• Day 1 - Another Adventure Begins
• Day 2 - Jackson Hole, Wyoming to Helena, Montana
• Day 3 - Glacier National Park to West Glacier, Montana
• Day 4 - Entering Canada and Banff, Alberta, Canada
• Day 5 - Promenade Des Glaciers and Some Unexpected News
• Day 6 - Prince George, BC to Alaska!
• Day 7 - Riding an Alaskan Glacier Then Becoming Fugitives
• Day 8 - Racing to the Ferry
• Day 9 - 18 Hours of Waiting
• Day 10 - Correcting Past Mistakes
• Day 11 - Lost in Hong-Couver
• Day 12 - The Strangest of all Camping Experiences
• Day 13 - Tire Failure!
• Day 14 - Just Trying to Get Home

How must the emigrants felt leaving everything they had to come to a new world when I was having trouble sleeping just over the thought of riding two motorcycles to the great unknown of Alaska? What were the road conditions? What if something broke? What if we ran out of gas? Why was I being such a "nancy" about the "unknown?"

Alaska, the last of the last frontiers… I loved even the thought of going but to ride there, how could it get better? What adventures await us??? I had many dreams of the beauty and grandeur of Alaska mostly based on tv shows such as Northern Exposure and stories told by my brothers who often went on fishing or hunting adventures in Alaska.

~Kris

It had long been Kris' dream to ride to Alaska. I, on the other hand, had visited Alaska the summer I graduated high school in an attempt to earn money for college. Unfortunately, I'd timed it just right to coincide with the Valdez oil-spill and it turned into one of the most miserable, trying experiences of my life. I'd never had much desire to return.

However, my job situation had changed and I'd have to use my accrued vacation now or never, I had two weeks to use – two weeks were set aside and we were out to escape the hottest Salt Lake City summer in recorded history.

We rarely get a vacation alone. We love traveling with others and of course invited many but we resolved that since we hadn't traveled alone, just the two of us on motorcycles for six or so years. This was a good opportunity to have the kind of adventure we love most; a very unplanned, general idea of where we were going and what we wanted to see, which was very flexible and could change any moment along the way.

~Kris

First stop was at the local greasy spoon "Over the Counter" where we would meet up with Mike and Kam, who'd ride with us the first night to Jackson Hole to see us off and get a weekend of good riding.

If you live in Salt Lake and ride motorcycles, there is only one way to get to Jackson Hole; a serpentine series of connecting canyons that, when every stage is taken, turns a 200 mile run into an epic 400 mile day. We've detailed the route many times on this site, and today's riding would contain all the same glorious roads. Kam, being from Michigan, was uber excited to see what this trip had to offer.

We started by riding East out of Salt Lake on I-80 up Parleys Canyon, until the East Canyon Reservoir Exit (Exit 134) where we hopped onto highway 65 and rode past Mountain Dell Reservoir and Little Dell Reservoir and into the throes of East Canyon. At East Canyon Reservoir we made a left hand corner onto highway 66, through Porterville and into to the quaint community of Morgan.

In Morgan we took the I-84 freeway west and rode to the base of highway 167, Trappers Loop Road. Trappers Loop is a gloriously sweeping road that is popular with sports car nuts and motorcyclists alike. It's heavily patrolled so few of us have ever actually gotten to really enjoy its potential. But a few sweeping corners near the top can be done briskly if traffic is timed right.

Arriving in the town of Huntsville, we turned right onto Highway 39 and meandered our way to the Chevron station where we stopped for fuel and supplies. It was only 10 in the morning and even up in the small mountain towns above the Wasatch-Front it was stupidly hot. We hovered in the shade and drank our cooling liquids while watching the locals rush in and out for their last minute weekend supplies.

Back on the road we made a right turn to stay on Highway 39 to Monte Cristo Canyon that would take us over the western edge of the Wasatch Mountain Range and into tiny dollop of a town, Woodruff, named after the fourth president of the Mormon church, Wilford Woodruff (say that five times fast).

We turned left in Woodruff and rode north on Highway 16 through Randolph, making a left turn at Sage Creek Junction then touching tires to Highway 30. It was hot, and the area is watched closely by Highway Patrol because it's one of those long, straight, bleary roads you just want to get over with; the perfect place to catch unwary speeders. We kept our speeds down until we were just east of Laketown, where the road throws out a couple of nasty corners. Unsuspecting travelers will find themselves on the brakes with the view of a rock wall filling the windshield (or facesheild).

Laketown is on the southern edge of Utah's Bear Lake. An enormous body of water called the "Caribbean of the Rockies" because suspended limestone in the water makes it a brilliant turquoise color. This makes the area extremely popular with Utah's boating populous who water-ski on the 100 square mile lake. The result of the popularity is heinous traffic.

The informed traveler will take the back way to avoid most of the weekend traffic. We turned north in the town of Laketown onto the county road, Falula Road, which turns into Cisco Road (named after one of the most famous local trout species that lives only in the limestone rich Bear Lake waters).

Cisco road skirts the eastern shore of Bear Lake, passing through scrubby brush and heavily irrigated agricultural areas and eventually Idaho's "Bear Lake State Park". It's a gently winding road but desolate and in mediocre condition but most importantly it's free from traffic. It also offers amazing views of Bear Lake with the Wasatch Mountains setting an impressive backdrop to the West. Cisco Road is a much better alternative than the mainstream Highway 89 that runs along the western edge of the lake, where views are blocked by homes and condos.

Along the western edge of the lake we could see sizable rain clouds dousing the mountains on the west side of the lake. Overhead, we had nothing but blue sky and more heat.

In Bear Lake Hot Springs, Idaho there's a blind and very sharp left hand corner; if you miss it (like Mike and Kam did) you end up on a rutted and washboarded dirt road that we really wish they'd pave because it makes for a direct route into Montpelier Idaho where we'd be stopping again for fuel. Instead, we chose to stay on the pavement and rode along North Beach Road, passing the cleverly named "North Beach" on our way to link back up with Highway 89.

On Hwy 89 again, we headed north through Bloomington and Paris, Idaho before reaching Ovid, Idaho. In Ovid we could choose to turn left and ride through the epic Mink Creek Canyon and eventually to Soda Springs, or we could turn right and go to Montpelier then ride some more dreary, flat and straight roads to Soda Springs. We turned right towards Montpelier because we needed gas and the flat, straight road is significantly shorter and would get us to Jackson Hole, Wyoming much sooner. Important to us only because it was getting pretty late in the afternoon.

Montpelier is the largest community in the Bear Lake area and was established as a stop on the Oregon Trail. Like most western towns, the name has been changed numerous times. First it was known as Clover Creek by Oregon Trail travelers, later it became Belmont and finally was given the name Montpelier by Brigham Young, one of the founding fathers of Mormonism. He named it after a town in his birth state of Vermont. However, the town is most famous for being a site of one of Butch Cassidy's bank heists in 1896. The town's identity is so wrapped up in the event that one of the best eateries is aptly named "Butch Cassidy Restaurant & Saloon."

We didn't stop for lunch, despite a long conversation on the subject. Instead we decided to just grab a snack in favor of a nice dinner in Jackson Hole. So off we went, riding north along the bland Highway 30 on our way to Soda Springs, Idaho. With cured fields baking in the intense summer heat rushing past we tried desperately to keep our speeds as low as possible. The town of Georgetown is a known speed trap.

Successfully arriving in Soda Springs, we didn't linger for a second and just pressed on, turning right onto Highway 34 – and onto one of our favorite Idaho roads; Tincup Canyon. In 2006 the road was completely resurfaced, turning it from a bumpy and crumbly ride into a route where traction is never a concern. In college, we'd run this road back and forth, over and over until our gas level grew perilously low.

With Tincup Canyon behind us, we were once again back onto Highway 89 riding north. When the road reached Palisades Reservoir, and the cute junction town of Alpine, Wyoming we made a right turn onto Highway 26/89. Once a tight canyon until wildfires and mudslides moved most of the asphalt into the Snake River, it has been reborn as a wide, gently sweeping thoroughfare. We hang our heads in silence for what the road used to be.

Where Highway 26/89 ends to become Highway 189/191, there's the modest community of Hoback Junction, Wyoming where we'd reserved a KOA site for the evening. It had been a long day for the sport touring rookie Kam, so he was ready to stop riding and riding and riding. Because we'd made the reservation last minute we were shuffled into the group site located right along the river and just beyond the ominous sign warning that motorcycles should go no further.

With the afternoon summer heat showing no sign of abating we set up the tents and teased Kam for only bringing a fleece blanket. While it was bleakly hot during they day, it would cool down a lot more than in the concrete and asphalt urban areas Kim was accustomed to. Taking solace that Kam has yet to graduate college and could therefore rely on his youth to get him through the coldest part of the night we climbed back onto the bikes and trekked into Jackson Hole, Wyoming for dinner and some tourist activities.

Kris decided to leave the Z1000 resting fitfully in the campground and took residence on the back seat of the newly acquired Multistrada. Fighting the evening sun, we were in Jackson Hole dealing and the profusion of summer excursionists. We found parking right on the main strip and began our wandering. Watching the kid from Michigan's first visit to the wild-wild west brought new joy to this familiar town. He giggled with glee when the 5pm main-street shootout commenced and he spent more time than any grown man should petting and coddling the Clydesdales and the ogling the red stagecoach they were hitched to. And what trip to Jackson Hole would be complete without a visit to the "Million Dollar Cowboy Bar" for an overpriced steak complete with swarthy western atmosphere and mediocre service from folks accustomed to big-tips.

After eating we needed to get our fix of ceramic black bears in adorable poses, witty t-shirts and scenic placemats so we wandered the shops looking for the most unusual or most worthless item purchasable in the surrounding gift shops before finding a rare Honda CBX parked on a side-street along the way.

As the sun finally slipped towards the ominous Teton Mountains we headed north to show Kim the view. We were required to take some shots of the motorcycles, Kam on his SV650 all the way from Minnesota, Mike and his new 1050 Speed Triple and of course the 2000-mile-old Multistrada. By the time we'd stored enough megapixel data to overwhelm a five year old hard-drive we rode back to Hoback Junction in the dark and procured a fistful of local brews to end the evening with.

The next morning, after Kam told us how cold he was during the night, there was only one place for breakfast; "Jedidiah's Original House of Sourdough". Back to Jackson Hole we rode though the sharp morning air and to the front door of Jedidiah's where the line was just beginning to form. Decide on breakfast too late and you'll wait an hour for the best sourdough pancake the world has even known. We'd only be waiting 10-15 minutes. We waited less because we were willing to eat on the cool, shaded patio. We then proceeded to flirt with the waitress on behalf of Kam – but only because he's a bit to shy to flirt on his own. Kris is really good at speaking up for Kam to the waitresses.

After breakfast we said our goodbye's and watched Mike and Kam ride south while Kris and I turned north to head through Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks and eventually onto the final frontier state; Alaska. Traffic was considerably light and we were able to enjoy views of more than just the back panels of gluttonous RV's and campers.

Riding along highway 189/191, the roads opened up the farther north we rode. The pavement was smooth gray asphalt cutting our path away from home; it was starting to feel like a vacation. Past Colter Bay village, the road took some serious turns, riding on the apron of the shore of the Snake River and affording an amazing view of the Grand Tetons with their reflection glistening off the mirror-smooth pond. It was hard not to stop, but the crowd of photographers and sight-seers had taken any and every available parking spot, however the car in front of us pulled off, leaving us unencumbered.

We rode directly north towards West Thumb, Wyoming then made a right turn onto the Grand Loop Road that runs past and along the edge of Yellowstone Lake. This is one of our favorite sections of the park. The road becomes lonely when most traffic diverts off to Yellowstone Lodge for trinket shopping and views of Old Faithful Lodge and Geyser.

The lack of traffic isn't really an opportunity to go fast, the park is too heavily patrolled for that, but more the lack of campers and RV's is the only opportunity to relax. The least predictable driver is the tourist. It is impossible to predict when and why they'll stop, turn or pull-out. A former co-worker spent years as a law enforcement officer for Yellowstone National park and told many stories that would strike fear into the hearts of any true motorcyclist. The most memoroable was the story of a couple of tourists who had set the cruise control on their rented RV and then went into the back to make a pot of tea - thinking the cruise control was an "autopilot". Most any reader can surmise how the story ended. However, the blissful absence of traffic allowed us to look about and savor the freedom from lobotomized drivers.

With the lake behind us we entered into the Hayden Valley, where the majority of large grazing animals tend to congregate to munch on the sweeter riparian grasses that grow along Yellowstone River. Within less than a mile we were stuck behind a large clump of traffic, completely stopped. We've seen plenty buffalo, elk and deer and their presence is no longer a novelty. Impatiently, I split lanes up to the front of the line to see what the fuss was. Kris followed and we found large buffalo standing, immobile in the center of the road. Auto's were refusing to move creating gridlock.

Undaunted I pulled up closer to get around the very large and very assertive herbivore. Buffalo cause more fatalities and injuries in Yellowstone than anything else so I like treat them with great caution. Since we were in tourist mode too, I pulled out the camera and grabbed a snap, while Kris grabbed a snap of me from her bike.

At this point the buffalo was really agitated and the tourists were getting even more daring, pulling right up next to the fellow for a better shot through their open windows. I decided to wait to pass until I could go with a car blocking the way between myself and the not so happy creature. A short time later we saw emergency vehicles heading in the direction of the buffalo. Now I'm not sure what happened but it wouldn't surprise me in the least if the buffalo had decided he'd had enough of the crowd all around him and busted his way out of there injuring a tourist, vehicle or both.

~Kris

I then moved forth, continuing my lane splitting past all the traffic, leaving Kris behind to cope with an aggravated buffalo who was none too impressed with the mechanical cacophony of an Italian dry clutch. My split through traffic went rather well, most folks were more than happy to skootch to the sides and allow me through. However one American pedestrian complete with baggy, stained tank-top and feathered mullet walked in front of me and just stood, blocking my path.

Now normally, I'm a pretty patient and mellow kinda-guy, never wanting to cause any problems. Realizing that he likely saw my lane-splitting as a heinously reckless and dangerous activity, more offensive than cutting to the front of the line at the ice-cream truck, I figured I'd cut him some slack, but the dude refused to move standing in the middle of the road.

As traffic started to creep forward I started going around him (thankful for my tinted face-shield as the lack of face-contact seems to prevent unwarranted anger), he moved to block me again. Not wanting to play his game between a 6,000 lb Pickup truck with two-story camper and a Cadillac piloted by a tuft of white hair barely visable above the top of the steering wheel, I did a quick pop with the handlebars as I passed him, giving him a solid thump in the thigh with the saddlebag. He stumbled and glared, but I was already gone – apparently, his mom never taught him not to play in the street.

With the ugly-American behind us Kris and I continued our leisurely jaunt north, pulling off in Canyon Village for gas, ice-cream and a break from riding. We sat out under the awning and watched folks come in and exit from shopping and commented on the obvious cultural differences between the European and Asian tourists.

After we'd had our fill of watching others, we packed up and headed out. The 19-mile long section of the Grand Loop Road between Canyon Village and Tower-Roosevelt has been under construction since 2002, but I'd heard that it had been completed, but not openly publicized so that was the road we were taking. As soon as we started rolling we were stuck behind a very slow moving pickup, which wouldn't be so bad, but the newly paved road was absolutely perfect in every sense.

The asphalt was a rich black color with fresh yellow and white lines creating intense contrast. The road was also dipping and violently twisting its way up the side of Mount Washburn through a dense cavern of trees. I tried to take it mellow, but at the first opportunity Kris and I both squirted past the pickup that was struggling to make the steep grades.

Free at last, Kris and I started to really ride, pitching the bikes back and forth in time with the road that had a distinct and calming rhythm to it. The Multistrada was right in its element, handling the quick direction and speed changes like an eager and encouraging playmate.

As we neared the top of the 8,900 foot Dunraven Pass, the road neared its climax becoming narrower, tighter and throwing in turns almost faster than I could make the bike change direction. Rising to the ridge line and opening up to a glorious view of the world spread out below us, the road calmed and the best of the corners were now behind us. We'd timed it just right as we'd come up behind a couple of caravanning jeeps right when the road dropped down the eastern slope into long, lazy straight sections.

Euphoric with the experience, it was hard to settle back down into the drowsy National Park pace. As we dropped lower in elevation, the cars began to stack up and I could see some mammalian creatures working their way up the hill. Thinking it was nothing more than an elk and her calves I paid little mind until we came around one last corner and were asked by a park ranger to stop. Looking beyond her I noticed that it was not an elk at all, but an enormous brown bear (Grizzly) with two cubs!

An idling dry clutch makes much more noise when ideling than when underway so I was ready to shut the bike down. The bears, not more than 70 meters away, were making their way towards the road and the rangers were stopping traffic to let them cross. Sweet! I started reaching for the camera when the bears decided to stop and investigate a huckleberry bush, and promptly we were flagged forward – the camera still nestled safely in the tank bag.

I also chose to idle my way down the hill slowly – mostly to extract the greatest amount of time in the vicinity of the rare site. Coasting down the hill, the ranger on the far side started waving at me to hurry up. I kept my sedentary pace and made an "sshhhhh" motion with my hand. He nodded and I was left to maintain my speed. While momma bear was not impressed with the dry clutch, both cubs stopped what they were doing and watched me roll by with intensity, their ears twitching with curiosity.

All the excitement of the past few minutes made it easy to relax and ride along at the dilatory speed of 25mph behind campers and RV's struggling to make it around down-hill corners without flipping over. Few passing opportunities presented themselves so we just settled in and gazed out at the world until we reached Roosevelt Tower where a good portion of the traffic turned off.

The road also opened up revealing more long straight sections giving us the opportunities to get out from behind the belching diesel pickups and overloaded mini-vans spewing their noxious fumes. We ended up stuck behind two riders on GoldWing trikes riding along at the frightfully slow pace of 15mph, slowing even more for the corners. Even the slowest of RV's were getting impatient and they were crowding our saddlebags. We were quick to make an assertive pass and get away from them.

As we reached Mammoth in the North-Western corner of the park, we didn't stop and just pressed on until we were outside of the park gates and in the community of Gardiner, Montana. We stopped to walk around, but most shops appeared closed and we ended up spending our time in Gardiner in the Phillips 66/Subway Sandwiches where we grabbed something to eat before pressing north.

Riding north on Highway 89, the vegetation of Yellowstone Park quickly fell away, leaving only endless hills of shimmering blond grasses reaching off into the horizon. Light, dappled clouds hung in the distance and were never near enough to provide any relief from the cruel heat. The only thing blocking sunlight was the thickening wildfire smoke, coagulating into thick haze the farther north we rode.

Highway 89 runs into I-90, and we made a left turn, riding into the setting afternoon sun at a much faster freeway pace. We really wanted to keep the speeds as low as reasonable to make the tires last as long as possible, but the traffic pressed us to traveling near 90 miles per hour. We obliged mostly just to prevent from getting run down by lorry's racing across the massive Montana landscape.

The dismal heat was extracting its toll on us. Every time we stopped we'd chug down a full liter of water, only to find ourselves desperately needing to pee, while simultaneously wishing for more to drink. We had been racing along I-90, but stopped for a quick break in Manhattan, Montana. Funnily, the town was named by New York City investors who operated the Manhattan Malting Company who'd turned the area into the largest body of productive land between Dakota and the Puget Sound – until prohibition put an end to the profitable beer markets. Now, the miniscule community of Manhattan's most productive industry is potatoes.

We pulled off the freeway to find two manky, little gas-stations. We stopped at the nicer of the two, which isn't saying a whole lot. We filled the tanks and extricated a couple more liters of water before trying not to catch any kind of disease in the filthy restroom, then settled down next to the gas pumps to sip the cold liquid and complain some more about the heat.

It wasn't a nice place to stay, but riding wasn't all that enjoyable either. Fast, straight motorways and repetitive scenery made the miles pass by as slowly as reading War and Peace, only far less interesting. But you don't get anywhere by not doing anything, so we reluctantly pulled on the riding coats and helmets and started out again.

We only had about 15 more miles of freeway before we exited onto Highway 287, the last significant bit of freeway we'd see until we reached Vancouver, ten days from now. Highway 287 was also as straight as an engineer's ruler, stretching to the north underneath a huge Montana sky. Montana feels like, no matter where you are, you are on top of a hill looking back down at everything around you. Also, because there really aren't big mountains, you can see so much farther than other western states. This is why I think the sky looks so big in the Big Sky state.

We raced through the town of Toston, Montana then the slightly larger town of Townsend, Montana. The fields and rows and rows of planted fields, farms, ranches and weather beaten out-buildings streaming past us beneath endlessly blue skies. The only traffic we had to deal with was the occasional tractor using the empty highway to roam between one field to another. The world felt big.

The sun was creeping lower into the sky, and the misty wildfire smoke was growing thicker filling our nostrils and permeating into our lungs. Sunlight turned an eerie shade of orange when shafts of light would escape between clouds and haze. Passing through Winston, Montana an enormous plume of smoke became visible in the distance. The evening heat and an intense dry wind were causing the wildfire to kick up spewing even more of its smoke and haze into the sky. As the road rounded towards the west, the wind grew even more intense and Kris and I were fighting with the motorcycles being batted about, dodging occasional weeds, brush and trash that would cross our path.

Helena was settling in for the evening, and traffic was light. We wandered the edge of town looking for a sign advertising a campground, and found none. So we stopped at an Exxon station where we borrowed a phonebook from the attendant to see what our options were. We found the address to a couple of campgrounds north of town along Montana Avenue. So we headed out with our earplugs still in our pockets, thinking we wouldn't be going far or fast.

Immediately we were stuck in traffic waiting for a very slow moving train to cross through town. We shut down the bikes and roasted in our coats and helmets, sweat stinging our eyes while we waited to get rolling again. Our search for a campground took us to two locations neither of us dared to even stop and ask about – let alone stay for the evening. Instead we got back onto I-15 and raced south into town were we obtained a nights stay at the local Day's Inn.

Little did we know, this was a Day's Inn sort of trip, never before have we stayed in so many of the same brand of Inns. There is, however, some comfort in knowing the minimal room/bath conditions you will receive just by staying at a chain.

~Kris

We found a parking space near the front door, next to a police cruiser. Our experience in Libby, Montana several years ago where all our bikes were knocked over by a couple of prankster hooligans has made us fussy about hotel parking spaces. The wind had calmed but white ash flakes were wafting down on us like a summer snow flurry. It tweaked the senses a bit to be sweating through t-shirts as flakes of white sprinkled down on us.

We checked into the hotel, and I was very nervous about pulling the hard-bags off the Ducati and dragging along narrow hotel corridors. Surprisingly, they were easier to manage that the soft-luggage. We quickly threw off our riding gear and pulled on shorts, clean t-shirts and sandals for our trek to the nearby Albertsons Grocery for a bottle of wine, cheese, crackers, bread, fruit and water to provide us with our evening sustenance.

We woke early, wrapped in the hotel sheets to stave off the intense cold that was billowing out of the hotels air conditioning unit. While chilly, it was nice to finally be free of the heat that had been beating on us the last two days. We ambled our way down for the complimentary Continental Breakfast, watching the news about how wildfires were sweeping the west and the highest summer temperatures in recorded history, then started loading up the bikes.

I asked for a couple of hotel rags to wipe down the bikes. The light coating of ash can pit your paint if it's not promptly cleaned off. Asking for the rags was an invitation for the very friendly and inquisitive kid who sat behind the hotel counter. He was happy to get a break from his duties and used the rags as an opportunity to come out and chat. He was new to riding and had the wide-eyed excitement and naivety of a new rider.

"So, how much power does that bike make"
"The Ducati? Not much, really"
"Ducati? Who makes that?"
"Uhmm, Ducati – It's an Italian company"
"Wow, I didn't know Italy made motorcycles"
"Yeah, well…"
"I have a Suzuki Bullet Bike – well, it's an older bullet bike; an '83 GS1150. But, it's really fast!"
"I'll bet"
"Oh yeah. I'm still saving up for a helmet, but that Ducati sure does look fast!"

Eventually Kris rescued me from the spiraling conversation by announcing our need to "Make it by evening" and we were off. We petered across the parking lot and filled up with gas, then jumped onto I-15 heading directly north, leaving Helena in our mirrors.

The cool evening air had settled down the enormous wildfire off to the east, and it was hard to spot through the hazy air. The cool morning was a pleasant escape from yesterdays afternoon heat. I-15 started out flat and straight, then slowly began to climb into the small mountains north of Helena. Rather than burrowing straight through the hills, I-15 became a fun, sweeping series of corners, darting in-between narrow cliffs and over old steel trellis bridges.

Exit 219 dumps you off the freeway onto the old highway, a wonderful little two-lane treat that skims the flat ground between a mountain on the right and the railroad tracks on the left. It follows the relief of the landscape climbing and dropping over small hills and across empty draws before meeting up with and following the Missouri river. In Craig we returned to the freeway and back-tracked five miles to exit 228 where we ventured north along the a very desolate Highway 287.

Thick smoky air flattened the light, giving the scenery and unearthly feel as we raced north along gently sweeping roads that slipped past abandoned out-buildings and through a sea of cured grass. The mountains spread out before us like wrinkled blankets on an unmade bed. Not a single other car could be seen on the roads and in 50 miles of constant riding we saw fewer than three other living things.

We passed through Augusta, Montana where the town had been overtaken by wildland firefighters and continued north where we encountered our first bit of road construction, and the first taste of dirt road. We had to slow to a miserable 15mph because of the overly cautious pace vehicle. We were fortunate to have arrived just before a behemoth RV so we were at least free from the dirt and debris he was kicking up.

Back on asphalt we did a final push into Choteau, Montana – pronounced Show-Too. We topped off the tanks and stopped for a very nice Latte at "Meeting Grounds Café" where we were able to discuss the local wildfires and significance of Choteau. Interestingly, Choteau is most famous for David Letterman (of late night TV fame) owning a huge ranch just outside of town and discussing the qualities of Choteau during a post 9-11 monologue.

We ended up sitting on a rickety bench located on the main strip and watched the world pass by while we sipped our steaming coffee's. Back to the bikes we rode north-west along 89. The last time we were here was during our first Canadian adventure in 2000, and not much had changed. As we made our way towards Glacier National Park, the smoke started to thin out and we were greeted with some of the first blue skies of the day. A strong wind was blowing and depending on which way were traveling we were fighting off the gusts.

We slowed momentarily for Bynum, Montana and continued our very brisk pace across the empty landscape. A flashing yellow sign warning us to slow down came into view from the horizon, but I paid it little mind until we crested the hill and we both found ourselves in a 45mph corner, only we were traveling quite a bit faster than that and I was very grateful there was no oncoming traffic. Even though I kept the Multistrada to the right of the double-yellow line, it was nice to not have do deal with oncoming traffic. I made a mental note to pay heed to that warning sign in the future.

After the initial sneaky corner, we were graced with the presence of several sweeping corners before the road returned to its flat, straight and bland self. We slowed again very briefly for the town of Dupuyer, Montana and then increased our speed again as we headed directly into the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. Like crossing a magic line, the vegetation degraded from a golden hue to a dingy brown shade. This can even be seen with the areal images available on internet mapping sites! More clapboard residences sprung up along the roads and desolate corals pulled double duty as junkyards for derelict vehicles as well as tired horses.

Looking to the northwest, the smoke seemed to come to an immediate end at the edge of the distant Glacier National Park. Fighting the intensified cross-winds we kept a mindful pace as to not draw attention from the Reservation Cops. Arriving in Browning, Montana we made a left turn of off Highway 89 and onto the smaller Highway 2 where we were immediately greeted with an ominous sign reminiscent of a scene from The Wizard of Oz. Rather than advising "I'd Turn Back if I We're You" this one stated "Road Closed 14 Miles Ahead" and with a frightful degree of foreshadowing, an apocalyptic red cloud of thick smoke darkened the background.

The view started to make me think about Biblical end times, "…the sun will be blackened, the moon will turn red and all mountains and islands will be moved (Joel 2:30-32)". Sudden thoughts of being left behind or missing the rapture came to mind and I started to question where I stood with God. The whole world started to feel surreal and I could imagine the world at the end of days.

~Kris

I pulled over and found that we'd turn off Highway 2 in 13 miles - one mile short of the road closure, so we braved our way forward into the teeth of the forbidding sky. However, the closer we drew to East Glacier Park, Montana the more it became clear that the wildfire would not affect us. The smoke still appeared to be staying clear of the National Park and we watched the skyline in awe at the phenomenon. God beams were pointing directly into the park and we felt confident that we'd chosen the route wisely.

Entering East Glacier Park, we made a quick right turn and came to an abrupt stop to allow an ambulance come through a narrow and tatty underpass painted in aging but once-brightly colored American Indian shades. Free to roll-on we crossed to the other side and were greeted with an enormous lodge on the left side of the road; its enormity was overwhelming.

We were only taking this smaller state Highway 49 on a suggestion from ADVRider.com. Someone said that it as a better way to get into the park as opposed to the more mainstream Highway 89. East Glacier Park was proving to be a bit of a hidden secret, at least to us. We ambled our way past the touristy shacks and "trading posts" and tipped into the first corner and came upon a dump-truck stopped directly in the center of the lane. I skimmed past it and found myself looking at the rear bumper of a patrol cruiser with lights flashing; accident. The cop turned and started to scowl at me, but I had the motor shut down before he could question my intentions to stop and wait until directed to do otherwise.

When we were rolling the temperatures were warm but tolerable, but now that we were stopped and sitting in the sun we were baking. Another ambulance flew past us heading back towards East Glacier Park and we were allowed to progress. Into the second corner we saw the carnage. Sport bikes were parked along the road and a decimated Silver SV1000 was being hoisted out of trees. Dressed all in full-leather rompers with virginal knee-pucks there stood a clan of middle-aged men with blank looks on their faces. None of them paid us any mind as we headed off.

These guys had made it to the second turn, a very gentle sweeping turn, before crashing. The road climbed steeply along a narrow swath of tree's obscuring any views. The road, however, was delightful. The clean asphalt was a bit bumpy with occasional, gentle frost swells the size of Volkswagens, but almost violent in its turning and twisting nature. This was the road bikes like the Multistrada was made for. The long travel suspension devoured the heaves and swells without unsettling the bike and the wide bar, upright seating position gave me an elevated and clear view of the road a head.

Then I had to stop. The view was too good to pass by. A break in the tree's at a narrow, gravel pull-out revealed an image of Glacier National Park I'd seen many times but never knew from where the image had been taken. We climbed off the bikes and extricated the camera's to grab snaps. Highway 49 would have been a most excellent and worthwhile tip if the road ended here. We were overlooking Medicine Lake with the Flathead Glacier off in the distance. We were awestruck and giddy and took far too many photos.

Returning to the bikes, the traffic-free road continued along its gyrating path getting increasingly technical as we climbed higher in elevation. Not only was Highway 49 proving to be a great little road, it would be best traveled from South to North, the direction we were going so that most of the technical aspects would be met while riding up-hill.

Turning our backs to Medicine Lake, the road crested and dropped over a ridge line, heading East and downhill into much more open and flowing corners that clung to the side of the hill slope. We reached a T-intersection and re-connected with Highway 89 again, and began a long, slow climb. The road was wider but still offered enough cornering opportunities to keep us delightfully amused. The road stretched up and through long, open valleys that looked like they were long ago carved out by slow moving ice. In contrast to Highway 49, there was very little vegetation.

The road continued to climb and since we were back on Highway 89 we now had to deal with more traffic, however light it was. The occasional pickup or car was quickly picked off, but we ended up behind a series of five or six cruisers meandering their way towards the front gates of Glacier.

Our attitude with passing is that we wish not to have any kind of affect on the vehicles we are going around. We try to be very considerate and never do anything that will cause another vehicle to move, slow or brake because of us. As a result, we expect the same consideration. Drivers have every right to travel at whatever speeds they wish – I'm not here to pass judgment or play police force. However this was not the attitude of these cruiser riders who swerved out to block our passing. While we were still able to use our bikes' power to weight advantages to get away cleanly, this still made us very sad because we've always felt bikes were all part of the same team; sadly, not so much anymore.

As we dropped down towards St. Mary, Montana, the evidence of the 2003 wildfire season that swept through more than 10% of Glacier was everywhere. Blackened stands of tree's stood like grim reapers, reminders that 50 years of total fire suppression by public land management agencies was not such a wise idea.

To the Blackfeet Indians, this area was thought of as the "Backbone of the World" and was visited often during "Vision Quests" until 1895 when Chief White Calf sold the area to the U.S. Government for $1.5 million. It was eventually established as Forest Reserve and then a National Park by 1910.

We stopped in St. Mary, Montana for fuel and a cool beverage. We skipped the larger gas station located at the intersection an opted for a smaller station just north. We did this mostly to avoid the aforementioned cruiser riders and were relived when they did indeed stop at the larger gas station, preventing any unwanted confrontation.

After filling our tanks, we sat out under the shade of the awning sipping our cold water while some tourists from Ohio started asking about our bikes. Well informed and interesting questions lead to a very enjoyable discussion about the risks of motorcycling, the values of protective gear and the disadvantages of low-slung cruisers when the road changes direction frequently.

Ready to roll, we started off heading directly west into the park on Going to the Sun Highway. This incredible feat of construction climbs 2,400 feet to 6,700 feet, and then drops another 3,700 feet back to the valley floor on the western edge of the Livingston Mountain Range. Construction of the road began in 1921 and was completed 11-years later in 1932 costing an astonishing sum of $2.5 million in 1920's dollars.

We found it to be no surprise that the road is one of the most difficult roads to snowplow in the spring. Up to 80 feet of snow can lie on top of the Pass, and more just east of the pass where the deepest snowfield has long been referred to as the "Big Drift". So infamous is this "drift", it even has a page on Wikipedia dedicated to it. The road takes about ten weeks to plow, even with equipment that can move 4000 tons of snow in an hour clear as little as 500 feet of road in a day.

As soon as we were through the entrance gate, thankful of our Interagency Parks Pass that got us through without having to shell out another $40.00 for two motorcycles, our cameras came out of the cases and we started taking scads of photos while still rolling along.

Riding past St. Mary Lake and looking up to the majestic peaks in the distance we were delighted to be experiencing such clear weather. Not even the smoke from all the wildfires was doing much to obscure the views.

We did a few stops at pullouts, but were having so much fun we didn't want to stop for long, but still wanted to catch every fleeting moment. Snapping pics with my clutch hand, I was already getting bored at the limited number of angles and photos that lacked any real subject aside from the scenery. Thinking back to my love of the Dukes of Hazzard television show, and the great shots of the tires busting along dirt roads, blasting through dried leaves while fleeing from Deputy Roscoe P. Coltrane I was inspired. Wrapping the camera strap around my wrist, I hung my left arm low, pointing the camera forward and angling it towards the front wheel, all while keeping my right hand steady on the throttle and steering, I grabbed a quick snap.

The slow roads of Glacier were the perfect place to prefect this experimental practice. I was able to pull the camera back up and see the results on the large screen on the back of the camera without any real duress. The first shot was awesome! The front wheel of the Ducati spinning, the road whizzing below and Going to the Sun peak towering 9,200 feet above sea level! I was delighted with the results and stared taking photographs like there was no tomorrow (forget an additional two weeks left of the trip).

We reached the summit and stopped at the visitor center where we were happy to see that Glacier had seen fit to prepare some parking spots just for us. Packed between large wooden pillars and surrounded by concrete to prevent side-stand sinkage – the area was cordoned off as "motorcycles only." It made us happy.

Kris was getting hungry and I was hoping there'd be some sort of restaurant. I was wrong and Kris was not too happy with having to wait even longer for an overdue lunch.

"Hangry" is the appropriate term coined by a good friend when his wife was pregnant. It refers to ones mood when hungry turns into a form of angry. Since termed, many women and men have both nodded in agreement to the word and were glad to hear it was a normal "problem."

~Kris

It didn't stop us from walking around and getting some photos of the local wildlife, including a couple of big-horn sheep who were hamming it up for all the tourists.

We returned to the parking lot just in time to watch a heard of bikers come ambling in. They had their bikes stereo's blaring to compete with their loud-pipes. However, no two radios were playing the same song. The peace of the quiet environment was shattered by the bedlam of these happy travelers. And like so many times before, everyone seemed to stop what they were enjoying to see what was causing the racket and there was Kris and I with our helmets in our hands. I took a photo of the offensive riders then we pulled on our helmets and fled.

Just past the visitor center the road opens up to a huge expanse overlooking the entire world below. While 6,700 doesn't sound that impressive, when it's almost 4,000 feet to the valley floor, its sure looks impressive. The road hangs onto the side of the mountain and switchbacks its way down to keep the grades manageable. A two-foot tall rock wall is all that separates the traffic from the precipitous drop to imminent doom.

A major reconstruction program has been underway for several years rebuilding the rock wall around reinforced concrete. Seems a few too may modern, massive SUV's had been able to punch through the Conservation Corps rock work and learned the hard way that all those safety features like crumple zones and curtain air-bags don't do much when you are airborne, plummeting off the edge of a mountain.

We got to stop for the construction at one point and we were amazed at the workers hanging off the sides of these cliffs like window cleaners with masonry tools instead of squeegee's. When we were rolling we got to watch as the aforementioned massive, modern SUV's crowd over the center lane so as to keep a good 8-foot gap between their vehicle and rock walls, forcing us to ride the white line. It didn't make me happy because that lane is all we got.

The construction also stacked us up with a bunch of cars and we spent the rest of the ride down parading along with the rest of the tourists until we reached one of the pullouts we'd stopped at seven years ago. We stopped to partake in the glaciers, bluish green, yet crystal clear waters. But Kris was in her only negative state; hangry. I was quick to not dawdle too long and continue forth in search of food.

We found a park pizza place at the eastern edge of Lake McDonald. The heat at the bottom of the mountain was oppressive and we were already missing the cooler mountain climes. Even the Pizza joint was intensely hot inside and we were fanning ourselves with menus and slurping ice-water in our attempts to cool down.

After eating we rode out of the park and made a right turn back onto Highway 2. Within less than a mile I noticed a campground sign, so we busted a u-turn and entered the gates of the aptly named Glacier Campground. A narrow, crumbly asphalt driveway seemed to climb endlessly between thick trees before eventually opening up into a meadow that housed the main office. A few campsites were barely visible in the trees at the edge of the clearing. It was clean and charming. We'd found the place to stop for the evening.

After discussing the owners irresistably affectionate dogs, Pork Chop and Skeeter, and the worst heat that anybody could remember we were given the map to our campsite – "one of my favorites" the owner promised. We followed more crumbly asphalt to our site and were very happy with our accommodations. The site had the traditional car-pull-in and picnic table, but the tent site was located up on a small shelf. It was ineffable. We quickly broke camp then scampered off for a cold shower before settling in with a bottle of wine and then turning in for the evening.

The most entertaining part of the evening happened as we were winding down, enjoying the beautiful campground and a bottle of "Blind Curve" chardonnay. Dave had just taken off his motorcycle boots and was relaxing in the evening sunset as a little puppy ran up and stole one of his smelly socks. The puppy came out of nowhere grabbed and ran. I laughed so hard I couldn't help Dave in the least as he ran after and fought for his sock. Silly me, I told Dave he should have let the dog have it but Dave looked at me like I was out of my mind and stated that it was a new sock.

~Kris

Waking up, our first order of business after breaking down camp was breakfast. We rode the mile back to West Glacier and wandered into a touristy restaurant adorned with log walls and white linens. The staff was overworked, and we patiently waited for our table and then our meals refusing to succumb to the temptation of complaining. Such behavior would only add more stress to our poor waitress. To keep our coffee cups full, I would merely walk into the waitress station and quickly borrow and return the coffee pot.

Despite the wait, the pancakes, oatmeal, omelets and bacon we shared were outstanding, but the morning was quickly slipping away. Kris ventured into the grocery nestled next to the restaurant while I moved the bikes across the street to the gas station that had a compressed air hose snaking out of the wall next to the restrooms. With all the recent elevation change and changes in pressure our tires were definitely in need for a bit of air.

With fresh air in the tires, full tanks of gas and oil levels confirmed, we mounted up and rode into Whitefish, Montana by following Highway 2, until it intersected with Highway 93 where we turned north towards Canada.

Morning riding was proving to be the most enjoyable. It was still cool, although not cold, and the smoke from persistent summer wildfires was harder to detect. We trundled up our way along the moderately direct route past an endless sea of pine-trees lining the edge of the asphalt.

We made a quick stop in Eureka, Montana for the last tank full of cheap American gas and then sat out on a small bench in front of the station while we snacked and sipped cold water, watching the locals and occasional tourist, commenting on the atmosphere of the insular town.

The final stretch of American road to the port at Rooseville was without a single bend. We ended up stuck behind a camper and made one last pass before arriving at the border. We were several cars back and got to wait for a good twenty minutes before our turn. We welcomed the break, removed our helmets, pulled out our passports and switched our digital gauges to the metric system, soaking up the last of the morning sunshine. Gunfire could be heard emanating out of the nearby tree-line and we could only guess at the intention. When it was finally our turn, I was advised that the passport made things much easier for the border guards, and then I was warmly welcomed to the world’s second largest nation.

Road signs immediately told us to "thinkmetric" and offered quick conversions between miles per hour and kilometers per hour. I thought it nice that modern motorcycles and digital meters allow switching between the two systems.

Canadian Highway 93 continued along the same drearily straight path as the American version, but the scenery began to change almost immediately. Enormous mountains loomed before us to the north, revealing the southern appendages of Banff National Park and the Kootenay Mountain Ranges.

Within a few miles, we made a left turn onto Highway 93/3 that runs westward and eventually north to avoid the towering Kootenay Mountains to the east and the equally impressive Purcell Mountains to the west.

Highway 93/3, and eventually 93/95, was a bit of a distraction. It’s only a two-lane highway, but was essentially a motorway. Clogged with lorry’s and limited passing zones, traffic congealed into caravans lumbering along keeping out of sight of passing communities hidden behind thick walls of trees. Loosely following the banks for the river like Lake Koocanusa, I was continually scanning my inadequate map for alternative routes that would take us off the frenetic highway.

I found a couple side routes; Fenwick Road and Wolf Creek Road offered less traffic and a closer connection to the terrain. Climbing and dropping over the contours, providing views of healthy riparian areas and thick brambles of vegetation.

By the time we reached Skookumchuck (which sounds an awful lot like a pet name) we were forced back onto the main highway where we were once again forced to contend with fast traveling big-rig trucks and the violent wind-gusts they create.

As we raced north, trying to take in the surrounding scenery we found ourselves at the foot of Columbia Lake and we had to stop to take a break, as well as a few pictures of the headwaters of the Columbia River. Hunger encouraged our continued progress, and the large pullout afforded enough space to rapidly accelerate to freeway speeds before merging back onto the two-lane motorway.

In 2000 I had found the delectable Westside Road, just south of Fairmont Hot Springs, that circumvented even more of 93/95 – but my inadequate road map made it impossible to find the road this time and we were forced to stay on 93/95.

We found ourselves within the boundaries of the Columbia Lake Indian Reserve and not long after that the Sushwap Indian Reserve. Contrast to American Indian Reservations, the Canadian counterpart was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding communities. The Reserves were dotted with immaculate golf-courses and resorts as opposed to the clapboard houses and cadaverous dogs and horses in America.

As we neared Radium Hot Springs, traffic seemed to come out of nowhere encumbering already overworked roads. When we were here in 2000, Radium Hot Springs was a quiet and quaint little place – now it was mobbed with vehicles of every size, shape and condition; most of them queuing for fuel at the town’s two burdened gas stations.

We stopped to grab a sandwich at a place called "Screamers" located on the main drag. While giving our sandwich orders I asked the young sandwich shop gal about the growth. A scowl quickly grew on her face and she described with passion and disdain the recent influx of developers and the resulting constant construction of the hated "condo".

The Location of Radium Hot Springs at the south-western entrance to Kooteney National Park (and eventually Banff National Park) and housing some of the most popular hot springs in the area, made it the perfect place to build a tourist town. The locals, as did we, missed the Radium Hot Springs of the past.

The springs, from which the town gets its name, ironically are unique for having the lowest levels of the radioactive material, radium, in the world. The 1964 famous Alaska earthquake caused the water of the hot springs to decrease in temperature and become muddied with sediment for about ten days. Funny how connected the world can sometimes be.

After our sandwich and ice-cream, and a couple great conversations with locals about the cost of Canadian motorcycles compared to American motorcycles and the cost of a root beer float these days, we became increasingly more grateful for American prices. The fact that the American dollar was so gosh-darned weak (only about six-cents more value than the Canadian dollar) made the price differences all the more significant to us.

We battled with the local congestion for fuel, and then rode out of town to the east and into the throat of Sinclair Canyon. Within a few k’s (kilometers) we stopped at the entrance gate to Kootenay National Park. The cost of traveling in Canada was once again brought to the surface as Kris and I paid just shy of $20 dollars for 24-hours of access to the series of National Parks.

Kootenay National Park’s most dominant feature is the towering mountains of exposed, faulted sedimentary rock and valleys brimming with glacial till. Sinclair Canyon is the first taste of this as Highway 93 carves a narrow path through a foreboding slot canyon. In some places there is barely enough room for two lanes of traffic.

Before we even traveled 5 k’s we came across a lone bighorn sheep munching grass right by the side of the road. I slowed to grab a snap, but a lorry hauling aggregate was coming up from behind us a frightful pace so we pressed forth.

As the road seemed like it could climb no more, it made a sharp turn to the north and opened up to an endless valley stretching as far as we could see. A pullout was crowded with cars and campers, but we had to stop. Even though we’d been here before, the view was just as marvelous as if we were seeing it for the very first time.

Surprising, the traffic we’d been fighting with all day seemed to dissolve and we, for the most part, had the roads to ourselves. We drank in the scenery trying to absorb as much of it as possible. Highway 93 made another abrupt turn to the north-east as it again started climbing out from the bottom of the valley. Temperatures plummeted and I found myself wishing for another layer and closed vents on the jacket.

We linked up with Highway 1/93 and turned south-east and followed the Bow River down into Banff National Park, and eventually Banff. We found a small pullout near Healy Creek that offered a spectacular view of Mount Rundle. The mountain was named after Robert Rundle – a Wesleyan Methodist missionary from England known mostly for his missionary work in the area in the 1840’s and for being one of the first to wander amongst the "First Nations" (Canadian Indians) offering services in Cree.

We avoiding dilly-dallying and started looking for a campground, finding one about 5 k’s out of town. Plopping down a mere $3.00 gave us access and we were surprised that we were able to find a place to camp so quickly.

This campsite was surprisingly inexpensive for the area, but had no showers and wasn’t allowing any food in because of the bear population. Large signs, brochures and pamphlets were everywhere. Adding to my concern, a rare black-bear attack back home in Utah claimed the life of a young boy a few months earler. This knowledge did nothing to ease my fears.

~Kris

Setting up camp, we quickly realized why; the mosquitoes. Demonic manifestations of hell itself, these vile creatures preyed upon our flesh with relentless resolve. Our “natural and organic” bug spray seemed to only challenge them to try harder and we scurried about setting up camp as quickly as we could just so we could retreat to town for relief.

Kris took up pillion, leaving the Z behind and we meandered back into town under a waning northern sunset that seemed to last hours. Banff was first settled in the 1880’s after the transcontinental railway was build through the area and was named after the current Canadian Railway director’s birthplace, Banffshire, Scotland. How random is that?

Since then it has become one of Canada’s most popular tourist destinations, hosting the alpine events of the 1988 Olympic Winter Games. The town was actually administered by the Government of Canada’s national parks until it was finally incorporated in 1990.

Meandering our way back into town we were immediately disappointed. The town was shredded and infested with towering, two and a half meter tall, temporary fencing blocking views and access to the central areas of town. Seems the town was replacing the sewer system (how romantic) and we managed to visit during the height of the reconstruction.

The highlight of the construction was an information booth explaining a campaign featuring fuzzy, cartoon mascots performing every level of the work. We were given buttons depicting squirrels painting or laying concrete and handed brochures explaining and apologizing for the mess.

With the aura of the town diluted by jack-hammers and the incessant beeping of vehicles in reverse we tried to make the best of it – wandering through a few tourist shops before escaping to a second story restaurant/bar where we filled up on some Italian from our a restaurant we had been to in our last visit and washed it down with excellent local beer. We returned to the street and sought out the Provincial Liquor store where we were allowed to buy a bottle of wine before heading back to camp.

The highlight of the cold ride back to camp was coming across a coyote crossing the street. Dave immediately came to stop, but niether of us thought much about the dry clutch rattling, and wondered why the Coyote stood at the tree-line and yelped at us. Dave shut down the bike, quiteing the dry clutch, and the Coyote seemed to relax, watched us for a moment longer, then ran into the woods.

~Kris

We set out to sip wine and fill out postcards but the onslaught of mosquitoes came at us like an armada of miniature vampire’s intent on sucking the life out of our veins. Prodigal applications of bug repellent did nothing to abate the attacks and we soon surrendered the battle and sought peace within the confines of our tent.

I drank my wine quickly and wrote postcards even quicker not realizing I had consumed almost the full bottle. By the middle of the night, heading to the bathroom became an adventure as I realized just how much I had to drink, and the alcohol impairment only fueled my concern about the earlier warning about bears in the area.

~Kris

We spent the night burrowed into our sleeping bags to stave off the northern cold. Icy noses and sharp air made it hard to climb out of the bags – dashing to get dressed. Overnight, thick clouds had moved in, masking off the sky and coating everything with a layer of moisture, seemingly making the morning feel even colder.

The campsite was nestled into a narrow canyon near Johnson Lake, and the morning felt dark and early despite having risen at a reasonable 8am. As soon as the bikes were loaded, and were ensured our jacket vents were closed we rolled out as quietly as possible as to not wake any other campers.

Rather than hop onto the Trans Canada Motorway, we idled through Banff one last time on our way out of town. We crossed underneath the motorway, and my mediocre Canadian map steered my wrong once again. Thinking we’d be taking a frontage road, we mistakenly found ourselves climbing steeply up Mt. Norquay Road. A series of technically steep switchbacks seemed to be taking us up towards a ski resort instead of north into the throat of the National Parks.

Realizing the error, we found a reasonable turnaround point that also offered some stunning views of Banff quietly resting under a blanket of dissipating clouds. We grabbed a handful of snaps and then made our way back down the steep grades, returning to Highway 1 for a few kilometers, then taking the correct exit onto Highway 1A, the Bow Valley Parkway.

By avoiding the faster motorway, we were enjoying slower speeds and less wind-chill. Both Kris and I were amazed by the intense cold – made more intense by the record high temperatures we’d been dealing with up until now. The Bow Valley Parkway meanders through a narrow swath of towering pine trees. Thick underbrush obscures the views into the thick woods and since most autos prefer the faster and more direct motorway, we found ourselves mostly alone, slowing only once for a coyote and her cubs watching us from the edge of a grassy clearing.

We’d skipped breakfast in favor of finding the same restaurant/resort hotel we’d stumbled on last time we were here. It was farther away than I remembered and we’d traveled almost 60k’s before we arrived. The place looked deserted and we were desperate for hot coffee and the Canadian breakfast staple; flapjacks.

Despite being the only guests in the restaurant, we were warmly greeted and our mugs were kept full while we waited for breakfast and for our camera batteries to charge in a nearby power outlet. The pancakes and bacon were as good as I’d remembered and we left happy with full bellies as well as full batteries.

The 1A ends abruptly at Lake Louise and we were forced back to Highway 1 for a few K’s before we turned north onto Highway 93, known as "Promenade De Glaciers" or "Icefields Parkway" by the locals. Almost immediately the views doubled in magnificence and we were riding beneath lumbering glaciers and jagged grey peaks stabbing into the blue morning sky. For the next 230 kilometers we would be spoiled by a continuous display of natural beauty that is impossible to describe with my limited vocabulary. It is someplace that must be seen.

The still morning air ensured that not a ripple was allowed across the surface Bow Lake, where we began our photographic extravaganza. It was here that we encountered “the ugly American” or “Mr. Grumpy” as we’ll call him.

After leapfrogging him and his wife riding shakily on big cruisers, we passed them on a long-downhill stretch that afforded a clear view for miles and miles. We made the mistake of passing him on a double-yellow line – even though the four of us were the only vehicles in sight.

As we rolled past, Mr. Grumpy took two fingers and violently waved them down towards the yellow lines. “Yes, yes we see them – thanks” and we kept on going paying little mind to it, other than I hoped we wouldn’t stop at the same turn-out anytime soon as I wanted to avoid any kind of confrontation.

But halfway through the park there is a single place to get gas, where Icefields Parkway junctions with David Thompson Highway. 290km is barely doable on a single tank of fuel (about 180miles), so pretty much all the motorcycles stop here for fuel. While fueling up, my fears about Mr. Grumpy came true.

He was a tall man, over six feet tall with a bald head and a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck. Dressed in the cruiser uniform of black chaps and traditional biker jacket he looked the part. While attentively dispersing fuel into the tanks of our bikes I heard a booming, baritone voice; "So, I guess in Utah the double-yellow line has no meaning!"

Now I wish I would have said “Yep, we consider them to be guidelines more than rules”. But such witty banter only comes to me well after the confrontation has ended. Instead the best I could manage was "Did I cause you or your wife any cause for alarm? Did I do anything that risked either of your safety?" He was quick to respond with; “No, but your giving bikers a bad name”

At which point I was already bored with the conversation and just turned back to the task at hand and ignored him. There was so much I thought to say later, such as "Oh, but going half the posted limit because you can’t ride gives ‘bikers’ a good name" or "Who made you the president of the Motorcycling Image Council". Instead, I blew him off. However the kid manning the gas pump quietly whispered to me “What an assh*le!” so I felt a little better about it.

The worst part about this was that it was all Kris and I could think about for the next hour. We replayed the scenario over and over again, came up with great comebacks and tried to justify his actions; maybe he was a cop on holiday, so he couldn’t let it go, maybe he was just an angry little man – we don’t know. But we fully subscribe to the live and let live principle. We go to great lengths to ensure that our riding has no affect on anybody else. We strive to allow everyone to experience the world however they see fit. Perhaps that’s why we were so bothered. We passed carefully, and had he minded his own business, his vacation would have continued as though we were never there.

The southern half of the park is more epic and becomes increasingly mellow the closer you get to Jasper. We stopped less frequently and took fewer photos as we rode; only taking one small side-route onto the smaller and less traveled Highway 93A. The side-route was a nice distraction. It was narrower, smaller and in a worse state of repair, but didn’t offer much more in the way of scenery. Thick vegetation stopped just short of the white line and obscured views, only offering the rare and brief glimpse of an adjacent river.

Returning to 93 for a few k’s, the road terminates at a junction with Highway 16. We turned left and rode into Jasper. We meandered our way up the main drag, passed cute storefronts advertising everything from antiques, souvenirs to coffee, with an occasional drug-store, real-estate front or grocery thrown in for good measure.

We’d been chilly riding all day, but the girls were wearing short skirts and tank tops, while the boys were adorned in baggy shorts and t-shirts. As soon as we stopped moving, we understood why. Without wind rushing past, the sun’s rays saturated us with warmth, and we quickly pulled the jackets and helmets and left them on the bikes while we wandered off savoring the first warmth of the day.

We grabbed an organic coffee and organic lunch, did some trinket shopping and most importantly purchased a stuffed bear. Years ago we started brining home stuffed toys for our beloved dog, Jake. For years they would make the trip crammed into an empty corner of our luggage, but one year I lazily strapped a stuffed buffalo on top of the luggage. The stuffed toy sat exposed to the world for the remainder of the trip and upon presentation to Jake, he burrowed his face in it, smelling all the places we’d been while away. He also played with the toy differently from his other toys, never actually destroying or disemboweling the stuffed critter.

So while there was room for the stuffed black bear, I bungeed him to the back seat of the Multistrada, fearing that I would get roused and teased at every stop for taking a black bear along as a passenger. However, over the remainder of our trip, nothing was ever said to me about my fuzzy co-pilot.

Our original plan was to spend the night in Jasper, but it was still early and we decided to start making our way towards Tête Jaune Cache for the evening. Once back onto the motorway, we raced west into the afternoon. The last of the towering grey peaks now behind us, the landscape fell to a rumpled, hilly terrain with a thick coating of endless pine trees. Once out of the park, the number of Lorries began to increase and we were soon dashing along a crowded two-lane thoroughfare battling intense turbulence from all the large traffic.

Tête Jaune Cache was named after a blond headed fur trapper who did guide work for the Hudson Company in the 1800’s, Pierre Hastination. He was given the nickname Tête Jaune by the French – meaning “yellow head”.

Just before reaching Tête Jaune Cache, we pulled into a rest area where I hoped to get some information about the area, a better map, but mostly to take a break from the rapid pace we’d been running. Unlike any American rest area I’d know, it was immaculately clean. A group of people were playing Frisbee in an enormous grassy area and families sat at picnic tables eating early dinners and pining over maps.

We wandered into the visitor center where half of buildings wall-space was dedicated to BCFerries. I started asking about the ferry between Prince Rupert and Port Hardy. Our plan was to catch the Inside Passage ferry to save us a thousand of miles of backtracking back south. The BC Ferries website (since updated) made it sound like it would be as easy as showing up the morning of the trip. However, we were quickly informed that the Inside Passage ferry only runs every-other-day (as opposed to twice a day as advertised on their website) and that it was booked solid for the next month and a half.

Apparently, in March of 2006 the M/V Queen of the North ferry sank with over 100 people on board when it ran aground on Gil Island about 70 miles south of Prince Rupert setting back traffic for over a year until a replacement ferry was put into service.

The young lady working the counter made a series of phone calls that were on the verge of begging for passage for two motorcycles. Our best chance of getting onto the ferry was to arrive in Prince Rupert a full day earlier than we originally planned and get on the standby list. Arriving early would also give us the chance to try again two days later. Or we could ride back on the same roads way we in on. We didn’t like the idea of having to come back the same way – but were willing to chance it. Unable to secure passage for our motorcycles, we paid for passage for just ourselves and hoped that I’d be able to work something out when the time came – thinking back to how Danny used to be able to get us into National Parks for free.

In the meantime, we now had to push our plans forward by a day – which meant we’d have to at least make Prince George by tonight, almost 300 k’s (190 miles) from where we now stood. With sunlight starting to get in short supply, we thanked the BC Ferries worker, asked them to update their website information and set forth staring straight into the setting sun.

Highway 16, also known as the Yellowhead Highway, runs directly north-east and is about the only road between here and there. We expected more crowded two-lane travel with lots of wind-gusts but were soon riding in total solace. After 62 k’s (40 miles) of riding, we entered into the town of McBride where stopped for gas, water and some sugar. McBride would be the last bit of civilization until we reached Price George, still more than 210 k’s (130 miles) away.

McBride was an exceedingly charming little town (despite the argument we were overhearing between the Gas Station owner and a former employee). McBride is located on the very edge of the world’s only inland, temperate rainforest. The trees in the area are over 1,000 years old with no evidence of disturbance. It’s isolated and densely vegetated terrain has made the town popular with Mennonites and American draft dodgers who make up the majority of the towns sub-800 population.

With little time to spare, we were forced to leave McBride behind us and continue forth towards Prince George. The road was desolate and newly paved. Smooth asphalt cut a ribbon through an endless sea of trees. So thick were the tree’s that nothing else could be seen from the saddle and we were left trying to balance keeping our speeds below 120kph (75mph) to save the tires and an urgent desire to reach Prince George before it grew dark. I suspected wildlife do not hesitate to cross this empty road at will. At one point we rode for over 100 k’s without seeing a single other living thing, aside from pine-tree’s and constant accumulation of mosquito carcasses on every leading edge. Not even a single oncoming vehicle in 100 k’s. The emptiness was unreal, awesome and somewhat unnerving. The only sign of human presence were the power lines that followed the same route as the road.

Attempting to document the desolation, I was taking photos along the way until the density of mosquitoes surpassed the miniscule size of my camera lens. My only entertainment was now obscured by a dead mosquito carcass. As the sun drooped ever lower, the spattering of bugs on our visors became problematic and we were forced to stop and remove them as best as we could.

Stopping proved to be risk in and of itself. For a few moments it was amazingly quiet – without a single sound of any kind. Then the bee’s showed up, creeping from the fringes of the forest to feed on the dead that clung to the fronts of the bikes. Once the bee’s showed up we only had a minute or two before swarms of mosquitoes, attracted to our carbon-dioxide and lactic acid, came out of the skies like a scene from a World War II documentary. We felt like vulnerable aircraft carriers beneath a swarm of kamikaze, dive-bombing Japanese Zero’s. We ran for cover accordingly.

Thankful for the long northern sunsets, we crested over one last rise, Prince George finally coming into view. Thankful for the presence of other humans and the comforts that come with it such as fuel, food and DEET, we sighed in relief.

Prince George, or at least the eastern edge of Prince George is, well, not so very nice. It was somewhat industrial and run down and just as desolate as the last 300 km’s despite it being the largest city in Northern BC. We wandered our way towards the tallest buildings and found the same level of emptiness. Only the occasional pedestrian could be seen wandering, giving the city a post-apocalyptic feel.

Trying to find a sensible place to spend the night we parked in front of one of nicest hotels we could find; a Days Inn located on a narrow street with crumbling curbs and directly across from a construction site. As soon as we walked through the front door, we were greeted like long lost family. We were immediately given the corporate discount and told that we should park the bikes on the sidewalk, in the front window so they would be looked after all night long. We were also told, about six times, how great it was to have the construction site across the street because that meant there would be twice as many security cameras pointed at our bikes.

After a long day of riding I was looking forward to a quaint town that my imagination told me would resemble Victoria…boy was I wrong. The comfort of knowing what to expect from a chain style hotel helped with the unease of the surrounding city.

~Kris

How could we say no? We checked in and carried our luggage upstairs to our room where we enjoyed the untainted northern sunset from our hotel room window. We raced down to the hotel lounge for something to eat, only to discover they had stopped serving food. The waitress recommended we walk two blocks to a local brew-pub called “Shooters Bar and Grill,” a local sports bar that hosts several local hockey leagues.

The walk to Shooters was a little unnerving, although it wasn’t really late but already dark, there were no pedestrians on the street. If it hadn’t been recommended we make the journey I wouldn’t have gone assuming the streets were not the safest place to journey out.

~Kris

We sat down with the locals, and chatted with the friendly, young waitress who was the spitting image of a blond Hilary Duff. The Bacon Swiss burger was exceptional and the local beer even better. We retired to our room utterly and completely exhausted after having traveled over 700kms since this morning.

With some of the pressure to make miles alleviated, we started the day out at a little less frenetic pace than how we ended the day before. We went downstairs and had breakfast in the hotel while we watched the first television news we’d seen in days. We watched in shock as Canadian reporters discussed the I-35W Bridge over the Mississippi in Minneapolis collapsing during rush hour the evening before, plunging dozens of cars and their occupants into the river.

We also learned that it was going to be a long weekend because residents of British Columbia were celebrating BC Days – the first Monday in August. When we asked what BC Days were, we were told by the affable waitress that it was a long weekend so folks could take their boat to the lake a few times because summers are so short.

After lugging our gear back down to the unmolested bikes, we roared off to the west. Today we would arrive in Alaska! As we left downtown Prince George and got closer to the University of Northern British Columbia, the town become much more appealing. Cleaner with up kept storefronts and tidy streets; we wished we would have gone a little farther into town before choosing our hotel.

Town seemed to end abruptly as we rode west on the Trans Canadian Highway, Highway 16. It was 100k’s until the next town of Vanderhoof. Riding past immaculate agricultural fields and endless sea of pine trees, we came upon a lone cruiser rider. We came up on him fairly fast, but once he saw us in his mirrors, he increased his pace to stay in front. His clapped-out Honda Shadow was straining at the higher speeds (about 110kph – 70mph) billowing blue smoke as it went. Occasionally we’d come across slow moving weekend traveler traffic and we’d hear the old Honda roar to near red-line to make the pass. We were worried about the motor blowing up on the poor bloke.

As we dropped into the very quaint town of Vanderhoof the first stoplight turned red and we watched in horror as the guy on the cruiser locked his rear tire and slid into the intersection. He looked over at us sheepishly – no gloves, no glasses and tearstains streaking his sunburned face.

We continued to follow him for the next 40 k’s until he finally pulled in for gas at Fort Frasier. Happy for the larger fuel tanks on our bikes we continued forth and I saw him watch us go by with a sincere look of disappointment on his face. We stopped 20 k’s later in Frasier Lake for fuel at a Chevron Station.

The temperatures were cool and we were happy to be free from the frightful cruiser that looked as though it could explode at any instant. While we were getting bottles of water in the gas station, our friend on the Shadow pulled into the restaurant across the street and walked in. I was a little bit thankful our bikes were on the far side of the Chevron station, out of his line of sight.

Sitting in the warm sun, we savored the freedom of nothing to do and nowhere to be. Moments like this are what vacations are about. We watched locals stream in, preparing for their longer weekend at the lake – just like the waitress had explained earlier. It was early August and while back home the temperatures were soaring into triple-digits about 40-degrees Celsius, it was roughly 20-degrees Celsius where we were (68-degrees Fahrenheit) and we couldn’t imagine climbing into a lake in these cold temperatures.

After leaving Frasier Lake, there was virtually no other traffic. There were many more small communities we were passing through – some of the most adorable small towns we’ve ever visited. They were all tidy and clean although somewhat worn from the long winters. Charming names matched the communities. Names like Endako, Topley and Telkwa that must have some delightful significance that we never stopped to learn, giving us another excuse to return.

Smithers was a full 214 k’s from Fraser Lake and most of those miles the terrain was flat and agricultural – even if the agricultural use was logging. Billions of pine-tree’s lined the roads and stretched to the horizon. The roads were nothing to write home about – sure they were in excellent condition, but they meandered there way west, rarely changing direction. As we grew closer to Smithers, where we planned to stop, I was feeling an intense sense of unease that I could not attribute to anything in particular. But when riding motorcycles where so much is at risk, I feel that one should pay attention to those "spidey-senses" when they start tingling.

As we crested one last hill before arriving at Smithers an enormous mountain peak rose out of nowhere, complete with remnant snow fields near the ridgeline. Looming clouds were trickling in from the west and the potential for falling moisture seemed to increase with every kilometer we traveled.

Smithers is a very cute town with a very different feel to any of the other towns we’d passed on our way here. Culturally and demographically, Smithers is very different from the surrounding communities as well. Smithers has a higher number of environmentalists than the surrounding areas. If you grow up or are from Smithers, you are a Smithereen, and have a unique regional accent where the inflection goes up at the end of the sentence, as though asking a question. The regional dialect was infectious on the ladies, but oddly, we found it harder to understand the men. Smithers is also where the Disney dog film, Eight Below, was filmed.

We gassed up and flocked away from the McDonalds to a charming looking joint called Boston Pizza. Boston Pizza, sadly, turned out to be a just a Canadian Pizza chain. The place was near desolate, and we chose our seats out on the front patio, walled in by glass and adorned with heaters – likely to increase seating during cold, wet winter months. Extreme ski and snowboard posters were placard all over the place – a vestige of the nearby ski resort, the lamely named "Ski Smithers". The poster for Ski Smithers had a "& Ride" haphazardly placed on the logo. Funnily enough, Ski Smithers is only open seven days a week during the holiday season, the rest of the year they are only open on weekends; something that would be unheard of in the skiing Mecca of our home state of Utah.

The pizza was marginal – it lacked flavor like most chain foods. While we ate we watched as ominous clouds crept in over the tops of the towering peaks to our west. We quickly finished our meal and returned to the bikes. The weather to the north – the direction we were heading looked much better.

The distance between Smithers and the turn off to Highway 37, the route to Alaska, is 111km’s – about 70 miles. The full distance between Smithers and Hyder, Alaska is 330km’s –over 200 miles. Farther than our fuel would carry us. We had no way to know if there was fuel available at Kitwanga, so we planned on stopping at every fuel station we found from here on out. So we planned on stopping for fuel in just 65k’s (40 miles). We carried extra fuel, but think it wise not to plan on using the additional fuel unless we absolutely need it.

With Smithers behind us, and back beneath warm sunlight, I was still feeling anxious and nervous – but still did not knowing why. We stopped at a pullout that overlooked and impressive waterfall, cascading down a deep rock crevasse. On the north edge of the gravel lot, an enormous yellow billboard explained my apprehension.

The section of the Yellowhead Highway between Prince George and Prince Rupert is called the Highway of Tears. First noticed in the late 1980’s, there have since been over 30 known unsolved murders and disappearances of young women from early teen to their early 20’s. Once noticed, the trend of women being murdered or disappearing was found to actually begin in the late 1960’s. The most recent murder was of a 14-year old Aielah Saric-Auger whose body was found in February 2006 seven days after she disappeared. An active group tries to increase awareness of this ghastly problem through billboards, posters and a website, highwayoftears.ca.

There were many billboards making it clear that hitch-hiking was not safe and showing pictures of past victims. Also during one of our gas stops we noticed they also had bumper stickers and notices up at the cash register not to mention the numerous missing posters all over the entrance.

~Kris

Casting a very bleak shadow over our holiday, we returned to our bikes, in reverent quiet and continued our way north. We stopped again for gas in New Hazleton and had a charming encounter with a young Indian boy who was clearly impressed with Kris bright orange Kawasaki. His youthful excitement helped lighten the mood. With dappled dark clouds still moving in from the distant coast, we felt as though we should stay on the move and hopefully stay ahead of the wet.

As we reached the turn-off to Highway 37, the Stewart Cassier Highway, we were delighted to find a very large and bustling Petro-Canada gas station. Large mud spattered pickups and campers filled the parking lot and a huge wooden sign pointed the way north, declaring only 240k’s to Alaska. We waited in line to fill the tanks then grabbed a water before heading north. Based on the condition of the many 4x4 pickups we were sharing the parking lot with, we were anticipating some pretty rough roads.

We left the Petro-Canada and started riding north on Highway 37, through the small community of Kitwanga and into the wild just north of town. Only the road was one of the best we’d been on as of yet – which was saying something. Canadian roads tend to be in immaculate condition. The road was desolate. We felt removed from the world and the farther north we rode the more desolate and the clearer the blue sky became. Pristine asphalt led us north, along empty straights and threw the first real corners at us since leaving Glacier National Park.

I pulled off and handed the keys to the Ducati to Kris and took the controls of the Z1000. I was expecting to be blown away by the power of the 130hp Z compared to the 90hp Duck, but the opposite turned out to be true. Kris rallied, racing away at speeds in excess of 145kph (100mph) and I found myself racing to keep up. The Z’s inline four motor felt frenzied compared to the slow revving Ducati and I immediately wished I was back on the Italian twin.

I was not going that fast, [yes she was :) ] but the Ducati’s power was very well hidden and you really never felt like you were speeding or even working hard to get up to speed.

~Kris

I’d also left my newer camera in my tankbag. I reached into Kris tankbag and pulled out her camera to get a few photos. Her older model didn’t have image stabilization and the battery was just about flat. I was only able to get a couple photos of Kris before the battery died.

I’d just shoved her camera back into the bag when I noticed a big black tree stump on the side of the road that looked an awful lot like a big ol’ bear. As I got right up to the stump, I realized it was a bear! I let go of the handlebars and waved at Kris, who was in front of me. But she was traveling so fast, I didn’t think there was any way she saw me. I slowed way down and did a quick u-turn to get another look.

I rode past the bear at a much slower speed and watched him as he watched me. He was contently munching on red berries that just so happened to be growing right by the side of the road. He seemed totally unintimidated by my presence and just kept munching away, watching me as I trolled past. I did another U-turn and saw Kris coming back. As I got closer to the bear, I started to think just how close should I get? I wanted a photo, but not that badly. The Ducati's dry clutch solved the quandary. As soon as she slowed to an idle, the bear let out a grumpy "humph" and rolled over his shoulder, back legs into the air and over the top of him and was gone into the bushes.

The bear had the appearance of a carved home décor bear or large stuffed bear. Very unlike anything I’d seen in zoos but instead more like you see in cartoons. The little 300lb guy looked just as surprised to see us as we were to see him. When I saw the bear but simply didn’t know what to do. Not to mention, I wasn’t so sure about u-turning the Multistrada all loaded up. It proved to be a champ though and turned on a dime.

~Kris

We were delighted! Kris pulled another U-turn and raced off again and I took off trying to catch her on the "underpowered" Ducati. It was amazing how anemic 130hp suddenly felt. After several more miles, Kris pulled off and climbed off the Ducati. She handed the keys back while she rapidly talked about our recent bear sighting.

As the afternoon wore on, it grew into one of those perfect days. Clear, crisp light sifted through dense, saturated green vegetation. The ripple-free, black road cut a sweeping path around hills and natural barriers, making an occasional tight turn, once to line up with a narrow wooden bridge that seemed so out of place on such a feat of engineering mastery as the perfectly graded and cut highway.

When highway 37 came to a T with highway 37A we were greeted with a lone log cabin creating the backdrop to a road sign that pointed the way to Stewart, British Columbia and the other side of the border town, Hyder, Alaska. We were also informed of the Stewart Annual Bear Festival taking place on August 4th, just two-days away.

As soon as we turned west onto Highway 37A, we were led into a magical wonderland, unlike anyplace we have ever had the pleasure to visit. Backlit peaks and distant wispy white clouds hovered on a distant horizon that seemed to draw closer with every passing mile. It felt like we were actually going to reach the end of a rainbow as the once distant peaks were drawing ever nearer. Seeds lofted afloat on the afternoon air by a wisp of cotton drifted across the road and looked just like February snowflakes.

The perfect road conditions continued, only with more sweeping corners coming at us with greater frequency than we’d seen, making this the best riding we’d enjoyed in almost a week. The evil irony was the scenery was so spectacular; we dared not ride very fast so that we could drink in the views that were all around us, views more amazing that anyplace we’d ever been.

I was so excited I could hardly stand it. The mountains were more majestic the farther we went, I hadn’t even imagined for fear that it wouldn’t live up to my imagination but this was so much better than I could have come up with. With the weather so perfect, there were waterfalls everywhere you looked. This was such a tourist area, but there were no tourists, no maps and guides it was plain and simply ALASKA!

~Kris

Towering peaks of craggy grey rock and rich green vegetation with white slabs of glacial ice creeping slowly toward the road were surrounding us on all sides. The only evidence of mankind was the perfect road and the power lines that had been our constant companions since leaving Jasper.

After a spectacular series of left/right sweepers the road dropped down into narrow stretch with wide gravel pullouts on both sides of the road. A lone camper trailer was parked in the distance. To the south of us by less than 500 meters, the Bear Glacier was sloughing off into the pristine Strohn Lake. In the 1940's, Bear Glacier began to retreat and Strohn Lake formed in the exposed basin. Acting as an ice dam, the glacier prevented the lake from draining down the Bear River Valley.

Five times between 1958 and 1962 Strohn Lake emptied underneath its ice dam in a catastrophic tumult of muddy water, rock and ice. This type of flood is known by the Icelandic term "jokulhlaup." In 1967, Bear Glacier melted away from the valley wall and Strohn Lake was no longer dammed. The threat of sudden destructive icy floods in the Bear River Valley disappeared with the glacier's retreat. Bear Glacier Park was designated as a Class A Provincial Park in 1998. This stunning location was also the setting for the climax of the Al Pacino, Robin Williams thriller Insomnia.

We stopped and stared in awe as the Bear Glacier gave us a lesson of geology in action. Every so often a sliver of ice would slip off the toe of the glacier and splash spectacularly into the water.

The tall mountain peaks were starting to cast long shadows and we reluctantly returned to the bikes. More than 40k’s still separated us from Hyder, and our fuel lights were already shining. We hoped we’d have enough gas to make it without having to dip into our emergency reserves.

Into the slowly setting sun we continued to ride. The road got better, with more and more corners slotting in between narrow rock walls and skyscraping mountain peaks. I wanted to go fast to savor the wonderful road, but was afraid if I did, I’d quickly become distracted by the scenery and find myself running into a tree.

I could almost sense we were nearing Stewart, BC. The mountains started to separate and the smell of salt water was wafting in from the head of Portland Canal, that serves as the boundary between Canada and America and Canada’s northern most ice-free port. We entered into the outskirts of Stewart and found that most every home seemed to have a level of construction or damage, likely from the immense amounts of snow.

The Nisga'a Indians originally called the area "Skam-A-Kounst," meaning safe place, probably because it served them as a retreat from the harassment of the Haidas Indians on the coast. They travelled in the area seasonally to pick berries and hunt birds. The area was first explored in 1896 by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. Two years later the first settlers arrived and in 1902 the first postmaster, Robert M. Stewart named the town after himself.

Gold and mining dominated the early economy of Stewart and nearby Hyder, Alaska. Hyder became the American access point while Stewart served as the center of Canadian mining activity. The area boomed to a population of over 10,000 until World War I and now hosts a population of about 700 people.

It’s faded blue paint and infamous "you are here" map on the wall that I’d seen so many times in photographs became an instant familiar comfort when we were so far from home. We parked the bikes and walked into the bar, not knowing what to expect – but somehow thinking we’d get a warm greeting for taking on such a huge adventure. We were saddened to learn that our epic trip was somewhat standard fare to the proprietors of the SeaAlaska Inn as they see riders from all over America, much farther away than Utah, all the time. At first we were mostly ignored until I walked up to the counter and asked for lodging.

The chipper blond bartender warmly greeted us and matter-of-factly placed us in one of the "Biker" room