Dalton Highway FAQ

Having just returned from a little New Year's Day ride through the hills north of San Francisco and back down Highway 1, I am finally motivated to fulfill my promise to myself and my friend Mitch, and transcribe this story. I hope you will forgive my opening gloat. Since none of you have ever met me, I should tell you that I never really disliked snow. But I have been to the mountains to see it only 3 times in the twelve years since moving here. I don't miss snow and ice at all.

Crossing the Yukon (muddy already).
Note the IBMWR teeshirt.
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But on to my story of motorcycles, friendship and flashbacks...

Mitch and I have been friends since he first introduced himself during an East Lansing blizzard (now you know the Michigan connection) in December of 1970. Our friendship has always had serious partying at its foundation. It survived my theft of his first motorcycle and years of playing the cc leapfrog game. Many enjoyable hours were spent working on motorcycles together, planning trips and (of course) touring around Michigan, the midwest, and finally our Bicentennial Trip around the United States.

We still try to get together and ride as often as possible. Unfortunately, I now live in the Bay Area and Mitch lives in Fairbanks. Yes, Alaska. Yes, I've done that...twice. Yes, I will again; that's why I bought my R100RT. But those are different stories.

The good news is that both Mitch and I now have two bikes. It no longer takes three to five weeks just to get together and ride. Now it's more like ten hours, thanks to Alaska Airlines. So, in the spring of 1995, Mitch and I agreed that he would fly to San Francisco and ride with me to the 49er Rally. I would fly to Fairbanks and ride with him to the Last Frontier Rally.

Mitch fulfilled his obligation to attend the 49er Rally. That's yet another story, but it does include one of my three trips into snow. However, when finalizing my plans to arrive in Fairbanks, Mitch hinted that he had such a good time cruising around Northern California that he doubted the Last Frontier Rally plans could measure up. I was getting a little apprehensive.

Finally he spelled out his plan. We would ride up the Dalton Highway to the North Slope. I could not resist this. It was an opportunity to revisit places I thought I would never see again. "Get that Yamaha ready!" I responded.

Mitch's bikes are an R75/7 (now 900 cc) and a 1972 XS650. He rode that 650 on the Bicentennial trip. It must have about 120,000 miles on it. But I've known that bike since he put the first dent in the gas tank. I had no reservations about doing 1,000 miles of dirt road on it. He did need to fix the tire that went flat when we rode up in 1993. And maybe an oil change would be good, too.

I always felt Mitch was the most anal of our group of shade tree motorcycle mechanics. He always took more care than I when we were working on our bikes. I think he even reviewed his work the next day, after we sobered up. I was sure the 650 would be in top shape (for a 23 year old motorcycle).

Mitch finally found the time to fix the flat and change the oil on July 4th. His house is just outside Fairbanks on the Chena River. People kept boating up and forcing him to have a beer (or was that a case?) with them. So, he was in proper form for working on the 650.

I arrived a few days later. I knew from past experience that I would need to spend a night at the house to adjust my attitude and tone down my excitement for the trip. My tendency is to get fired up and ride, ignoring the scenery. With proper attitude adjustment, I become more involved with and appreciative of my surroundings.

We spent that afternoon in a shakedown ride. The first thing I noticed was that the front brake felt good at the lever, but I could have tightened a vice around it and still turned the wheel. It reminded me of the time the neighbor child did me a favor and oiled the brakes on my 3 speed bicycle because they were squeaking. Fortunately, the shakedown ride took us to a saloon in the old mining village of Fox. I expressed my concern to Mitch over some refreshments. He reminded me that this isn't Detroit or the Bay Area. It is Alaska. "Yes." I agreed. I knew from experience that we might see at most a handful of vehicles on our upcoming ride. It's amazing what a little attitude adjustment can do. But Mitch is no longer the anal mechanic I knew in college. I wonder if being an adult with a job, a mortgage and a child could have something to do with allocating time to work on the second motorcycle???

There really is a moose in the lake!
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We returned to the "cabin" for an evening of attitude adjustment. Well, perhaps "log home" is a better description. Regardless, I slept well in spite of my pre-departure excitement and the lack of darkness.

The next morning, we were packed and ready to ride early. At least it was early for us. Perhaps one of the reasons Mitch and I travel so well together is that neither of us particularly likes getting up and on the road before we are awake. That may be why we both have beards...it's unwise to put a sharp blade to your throat early in the morning. Regardless, this morning we were ready to go several hours before our usual noon departure time.

We rode down to a local coffee shop to join Dorothy and Aurora (Mitch's wife and daughter) for breakfast and a coffee kick start. There we discussed our trip plans.

The Yamaha has a small gas tank. Mitch figures it's bone dry at 110 miles. This does place restrictions on how far we can go, especially when gas stations are about 120 miles apart. Fortunately the R has a big tank. We packed a small plastic can and some plastic tubing. Our first stop would be at the Hilltop Truck Stop on the edge of town...the edge of civilization.

We finished our breakfast and mounted up. Dorothy offered the obligatory spousal reminder to return in one piece. We were off!

Fairbanks is not a large city. We found ourselves at the truck stop in about twenty minutes. Not only was this our last chance for gas, but it also was our last opportunity to purchase supplies (beer) until we could pull into Five Mile on the north side of the Yukon River. We picked up a six pack knowing that would be more than sufficient for our day's journey. Even in the unlikely event of some sort of failure, Five Mile would be the next place to restock our cache.

At last we were on the road with no more annoying little tasks needing our attention. Our stomachs were full. Our tanks were full. And our packs contained all the supplies we would need for an easy ride to the Yukon River.

To get to the Dalton Highway from Fairbanks, you must head out the Elliot Highway about 50 miles to the little village of Livengood (rhymes with "Hive-n-good"). I made this trip twice daily back in the early seventies. I have pictures of a truck hanging off a cliff with its load hundreds of feet below. I distinctly remember sitting in the cab of a pickup with our passenger door up against the road cut, watching the steel beam for the Yukon River Bridge on the truck meeting us pass _OVER_ the driver side mirror. But none of this road looked familiar. It's amazing what a few decades, some road widening and paving can do to one's memory.

All of a sudden, I saw Livengood on slope to the right. It used to be a hard drive in a pickup to get this far. And I thought Livengood was on the other side of the Dalton cutoff. How could we have missed the only intersection on the road!? Ahhh, the Dalton Highway is just past Livengood. My problem was that I spent time in the Livengood construction camp which was the other side of the Dalton Highway (then simply called the Haul Road). I guess all those decades really did affect my memory. But then, Livengood camp was not all that memorable.

When working construction away from civilization, there are three things that must work flawlessly. The paychecks absolutely must arrive or be deposited on time. The communications with the outside world (back then, the snail mail service) is your only link to your life. And the food service must be first class. Those are the only rewards a remote construction worker receives.

As I recall, the food service at Livengood camp was less than acceptable. OK, it sucked. The offerings provided for lunches in the field were so bad that I quit eating lunch (which is a drastic step for me). There was talk of inviting the catering manager to lunch and encouraging him to eat several dozen helpings of his food to see if that could improve the quality. I don't know how this brewing storm was resolved. I left for a two week R&R. When I returned to Alaska, I was thankfully assigned to another construction camp.

I flashed back to the task at hand. It was time to make a right turn for our northbound trip up the Dalton Highway. Somewhere between Fairbanks and Livengood, the pavement had turned into dirt. I hadn't noticed it happening. It just sort of blended from pavement to dirt. Mitch believes that by reducing the air in your tires, you are less likely to have a flat. I've always been skeptical of this, but since I was riding Mitch's bike, I stopped with him to let some air from our tires.

The road was actually in good shape. There were no deep patches of loose gravel or soft sand. And best of all, the traffic was exactly what we were expecting! All of a sudden, I hit a patch of loose sand. The rear of the bike had a mind of its own. Oh shit. This was not sand, it was a flat tire. As we used to say: "Bummer."

I pulled off to the side of the road and put the Yamaha on its side stand. Mitch, being ahead of me, didn't immediately notice my stop. As I stood beside the crippled motorcycle, the cloud of dust that had been following us caught up to me. The trucker returned my waive as he continued his route to Prudhoe Bay. Mitch reappeared out of the dust cloud assuming I was making a stop to quench my thirst. After realizing our situation, he suggested we push the bike up a nearby jeep trail in case another dust cloud should come along. Then it was time for a beer.

As Mitch removed the rear wheel, I couldn't resist the opportunity to question the merits of the tire deflation strategy for preventing flats. Yet neither of us was able to find any external reason for the flat. There is nothing like a puzzle for entertainment while you are stuck munching chips and drinking beer 70 miles from anywhere.

Meanwhile, back at the rear of the Yamaha, Mitch was reaffirming his appreciation for his BMW. His hands were completely covered with chain grease. My assistance was required to complete the removal of the wheel. I suggested that sentiment aside, he should consider a second shaft drive motorcycle.

Of course we had the appropriate tire irons and several inner tubes. Once the tire was removed from the rim, the mysterious cause of the flat was revealed. It seems that with all the interruptions and beverages on Independence Day, Mitch was unable to find the good new inner tube when he repaired the original flat tire. He had the choice of a thin new tube or patched heavy tube. He chose the patched tube. It failed at the patch. The original cut had expanded beyond the edge of the patch. So much for Mitch the anal shade-tree mechanic.

So, my apprehension about partial deflation may have been justified. I advised Mitch that I believed the additional flexing due to the lower pressure caused the patch to fail. However, this did not invalidate his theory that lower pressure protects tires from damage on poor roads.

Fortunately, Mitch found his good new tube in the fairing of his BMW before we departed. This time the repair was made with the new tube. Mitch vowed never to use a patch again, unless no other alternative is available. We cleaned the grease from our hands, finished our beers, packed up and headed on to Five Mile.

The above ground sections of the Trans Alaska Pipeline are often visible from the Dalton Highway. I had no real appreciation for the magnitude of this construction project when I was a part of it. It truly was a marvel of engineering and mobilization. I now understand why our motto was "hurry up and wait." It's amazing it was that well organized. It's also amazing to think that the laptop I am using to write this is more powerful than the mainframe that was used for the engineering design. But I have digressed once more.

The reason the dirt roads in Alaska and the Yukon Territory are so smooth is that the highway department is always working on them. On the way to the Yukon River, we encountered the first "construction zone." The process amounts to saturating the dirt road with water and grading the surface. Since the roads are covered with calcium, they become very slippery when wet. The mud is also incredibly difficult to remove from cooling fins, boots, pants and soft luggage. So, by the time we stopped for pictures at the Yukon River bridge, we were covered with this mud.

On the north bank of the Yukon River is Five Mile Truck Stop and Motel. This is the location of the former Five Mile construction camp used by Alyeska when the Trans Alaska Pipeline was being built. While living at Livengood camp, a few of us borrowed an Alyeska pickup and tried to talk our way onto the manifest for the hovercraft ferry to visit friends at Five Mile. This was the only way across the Yukon River until the bridge was opened. We managed to get onto the manifest, but the ferry was having problems on the north bank. We gave up and went back to camp without a hovercraft ride.

But the hovercraft ferry is long gone. In its place stands an impressive bridge over a very impressive river. I could not even begin to guess which steel beam I saw so close, so long ago. But it really didn't matter. The signs said stopping on the bridge is illegal. Since traffic was as we expected, Mitch and I performed acts of civil disobedience to take some pictures. Of course, my camera battery chose this precise moment to fail. Bummer again. We proceeded to the gas pump at Five Mile and then into the restaurant.

A small tour bus arrived from the north while we were filling our tanks. People were sitting on the railing outside the restaurant. I didn't understand why. Like it's totally not a mall. In fact, I found myself experiencing deja vu. This wasn't just where the old construction camp was. It _WAS_ the old construction camp. Indeed, the motel wing was like every construction camp along the pipeline corridor. I had forgotten those elevated toilets.

It was very hot in the mess hall, I mean restaurant. There was only a staff of two. That was why everyone was sitting outside. Worse yet, there was no cold beer. Still worse, there was no beer at all! Mitch and I had made a terrible mistake back at Hilltop Truck Stop. We would have to grab a bite to eat and head up to Coldfoot where we knew there was a bar. But with a staff of two, it took two hours to get our burgers and hit the road. Golden arches would have been most welcome here.

As we pulled out, it was starting to get dark. While this may not seem important, this was mid-July and we were only about 100 miles from the arctic circle. It was getting dark because of storm clouds. I was not looking forward to riding Alaska mud in the dark.

(a) I finally sever all ties with Sound Technologies and drink that '82 Opus 1 in celebration.
(b) I find the name of the rider who wrote in the Arctic Circle crapper of his trip from Prudhoe Bay to Tierra del Fuego (if that's how it's spelled).
(c) I figure out how to explain to the world why the whole cloud thing appeared so completely surrealistic and I had to lay down in the middle of the road. That one six pack just won't do it.

Looking north from Atigun Pass.
Doug is on the road.
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Douglas Canfield: bmwrider@pacbell.net
Sound Technologies, Inc. Research and Engineering 
Larkspur, California, USA 
voice (415) 924-2089 
fax (415) 924-0889