The road that didn't bark

I stopped again at the overlook, feeling that something was out of place. I was at around mile 80 (130km) for the day, well past the last water available at the Slana ranger station, and still 45 miles from the finish at the Gakona Lodge. The 5000 meter peak of Mt Sanford was in the distance, the foothills of the Wrangell Volcanic Field wrapped in cloudbursts. On the long climb out of the Slana valley I’d considered packing away the long-sleeved jersey, it was sunnier and warmer than any previous day in Alaska that summer, but still frigid compared to what the rest of the continent was experiencing. I was on the long road between Tok and Gakona, a 200km stretch that during the summers was choked with traffic to and from Canadian border, long lines of cars, RVs and semi trucks.

Nothing. I hadn’t seen a single vehicle, house or person for ages. 

It’s difficult to describe something that isn’t there, that defines the space by its absence. Summer Brennan is one of the few who can. She recently wrote, “I went to have a citron pressé down by the river, and saw that two of the big quay trees, poplars that were downed in the recent storms, had been chopped up and stacked, ready for removal. In their place was the bright shock of empty air, a nothing where once a whole moving world had amassed, of shadows and birds and scrambled light. I felt an affinity for that space, where a tree’s branches had swayed for half a century but now were gone. I thought, I am like that air, shimmering with lack.”

The traffic was more or less missing. Like some 28-days later horror movie, the silence was welcome but unnerving, I kept feeling there were cars I wasn’t hearing and I kept looking over my shoulder for no reason, or at least no effect. I was supposed to be good at looking for things that were missing, not just like the Sherlock Holmes story about the dog that wasn't barking, but I've written about the concept of dark reports for national security- tracing what was missing from risk assessments and scientific discussions, tracking down why the data weren't there and what the consequences could be.

I was happy not to fight for room on the road, but the silence just highlighted the pandemic to me, of everything and everyone that had been lost. Everyone was trying to ignore it now, pretend that Covid didn't exist, everything back to normal in the interior with no masks and no distancing (also alarming- most of the people in such regions weren't vaccinated). Except it wasn't the same. Shops and restaurants were closed, time had halted. And only Alaskans were driving.

For a road cyclist, however much we are frustrated with and worried about traffic, it largely defines our experience. Riding bikes in Pristina was a 12-dimensional game of awareness and avoidance, the countryside shifted in summers when the diaspora Schätzi took to the roads in overpowered German cars. When riding on highways we always kept an ear attuned to what was behind us, even during races one looked out for the pace and team cars. But here, on an arterial road, there was nothing. Our one support car had gone ahead to Gakona for the day, I was alone, hours from the finish under a bright sun, three bottles of water left on a single, winding ribbon of asphalt. And with the border still shut from the pandemic, there was little reason for anyone to be in Tok, or trying to get there. 

It was difficult to explain to people what we had been doing there, either. On the previous morning three of us had left the Gakona Lodge at 6am in the cold and rain, intent on riding the Richardson Highway north through the Alaska Range to Delta Junction. This ride was one of my goals for the year, perhaps even for two years, having been robbed of most long-distance cycling because of the coronavirus pandemic. 2020 was also notable for lack in that way, as after years of racking up 10,000km years, the longest ride I did last year was 80 miles while never leaving municipal Anchorage. My longing for something more than that, to see more of the state, was obvious in my quest for another bike specifically tailored for endurance rides. The new Domane was a sort of commitment, and the 400km ride to Seward at the start of June was the practice ride. The real goal was the Solstice Ride, 600km over two days, from Gakona to Delta Junction to Tok and back to Gakona, a wild triangle through interior Alaska.

The rain didn’t surprise me, but starting a long ride in such conditions is psychologically tough. The two other riders, Veronica and Martin, also clambered into thermal rain gear, our brevet administrator Tom looking on from the porch. I was dressed mostly in British-designed DHB rain kit, from the merino wool socks to waterproof knee warmers, rain jersey and heavy rain jacket. I had wisely packed some Castelli Oomloop thermal shorts and a Sealskinz cap, but had neglected to bring waterproof gloves and had seriously erred in my shoe inserts. While I had rain booties, the arch supports only went 2/3rds of the way forward in the shoe, leaving several air vents open– my socks would be wet within the first half hour. The bike itself was heavily loaded, with plenty of food that I would be too cold to eat, plenty of water that I would have to force myself to drink, and extra gear, dry clothing, rain jacket, lights, batteries, tools, etc that I hoped I would not need. The clothes and extra gear added close to 20lbs (9kg) to my weight, and made bike handling a bit tricky at times, compared to a ‘clean’ racing configuration.

There was a 6% climb right out of the lodge parking lot, a right turn onto the highway, and then a slow climb toward Paxson. The ride seemed sluggish from the start, as in forcing myself to drink only 5km in my gloves slipped and the bottle went flying off into the ditch. I had to stop and spend several minutes finding it, worried that this was some omen about the challenges of cycling in Alaska– where drinkable water was never easy to find. Then catching up with Veronica and Martin, we had to stop for the first of two construction zones. As with many remote and long construction sites they were using pilot cars, where a flag person would stop us and then we would have to wait for a car to guide us through the zone. Being cyclists, this meant loading the bikes onto the pilot car (usually a pickup) and riding in the cab, which was *not* desirable in the rain. The first section we had to wait 20 minutes, shivering in the cold as all we could do was stand in the wind and rain, and then got into a truck where a woman repeatedly asked us if we’d been dropped on our heads as children. The second section, much longer and more dangerous, I came up first to the woman flagging and told her that there were three of us cycling. She looked at me with the blank stare of Marilyn from Northern Exposure, then got onto the radio.

“This is Control 2, I have three cyclists here.” 

She listened to the reply in her headset.

“Yes, on bicycles.”

"..."

“No, I’m not kidding this time.”

That section we definitely needed the escort, plus the female driver warned us about a family of 6 grizzlies that lived near the northern end of the zone. I was happy to get moving again, in the rain a cyclist can keep warm if moving, but when stopped all the heat gets torn out of the body and it becomes hard to build up that heat again. Soon after starting I cursed as we hit a fast downhill, even worse for warming up than standing still– climbs were what I wanted. Tom had leapfrogged us and was waiting at the now-closed Meier’s Lake lodge, then again around mile 53 near the broken-down Paxson lodge. I topped off my water and then knew we were climbing over Isabella Pass, a remote area and we wouldn’t see Tom again until mile 132 (over 200km) in Delta Junction.

The road rose into the Alaska Range, and soon the biome shifted completely. The trees disappeared, lush green covering permafrost but with only sparse, lonely trees along the ridges, huddled as sentinels. The land rolled into lochs along narrow bodies of water, snow still packed at the same elevation as the road, clouds low and the rain unrelenting. The land then opened up into spaces more like Norway than Scotland, the peaks towering above from behind the clouds, the road continuing to wind past aquamarine blue pools of water. My phone was packed away under several layers of clothes, and I could not see that much in any case to take photos. At some point the water began falling to the north instead of the south, and the road gradually descended. I kept up my pace as much as possible, partly to take advantage of the tailwind, but more because the weather promised to be sunny and dry somewhere ahead. The faster I could pedal the sooner I could get there, though for hours it seemed like a cruel joke. My glasses refracted light to blue in my peripheral vision, constantly leading my brain to think there was blue sky somewhere ahead. When I did finally see it, coming out of the mountains near the Black Rapids lodge, I couldn’t quite believe it was real. 

I stopped several times to peel off rain gear as the sun came out and the air warmed, climbed once more past Donnelly Dome, and then an arrow straight road led down to the town of Delta Junction. The wind was howling behind me, pushing me along, but it was also troubling. In the places where there had been a crosswind, the bike had bucked and shifted, and I knew that the second 200km of the day was the road southeast to Tok. Even with a quartering crosswind, that ride would be brutally difficult. 

A 600km ride, meaning 400km the first day and then another 200 the next, was always a worry for me. As I’ve written before, my TBT injury from decades ago has made sleep deprivation a real risk, and all that I’d read about 600Ks from friends like Betty Jean Jordan suggested that sleep was a scarce resource. I kept calculating in my head how long it might take to get to Tok, what my knee (still strained from the Seward ride) felt like, and where that would leave me the next day. The road between Delta Junction and Tok was nothing too special, it was from Tok to Gakona that needed seeing. So while riding past Fort Greeley into town, I decided it was best to abandon the ride that day, catch a ride with Tom to Tok, and live to ride the next day. 

Alaska pipeline outside Delta Junction

Tom was waiting by the large gas station in town. I told him what I had planned, checked that it was ok (actually, Veronica had already asked over breakfast, so this was partly her doing), and went to the Buffalo burger shack down the road. While waiting for food outside in the warm sun, I had the experience that cyclists often crave– that of recognition and amazement from others. One woman approached me with an accusing finger, but then said, “You are the *only* person here... who deserves this!” A group of people there had stayed at the Gakona Lodge the night before, and must have passed us along the road somewhere. They were amazed to see one of the cyclists there so soon, alive, and not visibly suffering. Veronica and Martin passed by not long after, turning the corner toward Tok. I loaded up my bike with Tom, and when catching up with Veronica down the road, she also threw in the towel for the day– Martin kept on.

It was the right decision, it allowed me to get a decent night’s rest in Tok, three meals (lunch, dinner and breakfast) I would have skipped or skimped on had I been riding into the night, and it meant I was more or less ready for the morning.

So there I was past Slana, looking at Mt Sanford on the horizon. Tok to Gakona had been a long and lonely day, often into strong headwinds. Martin and Veronica were already on the road when I left town, and I knew they had a good lead in time and distance. I eventually caught Veronica at mile 100, and we rode into Gakona together the last distance. Martin had somehow gotten lost at Slana (I’m not sure how anyone can get lost on a ride that has literally three right turns) and eventually showed up 30 minutes after us, but having finished the whole 600K. 

For me, this was the Alaska I’d wanted to see. Not just the roads without traffic, but cycling gives a different sense of the world, there are details that one would never see from a car or train. It gives a sense of space and distance, of how remote a place is, and what travel must have been more like in past ages. I was away from email and news and all other stress for days, and there was only the road, the bike, the gear, nothing else. One pedal stroke after another, mile after mile, hour after hour, it’s like a deep form of meditation. (Oh, and this time when Prince’s song Raspberry Beret came into my head, I knew the lyrics.) The ultra distance, however, is not entirely my thing. I know I can do 400km in a day, but to ride it alone is not ideal, and after 100 miles I tend to get bored. Perhaps the ultra riders get a different form of dopamine reaction, but for me 100km (especially full gas through Balkan mountains) is the closest I get to euphoria. 

Besides, as I wrote three years ago, after finishing the Tour des Stations— what else was there after a race like that?

Oh, the recognition, I suppose. Sitting at the bar that night with Veronica, having a group of Harley and Indian riders compliment us meant something, but apparently I can get that just sticking to Rule #9 (“If you are out riding in bad weather, it means you are a badass. Period.”) Plenty of chances for that in Alaska.

Alaska: endurance cycling to Seward

 When bears come out from hibernation in Alaska, they’re usually pretty grumpy. Imagine sleeping and dozing for months, inside a dark space, and emerge to find little food and yet added responsibilities (in the form of bear cubs, perhaps). Not to make a direct analogy, but it’s sort of how I felt after this pandemic winter in Alaska, the difference being that bears lose weight over the winter. 

Cycling had already been difficult last year. All the organized events had been cancelled in Alaska, I lost my daily bike commute to the office, and could no longer go to the gym for spin classes. I still managed to clock in 1000 miles last July, but that came from diligent 30-mile rides inside Anchorage, and once the cold August rains came, even that became too dreary. After all, that 30-mile route is known as the ‘dump run,’ as the landfill is the turn-around point (I became the Strava ‘local legend’ for that dubious segment). So I spent the winter in mostly one room, stressed from work and trying to track political events, and wondered how I would ever get back into shape.

This is April

One saving grace was Eric Maves at One Oak Bikes in Wisconsin  - who had sourced and was building me two bikes. The first was a Trek Checkpoint gravel bike, an aluminum frame with every component chosen specifically for me and riding in Alaska. I’d only ridden gravel once before, during the one organized race last year (which I happened to win, on the 72-mile course), but it seemed a good choice for the backroads and sketchy main roads of this state. That bike arrived in March, though I had to wait until April before the ice had cleared enough to even test it. For early season it was ideal, considering the piles of gravel on all the roads (salt isn’t used in the winter here), mud, dirt, and other hazards of spring cycling. I tested the new Checkpoint in Homer, on the first 100km ride of the year, a sunny but briskly cold day and the first Denali Rando club ride since 2019. I didn’t know the roads around Homer or how well cleared they would be, and figured 62 miles on a gravel bike was doable.

Well, sort of. By definition, the bike was heavier and had fatter tires than anyone else’s, and I was aware that the saddle was too high– but with a carbon seat post, cutting it shorter would take professional tools I didn’t have. That put extra strain on my back for the longest ride I’d done since last August, but was really a problem on the steep climbs. Let’s just say that on steep slopes (over 10%), a high saddle digs into places it shouldn’t, and I was enormously sore afterwards. I soon after ran to the Trek shop and had them cut off 1cm, which was a pretty massive change. 

Chilly morning in Homer

The following weekend was the debut of the other new bike Eric had found and built for me, a mint-from-warehouse 2016 Trek Domane carbon, also built from the frame up. I’d wanted a Domane for years, since I first saw them advertised around 2012. Designed as a long-distance bike, it was much more suited for endurance rides than my Trek 5200, a bike I’d taken on ultra-endurance rides but was still a pure racing bike in terms of stiffness and gearing (but not as bad as my Fondriest- I once rode 200km on that bike, and couldn’t feel certain fingers in my hands for weeks). The Domane was lovely, a small frame (like my Scott CR1) with an extended stem and compact gearing. I took it to Talkeetna for a 200km ride the week after Homer, but after riding with a fast group of people like Kristin Wolf, turned around at mile 31 to keep the total to 100km. The bike, as with many high-end ones, had teething issues that still needed working out. The rear derailleur’s adjustment screws were loose, meaning the chain was skipping when I was on the small chain-ring, and my new Wahoo Speedplay pedal cleats weren’t set right– two of the screws had come loose in one shoe. I couldn’t possibly keep riding 200km while soft-pedaling and at the same time being stuck in higher gears, so cutting the ride short was the right call. 

Domane tricked out for 16+ hours in the saddle

But, that was a psychological blow. Long distance cycling is a good deal about mindset, and in my mind I had planned to ride the 200km and then progress a few weeks later to the much more difficult 400km, and ultimately the 600km Solstice ride in June. While the Denali club had more rides scheduled in the intervening weeks, I waved off the following weekend in Palmer due to rain, and not knowing the roads around Palmer and Wasilla. Besides, I could think of a different way to punish myself: Alpine Valley.

Alpine Valley is a small ski hill in the mountains above Anchorage, accessed only through a steeply winding gravel road that passes through part of the US military training grounds. I had seen the road on Strava but not been there myself, so I took my Checkpoint and rode the 15 miles to the start of the climb. The first part was fine to the overlook, where one can see into downtown Anchorage, but above that it was rutted with large rocks, and often climbing above 10% grades. I even had to walk one short part, as my bike had lost traction in deep gravel on a steep slope, and it was impossible to get moving again (I did try, and ended up tipping over onto the rocks). By the top of the climb it was snowing, the only consolation being a woman in a van who leaned out of her window to shout, “Oh my God, you’re amazing!” I can’t say anything positive about the descent– perhaps other riders with far greater technical skills could take it at speed, but I just kept thinking of hitting a rock at the wrong angle, and seeing my front wheel fly sideways. The feeling of drifting is not in any way natural to a road biker, because when it happens on a road bike the result is often a bike flipping over when it catches traction again. So I inched my way down.

I can’t say I was much more confident the next weekend, though obviously others were. There was a gravel race at JBER (Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson), through the thousands of acres of forest and bush, around old army airfields and artillery ranges. It was beautiful landscape, but again I was slow on the descents, and every time my rear wheel felt like it was sliding I would slow down even more. I suppose at least I didn’t injure myself (or anyone around me), since I was still working up for the longer road rides.

With the Domane adjusted, I tried preparing by using a training loop around Anchorage I’d found last year (about 43 miles, or 70km), or snaking north past Eagle River– but with work and rain I only fit in one more 100km ride before the Seward ride was scheduled. And that had me worried.

400km (250 miles) in one day is no joke. I’d last done it in 2016 with Jen, Betty Jean, and Julie, a 420km ramble through Georgia in the September heat. But in fall of 2016 I was in top shape, had many thousands of miles under my belt that year already, mostly through the mountains of Kosovo. By June 2021 I was just coming out from hibernation, and wasn’t even confident in finishing 200km without injuring myself. But, there it was.

A smallish group of cyclists assembled at the Carr’s grocery store in south Anchorage to leave at 4am - when it was already light out but traffic was sparse. Three of us took a shortcut through a residential road, and found it wasn’t. A massive female moose stood in the middle of the road looking at us, while we kept our distance and looked for any calf she might have. A woman had just been trampled when approaching a moose calf, and we figured it wasn’t a good way to start the day. Eventually she wandered off, and we caught up with the riders who’d taken the long way around.

I only knew Veronica from the group, and for the most part I rode alone that day, which was quite unlike the women’s team I usually had in Georgia. The road to Seward left Anchorage and followed the coast around the Turnagain Arm inlet, about 50km to Girdwood, and then swept around southwest to climb onto the Kenai Peninsula. Watching the sun rise onto the mountains was just gorgeous, and for the most part the road had a six foot (2 meter) shoulder protected by rumble strips, with most of the traffic that early consisting of fishing boats headed to Whittier. The tide was low, and along sand bars at one point were dozens of bald eagles, all waiting for the light to hit the water at the right angle for fishing. We passed the Girdwood gas station (one of the few signs of human civilization) before 6am, and just past the Wildlife Conservation Center turned left into the Portage Glacier field. That small detour was a short breather from traffic, but as I was warned, was also much colder than elsewhere, meaning it was literally freezing. 0C is cold enough, but when cycling 30kph the wind chill can be stunning. 

Packing for the ride was none too easy. With temperatures ranging from freezing to summer hot, I was wearing three layers (summer jersey, long sleeved jersey, windbreaker), had long-fingered gloves, a buff, and had packed away a rain jacket and extra socks. I also had to carry all the tools and lights I would need for the day, a battery to recharge the GPS computer, and took along a Katadyn filter bottle for water. In retrospect, I should have stopped to get and filter glacier water while leaving Portage, as I knew the next chance would be at mile 75 or so (115km), which is a very long distance to go on two water bottles. I think I hesitated because of how cold I was, but rationing water so early left me dehydrated later.

I then made my second mistake, upon finishing the first climb (1000ft, or 300m) into Kenai. I felt that the saddle was a touch too high, so I stopped to adjust it, and by mistake left it too low. While too high a saddle can cause back pain, too low - even by a millimeter or two - can leave too much pressure on the knees. I would realize that a good deal later.

A group of four of us made it to the Summit Lake Lodge around 9:45am, where a very cheery and helpful morning crew served us coffee and muffins. It never helps to stay long off the bike, so we continued on toward Seward, taking advantage of a tailwind and some descents from Moose Pass to kilometer 200. At that point, where we had to take a small detour into the Exit Glacier field, was where the wind become obvious, pushing against us as it roared down the valley. Knowing that meant uphill and into the wind while leaving Seward was not encouraging, but at least we’d made it halfway.

Seward itself would normally be chock-a-block with people this time of year, as cruise ships can’t dock in Anchorage itself. So thousands of people alight there, and then take buses or the train into Anchorage or points further north. Saturday it was fairly quiet, though the line at Subway was busy enough I relied on my own food and just refilled water. Going back to Summit Lake was 50 miles (80km) uphill, but I had spotted a shop in Moose Pass and planned on stopping there as well.

By this time I was riding by myself, and I began to notice my knees becoming sore- I could not tell at first if this was a saddle height issue or just my being out of shape. But when I felt the balls of my feet heating up from pressure, I stopped a couple of times to readjust the seat again. I finally had it right by the time I got to Moose Pass, where I bought a Coke (the woman at the shop asked, as everyone did, where I was riding from and to– when I said from Anchorage to Seward and back in one day, her response was that one Coke wouldn’t be enough). I had seen Veronica standing off the road near the fish hatchery, and would later learn that she abandoned from a knee injury. For myself, I had to soft-pedal up the climbs, though getting out of the saddle in a higher gear seemed ok.

I was less than 2000 meters from the Summit Lake lodge when I felt rain drops. I figured, “Fine, I’m almost there,” when I saw the road ahead looked like it was smoking. Crap, a micro-cloudburst in an otherwise sunny day. I slammed on the brakes, ripped open my saddle bag and grabbed the rain jacket, just in time to get hit with a deluge of rain and hail. I was mostly soaked by the time I reached the lodge, though not as badly as it could have been– and when later changing into dry socks (don’t do that in cafes, kids) it justified the extra kit I was carrying around all day. That stop at the lodge was longer, as I needed to warm up with coffee and pizza. By that time it was late afternoon, and the next stop in Girdwood would be late evening and another 80km away.

The evening climb over the last pass was lovely, and I could take the bike path from the Homer turnoff to the Johnson Pass lot. I felt like I was stopping far too often to make adjustments or to stretch, and it was a relief finally to hit the descent. That part felt great, both the 300m drop and the flat road beyond it with a strong tailwind, but rounding the inlet toward the northwest the headwinds hit again. By that time I was full of natural painkillers, but still had 40 miles (70km) to go. One last stop at the Tesoro gas station (Smart water and Hostess cupcakes), more questions from friendly Alaskans about where someone would be going on a bike at 9pm, and I caught the Gird-to-Bird bike path. One rider, I think Ritchie, had taken the path early in the morning instead of the highway, and had been stopped by moose and coyote encounters. I didn’t see any wildlife along its 30km track, but it was far preferable to fighting traffic along the main road.

I had to get back onto the highway into Anchorage, at times fighting headwinds, at times just wondering how much extra distance I had put on by taking the path (only 1 mile in the end), so that I would know exactly when I would finish. My head was a bit foggy, not so much from lack of sleep as just whatever endorphins were running through my system, and I tried to get songs through my head to distract myself (where was Betty Jean’s singing voice?). But finally I saw the lights of Anchorage, turned north past Potter’s Marsh, saw the sun setting/rising in the north, and took the highway exit onto the Old Seward Highway. No moose on the residential side street, and then there was my car (admittedly, I had worried all day about getting towed, and then having to bike 15 extra miles home).

Ending these rides is always anticlimactic, whether the Georgia Audax rides or the Tour des Stations in Switzerland, but in Anchorage I had several people call out to me as I reached the car. Cyclists from our group who had ridden 200km and then taken the train into Anchorage, they had only arrived back at the same time as me (11:20pm), and were cheering me on. 

I plan on riding the 600km solstice ride in two weeks, from Gakona to Delta Junction to Tok and then the next day to Gakona again. It’s remote, wild, and what I came to Alaska to experience. Riding to Seward was necessary to prove that I would be ready, but beyond that, it made me feel like I had some of my old cycling mojo back– stuff I’d lost when leaving Kosovo. 

Strava ride

Denali Bitty Bottom (Alaska gravel race)

I admit that transitioning from cycling in Kosovo to Alaska has not been easy. After the 100-mile ride in early August, I was rarely on my road bike again after that in 2019. The Trek needed some repairs, and the front wheel alone caused agony among Trek Anchorage mechanics in trying to track down the right cones, but I was left frustrated with not knowing the roads, and there being rather few of them. I bought a Trek Roscoe to replace the stolen mountain bike, a semi-fat MTB that with snow tires worked well all winter commuting to and from campus. And that was the real intro to Alaska cycling for me. Not long distances, it was only about 7km each way, but through January days of little sunlight and -25C temps, over ice and past moose, it was a suitable intro. I had retired from racing anyway, right?

But by February I was getting restless. Nothing had changed in terms of Alaska weather, maybe 10C warmer, but I was looking forward to the Denali Randonneurs summer schedule, of 200-600km routes that would take me into the heart of the state, that would ... be cancelled. The coronavirus pandemic hit the cycling community hard, with pro races in February cancelled and other events in the future soon falling prey. The Denali club, in some disagreement with the national umbrella organization RUSA, cancelled all events for the year. I understood why, but it was a big blow to my motivation. So I turned to another event, the Denali Soggy Bottom race in May, with hopes that Alaska would dodge the worst of the pandemic and at least that gravel race could go on.

Well, not quite. Alaska was fairly proactive in locking down, for which I was thankful, and I hardly got any riding in at all as March rolled around. Even into mid-April the roads had ice and road biking was tricky, but I started again as the gravel race was itself postponed due to the lockdown. Rescheduled for June 20, I didn't even have a gravel bike. I was waiting for one to be custom built for me at One Oak Cycles in Wisconsin, and was offered to borrow one from Jim, an econ prof. He and I had snow-biked the Knik glacier in March, a stunning ride and one in which I stopped right next to my hero Jill Homer without even knowing it until seeing Strava later that night.

My motivation was definitely ebbing. I would see epic rides from my friends in Kosovo, but the pandemic had dragged me down. In January I could wake up at 6am and ride in Arctic temps, seeing barely any sunlight. Now it was light almost 24 hours, weather was fine, and I could barely get out of bed in the morning. All my energy was directed toward a summer course I was teaching and the associated wargame. I had trouble writing, I had gained weight since the summer before, and... well, I'd drive the 6 hours up to MacLaren Lodge anyway, and just see.

I retraced the drive from the previous summer as far as Glennallen, stopping at the same tiny Thai food shack where I'd eaten after the 100-miler my first morning in Alaska. From there the road goes north toward Paxson, then 40 miles (70km) west into the interior. The transition is quite jarring. From the northern road and stands of pine trees, the East Denali Highway sits among tundra where there are almost no trees, where it's noticeably cooler, and in late June snow still sat by the roadside. 

The lodge itself was self-contained. There were no electrical wires or other utilities, they had to produce all their own energy and import food from the nearest grocery store 2 hours away. Normally a cabin there went for $150/night, but with the pandemic and loss of tourism, they were trying to attract locals by cutting the rate to $50. I was wary of sleeping anywhere but home, and had brought my own cleaning supplies and sleeping bag. The race director and his assistant were checking people in, a loose collection of serious and sportive types on a mix of bikes. I tried to get sleep early, making last minute changes to Jim's gravel bike, such as my own Wahoo GPS mount, my own saddle, and a backpack with extra supplies. The race director, Carlos, was trying to adhere to social distancing rules in the race itself, and really didn't want anyone bunching up in packs. So, the easiest solution was to start the race by turning right out of the parking lot, and straight up the hill to MacLaren Pass. This reminded me of my last race in Kosovo the year before, and I figured he was right-- in Kosovo our team had managed to stick together over two grueling climbs, but we'd trained for that. Normally people quickly spread out on tough climbs. I got some sleep. The weather report predicted clouds but no rain until the afternoon.

The next morning I woke to the sound of rain pattering on the roof. Dammit. And it was really raining. 42F (6C) outside, and I thought of Alison Tetrick writing about barn-sour horses. She explains it better than I do:

I was certainly sour that morning. The sleeping bag was comfortable, and outside there was only rain, cold, and the promise of hard climbing. Oh, and I should mention that I'd busted up my right thumb two weeks earlier while supermanning off a mountain bike, likely with a hairline fracture. I wasn't in shape, there were guys 20 years younger than me who were, and why was I doing this?

But, and this was the key, I wanted to see this valley. The wilderness of Alaska is intoxicating, and it doesn't take long to see views that take one's breath away. I certainly couldn't take our poor car further down this dirt and gravel road, so only a bike would do.

I dragged myself out of bed, got into a selection of warm cycling clothes (Castelli Oomloop shorts, a summer bike jersey topped with a DHB rain jersey covered by a Specialized rain jacket-- luckily I'd remembered to pack rain booties). I decided to drop the 1.5 liter bottle from my pack, considering the hard climb at first-- I would later consider that a poor decision. And I added some rain-resistant knee warmers, though I usually hate having my knees covered (hence the Oomloop shorts). Then there were the usual emergency tools and bear spray.

We all lined up in the rain, the 100-mile racers first, with the "metric" (really 115km or 72 miles) behind. I had signed up for the 100 miles but had my doubts. At least they said we could change our minds at the first lodge, turn around and then be timed for the shorter route if we wanted.

The race tore out of the parking lot and up a small hill. Not having warmed up in the pouring cold rain,

I felt winded even by the first kilometer. This would not go well. Four guys on gravel bikes with a minimum of gear went out in front, one rider chasing them and me chasing him. There were 21 people in total signed up for the 100 mile route, though I kept telling myself that I was not racing, that this was an endurance ride. The first problem with that thinking came quickly with the start of the MacLaren Pass climb. I had randomly starred some Strava segments before leaving Anchorage, and this climb popped up on my Wahoo computer as a live segment. For those who are not familiar, a live segment shows information on a specific section of road, including the elevation profile, the best-ever time someone has completed the segment, my own pace and estimated finish time, and distance remaining. It was often useful for training in the mountains of Kosovo and Albania, and this time it was helpful to know how long the climb would be, and where we would encounter the steepest parts. But it can also be a stark reminder of just how much one is falling behind the pace.

The road was rough and washboard gravel, and it was difficult to pick a line up the road that avoided textures that would quickly slow me down. The lead four were pulling away, the chaser was still well within sight, and once I passed the sign for MacLaren Pass and the road leveled out a bit, two more riders passed me. My lower back was feeling unusually tight and sore, and the top of 1200 ft climb (365m), I realized that I hadn't adjusted Jim's seat post properly, and the saddle was still a few millimetres too high. That makes a difference with hard effort-- too high and the lower back has to work too hard, too low and the knees suffer. I stopped the first turnaround point 10 miles (16km) in to take off the stupid knee warmers, which had also been bugging me, allowing one more rider to pass me. And I had to stop once more to adjust the seat post- someone passed me then, too, but I passed him on the descent and would not see him again for a couple of hours.

I am not the best descender even on the best of roads. On a rough downhill with a broken thumb it was horrible. Gravel bikes typically don't have front suspensions like mountain bikes, the tires are wider than a road bike but bumps and rocks are still felt. I kept feathering the brakes to moderate the speed, but my hand was really in rough shape by the bottom of the hill. We flew back past the lodge and I was seriously considering my options, how even at a moderate pace 100 miles was likely asking too much. And just as I thought that, I jammed my thumb into the bars by accident. 

The road climbed again from the lodge, although more gradually this time, the road surface improving into a rough macadam rather than rocky washboard. By this time I couldn't see anyone. I knew 7 people were in front, lots more behind, and I sat up on the bike to take a more moderate pace and try to give my hand some respite. After a small valley, the road opened up with the Alaska Range mountains to the north. The road skirted the foothills, and the peaks were slowly showing themselves from behind rain clouds.

There was no sign of anyone. At one point the road crossed the Clearwater Creek, where a few fishers were trying for grayling, but otherwise there was no one, no cars, no other cyclists, no buildings or signs of life other than the road itself. The rain had let up a bit, and I was even enjoying the ride, though I kept looking back and hoping that someone would catch up with me. I figured I was ok for water until the second check-in, where we were told we could buy supplies. 

Then the road changed. 

At mile marker 60 the macadam disappeared and was replaced with the beach from hell. Washboarded sand, covered in fist-sized rocks, it was almost impossible to find a line that didn't involve riding over what looked like volcanic tephra-- lava bombs dropped everywhere. My pace dropped from moderate down to a crawl, and there was no sign of when this might end. The pain in my thumb had become fiery hot, and I could not even enjoy the scenery, because every gram of attention had to be placed on the road immediately in front of me. I really wished for my Trek Roscoe at this point-- fat tires and front suspension. After about 10 km I saw the first lodge for the 72 mile check-in. The woman who was timekeeping yelled down from the hillside, and I had to take a moment to realize that the incredibly steep muddy track to my right was in fact the lodge entrance. Anyone riding the 100 mile route didn't need to check in here, but I didn't hesitate, even though I was still unsure of what I was about to do. I had to downshift into my lowest gear to climb up the rutted, muddy track, and the woman shouted a question if I was riding the "bitty" (72 mile) route. I shouted back that I did not know.

When I reached her, though, standing there with the beekeepers hat to keep away mosquitoes, I knew that I simply could not take an extra 30 miles (50km) of road in that condition. She took my name and race number, and I turned around to go back down the hill, feeling somewhat dejected. The rider I had last seen on MacLaren Pass passed by on the road below me, meaning he was only a few minutes behind. And when I turned back toward the MacLaren Lodge, I was really surprised at how close many more people were behind me. I had hoped for that before, but now something switched on in my brain. I could not let them catch me.

Cyclists all react differently to the cues of other riders around them. Gjengiz always said he liked chasing someone and would work harder that way, while I felt pressure if there was someone behind (and we used this in training, I would start first up a mountain like Tamare in Albania, and he would charge after me). In this case, any sense of desired companionship on the ride was gone, completely. Plus, I thought to myself, since I had started in the first group, I would likely receive a five minute time penalty when I finished. That meant anyone on the 72 mile route who even had me in sight would have already won the race. There was even the irrational fear that one of the 100 mile racers would lap me. I did the math in my head and knew that was physically impossible unless I truly crawled along, but to me was still motivation. I tried as well as I could read tracing along the 10 km of hellish beachscape, and once back on the macadam (which now seemed incredibly smooth), I went full gas for the last 20 miles (32km). 

Jim's bike suddenly became a bit of a limitation. He had explained to me that in looking for low gears for exceptionally steep climbs, he had been forced to change the front crank set to avoid a $2000 investment in new gear shifters and a new cassette. What that meant to me was that my top speed was limited. On the rolling terrain and rough surface I could manage over 20 mph, but never more than 28mph (45kph) even on downhill sections. That may seem plenty fast, but I was comparing to road racing paces, and I felt like even that speed was too slow. Of course the average went down when there were climbs, but even there I was trying to bully up the elevation as much as possible. I could see the mile markers clearly on the side of the road, knew exactly where I was and how far I had to go. Some riders going in the opposite direction, on the outbound leg still, cheered me on.

The rain was really coming down again now.

The last steepish climb I could feel my energy draining-- I had tried to use what I knew was there, but had to admit I didn't have enough water, hadn't eaten enough during the ride (I needed to buy gels, eating Clif bars on bumpy roads and with an injured hand doesn't work), and I kept glancing behind me. The last 5km or so were mostly downhill, and I finally went to the drop bars, pulling on the upstrokes with my new eggbeater pedal cleats, flying around the corners. I could see the lodge nesting below in the distance, and flew down so quickly I nearly overshot the turn into the chute. 

That part was a little anticlimactic. The race timer was standing there under a tent, greeted me with a big smile, and confirmed my overall time. I needn't have worried about a chase group, the next rider in was Suzanne Wheatall, 20 minutes behind me (though good for her). The next was Ron Cook, 10 minutes behind her. The 100-milers were intense, the winner was Tyson Flaharty who came in only 45 minutes behind me, and I can't imagine the pace he and others kept on the sandy mess past mile 60. The entire group was a mixed bunch, some on mountain bikes, with the last riders on both routes coming in some 5 hours after me. Wow, those were long days.

I stayed at the lodge that night, too, and had breakfast with Carlos the next morning after a 4am recovery ride, where he explained the race design and asked for suggestions. I still felt badly for having abandoned the 100-mile century, even as Carlos admitted that I'd done the right thing and that the road didn't improve past where I'd turned. Discretion and the better part of valor, and all that. 

The summer is still uncertain, but at least I know I need to follow up with One Oak Cycles to get a gravel bike of my own ordered up. Keeping from cracking any more bones might help a bit, too.

From Kosovo to Alaska- part eight (Fargo to Corner Gas, eh?)

By the third week of July 2019 I was a bundle of nerves. None of the news from Alaska was encouraging, but I had left Wisconsin and by that time was committed to the rest of the drive, all 5600km of it, to Anchorage. Tracy and I kept in touch mostly over Viber, the WhatsApp-type messaging app common in Eastern Europe, though increasingly there were few hours where we were both conveniently awake. It was hard being apart, and the university news made it seem like we would have to remain separated for months to come.

The Elton John song So That's Why They Call it the Blues had come to mind when I was still in Alabama, and it became something of a theme that summer.

Most of us know Fargo from the movie, which to be fair, didn't even take place in Fargo. I associated the movie with Ottawa, where I'd seen it years ago with Tracy and mostly thought about senseless violence and Minnesota. The city itself was a mystery, a spot on the map in a state I'd never visited, but in planning out the drive to Alaska, it seemed a logical place to stop, and I had a friend there I'd not seen in years.

Jenn and I had been Fulbrighters together in Berlin in the summer of 2008, just before DOE recruited me and the world changed. With her and Noah Zerbe, we spent two weeks studying and carousing around Berlin and Brussels, just before a summer spent in more somber Sarajevo. A microbiologist and helminth infection expert, Jenn and I wrote a book chapter together on tropical disease and security in Africa. I had seen her briefly in Alexandria, Virginia in 2009, and with her family in London in 2011. Jenn was one of those figures that passes through your life quickly but has an influence, a subtle nudging in a particular direction that only seems profound in retrospect. We hadn't had a chance to sit down and really talk in ten years, and like my other friends on the roadtrip I was looking forward to some sense of reconnection.

Jenn and Noah in Brussels, summer 2008

(More musical interlude)

While schedules were set, all plans were falling apart. The same morning that my mountain bike had been stolen in La Crosse, I received a series of texts from Jennifer saying she wouldn't be there in Fargo. Her father had an accident, she had to fly to Arizona, but, well, go there anyway and stay at her house.

Well, that was odd.

I left the Minneapolis suburbs and drove toward North Dakota, on painfully flat interstate that stretched endlessly. For me, this was the first I was driving on new routes, and I'd never even been to North Dakota before. I arrived in Fargo in the afternoon, found her house, found where Jenn said she'd hidden the key, and then felt extremely awkward in an empty house. It was big, she had ordered a cleaning service to come ahead of me, and I couldn't just sit around until the next morning.

I looked up a bike shop. Google said they had a group ride that night. Bingo.

Cycling is a strange sport, as it's highly individually based, but people also work in teams, and teams compete against each other while also cooperating. Group rides are sponsored by clubs and local bike shops, and they are also somewhat unique in sports in that strangers can drop in and participate. Groups have different characters-- the ones in DC were very Type A and competitive, the ones I knew in Georgia were extremely welcoming, though all of them will look a new rider up and down to gauge how experienced they are and if they can be trusted in a high-speed group. It's bit like high school standing there before a group ride, wondering what group one fits into, feeling a bit self-conscious about dropping into an established bunch, hoping I didn't have any glaring and embarrassing problems with the bike or kit. My first time showing up in Carrollton, Georgia had been instructive to that region. The bike shop owner, Allen, had spotted me as the new guy, walked over and asked about me, then loudly introduced me to the group and asked that everyone make sure I made it back to the shop in one piece. Some of the people I met that night later became close friends and good cycling buddies.

Slowly through the suburbs

Like most clubs, this one was composed of an odd mix of cyclists, from hard-core racers to grizzled veterans (which was I?), mostly men - but this one had at least one woman stronger than almost anyone. The ride immediately crossed back into Minnesota, wound through the tree-lined streets of Moorhead, and jumped onto straight country roads and windswept plains toward the village of Sabin. The first leg was mostly into the wind, I took my turn pulling at the front and tried being careful not to jump off the front, fighting a stiff headwind and feeling a sense of speed for the first time in a week or so. Everyone regrouped next to a grain elevator.

The next leg went straight north, and with a strong tailwind the pace picked up considerably. I kept jumping toward the front, and went with one man and woman who stepped up to around 30mph (50kph) average. I even attacked on the one small piece of elevation available, a highway overpass, then had to sit up and let others pass because I realized I was in front with no idea where I was going. Regardless, it was a way to burn off energy. I'd done easy rides for the previous days, and with no hills AT ALL, speed was the only substitute.

Strava climbing challenges in this place?

The pace back toward Fargo was more subdued, and I noticed a worrying instability in my left shoe-- when I stopped to look, I was missing two screws from my Speedplay cleats. Alarmed, I pedaled the rest of the way with my right leg, knowing I had to replace the cleats. I'd known that before, had tried substituting replacement screws in Kosovo, but the cleats threads must have been stripped. So I sat up and just marveled at the plains-- this was the very opposite of Kosovo.

I picked up pizza and beer to take back to the house, pitched a sleeping bag in the basement (I was offered a bed upstairs, but felt weird about that), and tried to rest. The next day would be long, the start of marathon driving days to get to Tracy's parents in British Columbia, and then from there to Alaska.

I'd written before that taking the backroads in Indiana was a good idea, and rather than follow the interstate straight west, and then north to Calgary, instead I drove northwest on smaller highways toward Saskatchewan. Part of me wanted to get into Canada sooner rather than later, partly I wanted to take the less obvious route, but I drove through Minot (which exists mostly for its Air Force base), got onto two-lane roads toward the border, and had all too much time to think. I really had not been on long car rides in ages. Car rides in the Balkans can only go for so long before hitting borders. Pristina to Thessaloniki was maybe three or four hours, to the Albanian coast perhaps the same or even shorter. The concept of driving for 12 hours in a day and not feeling like much progress had been made, that concept was completely alien. But here I was driving across the back roads of North Dakota, occasionally stopping for road crews, and it is too much time to be with oneself. With bad news, the prospect of even worse news, the realization that Tracy was on the other side of the globe.

The news in Alaska was still bad. One of the cyclists in Fargo was a professor at Minnesota State University in Moorhead, and couldn't believe I was driving to Alaska to take up a job there. Every professor in the US had seen the news about budget cuts in Alaska, and here was this idiot actually trying to go there (me). I was far beyond the safety of Wisconsin, hadn't seen Tracy in about a month, and felt very much alone on roads that were very much empty. Hours I could spend thinking over things, and what hit me the most was the realization that I couldn't be apart from Tracy for so long. 

I crossed the border without too much hassle, but the problem was stopping at a gas station to get Canadian cash. The Royal Bank ATM ate my card, and there was no way to get it back-- despite the employees angrily calling the local bank (most Canadians hate RBC, and I had my own run-ins with them as a student). I had to call USAA, who said the best they could do would to send a new card ahead to my address in Anchorage.

A bit dispirited, I drove even more off the main road, straight toward Moose Jaw. I was a bit comforted by how Google driving directions switched back to metric (how do I know what 300 feet is?), but there was nothing to see, it was windy as all hell, and I even had to take the road bike off the roof rack and stuff it into the back seat. But then part of my brain noticed text on the side of a grain elevator, and I braked hard into the next side road. Was it? Could it be?

I had just found Dog River, Saskatchewan, a fictional town and the setting for the Canadian comedy Corner Gas. For those who don't know the show, it's best described as Seinfeld for the Canadian Prairies, and GO WATCH IT. 

Anyway, I'd found the spot of filming, and the real village it was based on. It was the most random discovery, a link to my time in Ottawa, and.... it really was that flat and windy. C'MON I WAS EXCITED! It had been a dispiriting day, endless hours on empty roads, and here was a completely random place in Canada that held connections to our days in Ottawa, that I found completely by accident. (The original set is gone.)

I won't say that Moose Jaw was exciting, though it was friendly and comfortable, and while the former railroad station in Fargo had been converted into a bike shop, in Moose Jaw it was an expansive liquor store. I'm not sure what that meant.

If you need alcohol in Moose Jaw, you're in luck...

The next day was another long drive to Calgary, and this mostly forgettable along the drive. I was on the Trans-Canada highway, and in Calgary checked in to a motel so I could meet up with my brother-in-law Shane. We'd just missed each other the last time I'd visited Tracy's parents, and I mean just. As I walked off the plane at the Prince George airport, I could see him in the terminal waiting to board. 

With Shane and some Greek pizza

 Shane is a quiet type, and I suppose I am as well. Tracy can keep him talking for hours, but for us it was enough to reconnect over pizza.

With Kelly Cryderman

I had one other reconnection that night, since I knew I'd have to leave first thing the next morning. Kelly Cryderman had been a student of mine at Carleton about twenty (!) years earlier, when I was a grad student teaching US politics during the Clinton impeachment. Kelly had been a journalism student, the epitome of the keener who sat at the front of the class and actually paid attention in a 3-hour night course. I remembered her well from the first day. As a PhD student I wasn't sure what undergrads should call me, was nervous about having a whole 3rd year course (with my own TA), and at the beginning of class Kelly sat up like Tracy Flick and asked some question by addressing me as 'professor.' First person ever to do so, and it set a tone for the class-- funny how easily one remembers that. She's now a journalist for the Globe and Mail in Calgary, and seeing her in person after so long, now with a family, was perhaps similar to the shocks I'd had in previous weeks traveling. At least neither of us had aged a day.

The next morning I had to drive all the way into British Columbia and to Vanderhoof, nearly 1000km through the mountains. It would have been a long day in any case, but I had a plan. According to my calculations, I was just short of hitting 1000 miles on the bike for July, and I was determined to make that goal in Banff. Part of that was Tracy's fault. All the times I'd traveled to western Canada, I kept going to her hometown in the central plateau of BC, and the few times I'd driven to Calgary from there, the mountains had been socked in with clouds. The weather report for my drive said clear early, then clouds and rain. So, early. I could do that, I was known for that in Kosovo, I would get up at 4am and bike those last miles while I could see actual mountains.

Sunrise over Alberta

It's not like the roads made that easy. I left Calgary before dawn, but luckily had the Google driving directions turned on my phone, despite the straight road to Banff. I was told to exit the highway, and like a good cyber-citizen obeyed, quickly realizing there had been an accident ahead and the road was closed. I took back gravel roads for a fair distance as the sun rose behind me, then got back onto the highway just before hitting the resort town of Banff. I pulled up to a Tim Hortons, grabbed some oatmeal for breakfast, and then took the bike up the first mountain of the day, a 1000 foot climb overlooking the town. I already felt rusty for climbs, had no chance to warm up, but the biggest problem was the cattle gates set into the roads in Alberta, massive pipes that threatened to eat entire wheels at the bottom of mountain descents.

Slippery when wet

First climb

 I took a bike path along lakes for some distance, amazing views in the early morning, and then had to brave a short 2km stretch on the Trans-Canada highway to reach the second climb. I try to avoid highways when at all possible, but the further north one goes, the fewer roads are available.

Picture-perfect

 The climb up to the Sunshine Village ski resort was quiet, populated mostly with mountain goats, and so quiet after days in the car.

I braved a few more cattle gates, again on the highway, and made it back to Banff in one piece. Realizing I might be a touch short, I circled the town once more to clock in the distance I needed for my Trek t-shirt (this was important, people), and ended again at the Tim Hortons, this time with deer to cheer on the end of my 1000 mile (1600km) month-- not a minor achievement while also driving across a continent.

I still had a long drive that day, through national parks, into Jasper, British Columbia where intense crowds kept me from anything other than a 7-Eleven hotdog, into the vast expanses of Eastern British Columbia and the central plateau, through Prince George, and after another 100 km finally reaching Tracy’s parents’ house in Vanderhoof. 

I stayed there for a few days to rest and to visit with Tracy’s parents and grandparents. The sight of our car in Vanderhoof was always a little jarring, a reminder of how far I had already driven, but in the knowledge that I still had three very long days to go. There is not much in central and northern British Columbia. The normal access to the Alaska Highway was through Prince George, which I had already passed, and the only other road north was the Stewart Cassiar highway to the west, even less densely populated– and by that I mean there is one motel along a 1000km stretch of road between Smithers and Whitehorse. (And several people had been killed in Dease Lake the weeks before.)

Again, all too much time for self-reflection, for counting black bears (I counted 12 the first morning out of Vanderhoof), one giant bull moose who ran in front of my compact car, but otherwise nothing but trees and trees and more trees for around 24 hours of driving, until reaching the more tundra-like expanses of the Yukon. 

Whitehorse was almost metropolitan in comparison. I noticed I had a headlight out and was happy to find a brand new Canadian Tire in town. One guy working there said that there are about 45,000 people in the whole of the Yukon, and 30K of them live in Whitehorse. The size of territory was just staggering. I stayed in a cute B&B with tiny cabins, run by a couple who had noticed my USAF hat and insisted on feeding me a lavish dinner-- the more I protested that I wasn't really a fighter pilot or anything like that, the more they pushed. 

I had one final, long day, from Whitehorse to Copper Center, Alaska. I had planned this weeks or even months in advance, to be in Copper Center, a tiny outpost, by August 2nd. The Denali Randonneurs, the local endurance cycling club, was planning a 200-400K ride that day, and I was determined to be in on it. I can't explain the motivation for that, but the closer I came to Alaska, the more determined I became to see what I could before I was kicked out again. 

I stayed in a "rustic" (I think that's the polite term) lodge near the Copper River, really only notable for a bar and a load of fishermen, but there were some die-hard cyclists as well. Trish, an English professor at UAA who I would know in the future, Veronica the retired USAF vet, Burney the ride leader, and the Gilligan's Island cast of others... early on the morning of the 3rd we set out on a brevet, taking dirt roads part of the way (my Trek 5200 does not like such roads) to the Tonsina River, back to the Richardson Highway toward Valdez, and then... my right knee was not exactly happy having driven a manual transmission car (no cruise control) across the entire continent, and I could feel warning signs suggesting I should cut it short that day. I know it sounds strange to others if I say that "cutting it short" and embarrassing myself meant that I only rode 100 miles (160km) that day, but... cycling psychology is weird. I had to turn back early, then circle Copper Center once or twice to make sure I hit 100 miles exactly, getting back into the car and then driving the last 4 hours into Anchorage.

Mind you, I had yet to see the house I had rented. A colleague at UAA had helped arrange the rental, I had already been paying rent, but it was all a mystery. I drove through the Matanuska Valley and past glaciers and mountains, after hours finally seeing some sign of civilization in Palmer, then another 45 minutes into Anchorage. I kept thinking the Google driving directions had given up on me, I kept driving more and more into downtown, I knew from my short time there before I could only go another 1km or so before falling into the ocean, and my phone hadn't said a word for hours. The same road, keep going straight, straight, still straight, don't turn, finally turn left, turn right, turn left immediately and you will be at your destination. Huh.

Moose greeting me driving into work my second day

So there I was. A cute house in a cute neighborhood, not much to put into it except a bike and some clothes... and then what? I raided Target, Best Buy and Kohl's (I had no work clothes) Sunday morning, had to show up for work on Monday morning, to an empty college where only a student assistant was around the greet me and give me keys. I had finally made it, but now what?