Roof of Alaska

The word Arctic, for me, is a magical word. As someone who lives in an Arctic state, I have spent relatively little time above latitude 66º. What time I have spent in the far north has further emboldened my romance. The land of no summer sunsets, bowhead whales, walrus’, shorebird colonies that darken the skies and ancient cultures surviving and thriving in the lands of their ancestors easily distract my mind. A quixotic vision compels me north this summer, but with a healthy dose of realistic expectation, and even more caution.

This summer, myself along with Kim McNett and Daniel Countiss will fly to the northwestern Alaskan community of Point Hope and begin a long, fat-bike and packraft trip. Our aim is to traverse more than 800 miles of Arctic terrain to Kaktovik in the northeastern region of the state. We will pass through the villages of Point Lay, Wainwright, Utqiagvik (Barrow) then continue east to Deadhorse; and, if everything goes incredibly well, we’ll continue on to Kaktovik. For the first ten-days, we will be joined by our friend Alayne Tetor.  

For months, we have poured over satellite data, photosets, and maps; and have reached out to any and everyone we know that has experience or who lives in the region. We have repackaged and stuffed seven-weeks worth of food into flat-rate priority mail boxes, to be sent to village post offices when needed, and assembled all the odds and ends one needs to survive while traveling unsupported in the wilderness. We’ve overhauled all the little parts and pieces of our bikes and stripped them down to single speed and single intention machines. Our bags are packed.

Before any big trip, but particularly before a previously unattempted big trip, I hear the questions from friends and family: how long will it take, how many miles do you expect to travel each day, etc. My response is, we have seven weeks worth of food. We can make assumptions and guesses based off the information we have, but until we are actually there we’ll have no real or clear idea about our efficiency on this road-less and trail-less route. This uncertainty gives me butterflies. The giants of our imagination may turn out to be benign windmills or we may come home with our tails between our legs. Regardless, we are going…to find out.

Beyond the straightforward adventure, we will also be attempting to contribute to the scientific community by documenting and measuring coastal erosion. Similar to geocaching, we will be attempting to locate the dozens of “shore stations,” which have been created by Shore Zone, with our GPS. Once we locate them, we will re-measure, photo-re-occupy, make field notes, and nature drawings. Some of the coastline we propose to pass through is losing more than 20 feet a year to erosion from the warming seas – a symptom of climate change.

Arctic explorer Vilhjalmur Stefansson once said, “There are two kinds of Arctic problems, the imaginary and the real. Of the two, the imaginary are the most real.” From where we are standing, all Arctic problems are imaginary and therefore very real.

With any luck, we’ll be able to send updates from the villages we pass through. We will be carrying our InReach tracking device, which will send daily “pings” from our current location. To follow our progress click here: https://share.delorme.com/BjornandKim

We will also send occasional, short updates from our InReach, which will be received by Ground Truth Trekking’s Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/groundtruthtrekking/

An enormous thank you is due to the brands and organizations that have helped us realize this expedition: Ground Truth Trekking, Cook Inletkeeper, Kachemak Bay Conservation Society, Salsa Cycles, Alpacka Rafts, Mountain Laurel Designs, and the Time Lords Cycling Group. 

MLD Duo-Mid Shelter

For our upcoming fat-bike expedition, across the roof of Alaska, we will be using Mountain Laurel Designs (MLD) duo-mid shelters. These are two-person, sil-nylon, floorless mid shelters, which weigh less than one-pound. I have used these shelters in the past in a variety of terrain and climates and am fully confident they will perform expertly on our expedition.

Floor-less shelters are quick to assemble, requiring four stakes or anchor points, which we often improvise in the field, and one center pole. Collapsible and lightweight center poles are commercially available but I typically improvise with something I am already carrying or find while underway. On this upcoming trip we will be using three-pieces of our four-piece packraft paddles. Nothing is lighter than nothing.

Many places in Alaska are famous for insects but the Arctic is especially famous for them. With that in mind, I decided to modify the shelters by adding an interior perimeter of bug netting.

Ron Bell, from MLD, sent me a 48cm wide roll of netting, which I sewed on. I began at one end of the door and left about one-foot of extra to overlap at both ends of the entrance. Once I began, I sewed continuous, from door to door. The idea is that the netting will fold under the erected shelter and ideally no insects will be able to find their way under, through or in. 

My experience with mid-shelters, in buggy areas, in the past, has been hit-and-miss. I often try to burry the perimeter of the shelter but this only works in certain terrain. If the bugs are really bad, this technique only slows them down. By adding this skirt of netting, tucking it under the shelter then anchor it down by sleeping atop it and weighting the rest with gear, I believe we may win this particular arms race.

For more information about Mountain Laurel Designs visit: https://mountainlaureldesigns.com/

Fat-Bike to the Arctic - Gear Review

I wrote this gear review after our Fat-Bike to the Arctic expedition, in 2014, in which Kim McNett and I became the first people to fat-bike from Knik to Kotzebue - 1,100 miles. We learned and experienced much on this expedition. Here are my reflections on the gear we employed. -- Originally published on Ground Truth Trekking

Sea-ice between Shaktoolik and Koyuk. 

Fat-bike to the Arctic: gear

We have returned home from our fat-bike expedition to the arctic and it seems almost like a dream. If not for the photos I might not believe it actually happened. Our luck and good fortune were beyond comprehension and the people we encountered without equal.

Every expedition and trip reveals new insight about technique and equipment and we always hope to incorporate that wisdom on the next trip. ‘Fat-bike to the Arctic’ stood on the shoulders of our experimentation over the years and vicarious lessons from others.

Herein I will attempt to outline and review the equipment we used on our 1,100 + mile, winter fat-bike trip to the arctic of Alaska.

Shelter and stove:

Mountain Laurel shelter and Titanium Goat wood stove.

Before we embarked, Kim and I spent time trialing our Mountain Laurel, floor-less, mid shelter with the Titanium Goat, wood burning, barrel stove but this arrangement was still largely theoretical.  After 5 weeks of near daily use, we are beyond theory and into the realm of the actual.

We opted to rely solely on the wood stove for our water making and food cooking and left our MSR Whisperlite with friends to send if we decided we needed it. Using the wood stove to make water and cook on takes longer than a gas stove but our routine with the stove proved to be a nearly ideal arrangement.

In the evening we would both work together to erect the shelter. This chore consisted of strapping together two collapsible ski poles, handle to handle, with the tips on the end. We used two Voile straps, which are stretchy and very secure. (More about Voile straps later.) Then we would harvest four stakes from whatever was available. Typically, this was willow, spruce or birch branches. Then, Kim would hold the center pole within the shelter, while I set the stakes. Once the shelter was secure, we would either cut snow blocks or scoop loose snow around the perimeter “skirt” that I had sewn onto the shelter. 

With the shelter erected, we each set out on our individual chores, which alternated daily. One of us would assemble the collapsible bow saw and harvest enough wood for the evening and morning. Relying on the wood stove establishes parameters as to where we decided to set a camp. We preferred to be in spruce forests, as dead spruce is the best fuel for the stove. That said, dead and dry willow or alder works very well too. The only fuel we tried to avoid was birch. Even when birch is well cured, it still contains moisture and does not burn hot enough. A typical strategy was to cut down long pieces and chuck them near the shelter. Once a healthy pile had been gathered we would make ourselves comfortable and cut the wood into sub-22 inch lengths. Lastly, we would bring the wood inside the shelter and stack it into a pile.

Simultaneously, the other person would lay out the inside of the shelter with sleeping pads and begin setting up the stove. The collapsible, two-pound, titanium woodstove takes a little practice to set up efficiently. Thankfully, our trip began with unseasonably warm temperatures. By the time we experienced our first evening of -20º we were well organized and stove assembly was a painless task. 

I always bring a paperback book on trips. This time it was ‘Homage to Catalonia’, by George Orwell. Every page that has been read becomes the evening fire starter. As soon as the fire was lit we would fill the pot and mug with snow, add a little water from the thermos and begin the task of making hot drinks, dinner and water for the evening and next day. Rarely, if ever, was there a time, when the fire was going, that one or two vessels was not on the stove. Once dinner had been consumed and water made we would crawl into our bags and let the fire go out.

In the morning, whoever had been to one to make dinner (‘cookie’) woke early, relit the stove, started coffee, water and breakfast. This lead-time on the morning fire was perfect for many reasons: drying the shelter of frost and moisture from the sleeping bags was resolved and by the time coffee and breakfast was ready, gear and clothing were warm and dry. Even in -20º, we were able to comfortably do our inside chores glove free, in our long underwear.

We eventually learned some handy tricks involving the stove that made life better. By placing spruce boughs under the stove and piling snow around, we were able to keep the stove from melting down into the snow. Willow branches also worked. When disassembling the stove in the morning, we dumped the ashes and embers in a pile outside. Before we were ready to ride, we would warm our hands for one last time on the embers before smothering them. Starting the day with warm hands is a remarkable treat.

There are very few downsides to the woodstove but it’s worth mentioning them and hopefully they will be resolved before our next trip. The most negative aspect of the woodstove, in a sil-nylon shelter is obvious – embers. Most of the embers that made it out of the stovepipe either burn out or were blown away before they came in contact with the nylon but after 5-weeks of use, there are more than a handful of little holes. Whenever we slept in a cabin, I would bring the shelter inside and sew up the holes. Most were smaller than a pinhead but a few were pinky diameter.

I would like to experiment with a spark arrester, which could be a piece of fluffed steel wool. Maintaining a good draw is very important so this method would require experimentation.

The other drawback to the stove is that the actual barrel is made of very thin titanium. Over the course of the trip, this material became malformed from setting the pots atop it. Titanium Goat has another stove design that turns this concept 90º, with the thicker, non-bendable titanium on the top and bottom and the thinner sheet metal on the walls. However, our barrel stove was remarkable and improvements, in this case, would be nice but not necessary.

Saws:

We carried two saws and one 21-inch replacement bow saw blade, which we never needed. The primary woodcutting saw was a Coghlan’s, folding bow saw. Our other saw was a T handled, stainless steel Gerber, with finer teeth. For us, these two saws complimented each other and we used them both, most days.

The Coghlan folding saw is a lightweight, aluminum “bow saw” saw with two pivot points and a very simple and secure tensioning apparatus. Once the saw is assembled the blade is very taught and thus, it cuts extremely well. On a few nights we opted to sleep in shelter cabins. Trail ethics dictate that you leave the shelter better than when you came, so we always tried to replenish more wood than we burnt. Within most cabins, hanging on a nail, are conventional bow saws with longer blades than ours. Because the tension on these saw blades is not taught, we almost always preferred ours.

The T handled saw had multiple purposes, but mostly it lived inside the shelter and was used to shorten pieces of wood, as needed. We also used it as a snow saw to cut blocks for anchoring the shelter when the snow was compact and would bring a few blocks inside for water making.

Both of these saws are light, compact and effective. Since there are pivot points on the folding saw, I carried some replacement hardware and I did replace one pin with a bolt and a locking nut. I see no reason to improve or change anything about the saws for future trips.

Airlite Snowshoes:

Because of our strange winter, here in Homer, we were never able to give our Airlite Snowshoes a proper test before we left. During our trip we experienced only one storm. Thankfully, not much snow accumulated and we were always able to ride. However, having the snowshoes is insurance and we never debated sending them home.

Because of our stove, we always needed to camp near wood. One evening on the Yukon River we were ready to camp but the trail ran straight down the middle of the massively wide river. Finally we decided to march at right angles off the trail, to the bank and camp. Kim decided to try the snowshoes for the ¼-mile bike push and I tried the Alpacka ‘sled’, without snowshoes.

Unpacking the snowshoes, blowing-up and pumping, with a bike pump, takes around 5 minutes. Once Kim was strapped in, she began pushing and was able to fine-tune her gait to avoid collision with the bike and said it felt very natural. The floatation these snowshoes provide is substantial. The snowpack in this instance was dust on breakable crust with rotten and bottomless snow underneath – terrible walking snow. She stayed on top and was able to reach the shore without strain.

Again, because of our no snow winter we never tried our Alpacka ‘sleds’ before embarking. Even though they are much less heavy than a packraft we sent them home after that evening on the river.

It may be that in certain kinds of snow the ‘sled’ would work better but in cold, dry snow the ‘sled’ offered tremendous resistance. It felt like I was dragging a 4x8 sheet of plywood over sand.

We are back to the drawing board for a lightweight and compact, emergency sled that can haul bike and gear. Since pushing the bike with the Airlite Snowshoes proved to be successful we discussed the new strategy: if riding becomes impossible - push, if pushing becomes impossible – inflate snowshoes and push, if pushing with snowshoes becomes impossible and the situation becomes dire – abandon bike, drag a dry-bag with sleeping bag and food, and snowshoe to safety. Thankfully we never had to make these kinds of choices but it is important to consider options – options that don’t include being rescued by others.

Sleeping Gear:

Up to now, we have always used a vapor barrier within our sleeping bags to prevent our sweat from corrupting the down and becoming heavy and eventually lousy with ice buildup. Sleeping in a non-permeable sack or rain gear within the sleeping bag is clammy and no fun.  Up to now, vapor barriers have been the only solution - until we started using the wood stove.

We both use -20º down sleeping bags and two pads – one close-cell foam and one inflatable, air mattress.

Our shelter is floorless, so we first lay down the close-cell pad and then the air mattress atop it. This configuration is warm and comfortable and since the foam lies on the snow it never accumulates moisture. When we felt ambitious or the resources were available, we would cut spruce boughs and lay them down under the pads. For the most part, we have found this to be an unnecessary step. 

I used a ¾ Therma-Rest, Z pad and a full length Therma-Rest, Neo-Air. Kim used a full length Ridge Rest and a ¾ Neo Air. Having at least one full-length pad is important because this ensures your sleeping bag is completely off the snow.

Clothing:

Body types and metabolism vary widely – this is very apparent between Kim and I. Often I am sweating and removing layers while she is adding another and cracking a hand warmer. Knowing specifically what clothing to bring is something everyone has to discover for themselves and trial and error is the only answer. However, there are some basic ideas that we both adhere to.

Layering is the primary strategy. Being ready to remove layers before you become too hot or adding them when getting cold should become instinctual.

We have included our itemized list of clothing and there is not too much more that can be said about our basic clothing but there are a few individual pieces I will discuss in detail.

I have found that the outer shell can be very thin and light as long as it’s windproof. Raingear, for me, is way too heavy and I eventually sweat. I use Patagonia Houdini top and bottom and find them to be near perfect. They protect from wind and breathe very well. I like them to be oversized so I can add as many layers underneath as necessary.

Modern hi-tech fabrics are amazing and getting better all the time but traditional Alaskan clothing also has its place on our trips. We both use fur mittens, fur saddle covers and ruffs. When the wind is blowing and it’s really cold nothing works as well as fur. I used wolverine for the ruff on my windbreaker, seal mittens and beaver saddle cover. Kim used wolf for her ruff, beaver mittens, a sheepskin saddle cover and a rabbit fur hat. A remarkable feature of fur is that moisture freezes onto it but rather than permeate, it breaks off and is as good as new without excessive care.

Proper footwear is tremendously important for winter cyclists. The basic idea we employ begins with a thin, wool liner sock, knee high vapor barrier sock, thick wool sock, insulated boot and a waterproof mukluk. This system keeps moisture out of the insulation from both outside, e.g. overflow and from within, e.g. sweat.  One very important consideration when fitting boots is that they are not tight fitting. Frostbite is often brought on by poor circulation and tight boots are to be avoided at all costs.

Bags:

My $20 thrift store sewing machine has proved to be one of the most valuable tools I own. Before embarking on our trip, the kitchen table was transformed into a sweatshop as I labored over clothing modifications, new mittens, hats and bags for the bike.

For our bikes I sewed frame bags that fit within the main triangle of the frame. I sewed them to be as wide as possible without colliding with knees, while riding. Before we left, we sent 9 food drops along our route that each contained roughly 5 days worth of food. Fitting the bulk of that food into the frame bag was the goal. We also use ‘feed bags’ on our handlebars for our daytime snacks. Beyond needing a little more capacity, the ‘feed bags’ are great in their ease of access for eating on the go. 

We each used one rear rack and had one dry-bag strapped atop of it. Mine contained clothing and the shelter. Under the rack, I strapped the snowshoes and on the side I carried the small tool kit.

On the handlebar, I used a harness system, of my own design, which carried a double end dry bag that I made from waterproof flooring of an old tent. This dry bag contained my sleeping bag, down parka, down vest and insulated over pants. Openings on both ends of the dry bag is useful, as I would pack the sleeping bag in the middle and have over garments on both ends. If I needed one or both layers, the dry bag was still centered and well secured to the harness. On the outside of the harness I sewed wide Velcro straps that held my Z-Rest sleeping pad and another small pouch that carried sunglasses and goggles.

Beyond these bags I carried a ‘gas tank’ bag on the top of my top tube and another small bag below my saddle, on the frame. These bags carried the sewing kit, small parts, twine and odds and ends for field repairs.

Tools:

Pairing down the tool kit consists of trying to anticipate what might actually happen or go wrong while underway and being reasonably prepared for a flat tire, loose bolts, ripped tent, punctured sleeping pad, etc. etc… You can never be fully prepared for everything that might go wrong but with a few multi-tools and some ingenuity many issues on the trail can be solved.

Beyond spare twine, webbing, buckles and Velcro we also carried a couple spare Voile straps. These straps were in use on our bikes to securely lash snowshoes and snowshoe crampons to the rear rack as well as lashing the ski poles together each night for the center pole of the tent. The strap also became useful for me when my oversized water bottle cage broke. Without the cage I had no good way of carrying my 64oz thermos. By padding the sharp metal of the broken cage, with a chunk of sleeping pad foam and lashing it back onto the frame with the Voile strap I was able to continue using the cage. These straps have been well proven in temperatures as low as -40º and are both useful and versatile.

Changing tire pressure on a winter bike trip is like changing gears – you do it often depending on conditions. Carrying a decent pump that moves a reasonable volume of air is important. When adding air, I would count how many pumps and after a couple weeks out was in a fine tune with my PSI.

First Aid:

Similar to the tool kit, you can never carry enough First Aid to field all scenarios but you can cover many of the likely solutions in a compact package. For us, analgesics, Band-Aids, skin cream, talcum powder, sunscreen, burn cream, tampax (for big gashes) and an ace bandage are the bulk of our little red kit and thankfully we needed to use it sparingly.

Taking care of skin is a daily chore when the air is dry and windy and the sun reflects off the snow. We used SPF 30 several times a day and in the evening applied Bag Balm. Saddle rash was resolved by using diaper ointment. (Go ahead – laugh.) Talcum powder is useful to help dry feet that have been in vapor barrier socks all day.

‘Prevention is the best medicine’ in general but especially on a long, remote trips. Listening to your body, good nutrition, rest, hydration and early detection of potential problems are important to successful fat-bike expeditions.

Technology:

Almost every community in rural Alaska has central utilities. As a result, recharging batteries is reasonable. Our technology is fairly sparse but, for us, very important. We carried a DeLorme InReach tracking device, headlamps and cameras.

The InReach tracking device ‘pings’ our location at a set interval and delivers the data to a website with a map. People who want to follow your progress can visit the webpage and see your path and current location. The device allows you to text up to 40 messages a month and ultimately it can be used to send an SOS. Being able to text is a great feature. My thoughts about rescue are to never require one. However, accidents do happen. If you ever were in a dire situation and needed help, texting someone who could call the local SAR would be so much better than hitting the SOS button and having the Air National Guard called out. But if your life depends on it – do it.

We both carried DSLR cameras, one lens apiece, several spare batteries loads of memory and chargers. Photography is very important to me and the weight of a full frame camera is not a burden. If Bradford Washburn could lug around a Fairchild F6, I can carry a Canon 5D. There is a chance that I will never cover that terrain again and I would hate to miss an opportunity to capture a great image.

We both carry our cameras in dry bags, on our bodies. The cameras typically perform well in the cold but it is important when bringing the camera inside to keep it in the dry bag while it warms. Taking it out prematurely will result fogging the glass and sensor. The same is true when going back out. I often leave the camera outside if I am only going in for a while.

Summary:

Every trip reveals insights, thoughts and ideas to incorporate into the next adventure and even though we felt adequately prepared for this trip there is always room for improvement. Listening to others and sharing advice is a way to save yourself making unnecessary mistakes but experimentation requires a willingness to fail.

There is an art to wilderness travel and each discipline comes with its own palette. Winter fat-biking is still a young pursuit, not full of bibles and stuffy codes. Adventure by bike is a noble and elegant way to experience the world. I hope this gear review is helpful.

Tundra Revolution

This fall I returned to the tundra of interior Alaska with a group of people to hunt caribou by human-power. After meeting everyone in Anchorage, sorting the last of the gear, and coming up with our strategy, we drove north, parked our caravan, loaded bikes and trailers with camping gear, firearms and food, took a group photo, and pedaled toward the rising sun on a dirt road deep into a caribou rich valley. 

Few places are as beautiful as interior Alaska in the fall. Dwarf willows turn red and yellow, berries fall off their bushes into your hand or bucket, glaciated peaks receive their first blanket of new snow and the air is crisp - immaculate even - and on it the aroma of labrador, cranberry, and a potpourri of lichens and tundra. Each sip or gulp of air stirs childhood memories and fills me with well being. Fall is the season for harvesting. The colors, aroma and frosty mornings ring the ancient alarm clock within and inspire action.  

Nearly 20 people joined this community hunt - each one a distinct, empowered individual worthy of lengthy description - motivated by the shared goal of filling freezers with the worlds healthiest animal protein, in a low impact manner, for the long winter months ahead.

Human-powered hunting is hard. More hands help distribute the workload, and meat, on these hunting trips, is divided in the end by shares: one share for having a tag and dispatching an animal, one for field-dressing, one for hauling and one share for every 10 hours of butchering/processing. 

For three-days small hunting groups splintered into the hills and returned to camp with full frame-packs. When harvesting ended bikes and trailers made the back and forth trip several times until all the meat and hides were deposited. Back in Anchorage all hands worked round the clock for nearly four-days to properly butcher, proportion, grind, seal, can, and freeze the tundra bounty. 

At one point in the butchering process I stole away to meet with a man from Greenland, now living in Alaska. I wanted to interview him about human-powered hunting in his native country. Maligiaq is an inheritor and instructor of several thousands of years of human-powered hunting tradition in a country that, like Alaska, has been modernized and colonized. In Greenland, however, human-powered hunting is still the method. As a result, traditions and resiliency are strong and wildlife populations are abundant. I wanted to learn and hear from him.

I'd like to believe that, in our small way, human-powered community hunts are demonstrating to ourselves and others that sustainable harvesting of wildlife is possible. For at least 90% of our evolution as an upright species we've been hunter/gatherers, and have only begun relying on fossil fuel technology to aid our hunts in the last century. By hunting, growing food, and harvesting wild edibles I'd like to believe we can heal some of our sicknesses. By looking behind we can move ahead. 

"You can't spell meat without team." someone said, as we divided shares and said our goodbyes. Over the coming winter I and many others will eat meat filled with nutrition, meat filled with memories, and meat full of gratitude, community and resiliency.    

Note: Over the coming winter I will be working on a short film about this hunt. 

Home(r) to Home(r) - Sea Kayak, Fat-Bike, Packraft Expedition

On the evening of summer solstice, 2016, Kim McNett and I launched our sea kayaks from our home in Homer and spent the next month exploring our "back yard". Our kayak route took us to Seward where we joined our bikes, backpacks, packrafts and three friends, and continued overland onto Cooper Landing, Kenai and finally back to Homer. 

Logistics, for Kim and I, were straight forward: drive the bikes to Seward, leave them and the rest of the overland gear with friends, drive home, cram as much food as possible into the kayaks and launch. With roughly three-weeks of provisions we planned to explore deep into the fjords, bays, and islands. The outer gulf coast, we predetermined, was not a place to rush past.

Our first full day of kayaking, and still within Kachemak Bay, we were beset upon by a pod of humpback whales. As two surfaced near me another swam under Kim and flicked her with its pectoral fin. From that moment the tone for the trip was set and every day thereafter was filled with wildlife, a healthy tinge of excitement and an abundance of rugged beauty. 

The coastline between Homer and Seward is arguably one of the best sea kayaking trips in North America. Sheer granite cliffs - some of which rise over one thousand feet straight from the water - strain your neck, and tidewater glaciers, intertidal lagoons, powerful tidal currents, tide rips, swell, rock gardens and surf beaches, plus astounding wildlife, all cram into this magical slice of Alaska. Over our three-week trip we counted fifty six species of birds, saw wolf, black bear, mountain goats, three species of whale, seals, sea lion and sea and river otters.  

A strong following sea surfed Kim and I the final miles into Seward and moments later we were whisked into my brothers van. His cover band, The Moosefits, were playing a show for a friends birthday later that evening. After three-weeks on the water we were ready for showers, beer, friends and a punk-rock show. Natural serenity and hard-core music are not disparate in my mind and yet it was clear that a new chapter of our summer trip had ended and we ramped up for the next. 

The following day we met our friends Ben and Amy at the Seward train depot and a few hours later our Homer friend Daniel Countiss drove into town. Under a warm sun in a friends front yard the five of us began packing gear, loading bikes and pouring over the map. 

We'd met Ben and Amy last fall at Salsa Cycles Ride Camp, in Wisconsin. Kim and I had been invited to the three-day event to give a presentation about wilderness adventure cycling in Alaska and over the long weekend we began loosely talking with Ben about doing a trip together. After months of emails and Skype conversations we were finally ready. 

Three distinct chapters marked our route from Seward back to Homer: the Resurrection River Trail to Cooper Landing, the Kenai watershed to the city of Kenai, and the long, uninterrupted beach - ideal for fat-biking - between Kenai and Homer. Over the next eight days we peddled, pushed and paddled our way through "Alaska's Playground". 

Each of these methods, or disciplines, of travel - the sea kayak, fat-bike, and packraft - require distinct skill sets but, for me, they all share a commonality: they are each modes of efficient human-powered transport over a wide range of terrain, and they allow the practitioner a wide breadth to make the traveling as fun as they wish. Over the course of this month-long trip we rarely over-concerned ourselves with daily mileage but rather sought out the most interesting lines and would often dally at the rock gardens, surf spots, log-rides, eddy lines, deep creek crossings and technical beach cobble on the bikes. Forward, always forward, but as fun as possible. 

One evening around the camp-fire someone asked, "Why do you do these kinds of trips?" For me, the answer is both simple and complex. The simple answer is, 'because someday I will die and I believe life is worth living.' But, the more complex answer has something to do with finding a niche in the world. When someone spends more than a little time in nature they typically can't help but see that each animal fills a gap and utilizes its time and space in a distinct way. The impact I leave on the landscape is minimal but the impact the landscape has on me in immeasurable. 

We rode the last cobbled stretch of beach back to our cabin almost a month to the day after leaving and proceeded to awkwardly high-five in a five-way cluster. Our skin chapped and burnt from the days of sun and cheeks sore from laughing; our batteries fully recharged. 

Ring of Fire: A Salsa Cycles Story-Site

Over the winter of 2015/16, Kim McNett and I worked with the talented and creative crew at Salsa Cycles on a 'story-site'. The central theme of the story-site is an aborted fat-bike and packraft expedition Kim and I attempted in the summer of 2015 - from Juneau to Homer. 

What we created is a bit of a rabbit-hole. There are several articles, a couple videos, hand-drawn illustrations, photography, and a unique interactivity with animation and audio effects. 

Visit the story by clicking here.

Salsa Beargrease: First Impressions

Beargrease meets bear 

A turning point, in the not too distant past, was crossed without my fully noticing it. My life as a cyclist has been largely one of cobbling parts together from one old beater to the next, with the occasional splurge on a fancy component. Now I find myself riding a 23-pound carbon fiber Salsa fat-bike.

The first thing I noticed about the Salsa Beargrease, once I assembled it and took it for the first spin, was the how light it felt underneath me. My immediate playground is the beach below my cabin, which is comprised of technical slabs of shale, seams of coal, loose gravel, big boulders and sand. I love riding this stretch of beach because it requires attention and focus to navigate and no two rides through are ever the same.  Upon the Beargrease, it was a whole new experience of delicate maneuverability.

A lightweight fat-bike feels unstoppable on rough terrain.

The idea, as I understand it, is that fat-bikes should float. In terrain where traditional mountain bikes would wallow and sink, a fat-bike comes to life. It stands to reason that a lighter fat-bike will perform better in soft riding conditions and so far this is proving to be true.

The core of my interest and motivation is expeditions – long wilderness routes where self-reliance, adaptability, and creativity are required. I love technical riding for the confidence it builds. I love micro-adventures for the habituation and preparedness it heightens. I love commuting for the daily dose of lactic acid and the feeling of wellbeing that comes from hauling myself around under my own steam. However, in the back of my mind these excursions are all mental and physical exercises for next big trip.

Tucked in for the night.

Last week my partner Kim and I spent 5 days bikepacking with the new bikes. Our goal was to mimic the conditions we expect to encounter on our upcoming six to eight-week wilderness expedition. We wanted soft, technical terrain with a water component and occasional bikewacking/hauling. We found what we were looking for, and in both our estimations the Beargrease gets an A+.

It is often stated that steel is the best choice for road touring. One of the reasons is because if anything should crack on the frame it is the easiest material to repair. I don’t foresee myself carrying a welder anytime soon but I can envision carrying sandpaper, rubbing alcohol, two-part epoxy and carbon fiber patch material. My hunch is, this repair kit will remain unused and at the bottom of the pack but there is no other frame material I am aware of that someone in the middle of nowhere can field repair as readily as carbon fiber.

Ready for assembly after a short trip in the packraft.

In and out of the packraft with the bike takes a minute no matter how efficient you are. Through axles are not only stiff and secure, they also shave time during the wheel on and off transitions that occur regularly on summer bike/raft trips.  Leaving the axle in the fork with the wheel off also seems more secure and sturdy during transport.

Another feature, which I approve of, is the lack of attachment points on the bike. There are no water bottle cage or rack mounts and in this instance I think this is a good thing. Our plan is to use two or three Relevate Designs bags on the bikes while underway this summer but we will also be carrying large Mountain Laurel backpacks. We intend to take all gear off the bike when we are bushwacking or are otherwise unable to ride. When conditions become favorable we’ll strap the bags and packraft back on. Holes in the frame in this instance will just be places for water to get in which would add unwanted weight and corrode moving parts.

Kim crosses a shallow creek.

One five day trip and several weeks of riding around on the Beargrease have led me to believe that I’ll be comfortable for the long haul. Now that all the micro-adjustments to the bike have been made, the tires have been kicked and several coats of mud have been applied, it feels like it’s mine, and it feels ready for adventure.   

Simple and elegant. 

Backpedaling the Wrangells

There is almost a morbid fascination I have with reviewing what went wrong from my own mistakes and the luckless that have perished in the wild. In many cases, a chain of events that begins with a small chink in the armor sets off a terrible cascade that can often prove fatal.

Read more of my article in Side Tracked here: Backpedaling in the Wrangells

You can't win them all

As summer drew to an end, Kim and I hastily readied ourselves for a fall trip. We’d been toying with a few ideas, but the Wrangells were calling and a long bike/raft traverse was what we desired. We loaded our new truck with bikes, rafts, camping gear and food and began the long drive east.

The Wrangells are a range of massive volcanoes in eastern, interior Alaska. They are both where I was raised and where I lived as a young ‘man’ and had done more to shape me than any other place ever has or could. I was excited to share them with Kim and to have an opportunity to reconnect.

Many people in Alaska find it hard to break away from their community and often miss out on the rest of what the state has to offer. I never want to fall into that trap and make a point to travel as often as possible. When an old family friend asked when the last time I’d been to the Wrangells was, I had to think about it. 2004 was the answer. Unacceptable.

Our goal was to traverse from north to south in one of the few non-glaciated routes in the range. September could be a great month for the trip because the creeks and rivers are low, but the threat of early snow becomes very real and nighttime temperatures drop well below freezing. We were a little worried that the route offers no easy bailout option and that we’d not be carrying the In-Reach tracking device, but our enthusiasm was in overdrive. I had wanted to do this trip for many years.

Snow had descended below 2,000 the morning we drove the Nabesna road. By mid-day we could see the warmth of the sun melting it back up the hills. Nervous discussions ensued about snow and the fact that we’d be crossing passes of 5 and 6 thousand feet in elevation. “It’s become so hard to predict the weather.” Cole Ellis said, as we discussed our route with him at Devils Mountain Lodge. My father had guided with Cole in the early 70’s and his family had been living in the Wrangells since the 50’s. I was thankful that he didn’t think us stupid or reckless for attempting our trip this late in the season but he mentioned the value of the safety net in the form of a tracking device. He was as ambivalent about the weather as us and agreed that it could go either way. 

After a visit and tour of the property, Kim and I loaded our bikes, shouldered our packs and headed down the trail. Fall colors in the big mountains defy description and pull much needed attention from our gazes. We’d stop every time we rounded a bend or entered a clearing to take in the majestic and colorful landscape.

After a few miles we reached a creek where we inflated the rafts, stowed gear and began paddling. After a short trip down the creek we joined the braided Nabesna River and followed it down several miles to a confluence with a creek that we’d follow up into the high country the following day. Near gale force winds blew up river. Whenever we got out of the rafts to scout or portage over an island we had to anchor them with rocks. Paddling down river never seemed so slow. Summer was clearly over.

Riding up riverbeds on big tired bikes is tremendous fun. Micro lines through a series of seemingly unrideable rocks present themselves at the last second. Just when you think you’ll have to dismount and push, the line comes into focus and you power/navigate through. Little bursts of elation pop in your head every time a successful passage over the rocks fall behind you. 

Kim and I worked our way up the creek for the first half of the day until we reached a fork. From there the incline steepened, the rocks became bigger and the bike pushing began. Earlier, Kim had been swept off her feet during one of the many creek crossings. Our new creek bed flowed with less water but the nervous pit in our stomachs returned. There were many creeks to come.

“This is no where near where we are.” I was reading the latitude and longitude on our GPS and lining them up on our map. The two lines intersected on our map but they were 20+ miles to the north west of our actual position. We’d been leaving “breadcrumbs” as we went but until now we hadn’t taken the time to read our coordinates and impose them on the map. We shut the unit off and tried again. The result was the same. “We’ve put in a long day. Let’s sleep on this problem and address it in the morning.” I said.

The next morning, over coffee, we discussed long and hard the situation we were in. Excluding our navigation equipment, our gear was awesome. Our hearts and bodies were in but our minds couldn’t get over our inability to navigate in anything but clear weather. “What happens when we reach the Chitistone and it snows?” “Will we be able to find the pass and what about the skinny little goat trail on the 40+º slope?” There are many wrong ways to go but only one right one. The day was beautiful and clear but already light cirrus was brewing on the southern sky. “Fuck!”

We’ve become used to these complicated tools that reach up into the sky at the speed of light, find three or more satellites, use trilateration and fix you to a reasonably exact position on earth. The consolation from that information can be both trivial and life sparingly incredible. To face the rest of our traverse without the GPS was to remove precisions and expect luck to be our guide. 

As the morning wore on more cirrus moved into the sky and we made the tough decision to retreat. Our only consolation was that we would come back and this had been a good recon. Our return trip involved biking back up the Nabesna River. It never ceases to amaze us how perfectly adapted big tire bikes are for much of Alaska’s remote terrain and we made the most or our loop back to the truck.

Days later one of us would bellow, “Damn! I bet we’d have been fine. We should have tried.” The other would console, “We made the smart decision and need to remember that.” The roles would reverse in an hour and the bellyaching would begin all over again.

We had time before we needed to come home so we drove to the southern Wrangells and spent two days exploring the Root Glacier out of Kennicott. The weather warmed but with the warmth came rain and the trip across the glacier with bikes was out. On warm days the surface of glaciers metamorphoses into loose, crunchy ice that offers traction and purchase. When it rains the ice stays smooth and slick and crampons become necessary.

We followed the lateral moraine toward the Stairway Icefall, one of the seven wonders of Alaska, in my opinion. The icefall begins in an ice field above eleven thousand feet and in less than five miles flows down to thirty five hundred feet. The earth trembles under the force of this steep river of ice and you can feel geology happening around you.

As a fresh faced 19-year old I moved out to McCarthy/Kennicott to climb mountains. My first gig was “curator” of the museum. Although my time spent with the old-timers learning about the human history of the Kennicott Mine was fascinating, I was constantly pulled into the hills. Room and board was not enough of an enticement so by mid-summer I’d moved up to Chris Richards place in Kennicott. Chris was a survivor of the famous massacre who was then running a historic tour business. Without much effort I talked him into letting me take tourists out on the glacier and later into guiding fly-in multi-day mountaineering trips, under his insurance.

Chris died years later in a tragic house fire along with his survivor’s guilt and treasure trove of tales. I love telling other people’s stories, but few if any as much as his. The wild, drunk pirate is gone but the guide service lives on and it was easy for me to feel like a first time visitor. So much has changed since I lived there that it’s not worth a comparison and we enjoyed our time without reservation or wistful longing for the ‘old times’.

On our return trip through Chitna we stayed again with our friend Michael Moody. Few people know how to squeeze a dime further and survive longer on less than this man. Every time I visit, his garden doubles in size and his breadth of wisdom about Alaskan botany triples. He lives in a shack next to the log cabin church that was built when the area was developed in the turn of the twentieth century. Growing, procuring, and subsistence fill his days along with being the only local EMS first responder and teacher. I am not religious but being around Michael feels like being in the presence of a saint – the saint of the Alaskan bush. Wild mushrooms were blooming and with Michael’s directions, we used our last day in the Wrangell’s to harvest as many agarics as we could find to dry for our winter larder.

We freely admit that we are spoiled beyond redemption. We’ve raised our personal bars rather high so when we are forced to return from a trip prematurely it hits us hard. We’ve gone over and over our decision to retreat and always land on that we made the ‘wise’ choice. The tenor and nature of the trip changed after our decision was made and I do not regret having seen people and spending a more relaxed time with old friends. To quote Woody Allen: ‘If you’re not failing every now and again, it’s a sure sign that you’re not trying anything very innovative.’

Note: I’ve been in contact with the FAA since being home in an attempt to find reason for our GPS failure. In August, the Air Force was doing controlled GPS outages but I am still not sure if there is a correlation. I also found a site that posts when there will be scheduled GPS outages. Seems like a worthwhile thing to peruse before heading into the backcountry.  

Fat-Bike To The Arctic - Gear Review

Bjrn and Kim pause on the Seward Peninsula for photo-op.

I have written a gear review of the equipment Kim and I used on our 1,000+ mile fat-bike expedition the the arctic of Alaska which has been published on Ground Truth Trekking. 

'Every expedition and trip reveals new insight about technique and equipment and we always hope to incorporate that wisdom on the next trip. ‘Fat-bike to the Arctic’ stood on the shoulders of our experimentation over the years and vicarious lessons from others.

Herein I will attempt to outline and review the equipment we used on our 1,000 + mile, winter fat-bike trip to the arctic of Alaska.'

Read more here.