Day Eighteen: I was so excited to leave Coldfoot I didn’t know
whether to [censored] or go blind. I ate a great breakfast and hit the road.
Only a mile out of town all hell broke loose. I got caught in a serious
downpour. Even in the sixty seconds I had to put on my wetsuit and pack
cover I got completely soaked. Luckily it was up to about sixty
degrees, even though I was still considerably north of the Arctic
Circle.
I was slowed greatly and I was miserable. My legs had a chance two
soften up a bit as I was off the wheel for four consecutive days in
Coldfoot. Then rain let up around five PM and I made camp before the
rain started again. A [censored] first day back on the trail. But I had a
great site to camp, right next to Grayling Lake. I even had an outhouse
to throw my bear-proof-bag on top of on take comfortable bowel movements
in. Early to bed. Distance traveled: 25 miles.
Day Nineteen: I had the pleasure of a wake up call provided by the
Alaska Department of Highway Transportation. A semi full of dirt rolled
in every five minutes or so for over an hour, dumped their load and a
bulldozer was pushing dirt around ferociously. I awoke sluggishly, and
earlier than I would have liked to. I cooked the usually Mac and Cheese
for breakfast when a blue pickup truck slammed on their brakes on the
highway.
He pulled into the rest area and asked if I was seriously unicycling
the Haul Road. I of course said yes. It turned out that he is a
photographer and he was working on a photo-book project of the Haul
Road and the people that travel its length. He asked if I minded doing
a few photos and I didn’t mind.
After a photo shoot and a short chat I packed up camp and hit the
road. The hills here were not bad at all. Late in the afternoon I
arrived at the Arctic Circle camp area. When I rode in a immediately
went to the outhouse their and was startled by what I saw—blood
in my urine. I was slightly concerned.
I rolled up to the tourist Arctic Circle sign to find a group of
tourists piling out of a fifteen passenger van with a guide in tow.
They of course asked what I was doing up there on a unicycle. I told
them my tale and they were in near disbelief. They asked how I felt and
I was slightly delirious so I was honest. I said that I was exhausted,
had been hearing voices, and that I was pissing blood. Curious smiles
turned to looks of disgust and the promptly left. Must have been
something I said… I took the obligatory Arctic Circle photos and
headed south.
As I turned out of the parking area I realized that I forgot about
riding down Beaver Slide on my trip north. A mile later I found myself
looking up a straight shot two mile nine percent uphill grade. I
managed to ride maybe half a mile of it and then spent the next hour
and a half slowly trudging up that hill. I started to hear trucks that
didn’t exist come up from behind me. I was having full out
auditory hallucinations.
I made it to the top and had smooth downhill riding all the way back
down to Old Man, Alaska. The not-so-smooth part of this leg of day was
when I looked over my shoulder to see a string of trucks hauling ass
toward me. Whenever I saw this I dismounted, got ten feet off the road
and waited for them to pass. Only at this point in the day, sometimes
the trucks never passed, they disappeared. I was now having visual
hallucinations.
I pulled into Old Man around nine in the evening to a nice cabin to
spend the evening in. Upon arrival I went to the outhouse not to find
blood in my urine, but urine in my flood. I was freaked out.
Unfortunately I found an ancient bottle of whisky inside the cabin. I
drank myself silly, but was still careful to eat a decent meal and
drink plenty of water. There really is a certain comfort to be found in
booze when you’re troubled about something. This night, I found
that comfort and drifted to sleep in the cozy cabin. Distance traveled:
73 miles.
Days Twenty and Twenty One: Despite my drunkenness the night before I
woke up fairly early an refreshed and was relived to find to blood in
my urine at all. So I hit the road with high spirits. I had smooth
sailings down several steep downhill grades and through gentler grades
down into the Yukon River Valley. I arrived at the Yukon River Camp
just before noon. The camp was now open but I declined the opportunity
to get a decent meal because it was so early in the day and I was
feeling great.
I called my parents collect and let them know my location, slammed a
giant cup of coffee and took pictures of the massive Yukon River bridge
and the river, which had almost no ice now.
Riding over the bridge itself was a real [censored]. A half mile long
wooden bridge at a seven percent grade. Very strange riding, for a
bridge. Once over the river the climb out of the Yukon River Valley was
not nearly as bad going southbound as it was on the other side to the
north, and it was paved. Much more agreeable riding. I made fantastic
time.
The Boreal Forrest was now void of snow and every mile I rode, the
greener she became. Around six in the evening I started to become
haunted by visual and auditory hallucinations again. This time it was
on the final twenty mile stretch of the Dalton Highway—the
toughest section of the 415 mile road.
At the top of one of the higher hills I ran into some bear hunters.
They could probably tell I was a wreck from a long day of riding. The
tried to get me to make camp, but I wanted to make it back to the head
of the Haul Road before retiring for the night. When I told them this
the tempted me to stay with something to smoke. I could not turn down
the offer.
Alaskan pot is unlike any other strain I have smoked. It is fruitful,
sticky, and colorful. It does not make you tired, delirious, or make
you eat. Upon smoking this tasty herb I felt immensely better and
decided to hit the road around ten that evening.
And so I road through the steep hills of the Dalton Highway through
the Boreal Forrest. Stoned. I didn’t care.
I hit the head of the Dalton Highway at two in the morning. I thought
to myself, “Why Stop Now?” I did eat three packets of Mac
and Cheese and a few energy bars underneath the sign that marks the
beginning of the highway.
At three in the morning, with a full belly, I moved south on the
Elliot Highway. I was making great time back on paved road. The sun was
rising shortly after I left. The hills that murdered my legs three weeks
before now barely slowed me down as my legs pumped like the pistons of
an engine of a train on its way to hell. I passed the Colorado Dome
Trailhead at six in the morning, and took advantage of the outhouse
there. I was out of toilet paper at this point.
Shortly after that I passed the bus at the Arctic Circle trading Post
that I had slept in many nights before. I briefly stopped to filter
some fresh water and relive myself. I found more blood in my urine. I
was starting to get worried. Nevertheless, I continued on. At ten that
morning I arrived at the Wickersham Dome Trailhead and made a decent
sized meal of Mac and Cheese and energy bars.
I hastily hit the trail again. Although I was hearing things again,
the visual hallucinations I had earlier in the week had not come back.
I reached Fox at four in the afternoon and did not even dismount,
despite the fact that I promised several people at the bar there that I
would check in on my way back. I hauled ass the last eleven miles into
town. When Fairbanks came into view I dumped my excess drinking water
to save weight.
The last two miles into town were all downhill. I was so happy to see
the town. The first restraint on the north side of town is a
McDonald’s. I didn’t care. It was real food to me. I
chocked down four fish sandwiches, two large fires, a giant shake, and
two apple pies. Then I puked.
I still had six miles back to the hostel. I rode slower than normal.
Sort of dizzy. The newspaper article about me three weeks before had
generated a little bit of attention and truckers and tourists on the
Haul Road had spread rumors of my progress while I was gone. People
were hollering and honking at me more than normal. It was kind of neat.
But I just wanted to get my ass off of my saddle.
I stumbled into Billie’s Backpacker Hostel around six that
evening. She was surprised to see me back so early. I was surprised to
finish so early. I was 10 days ahead of schedule. She promptly had
pizza in my hands and despite her strict no drinking rule at the
hostel, we all had beers. Distance traveled: 186 miles.
Total distance traveled: about 1010 miles
Despite my looming health problems and lack of sleep, I took no nap
that evening. I told my tale to the residents of Billie’s
Backpacker Hostel to a group of people from the States, Canada,
Germany, Sweden, Switzerland, Japan, Hong Kong, Bulgaria and Argentina.
Most of them didn’t know what the hell I said.
Either way we ended up at the same bar I started at three weeks prior:
The Marlin. We spent the night drinking good beer, smoking great hash,
and talked [censored] in half a dozen languages. Drunk and stoned we made
our way back to the hostel. I climbed into my tent in the backyard and
slept.
I spent a few days in Fairbanks with a girl I met in Deadhorse who
worked for the Transportation Security Administration. I had to change
three flights and that took some time. I finally made it back to
Chicago to stay with my parents until my next tour begins in Japan this
summer. I no longer hallucinate or have blood in my urine.
The Dalton Highway is a lofty, but highly achievable goal for a
unicyclist or any cyclist. I may have gone too early in the season, and
it came closer to claiming my life than I would like to admit. But
seriously, if you have the chance, ride this road. It is one hell of an
adventure. If nothing else, drive it just for the scenery. It is worth
it.
A special thanks to:
Unicycle.com for giving me equipment that held up very well.
Kris Holm Unicycles for upgraded parts that improved my time in the
north.
Phiten Corporation for the free base layers.
Sheryl at the Woolly Rhino for encouraging words right at the begging.
The 2007-2008 cast of Blast! For your awesome support and not
committing me when I thought this trip up.
Terry Kadel, for the beers and shots.
Ben, for the smoke.
Darcy, for the bed.
Sam for the food and beer.
Chad, for the beer.
Kary, for the smoke and good company.
Louise Hall, for the food and tour of Wiseman.
Tim Slater, for the soda and food. T
ammy Winland, for some finaincail support.
Jon for the booze.
Michelle for the booze and always giving a strange unicyclist a place
to sleep. Deb Bernard, for the postage stamps.
Viola and Jen, for the many, many beers, great meal and a place to
sleep and a smoke.
Ben, for the photographs.
The many truckers who drive the Haul Road that encouraged me and
through soda and sandwiches in the road for me.
And of course Mom and Dad for their amazing support and financial help
along the way.
Until the next ride…
One Wheel, One Love.
--Mike
--
captainwelch
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