Alaska: The Final Two Days

"I was trying to feel some kind of 

good-bye.  I mean I've left schools and

places and I didn't even know I was leaving

them. I hate that. I don't care if its a sad 

good-bye or a bad good-bye, but when I leave

a place I like to know I am leaving it. If you

don't you feel even worse."

J.D. Salinger 

 

Today is a day that will bring both joy and sadness, the way endings sometimes do.  I am thoroughly tired, even teasing Greg the day before that I might just ride in the van today, a violation of the goal I set for myself on this trip.  Still, I felt strong yesterday despite being simultaneously weary.  I have, however, noticed it is taking significantly longer to warm up and for my body to quit protesting what I am asking of it.  As always, it interests me how much of riding can be mental.  At home, I would certainly talk myself out of riding like this day after day as the mind makes up excuses.  But, of course, the body also eventually fails protesting our abuse.  

 

Today is the day I have been looking forward to and dreading at the same time for reasons listed above but also because I know it involves the climb up to Thompson Pass.  Originally, I was quite worried when I read or heard somewhere that it was a twenty mile climb.  It is actually "only" seven or eight miles, depending on where I look.  Worthington Glacier is along the way.  And the pipeline, an important if not attractive stop. We are on our way to Valdez and my last night in Alaska.

 

As we head to the van to van to breakfast, I jump astride one of the carved animals outside the motel front door.  Dave follows suit.  I grin and think now  pleasant it is to start the day with a smile though I will say I missed having coffee in  my room.  It is, however, only a short walk to the lobby from my room and the coffee, despite being in a thermos, is not terrible.  

                     We eat breakfast, return to our room, gather our belongings 

                      and head to the ride start.  

 

It is not too long before we stop at the pipeline.  This really does not interest me, but I am not the only one of the trip.  My preference is for the road and how it rolls itself out before me, revealing all manner of things and leading my mind into new, old, and often different places. 

 

 

We don't spend  too much time here before heading back out on our bikes.  As Chris Stapleton notes in his song, "The road rolls out like a welcome mat," and I think that I will most likely never traverse these roads again but how glad I am that I am doing so now.  Next stop at the glacier. 

After the glacier, it is time for lunch.  I arrange the chairs away from the van facing the mountains.  This will be my last lunch on the road with these people.  So many endings in the air, and I don't do endings particularly well.

 

 The view is spectacular.  The air is filled with tiny white seeds floating the air.  They remind me of cottonwood seeds but have a much smaller kernel.  They seem celebratory. They are beautiful and don't seem to get in my airway and choke me like cottonwood seeds are wont to do.  I "think" they are from the Fire Weed, gone to seed, rushing to reproduce and survive as all  living things seem to do.  

 

While at lunch, L. makes me laugh telling me how much R. wants to beat me up the climb.  Well, he should.  He is younger, male, and has no body fat.  But I will ride my own pace by myself so that I can sing and view the scenery and truly appreciate the scenery without the stress of conversation or of competition.  My goal is to get there, though I would desperately like to beat Dave.  It is not as much fun to beat Dave at something as it was to beat Steve, because Steve really cared and Dave does not.  But I still like to tease him.  I fortunate I am for our friendship.  It is like having a younger brother.  

 

I don't sit long before mounting my bike as my legs are stiffening.  The road continues to slope gently upward, and most of the climb is gentle though there are a few places where it steepens and demands.  Dave and I teased each other the day before about getting the Thompson green sign.  He is already at a disadvantage after lunch because I leave before him or any of the others.  R. catches me sitting on my wheel and I expect him to do as Dave and Steve used to do and sit there until right before the sign, drafting in the easy chair, and then at the last few moments popping out and giving it all they have.  This doesn't happen and I capture the sign.  When Dave arrives I remind him that thus far I have taken every green sign in Alaska.  We stop here as Greg has asked us not to being the descent until every one gathers.

 

While waiting for the group, I climb a short path upwards that Greg recommends that we climb due to the view and it is lovely. There is some purple flower that is really beautiful.  But the gnats or mosquitoes are everywhere and there seems to be no escape.  I begin to eagerly anticipate the downhill.

 

And when we finally are given the go ahead, what a downhill it is.  Dave and I whoop and holler leaving the others behind, but I can't keep up with Dave:  he surges ahead on the descent no matter how hard I pedal eventually taking the Valdez sign.  My understanding is that we drop 2,500 feet in six miles into the Lower River Valley.  And what an exhilarating six miles it is.  On the left we pass a tunnel opening and I wonder because there is no road or path leading to it.  I later learn it was a railroad passage that was planned but not completed.  We pass Bridal Falls and there is a young lady there dressed in a fancy, white dress.  And a short time later, we reach our stopping point:  Horsetail Falls.  It is easy to see how it got its name.   

Everyone gathers and the bikes are loaded on the van one last time.  I am ready for a rest day tomorrow, but I know that a part of  me will regret that the adventure is over and that I am not yet again throwing my leg over the top tube while my legs curse me.  We van to the final motel and our final dinner together where, with my customary grace or lack there of,  I manage to spill my water all over the table, but fortunately without drenching anyone.

 

The next morning we are at the van at 5:45 a.m. to catch the ferry.  It will take us five hours and fifteen minutes to get to the dock just outside Anchorage.  This includes a drive through the tunnel from Whittier.  Greg tells us, "There is nothing shittier than being stuck in Whittier" as the traffic is streamed one at a time through the tunnel (old railroad tunnel I believe) and if you miss it, you wait an hour.  And we make it hauling with us two bike packers that we met on the ferry.  One rides with us to Anchorage, but the other just rides through the tunnel.   One is not allowed to bicycle through the tunnel.

 

We reach Greg's storage unit and unload the bikes.  They are done for the year.  This is the last trip offered by Bike Alaska and, per Greg, their hardest trip.  We each get a t-shirt and a bracelet and a water bottle.  Then we are dropped off at various places.  It is somewhat disheartening knowing that, other than Dave, I will probably never see any of these people again.  Not that we have really become close, but we have shared an experience over the course of days.  So I suppose we are close in that sense. 

 

Dave and I leave our bags at the hotel where we stayed the first night and then head into Anchorage again for a bit of a goodbye since our flight does not leave until ten p.m.  We have a meal while there, or at least an appetizer.  I am not hungry enough or desperate enough to spend fifty dollars on a meal and neither is Dave.  I think how glad I am that our payment covered meals.  I was surprised at how much more expensive everything is.  

 

Our plane takes off.  I am on the aisle seat and Dave at the window.  Unfortunately, at least for me, the man who has the middle seat is quite large.  He puts up the arm rest and spills into my seat, so I suffer the long flight, tired as could be, with only half of the seat I paid for.  He can't help it and I am not angry with him, but I am uncomfortable and sleep is impossible despite my being so tired.  

 

In Minneapolis, our plane is delayed because the flight crew is not there.  They are not too late, however, and we are finally on the final lap of crossing four time zones and being home.  We near the run way when they turn around telling us a "check engine" type light came on.  This puts us a bit behind, but not as  much as I feared and we finally arrive at our home airport.  Dave and I hug and the trip is officially over.    We say good-bye going our separate ways.  Yes, I am sad.  It flew by so fast.  I never saw a moose or elk or caribou though a few of the others saw one fleetingly through the van window.  I did see trumpeter swans thanks to Dave, something most of the others missed.  Time to start planning for next year.  Dave and I discussed possibly going to bicycle in Greece, but time will tell if that happens or something else happens.  Now, home to sleep and recover.  I have officially been awake over 24 hours.  It will be good to dream.