Alaska

Text: Christian Neuhauser • Photography: Christian Neuhauser

Tired, I stumbled into the airplane. Heading for Seattle on a BMW K 1200 GT, I had left Spokane at five o'clock in the morning. Four hours later, I spotted the city skyline, made for the airport and eventually fell into my seat totally worn out. Only a buzz of excitement about seeing Alaska could keep me awake. Our Boeing takes off. Seattle, the ocean and the many islands disappear behind a white curtain of cloud. And in a sense, so did I. The next thing I know, a flight attendant announces our landing in Anchorage. I had slept the entire flight.

What's going on in the lower forty-eight?" Phil Freeman asks, welcoming me to Alaska. "I don't know," I say. "I've been scouring the roads in Oregon and Washington for the last three weeks, so I wouldn't have a clue about the other 46."

This first night I'm on my own. I will be exploring Alaska with Phil and a group of riders. But I don't have to look very far for company and a good time. Gwennie's, a nice restaurant and bar, is right across from the Days Inn, and it's just the spot for the locals and lonesome tourists to meet. At the bar, Joe, a local Harley rider, tells me about his three years in Australia and New Zealand and how much he'd like to return. He's definitely a character and I enjoy exterminating a few tankards of beer with him before walking back to the hotel. No problem finding the way - it is still light out at 2:30 a.m.

The next day I pick up my boon companion for the days that follow, a Kawasaki KLR 650. Phil tells me a bit about the surrounding areas and gives me directions to Girdwood, where we're scheduled to meet the other riders in the evening. Then, I'm off to familiarize myself with the Kawi while exploring Anchorage and nearby back roads. The weather is dreary, overcast. Now and then, sprinkles fall from the deep gray folds of hanging clouds. Discovering some gravel roads, I soon gain experience with Alaskan drivers and have to hone my avoidance techniques when a number of cars and trucks, wildly careening and spraying grit along the route, attempt to cut me off. It doesn't take long for me to get my fill of their behavior - and the rocks, dirt and mud - before turning and burning my way to Girdwood.

That evening, I meet up with my riding buddies, the other members of our northern expedition. Bill and Ed, from Bloomfield, Michigan, are all about Harleys back home, a fact that I might have deduced from Bill's footwear. He's wearing Timberland boots and white socks. All in good fun, breaking the ice, I ask him when highly visible, "whiter than white" socks had become mandatory safety gear for riders in Michigan. He laughs. Dave from Mary-ville, TN, and Johnny from Abingdon, VA, live closer to my base in Clemmons, NC, and being so far away, it sounds good, like home, whenever they drawl a y'all (as in "How y'all doing?") in conversations. Last on the list, but not least, the international rep in the group is Nigel, from England. But he is quick to correct that territorial impression. "I'm from Wales and I live in Scotland. I only work in England," he emphasizes.

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For the complete touring article, including facts & information, map(s), and GPS files, please purchase the January/February 2005 back issue.