the slog blog

An Epilogue

Wed, 16 Sep 2009 18:38:57 -0400

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

Tailwinds to the Top of the Continent

Sat, 5 Sep 2009 19:47:54 -0400

I slept good Thursday night near Milemarker 300 on Alaska’s James Dalton Highway as the elements raged outside the truck. Yesterday was blustery, overcast, and cold, but THE WIND WAS BLOWING OUT OF THE SOUTHWEST. I pedaled out of camp with a tailwind that would literally carry me all the way to Prudhoe Bay.

It wasn’t long before the clouds gave way to clear skies and the rolling hills gave way to bluffs and then the flat coastal plain. But for the herds of muskox grazing along the highway, I could have sworn I was in Kansas, back where I started in the Dakotas, or perhaps California’s San Joaquin Valley. When I heard a couple of seagulls crying overhead, a zing of excitement rose up within me. The Arctic Ocean was getting close. Muskox, caribou, waterfowl--I saw a lot of wildlife.

Yesterday evening, my S.A.G. partner and I beheld a glorious sunset as we prepared a mess of fried luncheon meat, curried potatoes and onions, and fruit cocktail on the side of the now flat Dalton Highway. Contemplating, I marveled. Tailwinds were carrying me to the top of the continent. I cannot imagine having to pedal that same stretch in the typical headwind and dense rainy fog that is the norm in that place. As we feasted, the moments were memorable in the stillness of dusk. Temperatures were in the mid-fifties; the weather was perfect; and that on the Arctic Coastal Plain in September, of all places.

After dinner, I pedaled another 12 miles or so, breaking a spoke and being forced to fix something I had never fixed before, right there in the middle of the Dalton Highway. I was frustrated then, but my S.A.G. partner and I both chuckle now. Let me put it this way, I was glad to have salvaged a few spokes off the wheel I destroyed on the original mountain bike when I was backing out of my driveway back on May 8th to head for the starting line of this journey. Without these extras, I would have been walking the last 22 miles into Prudhoe Bay. With the wheel fixed, I stopped last night when my odometer read 102.31 miles for the day and we had reached the last suitable pullout before the end of the road. A CENTURY DAY WITH A MOUNTAIN BIKE ON A GRAVEL ROAD, WOW!

A full moon came up over the Sagavanirktok River that night, the temperatures plummeted, and I could see the lights of Prudhoe Bay in the distance as I grew weary of waiting for the Aurora Borealis and fell into slumber.

Today, I pedaled the final 19.55 miles into Prudhoe Bay. ‘Twas another clear, sunny day with a tailwind. I went as far north as I could to the east security gate (only those with security clearance can pass) and then circled back around to the Arctic Caribou Inn, the only place in town where I could find a sign that said “Welcome to Prudhoe Bay.” After 3,648.8 miles from Badger, Minnesota, such was the finish line. I crossed it as did my faithful pair of Slog Series Green Terrace Rolls had been with me every mile in the saddle.

At the top of the continent, it was extremely frustrating that some foreign-owned oil company wouldn’t allow me, an American taxpayer, to pedal out to the Arctic Ocean and put my tire in the frigid waters. I was stopped cold in my tracks at a security gate just a few miles from the shore, so soaking my feet will have to wait until tomorrow morning as part of an “official tour.” I came this far. I guess I should pay the $40.00 and be done with it.

For now, however, I will put such thoughts aside and bask in the joys of a childhood dream come true. I used to fantasize about traveling to Alaska, but little did I know that the journey would be on a bicycle, would culminate at the northernmost end of the road, and would involve an indestructible pair of socks done simply, done right, and done better than anyone else.

-Jesse Boyd

The Yellow Face

Thu, 3 Sep 2009 17:45:14 -0400

To bag a closed contour is a source of great joy, and I am nearing four hundred overall from my teenage years. Often the draw is distraction from the cares of this world, as in last night’s slog across muskeg and up an unnamed summit I dubbed “Distraction Peak.” Sometimes, it’s simply about a mountaineering challenge, simple aerobic exercise, or the quest for a grouping of peaks boasting summits exceeding a general elevation in a particular area. Still yet, the desire may spring simply from a title, a enigmatic peak name worth adding to my resume. Many such examples come to mind: Big Butt, Thermo Knob, and Dog Loser Knob in the Great Smokies; S’brutal Tower, Mt. Lyell, and the Checkered Demon in the Sierra Nevada; Shivapuri in Nepal; and Alaska’s A.B. Peak. In 2005, while pedaling a bicycle from the northernmost point in Maine down to Key West, Florida, my route included the entire Blue Ridge Parkway. This road took me near several summits worth dismounting the bicycle to run up through the woods and bag, simply because these peaks bore a bedazzling name. One such mountain was Yellow Face in North Carolina’s Plott Balsams. One of forty Southern Sixers, this mountain got its audacious name from yellowish colorings in the rock of its precipitous south face. What a cool peak to add to my resume, I thought. So, after pedaling up from Asheville that morning, I hid the bicycle behind a tree and bushwhacked over a mile out to the difficult-to-find true summit in a mess of pricker bushes and blowdowns. There was no view and nothing to show for my effort save a makeshift summit register that I put together and mounted to a tree trunk. Two years later, I went back with a friend and was unable to locate the register. Still, all the satisfaction I needed was in the name, and it was well worth the extra slog.

Last night, while trying to sleep in the back of my S.A.G. vehicle high above the Arctic Circle on Alaska’s James Dalton Highway, I found myself reminiscing about that strange North Carolina peak. Really, though, such mental gymnastics were only a distraction from my longings for the real yellow face that I hadn’t seen in so long. Would it show itself on the morrow, I thought? If not, I was done.

This morning, my S.A.G. partner was sound asleep and snoring. Suddenly, he was jolted awake by loud shouting and boisterous bellowing. “Woo, Woooo, Woo; Woo, Woooo, Woo.” It was me, howling for joy. The journey would continue, for I had awoken to a clear blue sky and watched as the yellow face crested the ridge to the east. There was not a cloud to be seen, and the gorgeous fall landscape had taken on a life in the boreal forest that I had yet to experience. Fresh snow glistened on the surrounding peaks. Morning had broken like the first morning, and Slogfest Boreal would continue.

This warm, sunny day, I slogged up and over Atigun Pass (At 4,800 feet, this is the highest point on any road in Alaska), being forced to endure some nasty mud and walk several sections of 10-12% grade. Nevertheless, I had the company of the yellow face to dry me out and lift my spirits. Eventually, I passed the farthest north spruce tree, and boom, I was whisked into the barren tundra. There will be no more trees heading north. The scenery up on the Chandalar Shelf was incredible as the Dalton ran beside the Alaska Pipeline. I was reminded of the Tso Moriri area in Ladakh, India: VAST GRANDEUR. One final slog up a muddy mountainside, and I was sitting at the pass. Amazingly, it was still, about 50 degrees, and intoxicatingly calm. Three to four inches of fresh snow lay on the ground, likewise capping the surrounding peaks. I could only pause and soak up the beauty of that place. My S.A.G. partner and I pulled out the lawn chairs, cooked some ramen, played in the white stuff, and basked in the gaze of the yellow face.

Down the other side of Atigun Pass was long and arduous. There was a lot of downgrade but still a few nasty uphills in a toilsome headwind as the topography raced toward the Arctic Coastal Plain. The Dalton ran right up beside the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (ANWR), but I saw little in terms of living creatures, save a couple of ravens, an owl, and an arctic fox near the Atigun River. Earlier this evening, it clouded up quick, and the wind began to howl. After I had pedaled 66 miles on the day, my partner and I stopped beside this rocky formation and set up camp. Now, I find myself huddled in the back of the truck as rain falls in torrents and the wind blows in a direction that will prove most difficult on the bicycle should it continue into tomorrow.

What lies between me and Prudhoe Bay is 115 miles of the North Slope that is often engulfed in fog and a dreary mist. Raging winds out of the north are to be expected--a sure recipe for discouragement and disillusion. Unlike yesterday, however, I am not of a morbid mindset. I saw the yellow face today, and there’s always the chance that it will look upon me tomorrow. Besides, I have a pair of TCK Slog Series on my feet--a prescription for contentment in the most uncomfortable of conditions. Prudhoe Bay, here I come!

-Jesse Boyd

Ready to Abort

Wed, 2 Sep 2009 15:19:01 -0400

Tuesday, September 1st, I pedaled 60 miles from the Arctic Circle to Coldfoot Camp. All day ‘twas overcast and chilly as I meandered into the foothills of the Brooks Range. Fortunately, no rain actually fell on me this day, and for that I was grateful. However, the longing to see the sun and feel its warmth became more intense. Autumn colors continued to amaze as entire hills were orange and yellow; and the Alaska Pipeline was a faithful roadside companion. Coldfoot, a former pipeline construction camp turned way overpriced hotel with gas pumps and a restaurant, was a soupy mess. There was standing water and mud everywhere, but at least we found a haven of rest. An all-you-can-eat buffet at the restaurant, filled with healthy goodness as opposed to the typical greasy truck-stop garbage that I expected, proved well worth the $18.95/person price. In that place, I was also able to spray off my bicycle and get a free hot shower, the latter being a great blessing. That night, we camped in a nearby grassy field. It got pretty cold, and the sound of trucks pulling in and out all night only complicated my ongoing battle with insomnia. Nevertheless, I stayed warm in my cozy down sleeping bag; and Ricky slept like a baby. I yearned all night to see the sun on the morrow. Again, it did not come.

Wednesday, September 2nd, we grabbed some breakfast before leaving Coldfoot to again press north. The skies were overcast, and one could smell rain in the air. The road was a muddy mess, and I was forced to walk a few segments. After some time in the saddle, the rains came. I quickly became soaked and miserable, and the desire to abort the mission reared its ugly head. After passing the Wiseman turnoff, Sukakpak Mountain, and the halfway point of the Dalton Highway, being forced change a flat tire in the rain and trying to dry out in the S.A.G. vehicle only added to my frustration. We later cooked lunch beside a stream but couldn’t even do that without getting wet.

After 40 miles of struggling on less than three hours of sleep, I could take it no more. ‘Twas 2:00pm, and I pulled off to set up camp on a gravel bar beside the Dietrich River. Sick peaks were to our right and the mountainous interior of Gates of the Arctic National Park was to our left--a sweet spot. Most of the afternoon it rained, and most of the afternoon I slept in the back of the S.A.G. vehicle. It’s amazing what a little sleep can do for one’s outlook, especially when a guy hasn’t had any in awhile. A good hearty dinner cooked under a makeshift canopy also lifted my spirits: rice, canned chicken breast, and an Indian mango curry sauce reminded me of Delhi while a little fruit cocktail proved a decent desert. Once the dishes were done, it was still early; and my partner and I were bored. The rain had stopped, and a nearby peak kept seizing my gaze. Longing for a bit of distraction from the hell that had been the Dalton Highway, Ricky and I decided to slog across more than a mile of tundra and up that thing to catch a view. I must say, walking across tundra filled with muskeg and tussocks proved no fun. Then, there was the bushwhacking through thick brush, thinking we could stumble upon a huge grizzly at any moment. Finally, I reached the upper slopes of the mountain where walking proved much easier. It started raining again, but before I knew it, I was standing on the summit. The views were expansive up into Gates of the Arctic National Park and north up the Dalton Highway. A foggy mist only added to the eeriness of the fading light and the joy of having bagged a peak north of the Arctic Circle. That mountain, a true closed contour on my topo map, had no name, so I dubbed her “Distraction Peak.” The slog, as mentioned, was a welcome distraction from the hell that had been the Dalton Highway on a bicycle. I made Ricky turn around below the summit because of fast approaching darkness, and it later proved a real adventure walking through muskeg in the darkness. Now back at the truck, my eyes won’t stay open; that hike seems to have cured the insomnia. I bed down desperately hoping for improved conditions tomorrow. Atigun Pass is a mere 19 miles away, and the thought of cold rain and nasty mud during that nasty slog is overwhelming. My TCK Slog Series can do it; they can endure; but can I? Hmmm, I’m going to make a fast and hard decision: If I awake to another day of nasty weather, I will abort this cursed highway and bury the socks I have worn since Day One here in this wilderness as a testimony to my failure, not theirs.

-Jesse Boyd

Above the Arctic Circle

Tue, 1 Sep 2009 15:07:30 -0400

After recovering in Fairbanks from my terrible bout with some strange flu, it was time to give the Dalton Highway another try. The last day of August came and went with no break in the weather. Lingering in hopes of clear skies was no longer an option, and misery seemed inevitable.

It was a long drive back to Finger Mountain, the very spot where flu had forced me to stop and turn around a week earlier. The approach took awhile--Livengood, Yukon River, Five Mile, etc. The fall colors, however, were amazing; I could not believe the change one week had made. That, alone, made the delay seem worthwhile. I remember meeting a bicycle tourist back in the Yukon who was from Anchorage. He told me there would be no fall colors on the Dalton Highway because there are no deciduous trees up there, only stunted black spruce. I chuckle to think that so many people don’t know what they are talking about. Anyway, Finger Mountain was not much different than a week earlier. The road was still muddy; the rain was again coming down; the air was familiarly wet and cold. Cautious, we sat in the truck for several hours, hoping that the rain would cease. It never did. Cabin fever forced me to run up to the summit of nearby Finger Mountain, just to bag a peak; and then, I had to get on the bike. Weary of the waiting game, I pedaled 18 miles in the rain to the Arctic Circle, what I saw as an important milestone. Yes, it was wet, cold, and miserable; but something was different: I felt much stronger than anytime I was pedaling on that stretch from Fairbanks to Finger Mountain. Obviously, that flu had left with me on the first go-around and only got worse as I headed north, greatly adding to the overall misery. This time, I was healed (save for a nagging cough); and the strength that came from that seemed to minimize the melancholy of the elements.

At the Arctic Circle, my S.A.G. partner and I camped under some fiery yellow birch trees, having strung up a makeshift canopy to shield us from the rain. It did cease long enough for us to cook dinner and enjoy the rays of the setting sun bursting through the dark clouds to highlight the already gorgeous autumn colors. Satisfaction came in the simplest of things: we were actually camped above the Arctic Circle in Alaska! All night it rained, and the wind blew with ferocity. That night would be the first of several in which insomnia would prove a real problem: a long, long night. I prayed and prayed for sun the next day. It has not come this September morn.

-Jesse Boyd

Dalton Discouragement

Sun, 30 Aug 2009 15:05:16 -0400

The summer is finished. The Far North boasts little that can be called autumn save for a brief period of incredible color; and winter comes quickly. Have I made it to Prudhoe Bay on the bicycle, bringing Slogfest Boreal to a glorious conclusion? The answer to this rhetorical question is a resounding NO! All I know of the James Dalton Highway, a 415 mile stretch of gravel to the top of the continent, is frustration, discouragement, and failure.

After the sesquicentennial day of milestones (9/17) that brought me to a secluded pull-off just south of Salcha, it was 63 miles of misery to the Elliot Highway junction north of Fairbanks in an incessant rain. The shrieks of fighter planes through Eielson Airforce Base and the traffic approaching the town of North Pole were unwelcome as I looked for Alaska to be a place of quiet solitude. I was covered with road grime and soaked to the core. There comes a point when even Gore-Tex no longer works. Under a mini-mall awning in North Pole, an attempt to dry out was made. ‘Twas cold. The final twenty miles around the northern fringes of Fairbanks to the Elliot Highway were awful. Cold rain fell in torrents; I wondered if I would ever see the sun again. Little did I know in those moments, for this was but a taste of what was to come.

In Fairbanks, my S.A.G. partner and I geared up for the most difficult stretch of the journey, stocking up on food, securing a spare gas can, and insuring that the S.A.G. vehicle was in good running condition. Regrettably, I rushed around the Golden Heart City of Interior Alaska (pop. 35,000) like a chicken with no head, neglecting the most important part of preparation--REST. This would come back to haunt.

On Friday, August 21, I remounted my old warhorse at the Elliot Highway Junction. It was a crisp, sunny day with high cloud bands; and 70 miles later, I was at the end of the pavement and greeted by a sign that read “James Dalton Highway.” This sign was covered with stickers posted by various passersby, so I added a couple boasting TCK Slog Series to the collage. All had been good thus far: the Elliot was decent, the hilly landscape had been beautiful, and as I climbed up and over Wickersham Dome, I could have sworn I was pedaling the Blue Ridge Parkway during the month of October somewhere north of Fancy Gap, Virginia. A strong home-warming sense of Appalachia followed me much of the day and uplifted my spirits.

At about 6:30 pm that evening, everything changed, beginning with a regrettable swap demanded by the deteriorated condition of the road. I packed up the old warhorse in whose saddle I had pedaled more than 10,000 miles since 2003 and mounted the slightly undersized and less than comfortable mountain bike that I had used to get me across the Stikine River back on British Columbia’s Cassiar Highway and in a few rough spots since. Sporting a rear brake assembly from the Stewart, British Columbia landfill, a slightly warped rear wheel, and awkward handlebars, this contraption would have to carry me the remaining 415 miles to the northern terminus of the American road system.

The first few miles of the Dalton were nasty. In that short span, it felt like I had climbed Mt. Everest, K2, and the South Face of Annapurna in one swoop. I could sense a strange sick fatigue coming on, so we stopped for the night at Milemarker 6. The truck traffic on that road was insane--big rigs left and right hauling supplies back and forth from the North Slope oil fields. Oh, the dust . . .

Saturday, it took me all day to log fifty-five miles to Five Mile just north of the Yukon River. By this time, I sensed I was getting sick but still confident that I could beat it. Dropping down to the mighty Yukon at the only place a road crosses it in the entire state, however, I became covered from head to toe in wet mud, splattered by passing trucks and doused by my tires tossing up a soupy calcium carbonite (something they put on the roads to add traction up here) mess. I wish you could have seen the truck, the S.A.G. trailer, and me. It was almost enough for me to quit and go home. At Five Mile, we found an artesian well with water flowing out of a fireman’s hose. The only option: spray myself and the bicycle down, hand-wash my clothes, hose off the trailer, and all this before the rain started. Freezing, I finally got clean, but my health paid the price. That night, fever and a pounding headache set in, and I was all but stopped in my tracks. Fortunately, we did not become immediately aware of this and spent the evening hanging out in a little trucker’s cafe. The burgers there were huge, greasy, and good; but I cringed to pay $11.00 for one. Besides, it didn’t quite measure up to the propaganda in my Milepost travel guide: “Unbelievable food; the biggest and best burgers in Alaska!”

Sunday morning, it was a steady rain until afternoon. I was weak but determined to press on. So, my partner and I ditched the S.A.G. trailer behind the little Hot Spot Cafe, threw a bunch of gear into the back of the truck, and headed north. Sand Hill, then the 1.5 mile climb up Mackey Hill . . . I shudder at the memories. Thirty miles was my limit that day, and it felt like I had bagged a century. ‘Twas cold, wet, and a real slog. Fond recollections of that day, pleasant distractions per se, do come to mind: the amazing autumnal colors of the tundra; the incredible snake-like design of the Alaska Pipeline as it paralleled the road; and clumps of sweet, ripe blueberries that provided a refreshing snack each time I stopped to catch my breath, hack up a lung, and get warm. That evening, we were forced to cook in the back of the truck because of an annoying rain, and the night seemed one of the longest of my entire life.

With the dawn of a new work week for many in America, I awoke with a task of my own--325 miles to Prudhoe Bay. Everything was soaked, the truck was a mess, the mountain bike was trashed, and I fought a desire to quit and flee south. Having awoken with a high fever and a pounding headache, I feared that the slight chill that left with me from Fairbanks had metastasized into something serious. Notwithstanding, the morning was clear and sunny; and the Arctic Circle was a mere twenty-five miles distant. I donned my Slog Series Green Terrace Rolls along with a few layers to battle the cold, but soon I got into the saddle, the clouds rolled in with reckless abandon, and a cold misty rain began to fall. ‘Twas a debilitating blow.

Out of the trees and into tracts of barren tundra, the hills got more gnarly, and I struggled just to get to the Arctic Circle. 25 miles, 20 miles, 18 miles, 17 miles . . . I could go no further. I found Ricky, my S.A.G. partner, pulled over atop Finger Mountain. Without so much as a word, I climbed into the front seat of the truck, slept for 2-3 hours, and eventually woke to be greeted with a 102 reading on the thermometer positioned under my tongue. I was done. “Take me back to Fairbanks,” I pleaded.

Seven hours later, I was lying in bed. Night had fallen outside, and all that was visible outside the window of my temporary abode atop Moose Mountain were the glittering lights of Fairbanks. Suddenly, these went out, and all was black. The next morning, I discovered there had been a power outage, but in those moments I thought I was losing my mind. Curse the Dalton Highway! The weather had been horrible (rain, rain, cold rain); the road had been a real beast (up, down, up, down, crazy 12-15% grades); and a high fever, a hacking cough, sheer exhaustion, and the inability to keep pedaling were my only returns. All I knew of this road was frustration, discouragement, and failure.

Fast forward one week . . . following several days in the bed and repose with intent, healing has finally come. Swine flu, regular flu, a bad cold with fever, or some other bug--I have no idea what that was, but thank God it’s over. Mentally, discouragement has been supplanted by a clinched resolve. Tomorrow, my friends, I’ll take another shot at the top of the continent, resuming from my previous high watermark on Finger Mountain. Quitting is not an option, yet neither is coming out of that remoteness to rest up for further attempts. Success, I believe, will depend upon a break in the weather. It seems like the sun never comes out for any extended period of time up here in the Alaskan Interior; and the cold rain is so enfeebling on that dirt thoroughfare. I’d even settle for a little snow over the dreary wetness. Maybe, just maybe, I will see the sun in the morning.

My trusty pair of TCK Slog Series are packed and ready to go. Prudhoe Bay--I’ll get there, I suppose.

-Jesse Boyd

A Day of Milestones

Mon, 17 Aug 2009 01:24:32 -0400

Yesterday was a day of milestones for Slogfest Boreal. First, I eclipsed 3,000 miles for the entire journey. The place was a lonely stretch of road between Tok and Delta Junction, Alaska, flat and lined with stunted black spruce. Not long thereafter, I reached the official end of the Alaska Highway at Delta Junction. From there, the route turned north on the Richardson Highway toward Fairbanks. Having been on the AlCan since coming off the Cassiar in the Yukon, I was glad for a change.

This particular day, I pedaled 50 miles straight without my feet touching the ground, breaking my previous nonstop record of 42 miles. By the end of that segment, my bladder was about to explode (I knew I should not have drunk so much tea that morning). I actually thought about trying to somehow relieve myself into one of the water bottles while pedaling so I could reach the record. Thankfully, this did not come to pass. A couple of times, however, my S.A.G. partner did hand-off food to me as I whisked by. At the 50-mile point, I jumped off the bike, ran into the woods, and felt much better a couple of minutes later.

I went on that day to bag my fourth century since Badger, Minnesota, the longest single day of pedaling for Slogfest Boreal, and my all-time personal record for miles pedaled in a single day. At 11:50pm, as I skidded into an isolated pull-off near Salcha, Alaska, my odometer read 151.86 miles. I had shattered my previous record from seven years ago by 15 miles. It felt good.

It wasn’t until after I scarfed down a hearty spaghetti dinner at a picnic table in Delta Junction that I decided to go for the sesquicentennial. All the milestones were accomplished save for that single-day record. Around 9:00pm, the evening was pleasant, and there were some nice camping spots just outside of town along the Tanana River. Why didn’t I just stop? To be honest, I really don’t have an answer. A mere 27 miles would have set new record at 136, and at that point, there was a nice pull-off overlooking the river and the Alaska Range to the southwest. Still, I pedaled on. Something about 150 was just intriguing, a nice round number.

The last 42 miles from Delta Junction were difficult but proved more than satisfying. Moose were everywhere, and while crossing the Tanana River, I caught a marvelous glimpse of the Alaska Range and what I thought to be Denali, the Great One. Later, I discovered that this was Mt. Deborah, but the view was astounding nonetheless. I even paralleled the Alaska Pipeline at some points and basked in highway seclusion. Toward dark, my S.A.G. vehicle tailed me, lighting the way ahead. Eventually, 150 miles came and went. Another 1.86 put us at a secluded pull-off, and quickly, I found myself cozy and snug in a sleeping bag. I remember nothing else except draping my greatly-used pair of Slog Series Green over the bicycle frame. They had worked hard this day and needed a rest as well.

Why, you might ask? I guess there was just nothing else to do.

-Jesse Boyd

Into the Great Land

Sat, 15 Aug 2009 20:23:08 -0400

Something seems different. Perhaps I feel strong because it was a short 41-mile day. Maybe the clear skies and crisp air are pricking my senses. I guess it could be the fresh pair of TCK Slog Series that I just pulled over my cold feet. Like cleaning out one’s ears or the morning’s first stretch, the initial feel of new TCK socks is orgasmic. No, the strange disparity in the air is more likely rooted in the fact that I have finally entered the Great Land on this epic Slogfest Boreal.

This morning, I pedaled on through Beaver Creek, the last outpost in the Yukon. There, a hearty breakfast was welcome, and I fought with an Eskimo statue over a staff. Then, bypassing Canadian customs, a long ten miles of horrible road occasionally forced me to get off the bike and walk. Finally, I saw the sign I had been waiting for: “Welcome to Alaska.”

I napped right there on the 141st Meridian. My feet were in the Yukon, my head was in Alaska, and a warm sun was overhead. Even now, ‘tis a fond memory.

American Customs was easy, and the fellows there were extremely courteous and friendly, not what I am used to when coming back into the States from abroad in Newark or Chicago.

Truly, this is the Great Land. I can feel it; I can taste it; I can smell it. Tomorrow, it’s on to Tok and into the Interior. I’m glad to have a few good pairs of socks.

-Jesse Boyd

Thoughts from the Yukon

Fri, 14 Aug 2009 19:45:21 -0400

From the scene of my run-in with the ATV, it has been six straight days of pedaling in the Yukon (41 miles; 94 miles; 73 miles; 80 miles). At first, I could barely walk, as my legs were battling gnawing aches and pains. But soon, this dissipated, and I feel strong even now. The weather never did play out like the grim forecasts mentioned in my last update. The previous four days have left me mostly dry, only skirting a bit of drizzle here and there.

As my S.A.G. partner and I left Whitehorse, the woods again engulfed on every side, and I remembered that I was in the Far North late in the summer. Soon thereafter, a family from South Carolina gave me and the bicycle a lift through a 5-mile stretch of nasty and dangerous road construction. They were driving a big bus fueled by recycled vegetable oil. This behemoth had been on the road all summer and was headed to Anchorage. The five-mile lift at least spared me some broken spokes, having to deal with ornery road workers, and raiment covered in mud. From there on out, I just kept going until I found an isolated rest area northwest of Haines Jct. Six miles shy of a century, I thought to press on, but it was cold and dark. Better to be disciplined and bed down.

The next morning, I found it difficult to crawl out of my cozy down sleeping bag in the back of the S.A.G. wagon. We had left the tailgate down, and the foot end of my bag thereby glistened with frost. A frosty dawn soon gave way to glorious autumn weather as I pedaled along the roots of the mighty St. Elias Mountains. Somewhere up there was Mt. Logan, Canada’s highest peak. Dreams of assaulting her lofty heights danced in my mind all day. Ricky, my S.A.G. driver, and I took a break around noon to saunter through a spruce forest to an open vista over a large burned-out valley. Wow! Later, I encountered a number of bicycle tourists heading south with various ultimate destinations. I would flag each one down and then encourage them to stop at my S.A.G. vehicle parked a little ahead of them. There, I explained, they could enjoy an ice-cold soda and get a sample pair of TCK Slog Series. The gestures were greatly appreciated. I think of William from Anchorage who was pedaling to Haines. He chugged down that can of root-beer faster than anyone I have ever seen. Then, there was a young man who started at Prudhoe Bay and was going to try for the bottom of South America. Even at the point, he was expressing doubts about following through. There were also two German cyclists in the mix. One thing I know for sure: these will treasure TCK Slog Series as I have on my own epic venture.

Soon thereafter, I dropped down into the Kluane Lake Basin. This place, a bit of a moonscape, was amazing and reminded me of Mono Lake in California (one of my favorite places on earth). I pedaled along the shore of this huge lake for many miles in a nasty headwind. There were some long dirt sections, torn up by road construction, that I was forced to walk, but all was good. It was a glorious afternoon, the water was bright blue, and I was spared from a huge cougar that Ricky saw cross the road shortly after I pedaled by. At dusk, we grabbed dinner at a lone cafe in Destruction Bay and then continued on. The day ended on a high note as we found free camping outside a lodge/cafe at Burwash Landing. From Destruction Bay, the last ten miles to Burwash were some of the best of the entire trip: quiet, hushed, soft alpenglow on the snowy peaks of the St. Elias Mountains, the calm waters of Kluane Lake. I was closing in on Alaska, and I could feel it. Before bedding down, I paid $4.00 for a hot shower at the lodge, and it was the best $4.00 I have ever spent on anything. ‘Twas good to be clean.

This morning, I left Burwash late, and there hasn’t been much leading up to this remote highway rest area with an expansive view looking into Alaska. Here, I will spend my last night in Canada, for the international border crossing is a mere 40 miles away. This day has been perfect for pedaling: high cloud cover, faded sunlight, a cool breeze, and the smell of autumn. I saw the rear-end of a female moose skirting off into a mess of black spruce, and two long-necked swans were observed flying south. Here, at the rest area, it was chili-mac for dinner in a horrid mess of mosquitoes and black flies. The bugs seem to have died down a bit as I just finished a hot bucket bath in the parking lot. For now, I simply lounge, soaking in the view and reliving the journey with my faithful S.A.G. partner. My feet are right now sporting a pair of Slogfest Crews. Ricky is cozy in the Stamina Crews. The Terrace Rolls that I have been using to pedal for the entire journey are draped over the bike, airing out in the cool breeze. This is the kind of night that I never want to end.

-Jesse Boyd

Macabre Defiance

Mon, 10 Aug 2009 14:41:10 -0400

This morning, I awoke to the rain beating on the tin roof of a little one room cabin my S.A.G. partner and I were forced to rent yesterday here in Whitehorse. Though expensive, it was a cheaper option than any hotel room. One can hardly move around in here, and the nasty weather, combined with nagging pain in my legs (Is it possible to sprain one’s quadriceps in a crash?), a pain that is seriously inhibiting my ability to walk at the moment, forced us to stay put another day. Maybe I shouldn’t have slogged up A.B. Peak so soon after the hit-and-run. The cold, the rain, the pain, the expensive nature of everything, our rapidly depleting funds, the incident with the ATV, and the unabating loneliness all seemed to amalgamate this day and kindle an intense desire to call it quits and head home. As the day wore on, and the rain persisted, the resulting idleness only incensed that desire.

Back at Continental Divide, miles before on the Alaska Highway, I had a dream that I quit the ride in the Yukon because of some incident and went home, gravely regretting it long thereafter. In fact, this has been a recurring nightmare throughout this journey. Two days later, I was hit by that ATV, and it seemed the vision was coming to pass. Contemplating this, I perked up in that tiny little cabin. Though hurting and discouraged by the weather, there was no way I could let this happen.

So, around 5:00 pm and in a bit of a frustrated rage, I threw on my rain gear, donned the same pair of TCK Slog Series that I have been wearing in the saddle since the journey began, tossed the mountain bike into the back of the S.A.G. wagon, and had my partner drive me back to the scene of the hit-and-run. With a macabre defiance of that seemingly foretelling nightmare and the factors aligned against me, I climbed into the saddle and ignored the pain. That evening, I pedaled 41 miles (much of it in the rain) from the very spot where that madman tried to take me out all the way through Whitehorse and on to Portage Creek. Now, I am back in the little one-room cabin, and I again find it difficult to walk. Nevertheless, in this cold, wet ride, a victory was won and certain fears were overcome. I press on.

The weather forecast for the next several days looks grim. Today, I saw two flocks of geese heading south. The leaves are started to turn. Winter will soon be here in the Far North. So, help me God.

-Jesse Boyd

A.B. Peak

Sat, 8 Aug 2009 01:28:34 -0400

After being pummeled by that ATV on the Alaska Highway just east of Whitehorse, my body needed a few days of rest. My S.A.G. partner and I thought this would best be achieved in our home country, so we drove a hundred miles south on the Klondike Highway to the isolated little seaport of Skagway, Alaska. As we came into town, a rocky summit caught my eye.

A mere three days after being run over by an ATV, I, perhaps foolishly, decided to assess the state of my health by climbing A.B. Peak, a true slogfest with sick panoramas of mighty glaciers from the pinnacle. The trailhead, just outside of Skagway, was near sea level. The summit, five miles of slogging later, sits at 5,052 feet. So, I donned a pair of Slogfest Crews in the morning mist and set out with a full can of bear spray. Just below treeline, the brush was thick and nasty--prime grizzly habitat. I just knew I would stumble upon a monster. It never happened. I was alone, and I needed that time in the wild to clear my head.

‘Twas cloudy, typical Southeast Alaska, but the scenery was incredible amidst the rocks and tundra grasses above the trees. The seaport of Skagway and the docked cruise ships were visible thousands of feet below, and sick peaks with huge glaciers were all around. All was hushed on the top, and I made up a little summit register, weatherproofing it and slipping into a small crevasse in the summit cairn. Navigating the aforementioned brush on the way down that evening made me a little nervous. But, nothing was stirred. Finally, I made it back to the trailhead where my S.A.G. partner was anxiously waiting.

Now, it’s the next morning. I can hardly walk. I am reminded of the time a ran up to the summit of Mt. Hood only a day after an emergency root canal. I was spitting blood in the snow all the way to the top, and I paid for it the next day. I’m undoubtedly going to pay for A.B. Peak, and the ride to Prudhoe Bay may be delayed a few more days. Still, I wouldn’t trade the adventure for the world.

Oh, by the way, the bicycle is fixed, and the kind man at the extremely busy shop in Whitehorse stayed after-hours one evening to insure it would get me to Prudhoe Bay. When I went to pick it up, he wouldn’t let me pay a dime, profusely apologetic that one of his fellow countrymen would commit such a heinous crime against a cyclist from America minding his own business.

For now, I am going to relax in this quaint little hotel room, enjoy another day or so here in Skagway, and bask in the satisfaction of having bagged my first Alaskan peak: one in Alaska, yes, but only one of many around the world in which TCK Slog Series has proven a faithful sidekick.

-Jesse Boyd

Hit and Run

Wed, 5 Aug 2009 01:28:04 -0400

Cruising along in the Yukon, and the odometer keeps ticking: 2,538 miles, 2,539 miles, 2540 miles, CRASH! Yesterday was my ninth straight day in the saddle since the Stewart/Hyder Junction down on the Cassiar Highway, and it began with a refreshing dive in Nisutlin Bay. Since, I had put 75 miles behind me, stopping only a couple of times to inhale what seemed to be a tinge of autumn in the air. Whitehorse, making for another century-plus day, was the goal.

About 35 miles east of Whitehorse and in the middle of nowhere, an ATV passed by on a trail that paralleled the highway. I waved at him; he nodded and then pulled up onto the road. I heard the vehicle approaching from behind, thinking the guy wanted to simply ask where I was headed. Before I could turn around, CRASH! The ATV ran right over top of me. With the bike and my crumpled body splayed on the asphalt, I garnished the strength to look up. The driver of that cursed vehicle was looking back, cursing and screaming. Wait a minute, I thought. That was the same guy who tried to run me over twice with his little blue car a few miles back. The ATV continued on and disappeared over the horizon.

I want even bother trying to understand the psychology of such madness, and I am not the only cyclist who has been the object of someone’s doltishness, road rage, or just plain meanness. Dylan Harris, another one of TCK Slog Series’ sponsored Adventurers, had a full turbo-sized fountain drink thrown at him somewhere in Washington as he pedaled the Pacific Coast. The sticky morass went everywhere. A French woman was run over by a distracted RVer a few weeks ago down in British Columbia. Her leg was broken, and it ended the tour for her and her husband. A week before my incident, a young lady was the victim of a hit-and-run at an intersection in Whitehorse. Her knee was shattered, and the bike was literally broken in half. There was also my friend Jim Jones. Last fall, a paving truck hit him just a few blocks from his home in Grants Pass, Oregon. He didn’t make it, leaving behind a wife and two daughters.

Considering some of these incidents, I was very fortunate. Though banged up pretty good, I miraculously show no major injuries. My head smacked the pavement hard, but the helmet did its job. Earlier in the day, I had thought about taking it off for awhile because of profuse sweating. I didn’t, thank the Lord. I had also thought about changing into shorts and never got around to it. The long spandex saved my legs from turning into mincemeat. Ironically, it was one of my pannier bags that took the brunt of the impact and absorbed the initial contact with the ground a split second before my left leg followed. Undoubtedly, this saved me from a broken femur and the end of this journey. The dude’s aim was apparently off; and even as I sit here in pain, it’s hard not to chuckle.

Another miracle: The bicycle suffered only minor damage--a bent pannier rack, a stripped gear assembly, and a rear wheel that needs a little truing. It is being remedied in a Whitehorse bicycle shop as I type.

‘Twas close, but Slogfest Boreal will not come to a screeching halt outside of Whitehorse and far from the ultimate goal. The best revenge against the ATV Madman will be to resume the ride from the very point of impact. That will come, but not before a few days of rest and recuperation. Oh, my body is sore, but I live to pedal another day. God is good.

I finally figured out how to wear a hole in a pair of TCK Slog Series: GET RUN OVER BY AN ATV! My only pair of Slogfest Liners now have a gaping hole wear my ankle brushed the pavement. The polypro was a pretty good protective shield, I guess, because the skin beneath the gash in the yarn is as silky smooth as a baby’s behind. The Terrace Rolls that I have been wearing since Mile One are undamaged. They, too, live to pedal another day.

I must rest. For the moment, the Aurora Borealis is dancing in the night sky. Despite the light pollution of Whitehorse, the performance is amazingly distinguishable. My little ATV friend, this is good medicine to help me forget about your failed attempt to take me out. I’m going to Prudhoe Bay, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!

-Jesse Boyd

The Cassiar and the Yukon

Mon, 3 Aug 2009 01:26:19 -0400

A few days after the ultimate dumpster dive, I needed those rear brakes dropping down to the Stikine River as I approached speeds of 40 mph on a gravel road with a mountain bike! It was a blast as were other sections of gravel that I encountered on the remote Cassiar Highway as I slowly but surely inched my way ever closer to the goal: Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. True, the constant switching was a bit of a hassle--pack up the old warhorse, get out the mountain bike, pack up the mountain bike, get back on the old warhorse--but good preparation, nonetheless, for the upcoming Haul Road from Fairbanks to Prudhoe Bay.

All up the Cassiar, the bugs were crazy: mosquitoes, blackflies, horseflies, no-see-ums. I am covered with scabbed-over bites, pausing every few sections to almost claw my skin off. Even 100% DEET is not a fool-proof shield in these parts. Ugh. Several days, the temperatures climbed into the upper 90’s, and the heat kept the wildlife off the roads. I haven’t seen much save a couple of stone sheep near Good Hope Lake and a grizzly grazing a few miles east of Continental Divide on the Alaska Highway.

Perhaps the best stretch of road along this entire journey was just north of Dease River Crossing as I pedaled a thirty mile stretch to Jade City (nothing more than a small store and a couple of houses) late one evening. I had the Cassiar Highway all to myself. I skirted a strange storm pattern, had precious cloud cover, beheld sick peaks, and even laid down in the middle of the road for a short siesta. I knew no cars would come. Oh, this one pyramidal crag caught my eye--The Needlepoint. I wish I could have climbed that, but time is no longer on my side as signs of autumn are starting to appear here in the Far North.

Finally, I crossed into the Yukon, after pedaling more than a thousand miles in British Columbia. The Cassiar was suddenly behind me, and I made a left onto the Alaska Highway. From this point, things seemed a little more vast; the bugs weren’t quite as bad; and the air got smoky as massive forest fires burned in the vicinity.

One night, while camped out under an expansive night sky that never got fully dark, I had a dream that I quit the journey in the Yukon because of some incident and went home, gravely regretting it long thereafter. In fact, this has been a recurring nightmare since Slogfest Boreal began. I responded to this horrific vision by busting out a seventy-seven mile day. The fear of such coming to pass is plenty of motivation. Besides, I guess a worse nightmare would have involved me riding the bicycle up here in the Yukon without a pair of TCK Slog Series on my feet. I shudder to even think about it.

So, since the 2,000 mile point, it has been eight straight days in the saddle: 66 miles, 101 miles, 41 miles, 70 miles, 75 miles, 55 miles, 77 miles. The century in the midst of this, the third one of this journey, was a bit unlike the others in terms of motivation. The first was brought on by sheer excitement of finally being out of the prairie and amidst incredible mountain scenery. Before I knew it, my odometer hit 100 miles for the day. The second century was motivated by Canadian culture shock and the desire to escape tourist traffic. The third century was all about the bugs. To stop pedaling meant swarming flies, the buzzing of mosquitoes, and the sting of no-see-ums: certain to bring on Tourette’s Syndrome.

For the moment, all is well, and I still wear the same pair of socks. Three cheers for Slog Series Green!

-Jesse Boyd

2000 Miles and the Ultimate Dumpster Dive

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 11:39:47 -0400

After waiting 36 straight hours for the rain to cease in the Stewart/Hyder area, the sun finally came out, and this portended several days of clear, hot weather. The rain provided no real rest, so we hung around for a couple of days to enjoy the sun, study a few grizzlies fishing for salmon on Fish Creek, mingle with the locals, answer twenty ridiculous questions every time we were stopped at Canadian Customs when coming back from Hyder, and to finally put together the mountain bike I would soon need for rough, gravel sections on the Cassiar Highway and eventually the old Haul Road going north out of Fairbanks, Alaska to Prudhoe Bay. Thus far, this bike had simply traveled better in the box.

So, in Stewart, I started tinkering and putting together only to discover that the rear brake assembly was stripped and unusable. The first real gravel section to be encountered, I had heard, was a steep descent down to the Stikine River. Working rear brakes would be a matter of life and death, or at least health or grave injury. I worked for hours trying to repair the spring system to no avail. Frustration then drove me to rip off the assembly and contemplate the three-hour drive right back where I had come from to the nearest bicycle shop. Then, I was told about a nearby landfill. My S.A.G. partner and I decided to at least fish around. There were a few bicycle skeletons but nothing of any use. It reeked out there, and the bugs were approaching Egyptian Plague status. Finally, with the help of a local pastor, the rear end of a bicycle was found underneath a bunch of nasty garbage. Sticking out was a rear brake assembly of the style that I needed. To make a long story short, it worked perfectly, better even than the original setup. My friends, this was the ultimate dumpster dive, “trail magic” of the highest order, right there in the little hamlet of Stewart, British Columbia. Just a few days earlier, I had complained that dumpster diving in Canada had yielded nothing; I only needed to be patient.

Shortly after resuming the ride from the Cassiar/Stewart Junction, I eclipsed 2,000 miles on this cycling slogfest. The place was the top of a hill with thick forest lining both sides of the road. Mountains were visible to the north and the south; the sun was hot; the flies were a nightmare; and the heat meant wildlife was nowhere to be seen. Still, it was a good feeling.

Soon, I will need the mountain bike, and thanks to a landfill, it will be ready. For now, however, I savor my old warhorse, cruising north. 2,000 behind, 1,600 to go. It’s certainly not necessary, but maybe I should change out my cycling socks soon. The Terrace Rolls have certainly proved their worth. Nah, if it’s not broken, why fix it?

-Jesse Boyd

Halfway, and Then Some

Thu, 23 Jul 2009 02:23:11 -0400

A couple of days ago, just outside Smithers, I passed the halfway point between where I started pedaling and Prudhoe Bay (around 1,850 miles). It was a peaceful little place beside Trout Creek, and I paused to consider how far there is yet to go. I continued on.

Several days earlier, I came close to another century on a course that boasted some major hills. This time, it was the plague of bugs that inspired such a distance. We intended to camp that night at a highway rest area just north of Houston, British Columbia, but the mosquitoes and blackflies were a nightmare, not to mention that sick mud everywhere. Though weary, I kept going. Up, up, up: I didn’t know I would have to climb Mt. Everest just to get out of Houston. Finally, I found a large paved pull-off just below the Hungry Hill Summit. I was only seven miles from an unplanned century, and the temptation to keep going was strong. But alas, it was late, cold, and dangerous to be on the roads with the wildlife. So, I reluctantly exercised the same discipline that I have been forced to use just below the summits of a few peaks in my life: aggravating, but smart. An informational sign at the pull-off told of phantom 1,000 lb. grizzlies on this hill, so my S.A.G. partner and I bedded down uneasy. Beside me, the 12 gauge was loaded and ready with alternating shells: shot, slug, shot, slug. I awoke shortly thereafter to loud racket outside. The phantom grizzly had come. I popped the tailgate open, leapt outside, and lowered my weapon: nothing. As it turned out, a large field rat had crawled up into the truck engine and gotten stuck. Eventually, I flushed him out and got to sleep as dawn’s light arose in the east.

Finally, I left the Yellowhead and was able to turn north up the more remote Cassiar Route, making a four hundred mile beeline for the Yukon. I was glad to leave HIghway 16, what some call the “Highway of Tears.” West of Prince George, numerous female hitchhikers have gone missing, presumably murdered, over the past couple of decades, and the killer has never been found. A couple of billboards begged women in large letters not to hitchhike. “Killer on the loose,” it read alongside pictures of a few victims. Troubling, terrible, sad.

On the Cassiar Highway, where services are sparse, the woods are thick, the wildlife is abundant, and the mountains are majestic: the road is lonely, and that’s a good thing. A couple of times, it behooved me to pedal down a short loop road just to ply through a Native village here and there. In Gitwangak, I slalomed a slew of tall totem polls. In Kitwanga, my S.A.G. partner and I waited out the heat of the day and sipped coffee at a little cafe. In Gitanyow, I studied more totems, enjoyed an ice cream sandwich, and enjoyed the cool of the evening on the steps of a ramshackle general store. Shortly thereafter, the loop road through town turned to rough dirt, and I had to walk my road bike about 2 miles through an insane mess of mosquitoes back to the main highway where I rendezvoused with my S.A.G. wagon. That night, covered with Deet, I bathed in an icy river near the spooky place where we camped. It never got fully dark; bugs were everywhere. I awoke late to relieve myself, and in doing so, took in a nice performance of the Aurora Borealis. Such are the days out here as I pedal toward the top of the continent.

Now, I sit in the back of the S.A.G. while it drops a steady, misty rain. We are parked alongside a raging glacial river just over the international border from Stewart, British Columbia in a solitary little American outpost called Hyder. After six straight days in the saddle, I packed the bicycle up at the Cassiar/Stewart Highway Junction last night, and we drove the forty miles down the side-road to this place. Today and tomorrow will be much needed rest days, and we intend to explore these adjacent backwoods towns, if you can even call them that. At least there’s gas here, a cafe or two, and a grocery store. The no-see-ums and mosquitoes are a plague; Ouch! They are all inside the back of this truck. Get out of here! Ouch, bites all over me. My S.A.G. partner is out like a light next to me and seems unbothered. Anyway . . .

So, we actually slept in Alaska last night. Hyder is a strange anomaly. At the very southern tip of the Alaska Panhandle, this place is separated from the rest of the state by water and big mountains. The community actually uses Canadian currency and observes Pacific time, except, that is, for the little federal post office building. They say it’s a rough crowd here; we’ll see. It behooved me to come down here and actually cross into Alaska. Though anticlimactic after a hard day in the saddle, I finally tagged my 50th State. My father and I have enjoyed a bit of a contest for many years concerning who has visited the most States. While tied at 49 for a long while, I grabbed the victory late last night.

All this, and I’ve only been a little more than halfway. What awaits? For now, though chilly and wet outside, the extremes of my person are snug in the back of this truck. With a fresh pair of Slogfest Crews on my feet and a Slog Beanie insulating my head, there is little heat escape, and I am cozy. I’ll just sit here and wait out the rain.

Check out the little video ad I posted below, or CLICK HERE for the same.

-Jesse Boyd

Rewards of the Route

Mon, 20 Jul 2009 02:48:51 -0400

So, Slogfest Boreal continues: I’ve pedaled about 1,800 miles and am still meandering along the Yellowhead Route, hoping to soon turn north up the remote Cassiar Highway toward the Yukon. I actually still wear the same pair of Slog Series Green Terrace Rolls that I started with back in Badger, Minnesota on July 21st. Why change them out?

Presently, I unwind in the mountain town of Smithers, British Columbia in the home of a kind highway crewman that I met earlier in the day at a roadside rest area. He offered me and my S.A.G. partner a place to crash for the night--a welcome break from the back of the S.A.G. wagon. This unexpected blessing brought to mind an expression I have often heard thrown around, particularly by Appalachian Trail thru-hikers who stumble upon an unexpected boon somewhere along the route. “Trail Magic,” they call it, and over the years, I have come to understand the concept. Once, when slogging back down from the summit of White Mountain, a California Fourteener that some conspiracy theorists argue is actually higher than Mt. Whitney (These say the U.S. Forest Service hides this fact to keep the tourists away because of the rare bristlecone pine groves in the area.), my Nepali friend and I were choking with thirst, having run out of water a while before. The landscape was barren and reminded me of Tibet; everything was dry and water was nowhere to be found. It was still about five miles back to the truck, and all I could think about was a cool drop of the life-sustaining liquid. Suddenly, I looked down, and right beside the trail lay six unopened bottles of spring water. If this wasn’t an example of what AT thru-hikers call “Trail Magic,” I don’t know what is. I never remembered seeing that water on the way up. Where it came from, I don’t care. All I know is a little “trail magic” helped to sustain us that day.

Along this bicycle journey toward Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, blessings of a similar nature have popped up here and there, not the least of which is this cozy refuge we have been afforded here in Smithers. I don’t suppose “trail magic” would be an appropriate term for the highway, so I’ll talk “Rewards of the Route.” Even now, I remember such from previous bicycle tours. Along my 2003-2004 Coast to Coast ride, I was trying to figure out how to best cut across West Virginia. A Delorme West Virginia Gazetter showing all back-roads would have been a helpful tool, but I didn’t want to fork out the $20.00 for it. Outside Roanoke, Virginia, a traveler pulled over as I was taking a break and actually gave me one. Later, at the finish line outside Neah Bay, Washington, I found a sweet little buoy that still hangs on my basement wall. In 2005, I pedaled from the top of Maine to Key West, Florida. Very early on, I was in remote country and a nasty thunderstorm came on suddenly. The moment I needed shelter, an empty garage was there with a kind man who gave me a cold drink--rewards, I say, of the route.

Back to Slogfest Boreal. This route has yielded not a few unexpected rewards:

-Dumpster diving in North Dakota that raked in a mess of Capri-Sun’s, a tub of cream cheese, bags of trail mix, a cluster of grapes, and a cold package of turkey bologna; I still snack on the trail mix to this day

-A pair of .223 caliber ammunition clips found in a brown paper bag on the side of U.S. Hwy. 2 in Montana; those things aren’t cheap and they fit my AR-15 perfectly

-Unlocked bathrooms with hot showers at a secluded water treatment plant in Montana

-A DC-to-AC converter, a crock pot, venison chops, home-butchered beef roasts, and moose pepperoni all provided free of charge by helpful locals

-An easy border crossing into Canada at the Port of Roosville

-A cute teddy bear in mint condition found alongside a Canada highway; I plan to give it to my daughter

-A pile of firewood and a fire ring just off the highway at a perfect little camping spot along the river in British Columbia

-An abandoned store with lots of broken glass that provided shelter at the right moment as hail began to pound the pavement

-A huge fresh-baked orange-cranberry muffin given to me by some fishermen as I pedaled late one evening

-Discovering that someone had paid for our meal as we went to settle up at a little cafe in McBride, British Columbia

-A ride to escape the rain offered by a Canadian from Prince George more than a hundred miles east of that city; I humbly refused the ride so as not to “cheat,” but the encounter later led to refuge at this man’s home for a couple of days as we rested in Prince George; he had a sweet hot tub on a huge wooden deck, something my aching legs rejoiced to indulge

-A can of bear spray given to me by a local; that stuff is not cheap, and I carry it as I ride to this day

-A pair of Slog Series Green that will not wear out and the satisfaction of knowing that I may never need the extra pairs stowed away in my S.A.G. wagon

I pedal on . . .

-Jesse Boyd

The Value of a S.A.G. Wagon

Sat, 11 Jul 2009 11:03:25 -0400

Following my second century day in the Rockies, I awoke and went to the map. I hadn’t thought much about the consequences of my knee-jerk reactions to the tourist traps and the RV traffic. Bypassing the national parks had me barreling down a highway that would intersect with the Trans-Canada and continue north for a bit. Then, the route would turn back toward the south and wind all over the place in the wrong direction on the busiest highway in the country before I could get to Highway 5, the only other option in the reasonable vicinity that would take me in the general direction of the goal. So, I continued on to the end of Highway 95 and then joined the Trans-Canada until it reached its northern zenith before turning south toward Kamloops. The traffic was more insane than the day before: big trucks, less than adequate shoulders, and not a few close calls. I needed another option. Then, I remembered that I had a S.A.G. wagon. That’s what a S.A.G. does; it creates options.

At the point where the route turned back south, heading into Canada’s Glacier National Park, I packed up the bicycle, hopped into the S.A.G. vehicle, and my partner drove me over to the same latitude on the Yellowhead Route just a couple of valleys to the west. This road would head north and eventually intersect with the original route as it exited Jasper National Park. Therefore, I not only escaped about $300.00 in extra costs related to Canadian national parks, but I was able to avoid the the highly traveled and very dangerous Trans-Canada as it cut through the mountains toward Vancouver. As we transitioned, a hearty truck stop meal and hot shower, a sweet camping spot on the Thompson River, and the incredible waterfalls of Wells-Gray Provincial Park were added blessings.

There was no cheating here, just a change of longitude without compromising latitude. I make no apologies; I simply smile, thankful to have a S.A.G. wagon, and thankful to have a pair of TCK Slog Series.

-Jesse Boyd

The Second Century in the Rockies

Wed, 8 Jul 2009 14:11:39 -0400

The Rocky Mountains in the second century were certainly not much different than they were in the first century--a place of unspoiled wilderness far from the reaches of human thought, uncrossed by roads, and completely absent of peak names, ski resorts, national parks, and man-made boundaries. As in my previous entry, however, I am speaking of distance, not time, and this century was much different in terms of motivation than my first during this bicycle slogfest.

My first 100+ mile day immediately followed good rest, and I felt good, savoring the road. This time, however, I was weary, having crossed into Canada several days earlier, and was motivated mostly by culture shock. First, there was the exorbitant price of everything, from a bottle of Gatorade ($4.00) to a dozen eggs ($3.60). Suddenly, it seemed, my nutritional options diminished in droves. I was glad I had brought that big bag of rice and a couple of cans of blacks beans all the way from North Carolina. Then, there was the ridiculous traffic--big trucks, tour buses, and obnoxious RVs. And, here in southern Canada, they always seem to come in dangerous bunches. Finally, there was the jolt of having to alter my route on the fly. For many miles, I had patiently anticipated an incredible ride through Kootenay, Banff, and Jasper National Parks in the Canadian Rockies. At the entrance to these parks, however, I was confronted with ridiculous entrance fees and the fact that I and my S.A.G. partner would not be allowed to sleep at night in our vehicle. No way we were paying $40.00 per night to stay in some government campground. It would take me at least five days to get through those parks and cost about $300.00!

So, after 42 straight miles in the saddle without so much as a pause or a bathroom break, I ran into a cold rain and was forced to wait it out under the awning of a hotel. I still got soaked dropping into the tourist trap of Radium Hot Springs and then quickly found out that the national park route was not financially feasible. A good day’s ride was already in the books, but I could not deal with the tourists or the RVs any longer. The only escape was to keep pedaling up Highway 95 toward Golden. A short while later, an overly-priced meal at a golf clubhouse provided energy while further heightening the culture shock. The only relief was to keep pedaling. As the day began to fade, the Columbia Valley, away from the tourist crowds, suddenly seemed pleasant, and from time to time, snowy crags poked their heads out of the clouds to the west. It rained on me a couple more times. Again, the only medicine was the pedal revolution.

About the time my S.A.G. partner started looking for a pull-off where we could camp for the night, having already passed up a couple of mosquito-infested ones, I transitioned into the zone where a century began to look doable (approximately 85 miles). As darkness fell, I decided to go for it, my sole motivation being to further vent the day’s frustration. After 90 miles, a herd of elk stampeded across the highway right in front of me. Unnerving! There were big deer everywhere, and I kept my eyes open for grizzlies.

Eventually, I road up on the S.A.G. vehicle parked in an empty parking lot at an abandoned elementary school--a sweet little spot with no mosquitoes. There was a problem, however. It was 1.5 miles shy of a century. My OCD forced me onward until we found a highway rest area at which point my odometer read 103.85 for the day. We climbed into the back of the truck in a pouring rain with mosquitoes everywhere.

Thus was my second century in the Rockies. Culture shock can be a powerful stimulant. I am now well into Canada, and I still don that same pair of TCK Slog Series Green Terrace Rolls each and every morning . They continue to endure. Will I?

-Jesse Boyd

1,000 Miles

Sun, 5 Jul 2009 03:38:57 -0400

This evening, following yesterday’s adventure on Mt. Reynolds, I climbed back on the bicycle near Whitefish in the very spot my Sinopah injuries forced a pause almost two weeks earlier. By dark, I had busted out about 30 miles, my trip odometer tagging 1,000 miles somewhere in the forest along U.S. Highway 93 just south of the Canadian border. ‘Twas nothing special, just a lonely stretch of road with a plague of mosquitoes and an overwhelming sense of loneliness. I simply paused to snap the above photo, a milestone worth remembering, I guess. Besides, it also means 1,000 miles in the same pair of Slog Series Green Terrace Rolls. The funk is getting a little excessive, and they need a good washing, but nonetheless, they endure.

As I write, my S.A.G. partner and I are camped in a gravel pit below a full moon, a blanket of stars, and the silhouettes of innumerable firs. It will be our last night in the United States for awhile. There will be many miles of British Columbia and the Yukon before returning to American soil in Alaska.

We’re leaving the country, so if you haven’t seen the S.A.G. vehicle and taken advantage of the 25% Off Promo Code posted thereupon, good for any online order at slogseries.com or racesox.com, don’t despair. Order online today; use promo code “TRAILER” for 25% off; and at least pretend that you saw us out there on the highways and byways. Peace.

-Jesse Boyd

Back to Glacier

Sat, 4 Jul 2009 01:12:57 -0400

After nursing myself back to near 100% following the fall on Mt. Sinopah, and before continuing the Slogfest Boreal cycling adventure up into British Columbia, I needed some positive closure with Glacier National Park. The road to Logan Pass was finally open, so a couple of friends from the Pacific Northwest, Todd Bradshaw & Dylan Harris (one of TCK’s Slog Series Adventurers) drove up to hang out with me and my S.A.G. partner for the weekend. Rubber tramping and peakbagging: it doesn’t get much better than this.

Friday night, about 9:00pm, we slogged up the East Ridge of Mt. Oberlin above Logan Pass, and Ricky, my Slogfest Boreal S.A.G. partner, after going 0-3 on this journey, finally bagged his first summit. Enroute, there were a few class three cliff bands and some sick views down the steep north face. From the top, we observed a fiery sunset and soaked in an incredible vista. Mt. Reynolds, our formidable goal for Independence Day stood out stark in the twilight. And, the descent was not without a bit of fun. Purposefully pursuing a large cym below the daunting east face of Mt. Clements, we navigated cliffs and slid down snow fields in the light of a near-full moon. ‘Twas awesome. We finally bedded down in our trucks around 2:00am. Funny thing happened where we were parked. An abrasive annoying sound came from outside. As it turned out, mountain goats were licking up our urine where it lay splattered on the pavement nearby. I cannot speak for the others, but with grizzlies all over that park, I’m not walking into the woods to take a leak. The pavement would have to suffice, and it did with the added benefit of drawing some wildlife for our viewing pleasure.

Early the next morning, hail pounded as a bad thunderstorm rolled through. Huddled in the truck, I thought there would be no climbing this July Fourth. Oberlin had just been a warm-up. Only a successful ascent of a gnarly route on Reynolds would give me the positive closure I so desperately sought. Thus, we waited, and things did clear off. Dylan, Todd, and I set out for Mt. Reynolds, the Matterhorn-like spire just above Logan Pass. It was a real pleasure to be with these past climbing partners again. Dylan and I have bagged a plethora of peaks together, Mt. Rainier being our first real mountaineering adventure back in 2002. We’ve also shared many a thrill and a few perils in the Sierra Nevada and the Cascades, some nasty bushwhacks in the Appalachians, and miles of slogging off the gringo trail in Nepal’s Himalaya. As for Todd, a former snowboarding instructor in Mammoth Lakes, California, I’ll never forget us staggering up the Class 3 Volcanic Ridge in the Sierra while donning full backpacks and then playing around up in the Minarets. Then, there was the time he literally rescued me off Mt. Laurel after I had fallen deathly ill atop the summit in the dark and therefore unable to descend the Class 3-4 route I had come up. Good times. This day, all of us sporting our preferred style of TCK Slog Series, and we hoped to add another peak to our treasure chest of memories.

The day was gorgeous, and once we got away from the bottleneck of people slogging up the snow to a nearby lake, the exercise became quite enjoyable. Our desire was to attack a route across Reynolds’ precipitous north face. This approach involved a sick little game trail right across the face itself. After a real slog across talus and up a Class 3 gully, we finally reached the game trail. However, there were still patches of ice in there that our axes would not pierce, and there was nowhere to maneuver above or below, only loose rock and sheer drop-offs. One slight misstep would mean certain death. Images of former accidents on nearby Going-to-the-Sun Mountain and Mt. Sinopah came to mind, but I was persistent. Thankfully, Todd talked some sense into me. Gentlemen, he said, “We’ve all got families.” That was all I needed to hear. We bailed therefore on that route and traversed cliff bands around to the south side, praying we could find a suitable route from the southwest. Those prayers were answered, and we finally crested the summit. The views were absolutely incredible, and the air was still. We watched a thunderstorm to the north; I marveled that I had actually climbed Going-to-the-Sun Mountain back in 2004 via a diagonal snow gully that looked extremely sick from Reynolds’ summit; we signed the summit register; and then we headed down.

Secretly, I had been hoping to also bag the Dragon’s Tail this day. When I unveiled these plans to my climbing partners on Reynolds’ summit, I was ridiculed, and rightfully so. Like milling through a gluttonous buffet, I often find with peaks that my eyes are bigger than my stomach. Several Springs ago, for example, Dylan and I set off into the Sierra Nevada backcountry, boasting that we were going to bag Ritter, Banner, Lyell, Maclure, and Rodgers all in a long weekend. By the time we were forced to slog up to Spooky Meadow in snowshoes and scavenge for a suitable campsite on the still frozen Thousand Island Lake, crossing Donahue Pass quickly became out of the question. We were fortunate to bag Banner and Ritter, and this in and of itself took two days. The hike out had us sinking in snow to our waists, and that with snowshoes. When I petitioned that we at least attempt the Dragon’s Tail up on Reynolds’ summit, this story inevitably came up. No, it was too late in the day, and we would have to rope up in places. Besides, a huge notch in the northeast ridge had not been visible below. This would be a problem best solved at another time.

So, I would have to be satisfied with Reynolds, and I was. It had been on my list for awhile, and bagging it proved especially sweet with two old climbing partners and a fresh pair of Stamina Crews. All in all, ‘twas a nice little adventure that brought my experience with Glacier National Park to a positive conclusion, at least for the time being. The Chief, Mt. Clements, the Dragon’s Tail, and Siyeh are still on my list in that place of nasty loose rock, and maybe one day, these too will be bagged without incident.

Back at the truck, Ricky, my S.A.G. partner, had done quite a bit of reading, as he, inexperienced and uncomfortable with the climb, waited behind. When we finally hooked up again, it was time to bathe and find a place to camp A powerful ice-cold waterfall just off the road went beyond refreshing into the realm of pain, but at least the B.O. was gone. Later, we camped out at a Highway 2 pull-off just outside Kalispell and enjoyed some last moments of fellowship before Dylan and Todd went home the next morning. As for me, it was time to get back into the saddle. Glacier was now behind; miles of Canadian highway lay ahead. Pedal, I must. Onward.

-Jesse Boyd