there is a patch of gravel in the middle of a turn, I slam on the brakes on good pavement. I’m doing 75 and the front brake grabs. The tires drop to 30 miles per hour in a second or two. I pull on the brakes so hard, I almost lock up both front and rear tires. I skit across, the bike wiggling and shimming, then it just dies.     I pull in the clutch, downshift, then pop the clutch to restart the bike. Nothing. The motor turns over but nothing happens. I pull over on a very narrow strip of gravel shoulder surrounded by nothing but trees and squirrels. Now I am stumped.     Hitting the starter button, the motor turns over but doesn’t do anything else. Did I blow a fuse? I pull off the side engine cowling and just look at the motor. Gasoline is running down the side of the engine. I open up the gas cover and realize I left my gas cap at the last gas station. I hit the brakes so hard, gas spilled out the opening and formed a pool of gas, which in turn drained onto the carburetors or something. The tank is under the seat on the Venture, but the opening is in the normal place in front of the seat.     I still have no idea what’s happened. I have electrical power, the motor turns over fine, but it just doesn’t fire. I’m stumped. Just then, after I stand there for a few minutes, Mark comes motoring down the road and pulls over. He smoothes across the gravel on the Paris Dakar as easy as can be with those dual sport tires and I motion to him. He pulls over and walks over to join me.     I take a plug out with the spark plug wrench, and poor some gasoline from a jerry can into the cylinder. Then I screw back in the sparkplug crossing my fingers that this will give me a sign. I hit the starter and the motor pops feebly. Ah, the sound of progress.     All the while Mark is standing there and I am sort of making conversation and alternating the topic away from the plight I am in. He may be my only way out of here. But way out here is right. We are miles into the wilderness surrounded by nothing. I do this a few more times and I make progress. Every now and then the motor pops as if it were going to start. I am being taunted. Unfortunately, the battery starts to show signs of weakness from constantly turning the motor over. Then after we get to the point where I am really worried and Mark seems a bit exasperated, the motor starts as if nothing happened. And just runs as smooth as always.     I guess that maybe the motor doesn’t like being dosed in gasoline or large amounts of water. Maybe when I slammed on the brakes the gasoline dosed something. Did I ever worry about the whole thing blowing up? Nah, that only happens in the movies and this isn’t the movies.     Mark seems maybe a little older than I thought when I first met him an hour ago. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and the gray hairs don’t quite match my original thought. He’s headed for Moose Creek Campground, a few miles down the road. We both head off in the same direction but instead of motoring with me, he stays a half mile behind. This guy really likes to be alone I keep thinking, especially if he does this every year.     Moose Creek Campground comes into view and I pull over waiting for Mark. He pulls up, we exchange a good journey wish, do a high five and then we go in our separate directions. It is 10 p.m. and plenty light out. I want to keep on going and ride off into the wilderness. Just endless forest.     I’m not sure where this lust for distance comes from. It was probably either by accident or just plain destiny. My first motorcycle was a late 60’s Honda. It was small, maybe a 100cc’s. Actually, it wasn’t mine, someone just gave it to us. It didn’t run and we fiddled with it until we got the motor started. My brothers and I rode it for an entire afternoon by pulling on a piece of baling wire attached to the carburetor. All this while riding, steering, and balancing. We never got it to run again.     A year or so later at 14, my brother obtained a early 70’s Honda street bike. We put a knobby enduro tire on back. We didn’t have one for the front, so we kept the road tire on. We rode all over the place through our woods and the trails in the surrounding forests. The front tire was slick and we used to lay the bike down several times a day. We were never going very fast and never had even a scratch from wiping it out while riding it through the alfalfa fields. I watched my older brother go through several bikes but I never paid much attention. We had go-karts built from scratch with lawn mower parts and snowmobiles in winter. In high school, I bought a British sports car, a Triumph Spitfire and with something breaking every time I drove it, thank-you Mr. Lucus, it kept me busy. I was too busy keeping it running to worry about motorcycles.     My first year of college, I bought my first bike from my best friend, Dean, for $400. I just thought it would be fun to have a bike. It was a silver ’82 Suzuki GS450 with low miles. It was very small although at the time I thought it was huge. It had pull back bars and I rode it every now and then, but never very far. My longest ride was probably 90 miles and I never even registered it or got my motorcycle license.     When I joined the Marine Corps, I parked the little used bike in the barn, put the Spitfire up on blocks and left. I had only put, say a 1000 miles on the bike. When I got back seven months later, I started my reserve duty and tried to get back to a normal life. I took a job working in an auto parts store, (I had always want to work in a place where you talk about cars all day long) and eventually sold it to my boss, who was over 300 pounds, for $400. He was a huge guy and seeing him ride that little motorcycle was rather amusing. He dwarfed the bike. I decided to move to California that summer. I had the promise of a job and college was cheap I was told.     I had the crazy idea to get a bike and ride out there. I had no money, didn’t really own anything, had no girlfriend, and wasn’t settled. I couldn’t get the idea out of my mind. Ride a motorcycle across the country. My dad thought it was crazy. At the time of our conversation, there was still snow on the ground in Madison. I wanted to leave at the end of April and he cautioned the mountains would be full of snow. Meanwhile I searched the paper even though I didn’t have any money and didn’t know a thing about bikes. All I wanted was something that could make the trip.     I got my tax return back, more money than I expected and the search was on. Outside of Madison, I found an ‘83 Suzuki GS850L. I figured that was probably big enough even though I didn’t even know what a GS850L was. When I went to look at it, there was a luggage rack on the back, a sissy bar, and the guy didn’t need the helmet anymore. It was perfect and the guy only wanted $600- the amount of my tax return. The first time I swung a leg over, it looked and felt huge. I bought it and rode it home very pleased with my purchase.     I took it on a practice ride to prepare for my trip across country. I bundled up in the late Wisconsin winter and drove over snow while pulling out of the driveway. I headed for the next town 30 miles to the north. I didn’t even have a license yet. It was so cold, I froze my kiester off. I had no idea how to dress.     I left three weeks later having barely ridden it. I did manage to get a motorcycle license. But no tune up, leathers, heated clothing or much of anything. I was smart enough to buy the largest plexiglass fairing I could find, add a throttle lock, and put on new tires. I just assumed it would run. It was shaft drive and someone told me that was good. The day before I was supposed to leave, it snowed. Undaunted, I put an old army sleeping bag and a change of clothes on the back, shipped my clothes UPS, and left anyway. I didn’t know a thing about motorcycling. No tent, tire patch kit, compass or much of anything, nor did I have any money. 13 states, 5000 miles, and 9 days later I arrived in Sacramento. It was sort of a trial by fire I suppose.     Kansas, Aspen, Zion, the Grand Canyon, the Pacific Coast, it was overwhelming, there was so much to see. I realized just how big the country was. I was hooked.     I started the job, started school and rode everywhere. I didn’t know anyone. On weekends, I’d get on the GS850 and head up into the mountains never taking the same road twice. I’d ride 150 miles to Monterey just to rollarblade along the ocean. A six hour 300 mile ride just go rollarblading for a short while. It was an excuse to ride. As winter approached, I was contacted by a friend in Texas who invited me to come on down. Texas. It sounded like as good a destination as any.     It was also an excuse to buy a better bike and go off on a trip. I sold everything I had and counted up the money from the summer job. I wanted something even bigger. A traveling man’s bike. The first time I sat on a Yamaha Venture, the fit was perfect. I knew this was the bike. I had never heard of anyone my age buying a bike like this but I didn’t care. I wanted something big. It didn’t take long to find the right one and I left days later, alone, in the middle of winter, headed to Texas.     The first day I rode 1200 miles in 22 hours straight and then 800 the next day. The trip evolved into 6000 miles, all covered in 8 days as I ran across the country and then back again. On the last leg of the trip back to Sacramento, I raced against the clock to make my first class of the new semester. I rode 32 hours straight from the Mississippi River to Phoenix, stopping only for 2 hours under an overpass to sleep while sitting on the bike. That was only six month ago. Now here I am, coming up on 5000 miles trolling across the wilderness once more. I really think I’m hooked.     At Stewart Crossing I hit the 5000-mile mark. I have traveled 5000 miles in the last 11 days. As I pull into town, in the broad ditches alongside the road, children play on a four-wheeler running it out and over the lawns along the road. They ride and ride, it looks like a lot of fun. I pull to a stop to study the maps and watch the kids. I want to get gas before it gets too late but I realize I have passed into the next time zone and it is actually 11 p.m. I am worried that even with my extra fuel I am carrying, I will run out of gas around Carmacks 110 miles down the road. I would like to get as close to Whitehorse as I can tonight.     Both of the town’s gas stations are closed. I unstrap one of the jerry cans to replenish my fuel. It’s empty. I didn’t fill it up in Dawson City because the gas was so expensive. I have only an extra 2.5 gallons of gas, which amounts to about another hundred miles. Distances are a little more vast from place to place up here. I pour that in and hope I am not stranded out in the middle of nowhere.     At Pelly Crossing, I descend into the valley of the town along the Pelly River. Its waters pour into the Yukon, flow past Dawson City and drain into the Arctic. Low and behold, in this wilderness is a 24 hour cardlock. I slide in my Visa, and ten gallons of gas later, motor off.     The road continues south through endless miles of forested countryside. It seems the logging industry hasn’t even discovered this land yet. The road winds along lakes and rivers at times and simply is a swath cut through the forest. Night descends, the road continues, onward. Just riding in the dark of night.     I reach a campground. I am not sure how far away Whitehorse is but I feel as though I am very close to my goal. Comparing against the map, I think I am at Fox Lake as I pull in and let the headlight search for an open campsite. Nothing much exists in this world but the ride and I've been on the bike all day. All day as in the context of it’s 2 a.m. as I wearily tug off the sleeping bag and crawl in. I dream odd dreams that don’t make any sense. I liked the twisty mountain road dreams better.