We left with enthusiasm the third day. A shy morning sun made the ponds sparkle and we watched the playful beavers moving around. The wetland extended from both side of the road, interspersed with rickety trees and bushes. Once again, the road put us to the test. The Dalton’s roller coster followed one another in endless uphills and downhills.
We spotted for several kilometers the traces of bear’s paws along the path, indicating the recent presence of the animal. We got mixed feeling, not very sure whether we wanted to cross the way of this teddy bear or avoid it. In doubt, we chose to follow the recommendations and started talking loudly, singing, making noise to signal our presence… With the bear repellent always at hand.
We arrived, hungry and exhausted, at our destination, the Yukon River, in the early afternoon. Guided by our empty bellies and several colored flags, we braked in front of the cabins of the Hot Spot Cafe. I have never been so happy to eat a burger!
With our bellies full, we cycled the few kilometers separating us from the camp located near the river where we expected to settle for the night and buy some food for the next days. The roadhouse offered indeed meals to eat on site, but no grocery store to stock up pasta! Disappointed, we bought a few cereal bars and ordered some takeaway chili.
The next morning, we were awakened by the rain falling heavily on our poor tent. We hoped for a clear sky that will not come, and yet decided to pack our things, using the tiny shelter provided by the outhouse. Little protection, mosquitoes assailed us during the operation, water infiltrated into every corner… I already was in a bad mood. We rushed to find a shelter in the roadhouse nearby and devoured a real breakfast. A tall man approached our table, eager to chat. He was actually the owner of the place, he had heard about us and our lack of supplies and suggested that Juan follow him in the back shop. Along the walls were several large metal shelves, filled with food. Pointing at one of them, he simply told us ‘Help yourself’! It was like Christmas! We picked up abandoned leftovers, military supplies, chocolate powders, sachets of almonds and raisins, breads… Back at our table, another surprise awaited us: the portion of chili ordered had been double. We warmly thanked the owner.
The rain, however, still hammered the roof. Unfortunately for us, time had come to take a decision about wether or not starting to pedal. I naively inquired for the price of a night in one of the rooms of the camp: the owner looks at me with pity and said ‘$ 200 the night’. Well… Business is business!
We therefor had to hit the road, despite the awful weather. No problem, we were equipped: rain pants, raincoats, water resistant shoes… we jumped on our bikes with determination.
However, it quickly disappeared before the liters of water continuously pouring on our heads and with always more difficult uphills to climb. The dirt road turned into a muddy path that spurts on our calves. Our gloves quickly became useless and dribble, the water seeped through our sleeves. The effort made us sweat and we found ourselves quickly as wet inside as we were outside. In a somewhat desperate attempt, we spotted a pipeline maintenance center and asked the security guard for a shelter. Without an inch of remorse and barely looking at us, the man sent us back to the road.
We were now soaked to the bone, frozen… In desperation, we decided to stopped on the side of the road, and raised the thumb. It feels a bit like cheating to hitchhike while biketouring, but sometimes, the circumstances don’t leave any other choices.
Fortunately, we did not have to wait long. Very quickly, a maintenance worker of the pipeline stopped at our level. Felling a bit of pity for us, he agreed to load our bikes and pannier in his pick up. He explained he was part of the Pipeline Monitoring Team, which goes back and forth to check that everything is working properly. He was Eskimo, originally from northern Alaska, and he worked for two weeks and have one month off after. His warm truck felt like a cocoon, which I was reluctant to leave. We rode like this for several hours. Finally, our generous driver, unable to go further, dropped us on the side of the road, just at the entrance of the Dalton Highway.
We were back in the rain, thumb again in the air. Our bikes lied on the side. Very quickly, we were wet again. My back, my arms… I was shaking and frozen. Time passed, but no cars stopped. Suddenly, a big pickup, coming in the opposite direction, braked in front of the sign indicating the entrance to the Dalton Highway. The chest was filled with moose and caribous horns. Two shaggy, taciturn men, plaid shirts, boots and beer in hand, jumped from the front seats. One of them has only missing arm, beneath of which hanged a huge gun. We watched them with curiosity, taking selfies in front of the panel, before they turned to us to make fun of our wet dog looking and jumped back into their big SUV.
The desperate gray sky, continued to pour its rage on our dripping heads. The time seemed to pass longer. Was it really the case, or was it just my perception? I fumbled and shivered in my soaked clothes. Why, oh why did we gave up on staying in a home with a roof over your head? What an absurd idea this bike trip! Damn it! We could have stayed in Australia, continued to build a stable life, banal and uneventful. Sheltered. But no. It was not enough ‘Phileas Fog’ style. And here we were, catapulted on this side of the road at the end of the world, without any hope of any clearing that would allow us at least to pitch the tent in a corner. Our isolation suddenly leaped to my throat, and the tears I held back so far, suddenly arose. I bit my fist and sighed loudly on the remains of my comfort zone whose limits has been now well passed. Juan tried in vain to console me and, always positive, preferred to fight the bad weather by dancing under the drops.
A vintage French motorhome, suddenly stopped near us. Michel and Maryse, who arrived in Halifax a few months earlier, waded across Canada and Alaska and were on their way back to Fairbanks. They could not offer us a place in their truck already well loaded, they prepared us instead coffee and hot chocolate that warmed us from the inside, and gave me a small dry place to change. Their departure left us with renovated energies and hopeful.
Several hours passed, some drivers stopped to inquire about our condition but we could not offer any lift. Two girls from the local fire department gave us a bag full of cereal bars and a backup plan for the night: their base camp had a shelter under which we could pitch our tent, a few kilometers back from where we were.
Before giving up, we decided to wait an hour more. It only took a few minutes to Aaron to press the brake, stop in puddles and offer his help. His Subaru was small? No problem, we would make it work! With a little good will, anything is possible. We packed our bags in the trunk. Our bicycles were put on the roof and hooked carelessly with the straps of our panniers. On the passenger site, a small lady with long black hair pushed the heat to the maximum. We took off our wet and muddy rain gear, threw them into a bucket and sat in the back of our rescuer’s vehicle. Aaron introduced us to his “aunty” Bessie.
We were now on our way to Fairbanks, where they both used to go every year to gather berries and make provisions for the winter and for the traditional banquet of the village. Aaron rushed down the road mined with potholes. The bikes on the roof squeaked and seemed about to fly away. But our fortune fix was holding up.
Our convoy made a “little” detour by the small town of Minto, counting 258 inhabitants, mainly descendants of Atabaskans, this great Amerindian people of North America. Aaron guided us around the village, located on a cliff overlooking the Tolovana River, divided into several lakes. In winter, the frozen lakes offer direct access to the city of Fairbanks, to the southeast, avoiding a detour of 3 hours by the normal road.
“Aunt” Bessie opened her door and her kitchen. We were soon seated in front of a bowl of smoking soup welcomed with gratitude by our empty bellies, even if we didn’t know which kind of meat was there. The big wood stove burnt a warm fire in the center of the small room. We helped our guests preparing their bags for their getaway to Fairbanks, and it’s dry and sated that we hit the road again.
We arrived in sight of the city towards 11pm. Since it was way too late to contact Ephy and Ryan again, Aaron dropped us in front of a colorful guesthouse and we finally got into a real bed, tasting the end of this awkward day, while the rain kept pouring over Alaska’s roof.
