Up at Prudhoe Bay, I thought Slogfest Borealis, my summer-long pedaling journey was fully and finally finished.  At least, that had been the plan from the beginning.  However, as my S.A.G. partner and I drove the lonely 415 miles of the gravel Haul Road back out to civilization, I found myself studying the map and customarily thinking about cartographic extremes (I wrote of my obsession with this back in March).  Putting all of my past  bicycle tours together, I had now pedaled to the southernmost terminus of the American road in Key West, Florida; through the easternmost terminus of the American road in Lubec, Maine; out to the northernmost terminus of the American road in Prudhoe Bay, Alaska; and through the geographical center of North America in Rugby, North Dakota.  Neah Bay, Washington was a western terminus of sorts back in 2004, but the real westernmost terminus of the American road is near Homer, Alaska’s other end of the road about 580 miles south of Fairbanks.  I had to go for it, thereby bagging all major points on the compass with regard to the American Highway and eclipsing 4,000 total miles for Slogfest Borealis.  I knew my Slog Series Green Terrace Rolls would hold up, and what’s another 600 miles, I thought, with 3,600 behind me?

So, my S.A.G. partner dropped me off just north of Fairbanks in the same spot where I turned north up the Elliot toward the infamous James Dalton Highway back in August.  Breaking off the original route, I pedaled around the north side of Alaska’s Golden Heart City and then down the George Parks Highway to a sweet little camping spot just north of Healy.  Surrounded by tundra with glimpses of North America’s highest mountain to the south, it felt good to be on my old trusty warhorse after having just pedaled

more than 400 miles on a less than comfortable mountain bike.  That bike was finished, having limped into Prudhoe Bay with a warped rear wheel.  I would later fix it up and give it to a pregnant Chinese girl in Anchorage who was able to use it for transportation. 

From north of Healy, it was an 85-mile leg to a highway rest area south of Denali National Park followed by another century day to a gravel pull-off just north of Willow, a place many have lobbied to be Alaska’s new capital.  A long and arduous struggle in the rain finally brought me down into Anchorage where I was confronted with traffic, road construction, and much about civilization that had become unfamiliar.  I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

Heading south on the Seward Highway, the winds on Turnagain Arm were ferocious; the glaciers visible as I crossed onto the Kenai Peninsula were awe-inspiring; and miserable wet and rainy forecasts never really materialized. 

The last fork in the road forced a right turn onto the Sterling Highway that would take me to the other end of Alaska’s road system. After camping at a secluded trailhead, warming up by a nice fire, sleeping under a star-filled sky (something rare in southeast Alaska this time of year), and finding a brand new can of bear spray (not cheap) lying on the ground, I was surprisingly greeted by blue skies and warm sun.  As I made my way through Sterling, Soldotna, and out along the shores of the Cook Inlet, I couldn’t believe the number of moose that had been hit on that road since July 1st--189 and counting, a warning sign read.

The scenery was amazing, providing a burst of energy.  The Aleutian Range, including the colossal Redoubt and Iliamna Volcanoes, stood out stark and capped in snow across the waters.  It was almost as if I could reach out and touch them and the countless crags over there in Lake Clark National Park. 

My last night before rolling into Homer was spent camping on the beach, beholding a glorious sunset behind these very peaks.  I attempted to bathe in those cold waters with a bar of soap and a handful of shampoo, and that was an experience I will not soon forget.

I was a bit nervous about my last day in the saddle, a mere 43 miles from the campsite on the beach to the end of the road.  The forecast called for a cold, steady rain; and misery seemed inevitable.  Ironically, it never rained on me that day.  At Anchor Point, it was only appropriate to make a short /-trip off the main route.  At the end of Anchor River Road, a few short miles through the woods and out to the shoreline, was an interesting billboard that read: “Anchor Point, AK North America’s Most Westerly Highway Point.” 

As I stood there with the sound of ocean waves and the wind whipping through the firs, I was humbled.  In 2005, I had pedaled to Key West, Florida, the SOUTHERNMOST end of the American Road.  Months earlier in that ride, I came through Lubec, Maine, the EASTERNMOST end of the American road.  Back on September 5th, I struggled into Prudhoe Bay, the NORTHERNMOST end of the American road.  Earlier in May, this route came through Rugby, North Dakota, the GEOGRAPHICAL CENTER of North America, and back in 2003, my coast-to-coast ride terminated on the beach outside of Neah Bay, Washington, the westernmost end of the road in the Continental United States.  In that moment, my bicycle was parked at the WESTERNMOST end of the road in all of America, thereby completing the compass.  I had pedaled across my homeland (12,000+ miles): to all four cartographic extremes of its vast road system, through the geographical center, and at countless points in between.  Hey, wait a minute, getting to Homer would also mean that I had pedaled the entire state of Alaska, from top to bottom.  ‘Twas a day of milestones; I fought back tears of joy.  Of great significance was that TCK Slog Series had been with me the entire way.

Back on the main highway, I paused for some lunch: a small salad and a bowl of navy bean soup would provide the energy to bust out the final 22 miles.  A major hill before the final descent into Homer was mentally debilitating.  As I struggled in the lowest gear my old warhorse could offer, the culmination of four months of trial, tribulation, and 4,200 miles of pedal revolutions weighed heavy.  In those dark bittersweet moments, I heard the repeated blaring of a car horn.  I turned to see my wife, my two daughters, and my parents pass me by in a rented minivan.  A quarter-mile later, we were reunited at a scenic viewpoint overlooking the town of Homer, the waters of the Cook Inlet, and the surrounding mountains. These loved ones had arrived in Alaska to watch me finish.  From the place of this reunion, I could see the end of the Homer Spit, a mere nine miles away.  Words simply cannot express the joy of those moments. 

So, I dropped down into Homer and out onto the Spit.  The headwind on that  small sliver of land was more ferocious than anything I had seen since Minnesota, and the last four miles were a labor I dare never repeat.

Finally, 4,207.8 miles after leaving that deserted railroad crossing in Badger, Minnesota where I began on the cold morning of May 21, I reached the end of the road and rolled my bicycle out into the waters of the Pacific Ocean.  Friends from back home had prepared a large “Finish Line Banner” that I crashed through as my family and my faithful S.A.G. partner cheered with applause.  Today, at 5:00pm, it was done. 

An interesting thing happened there.  After snapping a bunch of photos, I removed the pair of TCK Slog Series Terrace Rolls that I had worn on my feet every single mile of the journey.  For dramatic effect, I threw them into the ocean planning to recover them as a memento immediately thereafter.  One washed up on shore, and as Ricky, my S.A.G. partner, waded out to snag the other one, a large spotted seal surfaced and swallowed it whole--a fitting death, I suppose, for a sock that had gone far above and beyond the call of duty.  We chuckled and packed up the bicycle one last time.  While celebrating at a local cafe, I devoured fresh halibut and king salmon caught from those very waters.  It was done.  What more can be said?  What more can be done but to get some sleep and start dreaming about my next adventure?

They say TCK Slog Series is done simply, done right, and done better than anyone else.  From Badger, Minnesota to Prudhoe Bay, Alaska and then on down to the end of the Homer Spit, I proved it.

I cannot sign off without publicly thanking Ricky Springer of Owasso, Oklahoma for his services as a faithful S.A.G. partner these past five months.  Without him, I could not claim success and/or completion.

-Jesse Boyd