The Great Hot North, part 2

Cyclists are prone to wedging themselves into groups. I am not immune to this tendency, this need to define myself as a cyclist. Am I a mountain biker? Well, not entirely; I ride a lot of pavement. Am I a snow biker? Only in the winter, and even then, only part of the time. Am I a bike commuter? No; I do use my bike frequently to do errands. When I had a job, I rode it occasionally to work; but I still own a car, and I don't make a lifestyle out of commuting. Am I an endurance racer? No; I enter races because they make for fun rides, and train for them because I like to ride, but I haven't been in structured training since I stumbled off the Great Divide nearly a year ago. So what am I? I am a cyclist. This I know.

I often refer to myself as a "bicycle tourist." To me, this means I travel around on my bicycle. Sometimes I travel overnight, sometimes I travel long distances in a day, and sometimes I travel short distances to somewhere completely new to me. I prefer places off the beaten path, places I generally know very little about beforehand, places remote and rugged that require a mountain bike or its even burlier cousin, the snow bike. I like to define myself as a "bike explorer," even if I am only discovering things for myself.


So when I am visiting a new city, like Fairbanks, I like to sniff out unique and therefore interesting routes. This is a strange practice, because all of the biking in Fairbanks is new to me. There are tons of great established singletrack trails here. I have even dabbled in some of them during my short time here (Skarland Ski Trail, Secret Trail, and the UAF trail system.) But when I am alone and have a few quality afternoon hours to spend exploring, I like to set out toward something like the Circle-Fairbanks Trail. It's an old Athabaskan overland route to the Yukon River. I learned of its existence while scanning the Alaska gazetteer before my trip north. It is listed as a "hiking trail, unmaintained." It runs many dozens of miles partially parallel to the Steese Highway. Is it marked? I don't know! Is it still a distinguishable trail? I don't know! Is it overgrown? Boggy? Bikeable at all? I don't know! Let's go find out!

I started at Cleary Summit on the Steese Highway because I learned online that there was an access point near there. I try not to make a habit out of too much online research beforehand, lest it kill the surprises. But I admit I found and downloaded a partial GPS track before I set out. After all, I'm in the far north, and it's remote out here! I don't want to get totally lost. I climbed to the Skiland ski area and rumbled down the steep tundra of a ski slope (brutal on a rigid bike, believe me) before connecting with the trail. For miles I followed a smooth ribbon of doubletrack as it rippled over hills and through charred black spruce forests. Thunderstorms rumbled from the east and I couldn't stop grinning, because this wasn't just bikeable - it was great biking.

Unfortunately, many four-wheelers discovered this trail before I did and ripped it to shreds. The surface went from rough to rougher, and on the swift downhills it was all I could do to keep the rigid, rattling Karate Monkey rubber-side-down. Meanwhile, the thunderstorms crept ever closer and I couldn't help but fret about what a nightmare the trail must become when the dirt turns to mud. I had already bogged down in several low spots, and I knew if it rained too much, I'd be walking. I kept glancing into the tundra for possible bailout points, but there were none. So I let off the brakes and took the horrible beating that was a full-charge descent, knowing that hands and arms will eventually recover from numbness, but the horror of mud slogs lasts forever.

The trail came to a T; the right turn led to more Fairbanks-Circle discovery, the left veered toward the highway and its merciful pavement. The right turn was tempting but I wasn't about to tempt the weather. I turned left, found the highway, and powered the last six miles and 1,400 vertical feet up the road shoulder. The sky opened up just as I arrived at my car. I took a picture to document my satisfaction at my own impeccable timing.

Who knows? The Circle-Fairbanks Trail may be a great spot for a multiday bicycle tour. Or, as the new wave of bike explorers like to call it, "bikepacking." I may never know, but it was fun to discover a small piece of it. John and I went for a short singletrack ride in the evening. Fairbanks trails are rooty and my hands have just about had it with the rigid fork (I finally broke down and took my leaking Reba shock in to be serviced. No new mountain bike for me this year, but hopefully I can bring my Karate Monkey back to a more tolerable level.) We passed by the UAF muskox farm and spotted a day-old, newborn caribou calf. Isn't it cute? I love being a bike explorer.

The Great Hot North

I am in Fairbanks for a brief biking and lounging trip. I was hoping to do a three-day combo dirt/pavement bikepacking trip, but other obligations require that I stay within cell phone range. I decided to come up to Fairbanks anyway to visit some friends and check out the riding around town. My friends think it's a funny destination. "No one in Anchorage comes up to Fairbanks to ride bikes," they told me. It's true that Fairbanks has large, rolling hills instead of craggy mountains, and it's either dusty or boggy with great black clouds of mosquitoes. But then thunderstorms roll in from the south and fill the expansive sky with color, and the rich green birch leaves flutter in the breeze, and the hills roll toward the remote and wild horizons of Alaska's deep Interior. It's a beautiful place. It reminds me of my time riding the Great Divide through southern Montana. I like it here.

The first night I arrived in town, my friend and I sat near the deck chatting away for hours. The sun drifted lazily toward the horizon, casting streaks of bronze light over the tree branches in the yard. A bright sort of twilight followed and then, in an unnoticed span of time that felt like an instant, the hints of light returned. I glanced at the clock. It was well after 2 a.m. Night is a vague dream here, a nearly forgotten place, somewhere far away. It's summer in the North.

On Wednesday I headed out for what was to be a "short" afternoon ride. The temperature was well over 70 degrees, climbing toward 80. I wiped a layer of sweat from my forehead and smiled at the dramatic climate of this place. The last time I visited Fairbanks, it dropped to 25 below zero F, more than 100 degrees colder. That was only two months ago.

I coasted down the long hill from my friend's house and found the trail marker for the Equinox Marathon, a trail marathon that's held every year in the beginning of autumn. I followed the root-clogged doubletrack as it began to climb steeply up the Ester Dome, a deceivingly large "hill" that actually rises nearly 2,000 feet above town. I reached the rounded crest and noticed the rough jeep road dropped down the other side of the dome. I wondered if it connected to the developed road I could see in the far distance. I bounced and swerved down the loose, heavily eroded track, losing an enormous amount of elevation but hoping the road somehow went through to Goldstream Creek, which I envisioned myself crossing in a rush of cold, waist-deep water before reconnecting with the road on the other side. Instead the jeep road dead-ended a ways back from the creek. I pedaled over the berm and began to follow an ever-so-faint hint of singletrack that wended through the trees. The ground was carpeted in dry leaves and strewn with deadfall. After hopping over a minefield of dead birch trees and creeping around alder tangles, I knew that whatever I was following was nothing like a trail, at least not any kind of a summer trail. Still, it was exciting, riding my bike through the woods, letting my GPS make a digital bread-crumb trail to follow back as I pressed deeper and deeper into "uncharted" wilderness. I felt like a biking explorer. I held onto the dream of making my ride a loop for quite a while. But the woods thickened and the ground became more mushy and I was doing a lot more walking than riding. GPS showed that rather than cutting a straight line toward the creek, I had made a big, meandering S back toward Ester Dome. So I surrendered to the out-and-back, and turned to face the looming climb in front of me.

It was a rugged beast of a climb, much steeper and harder than the marathon side of the dome. I sweated and wheezed and really felt like I was somewhere back on the Great Divide, somewhere hot, dusty and difficult, and nowhere near cell phone range. I reached the peak and rocketed down the other side, because I was already running late for the "real" ride that I planned to do with my friend, an evening singletrack ride along a ridge above town. By the time I returned home, my face and arms were crusted in salt, my three-liter Camelback bladder was empty, my GPS had recorded 4,500 feet of climbing over 34 miles, and the sun was still hot and high on the horizon for the two hours of strenuous singletrack biking in front of me. It's manic time. It's summer in the North.

Weekend Olympics

Voluntary unemployment is both a blessing and a curse. The blessing is that you never have to work. The curse is that you always have to work. I spent the hours of 12:45 a.m. to 3:30 a.m. Saturday morning working on an article that was due "Saturday morning" because I managed to burn up the entire day Friday organizing belongings, chatting on the phone, and then going on a hike. Then, when my roommate asked me if I wanted to go see "Alice in Wonderland," I thought, really, why not? On my desk, I have a list of "actual assignments" followed by "definite goals" followed by "maybe projects" and the whole thing keeps getting longer. Meanwhile the weekend comes, and everyone is going out to play, and I feel so much guilt about joining them.

The Friday hike: I slogged through slushy snow and soft tundra up the Rabbit Lake valley and then climbed up to Ptarmigan Pass. After looking at the map, I had wondered if Ptarmigan Peak (ahead) was climbable as a solo hiker in May. Ha! Once I reached the base, my knees got weak just looking at those super-steep, rock-lined snow slopes. But that pass was a beautiful spot to stop and have lunch, and contemplate life, and avoid writing my article.

Saturday morning I had tentatively planned to get as many of my preferred eight hours of sleep as I could post-4 a.m. and then buckle down and work on another "actual assignment." Instead, I received an 8:45 a.m. call from my friend, Brij, telling me about a plan he had to ride to Chickaloon for the annual "Chickaloon Olympics." (Um, yeah, Chickaloon is about 80 miles from Anchorage, and my knees were still burning after two days of long snow slogs.) Still, how can you turn down an event called the Chickaloon Olympics?

Because of the aforementioned snow slog pains and lack of sleep, and because my touring bike is currently falling apart again (yeah, one brake lever is broken) and because the two other women on the ride are actual Ironwomen with real road bikes who I figured would push the pace to something quite fast, I agreed to ride as far as Palmer (50 miles), where a friend was going to meet me and drive the rest of the way to Chickaloon. Turns out the ride was pretty mellow and quite enjoyable, right until the end, after I got a flat and only pumped my rear tire up to about 45 psi and we were running late and the girls threw down the hammer. Still, I shoulda just done the whole 80 miles. In my defense, the Ironwomen also stopped in Palmer and traded vehicles with a man who joined Brij for the rest of the ride.

The Chickaloon Olympics started off on a fine note, with everyone trying Megan's specialty, chocolate covered bacon on a stick. (Verdict: Gross.)

The Chickaloon Olympic events were very competitive and traditional, such as the "Ax Toss," where the gold medal went to a small woman who managed to stick all three throws, much to the chagrin of the many big males at the 2010 Games.

There was the "Partner Carry," adapted from the popular Alaska pastime, the "Wife Carry."

But the Chickaloon Olympics are a progressive event, and all manner of partners are encouraged.

Then there was the "Jandle Race," four people strapped to a board.

The Olympic Village, up on a bluff overlooking a 360-degree view of two huge mountains and a lake. And this is actual private property, owned by young professionals who live in Anchorage. Makes one wonder if being gainfully unemployed and transient is really the best way to go.

Brij won his own medal for being the only person to ride the whole distance to Chickaloon the day of the event. Two limes on a string. I wonder if they are supposed to represent anything?

Sunday I joined up with another group of cyclists for mountain biking in the Mat-Su Valley. The trails were dusty and dry, but well-built and fun. I don't love trail system mountain biking (I really like the purposeful feeling of "going somewhere" rather than pedaling around a series of small loops.) But I'm really hoping to do a lot more riding like this during the summer as I prepare for Trans Rockies. My technical skills could use a lot of work. But for now, I can still blame my former location ("We don't even have singletrack in Juneau," which is mostly true) and my high-mileage rigid mountain bike, which is falling apart in many of its own ways. (Are you sensing a theme here? I need new bikes but I'm unemployed. Boo.)

It was a completely unproductive weekend, and I wouldn't have it any other way.