Ride Report: Seattle to Hyder, AK by V11, Part I

[Greg Field]

I've been back nearly two weeks and finally found a minute to post something. Here goes:

 

Seattle to Hyder and Back, 2007

 

Even the excitement of a long bike trip doesn’t normally get me up before 4:00 a.m. This day was different. By 3:30, I was thinking back on last year’s ill-fated attempt to ride from Seattle to Hyder, Alaska. On that trip in July 2006, we ran into wall-of-water rains on the second day that revealed some serious deficiencies in the riding gear of a few of the riders in our group of five. Those poor bastards, soaked through, with the temps dropping, were certain to be deep into hypothermia before we made the remaining 370 miles to Hyder, so we turned east, over the mountains to the dry side of British Columbia, and had a great ride for the rest of the trip. Sure, I was disappointed that we hadn’t made it to Hyder, but that was more for personal reasons than because the trip was lacking in any way. Truly, it had been four days of great riding and great fun.

 

That personal part stems from a feeling I’ve been aware of my whole life: If I go to Alaska, I’ll probably never return. I love wild places, where the large critters like moose and elk and bears and salmon outnumber the people. Places like that are where I feel the most alive, and Alaska is the last best place in the United States to live like this. I’ve always suspected that once I got there, I’d feel a possibly irresistable pull to sell everything and move north. At the same time, I now feel a counter-pull: I also really like my life in Seattle. I have a great job working with Guzzis everyday, get to ride a lot, have great friends here, and in general love the place.

 

So why risk my current bliss by going to Hyder, Alaska? Well, Hyder is Alaska, but not really. It’s this tiny town on the long spit of land ceded to Alaska that extends southward along what should be the coast of British Columbia. It is also atypical in that it’s reachable by road through central British Columbia. And it’s only about 1,100 miles from Seattle, by way of some pretty swoopy roads, too. So for me it represented “Alaska for Dummies,” a way to say I’d been there and to experience it while minimizing the risk that I’d find myself suddenly needing to move north. In some ways, it would become an easy test. It might whet my appetite to risk seeing the real Alaska, or it might cure me of the need to. And, of course, it would be a nice ride.

 

Thoughts of final prep for that ride finally got me up. I was way to excited to eat, so after a shower I went out to the garage and looked the bike over one more time. It was still bug-stuccoed and grimy form the last few trips through the mountains and from day-to-day commuting, but it had fresh tires and fresh oil and was just dyno-tuned and running so well that it seemed to snarl everytime I cracked the throttle. Then, I packed my clothes in the saddlebags and gathered the tools I thought I might need.

 

That was all done right at shove-off time for our planned 6:00 meet-up at a gas station near Moto International. Everybody was pretty much on-time. This year’s participants included myself on my V11 Ballabio (which I call “Billy Bob”), Pedro (also called Pete sometimes) on his Quota and Steakdaddy (also known as Steve, on rare occasion) on his Aluminium, both riders and bikes all veterans of last year’s Hyder attempt. Our fourth man was Donny, a firefighter from northern California who is a college buddy of Steak’s. Donny’s mount was a shiney, red Arilia Tuono. We all gassed up, pounded a Red Bull, and headed for the freeway. Sadly, there’s no great way north out of Seattle without 40 miles or so of freeway. We just burned through those miles stoically.

 

A quick few miles east from the freeway on SR 530 brought us to Hwy. 9, which from here north to its end near the Canadian border, is 60-ish miles of excellent riding. We were on it before 7:00, so there was no traffic, and Billy Bob just seemed to want to fly through it. When I got to the end, I just pulled over and listened to the engine tinking while the boys caught up, one by one. It was a good warm-up for the rest of the ride to come.

 

We took a left on 542 toward the border crossing at Sumas, WA. Compared to the major crossing south of Vancouver, Sumas is a sleepy border crossing that almost always allows quick entry into Canada. The route in snakes among pastures and farm fields, and it stuuuunk that day. It must’ve been community manure-spreading day. In one field was what could only be described as a battleship cannon spouting a stream of liquid manure over 100 feet in the air on its arc across the field. Yes, we did accelerate to super-legal speeds to leave that stench behind.

 

Sumas was our last opportunity for the relatively cheap US gas, so we filled the tanks. And Sumas’s duty-free store, conveniently situated mere yards from the border, was our last opportunity to stock up on relatively cheap US booze, made even cheaper because it was offered for sale without all the usual taxes. You can only buy here if you’re leaving the US for 24 hours or more. Everything’s packaged conveniently in the sizes that you are allowed to bring across the border witout taxes or duties, meaning liter bottles for the booze. I went for the Knob Creek bourbon, whch was a screaming bargain at $23 US for a liter. They have tax- and duty-free cigarettes, too. All it needed to be the mythical “perfect convenience store” perfect was cheap firearms (as the joke goes, “alcohol, tobbaco, and firearms should be a convenience store, not a governmental agency”). Unfortunately, Canada frowns on bringing in firearms of any kind.

 

Pedro partook of both the alcohol and the tobacco. That was some fine rum, which he shared with us all.

 

Steakdaddy selected the “Horny Toads” tequila. That was good, too. Donny got the Blackbush Irish whiskey. Winners, all.

 

Enjoy Your Stay in Canada, Eh!”

Crossing into Canada seems always far easier than crossing into the US. Basically, all the Canadian guards really want to know is, are you carrying a firearm? If you answer “no,” and they believe you, all they say is, “Enjoy your stay in Canada, eh!” and send you across. We all must’ve been believable ‘cause we skated right through.

 

For a freeway, Trans-Canada 1 from where we got on it eastward to Hope BC is a nice stretch. Wide and curvey, it carries you through more cow country, and it must’ve been manure-spreading day in Canada, too. Phew!

 

From Hope on up, the TC-1 becomes one of those two-laners that gets better with every mile as itt writhes and climbs through the Fraser River Canyon. The terrain here was just like that of Western Washington, meaning packed with plants and trees of every shade of green.

 

The Mounties patrol this stretch pretty well, so we were keeping to sane speeds when a few miles up the canyon a Japanese sport bike went by so fast that his wake just sucked my Billy Bob along for the ride. This guy was out to have himself some high-speed fun, Mounties be damned.. Before I knew it, I was being sucked along through curves marked 70 kilometers per hour (about 45 mph) at 120 mph and passing long string of cars, even in tunnels. My Billy Bob clung to his bike, as unshakable as wad of chewed bubble gum to the sole of a tennis shoe, for mile after mile through Yale and Boston Bar and beyond. Soon, though, the straights got longer and traffic heavier. Billy Bob gave all he had but that other bike had way more engine and pulled easily away on each straight. Funny thing was, his wake kept dragging me along, stretching like the world’s biggest bungee cord as he pulled away and slingshotting me back right behind him in the curves. That was kinda fun.

 

A few miles before Lytton, he made a pass on about 16 plodding trucks and RVs and slid back in his lane just at the end of the straight. Billy Bob only managed to accelerate me past half the vehicles, so I pulled into the pack to await the next opportunity. The other guy just kept it screwed on, stretching that bunjee cord until it snapped and was gone. “Oh for 20 more horsepower,” I thought.

 

We’d planned to stop in Lytton for gas anyway, so I just turned in to the next station and gave Billy Bob a rest. It seemed hot, tinking even louder than it normally does, so I took a peek at the thermometer dipstick, the oil temps read 140 degrees C. That’s 284 degrees F. Almost French-frying temps. I use really good oil, so I wasn’t too worried. Still, that’s hot! Maybe 20 more horsepower wouldn’t be such a great idea.

 

I gassed up, paid, pushed my bike to the side, and walked around while waiting for the others to join up. Apparently, the owner of the service part of the station didn’t care much for cars. The windows of the service bay were festooned with signs making it clear that working on cars is beneath his dignity.

 

As this photo shows, he will, however, work on your motorcycle any hour of the day or night.

 

Lytton is situated at the confluence of the Fraser and Thompson rivers and is just about precisely where the lush green of the Pacific Northwest turns to the dry sage-brown of an inland desert. Our plan was to take a scenic detour up north and west up Hwy. 12 to Lilloet, which is a really scenic and twisty road, if a little beat up. From Lilloet we planned to take the 99north and east to intersect with the 1 again. I say “were” because the turn-off to that route was closed that day, for reasons unknown. So, we stayed on the TC-1, which snakes up the Thompson River canyon. The scenery was amazing and the road nice, but very heavily carred and semi-ed amd Rved and Mountied.

 

Here’s a taste of the scenery: Wide open, dry, and beautiful. It stayed that way until about Clinton, when suddenly everything greened up and cooled down into the low 60s F. again as we began climbing up onto British Columbia’s central plateau, called the “Cariboo.”

 

We kept climbing up the plateau, through a succession of small towns such as 70 Mile House, 108 Mile House, 150 Mile House, Williams Lake, and on to Quesnel. Green it was, but it may not be for much longer. They are having huge problems with a pest called pine bark beetle that is marching across the Cariboo, killing off all the hemlocks and Sitka spruce. We could see the effects getting worse the farther we rode. Whole ridges of once-green conifers turned to shaggy red apparitions. Apparently, the winters are no longer cold enough to keep these pests in check, so it is spreading. When it gets to Washington, it’ll become the US’s problem, too.

 

From Quesnel, we continued north on Hwy. 97 to perhaps the biggest town in the region, Prince George. By the time we got there the clouds had quickened and were spitting rain. Our goal for that first night was Vanderhoof, which was 60 miles or so west of PG, on Hwy. 16. Just out of Prince George, it began to rain steadily and then to pour buckets. I just put my head down and kept it at about 80 mph, hoping to blast through the rain as quickly as possible. Forty miles later, it cleared up and stayed that way into the parking lot of the motel in Vanderhoof we had booked for the night. We pulled in at around 7:30. My odometer showed 645 miles for the day.

 

Pete was with me but the other two had apparently fallen behind in the rain. And Pete shared some ominous news, too: Just out of Prince George, the charging light on his Quota had come on full bright and remained that way to the hotel in Vanderhoof. Being an optimist, he hoped that it was just the rain that had made it come on. Optimism seemed allright with me at the time. We checked in, watched some videos of the trip, had dinner at the German restaurant that was affiliated with the motel, and returned to the rooms for a few cocktails.

 

We talked over the day’s ride over bourbon and irish. At one point I started bemoaning the Billy Bob’s lack of power, and they all just laughed. Pedro then pulled out some animal stickers he had brought along and awarded a talisman to each of our bikes, based on their performance that day. To his own Quoter, he awarded the mighty buffalo. To Steve’s Aluminium, he awarded the fierce rhino. To Donny’s Tuono, I can’t remember what. And to my woefully underpowered Ballabio? See below.

 

My Billy Bob’s new talisman: a sea turtle, swimming amongst a sea of dead bugs. I think I’ll call my Ballabio "the Turtle" from now on.

 

Then, talk tuned to tomorrow, and Hyder, and to Pete’s charging system. We’d have some troubleshooting and deciding to do in the morning . . .

 

It’s Morning in Vanderpoof

Last night’s oprimism gave way to the new day’s reality. First of all, it was raining, providing an unwelcome déjà vu moment from last year’s trip. Vanderhoof, which we’d renamed "Vanderpoof,” was apparently the town that never wanted us to leave. Last year, it was a wall of water, which drove us back there for a second night in town. This year, more rain, plus maybe a broken bike to make us stay. It’s not a bad town, but all in all I’d rather spend this night in Hyder than again here, so I was up by 6:30 and tearing into the Quoter by 7:00, after giving it partial shelter under an eave of the building and laying down a bike cover to keep me off the wet pavement.

 

Me working on Pedro’s Quota while wearing a good-luck charm, my Chinese“Party” hat, which was given to me at the 2004 Guzzi National in South Dakota by Nick in PRC. Photo courtesy of STFU Donnie.com.

 

Amongst those I know who work on the ‘90s through today’s Guzzis with the Ducati alternators, conventional wisdom is, “It’s always the regulator.” That may be so, but given the rains we went through we all held out hope that the problem might be a wet or gooey connection. I checked them all, and they seemed OK, so I did all the other checks I could using my multimeter. The stator checked out fine for resistance and voltage, but I wasn’t getting any voltage rise at the battery. Seemed like it was the regulator. It was Sunday, and we were 400 miles from the nearest Guzzi dealer, so there was no hope of fixing it that day.

 

This forced a choice: Do we let Vanderhoof embrace us for another day while we try to get the part, to try to limp his bike to Hyder somehow, or just abandon him or his bike? Waiting was the safest choice, but getting a part sent this far north would take two days, which meant we probably would not get to Hyder that year (it was then Sunday, and I had to be back at work in Seattle on Wednesday). That meant three days in Vanderpoof. None of us were willing to settle for that. None of us were willing to just abandon Pete, either. We decided to see if limping was even possible. If it wasn’t, maybe we’d bungee cord Pete over the back of Donny’s Tuono, since that bike had the most horsepower.

 

Fortunately, the battery in my Turtle is the same as in Pete’s Quoter. That made limping on possible, though it would mean stopping frequently to swap batteries. There were some risks in going on. First, running it that long without a regulator might then burn out the stator. Second, there’re usually a lot of wires piggybacked onto the battery connections of EFI Guzzis, and everytime you change the battey, they get flexed a little. Sooner or later, one was sure to break, or one of us could get tired and/or careless and short out an important component, leaving us truly up the creek, even farther from the parts supply. Despite the risks, Pete and the others were eager to try it, so we put my battery in the Quota and used the motel owner’s charger to pack some electrons in Pete’s dead battery while I made some calls to see if we could get a regulator shipped to meet us somewhere along the route to Hyder or back.

 

First, I called Dave Richardson, to see if he had the home number for Gordon Mitten, from Valley Yamaha in Chilliwack BC, the closest Guzzi dealer, Dave didn’t have the number but gave me the correct spelling of his name, which we hoped would help me find it using the information number. I wrung him up, hoping for the best. When he answered, I explained our situation, and he offered to run over to the shop and see if he had one on the shelf. He said to call back in half an hour, so we strolled off to lunch. When I called back, Gordon said he didn’t have one but would be willing to take one off of his V11. He said to call the shop on Monday, and he would check on where and when he could get it to us. What a great guy!

 

It was still drizzling as we left Vanderpoof at 1:00, with 370 miles and five battery changes to get there before dark.

 

“Limping” at 100 MPH

Time seemed to be more against us than our speed, so I figured we’d get further on each battery change if we went fast. I told Pete, “Go like hell and stop after 70 miles or so, and see how it’s doing.” He listened, wicking that Quota up to 90-100 mph for the trip west toward Burns Lake. We had been on this stretch the year before but hadn’t seen a thing ‘cause we’d had our heads down, gutting it out through a monsoon. It was pretty country, despite the huge numbers of trees dying from bark beetles. All seemed well when we pulled into a gas station there and gassed up, but when Pete tried to start the Quota, the battery was dead.

 

Pedro (at left) and his Quoter. He’s not as tough as he looks. Note the sheepskin seat cover . . .

 

We swapped out the battery, and Pete’s spent one had just enough juice to get the Turtle to fire up. Off Pete roared north and west on 16, with two other Guzzis and a Tuono in tow. Hope flared briefly when we came to the town of Houston. Could it be possible that MPH Cycles has a satellite Guzzi dealership in this other Houston? Sadly, they had not yet opened their northern branch, so we jammed on.

 

A Limp Too Far

Pete really pushed it on this stretch staying consistently around 100 mph over some beautiful high plateaus between mountains. Just past Smithers, after 105 miles since the last battery swap, we entered a really twisty stretch, so I passed Pete and started putting some real hurt on the sides of my tires. When the road straightened out again, I pulled over to take a picture and let him catch up.

 

The surrounding country looked like the Bitterroot valley of Montana.

 

I waited and waited and finally headed back to see what happened. Turns out that just as I passed him, the Quota began to sputter and died within a mile. We pulled Pete’s battery and I tried to put enough charge in it with jumper cables so that it would start the Turtle afterward. Here’s a photo of it. Best of all, it worked!

 

 

From there, Pete went like hell again. At the next gas stop, another rider reported that the one gas station between the upcoming little town of Kitwanga, the starting point of our journey north on the 37 Cassiar Highway, and Stewart BC/Hyder AK was out of gas, so we’d better gas up when we got to Kitwanga.

 

North to Alaska! Here’s Kitwanga, the last gas in 130-plus miles before getting to Hyder. This is another photo by STFUDonnie.com.

 

The road north consisted of long straights, some 6 or more miles long followed by a nice sweeper. Once again, Pete went like hell, despite the scary fact that around every corner was another bear feeding a few feet into the ditch. They didn’t seem too interested in our passage, thankfully, and kept feeding. One more battery swap, and we came to another junction, of the 37 and the 37A. We took the 37A (eh?) west toward Hyder.

 

Here’s me, Steakdaddy, and Pedro at the turnoff onto the 37A (eh!) toward Hyder. Forty miles to go! This is another fine photo from STFUDonnie.com.

 

This is where the bears got really thick. Seems like there were always a few within view. Pedro kept going like hell as the road narrowed and writhed and climbed between mountains to a lovely viewpoint across from a huge glacier that cascaded between two peaks into a small lake. It was called (surprise!) Bear Glacier. We stopped to snap a few pictures.

 

Steak and Pedro getting chummy in front of Bear Glacier.

 

It was cold and getting very near dark, so I fired up my bike and pulled away, hoping it would prompt the others out of their photo-snapping revelry so we could get to Hyder before dark. Steak pulled out behind me, and we slowly accelerated along the straightaway past the lookout. Just then a white SUV came around the corner ahead and immediately lit up in full, you-will-pull-over-NOW! Mode. Steak and I did, pulling off our helmets and getting out our license and registration while a steely-eyed Mountie watched us from within the SUV. Before long, Pedro and Donnie pulled by, at the speed limit . . .

 

After what seemed like 15 minutes, the Mountie left his warm vehicle and approached, saying “You fellows ought not be driving so fast. There’s a lot of bears around, eh?” Steak tried charming him with some small talk. I figured there was no use, so I just stayed silent and handed over my paperwork. The Mountie returned to his truck, and checked us out. Then, he came out and said, “You were going 121 in a 90 (kilometers per hour). That’s a $190 ticket, but I’m only giving you warnings.” God bless the Mounties! Then, he warned us again. “Slow down. Remember the bears!” To that, Steak replied, “Don’t worry, officer; we’ll never do that again!” That Mountie started laughing and shaking his head, and as he walked back to his truck retorted, “That’s the biggest line of bullshit I’ve ever heard. Ride safe!” Canadians are the nicest people.

 

We took it pretty easy the last 20 miles into Stewart, BC, and followed the signs to the border crossing. Basically, the crossing to Hyder is completely uncontrolled; the pavement just ends, and you drop about a foot down onto the potholed dirt street that leads into the ramshackle town.

 

Here it is. Welcome to Hyder! Watch out for the bears and the potholes. . . This was taken the next day, I think. It was getting pretty dark when we first pulled into town.

 

A couple blocks later, we pulled into the equally ramshackle Sealaska Inn, our stopping point for the night. It was 9:15, just over 8 hours, 370 miles, and five battery swaps since we had left Vanderhoof that early afternoon. We’d made it at last! Time to settle in and try to find something to eat.

 

Steakdaddy poses outside the Sealaska Inn. The first thing we learned about Hyder is that they work when they want to work. The Sealaska decided to close the restaurant early, just because. And coincidently, every other place else in town closed down, too. They were all in the bar drinking. Fortunately, the bartender was willing to microwave some hotdogs for us, and we feasted. Photo courtesy Donnie.

 

“Hyderization”

Then, it was time for a curious ritual known as “getting Hyderized,” which consists of chugging a small glass of Everclear, after which the bar matron poured the dregs from each glass onto the bar and lit it afire, for a little show. After the ride, it was anticlimactic, really. Expensive, too. But afterwards, they gave us each a card certifying that we had been officially Hyderized.

 

 

Here we are, immediately post-Hyderization. I didn’t feel as glassy-eyed as I look, but I was definitely getting tired. To my left is Steakdaddy. In the background laughing is the owner of the bar. He’s owned it since the 1950s.

 

And tired of paying over $4 for a can of Rainier. I headed outside. Up pulled an overloaded Suzuki V-Strom, the pilot of which dropped his riding gear off in a room at the motel and came out to admire Donnie’s Tuono. He asked if it was mine. I had to admit that I was only the pilot of the lowly Turtle, not the mighty Tuono, but that I knew the owner of it. That was the start of what may be a long friendship.

 

Here’s our new friend, Chris, from Georgia. He works at a Suzuki dealership outside of Atlanta and took off three months to go explore Alaska and the west. He joined our little group and fit right in from the start. He also had a battery charger, so we plugged in Pedro’s battery to get it ready to go for the next day.

 

Just then, a huge grizzly burst into the bar, and Pedro showed it who was boss. Then, he (Pedro; the bear slunk away after the drubbing) ordered a round of Yukon Jack for us all. That man fears nothing . . .

 

About midnight, the staff of the Sealaska was tired of us and wanted to close, so they gave us a bucket of ice and five real glass glasses and kicked us out to continue the revelry in our rooms. That’s when Pedro proved once again that he fears neither man, nor beast, nor even straight razor. . .

 

Here he is, entrusting the mildly inebriated Steakdaddy to shave his pate with a straight razor. I sat in the corner and whimpered at the thought that he’d come after me.

 

Freshly shaved and feeling frisky, Pedro honored our new friend Chris with a talisman for his V-Strom: a grizzly. I couldn’t tell you what they did after that because I slunk off to bed and had nightmares of bears and Mounties and straight razors.

 

(to be continued because I've exceeded the allowable number of pictures . . .)

 

Here's part II, if it works this way . . . .

 

A Slow Start to a Slow Day

I awoke at 11:30, feeling OK but not great. I’d bet it’s been many years since I slept that late. Everybody else was already up and wanting breakfast, so we geared up to ride back across the border to Stewart BC for lunch, since none was available in Hyder. Chris joined us and led us to a place he said had good food. After we ordered, Pedro and I headed down the street to the pay phone to call Gordon, to see where and when we could rendezvous with the regulator he would be sending. He said he could get it to Vanderhoof by the end of the next day (Tuesday) by Geyhound bus. We had been hoping to get it sent further, perhaps even to rendezvous with it that day, but there really isn’t any UPS Overnight type services to these remote communities. The Greyhound would have to do. We thanked Gordon for all his efforts and went back to eat.

 

Steakdaddy had ordered for the group what he said was a true Canadian delicacy: Poutin. Never heard of it? Neither had I. Basically, it’s French fries mixed with cheese curds and covered in brown gravy. Sounded worthy of sharing a plate with the grizzly burger I’d ordered.

 

Here they are. I sure wouldn’t count them among my favorite things, but, as my buddy Easy would say, “They’ll make a turd.”

 

With half the day already gone, we decided we’d do a day ride, stay again at the Sealaska, and limp back to Vanderpoof the next day to meet the regulator. It was scheduled to be there at 4:00. If we could meet it then, there’d be enough daylight left on Tuesday to keep on riding on to Jasper or some other place we hadn’t yet been.

 

Chris told us of a pair of glaciers and an observatory where we could watch the bears feasting on salmon, and it was all just up the dirt road that led away from the Sealaska. That soundd like a good day trip, se roared off, Quota in lead. When Pete pulled over for something, I asked him if he had the jumper cables with, thinking we might need them at the glacier or elsewhere. No; he’d left them at the Sealaska. I volunteered to go back for the cables. While Pedro, Donnie, and Chris started hauling ass up that pockmarked road, I rode the couple miles or so back to the motel, retrieved the cables, and hauled ass to catch up.

 

At the start, the road was relatively flat and smooth, running fast alongside the river, as shown above. (Tuono's-eye view courtesy STFUDonnie.com) Then, it got steeper as it ran along the ridge above the aptly named Fish Creek. I knew I was close to it because fish was all I could smell—fresh ones, godawfully rotten ones, and digested ones excreted from the aft end of the bears that were everywhere. A huge blackie popped across the road in front of me carrying a 30-plus-pound chum in its jaws. That was a close one. I hope I didn’t spoil his lunch.

 

“Welcome to the Glossy-eh, eh?”

Then it got really steep and curvey and rutted as the road climbed toward Salmon Glacier, which was 18 miles up the road. About 10 miles up, I overtook Donnie, who was stopping to take photos. I caught the others just after they got to the viewpoint above the glacier. They were already in full jabbering jaybird mode, chattering at one another in affected British nature-film accents and extolling the beauties of the glacier, so of course they did not pronounce it “glay-sher,” but “glossy-eh.” Cracked me up.

 

‘Twas a beautiful glossy-eh, too. Here’s one shot of Steakdaddy standing in front of it. “Welcome to the glossy-eh, eh?”

 

Zooming as far as my pathetic little camera will reveals the crevasses that pockmark the glossy-eh’s surface.

 

When the sun comes out, all that glassy-eh ice glows blue from the ground-up rock particles within. Looking down the valley; you can see that the melted glacier water carries some color, too.

 

“You don’t Say? Another Glossy-eh”

We’d heard that if we continued up that road another 12 miles or so, we’d find another glossy-eh, so off we went. It got steeper and twistier and choppier, but the scenery improved with each mile.

 

We were above the treeline by now. The world was the blue-gray of glacier rock, overlaid with the dark green of scattered, stunted trees, the pastel green of lichen, and the purple of flowers sprouting everywhere. This is another Donnie photo.

 

 

At the top, there was indeed another glossy-eh. Here it is, providing a convenient, “in its natural environment” backdrop for Pete’s dusty Quota.

 

On the ride up, we were all having so much fun, we forgot about charging systems and the need to swap batteries. We were reminded again when Pete tried to fire up the Quota at the second glassy-eh. That battery had had enough, after 30-some miles of dirt and multiple restarts. We swapped my battery into the Quota, and Pete and Steak and Donnie headed off down the mountain. Chris stayed with while I installed the dead battery and helped me jumpstart the Turtle, whereupon we took off after them.

 

I caught up to Donny after a few miles when he pulled over to take some more pictures. Steak and Pete must’ve been really moving ‘cause I didn’t catch them until just after they’d pulled into the bear observatory, 25 miles or so later. I know I had hit speeds of at least 75 mph on that dirt road and would’ve been pitched for sure if not for the excellence of the Ohlins forks and shock on the Turtle. Steak and Pedro were back to cackling and speaking in Brit nature-film tongues as we paid our 5 bucks and walked out onto the boardwalk to commune with the bears.

 

This is a lousy photo but it hints at all the action taking place in Salmon Creek. Thousands of live chum salmon squirmed and jostled and bred and fought, whipping the water to foam in spots. Hundreds more dead ones gave a billion flies and hundreds of gulls something to do. In most streams, really big chums top out at about 20 pounds. Some in Salmon Creek weighed twice that, and that’s why the bears were there. Humans consider chum salmon nearly inedible, but bears slurp them right up.

 

Only two bears were slapping salmon around when we showed up in mid-afternoon. One was a huge black bear, weighing probably 500-600 pounds. That’s a fuzzy shot of him above, just before he wandered back into Salmon Creek and resoundingly shattered the myth that bears only drop their deuces in the woods. That’s right: they let loose with streams of salmon diarrhea in streams, too. You really don’t want a description of what the sight or sound or smell of that was like.

 

Really, though, the bear’s effluent only added a minor note to the symphony of stench from all the dead and dying salmon scattered about. This is not a pleasant place to sit down and eat lunch. You might lose your lunch there, though . . .

 

There was also a smallish grizzly feeding. That blackie made young Mr. Grizzer look like a cub, and the younger bear moved off into the woods when big black came through.

 

Watching the bears eat made us all hungry. Off we headed back to Hyder to forage for our own dinner. We had a few at the bar and heard of a little restaurant built into a bus that was reputed to serve only truly fresh fish that the proprietors caught that day. Its posted hours said that place stayed stayed open ‘til 9:00. We figured we had plenty of time when most of us started walking there at 7:30, but we were instead headed toward another lesson in how Hyderites operate on their own terms.

 

Pedro and Donnie broke-backing it toward the restaurant. They got there at 7:45, and we got there a minute later. The place wasn’t busy at all, and there was an hour and 15 minutes left until closing, but the cook just decided she didn’t want to cook anymore and just turned us away. Our options were now down to pizza or more microwave dogs at the bar (they’d decided to close the kitchen at the bar for a few days, too). We opted for pizza, which we took back to the bar for consumption.

 

After that, we had a few more beers, while we discussed our plan for Tuesday. We’d get up early and try to leave Hyder at 7:30 when the gas station across the border opened. Then, we’d attempt to limp Pedro’s Quoter to Vanderpoof in time to install the regulator and keep on going into the hills to the east. Chris decided to come with and see Seattle. We'd warned him that we'd be stopping often, and his reply was, "That's great! I like to smoke!" Good enough for us. We all called it a night. We’d only ridden about 70 miles that day, all on dirt.

 

 

Tuesday: Hyder to Vanderpoof (Again)

We were all up by 6:30. Pedro and I took off first, knowing they’d all catch up down the road while we were swapping batteries. All was well until I restarted the Turtle after gassing up. Ominously, the voltmeter showed only battery voltage. Pedro had already taken off, going like hell, so I had to go like double hell to catch him and get him to pull over so I could figure out why my bike wasn’t charging. That done, I got out my multi-meter to confirm what the Turtle’s voltmeter had already told me: “She no work-uh.” Yes, I swore, and then we headed back to the Sealaska Inn to see if we could get it fixed.

 

I tore that tank off in record time and started going through all the connections, as black flies and mosquitoes gnawed at all my exposed flesh. Before long, I found the problem: The two main wires from the stator were burned through. Apparently, all the extra load of constantly re-charging dead batteries had found the weak link. All that slowish running on the dirt roads the day before probably had contributed, too. I got to work splicing the wires, hoping that was the only problem. Meanwhile, Steak rode back to the gas station to buy wire, connectors, and everything else he thought we might need.

 

As I was putting it all back together, an older gentleman hovered around the perimeter, taking pictures and seeming to want to approach us. Finally, he did. He said his name was Mario, and he was from Italy. I don’t remember his exact words, but the point he got across to us in broken English was that we had made his day because he never thought he’d find Moto Guzzis in such a remote place. Good on ya, Mario. You made our day, too!

 

After that, we blasted off again, at about 10:00. It was all a re-Pete of our day on Sunday—following Pedro as he rode like hell through bear-ville, stopping every 60-75 miles to swap out batteries. Did I mention bugs? Mosquitoes and black flies darkened the skies. At every stop, I was overpowered by the stench of thousands of bugs burning onto the Turtle’s engine and exhaust. They’re so baked on, it will take over cleaner to get them off. And at nearly every stop yellow jackets would descnend on our fairings and windscreens to eat their dead breathren off the plexiglass. I’m glad someone got to eat; we jammed onward to Vanderpoof without breakfast or lunch. As the photos show, though, none of us was in danger of starvation.

 

At one stop, this butterfly gave a stirring eulogy for his fallen comrades from the pulpit of the Turtle’s fairing. Donny and Steak were tearing up abd blubbering softly by the end of it.

 

Once the butterfly flew off, Pedro continued to go like hell. Our luck held, though. We went by at least a half dozen Mounties that day while riding between 80 and 100 mph, and they didn’t flinch. Did I mention that Canada is a great country?

 

By 5:30, we were at the Vanderpoof Greyhound Station, where Pedro retrieved the regulator, and I installed it. Just to be sure, I swapped the freshly charged battery into the Quota and fired it up. The alternator light mocked us by glowing full-on red. Yes, I swore again, and we began looking for accommodations so we could tear into that charging system once again. We got the last two rooms in town, and it was plain to see why they were last. Inexplicably, they were also the most expensive of the trip; maybe because they were the last rooms? Yes, Vanderpoof i truly the town that wants us never to leave . . .

 

We settled in, and Chris and I started tearing that Quoter apart. Winds blowing directly from the KFC half a block away soon reminded us that we hadn’t eaten all day. Steak marched down there for a bucket of the Colonel’s finest while troublehooting resumed. Pedro assisted by passing us his bottle of rum.

 

Then, we had us a nice hillbilly picnic in the parking lot of the motel. Even KFC had gooey poutin fries, so we savored Canada’s signature dish once again. By then, darkness shrouded the Quota’s electrics, so we retired to a nearby bar for a beer before heading to bed.

 

Wednesday: Vanderpoof to Cache Creek

We were back at the troubleshooting the next morning at 7:00. Everythig checked out fine when tested the components alone and even when we tested the alternator and regulator together, but it just wouldn’t charge when everything else was connected. Finally, I made a jumper wire to bypass all the stock wiring and attempted to get output of the regulator to the battery. We revved the bike and got plenty of voltage at that jumper wire before hooking it to the battery but nothing oncve it was hooked up. Something was toast and not able to keep doing its job once subjected to load. I suspect it’s the windings of the stator but still don’t know.

 

That meant we were sunk, though, and would have to limp the Quota all the way home. Limping hard 370 miles the day before took about 8 hours. We had over 600 to get to Seattle, and it was already after 11:00, so there’s no way we could make it before dark. After dark, Pete’d have to run his headlight, so we’d have to stop even more frequently. I called my Jennifer to tell her I what was up, and she came up with a great idea: maybe our friend Easy would drive up and meet us with his truck and carry it the rest of the way home? Maybe Jen, who was on break from her teaching job, would come with him? Sounded like a great idea to me! Easy is a great friend and Eldo rider who was then laid off from his job and itching for some adventure. She called Easy, and he said sure. We planned to push on southward, and they would get some tie-downs and push northward. We agreed that the first of us to Cache Creek (300 miles away) would stop and call the other.

 

So began a re-re-Pete, as Pedro went like hell with me and Chris following (Steak and Donny had more time and detoured east to Jasper). We got to Cache Creek first, and got a message that they were further on. We kept going, and we finally crossed paths about 20 miles later, in the gloaming of the Thompson River Canyon.

 

Here’s Easy, whose career as a sock model is temporarily stalled. It was getting dark in that canyon, and critters were everywhere, so we loaded the Quota, returned to Cache Creek and retired, after some pizza and beer at a local establishment.

 

Thursday: Cache Creek to Seattle

The next day, no more limping. Chris and I had a great ride down the Thompon and Fraser river valleys, while Easy, Pedro, Jennifer, and the Quota gutted it out in that pickup. We got Pet and Quota home to his abode in Ballard, where we abandoned them both, shortly after the picture below was taken.

 

 

Despite the difficulties, we'd had a great trip. My odometer showed a total of 2265 miles traveled, over 1,200 of it limping the Quota and recharging its batteries. The Turtle’s charging system sure got a workout! I’d experienced “Alaska light” and had been intrigued. I didn’t have to move there, but I definitely wanted to see more of it. That’s for next year, or maybe the year after, though.

 

Meanwhile, Chris, who had seen almost all of Alaska that you can drive a motorcycle to, was still with us. He stayed three days, taking day trips or doing maintenance on his bike while I was at work. At night, we talked racing. Turns out he used to race, then built race bikes for others, and knows a lot of the riders and tuners that race fans have heard of.

 

He’s also an airplane lover, so I took him to the Museum of Flight, at Boeing Field. This has to be one of the world’s premier museums, now, after recently adding all the planes from the Champlin Museum and a few others to what they already had. Perhaps the highlight was the cutaway R-4360 with a motor to turn all the parts so we could see how intricate were its works, all posed in front of a real F2G Corsair (my favorite WWII fighter). Next to it was a real long-nose FW-190. Seeing this plane from a distance, Chris amazed me by asking, “Is that a Ta-152?” How many people are you likely to meet that would even know what a Ta-152 was? He’s a rare bird . . .

 

Chris and his overloaded V-Strom at the Museum of Flight. He left from here, headed for the Redwoods of California. Bon Voyage, Chris

[tikkanen]

Wow! What a trip! Sounds like you guys had a lot of fun despite the mishaps with the Quota.

 

Thanks for sharing, Greg!

 

Søren

[canada goose]

Great report! Thanks for sharing.

 

Ken

[Guest Catenaccio]

Flippin' amazing! Great prose!

[joe camarda]

Hi Greg...Great story.

But the part about Pedro having to fight the bear was a little frightening! And that gruesome picture... it still gives me chills!

[slug]

Nice report Greg!

 

Saw the poutine and had to try it. Made up a batch tonight, and mmmmm mmmmm

 

Tasty!