News from the Tent in Alaska
(published in Motorcycle Tour and Travel Magazine, Nov. 1996, p. 35	

	I am writing this installment of my bimonthly column from a damp tent 
pitched in the West Fork Campground off the gravel Taylor Highway about 
seventeen miles outside of Chicken, Alaska.  It is close to ten p.m. and the
flat cold light inside the tent is bright enough to forget the flashlights for
yet another night in the land of the midnight sun.  Somehow I have managed to
keep my laptop computer dust, grime and moisture free in the two weeks that I've
been on the road. So tonight  the deadline has pushed me to action.   Alaska.
Here we are. 
	What's happening out here?  On the road to Eagle today we stopped to help a
retired couple from Tennessee who had a flat tire on their RV.  They had the
repair down cold but couldn't heave the flat up on the roof.   We have not met
too many motorcyclists in the two weeks that we have been on the road, but did
make a connection with Christian from Hamburg who shipped his 750 Honda African
Twin to San Francisco and has explored the west coast before coming up to the
Yukon and the Northwest Territories.  He works on a barge in Hamburg where he
runs a dredge.  Now he's sleeping in a tent every night and living with this
weather.  He saved for a long time to take off the five months he's chewing up
on the road.  I think about him and what it must take to keep going on a night
like this where the wet and cold is ever present and the grime of the road has
worked its way inside your inner machine.  I have not been able to get a shower
for two days now, and there isn't even any water here at the campground.   The
facilities here are two pit toilets, period.  
	Big experiences for me so far have been the size of the prairies in Manitoba
and the sun that never sets.  My big BMW stopped burning any oil at all at the
10,000 mile mark.  At home in Maine we have one solitary mountain called
Katahdin that people have literally worshiped for centuries.  When I rode over
the Dempster Highway from the Yukon to the Northwest Territories I saw hundreds
of mountain ranges of Katahdins.  On my first morning on the Alcan Highway I saw
three moose, one black bear, two wolves, six caribou, and countless sheep.  The
motorcycle is a friendliness magnet for many folks.  People come right up and
start talking- grandmothers on  bus tours, native American kids, it's an instant
two-wheeled all ages show.  I really like cooking what I want on my little
single burner stove.   	
	Every day on this trip I think about my friend Mike who put aside two and a
half months this June through August to ride his motorcycle around the US.  Mike
was riding solo with a plan to visit national park sites.  His business was
solid and successful, and he was able to leave the operation in the hands of a
good manager.  Just  before I left  Maine I was floored to hear that Mike only
lasted nine days on the road before he came home.     I heard he hit a lot of
rain, that there was some illness of family members at home, maybe some
loneliness and the big trip was over.  I got frightened with the thought what if
it happens to me?   What if the riding gets to take on the life of a drone bee,
endlessly buzzing with no joy, no spark?   I faced the fear that it might not be
so much fun some days. 
	 There have been some bad days.  One rainy night I dumped my motorcycle
after I hit a pile of gravel that had been left in the road .  I broke off a
mirror, bent the handlebars, and walked away intact but shaken. Riding suits
with body armor work.   Another day we ran into fourteen miles of wet calcium
chloride.  Our legs, saddlebags, exhaust system and duffel bags were encrusted
in caustic wet thick goop that we had to live with for two days.    Ten dollars
of power washing helped somewhat.  Riding on gravel in the rain gets dicey.  Not
only living with the squirrely feeling of ball bearings under your tires, but
the endless spit of grit that works it way into your gear and under your nails. 
	So I have a found a routine that gets set up just like in the other life I
lead.  Only out here I don't wear a watch.  Mine broke just before I left on
this trip and I decided it was a sign not to replace it.   So some mornings I
get started at four thirty, on others its almost ten.  Boil water for tea, break
camp, lash and squeeze,  check the tires for nails, cuts and the right pressure.
  Hope there's no rain.  Press the starter and hear the hum.   Four more weeks
on the road.  I hope.