• Links
• About Us
• Reference
• Guestbook

• Travel
• Maps
• Workshop
• News
• Gallery
• Video
• Reviews

• 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?"

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.

View Larger Map

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.

View Larger Map

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.

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.

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.

View Larger Map

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.

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.

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.

View Larger Map

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.

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.

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.

View Larger Map

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.

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.

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.

View Larger Map

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.

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’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.

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.

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.

The main strip of Stewart was a collection of gold-rush style architecture that was most prominent on store fronts and the popular King Edward hotel. But we were Alaska bound and once out of Stewart continued our ride along a narrow paved road that clings to a rock wall, overlooking the Canal. We rounded a tight right hand corner and came to the border crossing. A small faded blue Quonset hut and concrete barricades made up the Canadian border crossing, yet nothing separated us from America and the only indication that we were no longer in Canada was the abrupt end of tarmac, a hand painted sign crossing the road and an understated green "Entering Alaska" road sign. We trundled onto the dusty, pockmarked road passed clapboard houses to the first intersection we came to and there on the left was the place I’d hoped to stay: The SeaAlaska Inn – notorious on ADVrider and Ron Ayrer's book where he set a new record by riding to 49 states in seven days.

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" rooms, located in a separate building just to the south. We took our key and rode our bikes to park in front of our evenings lodging, next to a VFR800 and an ST1300 with single wheel trailers. We suddenly felt like our adventure was a lot less significant.

We were delighted by the lodging! A humble room with two beds, a very small refrigerator, yellow wallpaper and a TV greeted us. A cardboard box sat atop the fridge with a handwritten sign explaining "Motorcycle Rags – Do not use bath towels". Thanks was written in as an afterthought, but underlined for emphasis. How glorious! They knew we were coming!

We quickly hung our gear in the closet and threw our riding boots into the corner, slathered ourselves with DEET and headed to the bar for dinner. A dance floor surrounded by folding tables and chairs filled half the lobby area. A old computer sat in the corner below a tiling of framed Ironbutt riders who’d completed the Ron Ayres “48-Plus” ride. The computer offered free internet access and a sign promised death to any who brought food or booze too close to the keyboard. I quickly typed out this email to our family and friends;

The other half of the common area was the pub. A welcoming place with a warm, worn bar and a plethora of mementos piled and tacked to the wall behind the bar-tender. We sat outside and drank a beer while we looked at the map, feeling proud of ourselves for traveling so far from home via two wheels. We went back inside and ordered our dinner, which was cooked fresh by the hotel owner and served to us steaming and warm, and wonderfully delicious.

Afterwards, we spent time between the Laundromat (which happened to be between our room and the main hotel) and the bar, sipping Alaska Ale and having glorious conversations with the bartender and the hotel owners and their dog.

The plan was to spend the day in the area, not really riding anywhere so we slept in and had a cup of coffee on the porch of our hotel room. It was a clear, cool morning with barely any clouds in the sky. After our coffee we grabbed the cameras and the binoculars and set off to walk down the long peer that stretches off into the Canal.

Flocks of bald eagles, masked behind a thin cloak of haze, were pulling fish from the water then mercilessly devouring them. The occasional fish trawler would amble past creating light ripples in an otherwise mirror smooth surface. The green mountains surrounding the area were all topped with slivers of white snow, gently transitioning from grey rocks to rich blue sky. It was a perfect morning.

Standing out with the fishing boats we watched as a 1940’s sea-plane came in for a landing, and taxied over to the pier where a uniformed Forest Service employee moored the plane. We wandered back to the hotel, and pulled on our riding gear to head over to Canada for breakfast and gas. We rode two-up to the border guard who came up and asked us our business. When we said we were just going to the other side for breakfast and gas for the bike, she waved us through without so much as checking our passports.

We had breakfast, then wandered through a couple small shops looking for mementoes and filled up the bike before heading back into Alaska. Talking with the locals the night before, we were told to head up Main Street a few miles to see the bears feeding on spawning Salmon and a few miles past the bears was the toe of the Salmon Glacier. It was dirt the entire way, but worth the trip. We made sure our camera batteries were charged and off we went, riding two-up on the Multistrada planning to go as far as the bears a mere 3 miles away.

Unsure of how the Duck would handle on the dirt, I took it rather easy, but soon found that the bike took to dirt with out any problems. My speeds increased and soon we were rambling along at a fair clip. We pulled into the bear viewing area and were greeted by several Forest Service employees manning a newly constructed NatureWatch site. An elevated observatory overlooks the Fish Creek and Marx Creek and black and brown bears are frequently on site during this time of year. However, none were hanging out this morning. We simply stood in the sun and watched the salmon in the clear waters below.

When asked if we were planning on riding up to the Glacier we were told that we just must go. I was reluctant to take the new Ducati anyplace too hairy, but we were reassured that the road was fine. So throwing caution to the wind, we rode north planning, we were told, to only have to ride an additional five or six miles.

The wide dirt road followed the path of the river and was full of empty pot-holes that I spent most of my energy riding around. But every so often, one would be so big that we’d have to cross it. The Ducati’s longer travel suspension ate them up with ease. Seven miles later, we were circling around smaller hills, past waterfalls and had crossed back into British Columbia. With no glacier yet in sight, but having a great time bumping along in the dirt, we kept riding thinking it must just be around this next corner. The road continued to climb, and soon we were passing through slimy mud patches created by the snow that was still melting away from the sides of the road.

We rounded one last corner and the toe of the glacier was before us. Brilliant Maya blue color emanating from between the facets of ice gave the shattering field of floe an unimaginable amount of texture. We stopped in awe at the size and immensity, but the Salmon Glacier is only the fifth largest glacier in North America. A line of rock debris, called a moraine runs down the middle of the glacier, but can also be seen along the banks. We were told this is very rare.

We were only at the toe of the glacier, but were fully engrossed and needed to see more, so rather than turn back we continued our climb. Overall, the farther we climbed the better shape the road became because of less traffic. The road itself clings to a precipitous ledge and overlooks the glacier to the west. At first the glacier is extraordinarily far below, but draws ever closer to the road surface the higher we climb.

Over the course of the last couple of days we’d been seeing this black and yellow 50-gallon drums scattered about without any pattern that we could determine. As we were riding up towards the top of the glacier, we came across an idling helicopter parked at one of the wider spots of the gravel passage. The pilot was outside of his rainbow striped Hughes 369D chopper with a hand pump stuck into the top of one of the barrels. He was cranking away, likely pumping jet fuel into the turbo-shaft rotary aircraft as nonchalantly as you or I would pump gas into a Camry. He casually looked up as we idled past and gave us a friendly wave and went back to his pumping.

Every moment of riding, the views were nothing short of breathtaking. The air that was almost completely free of any pollution or particulates was wondrously clear so that we could see detail unlike we were used to closer to larger cities and industries back home. The clarity made the glacier, the mountains on the far size and things in the distance appear to be closer than they actually were; which made us feel more connected to the world around us. We could not imagine a better day and a better way to be experiencing this beauty than by motorcycle; quite possibly the perfect vehicle.

After traveling shy of 20 miles, we finally crested the highest point where we had a spectacular view of the glacier as it came down and split in two directions. Down the far side the road quickly started to degrade but we could see additional roads that looked like they would take us much closer to the toe of the glacier. The joy and excitement of the moment kept us from turning back and instead we went farther hoping to get a closer view and turned down the first smaller side road we saw. It went less than a mile before dead-ending, so we returned to the main road and then turned down the next side road we came to. It was fairly steep and rocky with a smattering of large mud-puddles that we had to cross. The road looked like it would drop down to a large opening that would offer a spectacular view of the glacier. However, a large river of icy water had recently washed out the road and was not very passable – at least not passable enough for me to be willing to give it a try, so we reluctantly turned back.

We’d traveled quite a distance and it has been a while since we’d eaten and fatigue unexpectedly started to creep in. Even though the main road continued on, we chose to return back to Hyder, Alaska. All the uphill roads were now downhill and with Kris sitting in the backseat was putting additional weight on my arms as wrists. Despite the epic scenery I found myself merely trying to survive the long downhill trip. Getting back down to the flat areas was a wonderful release.

We were covered with dust and the bike was hidden behind a thick coat of light brown dirt but it didn’t stop us from making a quick stop at one of the few gift shops in town. We wandered in and the shop owner excitedly greeted us explaining that he and his family had just relocated to Hyder from Ogden, Utah of all places.

We returned to our hotel room and slipped out of our heavy riding coats, donning our lighter fleece jackets to make a quick ride over the border back into Canada to fill up the bike again and spray off some of the abrasive dry dirt at a small car wash near the center of town.

Based on our experience that morning we weren’t concerned with the border crossing and as we pulled up to the border we shut off the motor and waited. The border was so small there were no gates or anything to block progress; just a simple flashing orange light. Not a human was in sight and things were astonishingly quiet. Normally border guards are quick to pop a head out to at least acknowledge us, but nothing was happening this time. But we’re not impatient people and sat quietly. After three or four minutes we started to wonder. Is there anybody here? Do we just go ahead? We really didn’t know what to do so we waited a bit longer. After about five minutes I decided that maybe nobody was home and that we should just proceed.

I started the bike and slowly rolled through the border and we road back towards Stewart Kris and I both though we’d heard a siren but with our helmets and the wind noise we weren’t sure. We idled our way into town and up to the gas station. We pulled off our helmets and the kid manning the gas station came out to chat while we filled up the bike. He commented on the bike saying "Wow, I’ve never seen one of those up here". I was in the process of filling the bike, having filled the bike about half-way when a SUV Police Cruiser careened into the parking lot and hurriedly asked "Did you just run that border?"

"Uhhhh, No" I was confused,
"Did you stop?”
"Yeah, but nobody was there"
"Did you report to the border guard?"
"No. We stopped and waited about five minutes and nobody came out."
"So you did stop?"
"Yes, we stopped and waited for about five minutes, and when nobody came out we just went ahead."
"Well, you need to get back there right away and report to the border guard."
"Okay. No problem."

I looked at Kris and she gave me an equally confused look, but full well wanting to be fully in compliance, mostly because of how well we’ve been treated by the Canadians we were quick to get back and resolve the simple misunderstanding.

Amazingly, over the 15 minutes it took to get gas and talk with the B.C. Police officer, a long line had formed at the border. So we rode back into Alaska and then made a U-turn and got back in line to go back into Canada, although we’d planned on staying in Alaska for the rest of the evening.

The border guard gave us a quick look-over then refused to make eye contact while he dealt with the three cars in line in front of us. When it was our turn he told us to pull to the side and wait while keeping an intense eye on the cars that had queued up behind us. When all the cars had cleared the border he told us to wait and returned to the border shack and did not reappear for at least 20 minutes.

When a car came to the border to enter Canada, the border guard would almost immediately appear and check the car through then retreat back to the guard shack without even acknowledging us. This cycle continued, I’m not exaggerating, for a painfully long 90 minutes. Occasionally a car would pull up and the border guard would not come out for a few moments and the auto drivers would ask us "do we just go ahead?" We’d just shrug. In one case the vehicle’s passengers shut off the car and started walking towards the door when the guard appeared and scolded them to return to their vehicles and wait until he returned.

After our hour and a half wait, a young couple exited the border shack followed by the border guard who spoke warmly with them warmly as they walked to the couple’s car. After saying their goodbye’s the border guard returned to the shack with only a brushing "I’ll be right with you". Our patience was wearing very thin.

After about five more minutes of waiting the guard returned once more and asked for our passports and I.D. I didn’t have my passport with me, but Kris had hers. I was asked to surrender my driver’s license. The guard retreated once again. When he returned he asked us where we were from and where we were headed. We told him. Then he asked us why we didn’t report to the guard. I explained that we had stopped and waited for over five minutes and nobody came out.

"Well sir, if you look at the sign" he paused briefly and pointed with his hand in the shape of military salute to a faded sign and read it to us "you will stop and report. You failed to report!"
Without being to pointed or confrontational I said "Well, nobody came out for us to report to."
"But if you were to read the sign is says that you are to stop and report and you failed to report."

I repeated myself, fearing he was trying to get me to say something to incriminate us. "I did stop and we waited for over five minutes and nobody came out, so there was nobody for us to report to." My answer was followed by a long pause while the border guard looked at the motorcycle intently. He still had yet to look directly at us. When he was finished he asked if either of us had criminal records. Both of us said no and in keeping with the flow of the conversation he asked again.

"Do either of you have any kind of criminal behavior on your record."
Again I said "No."
"Sir, if I find that you have any criminal behavior on your record I will be forced to take both of you into custody."
"How many times do you want me to tell you that we have no criminal behavior of any kind on either of our records?"
"Are you sure of your answer?"
"Yes I am, as I have already told you three times." I said as calmly as I could manage.

Expectedly, he retreated to his booth once more. This next time we were left waiting for another ten minutes before he came out and asked us to follow him into his little shack.

"I need both of you to empty all of your pockets." All of our gear, including our actual riding jackets, were in our hotel room so all I could come up with was my wallet, the key to the bike, a small pocketknife, a pair of used ear-plugs, a crumpled receipt from breakfast and about seven Canadian coins. Kris had even less. He looked at us dissapointed "Is that all?" I simply nodded.

He took a deep breath and paused, obviously trying to build some sort of drama before simply stating "There was no evidence of any criminal behavior on either of your records, so I’m going to let you go with just a warning." I was trying not to glare. He continued "I don’t know how they do things in Utah, but we don’t tolerate border runners up here, but if you are ever caught running another border you will spend time in jail and you will pay a $6,000 fine. We’ve had problems with you border runners for years. We put up a stop-sign, then we put up the sign that says you must report, we’ve even installed the flashing light, and still you people keep running my border."

I’d had just about enough and could not stay quite any longer. "I apologize for the miscommunication, but this whole fiasco you put us through has been nothing more than just that. We have every intention to being fully compliant, but if I may, you just stated this has been an ongoing problem, so its not like we some unusual occurrence, and if its such a problem you need to install a gate or at the very least put a cone in the center of the lane. And as I said over and over again, if you would have come out the door, or even opened the window and asked us to hold on, you had plenty of opportunity as we waited for over five minutes before moving on."

"In any case" the border guard started reestablishing his authority, "I have entered your information into the computer so if you are ever caught running another border you will be looking at mandatory jail time and a $6,000 fine. Have a nice day."

We were more than happy to leave and I was fuming! We have never any anything but the highest of praise for Canada and all the local Canadians we had ever encountered, and it was more out of respect for everyone else we’d dealt with than I did not want to raise a fuss. But now that our information was in "the computer" we were rather concerned about the remaining border crossings we were facing.

With the afternoon mostly gone we returned to our hotel room to discuss the crummy situation. We decided that we would head back to the bear viewing site to try and salvage the rest of the day. So we headed back up the dirt road we took earlier in the day. The parking lot that was nearly empty earlier was now crowded and the boardwalk was brimming with people, most of them older and all of them with binoculars and camera’s hanging around their necks. Everyone was being reverently quiet and the hushed conversations were barely audible over the bubbling of the river. However, there were no bears or wildlife to be seen.

The sun was hidden behind the surrounding mountains and we were in a gentle twilight as we waited. I was still very upset about the “border running” incident and was having a hard time just enjoying the afternoon. The longer we waited the more people would arrive but still no bears. A huge bald eagle swept out of the sky and plucked an unlucky Salmon from the river and began to shred it into slivers so the sound of a hundred clacking camera shutters, but no bear. Kris and I both decided that a couple of beers sounded more appealing than our current atmosphere so we, anticlimactically, returned to the SeaAlaska Inn to finish our laundry, have some dinner and drink more Alaska Ale.

We drank our fill and returned to the hotel where we watched "Insomnia" on the hotel television before eventually falling asleep.

View Larger Map

We were anxious about the border crossing but we needed to make it to Prince Rupert before things got to late in hopes of improving our chances of catching the ferry. Missing the Ferry meant we’d have to ride 700k’s (500 miles) back to Prince George, then either head home the way we came or ride south 500k’s to Kamloops before heading home the way we came. Either way we’d much rather catch the ferry to the north end of Vancouver Island so we could come home through Washington.

We sat in the morning sun and sipped the complimentary hotel room coffee. Heavy coastal clouds had moved into the area and were masking the sun and putting a slight chill in the air. We slowly and meticulously packed up the bikes happy to have a fresh load of clean laundry. A German tourist named Peter sauntered over with his wife and we started talking motorcycles. He told me about Ghost Rider, a German insurrectionary of sorts who videotapes his antagonizing confrontations with local police where he flamboyantly flee’s on his all-black motorcycle. I gave him a CanyonChasers sticker and he promised to email when he got home.

We rode up to the border gate and we were happy that it was the pleasant female guard from yesterday morning and not the cocky young guy from yesterday afternoon. We pulled out our Passports and answered her questions about our plans and we were uneventfully greeted back into Canada. We gassed up Kris bike and got coins for the car wash. I really wanted to clean off thick layer of dirt on the Ducati and hose off some of the grime that had collected on Kris Z1000.

Just as we pulled up to the wash, a large European van pulled in and they started pulling bicycles and crates off the back and top of the van. The husband apologetically said that it would probably be a little while, but I was content to wait. Kris scuttled off to pick up some things while I waited and watched the assertive Slavic wife continually berate and yell at her timid husband. I felt bad for the chap who was stuck with this unpleasant woman.

Kris arrived just in the nick of time and we were able to hose off the thick levels of grime and were back on the road after a quick lube of the chains. Riding back out on Highway 37A, it felt like a completely different road. Thick clouds hung overhead with smaller wisps circling the mountains and flat light changed the look and feel of the world around us. Having been through the scenery already we had no problem running a slightly faster pace. By the time we reached the Bear Glacier, the clouds had started to dissolve and when we arrived back onto highway 37 we were blessed with more clear skies.

We turned south and finished the 216k leg back to the gas station at Kitwanga where we stopped for a late breakfast. We filled up with gas and parked the bikes just outside the restaurant window and then sat down for our omelets and pancakes. We needed to cover 500k’s to make it to Prince Rupert. The Trans Canadian Highway 16 follows the wide Skeena River and as a result, the road is a sweeping, gentle road and like so much of Canada, the pavement is pristine. We stopped in Terrace, just 95k’s later, for more fuel and to visit a small Yamaha Motorcycle Dealership, Ken’s Marine, for some more chain lube.

We never really knew what to expect from this area, but we certainly expected it to be a lot more remote and desolate. Instead, Terrace, BC, was a large thriving community of near 20,000 residents and plenty charm and appeal. Terrace is actually one of the oldest continuously occupied regions of the world! Before the Europeans arrived in the America’s, Terrace was the most densely populated area north of Mexico. In 1944 it was the site of the Terrace Mutiny, most serious breach of discipline in Canada military history. The mutiny was triggered by the rumor that soldiers based on the home front would be deployed overseas.

Terrace and the surrounding Skeena Valley are located in a hybrid coastal/interior rainforest on the Skeena River, approximately 115k’s (71 miles) from its mouth at the Pacific Ocean. Lush forests of cedar, hemlock and fir create a green carpet of vegetation on glacial deposits that created natural terraces or benches around much of the city.

Terrace was having their annual B.C. Days Celebration, so the town was decorated festively for an arts fair and crowds of people wandering the streets. We crossed the Old Skeena Bridge and found ourselves wandering the streets of Terrace wishing we had the time to stop and enjoy the friendly and warm atmosphere that was a perfect match for the perfect weather.

We reluctantly returned to the road and soon found ourselves following the meanderings of the Skeena River, watching as it widened with the passing k’s, opening its mouth to the Pacific Ocean. The closer we got to the ocean, more clouds began to fill the sky, blocking out the warmth of the sun. The confluence of ocean and mountains seemed to intensify winds that were racing in from the ocean. Depending on which direction we were traveling the gusts would knock us around like a cat batting at its toy. Fortunately the roads had become a winding delight of fast sweeping corners over moderate elevation changes. Occasional steel girder bridges would take us over small tributaries and would run alongside aging train bridges that were strangely different from one another.

The section of road we were thoroughly enjoying was originally built by American Troops during World War II to facilitate the movement of thousands of allied troops to fight opposing Japanese forces on the Aleutian Islands of Alaska.

When it felt as though we were going to run into the ocean the road made a sweeping turn to the north and began climbing in elevation and circling its way up through a narrow canyon passing between thick walls of foliage. We came to a crossroads where we could turn to Port Edward, a town whose purpose used to be almost exclusively for canning until the industry of the area changed to logging, forestry and fishing. We stayed our course and continued towards Prince Rupert.

Prince Rupert is known as "The City of Rainbows", as it is Canada's wettest city, with an average annual rainfall of approximately 2,500 mm (100 in). It is also regarded as the Canada City that receives the least amount of sunshine annually. Winters are relatively mild for the latitude; even January does not average below freezing. While we weren’t basking in sunshine, we were dry and very thankful.

The town was founded by Charles Hayes who had great plans for the city to become a berthing facility for large passenger ships and to evolve the area into a major tourist area. All of Hayes plans ended on April 15, 1912 when Hayes perished during the sinking of the H.M.S. Titanic. Features around town, including the High School have all been named in Hayes honor.

Road weary and wind battered, we circled through town following the signs pointing to the port. Prince Rupert is the land, air, and water transportation hub of British Columbia's north coast so a large portion of the traffic is here to go somewhere else. The city circles a mountain and the roads took us on a circular journey that had us a bit turned around and confused until we finally arrived at the port found ourselves looking at the Prince Rupert Terminal. Nobody was in the parking lot, and it looked as though it was closed.

Optimistic, we climbed off the bikes, grabbed our passports and our reservation information and hoped for the best. The waiting area was deserted and a lone worker sat behind the counter shuffling papers around her desk. We walked up to the counter and explained our situation. She checked the computer and confirmed that the ferry was indeed booked solid and that she would not be able to guarantee our passage, our hearts sank. She told us that we would need to arrive back here tomorrow morning by 5, a.m. for the best odds of getting on the standby list. Kris asked, "What are our odds of getting on the ferry in the morning." The associate smiled, "If you show up at 5, a.m.; about 99.9% percent – we can almost always find room for a couple motorcycles."

A weight lifted from our shoulders, so I asked if she knew of any good, affordable hotels in the area. She pulled a map and gave us directions to a couple of hotels, then began circling good restaurants in the area mentioning, repeatedly, a place called "Smiles" saying that Prince Rupert has the best halibut in the world and Smiles is the best place in town to get fresh Halibut.

Always ones for taking local advice we dolled out lots of gratitude and headed back into Prince Rupert proper and straight to the recommended "Ocean View" hotel. The building sat pleasantly on a hill overlooking Hecate Straight and Digby Island to the south. Weathered beige siding and neat rows of bay windows circled the second level. It looked perfect. We entered the lobby to find immaculately clean, but dated carpet and furnishings and a smattering of vintage black and white framed photos on the walls, each picture sitting slightly askew from the others. A plumb, grandmotherly woman greeted us warmly smelling of cigarette smoke. When I asked about lodging I was told that she only had the Jacuzzi room left. Fearful for what the cost may be, I asked what the cost would be. "$54.95" was the answer and I heartedly agreed, it was half of what we’d been paying everywhere else.

We were given our large brass key and told our room was located on the second floor facing the Straight. I was thrilled. The affable proprietor told us that it would be best if we parked our bikes behind the locked gates. When I told her that we needed to catch the ferry in the morning, she told us to park under the front porch and she would have the night watchman keep a close eye on them for us.

The hotel was very clean, but obviously renovated in the 1980’s and then probably on a budget. Pergo floors lined the hallways and echoed badly and we learned that our room was one of only two with its own bathroom. The rest of the hotel operated off of two communal toilets. The pink carpet in the room was a little worse for wear and the matching pink curtains and lampshades were all a little rough, but we loved it! And the view from the window was spectacular.

We pulled off our boots and slipped on sandals and headed out for an afternoon on the town. Prince Rupert seems like a hard town, most buildings were in some state of disrepair and we both got the feeling that things could get rowdy after dark. However, it felt great to be walking and hoofing it was a great way to explore the western most location we’d ever ridden to.

We were told that Smiles was in "Cow Bay" and we knew we were getting close because everything was painted like a black and white Holstein. We thought the whole thing was somewhat goofy until we learned Cow Bay is the oldest area of Prince Rupert, it was originally named Cameron Cove. When the first dairy herd arrived in 1906, no dock had yet been built so the cows had to jump into the water and swam ashore. The locals always dubbed the area where they landed as "Cow Bay."

We found Smiles and the food was of the very marginal deep fried fare but at least we got to wait in long lines and listen to scads of screaming kids while we waited for our warm beer and deep fried seafood.

We also hit up a RadioShack for an additional SD card for my Canon SD800 and learned the meaning of unreasonable taxes. A $30 card cost almost $60 bucks by the time we'd paid all the associated taxes. Government Sales Tax, Province Sales Tax, Environmental Impact Tax, Sales Tax and Packaging Disposal Tax.

We planned to return to our room early so as to improve our chances of getting to the 5, a.m. ferry, but first we had to stop off for a bottle of wine. Young kids and a smattering drunkards hanging around the front doors kept us on task. The police were called while shopping for a Chardonnay and as soon as we’d paid we slipped off to our Jacuzzi suite before it was dark outside. Still somewhat anxious about the ferry and the fear of not waking up on time, sleep came slow.

View Larger Map

5am comes really early, particularly when you have to be awake an hour before hand. We crawled out of bed at 4am anxious about making it to the ferry on time, waking up before the alarm clock even went off. We stuffed our bags full as quietly as possible and started carrying the gear down to the bikes. I was careful to make sure I had the room key but as soon as we stepped outside and the door latched behind us I knew there was a problem.

The front door to the hotel locked behind us and the room key wasn’t going to grant us access. Half of our gear still inside the hotel and us locked outside at 4:15 in the morning. Fortunately the night watchman was roving about and quickly let us back in so we could go reclaim the last of our gear. When we had the bikes loaded up, the affable hotel owner welcomed us into the closed restaurant and made us a pot of coffee. It was a wonderfully generous thing to do and the coffee was outstanding. We sat in silence in the lounge and enjoyed the warm beverage until it was time to go. I stuffed a 20-dollar bill under our empty mugs and we snuck out the front door one last time.

We pushed the bikes out to the street before starting them up then quietly idled away. It was very cold and the chill of riding the bikes in the icy, humid air cut to our bones and chilled us deeply despite the riding gear and the hot coffee we’d just had.

We thought for sure we’d be the first to arrive at the ferry and were shocked when we rounded the last corner and found ourselves in a long queue of motorcycles and campers. We passed through the entrance gate and were directed to the standby line; already getting quite long. Anxiety started to creep back in. Expecting a lot of waiting, we grabbed our papers and passports and walked to the terminal where we sat and waited until the metal ticket windows slid open.

We got into line and waited our turn. We managed to get the new girl who was cautiously going through the checklists. She eyed both of our passports meticulously and I feared the “border running” incident was going to cause a problem, but just as she was about to print our tickets a surly shift manager looked over her shoulder and told her to cancel the transaction; they weren’t going to deal with standby’s just yet. She apologized, handed us our passports and we went back to the seating area and watched as the line started to stretch out the front doors and into the parking lot. As soon as our butt’s hit the seat the surly shift manager bellowed to the room "We are now going to process standby’s tickets for motorcycles – so if you are on a motorcycle and on standby, please get in line". Gee thanks.

We went to the back of the ever growing line and waited our turn a second time. When we reached the front, we promptly offered our credit card, charged just over $600 for the two of us, our two bikes, gas surcharges and taxes and we were handed our tickets. We were thrilled! We were told to go move our bikes from the standby queue to the boarding queue. We galloped outside and rode the bikes over before anybody could tell us any different.

We lined up behind a couple of cruisers and shut down the bikes, excited enough to not be bothered by the cold morning air or the lack of sleep any longer. A talkative boarding chief was attracted to our bikes and started asking questions. He was a delight to chat with, telling us the problems with boarding ferries, how cool he thought Ducati’s were and how he someday hoped to ride around Canada on one. He then offered to take our photo and it turned out to be one of our favorite shots from the trip.

We thought we’d be waiting for a while before we could board, but within less than five minutes of getting our tickets we were asked to fire the engines and start boarding. We followed the cruisers and the line of small sedans into the bowels of the largest ferry boat we’d ever seen. When the M/V Queen of the North sank just over a year ago, BC Ferries had to scramble to find a replacement ship. The one we were boarding, the M/V Northern Adventure was brought over from Greece. The ship originally went into service in 2001 and then underwent an 18-million refit that was finished in March 2007 when it took over the "Inner Passage" route we were taking. We were astonished by how much wear the ship was showing between May and August.

We parked the bikes where we were directed then we were handed large archers that latched into slots in the metal decking. We were told to tie the bikes at low points, but that didn’t make much sense to me. If we hit rough waters and the ship started to rock a low tie point would do very little to prevent rocking. I, instead, tied the bikes by wrapping the rope around the front brake for added stability, but later in the day when we came back down, deck-hands had tied ropes around Kris fork legs.

A little nervous about leaving the bikes while the ship was still boarding, we reluctantly left and found ourselves wandering the cavernous 117Meter long by 20 meter wide, multi-story vessel. We found the galley and ordered up a very expensive breakfast while more than 100 vehicles were loaded onto the ferry behind us. Needless to say, boarding 100+ vehicles takes quite a bit of time and we went from being rushed all morning to suddenly having all the time in the world.

Normally, its hard for us to imagine getting tired of riding, but after the frenzied pace of the last several days since leaving Banff National Park, a day of doing absolutely nothing for 14 hours was deeply appealing. Most of the ferries we’ve been on have lots of deck space, but the Queen of the North’s only outside deck was at the stern of the ship. We stood at the railing and watched in wonder as the deck hands loaded an endless stream of vehicles into the gullet of this huge ferry.

The sun was waking the day up, and a thick carpet of clouds was filling the sky with only small dapples of light punching through to illuminate fortunate clumps of tree’s or random sections of gently swelling ocean. It was gorgeous.

Once all the vehicles were on board a crowd of people came out to the deck to watch the ship depart. The engines idled up and the towering stacks started spewing foul diesel fumes. Our chosen location of the upper most deck may not have been such a great idea. But we stood our ground as the ferry pulled away from the dock and began its 520km journey to Port Hardy on the northern tip of Victoria Island.

Once the excitement of the disembarking was over, the majority of people returned to the inner cabins and we were left mostly by ourselves. Our warm motorcycle gear was great for keeping us warm while enjoying the fresh sea air while we sailed south.

By the time we reached the approximate location where the previous ferry sank, the clouds had burned off revealing another clear blue sky. The clear sky brought more people out on deck and with the toxicity of the top deck, seating space was soon in very short supply. We were unwilling to head indoors for longer than we had to and preferred to spend as much time outside. As the day waned on, it warmed up considerably and soon we were comfortably wandering around in fleece jackets and t-shirts. For lunch the crew came out on deck and served fresh seafood entrées from a stainless steel barbeque barrel. The food was amazing and a far cry better than the food available on most other ferries we’ve taken.

Fourteen hours is a long time for any trip, but the ability to sit on the deck and watch the world slip by at the sedentary pace of 20 knots was calming and much more interesting that looking out the porthole window of a jetliner. We were finding our time on the ship to be much needed rest and soaking in warm, northern summer sun was calming.

I was having a great time simply watching people. A young family with two young girls were spending time at one of the tables; the young girls would color and whenever mom saw something worthy of a photograph, dad would take over babysitting duties while she scampered to the railing with her $3000 Canon EOS 5D SLR. The wife seemed to take everything so seriously, but when a tired little bird landed on the deck, near exhaustion she was so concerned about her daughters being in everyone else way she forgot to take any photos, missing her best photo opportunity of the day.

We kept making trips down to the lower levels to make sure the bikes were doing okay. Some sections of the “inner passage” were awful close to being out in the pacific ocean and as such the waves were larger and the rocking of the ferry more deliberate. It was weird to stand below decks, feel the boat sway side to side and watch the tour-busses and sedans rock back and forth. We were thrilled that our bikes seemed to be handing the rougher waters with ease – and we were equally thrilled we were not making this same journey in a storm. We could only imagine how severe the rocking could be.

During dinner we managed to link up with the cruiser riders who boarded right before us that morning. Lorraine and Andre were traveling from Ontario and we found ourselves sitting at the dinner table discussing moto philosophy and great motorcycle roads between here and there. It was a pleasant diversion to what we’d been doing for the past 8 hours. But the rocking boat was starting to get the best of Kris and she had to run back outside. Apparently being outside in the fresh air and being able to see the boat rocking with the horizon had kept Kris from any kind of seasickness. Moving inside had slowly given her a bit of motion sickness.

We spent the remainder of the trip standing on the deck, watching the sun set while an Orca ran chase along side the ferry jumping joyfully into the air. It made for quite the show although I was never able to capture the instant the whale was in flight.

Darkness came down around us like dropping a blanket over our heads and just like that the ferry ride was over. We clamored down to the bikes and heard the announcement about “reserving hotel rooms.” When I asked Lorraine told us that we could have reserved our hotel room when we got on board in Prince Rupert, but now it was too late so if we wanted to get a hotel we’d have to be quick about it. Information that would have been helpful 14-hours ago, thanks again BC Ferries.

Thick clouds had come in as well and instead of a clear sky we were beneath a black, threatening one. As soon as the gates dropped Kris and I raced into town looking for a “vacancy” sign. It was cold and dark and we were in no mood to find and set up camp. We were falling in love with Motorcycle priority boarding, first on and we were able to get to the galley and food before the crowds and first off gave us a fighting chance of getting a hotel room. We found one that looked as though it would be affordable and passable. It was right around $100 Canadian, and the room was plain brown paneling, stained brown carpet and nappy brown and orange striped bedding. Brown veneer covered furniture adorned the corners of the room. At least it was mostly clean. As we toted our gear to the room, we watched as a steady stream of ferry passengers wandered into the lobby looking for rooms. Half as many left; we’d gotten one of the very last available rooms.

Despite not riding at all today, we were excessively tired. We sipped down half a bottle of wine and fell into a fitful sleep.

View Larger Map

We didn't have many plans for they day beyond just riding south along Vancouver Island to catch the Comox ferry like we did in 2005. I pulled the curtains and opened the window. The outside air was heavy with mist. To catch the ferry we scrambled and stuffed our bags hastily, so this morning we took our time and meticulously repacked and carefully loaded the bikes.

When we checked in the night before, we'd spied a restaurant hotel. It was closed when we came in, but we'd figured we'd just get breakfast at the hotel. We were pretty disappointed to see that it was closed this morning as well. That is until we realized that it was a Thai restaurant, then we didn't feel so bad anymore. Something about Thai food for breakfast didn't really sit that well with us.

We rode north into town and quickly decided on a quant little joint called "Captain Hardy's." A few tables were out on the sidewalk. We walked up to the counter and short-ordered our breakfast before an audience of locals who watched us like the tourists we were. We then went outside to claim an outside table that had just cleared. The breakfast was one of the best of the entire two-week vacation and we were very content to watch Port Hardy life go by.

With our bellies quite full, we started south on Highway 19. It featured a lot more corners than any of the roads up near Prince Rupert, so we had a good time getting reacquainted with the whole "turning" thing. Port Hardy is the northern most town on Vancouver Island and as a result there is a great deal of wildlife in the area. Our only encounter was a very small deer that looked like it had escaped from the set of Bambi. Dappled white spots on the back and a cute little white tail. It was much cuter and much smaller than the big, ugly Mule Deer we have back home in Utah.

As we continued riding South, the clouds and mist dissolved, leaving us beneath a stunning, blue canopy of clear sky. We couldn't believe our great fortune.

When we reached the small town of Port McNeill, the road turned inland and we found ourselves in a narrow rock canyon, surrounded by perfect Pacific Northwest scenery. The road wasn't very technical, but was throwing a constant and steady stream of sweeping corners at us. There was very little traffic and so we pretty much had the world to ourselves.

As we drew closer to Campbell River, BC the road become much straighter and much more crowded with holiday weekend traffic. We didn't realize how far we'd have to travel and were surprised that it had taken us the better part of the afternoon to travel the 300k's needed to reach the town of Comox, where we'd be catching the Ferry to Powell River, BC. As a result, we were almost at the point where we could potentially miss the mid-afternoon Ferry Crossing.

As we arrived in Courtenay, BC I got all kinds of lost as I tried to navigate us towards the Ferry. Courtenay was where Mike's Daytona almost exploded in 2005 (earning the ride the "Great CanyonChasers Fire of 2005” title) so I'd had a false sense of familiarity with the area that was now biting me in the proverbial derriere.

Thanks to some well placed signage, we were able to find Ryan Road, that took us almost directly to the Powell River - Little River Ferry. We timed it just right and had just enough time to purchase tickets, pull off our helmet and grab a few snaps before we were given our call for Priority Boarding. One ticket gives you access to three ferry rides that would take us all the way to Horseshoe Bay on the outskirts of Vancouver.

A handful of other riders were already there and in line in front of us, so we had to wait for them to board and watch in agony as they struggled to get their bikes properly parked for the water crossing. We don't even have anything resembling ferries in Utah, so we felt like the seasoned travelers as we efficiently set our bikes to the Load Masters approval.

As soon as the bikes were parked, we raced upstairs to the galley for a snack before the hordes of auto-drivers clogged the area. A self-serve frozen mochachino machine was standing at the ready. It looked perfect, but upon filling our cups, first my plastic cup ruptured, spilling its contents all over the place. As soon as we had that taken care of, the machine kacked, spewing frozen caffeinated sugar all over. We'd already managed to overwhelm the existing napkin supply and were left calling for help. The galley workers were not so impressed. We paid and quickly retreated to the upper decks to enjoy the cool breeze and warm sunlight.

It had now been several hours since we actually ate anything so the sudden surge of sugar and caffeine to Kris blood sugar did strange things to her behavior. Se managed to empty her cup, then stole mine and finished it off without missing a beat. The resulting giddiness was unlike anything I'd seen in her in almost ten years of marriage.

The Ferry ride is only about 30k's and less than an hour, so we went down to the bikes early and got ready to ride plenty early. The last time we did this I took a wrong turn and by the time I found the main road again, we were stuck behind all the ferry traffic. I didn't want to make the same mistake twice.

Powell River represents the northern most town on the Sunshine Coast, the western facing coastal areas north of Vancouver. While Powell River is not an Island, it is surrounded by fjords and is only accessible by boat or airplane. As a result, Powell River enjoys a very remote existence despite its close proximity to the large city of Vancouver. Most of the people we'd met along the way lived in Vancouver and had come up this way to enjoy the long weekend.

The ferry lands onto a very narrow dock and as soon as you leave the platform you climb steeply up past the dock to meet the town’s downtown area. A quick right turn puts you immediately onto Highway 101, the only road that really goes anywhere.

Only 30k's separates Powell River from Earls Cove where we would catch the next ferry. We followed the lumbering cruisers in line before us in frustration. They would slow unexpectedly, then speed up. There were no appropriate places to pass so we backed off to prevent any potential conflict. I whopped with glee when they all pulled off to look at a home for sale. With no known vehicles between us and Earls Cove we got to enjoy rare riding bliss where there was absolutely no traffic on a delightfully twisty road tunneled through dense tree stands and following perfect coastline.

Earls Cove is really nothing more than a terminal for the BC Ferries route we were taking. Two small docks with the required accoutrements of restroom, vending machines and a few street-side venders are separated by a 20km ferry ride. We had made good time with our unhindered ride from Powell River, so we were here before the ticket booth had even opened to start queuing the line of vehicles that had already formed.

We turned off the bikes and hung our helmets from our tankbags and simply savored the afternoon. Ever since our first trip to this area we've always referenced the Earls Cove-Saltery Bay Ferry as "the pretty ferry" because the afternoon sun and amazing scenery from the towering peaks that surround the ferry route that circles around the north of the equally impressive Nelson Island is nothing short of majestic.

Once we showed our tickets, we were efficiently directed to the front of lane A for priority boarding. Evening sunlight was draping us with harsh light. A large lorry pulled in and I asked him to pull forward far enough to shade us which he was happy to oblige and as a result we garnished him with praise.

We had about an hour before the next ferry run so we waited contently. A pair of pristine 70's era CB750's cafe'd out nicely pulled in front of us and we quickly struck up conversation with the young couple. They'd spent the weekend sailing north out of Powell River and now had to return to Vancouver for work tomorrow. The bikes were very low on fuel so that meant they'd have to stop just off the boat on the other side at Saltery Bay for gas, which meant they would be stuck behind the hordes of traffic that would be following us. I traded him two liters of fuel for position in front of them when we disembarked on the far side. He approved of the arrangement and a deal was struck. Most of the other riders who'd bee trickling in were also more than happy to accommodate our request with the exception of a dude on a tatty VFR500 with no gloves and a muscle bound dude with a super-hottie on the back seat of his Vulcan 800 Classic.

While we were standing around and waiting I noticed a thick black smudge on the fork leg. Closer examination revealed a weeping fork seal. Nothing major yet, so hopefully I'd noticed it in time. I immediately went to the restroom and procured a wad of thick paper hand towels and liberated a rag from the luggage and began meticulously cleaning. Hopefully the weep was caused by some gunk that had collected behind the dust seal and the fork seal had not been cut.

The ferry trundled into view as shadows draped over us like cool blankets. We quickly boarded, but made the mistake of not going immediately to the galley. While the ferry was underway and we were basking in the beauty, hunger began to gnaw on us, but the lines at the galley wrapped around the upper deck. By the time we got our food we had less than five minutes to eat it and get back to the bikes. As a result, we missed a lot of the beauty of the ferry ride as well as a decent meal. I did not want to lollygag getting back to the bikes because I'd been thinking about this road since we rode it the first time two years previously.

As soon as the gates dropped we were off and our ride quickly degraded into a drag race for the first corner. The VFR500 passed me on the right and I was just irritated enough that I decided to play with hero-boy. I let him lead through the first corner to see where he was, and as expected he had more will than skill. As soon as there was straight road he, of course, whacked the throttle to stops, I let him lead into the next corner, but I took the inside line and basically make the pass on the exit of the corner. Hero-boy didn't like this so he once again whacked the throttle, forcing me to carry more speed than I'd prefer into turn three. But I was also confident that once I got out of his sight he'd give up the chase. I kept my speed up and using track-techniques (something I really do not like to do on the street) trail-braked hard into turn three, a super tight left hand corner, and rallied through to the exit, then dove hard again into the next corner. He was gone.

Meanwhile, Kris had the same challenges with Vulcan-boy who tried to pass her on the inside of a corner by taking advantage of the oncoming lane. Kris was able to overtake him on the next straight and dispatch him with ease. VFR boy was a bit more of a challenge as he drag-raced her to a corner where she essentially took his line entering a corner. Within two more corners we were away from the idiots and left to slow our paces back down and enjoy the road to ourselves.

Highway 101 leaving Edgemon, BC all the way through to Halfmoon Bay, BC is easily one of our most favorite roads of all time! It strafes through stands of dense foliage through endless technical corners mixed in with fast sweepers. With towering rock walls to the east and the gentle lapping waves of the Straight of Georgia to the west, the road couldn't be any more different than the roads of the American west. Smooth asphalt shows evidence of "drivers" using these corners to glide their small japanese corners around the smooth tarmac corners. But what we love and appreciate most about this road is its rhythm. Seven corner series of turns seem to repeat themselves as the road makes its way south.

After only 35k's, a distance far to brief, the road opens up and begins wandering through small communities. Glorious corners still about, but are tainted by increased traffic, homes and the potential for law enforcement. The last time we made this ride, we continued onto Granthams Landing and took the ferry over to Horseshoe Bay, but the time required met that we landed back onto the mainland well after everything was closed and we spent several more hours looking for lodging. I refused to make the same mistake again, so we found a small motor inn named the Blue Sky Motel, just south of the town of Sechelt, BC, tucked between and behind a couple other buildings at 4726 Sunshine Coast Hwy.

We rolled into the small gravel parking lot, and a kindly looking Japanese man walked out to warmly greet us. In broken English he asked "where are you from?" We told him and his eyes got really wide and he asked "Where are you going?" We told him how we are heading home after visiting Alaska. His eyes grew even wider, "Alaska very dangerous? You are very brave". Naw, we said. It was fine. "Many bears" he said. To that we had to agree "Yes, many bears." He started to eye the Ducati and mustered "Made in Italy?" Yes, I said. "Japan?" he asked simply. I walked over to Kris motorcycle and peeled back the magnetic tankbag to reveal the bold silver lettering. "Kawasaki" I said "makes a very good motorcycle". His chest puffed out with pride. "Kawasaki!" he repeated. "Very good motorcycle!" And like that our friendship was sealed.

We threw off the riding gear and slipped into shorts and sandals and headed out in search of food. The hotel was near a long pier that stretched out into the straight and there was still a lone fisherman sitting out on the dock. We wandered about and tried to grab some sunset shots before we found a deli that was still open. We munched on our light dinner on the front patio while darkness fell on the area.

View Larger Map

Before I even climbed out of bed, I could smell rain in the air. Fearful, I pulled the curtains to reveal a morning just like so many of the previous mornings; overcast skies with no sign of sunlight. However, these clouds were thicker and darker than previous mornings. I sought out several motorcycle shops before we'd left, and printed out maps to make finding them easier in the anticipation of likely needing tires.

We went directly towards the third ferry that would take us to Horseshoe bay, and then into Vancouver. The morning was much cooler than we'd been dealing with up until that point and I actually turned on my heated grips for the first time during the trip.

The last time we took this ferry it was in the dark, and I'd always regretted that decision. This year we'd hopefully be able to actually see where we were going. As soon as we'd arrived we were given our priority boarding place in the queue. It would be at least an hour before the ferry arrived, so we shut down the bikes and wandered over to the vendors area.

Dozens of small business selling everything from gourmet coffee to blown glass lined the southern edge of the parking area. Commuters and tourists wandered perused the wares while waiting for the ferry. We made our first stop at the gourmet coffee shack and then proceeded to work our way along. Nothing caught our eye (with the exception Kris and the hand-made jewelry tent).

More bikes had lined up around ours. Our helmets were just sitting out, as were out tank-bags so being the cautious travelers we try to be, we went back to the bikes. Most of the riders stayed to themselves; however one burly biker dude riding a tatty and oil-stained shovel-head was in the mood to chat.

Normally riders like him don't have much to say to riders like us and an understood level of disdain is all most of us seem to have in common. This fellow was a rare exception. We had a wonderfully warm and entertaining conversation about the glories of all things motorcycles. Our discussions wound its way between engine rebuilds, great roads, bad drivers and inclement weather; things only true riders fully understand. It was a great way to spend the morning waiting for the Langdale Ferry.

Usually priority boarding for motorcycles is on the lower most level of the ferry, however, on this day we would all be lining up on the upper most level of the ferry, The Queen of Oak Bay, and this was a very large ferry. The largest of all the ferries we've ever taken.

In 2005, The Queen of Oak Bay due to a missing cotter pin, lost power and was unable to stop at Horseshoe Bay and plowed through almost 30 other vessels before running aground.

As soon as our bikes were secured, we worked our way to the highest deck and all the way towards the front of the ship. The Queen of Oak Bay has a great observation deck immediately below the bridge. We camped out here and could see the bikes just below us and we had the best views as we crossed the scenic Howe Sound.

Strong winds blasted us on our elevated, perched position, but our riding jackets were doing their job of staving off the wind and cold and while other passengers came and went, we happily enjoyed the entire journey from our position at the bow. We refused to do any "Titanic" "King of the world" impressions.

As we neared Sewells Marina, we returned to our bikes to prepare for departure. The wind forces increased dramatically as we readied ourselves and many of the other riders clung to their bikes to prevent them from being blown over by the winds. Looking past the marina and into Vancouver I could see dark clouds looming, but still saw no evidence of any rain falling.

Right off the ferry, we found ourselves on the freeway heading into Vancouver. I had a map of the city in my tankbag, but I could already tell that it was going to be inadequate for the task. We took the first exit towards the city center and we were instantly basked in heavy traffic. After several stoplights we accessed the Lions Gate Bridge. Half-lost we diced with the quick moving traffic as we raced up and over the bridge. As we reached the bridges zenith it started to sprinkle, and by the time we reached the far side is was raining on us.

Vancouver is the fourth densest city in the western hemisphere, trailing New York, San Francisco and Mexico City but is ranked as one of the most livable cities in the world, alongside Zürich and Geneva, Switzerland. Vancouver is one of the largest film producers and is home to some of our all-time favorite television show Battlestar Galactica.

Vancouver has a wonderfully diverse populous with Chinese making up the largest ethnic group in the city. Additionally, many immigrated to Vancouver in anticipation of Hong Kong transferring sovereignty from the United Kingdom to China earning the city the nickname of Hong-Couver. The high concentration of bi-lingual Chinese speaking has resulted in some neighborhoods having more signs in Chinese than English (as we were soon to find out).

I was unprepared for the vast enormity of Vancouver thinking that I'd be able to get us pretty close to John Valk Ducati, because it was rather close to the Lions Gate Bridge and just off 2nd Avenue. How hard could it be? Following my nose and my pathetic Vancouver Road map quickly had me lost worse than I've ever been in my life.

Intense levels of traffic, a sea of foul traffic lights and a constant wet drizzle (that had managed to smear my map and blur my printed out maps of the city) had left me with no idea as to where I was or how to get where I wanted to go.

Unbeknownst to us at the time, we passed within less than two blocks of our destination. Unaware we continued ignorantly forward into the heart of Hong-Couver where we were no longer able to read the Chinese road-signs.

Seeing a road sign for 10th Avenue, I turned. Little did I know that 10th avenue is on the far side of the city, a very long ways away from 2nd Avenue. We were forced to cross the Patullo Bridge, but as I was so lost, had no working map and no clue as to where I was in relationship to map anyway, we were forced to ask for help. Finding a delivery person making a drop at a small convenience store, we were given very precise directions to get us back to where we wanted to go. We crossed the Alex Frasier Bridge as we headed north and were doing great until we crossed the Oak Street Bridge and we were suddenly on the wrong street again. Soaked, confused, tired, sick of waiting at stop-lights and getting hungry I was nearing the end of my rope.

We stopped again under the awning of a gas station and I went in and purchased a city map of Vancouver. Returning to Kris, who was waiting with the bikes, suddenly everything made perfect sense. The value of a good map! With a sigh of relief we set out again, only this time I took us directly to the Ducati shop without a single missed turn.

We arrived at the BMW/Ducati dealership and now I got to worry if they'd have a tire and if they'd even be willing to help us out. We were immediately put to ease when a fresh tire was pulled out and our bike was pushed to the top of the maintenance schedule and immediately put onto the table.

The shop recommended "Cameo Cafe" on the corner of W 2nd Ave and Crowe Street, less than a block away, where we could get some hot coffee and a good burger while they took care of the tire. A huge weight off our shoulders we walked to the cafe and, true to the advice, we enjoyed the best hamburger either of us had ever had!

With our blood sugar levels back in line, we returned to the bike to find the fresh tire on the bike. We paid the tab, and the subsequent taxes (Government Sales Tax, Provincial Sales Tax, Environmental Tax, Tire Disposal Tax, Road Tax, Rubber replacement tax and tread wear tax) the new rear tire was one of the most expensive I've ever bought, turning a $140 tire (in America) into a $320 Canadian tire. Oh well.

We were back on the road, negotiating the confusing quagmire of Vancouver traffic just in time for the afternoon commute, and once again, just getting to the freeway became a test of my navigational abilities.

Originally we were going to cross back into Washington from Vancouver, but what with our border running incident haunting us, we thought it would be wiser to find a much smaller border to get us back into America. We rode west into Abbotsford then turned south towards the border town of Sumas.

A long line preceded us, so we pulled our helmets, retrieved our passports and waited contently for out turn. The American border guard deserves a huge raise. He was outstanding. We were both waved up together, something that we've never seen, and he spoke with us both. He saw our license plates and immediately asked if we knew about the coal miners who were trapped near Huntington, Utah. We did and we told him we go past the area all the time.

After the regular array of questions where we revealed that we were not importing bananas or bootlegging whiskey, we were given the warmest "welcome home" we'd ever received. While we love traveling in Canada, it felt great to return to America!

We'd purposely held off on gassing up until returning to America because of the cost, so we fueled up, bought a bottle of wine in preparation for the evening, and headed south. Rather than just heading south along the main route we turned west onto highway 547 and almost immediately, the road turned into a glorious, technical gyration of asphalt bliss!

It was the perfect way to be welcomed home, a friendly border guard and fantastic riding. We turned onto highway 542 and passing through dense stands of trees and past humble homes tucked back, barely in sight behind dense vegetation.

With few options left and daylight waning as fast as our energy we returned to highway 9 and rode straight south into Sedro Woolley where we checked into the first hotel we found. We unloaded the bikes and I sent off a quick email back home by taking advantage of the lobby computer, convincing the girl behind the counter to waive the associate fees.

We collapsed on the bed, ordered a pizza to be delivered to our room and drank our wine. It wasn't even dark outside by the time we'd collapsed comatose into a deep, deep sleep.

View Larger Map

For more than a few years we've gotten a constant stream of email and comments about riding the North Cascade Highway, WA-20, over the Cascade Mountains. More than once we've put it on the agenda, but today would be our first opportunity to give it a run.

Yesterdays rain had gone away and a dappled sky of fluffy clouds drifted overhead and we were happy that the roads were mostly dry. Being so close to Seattle we expected the area just East of Sedro Wolley would be somewhat swanky. Quite the opposite was true. Tattered clapboard and cinder block buildings with peeling paint pimpled the side of the road and detracted from the beautiful vegetation.

For the first 30 miles the road was nothing special, but after we passed through the town of Rockport, things started looking up. The road started climbing and more corners came our way. Passing through the town of Marblemount things got a lot better. The road carried itself along the northern slope of steep mountain slope. Constantly sweeping corners gently carried us up towards the roads eventual top elevation of 5,000 feet; a significant climb from sea level in just 50-some miles.

The North Cascade Highway crosses into the North Cascades National Park, which makes up one of three park units, including Ross Lake and Lake Chelan and the Stephen Mather Wilderness Area. Entering in to this much public land usually means the scenery is going to get pretty good. The western slope wasn't so significant and we were wondering what all the fuss was about, but as we continued East, not only did the road become nothing short of spectacular, the scenery became absolutely epic!

The road was fast and smooth but without too much in the way of technical. We were totally enjoying the ride. By the time we reached Diablo Lake we understood why this road gets so much attention. We were thrilled that we'd timed this road to hit it on a quiet Wednesday morning. The camera stayed in the tankbag and we simply took advantage of the wonderful riding.

Once past the Diablo Lake Overlook, the road straightened out and gradualy and gently climbed towards the south. The road was in a little worse for wear, but the towering pine trees looking down on us kept us content with the scenery. As we neared Rainy Pass, just a few feet shy of 5,000 feet, we were freezing our tails off and I was considering pulling off to put on the heated vests.

Immediately to the Eastern side of Rainy Pass the world changed. Liberty Bell Mountain and Early Winter Spires towered up over 8,000 feet of oddly orange and grey rock scraping clouds briskly flying inland. U-shaped glacial paths were clearly evident as the road swept down through 270-degree corners turning the road back towards the east dropping dramatically towards the towns of Wintrhrop and Twisp. Vegetation disappeared almost immediately and we were no longer surrounded by the lush green coastal foliage and instead were left with traditional cured western grasses, scrubby brush and widely strewn pine trees.

The lower we dropped, the higher the temperatures climbed. Looking like a very charming touristy place, we stopped for an early lunch in Winthrop. Local motorcyclists were milling about and parking spaces were scarce. We lucked out and found a spot near the main drag. We sauntered about and wandered into a very western looking lunch joint. The service was very much not good and the food was even worse. With the mood totally dampened we were ready to get out of Winthrop and see what else eastern Washington had to offer.

Staying on WA-20, we made our way towards Okanogan and Omak Washington. The road was pleasantly twisty and with very little traffic so we were able to enjoy ourselves. We stopped in Okanogan, Washington for a quick fill of fuel some water and some time to peruse the maps. Scads of small and very good looking road made a spider web of choices, but with only a few days left of vacation we deferred to sticking to the more direct highway 20.

Arriving in the town of Omak we were stuck in upcoming county fair traffic. Sweltering in the first real heat we'd dealt with in a long time and I was frustrated with the inability to get out of town. He jumped onto highway 97 and blasted our way north towards the town of Tonasket, where we reconnected with highway 20.

The difference in the terrain from coastal Washington to inland Washington was far more dramatic than I ever could have imagined. Desolate, windblown plains that featured only ugly, grey scrub brush and baked grasses. If I were to be dropped out of an airplane I would have guessed us to be somewhere in northern Montana, not the state of Washington.

Tonasket was, however, a very cute little down and as we made our way through town, small, white-tailed deer would cross the road looking like scared puppies, hiding behind bushes and fences at our passing.

The roads were getting more and more enjoyable the road became A constant of canyoning and was keeping us happy, even though we would still describe the canyons as rather gently sweeping road. As we passed through the town of Republic the road became much better, tighter corners kept us highly entertained. Ominous orange signs were warning of impeding road construction, but for almost 40 miles the only evidence of construction were the signs and fresh, perfectly smooth, pure black asphalt free from even lane-marking paint. Sweeping past abandoned buildings, small meadows and crumpled terrain, we were having a very good time and were gleeful with the simple joy of riding.

As we crested a small mountain pass and began heading down through a series of fast corners, we rounded a blind corner and found ourselves in the middle of the foreshadowed construction. Half-way through a corner and a fairly brisk pace we were rolling over two-inches of freshly poured pea-gravel and virtually no traction.

With our trajectories heading directly for the side of the road and a dense thicket of trees, we needed quick thinking. MSF saved the day once again and we didn't do anything abrupt and gently rolled off the throttle while maintaining a very gentle turn to stay away from the side of the road.

Both bikes tracked impressively and we were able to get the bike straight up and down and decrease our speed significantly. The fear began while we continued to ride into thick gravel that causing the bikes to sway and wallow, unable to track straight. We continued to degrease our speeds until were traveling below 20mph and all the vehicles we'd passed over the last 15 minutes rapidly caught up with us.

Thick white clouds of dust hovered in the air from the passing traffic and clung to the leaves and needles on the adjacent vegetation. A massive RV was barreling down on our six's and I was anxious to get out of the thick gravel.

Fortunately, the road was a series of long, empty straight sections dropping towards Franklin D Roosevelt Lake. As the RV was about to make a pass, the pea-gravel came to an abrupt end and we were once again on predictable asphalt. We were able to pick up the speeds and quickly put the traffic behind us.

The road turned north and we followed the shoreline before making a quick right turn onto another wonderful steel girder bridge. Expecting another wonderful mountain pass, we found ourselves in a desolate valley that housed the charming communities of Kettle Falls and Colville.

Sturgis bikers were beginning their pilgrimage and Coors Light and Budweiser white plastic banners were tied across the front of every bar welcoming "bikers." We considered stopping in Colville for the evening, but the raucous biker exhaust noise prompted us to go just a little bit further.

Into another mountain pass we entered, Old Dominion Mountain looming above us to the north, we were almost immediately back among the trees. The evening was fast approaching and the occasional cute white-tailed deer could be seen peering out at us from the side of the road. We passed the entrance to Crystal Falls State Park and what little traffic there was disappeared and we were left feeling quite alone.

Heavy shadows blanketed the road and it was feeling like the time to stop was getting eminent. A family of three white-tailed deer crossed the road just past a small family run campground. The quick braking maneuver was the final bit of encouragement, and Kris and I made a quick U-turn back to the simply named "Trading Post Store - Cafe."

Faded brown wood protected by a red-steel and corrugated steel roof fronted a very small operation. A string tied under an awning held a constant garage-sale selection of used clothing, piles of orange life-preservers over flowing from cardboard boxes. Inside it got even better. Shelves crammed with dusty merchandise purchased while parachute pants well all the rage filled almost every square inch of floor space. A kitchen in the back was busy cooking dinner for some other patrons that looked a whole lot like family. A doorway to the side accessed the restaurant, but the lights inside were turned off.

Without looking around, and throwing caution to the wind, we paid or $29.95 for the evenings lodging. We rode the bikes over to our cabin and parked the bikes, unloading our luggage into the cabin before rushing off to dinner before the restaurant closed.

From the outside, the cabins were very cute. Marked walkways wandered between about a dozen small cabins. Only a handful of cabins were occupied. To the east there was a small lake where one could rent paddle boats for fishing or playing. Inside, however, the cabins were less nice. Filthy would be a better word. Stained blankets lay in a pile between two beds, and mismatched furniture sat around the room. There was an old cast-iron wood burning stove, a manky hot plate with equally nasty coffee pot and refrigerator that we never actually opened.

Without spending too much time, we went off to dinner, only to discover that the "restaurant" was actually the owners’ living room. A couple folding tables sat in the center of an open area between their kitchen and television nook. And we were surrounded by family portraits, nick-knacks and trinkets. We ordered hamburgers thinking they would probably be the safest options and sat in quite discomfort while the family dined in the far corner discussing the days events.

After they finished dinner they wandered into the TV nook (complete with concrete pig - because what TV nook is complete without a concrete quadrupeds?) and started watching "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader" with loud laugher frequent. We slyly snuck a handful of snaps when we thought nobody would be watching.

As requested we paid with cash and quickly fled to spend the last little bit of evening out on the docks, however, the peace of the evening was broken by a very drunk fisherman struggling to row his boat back to shore. Bellowing and laughing intermixed with moments of near vomiting, we tried to ignore the scene, but by the time he made it to shore, we thought it best to leave.

Back in our room, we decided it would be best to prevent any contact with skin, so we pulled out or sleeping bags and laid them across the bed, casting the blankets underneath the television set. When I threw the blankets "The Game" with Michael Dougless clattered across the floor. Cool, we put the tape into the VCR and curled up to watch the show. We also had a good half bottle of wine left over from the other night that helped take the edge off the evening.

While sipping our wine and watching our movie (over the repetitive squeak of the VCR) a crowd of patrons gathered around our motorcycles, just outside the window of the cabin and had a very long and involved discussion about the heinous dangers of motorcycles. Many tales of gory motorcycle death and dismemberment were our bedtime stories.

View Larger Map

After an restless nite's sleep we woke up early, hoping to forego another meal in the living room of the proprietors, we quickly loaded up our bikes and headed off thinking we'd surely find a cute cafe somewhere along the way.

We love riding early in the morning, quiet roads and still, calm air greeted us as we continued east along WA-20 into the tiny down of Tiger. With nothing there serving breakfast, we turned right and headed south with a small creek to keep us company. The roads were engineer-ruler inspired, cutting linear swaths through cured fields and sparse stands of sickly looking pine trees. But the world was still and calm [except for my grumbling tummy! -Kris]

We were regularly passing through more small towns but almost all of them were devoid of any kind of eatery. We were getting hungry and almost stopped for a gas-station breakfast, out of desperation mostly. I checked the map before committing to a egg and cheese breakfast burrito from the frozen section and discovered that Newport, Washington was only a few more miles down the road.

The day was quickly starting to warm up and the road had become a gently twisty route that was moderately entertaining. Before we knew it we were within Newport town limits. We rode up and down every commercial looking street we could find, only to discover that every eatery in town pulled double duty as a bar. With residual cigarette smoke still wafting from the swinging doors from the night before, we passed them by, thinking surely there must be at least one decent restaurant in town.

All we could find was a McDonalds. Punchy with low blood sugar I threw out every McFood McTitle joke I could come up with as we ordered just about everything on the breakfast menu. Our tab came to $23.96 and we carried our two heaping trays of food to the outdoor picnic table where we sampled the cornucopia of deep-fried, saturated fat goodness while perusing maps and discussing the route of the day

Our bellies bulging and the taste of McCoffee still on our breaths, we filled the tanks and headed into Idaho following ID-41 south. A terribly bland and direct route, ID-41 punched its way towards Coeur d'Alene.

Traffic increased as we neared the largest city in the Idaho panhandle. Surprisingly, the root of the towns difficult to spell name is unclear. Some believe that French traders allegedly named the local Indian tribe the Coeur d'Alene (literally translated it means "heart of the awl") out of respect for their tough trading practices. But it might also mean "sharp-hearted" or "shrewd." Another possibility is that it is a corruption of Coeur de Leon, or Lion Heart. Others interpret "Heart of the Awl" to translate to "Eye of the Needle", referring to the narrow passage through which the lake empties into the Spokane River.

In any case, the town has not changed all that much over the years, and we found the community to be just as appealing as it's ever been. We hopped onto I-90 heading east to discover that the roads were being resurfaced. Bouncing our way along through mid-morning traffic we navigated towards exit 22 where we would link up with Coeur d'Alene Lake Road. A serpentine road that navigates the 30-mile long lake. There are a number of model T's sitting on the bottom of the lake, due to people in the early 1900s who would drive across it during the winter in order to save half the distance in getting around the lake. When the ice broke, so did the chances for getting across. Also, there are some steamboats on the bottom that had been burned when they were no longer used to ferry people around on the lake. Divers frequently visit these ruins on the bottom of the lake.

A plethora of homes dot the gyrating and technical route that works its way south increasing the technical character of the route. You never can tell when someone is going to pull out of a blind driveway, and there were plenty of domed mirrors hung from tree's and light-posts to warn drivers of potential intersecting traffic.

We were enjoying the ride on a Friday morning, there wasn't much traffic, but it was easy to tell that this road should most definitely be avoided during warm weekends. Once the lake was behind us, we continued south on ID-3 and the road maintained its moderately twisty form. Nothing technical, but plenty of corners to keep us entertained while we rode into progressively hotter temperatures with every mile we traveled south.

We stopped briefly in St Maries for gas and cold water. It was definitely a blue-collar community with a real rough-edge to it. Facial hair, leather gloves and heavy-equipment ball-caps were the basic uniform. We sat in the shade and watched the world pass by until we felt we'd best be gettin' our big-city selves on outta' there.

Traipsing along desolate agricultural areas and crossing occasional small mountain ranges turned this unassuming road into a pleasant jaunt. Small farming homes dotted the route and aging, faded fence posts segregated green fields from the gold ones with rusted strands of barbed wire.

But it was getting hot and we were having a hard time staying cool. Our goal for the day was to arrive at and tackle ID-12, Lolo Pass, that would take us out of Idaho and into Montana, but the heat was taking its toll. Slowing for each of the small communities along the way eliminated air-flow through our jackets and caused body temperatures and thirst to rise.

Finally, just a few miles shy of Lewiston, Idaho we connected with ID-12 and I took a celebratory photo of Kris parked beneath the highway sign. The first time we took this road it was an epic experience filled with glorious cornering and no people for miles and miles and miles. We couldn't wait!

Upon arrival onto the what we thought would be the hallowed asphalt of ID-12 we found ourselves on a heavily traveled two-lane route where we were dicing with RV's campers and logging trucks. The intense heat took a lot of the fun out of the ride and we soon found ourselves droning along hoping to get to the other end.

We pulled off in Orofino, Idaho and rode through town looking for an ice-cream shope, but found none and resolved to fill up our tanks and grab whatever ice-cream the quik-e-mart offered. We also went looking for some sort of park and instead found ourselves huddling in the shade of a sad looking lot of trees placed around a bronze statue of a logger. Long gone were the cool temperatures of the great white north and we longed for more mellow temperatures.

Back onto Lolo Pass, the road got a little bit better and we were soon sweeping our way towards Montana with pleasant smiles on our faces. The road was paralleling the railway on the other side of the river and once we crossed to the north side of the river, the road got even better! Spying a small and cute touristy place, I thought now would be a good a time as any for an early and light dinner. We pulled into the gravel drive in the tiny town of Syringia and I noticed that Kris rear tire looked a little plump.

I touched the tire and it was scaling hot and I immediately withdrew my hand. Kris mentioned that the bike had been feeling a bit funny the last little while. Even though the tire was supremely hot, I pulled out the tire gauge and it measured a mere 12psi of pressure. Very much not good.

We spun the tire looking for the source of the damage, and could only find a tiny, pin-size blemish in the center of the tire. A bit of properly placed saliva confirmed that this tiny pin-hole was indeed leaking air. Bugger!

We carry a kit for just such emergencies, but in all our years of riding, we've never gotten the chance to use it. Needless to say, I was wishing the kit would go its entire life without being used, but here we were.

We asked about where the closest service station was and learned that there was one a few miles down the road or several miles bike the way we just came. Rather than ream out the pin-hole, I squirted in a couple cartridges of compressed air and got the tire up to a less frightful 20psi (I didn't go all the way full because we only had a limited supply of air cartridges). We then trundled along at 30mph to the next town.

Arriving in Lowell, Idaho we found our gas station and a coin operated air pump. Fishing through our pockets we found only canadian dollars and cents. Nothing American. So we went inside the small family operated gas station to hear the owner actually discussion how excited she was about their brand new coin operated air pump. "No more giving away air for free!" she said just in time for us to ask if we could make a purchase and have them charge more and give us a handful of quarters. They happily, if not greedily, agreed.

We pulled a couple of bottles of water off the shelf and went out to air up the tire. It had lost 5psi in the few miles it took to get us here, and once aired up properly the pinhole was spewing air at an alarming rate. We had two options. The first was to ream the hole out and shove a plug into it and hope my reaming and plugging worked (and that I wouldn't damage the carcass/belts in the process) and drive to town and pay through the nose for a nine year old D207. Or we could try a can of fix-a-flat hope it holds and get a fresh tire in town, still paying "market-value" for a nine-year old D207. We decided to start with the least invasive measure and see where that got us, so back into the quick-e-mart for a can of fix-a-flat and another roll of quarters.

Now, at this point it is important to mention that fix-a-flat is NOT intended for motorcycle tires, although we've used it a couple of times with mixed results. Once it worked, and once it didn't. Fix-a-Flat is filled with a liquid that, when propelled by the compressed air inside of the tire, is forced towards the puncture and will block the hole created by the puncture. Tire sealant is typically only useful on punctures of 5mm diameter or less. Our puncture was sub 1mm.

During our plight at the gas station, several folks offered us help, with one lorry driver who claimed to have a compressor on his truck who said he'd be willing to follow us and air up the tire as we needed it along the way. While very thoughtful and considerate we politely declined. The fix-a-flat appeared to be holding air. But the willingness to help was greatly appreciated and we expressed our gratitude.

Kris ran the bike up and down the road to put some heat back into the tire and spread the brown sludge around the inside of the tire and things appeared to be holding. Stressed and tired we opted to call it a day instead of pushing on into the waning daylight with a questionable tire. The morning would be a better time to deal with this issue.

We crossed the street and pulled into the hotel/campground that is popular with river folk who find fishing and rafting to be their cup of tea. We were sweaty and grimy from the day and wanted nothing more than a long hot shower. We checked into the quaint place and took the keys to the hotel room only to discover the hot-water heater was broken so while we could shower, we'd be showering in icy cold fresh spring water.

So we donned our suits and swam the grime off in the heated swimming pool. It was wonderfully relaxing. Afterwards we headed back to the main building for a very delicious dinner on the deck overlooking the river below. Despite the dreariness of the day, it was a wonderful evening, even though we were fighting off carnivorous bees for our evening's meal, the relentless bugs ensured we were enjoying the evening in privacy as most guests retreated inside. We were reluctant to be too hard on the pollinating insects because increasing insecticides sprayed in agricultural areas have dramatically decreased bee populations in north america and many fear the decreased population and decreased pollination could eventually be catastrophic to the west.

View Larger Map

Starting out the next day, we were nervous about the tire. Overnight, it had lost five pounds of pressure. Acceptable; we felt. Because I'd overfilled the tire last night, it was now running at 38psi, which was tolerable, so we loaded the bikes and headed off. It was early enough that, once again, we were the only ones on the road and consequently we got to enjoy the road at whatever pace we chose. As soon as we started rolling we arrived at "the sign." Threads on motorcycle forums have been started over signs like this and a photo adorns our living room from our first visit to "the sign." It reads simply and gleefully "Winding Road Next 77 Miles."

We stopped and took the required photos before heading off again. Even though ID-12 wasn't as epic as we remembered it, it was still a very worthy motorcycle road. Not very technical, but gloriously scenic! The scenery was magnified by the rain from the night before that had managed to saturate all the colors. We tried our hardest to keep our speeds down for the sake of the tire, but the glory of the morning got the best of us and soon we were clipping along at a very pleasant pace.

The first time we'd ridden this road I had to stop and catch my breath, this time it seemed that it was over as soon as it began. Seventy-seven miles just ain't what it used to be. Darn world keeps on shrinking. We were soon in Montana and we pulled in to check the tire. It'd only lost a pound in the last 80 miles or so. Linking up with Highway-89 that runs from Canada to Mexico and through the center of our home town, we stopped and started looking at the map ever more closely.

We had two choices: go into town and hunt down a tire, which would take the better part of the day and likely cost us near $300, ride as far as we could, then ride back into Yellowstone National Park by Saturday and back home again by Sunday; or take a chance and b-line it home today, checking the tire as we went, using the tire-plug kit if we needed it.

For various reasons, one of which was getting calls from my new employer about paperwork that needed to be filed as soon as possible, we chose to head for home giving up on two-days of riding. Turning away from the mountain we rode South down long, lonely and empty stretches with very few corners.

About 500 miles separated us from our destination. We stopped quickly for gas and water. We aired up the tire just before we rolled out towards Salmon, Idaho. Small towns entertained us as we worked our way south, but there was little to look at once the small towns were behind us and we were left with empty roads.

I had been in Salmon, Idaho during a horrible wildfire that claimed two young firefighters who had been clearing a landing pad for a helicopter. Now we rode through the evidence of that fire and I was struck by just how much fire-ravaged forests we'd seen on this trip. As a kid, my parents took us into these mountains all the time and I don't ever remember dead, blackened trees at all, let alone how they are now. Stands of dead-tree's and smoky air made the forest feel like a graveyard of scraggly tombstones. It was eerie. The Forest Service says this is all part of returning fire to the ecosystem and I'll be the first to say these areas recover faster than most people realize, but it still felt bleak.

We arrived in Salmon Idaho and made another choice. The road between Salmon and Challis is a wonderful road, but slightly longer and slightly less direct. Had we realized at the time that it would be less than nine-miles further to go through Challis, we most certainly would have taken that route. Hindsight is 20/20, and we kept to the more direct path towards Idaho Falls.

Many of us have had recurring nightmares in our lives. Mine has always involved this next bit of road, ID-28 between Leadore, Idaho and Mud Lake (they sound like such nice places). Long desolate stretches of road with mountains gradually sloping towards craggy peaks, funneling intense wind. Does this road suck or does it blow? I'll never know. We stopped in Leadore for fuel and to check Kris' tire, down a few more pounds so we pumped it up again. This is also the last place we saw Kris favorite three-season-fleece. The intense wind liberated it from underneath two bungee nets. Kris still mourns the loss of this jacket.

The day was quickly slipping away as we battled the merciless crosswinds, but when we turned into Mud Lake, the wind was no at our back and relief was never so pleasant. We hopped onto I-15 and quickly made our way into Idaho Falls where we stopped once again for fuel and to put some more air in Kris' rear tire. It was consistently loosing a few pounds between fill-ups. We grabbed a fast-food dinner at Arby's and stuck to I-15.

My parents live in a small community in the northern portion of Utah, so we felt it would be best if Kris pulled off early and rode to my parents house, shortening her ride by a good 150 miles, while I continued on to Salt Lake. It wouldn't be a wasted trip because my parents had been watching the dog, so we'd have to drive up to fetch him anyway.

Right before Kris planned to turn off, we stopped at a rest area to say our farewells. So that I wouldn't have to stop for gas, we pulled out the four liters of fuel we'd carried with us and poured them into the Ducati. It was an oddly sad goodbye. We hadn't been apart for more than a few moments in two weeks and now we'd be parting ways.

A few miles after starting out, Kris took her exit, waving as she slowed down, I continued my pace, heading south into the approaching evening daylight. I hoped that her tire would get her the last few miles to my parent’s home without anything exciting happening.

All I had left was a couple more hours of freeway droning. We'd been gone longer than we'd ever been gone before on vacation and now it felt as though it was wrapping up so quickly. One day we were in the middle of nowhere and the next we would be home.

I managed to time it so that I'd just missed the Friday evening commute and as such I was able to continue through the construction zones in Ogden without having to slow my pace. It was an average summer evening back home on the Wasatch-Front and folks were heading out for their evening and weekend plans. Everything felt so normal, yet somehow so different.

I arrived at the house and quickly pulled off my riding gear in exchange for a clean pair of shorts and flip-flops. Tossed a set of tie-downs into the back of the truck along with the loading ramp and got right back onto the freeway, returning the way I'd just come with no time to spare.

Four hours after leaving Kris behind I arrived at my parent’s house to find Kris showered and rested with a freshly cleaned dog by her side. Warmly greeted by the dog, we loaded up the bike well after midnight, and for the third time that day, headed back down I-15 towards home.

We didn't make it back to the house until 1am, and Jake was being a very good dog, because he knew he was getting a present. He sat patiently in the living room until I revealed the small black bear that had traveled so far. He joyfully leap and circled until I tossed him the bear and he ran off prancing. Placed the bear in the center of the floor and danced around it some more. He was very happy and we were finally home.

• Two weeks is a long time. Normally during a 10-day trip we can't get in enough riding. But after two weeks we'd had enough. We wished we would have scheduled one more day off the bikes in addition to the day on the ferry.
• Plan for maintenance. For most bikes 10-days requires little attention, but as we got closer to two weeks, chains needed adjustment, things needed to be cleaned etc. A down day would have allowed more time to take care of anything that needed attention. The lack of maintenance to the bikes started to cause duress to my OCD meticulous maintenance nature.

• I have often had the question of whether my butt got tired on this long of a journey. The answer is sadly YES, a typical 10 day trip is tiring but very doable but this trip with really took its toll on the hiney details of which will be left unsaid.
• Dave only stopped once to clean the bikes which was amazing for this long of a duration in all kinds of weather conditions.

________________
w w w . c a n y o n c h a s e r s . n e t

home | travel log | treasure maps | workshop | news | gallery | video | reviews links | guestbook | reference | about us

The content of CanyonChasers.Net is for general information purposes only and does not constitute advice. CanyonChasers.Net tries to provide content that is true and accurate as of the date of writing; however, we give no assurance or warranty regarding the accuracy, timeliness, or applicability of any of the contents. Visitors to CanyonChasers.Net should not act upon CanyonChasers.Net's content or information without first seeking appropriate professional advice. More »