GOLD RUSH CENTENNIAL: EXPLORING THE MYSTERY AND THE DREAM BY MOTORCYCLE (published Motorcycle Tour and Travel magazine, Jan, '97, pp 42-45) Where was the much ballyhooed rain? Here I was over 5,000 miles from home, smack dab in the middle of the loneliest road in North America. I was wearing a bandana over my mouth and my eyes were hurting from the dry, choking dust. There's nothing coming in on the FM radio, and hasn't been for days. I was in the bush, above the Arctic Circle heading toward Inuvik, Northwest Territories. I just saw the first grizzly bear of my life, massive and preoccupied, gorging on berries and twigs on the side of the road. I inched past the beast, hand poised to gun the throttle on my BMW R1100GS. Yeah, I was tired, dirty, thirsty, but I was smiling underneath my cloth wet cloth face mask. Nine days down, plenty to go. I was on the motorcycle trip of my lifetime. One big open space of time and highway ahead of me.. On August 17, 1896 an event occurred southwest of this area that went on to grip the world. A wizened prospector named George Carmack posted a claim. Within three weeks all 120 miles of Rabbit Creek and its tributaries were staked with 500 foot long claims. The streams that year yielded $30 million in gold, worth over a billion dollars today. The prospectors' efforts resulted in over 100 men reaching San Franciso and Seattle a short time later each carrying gold then worth $24,000 to $140,000. Headlines of "A Ton of Gold!", appearing amidst a worldwide depression, sparking over 100,000 Americans and Europeans to leave their homes to head off to the Yukon in search of their fame and fortune. I was headed up to do my share to celebrate the Centennial of the discovery of gold in the Yukon. The 10,000 or so that survived the icy trails north to the Dawson City took many months, and in some cases years, to reach their destination. One hundred years later, I reached the the Yukon six days after leaving my home in mid coast Maine. My traveling buddy was Alan McKinnon on his BMW R80 RT. We caught the TransCanadian Highway around Montreal and just rolled the throttles west. After passing quickly over familiar territory we moved through the Great Lakes area where I learned on the radio that there were over 200 separate forest fires burning out of control. I pumped the ABS system on my motorcycle several times, staying clear of any whitetail deer that had leapt into my path. In the beginning of the trip, my anxieties focused on things might go wrong. Would my new boots leak? Is my shock adjusted properly for this road? Shouldn't I put my rain suit on right now? As time passed, there were enough real problems encountered that I didn't sweat the small stuff. My companion on the trip was a walkman radio/tape player mounted to my handlebars and wired to Bass Monster helmet speakers. The dust and grit of the road soon rendered my tape player useless, but I continued to enjoy the FM radio, generally alternating between Canadian public radio and "Hot Country" stations that I had shunned with a passion before this trip. I carried two one gallon gas cans that I never needed. Strapped to my bike were a fresh rear and used front tire, for back country emergencies. Hot tip- spare motorcycle tires are excellent storage systems for canned food. We were able to relieve the saddlebags mounts of much weight when we learned this trick. One night the late sunset on the wide open plains of Manitoba allowed us to ride 770 miles before battling the mosquitoes for tent space. The same wide open grasslands in Saskatchewan combined with driving wind and torrential rain to give us a 550 mile day of wrestling the handlebars to keep the motorcycles on course. It was impossible to leave the bikes unattended on the side stands, as the wind was pushing them over. Even worse, the radio warned of possible snow in Alberta. My confidence grew after an upright traverse of the long metal grate bridge north of Dawson Creek. I was the happiest man in Fort Nelson when I was able to order a lunchtime plate of my favorite food- pirogis, Polish dumplings filled with cheese and potatoes. We tented every night on this trip, and we definitely in the minority. The campgrounds were occupied by 95 percent RV's, with tenters a tiny minority. At Dawson Creek we departed the chip- sealed pavement of the Alkan when we hung a right on the 360 mile Campbell Highway. There was a dramatic decrease in traffic compared. We saw more sheep than vehicles. Two hundred and twenty-five miles later we found seventy-nine cents a liter gas at the settlement of Ross river. The town was largely made up of Kaskan Indians. Services minimal. Probably the best quote of the trip came from a Native kid of about twelve there who first asked me how fast I had gone on my motorcycle. After I told him a little over 100 he smiled and said "If it was me, I'd run her all of the way out". The glint in his eye made me believe he could do it. I crashed on the Dempster, a 450 mile gravel road linking the southern Yukon communities with Inuvik on the Mackenzie River delta. It cuts through spectacular mountains, broad plains and tundra before ending 90 miles below the Arctic Ocean. Accidents are said to be caused caused by multiple mistakes rather than single errors. In my case, I was lulled into traveling late into the evening due to the effects of the sun never setting. Why stop if the sun was still way above the horizon? Then it had started to rain and the visibility was poor due to the collective effects of dust, rain, and several scratches on my aged face shield. I had been following Alan at about 50 mph when my motorcycle went into a violent front end shake. I was not able to hold the handlebars firmly enough to prevent the motorcycle being thrown backwards and then down on the left side. Hard. My head was ringing, and I was in shock as I looked around in disbelief as my tank bag, left saddlebag, spare tires and duffels were strewn all over the gravel road. After realizing that I was not in his rear view mirrors, Alan returned and picked up the motorcycle and gear. He started up the bike and I was able to test drive it. It had a broken mirror, cylinder protector, and saddlebag mount. We tracked back on the road and saw a fair-sized pile of gravel in the road that I had not seen that started the tank slapper. We both pulled on the bent handlebar with all of our strength and straightened it enough so I was able to motor on to the campsite and service station at Eagle Plains (The Oasis in the Wilderness"). The next morning I borrowed a long heavy pipe and with the help of two other people took a risk and bent the handlebar back close to the original position. It had to be good enough until we reached a motorcycle shop later in the trip. There was a long line of assorted four-wheeled vehicles at the service station waiting their turn to have their flat tires repaired. Many folks experienced flats on the Dempster. The surface of the gravel road was sometimes composed of small sharp rocks. Certain tread patterns were prone to grip one of the shards until it was pounded through the tire. By carrying extra tires and the most complete flat repair kit known to modern motorcycling, we warded off flats. But one motorcyclist was stranded at Eagle Plains for several days awaiting shipment of a new tire. There's not much to do there to pass the time except swat mosquitos and hang out at the garage. We settled in for a couple of days when we reached the end of the Dempster Highway at Inuvik. We stayed at the campground in town and enjoyed the running water and hot showers. Inuvik is built entirely on permafrost, with the buildings on pilings instead of foundations. We learned that the enclosed elevated metal culverts running through town that were connecting the buildings held water and sewage pipes that were heated in the wintertime. Inuvik sits in the Mackenzie Delta. We wanted to reach the shores of the Arctic Ocean, 90 miles north. I highly recommend booking a flight on a Piper twin for the flight out to the Inuit settlement of Tuktoyatuk on the Arctic Coast. The tundra still bears the scars of seismic crews from the '40's and '50's that were charting oil deposits. Abandoned offshore platforms lie abandoned after it was determined that the oil was too expensive to get at. The wells were capped and the money moved away. The 920 citizens of 'Tuk still hunt whales for food. There was snow and ice on the shoreline. We were there too early to witness the processing of whale meat and oil, which is done on the shoreline and involves rendering the blubber in 45 gallon oil drums. Whales are hunted in 18 foot aluminum boats with 70 horsepower outboards and are taken with guns and handheld harpoons. Our native tour guide, Frank Podiak, later pointed out to us the small building that led to a natural community freezer, comprised of 19 eight by ten rooms carved out thirty feet below. Frank said that Tuk was home to one of the more bizarre cross-cultural events of the century last summer, when a major Canadian brewery sponsored a rock concert in Tuk that featured Metallica and Hole. We departed Inuvik to head back south on the Dempster. On our return trip we saw a black bear and then a grizzly feeding on the side of the road. Under the rough conditions, my new daily goal was reduced to not falling down off my motorcycle. I was tested to the limit when we ran into twelve slippery miles of freshly applied wet calcium chloride. The brown sticky slime coated the lower half of our legs and motorcycles. It baked onto the header pipes and formed unsightly blisters that were difficult to remove. We had to live with the thick slime for two days until we reached a power washer. Dawson City has passed through several phases. In 1898, gold fever resulted in a population of over 30,000, making it the largest Canadian city west of Winnipeg. Five years later, it was close to a ghost town, as the masses rushed to Nome with the hopes of cashing in on the strike there. It was in dilapidated shape until the 1960's when the Canadian government began the process of rebuilding and refurbishing. The streets are gravel and sidewalks are planked. The atmosphere is frontier. Dawson is small enough to walk around in and explore in a few hours. I'd recommend setting aside at least a couple of days to poke around. Begin by viewing the excellent displays and historical films in the Dawson City museum. It will help put you choices into perspective. Drive out fifteen miles on the gravel Bonanza Creek Road past endless piles of mining tailings and visit the site of the original discovery claim. We camped across the Yukon River at the government campground. It is just a short walk from the campground to the free ferry that takes you across to Dawson City. In the spirit of prospecting, there was a squatters' village all along the woods bordering the government campground. Dawson appears to be a big draw for young people, who often are able to get summer jobs in the many tourist-oriented establishments that make up the town. I was surprised at how reasonable the costs were for food in town. We had an excellent breakfast at Klondike Kate's that cost $4 CDN. Even if you don't end up gambling, take in Diamond Tooth Gertie's Casino. The place is packed with slot machines, blackjack, roulette, red dog, poker and can-can shows. I won over $30 on the slot machines, enough to pay for a couple of tanks of expensive backwoods gasoline up the road a piece. The landscape of the Yukon is magnificently grandiose, and never copied anywhere else in the vastness of all that is Canada. As you pass on, your rear view mirrors are either filled with subarctic tundra or towering mountains. For me, it was the chance to complete my two-wheeled exploration of all of the provinces and territories north of the United States. I think I saved the best for last.