 THE MIDNIGHT SUN: 3 July – 16 August 2004
Overview:
This is the dream within the dream — the great adventure. The names and places take on an almost romantic mystique: The Icefields Parkway, the Yukon Territory, and the Signpost Forest. The remote beauty of the Alaska Highway is carefully noted, along with the hundred miles of cold rain on Alaska's Glenn Highway and the fresh patches of snow in Montana's Beartooth Pass. The vivid colors of Oregon's Crater Lake, the muted tones of Alaska's Denali National Park, and the sunlit drops of water from irrigation sprinklers near Moab, Utah occupy small portions of this huge canvas. Readers will encounter the small man who pointed out the house of the black witches in White Sulphur Springs, Montana, the ER nurse in Fort St. John, BC who affixed a temporary tattoo to the author's arm, and the Christian Motorcyclist who shared the ride to Fairbanks. The author shares his exhilaration when riding through the Canadian Rockies on a perfect afternoon and the profound sadness in an Anchorage motel upon hearing of his mother's death. It is a story of how life goes on — even during the journey of a lifetime.
Excerpt from The Midnight Sun
July 18, 2004: It's obvious that the fires continue to burn by the thin film of ash that I have to wipe from my bike when I step outside. Another guest, an older man, approaches and asks where I'm headed and where I've been in Alaska. Before I can tell him much he begins to tell me all about his travels. He's been further, faster and longer. He recites a list of places I should visit which is, in reality, a list of everywhere he's been — it has nothing to do with me. His German accent reminds me of Colonel Klink from the old TV show. He follows me to the office, going on about Seward, or perhaps San Francisco. I'm not interested — all I want is some coffee before I hit the road. I need to ride the 125 miles to Denali before 9:30 AM, half an hour before my tour starts.
I head toward Denali in a hurry — there's nothing like an obnoxious crone to force me into highway mode. I really have no time to sightsee this morning; I'll do that when I ride down this same road to Anchorage. Today is just a quick dash to the park. I arrive with plenty of time to spare — like I always do when I leave too early and travel too fast — and I spend the next half hour hanging around the staging area wishing I'd slowed down. The earlier tour is just leaving and the area is awash with impatient people. The other tours depart, our busses arrive and the boarding process begins. I move to the back of the bus and get a window seat. A guy in the far back is making very sure that everyone hears his every thought. He continuously calls out questions to the driver, who is too busy to answer most of them. I hear him tell another passenger that he rides bicycles, and that all bicycle riders have nicknames for each other. He gives a couple of examples that I don't hear because I'm coming up with my own for him: Rectal Unit or Unit for short.
An older lady sits down next to me and we introduce ourselves. Her name is Carol. I laugh, my wife won't be with me, but now her name will be. She is from Florida and tells me that her daughter and son-in-law are taking her on a tour of Alaska. I get a suspicion that The Unit is her son-in-law and vow to remain silent on all things Unit.
The bus begins its near 70 mile trek into the park. In the native Athabascan language Denali means “High One.” The name refers to the highest peak in the Alaska Range but the name was appropriated by the park that surrounds it. It's remarkable how such a hard land can look so soft. I cannot take my eyes from the landscape; the browns and greens of the mountains hypnotize you with their muted splendor. I never thought about anyone meditating through the window of a moving bus but I'm in the midst of a group of tourists doing just that. All around me are expressions of quiet awe.
Private vehicles are rarely permitted into the areas that we see through the bus windows, but backpackers are. The buses will also shuttle them between camping areas if they have room. At one such area we pick up a lady that wants a ride to the next campground in the worst way. It seems that a grizzly bear has been nosing around and she wants out before it comes back. She boards the bus and not more than 5 minutes down the road we see the bear next to a stream.
It is magnificent, especially when viewed from the safety of a large bus. The sun shining off its golden summer coat makes it look like an enormous figurine. These giant animals are powerfully graceful in the way they roll and walk at the same time. The incredible force pent up in each motion is evident, and so is the confidence with which they roam the land. They know it is their neighborhood. Later on we all watch another grizzly run full speed down a very steep slope. It is an awesome display by an animal perfectly suited for the task.
The road is cut from mountainsides and is extremely narrow in places. The cliff outside my window is long and steep and at times we seem dangerously close to the edge. I hear some one say that there is nothing to do if it is “my day.” I want to tell them that I really don't care if it is their day or not, that what concerns me is whether or not it is the driver's day. The driver, besides negotiating the road, is also the tour guide and he keeps up a fairly high level of commentary while watching for wildlife. His is not a simple job and he handles it well. I take lots of pictures of scenery but am content to watch the wildlife as my zoom lens will not get me close enough to them to get a decent picture. I am impressed by the cameras that some of the other people have. They have lenses the size of Louisville Sluggers that bring the farthest sheep into clear, sharp focus.
I see caribou running in meadows and standing on the tops of hills silhouetted against the sun, Dall Sheep standing on mountainsides in what appears to be defiance of gravity, and at times parts of the face of Denali itself, Mt. McKinley. Someone says that the mountain was named after McKinley in 1896 while he was still running for President. I wonder, had McKinley lost, would the mountain be named after William Jennings Bryan today? Still, presidents and wildlife aside, my main focus remains on the land itself. I've never seen anything so vast. It would be an affront to God himself to allow unlimited vehicle traffic into this area. Despite the unbelievable beauty, the trip is about two hours too long. During the first six hours I can see everyone looking through the bus windows and walking about the rest stops in rapt attention and wonder; but, in the final two hours restlessness begins to descend over the entire group. I would love to have access to one of those old pneumatic tubes that, upon entry, would deposit me at the Visitor's Center. I think everyone would like to be back, everyone except The Unit. He announces that he wants to see a beaver. I see a few people roll their eyes while others snicker. I look out the window, suppressing an absolutely evil response.
There is another biker on the bus. He's wearing the CMA colors and I ask him if he knows Steve from Dawson Creek. He doesn't — he's from upstate New York and isn't familiar with the local chapters. I had no idea that the organization was that large. He introduces himself as “Boonie” and says that he spent the previous night camped out at Denali and that he's headed to Fairbanks when the tour is over. I tell him that I know a decent motel there and we agree to ride together. At the tour's conclusion we meet in the parking lot in front of the Visitor's Center and head north on the Parks Highway into a bright, warm evening. We arrive in Fairbanks in the bright sunshine, and after stopping at the motel we end up having dinner at a restaurant on a boardwalk on the banks of the Chena River. Boats arrive and depart at a dock and water skiers cut through the water. It is sunny and warm, and most of the tables are full. It is also 10:30 PM at night! Boonie describes his evening in a motel in Saskatchewan when a lady asked him if he'd like her to come to his room later (a fee was implied). His classic reply was “Not unless you know how to play cards.” What a perfect answer. He has a wife at home and we both talk of how we miss our homes, yet at the same time love being on the road. I feel that I've met someone like myself, someone that lives in the contradiction of needing company for their soul while at the same time being moved to be alone in order to satisfy another part of that same soul. I ask him about CMA and he says that it is just a group of people who love God and love motorcycles. He mentions that he should have brought along some tracts to give out on his trip. I tell him that there really is no need, that he himself is a tract. He is genuinely appreciative. So am I.
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