(I Conquered the) Dalton Highway

Post date: Jul 15, 2016 5:06:20 AM

Note: This post is the culmination of my four-day trek to and from Fairbanks, AK to the Arctic Ocean. Internet connectivity in Alaska is horrendous, so sorry. No pics/vids yet.

The Dalton Highway, or Haul Road made more famous by the television program Ice Road Truckers, is 832 miles round-trip of the most remote stretch of road in the United States, perhaps even North America. It's only a highway because there are no stop signs. It begins in northern Alaska where the Elliot Highway ends about 80 miles north of Fairbanks at a place called Livengood (ˈlaɪvənɡʊd'). It continues further north through Coldfoot to Deadhorse and the oil fields of Prudhoe Bay. The Dalton is the only road up there. One way in. One way out.

Leaving Fairbanks I hit some some nice twisties and elevation changes through some small gaps. The smell of wild flowers in the air lifted my spirits, and the vegetation reminded me less of being in the mountains and more like Tennessee. It was a beautiful day, and I decided to crank it up a bit and wear out some of the outside of the rear tire. I've been doing mostly straight up riding, and the center strip of the tire is looking worse for wear. These tires have to last until I get to Seattle.

I was tooling along enjoying the ride when I passed a sign that said, "James Dalton Highway." If I turned left, I would be taken to Manley Hot Springs. It was about 70 degrees, so I passed on the soak. Right then and there is the cutover from pavement to the infamous surface of the Dalton. Up until the 1990s, this road was closed to the public. The oil industry built and maintained the road, and they didn't want John Q. Public on it. From that point on the road surface was a mixture of leftover asphalt, chip seal, loose gravel, deep gravel, sparse gravel, dirt, mud, washboard, potholes, and churned up earth from construction. I took a deep breath and pressed onwards.

About a half mile up the road was a more appealing sign for a Kodak moment. It was wood carved and painted nicely.

The destination for the day was Coldfoot, effectively the halfway point to Deadhorse. There I would stop for the night and fuel up. I crossed over the Yukon River again for the fourth time; however this bridge is much larger than any previous crossing. Just north of there a person can actually stand underneath the pipeline for a photo op. A tour bus had let out several people, so I continued ahead.

Further up the road, I arrived at a must stop location - the Arctic Circle Sign. It was a trip milestone to snap some photos there. Little did I know that I would make an unexpected return.

Moving on, the landscape was largely the same rolling hills and wilderness I had been seeing for awhile until Finger Mountain. Suddenly, most of the trees disappeared. They were mostly absent from the vista except for here and there.

A little farther north, the vegetation returned, and I started to see faint outlines of the Brooks Range at Coldfoot. Everything I had read leading up your this point told me to plan eight hours for the trip. It took me 4.5 hours to make it. I was comfortable running 70 mph on several sections of the road, but I did slow down many, many times for questionable conditions.

Coldfoot is the midway point on the Dalton, and nearly all passers by stop for fuel, food, a nights sleep, or whatever. I grabbed some lunch at the restaurant there and waited for my new acquaintances from Georgia to arrive. Across the road is the Arctic Interagency Visitor Center who had lots of information about the area. There I inquired about the forecast for the next day that turned out to be rain beginning at 1000.

Several hours passed, five actually, and I thought about holing up there in Coldfoot Camp until I was informed of the $219 USD rate. Hah! Talk about highway robbery. There being no cellular service, I had no way to reach my riding partners. It just so happened that there was a good ole cork board hanging by the restaurant entrance. I wrote a note on paper, gasp, and posted it on the the board with a push pin, bigger gasp, informing them that I was camped at Marion Creek up the road about four miles. Rain was in the forecast, so let's meet at 0500 here and head out before the rain.

I headed up to Marion Creek and camped for the evening for $8.00 USD. There I ran into a fellow from Germany and an American who worked in the oil fields for 17 years. He had grown tired of the lifestyle and quit to ride his motorcycle from Deadhorse to Ushuaia, Argentina. Envy, I say! The German asked me how long I had been on the road to which I responded, "May."

He said, "Me too. May of 2014."

Holy !@#. Two years traveling the world on a motorcyle. What an epic! He was an interesting character, and that's all I'll say about that.

The next morning I pulled back into Coldfoot and there sat my new friends waiting to eat. They had hooked up with another rider that I had seen the day before meandering around Coldfoot. One friend decided to not ride up to Deadhorse and would stay behind. We all ate breakfast, and three of us headed out.

From some unknown reason, the road north of Coldfoot is pavement for many miles. This was a welcome accomodation because it actually allowed me to focus on something other than the road - the Brooks Range.

This is some of the most pristine wilderness on the planet, unspoiled by mankind, save the pipeline. The mountains are lush with vegitation at the base. Then, as your gaze rises up, the vegitation gives way to the timberline. Stark, rocky crags of mountain shoot straight up from the Earth haloed by clouds high in the sky. Absolutely beautiful.

Sure enough, the road turned back to packed dirt, and we arrived at Atigun Pass, the first really long, steep incline of the road heading north. It's also the highest elevation and only road across the entire Brooks Range.

Beyond Atigan Pass there are spectacular valley vistas. At the northern end of the pass, the road is bookended by two tall mountains, as if to serve as the gateway to the great Alaska North Slope.

Then, you are in the tundra. Flat. Treeless. Seemingly lifeless. Occasionally, a few hills presented themselves, one hiding a gulch and a raging river. I did see two musk ox grazing between the road and the pipeline at different times. They are truly shaggy creatures.

Even at a distance, I could see the incessant swarm of mosquitoes jockeying for position around the ox. Holy !@#$ they are relentless. It takes them mere seconds to find you. Then, they're everywhere. I had one fly into my mouth as I inhaled. It induced a coughing and gagging fit like no other. After that, I applied some DEET just for good measure. Forget it, if I was riding or not. To date, mosquitoes on the North Slope are the worst that I have ever seen anywhere.

Traveling on, we reached one of the many named sections of the road like, Ice Cut, and finally the dreaded road construction that everyone was talking about. It turned out to be 36 miles of terrible riding conditions. Being motorcyclists, we got head-of-line privileges at the two construction zone stops south of Deadhorse which was a welcome aid. The last thing that we needed to deal with was dirt, dust, or rocks thrown up by a big truck.

A year or so ago, a flood of biblical proportions basically washed away the road close to Deadhorse. It brought the oil industry up there to it's knees. Now, there is a rush to complete two construction projects by SEP 2016. They are laying new roadbed, foam insulation, and many feet of elevation to the road. There are graters, rollers, and trucks bringing huge loads of gravel all along the construction.

Finally, we could see the light of Deadhorse. One could see that this is a working neighborhood. Bland buildings. No one out and about. There are sidewalks. No retail businesses.

We located Deadhorse Camp where we had scheduled an Arctic Ocean Tour. With a little help from the Tour Security Officer we were able to tag along on the tour at 1530 later that afternoon. In the meantime, we located our hotel, The Aurora.

Wow! The Aurora is a nice place. On the outside is looks just as drab as all the other buildings in Deadhorse - sheet metal, built on stilts so as to not melt the permafrost, sterile; however, once inside, the place rivals any motel in the lower 48. Notice I said motel and not hotel. The room included a private shower, which is luxury up here I gather, all meals, breakfast, lunch, & dinner, and free laundry. Let me tell you that oil field workers eat VERY well. The dinner menu that evening included prime rib and ahi tuna.

After raiding the dining hall for lunch, we took a spin around town and located the Deadhorse welcome sign to take some pics. Then, we headed for the tour.

Our tour guide drove us around the town of Deadhorse pointing out various drilling equipment and the actual wells themselves. It was informative; however, the main attraction, at least for me, was the Arctic Ocean.

We all walked out on a small peninsula to the rather calm Arctic Ocean. Then, several of us stripped down and jumped in! The water was cold but not that cold. It was 36 degrees I was told. So, if someone asks me if I've ever swam in the Arctic Ocean - check! After that the journey was all over except for the ride back to Coldfoot and Fairbanks.

Back at the hotel, we decided to leave by 0730 and parted ways. I crashed as soon as I closed my eyes.

The next morning, we hit up that awesome dining hall again. Man, they serve some really good food. I imagine that the food plays a huge factor in keeping morale high. After fueling up, we let out to ride the Dalton again back to Coldfoot.

It was foggy. It was raining. It was 47 degrees. The first obstacle to tackle was the dreaded 36 miles of road construction. With no warm-up for the day we hit it head on. Let me tell you, it was a little dicey! Heading north the day before, we traversed the west side of the road mostly. That morning heading south, we were on the east side for the most part. Uhhh... Factor in the chill in the air, the rain, the fog, the mud being kicked up from the motorcycle in front of me covering my windshield & helmet obscuring my vision, the deep gravel from the earth churning construction, and I almost wrecked a couple of times. We each made it through without issue.

Many miles down the road, we pulled off for a break. You had to devote 100% attention to the road at all times, and it was taxing. My motorcycle was absolutely covered in mud. The windshield was a solid sheet of dried brown film. Even with the headlights burning bright, they could not be seen for the film of dirt covering them.

Eventually, we reached Atigun Pass. Right before heading up, we pulled off to shed some layers. It had quit raining. The fog had lifted. The sun shown down from above, and it had become warm. Remember me mentioning the mosquitoes? Relentless!

While hanging out there for a minute, two riders on BMW GSs pulled up. As soon as one of them lifted their helmet, I recognized both of them. It was two gentleman that I had made friends with back in Valdez days ago. What a small world! I would run into them again several times before leaving Alaska. They were not planning to ride to Deadhorse. Instead, the were riding just to the other side of Atigun Pass and calling it done.

We parted ways and continued our southerly trek back to Coldfoot. This time we stopped several times for pictures of the majestic Brooks Range, including a stop in Wiseman. The Post Office building is still standing; however, it has sunk several feet into the ground.

Back at Coldfoot, one of my riding companions grabbed my attention to point out a leaking fork seal on my bike. I either hit a pothole really hard, which I didn't specifically recall, or all of the dirt and mud somehow made it past the seal clearing a path for oil to escape. Well, that's par for the course with everything that I've had break on this trip. I can't possibly fix this one, so I guess I'm heading back to the BMW dealer in Fairbanks. I made camp back at Marion Creek again.

At 0500, I got a quick bite to eat at Coldfoot and let out to get my motorcycle fixed. The road south was a far cry from the havoc of the previous morning. I cruised down the Dalton from Coldfoot all the way to the Arctic Circle sign. That's when it happened...

I was tooling along, and suddenly, I felt a sensation that something wasn't right with the bike. It was different somehow, but I hadn't quite figured it out. I began to cycle through the on-board computer. It became readily apparent that I had blown a rear tire when I saw that it only had 31 pounds of air in it. It usually has 45. All of sudden the red warning light shined bright. Rear tire pressure was down to 25 pounds. Yep. THIS GUY HAD A FLAT REAR TIRE ON HIS MOTORCYCLE AT THE ARCTIC CIRCLE! How f'ing cool is that?! Do you know anyone who has experienced a flat tire at the Arctic Circle? Think about that as a badge of honor. That's the only reason I could possibly be exciting about a flat tire 198 miles from the nearest person who could do anything about it. Except for me and my tire repair kit.

I pulled into the Arctic Circle wayside and commenced to fixing another problem. After about 20 minutes, I was back on the road beaming with renewed vigor. Figure the odds on having a flat tire exactly at the Arctic Circle. The remainder of the ride back to Fairbanks was rather uneventful.

First thing on the agenda in Fairbanks was finding a car wash to remove the caked on mud from the Dalton. It took $25.00 USD to get the motorcycle clean. Then, it was off to the dealer to repair the fork seal.

I walked in to the Service Department and explained my plight. The service writer responded, "We just sold our last fork kit."

"Don't bullshit me," I said.

"Seriously," he replied.

"If it was easy, everyone would do it. If it was easy everyone would do it. Smile and be happy. You're fulfilling a dream. Life is good," I told myself.

Well, after some discussion, we headed to the Parts department where, luckily, we pieced together the important components of the kit.

Then, the service writer says, "Let's go talk to the tech and see if we have the tool." What?! Seriously?!

They didn't have it. Evidently, it takes a special tool to remove the seal. Figures. Thanks BMW. I was told that the shop loaned it out, and it was never brought back. They offered to buy a new tool, which would take at least five days to arrive. Thanks, but no, thanks. I called the BMW dealership in Seattle and made an appointment. It will get fixed there.

I decided to call it quits for the day and holed up in the local Marriott property. My friends from Valdez and I ended out having some dinner and drinks in the hotel restaurant and told lies. Just kidding. It was all truth. Mostly.

If you're a motorcycle rider and may be considering riding the Dalton, check out my things to know.