Bike-Rafting

Bike-Rafting 101

-Bjørn Olson

Bike-Rafting

How to get started

Over the last dozen years, a new breed of cycling has exploded around the world. Fat-bikes and plus bikes are allowing people to go places outside the confines of traditional mountain bikes. An era of creative adventure and discovery is currently underway.

With these omni-terrain bicycles, creative wilderness routes have begun to come into focus. Every year and in all seasons, people are coming up with unique routes to attempt. From forest to alpine, beaches, desert, tundra and all bioregions in between, fat-bikes and plus-bikes are filling an organic niche for people looking for a raw wilderness experience from the saddle of a bicycle.

Riding on winter snow trails, like the Iditarod Trail, was the original driving force behind the evolution of the fat-bike, which, initially, were often called snow-bikes. As soon as this breed of bicycle became commercially available, in the mid-2000s, however, people began exploring other possibilities with them. Soft, rough and unmaintained tracts of vast wilderness can now be traversed by bicycle. The only limitations are skill level and imagination.

Co-evolving alongside this new breed of bicycle are two forms of equipment, which allow adventure cyclists greater potential to explore further afield in atypical terrain: soft-bags and packrafts. The soft-bags – like framebags, seat-bags, and handlebar rolls – are ideal for loading a bike with camping equipment while helping to keep the bike well-balanced and nimble feeling in rough terrain.

The ultimate compendium for backcountry adventure with a fat-bike, however, is the packraft. Packrafts are sub-six-pound, one-person, inflatable rafts that roll up to the size of a stuffed, summer sleeping bag and are capable of carrying gear plus a bike. More than any other piece of equipment, this type of human-powered watercraft provides the greatest possibilities for the adventure cyclist to explore far off the beaten path.

Incorporating a packraft into the bike adventure quiver allows for an enormous variety of otherwise unattainable adventures. The ability to cross creeks, streams, rivers, and lakes or to get around steep headlands, for example, provides access to new cycling terrain. There are routes that involve cycling up one drainage and then paddling back down another or multi-week traverses that require amphibian adaptability.

Several brands of packraft are on the market but one stands head and shoulders above the others - Alpacka Rafts. Alpacka brand packrafts emerged in the 90s out of Alaska and have been in a constant process of evolution ever since. The original Alpacka Rafts were remarkably resilient and lightweight but over the last decade the design, and variety of rafts has seen a surge of improvements. A host of packraft shapes and configurations now exist for specific requirements; bike-rafting is one of them. 

If incorporating a packraft into your bike adventures is something you’d like to do, before making the plunge, there are a few things worth considering. Number one is what sort of trips do you plan to undertake. If bike-rafting is your primary objective, then that helps narrow down the options.

It is ideal when packrafting with a bike strapped onto the bow to have a slightly longer raft. If you are planning to run serious whitewater, you may want to have two rafts: one that fits perfectly and is outfitted for whitewater and an expedition boat with more length and simpler rigging. It is optimal to be able to achieve a full forward stroke for maximum propulsion. If the raft is too short, the bike strapped to the front will impede your efficiency while paddling. Furthermore, expedition rafts require few bells and whistles and are therefore, when they are stripped down to the bare essentials, easier to pack and carry.

Many modern packrafts can be purchased with a waterproof zipper on the stern of the boat. This allows you to stow gear inside the raft. There are a couple reasons why a zipper is a good idea: the gear stays dry and out of your way while you are paddling, and the raft becomes more stable when the weight is low rather than up high on the deck. However, zippers require extreme care. One piece of sand in the teeth can spell disaster. As long as you take precautions, the zipper is worth the extra attention they require.

Spray decks come in two flavors: Whitewater and Cruiser. A Whitewater spray deck consists of an all-lightweight-fabric deck with a small, round opening, similar to a kayak cockpit. Around the cockpit opening there is a tube of Pex plastic coaming, which acts as a lip to secure a spray skirt - again, similar to a kayak. The Cruiser spray deck is zippered onto the deck of the raft on three sides and opens with hook and loop fabric on one side. This allows for easy in and out access. Of the two, the whitewater spray deck keeps the most water out. If you plan to roll your raft or expect to be in big waves, the whitewater deck is the better option. For expeditions, the simpler Cruiser spray deck is quite sufficient for keeping your lower body dry from rain and small waves. You can also opt to save a little weight, space and money and foregoing the deck entirely. 

Once you figure out which raft suits your needs and make the plunge, the next step is to learn how to use it. This brief article is meant to be only an overview for bike-rafters. Before venturing out, be sure to get instruction and read Roman Dial’s book - Packrafting.

Here are a few specific tips, however, for rafting with a bike to get you on your way.

The first thing you’ll want to get efficient with is your transitions. Bikes carry rafts and rafts carry bikes. When you are underway, it is ideal to be able to switch from one mode to the other in the least time possible. Make sure, however, that you do it properly. Hitting a class 3 wave train or being slammed by a 25-mph gust of wind is not the time to realize you neglected to strap your bike down tight enough or that your load is lopsided.

Most of the time, while cycling, my raft is rolled up tight, with the tougher hull fabric exposed, strapped to the handlebar. The exception is when I know I am going to be pushing my bike for several miles and I want it to be as light as possible. On most summer expeditions I carry a large, lightweight backpack that I can fit my entire kit into. When the riding is good I carry most everything on the bike in soft bags and the raft gets strapped to the handlebar.

There are two main ways that I strap the bike to the raft when I am in aquatic mode. One way is very fast and simple, but I only ever use this method when making short and calm crossings. This involves inflating the raft, removing the non-drive pedal (create good habits and always store pedals in the same place every time. I put mine in my frame bag. Always!) and laying it across the bow. I then use one strap to keep the bike from falling overboard. The front wheel ends up being in the water with this configuration but if you only have a short distance to cover and it is calm, this is OK. Once I am in the raft I place my pack on my lap and make the crossing. Simple.

The proper way to strap the bike to the raft, however, takes a little more time to set up. This is the technique to use in almost all situations. Required for the proper method are three ladder-locking straps that are at least two feet long and one piece of 3-mil chord that is tied across the bow between the two furthest forward tie downs (d-rings) on the raft.

Begin by inflating the raft and seat. Then remove both pedals from the bike, stow them in a safe place and then remove the front wheel. Place the frame of the bike on the bow of the raft with the drive side up and the fork legs facing forward. Then find the right balance point where the bike is not too far forward or too far back. Too far forward and the bike will want to slip off; too far back will impede your forward stroke. Next, turn the handlebars up and horizontal so the levers and shifter(s) are facing up, and then place the front wheel on top. Once the bike is in the proper position, loosely strap the bike down with the three straps. On the front of the raft there are typically four tie downs. Use the two furthest aft bow tie downs. Connect the 3-mil cord between the furthest forward tie downs and then run one strap from the middle of the cord. After the bike is loosely strapped down, slowly cinch each strap and observe as you go how the load looks and shift or true as needed. If it’s wonky and off to one side, loosen, reposition and then resume.

Learn to use the inflation bag to its potential. Practice inflating your raft in your yard until it feels natural and second nature. Once the raft is as full as you can get it with the inflation bag, continue to force air into the raft with your breath. Then, before launching, place the raft in the cold water and let the air inside cool. This will allow you to get a couple more breaths worth of air inside the raft before you launch. You want it as full and taught as possible. On wilderness trips with a packraft, the transition between one mode to the other eats up time. Being proficient with these transitions is absolutely to your and your trip partner’s advantage. 

Pro tip: if there is a breeze, inflate your raft with the stern facing the wind. Use the wind to quickly refill the inflation bag and then force the air into the raft with big compressions of the sack.

It is important to practice rescues near home in safe, calm waters with friends nearby. Packrafts are very stable but they are nearly impossible to re-right by yourself once upside down, in deep water, with a bike strapped to the bow. Rescue requires either holding onto your paddle and raft, and swimming to the nearest shore or assistance from another friend in a packraft. With you helping in the water, the rescuer in the raft can re-right your raft and then stabilize it while you jump back in. Make sure you never let go of your raft or paddle when you do capsize. If it is windy and you let go, it only takes a second before the raft blows away and you’ll not be able to retrieve it. 

Again, work on rescues in calm water with friends before heading out into the backcountry until the techniques become second nature. Panic is your enemy in emergency situations. The solution is familiarity, good teamwork and enough practice that these maneuvers become reflexive. 

Other equipment you’ll want is a four-piece breakdown kayak paddle, paddle leash, a personal flotation device (PFD) and perhaps a dry suit.

There are many suitable kayak paddles on the market but the ideal packrafting paddle is a breakdown paddle that breaks into four pieces - where the shaft meets the paddle blades and in the middle of the shaft. This allows you to stow the paddle without long ends sticking out to catch on brush and tree branches as you cycle along. I also prefer a slightly longer paddle for packrafting than I would use for kayaking. 

The lightest paddles are made entirely of carbon fiber but there is a strong argument for nylon blades. Nylon is very strong material and therefore the paddles last longer and withstand abuse better. I often use three sections of my packraft paddle as the center pole in my floor-less mid-shelter and I sometimes use the blade as a shovel to scoop dirt, sand or gravel around the edge of my shelter to help keep it anchored when it is windy. I would not use the more fragile carbon fiber blades for these tasks. Personally, the slightly heavier blades are worth the weight penalty because of the increased durability and their dual-purpose nature.

There are many PFDs on the market and choosing the one that suits your needs is a personal choice. Some people like PFDs with a lot of bells and whistles but, for packrafting, I prefer a very simple, snug-fitting one. Inflatable PFDs are nice because they stow away into the smallest package and you can inflate them to just the right amount to use as a pillow at night.

Paddle leashes can be valuable when paddling on flat water, like lakes, bays, fjords, etc. The leash can be a simple as 3 to 5-mil chord tied to the middle of the paddle on one end and the bow of the raft on the other end. Six or so feet of cord is plenty but make sure you have enough to achieve a full forward stroke as well as your sweep and rudder strokes. The value of a paddle leash, when paddling in flat water, is that if you ever capsize all you have to be sure to do is hold onto the paddle. Your raft will be safe from blowing away. Never use a paddle leash if you are in water that has current. In current, the leash can wrap around an obstacle like a rock or tree, and you can quickly become hopelessly entangled.

Although packrafts are remarkably tough they are not indestructible. Learning to field-repair your boat is as important as knowing how to fix a flat or true your wheel. Always carry a repair kit and learn how to use it. The items I always carry are the patches Alpacka provides, alcohol swabs, a sturdy sewing needle, dental floss for thread, a few feet of Tyvek tape wrapped around a Bic lighter, a tube of Aquaseal and a smaller tube of quick-drying UV Aquaseal. If the trip is longer than a week, I often also carry a spare valve and a spare d-ring. 

Dry suits are a remarkable piece of safety and quality-of-experience equipment, especially in cold climates, but they are also bulky and heavy. Most often, mine stays home on bike-rafting trips. Instead, I rely on my rain gear and do everything in my power to keep from capsizing. The Alpacka/Kokatat drysuit is very lightweight, specifically made for the fast-and-light packrafter. If I plan to run whitewater or will be making long crossings, I sometimes use this suit on trips. Because it is so lightweight, it is recommended to wear rain gear over the top of it to help prevent it from tearing and abrading.

There are countless other gear and technique considerations for the wilderness cyclist looking to expand their range with the aid of a packraft but step one is getting out there and trying it. Start with small, bite-sized and low consequence trips. Keep your expectations honest and conservative, and always go with at least one reliable buddy. Once you feel efficient, safe and comfortable, take it to the next level. There is always a next level. Whatever that is, is up to you to decide. But in this era of wilderness exploration with a Salsa bike and a good packraft, the equipment won’t be what holds you back.

Crust Fat-Biking: Assailing The Temporal

Crust Fat-Biking: Assailing The Temporal

-Bjørn Olson

Originally published in bikepacking.com

It’s 3:00 AM. The moon is above my right shoulder casting a long shadow over the undulating snow. Riding my fat-bike, with my ruff pulled up and my hands tucked into large pogies, my shadow looks like some sort of half animal, half machine creature. My four friends and I are liberated from the trail, atop concrete-hard snow, picking any line we choose through the forests and meadows. I feel like an animal, like a wolf in a pack. We all hoot and holler with abandon.

 Spring crust riding is one of the many great joys experienced by a year-round fat-biker. A year in the life of our particular fat-bike culture goes something like this:

 June – August: Maintain and ride technical trails through local forests; half-day and full day beach rides (preferably on the most technically challenging terrain available); street sessions, e.g. curbs, benches, cylinders, steps, and other interesting urban lines and routes; several overnight trips (with or without packraft or partner); at least one big summer wilderness expedition with packraft and at least one partner.

 September – November: Milk as much summer as you can and ride as much as you did until the season finally changes; take advantage of early freezing conditions before the first snow flies by riding up creeks, over bogs, and connecting backcountry lines that are otherwise too wet to ride in the summer or filled in with snow in winter; rally the homeys for a week-long friend’s trip, with or without packrafts (fall seems to be when everyone can most often pull away from busy schedules); take advantage of trails that become too overgrown with brush to be any fun in the summer; ride on and over as much hard, compact, frozen ground as possible.

 December – February: Get your Black Metal fat-bike rides on; bundle up, strap on the headphones, blinker lights, headlights, and goggles; ride in every winter blizzard; remember how to stay warm, how to not sweat in your clothing, how to manage equipment in sub-freezing conditions; go camping on snowmachine trails every full moon; get strong.

 March: Cut all ties and go on an expedition. March is the month—the siren’s call to the wilds. Accept no substitute. March is the time when winter starts to relax her grip a little and the daylight returns. In any northern region, snowmachiners and dog mushers feel the siren’s call, too. Learn where their trails go; find creative ways to cover vast amounts of country on these hard-packed and fleeting winter trails. Spend weeks—or an entire month—covering country on snow. Invest in good gear and make these expeditions as pleasant as possible; learn from each one and improve technique, means, and creative route-discovery every year.

 April – May: Observe the snow and weather conditions and be ready to strike at the first hint that crust conditions are good to go. South facing slopes come first; eventually every aspect goes through the thaw-freeze cycle and the entire snowy world becomes a playground when it’s frozen. Wake up early and ride until the afternoon sun begins to thaw the snow again.

 …and repeat.

Every season contains a few fleeting days or sometimes mere hours of euphoric perfection. There are the summer afternoons, for example, when the ground is dry, the bugs are down, the air still, and the dirty sweat on your forehead and arms feels like a well-earned callous; when your ride into the alpine leads you to a cold, inviting lake; when you drip dry on the soft heather and watch a cumulonimbus cloud billow over a mountain summit across the valley; when the hermit thrush sing their lovely call to one another through the dwarf hemlock forest and fill the air with well-being; when you don your grimy clothing and sweaty helmet and bomb back down the hill with the last of the golden light of day. Summer magic.

 And in March when you find yourself far away from people and crowds; when the temperature is zero degrees and the air perfectly still; when the trail beneath your tires is rock hard and you have them pumped all the way up to 20 PSI; when an animal, maybe a coyote or an owl or a moose or a raven, crosses your path and you stop to watch it as it watches you; when you finally stop for the day, build a fire, cook a meal, share reflections, crawl into your warm sleeping bag, and go to sleep giddy with the insight that you get to do it all over again tomorrow. Winter magic.  

 In the spring, there is a lot of magic throughout northern regions. The world is returning from the long, dark, and cold slumber. With the additional light and warming air, life returns, animal and bird migrations begin, and sour moods get crowded out by the excitement of rebirth and renewal. For any outdoor enthusiast, spring is the time to strike, to forego sleep, responsibilities, and obligations. For fat-bikers, crust season is the magical and fleeting time period when everything else must be put on hold.

 Crust snow occurs when the daytime temperatures are above freezing, and nighttime temperatures remain below freezing. The snow crystals metamorphose into round grains, commonly called corn snow, and become saturated and denser than winter snow. At night, this corn snow re-freezes and becomes nearly rock hard. At first, this only occurs on sunny, south facing slopes. As the season progresses, the entire snowpack, from bottom to top, undergoes this metamorphic transformation.

 A lot of variables go into a good crust fat-biking season. How deep was the snowpack over the winter? What sorts of layers developed in the snowpack? Is the spring weather on a consistent trend or does it vacillate between spring and winter for weeks at a time? Is it going to rain all through April? Each of these considerations and more go into the perfect conditions. Often, entire years go by without this natural manifestation of ideal circumstances—all the more reason why it’s imperative to pounce when the stars do align.

 Over the last decade, my crew and I have tried to be ready, willing, and able for this ephemeral springtime riding condition. We approach crust riding in one of two ways: aimless forays into the most interesting terrain we can find, where the objective is pure, giddy fun, or long rides to cross a lot of otherwise impossible-to-traverse terrain. If the season is particularly good, this can go on for weeks.

 In general, we prefer to start our rides well before sunrise and, in some instances, we begin riding right after dark. It all comes down to when freezing starts to occur, how hard it freezes and, inversely, when it warms above freezing and how warm it gets. By obsessively observing the weather forecasts and spending time out in the country and on the snow, we begin, each spring, to develop a sense of what we can get away with.

 For this type of riding, you can use almost any bike with plus or fat wheels. When the conditions are really good, even a mountain bike with two-inch tires can work. However, I always prefer a fat-bike with the fattest tires possible, and although studs aren’t required for traction on the snow, there are often a lot of ice conditions that appear this time of year. Super fat tires are insurance for when the conditions degrade and, with big, low-pressure tires, rolling over obstacles is both a cinch and a riot of a good time. A dropper seat post is not essential, but the joy of riding steep and technical crust lines with one can’t be overstated.  

 I also prefer to ride crust with the least gear and weight as possible. A water bottle, snack, a flask to share, a multi-tool, and a camera are all that typically make the cut for fun rides. This sort of cycling feels incredibly liberating and it’s ideal to approach the terrain unencumbered, able to give your all. The traction and terrain can feel similar to Moab’s slick rock and our riding attitude is similar to the culture found in that part of the world.

 That said, overnight trips are fantastic during the crust season, too, assuming you entirely trust the conditions not to melt out from under you. Riding through the night under the stars and moon to a remote cabin over the snow on a route concocted entirely of your own imagination is the quintessential essence of what bikepacking can be. Loafing about, reading a book, napping, or chewing the fat while catching the afternoon rays and waiting for freeze up again add bliss to the complete experience.

 To feel as liberated as possible, I pare down my camping kit to the bare essentials. One puffy sweater, a hat, a lightweight summer sleeping bag, sunglasses, a Bic lighter, a titanium mug, a water bottle, snacks, instant coffee, multi-tool, pump, repair kit and, in our neck of the woods, a can of bear spray are essentially all that is required. Last year’s dry grass or spruce bows make fine sleeping pads and open fires do a remarkable job of bringing a cup of melted snow to boil for coffee. Another joy about this time of year is that many of the creeks begin to flow again and finding fresh drinking water is usually not a problem. There are typically many hours of the day and afternoon that are above freezing, and thus unrideable, so I typically splurge and bring a concentrated adult beverage (whiskey) and a small paperback book.

 For the most part there are very few pitfalls or hazards associated with crust riding, but there are exceptions. Often, the surface snow can hide holes, crevasses, or open water. Riding over glaciers, fast moving water, or terrain so steep that you can’t see the entire runout need to be approached with caution. It’s only a minor inconvenience to have your bike punch through a big pocket of empty air when riding over a patch of buried willows; it’s quite another thing to fall 50 or more feet into a crevasse or an open hole above a river. Common sense and familiarity with terrain features should always accompany the savvy backcountry explorer.

 Under the full moon, we instinctively begin playing a game of “follow the leader” through the forest. Whenever the leader’s line choice becomes too absurd and the terrain forces them to abandon it, another rider takes over. Up a spruce forest hillock, into a skate park dream gully, a log ride over a bent birch tree, a steep bomb-drop off a small cliff face to a beautiful transition, and finally into a patch of willows that offers no escape. “Your turn,” my buddy Daniel says. “Show us what you got!”

 Shifted into low gear, I raise my dropper post and power up a steep hill. When the angle reaches an even steeper degree, it’s my strength that breaks my line, not the traction. Before losing my fight with gravity, I turn to the left and ride an upward angle just shallower than what my hill-facing pedal will strike, and then I turn hard to right. Climbing the mountain like a backcountry skier on skins, I reach the summit. From the top, several downhill lines present themselves. I’m overjoyed to be the leader for this run. I drop my saddle, give two hard cranks, lean back, and bomb down through the trees.

 Eventually, our party remembers that dawn is approaching and we’d discussed a long ride to the village of Ninilchick. We give up the game and head down Deep Creek Valley, leaving the well-worn snowmachine trail untouched. Each person choosing their own high-speed line–bunny hopping over little mounds, banking turns in the creek bed, wheelie dropping over short drop-offs, but forward, always forward.

Hours later, we reach the parking lot where the evening before we’d delivered my truck to shuttle bikes and riders back home. The bags below our underslept eyes crease upward with fat grins and we awkwardly attempt a clumsy and fatigued group high five. 

The next afternoon at 4:00 PM, my fiancé Kim and I finish our second cup of coffee and breakfast when both of our cell phones simultaneously chirp. The group text reads, “Crust ride?”

North Slope By Fat-Bike

North Slope by Fat-Bike or The White Gas For White Guys Expedition

Deadhorse to Trailhead

Over 20 years ago, my friend and mentor, Roger Cowles, told me a story about being in Utqiagvik (Barrow) and being able to ski to Wainwright in one continuous push – a distance of over 100 miles. Roger had been in Utqiagvik to help with a bowhead whale survey. The snow, while he was there, underwent a thaw and freeze cycle, making the surface rock hard; he saw an opportunity to ski far and fast. Roger’s story infected me all those years ago. Since then I have hoped to be available to attempt something similar on the Arctic Slope of Alaska with a fat-bike.

Early in the morning on the 6th of May, after pouring my first cup of coffee, I checked my Facebook and saw photos from my friend Qaiyaan, an Utqiagvik buddy. He’d been out on the country traveling by snowmachine and his images revealed what looked like ideal conditions for fast travel on snow over great distances. I immediately messaged him to confirm. “Yea dude, this is right snow conditions, u could have bikes for miles and Fucken miles,” came his response.

Now all I needed was a partner willing to drop everything and join me on a fools adventure. Hey, want to cross a couple hundred miles of the loneliest region of Alaska? No one has tried it on bike before, the snow may melt out at any minute, there are bears, we have to get past the hyper-secure-industrial-oil-lease-lands with a firearm and once we are underway we won’t see a soul. And we need to leave day after tomorrow. It should be fun.

Chief steward of the RV Sikuliaq and my long-time BFF, Mark Teckenbrock, was home in Seward with a couple weeks remaining between hitches. He took the bait and enthusiastically accepted the quixotic invitation.

Two days later we were on an Alaska Airlines jet to Prudhoe Bay with our loaded bikes and tummies full of butterflies.  

In Deadhorse—the industrial community on the North Slope of Alaska, full of man-camps and mostly out-of-region-oil-company-workers—Mark and I stood out like sore thumbs. Many people cycle up to Deadhorse along the Dalton Highway in the summer months but in the still-wintry month of May, our fat-bikes and Patagonia garb looked out of place amongst the Carhart-and-steel-toed-boot uniform of the oil-filed workers.

After putting our bikes together in a truck-warming bay at the airport, we rode across the street to the Prudhoe Bay Hotel. We had no idea how we were going to get past the secure oil fields and to the beginning of the trail we planned to follow. We hoped to get some information. On wilderness expeditions, I have come to depend upon local knowledge. In this instance, we were beginning our trip in a bustling community where no one is local and none had information. “CWAT Trail? Never heard of it.”

The hour was late; we’d both spent the previous evening frantically packing and had risen early to drive to Anchorage. We decided to get a meal and a room at the hotel and try to figure out this stubborn and atypical hurdle in the morning.

“Are you guys from Seward?” the security guard asked us as we walked into his office the following morning. “Yes,” we said. Although neither Mark nor I recognized him, we saw this as a sign that we had an above average chance of getting past the security impediment. Our hopes were quickly dashed. “Not a chance,” came Zack, the security guard’s, reply, after we explained what we were trying to do. “The only way to get through the oil field is if you have an identification badge for both BP and Conoco Philips, which you’d have to fly back to Anchorage to get.”

Zack was willing, however, to see what he could do but he gave little reason to hope. He called one superior after another to let us explain our situation and need over the speakerphone.  From the higher-ups we received variations on the theme of “No,” and “Hell No.” Our prospects were looking grim until our helpful security guard told us of one option that remained: a transport from a North Slope Borough employee.

At the main borough office in Utqiagvik, Brower Frantz answered the phone. After explaining our situation and who we were, Brower told us that he might be able to help us reach the trailhead beyond the secure oilfield areas. A few hours later we were in a pickup truck, with our clearances and a security truck escort, in front, carrying our firearm, which we’d brought for bear protection. A more surreal beginning to an expedition I have never met.

Lost and Found and Lost and Found Again

After passing through the BP oil filed lease area we met a Conoco Philips security driver and again gave him our gun to shuttle ahead of us. “They do this for the locals, too,” Tom Martell, our gracious borough driver told us. “Even bb guns are forbidden.” Typically, I prefer carrying bear spray over firearms for bear protection but the North Slope is a windy place. Brown bears were awake from their winter hibernation and although we’d be traveling on an inland trail, polar bears exist in this region. My friend Billy had lent me his 4” barrel 500 Smith and Wesson revolver – the largest handgun they make.

When we reached the end of our industrial road trip, the two trucks stopped and we got out. A post-apocalyptic Mad Max movie script swirled in my mind. We thanked Tom, unloaded our now dusty bikes from the bed of the truck and waved goodbye as they drove away.

The profound and ominous sense of holy shit, we are fucking out here was quickly erased once we hit the trail. The conditions were exactly what we’d hoped they’d be – rock hard snow, verging on ice, with a strong easterly tail wind. The temperature was in the mid-20s; the afternoon sun was on our faces and my trepidations evaporated into bliss as we rode along at top speed.

The CWAT Trail is a recent undertaking by the North Slope Borough. For the last two winters, the borough has groomed and maintained an overland route from Utqiagvik to Deadhorse to allow residents an alternative for bringing vehicles or supplies to the extremely remote and most northerly community in the United States. Beginning in February, the route is punched in with piston bullies. Groups of Utqiagvik residents drive trucks and cars up from Fairbanks or Anchorage to Deadhorse, and then over the tundra on this nearly-300-hundred-mile fleeting snow trail. By the time we began our trip all the caravans had wrapped up for the season and all the markers had been removed. The trail, however was obvious as day.

Before leaving home, I’d contacted the borough and told them of our plan. I talked first with search and rescue and then with someone from the land-use department. They graciously approved our non-commercial journey and had sent me a low-res satellite image with the route overlaid on it. The majority of the trail is straight west but then turns north for the last 70ish miles. In the corner of the image, text read, “Proposed 2019 route.” As Mark and I sped along, neither of us thought much of the fact that we were beginning to trend south. We’d seen no other trail and the one we were on was a veritable highway.

Although we’d not crawled into our sleeping bags until after midnight, I woke with a start at 6:15 and fired up the MSR stove to start melting snow. With so much ground to cover before the next thaw, which could come any time, we needed to make the most of each precious day.

Minutes into our early morning ride we encountered snowdrifts that entirely covered the trail. Riding over drift snow is energy intensive and slow going on a fat-bike. For five miles the drifts persisted, as did our confounding southbound compass heading. We were beginning to worry that we’d somehow gotten onto another trail but kept justifying our foreword push because neither of us had seen any sign of another trail. “Maybe there is open water on the Colville River and they re-routed to cross it further up?” I offered. Around 2:00 in the afternoon we began to worry in earnest.

“Yes, you’ve gone too far south,” our friend Hig confirmed over our InReach. He sent us coordinates, as did our friend Qaiyaan in Utqiagvik. We were on an oil company exploratory trail, headed for the Brooks Range. Somehow we had missed the trail. By the time we were certain that we needed to backtrack, a strong wind from the northeast had manifest. Knowing that the wind was supposed to blow itself out by morning, we set up shelter and sat it out.

Once we made it back over the snowdrift section of trail, the following morning, and back to our first camp, we saw a split in the trail that we’d missed the first time. We knew it wasn’t the trail we ultimately wanted but it headed northwest rather than northeast, as the trail we’d followed in did. Taking this trail, we reasoned, would be better than the original one. As long as we continued north we were bound to encounter the east-west CWAT trail we wanted, and this trail would veer us more to the west. Within an hour we’d found what we were looking for – the westbound CWAT. Once we were lost but now we were found. Our confidence had taken a blow and we’d used up precious fuel but we felt our spirits lift as we began to zip along again, in the right direction.

My mind had just begun to relax a little when another text came through Mark’s InReach. We’d been on the westbound trail for six miles when our friend from Utqiagvik sent a message saying we were, yet again, on the wrong trail. I punched in a short and succinct reply - “Fuck!” Sure enough, the GPS waypoints showed that we were south of the trail by about 5-miles. “There should be a Y,” he said, “where they merge.” He sounded uncertain; we were crushed.

We continued west for another mile until we saw a wide-open patch of terrain. Tentatively, I veered my bike off the trail to the north. The open snowfield barely supported my weight atop my bike so we let out tire pressure to what I consider stupid-low and we began hunting through the open tundra for the CWAT chimera. 

Hours later, exhausted and demoralized, we gave up. We’d stumble-fucked through bare tundra, slushy bogs, and open snowfields and were further north than all the waypoints. We were in terrible terrain for a trail to be. To the west, as far as we could see, was a pasture of willows poking through the snow - horrible ground even without a bike to travel through. We pitched our shelter and drank Mark’s celebratory airplane whiskey. All seemed lost.

“We looked and looked but can’t find it. Pretty sure we were on CWAT but now r worried about not having enough fuel,” I texted to my friend Qaiyaan in the morning. “I’ll see if my buddy from Nuiqsut can run you out some gas. You got some money to pay him?” From where we were, the village of Nuiqsut was about 10 miles away in a straight line. Before replying to Qaiyaan, Mark and I had a discussion. Although it seemed like our trip was off to a shaky start, I lobbied that we take the opportunity to re-fuel and carry on. He agreed.

“My buddy Thomas Napageak is a hella AF hunter,” Qaiyaan said in his last text. Good, I thought. Hunters know their way around the country and we needed some fucking answers. An hour later Mark and I were slowly making our way back south when we saw Thomas’ snowmachine approaching. As he drew near he ascended a bluff and it looked as though he may miss us. “Plug your ears,” I told Mark. I took the 500 out, pointed it into the air, as far away from my ears as possible and fired a shot. My right ear rang and I went half deaf for several minutes but the cannon blast had worked.

“Yea, you were on CWAT,” Thomas said. As Mark filled our fuel bottles with the white gas, Thomas snapped a photo with his smartphone and walked above his snowmachine holding it above his head to find a signal. “You posting that?” I asked. “Yea. I wrote white gas for white guys,” he said, and we all busted up laughing. After being lost and found and lost and found again, we had fuel. Furthermore, our expedition had been given a name – White Gas For White Guys.

Two Days of Near-Bliss

“We are exactly atop Hig’s waypoint,” Mark said as we stopped on the west side of the Colville River to drink from our thermoses and eat a bite. Over the night it had snowed and for the first time on our trip there had been no wind – rare phenomena in the Arctic. The inch of light snow atop the hard trail slowed our speed some but the conditions were still way above average for efficient snow travel by bike.

West of the Colville, we entered terrain unlike any I have ever experienced – absolutely flat, white with snow, and yet beautiful beyond description. Ptarmigans cackled and the sun shone strong as we rode on mile after mile. “This may be the closest we’ll ever get to experiencing what it’s like to be on the moon, eh?”

For two long days we traveled toward our destination, uninterrupted by route-finding or serious decision-making. Signs of the impending spring breakup were everywhere though. Each day we saw more and more migratory geese, swans and cranes making their way to their spring nesting grounds and each day more of the bare tundra exposed itself.

We were west of Arctic Alaska’s greatest lake, Lake Teshekpuk, when it began to warm up above freezing and the trail started to become sloppy. The new snow that had fallen when we were still east of the Colville was now, also, becoming a pain. During the heat of the afternoon, the skiff of snow melted but not entirely. As the snow re-froze, the surface morphed into a crispy verglas that insulated the softer snow beneath. We took out more tire pressure and nosily crunched onward.

Although it was only 5:00 PM, we decided to camp early on our third afternoon since leaving the Colville. “Let’s set the alarm for 2:00 AM and cross our fingers that it freezes tonight.” As we made coffee, the inside of our shelter, at 3:30, was still wet with condensation and outside we could make slushy snowballs. It hadn’t frozen. A damp and chilly fog settled in as we rode away at 5.

“How are you guys doing?” Came a message from Brower Frantz in Utqiagvik. We didn’t know what to say.

As we took more and more tire pressure out, we slowed to nearly walking speed and often had to dismount to push beyond the worst of the rotten patches. By 11 they were all rotten patches. Crossing a channel of the Ikpikpuk River, I stomped on and compressed the slush to keep my calf-high over-boots from being overtaken with the flowing open water. West of the river we found a dry patch of ground and sat down to discuss our options.

“You are super close to my cabin,” Qaiyaan’s InReach message said. He sent us coordinates and told us to head there. “It’s only a couple miles from where you are. There’s food and beds. I’ll come get you tomorrow evening.”

Saved

We were enveloped in thick pea soup fog as we sat on our little dry clump oasis on the shore of the Ikpikpuk. “We should reply to Brower, eh?” Mark punched in a response to his question, how you doing. A few minutes later, Brower replied and said he’d come retrieve us. This guy, whom we’d never met in person, was willing to finish his work day and head out into the fog and rotten snow for a 3 to 4 hour snowmachine trip to our location and give us a ride into Utqiagvik. “Quyanaq*. Thank you, Brower.”

For the first time on our trip we had access to dead willow branches and bits of driftwood. We built a fire to help ward off the damp and chilly air as we waited. Late in the evening, Brower sent another message, “Still getting everything together. Will leave town around 11.” Mark and I had started our day at 2:30 so we decided to set up the shelter and get a few hours of shut-eye.

We sprung awake as the sound of Brower’s machine drew near. We greeted him with groggy enthusiasm but needed a few minutes to pack everything away for what was bound to be a bumpy sled ride. He’d brought several 30-gallon containers of fuel for his cabin, which was less than three miles from our location. “I’ll go drop this off and come back in a minute,” he said. By the time he returned we were packed and bundled up, wearing every item of clothing we’d brought.

At our first pit stop, Mark and I pulled out our sleeping bags. When we resumed the trail we both crawled inside them, boots and all. Our goggles quickly misted over from the fog but we hunkered down and took in the experience.

Utqiagvik

The new day was in full swing when Brower pulled his snowmachine into Utqiagvik. The day before the entire community had melted out and the streets were bare gravel and mud, and slicks of water pooled in every depression. City workers were busy throughout the community pumping water away from homes and streets.

As Mark and I unpacked ourselves and bikes from the sled, Brower went inside his house to change. When he came out he had news: “They just caught a whale right in town.” The open sea was less than a couple hundred yards offshore – an eerie, unnatural and obvious indication of our global climate crisis. Until very recently, the sea ice extended 20 or more miles out and whalers had to make trails through and over the hummock ice to set whale camp. “We’ll meet you at the Top of the World Hotel for breakfast,” we told Brower and gave him money for gas and our best guess at the value of his time.

All three of us looked haggard as we stumbled into a booth at the restaurant. Our poofy eyes and incoherent conversations helped inform our waiter that we wanted coffee and to keep it coming. 

Reflection

Many obvious reflections can be made about our trip to the North Slope but none of them interest me too much. The main take-away for me is that I was able to experience an environment that I have been intrigued by for longer than I can remember, and it was more incredible than I could have imagined. This trip and experience gave me a small taste of the region’s moods, its wildlife, and, most importantly, its amazing people.

There are so many things that go into trying a new route with atypical equipment like a fat-bike but nothing teaches me more than giving it a shot. What we know now verses before we began is immeasurable. I plan to use this newfound wisdom to the best of my ability for next time.

*Quyanaq = Inupiat word for thank you

Back From The Ice Age

Kim McNett and I attempted a spring fat-bike expedition from Nome to Fairbanks, Alaska but mother nature had other ideas. We returned to Nome after four days due to extreme snow fall. Below is a slideshow and video of our short but remarkable time on the northern end of the Iditarod Trail. 

A perfect, clear and cold day to land in Nome; spirits high.

Kim and I snap a selfie near the Iditarod finish. Our plan was to spend a couple days taking in the scene of the Last Great Race. We were just in time to see Pete Kaiser come in 5th. 

Aniak homeboy, Richie Diehl, came in 6th!!! So rad!

Richie gives his dogs some love under the Burl Arch. 

Richie's fan club.

In 2014, I gave Deede a smooch in Rohn; this year she kissed me under the arch. Ti amo, Deede.

Salsa rider and all around BA, Jay Petervary, was the first human-powered athlete to Nome this year. Congratulations, Jay! 

Jay rode Salsa's new Blackborow and said it was the best bike he's used on the trail so far. 

Japanese musher Michi Konno under the arch.

Kaktovik musher Vebjørn followed his father Ketil Reitan to Nome on snowmachine. Kim and I met Vebjørn and Ketil in 2015 in White Mountain village. They had finished the Iditarod and were mushing home to Kaktovik. They are attempting to mush home again this year. 

Ketel finished 14th this year. After resting the dogs for a bit, he and his son will mush home to Kaktovik from Nome; 1,300 miles. These two are the real deal. 

As Kim and I were attempting to escape Nome our dear friend Monica Zappa came in. Team Zappa 4 Ever!

Kim and I knew a snow storm was in the forecast. Our goal was to make it to a shelter cabin to sit out the blizzard and ride against the rest of the mushers still coming in. 

Kim atop Cape Nome. Hard to believe that a storm was in the forecast and two mushers had had to be evacuated earlier this same day not too far from here. 

Kim and I stopped to warm up in the last checkpoint in Safety and then pushed on into a very cold and windy night. I have yet to confirm but I believe with wind chill that night it was in the neighborhood of -50 or -60 below zero. 

Despite the extreme cold, the evening was heartbreakingly beautiful. 

Kim and I spent two nights in this shelter sitting out the blizzard and discussing what to do. With all the new snow and all the snow in the forecast we made the realization that this was not a year for biking on the Iditarod Trail. 

The storm raged and raged. 

In the middle of our second night in the shelter, we awoke to a Ice Miner returning home to Nome with a team of beautiful Siberian huskies. The storm was too intense, so Reese, his seven sled dogs and Kim and I shared the small shelter in grand company. 

Reese's Siberian huskies were so well trained that he let them loose and called them one at a time to hitch them to the gang line. Beautiful. 

For a brief moment, Kim and I were able to ride back to Nome. That didn't last long. 

Safety Roadhouse and the last checkpoint on the Iditarod Trail. 

Snow, snow, snow, and more snow. 

Taking a break from bike-pushing. 

Our friend and the fastest long distance dog musher in the world, Nic Petit. Without question. Your day will come real soon, my friend. 

Back in Nome with friends. 

Tim Osmar; legend!

Monica prepares to send everybody home. 

Looks like a cute lil' pup but this sweetheart has run the trail four times. 

Snoozing in the snow. 

Perhaps the most striking dog in the field: Blue Steel. 

Monica and Tim

Monica and Kim

The final adventure came when we all boarded our Alaska Air flight, sat in the jet for three hours and then had to get back out. One of the engines had frozen. Thankfully, Tim and Monica invited us to stay with them at their host family's house. 

We saw Jan Kriska, the first walker into Nome at the airport. He'd walked 48 hours straight from White Mountain and looked entirely destroyed. He'd had to abandon his journey last year due to frostbite and this year was beset with intensely deep snow.  

The thousand yard stare face. This shit cannot be faked. 

Justin Boot serenaded Tim Osmar, and the rest of us, in the airport, with a song he'd written about Tim's father, Dean. 

Below is a short video from our time in Nome and on the trail. 

Nome to Fairbanks - Fat-Bike Expedition

On March 14, 2018, Kim and I fly to Nome, Alaska, with the intention of riding our bicycles to Fairbanks, on the greatest equipment the world has yet seen. The fat-bike is a marvel of modern industry and design. Man’s greatest invention—the bicycle—has been fussed over, considered, and modified into a thing of beauty and unrivaled efficiency.

Winter cycling expeditions can be really hard. Soft snow trails, strong and sometimes relentless wind, discomfort, and injury are all potentially on the menu and to be anticipated. In the late 1990s, winter cycling expeditions had the potential to be even more difficult—fat-bikes didn’t yet exist. Even with big tyres, these trips are often impossible; without big tyres, impossible was more frequent.  

In the 1980s, 1990s, and well into the 2000s, a handful of diehard winter cyclists were begging for bicycles with bigger, wider, and fatter wheels and tyres. Shade-tree inventors like Mark Gronewald and Ray Molina were pushing the boundaries but the options were few. Finally, however, one bigger bike company took a chance, made the leap of faith, and kicked off the fat-bike design arms race.

Since 2005, interest in this sub-culture cycling pursuit has grown exponentially. What used to be a sport wherein everyone who did it knew the name and or reputation of almost most everyone else, has mushroomed into a global phenomenon. Alaska has exported an idea and an activity to the world, and there is no going back. 

And, since 2005, the cycling industry has been in overdrive, designing and tweaking the equipment.

To the engineers and designers, who have lost sleep, listened to input, and spent long hours in the saddle wondering how to improve the fat-bike, thank you. To the OG’s who spent their inheritances and re-mortgaged homes on the original fat-bike dream, thank you.

Twenty years ago, I took my first winter cycling trip on the Iditarod Trail with Roger and Arleen Cowles. My mind was blown. We were on the equipment of the day and we didn’t achieve the massive objective we’d set out for. We made it to Unalakleet and called it.

Tomorrow, I fly with my favorite adventure partner, Kim McNett, to Nome, again. We intend to hang around for a few days and take in the finish of the Last Great Race, visit friends, and camp on beaches dripping with gold and history.

On this trip, I plan to shoot video. I want to ask anyone we meet, how global warming has affected their ability to travel. For ten thousand years, winter has been the time for travel and human migration; winter has been the time to visit distant family and to reconnect. On our watch, this tradition is disappearing, unless we get serious and start fighting like hell against global warming.

The stories I hope to capture will I hope help others understand the dire straights we are in. The stories I hope to capture will I hope spur us to action. “Summer,” an Inuit proverb tells us, “is the season of inferior sledding.”

On this expedition we will be carrying our InReach tracking device. You are invited to follow our progress and read our updates by clicking this link: https://share.garmin.com/BjornandKim

Our messages will be sent to Kim’s Facebook page as well as Ground Truth Trekking’s Facebook page.

Our bikes have been tuned; our bags packed; our batteries full of charge; and there is nothing left for it. We are as ready as we’ll ever be. Wish us well.

"It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” –Gandalf

A big shout-out to our gear sponsors, Salsa Cycles and Mountain Laurel Designs. 

Also, a big shoutout to the authors of Drawdown for giving me reason to hope. 

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

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. 

Pay It Forward

I believe that inspiration is contagious. One trick to life, I have discovered is - surrounding myself with inspired people rubs off. I believe if you are brilliant, you have an obligation to share and be a mentor. If, you are like me and not so brilliant, the best thing you can do is to saddle up, as close as possible, to the smartest, most interesting and inspired people you can find. They will help expose the latent potential within.

I have been lucky in my life to have been exposed to many brilliant people. Each has left their mark and helped shaped my worldview. There are far too many individuals to mention but suffice it to say, Alaska is full of incredible people - people who live outside the mould and make lives worth talking about.

In the late 1990s I became friends with Roger Cowels, a second generation Alaskan. To my impressionable mind, Roger typified the idea of a "role model". Roger is renaissance adventurer, equally comfortable on a mountain bike as he is in crampons or a kayak. He is a capable builder, inventor, thinker and has a PHD's comprehension of nutrition. 

Roger's story of squatting in the boiler room of a ski-resort for the winter is, to me, a classic tale of passionate living. He and his buddy would peep through a crack within the boiler room to discover the ski pass color of the day and adorn accordingly, then stealthily exit, blend with the crowd and hit the slopes. Dumpster-diving and table scraps provided sustenance and for an entire winter this ruse was kept up.

In Erin McKttrick's book, 'Small Feet Big Land' she makes a salient observation of Alaska life - [What you do and how you make money are two different questions.] In Roger's case, 'what you do', would take a hearty team of biographers and most likely great stories would still be overlooked.

In 1989, Roger and three other cyclists were the first people to ride the Iditarod Trail from Anchorage to Nome. Roger rode the trail on a custom, four wheel bike of his own design. After that trip, Roger went back to the drawing board and with the help of Phil Wood and Anchorage welder Steve Baker, they came up with 'Big Foot', a six tired winter bike. 

On our recent trip to Kotzebue I thought about Roger often. Maybe I would have considered winter cycling and long fat-bike expeditions without his influence - there is no way to tell. What I know is that he did, and I am thankful for the nudge. 

Fatbike to the Arctic - Journal

North to the Future

When the dawn breaks we’ll be gone. Two years of meditation, hard work and preparation have finally manifested into reality – tomorrow we will begin biking to the arctic.

Months of serious intention go into these kinds of endeavors. Last year we had just begun to lay the groundwork for a similar expedition when I was confronted with a terrible reality. What we all assumed was leftover effects from a concussion my mother had had in the summer, was actually much more serious. The MRI, revealed a gleoblastoma brain tumor - a particularly nasty one. The words brain tumor land on your lap with a sickening thud and the world looses color and charm.

When the deafening roar of blood in my ears quieted some, we dropped everything and hurried to her side. The tumor spared some of her for me but it rapidly wore her down. She died with her family holding her and staring – mortified, as she took her last gasp.

Although she is gone, I feel her near and believe she would be excited and enthusiastic about this adventure. We dedicate it to her.

A month worth of food awaits us along our route and we have left more with friends to send, if need be. Our bikes are packed, maps are printed and batteries are charged. From here out, nature dictates.

For anyone who would like to follow along, we will be transmitting as we go with a DeLorme InReach tracking device. We also hope to post updates from the trail but they will depend on borrowed internet.

Thank you to everyone who helped us bring this trip to fruition. We are forever grateful for your friendship and patronage.

Out-biking climate change

We have made it to Skwentna and have enjoyed our first of many trail cheese- burgers. The trail is fast and hard with very little snow over ice, which is a good thing because it's 40 degrees today. If there were more snow it would be sloppy and we would be pushing, but as is we are merrily cruising along in what seems like late April weather.

We have a food drop here and our next one will be at Rainy Pass Lodge. If all goes as planned we will let the dogs pass us there unless the trail is great and then we may hurry on over the pass.

It was strange to get rained on in our shelter last night but with the wood stove going, we were able to dry our damp gear. All our equipment is performing amazingly well so far and as of yet no body ailments.

It feels amazing to be under way after all the time thinking about the trip - we're finally doing it.

Beasts of Burdon

In 2011, Kim and I rode the Iditarod Trail to McGrath. On that trip we were equally prepared, conditioned and enthusiastic, as we are now. On that trip however, we were hot out of the gates. As a result, Kim strained her knee early and it never healed, in fact it became worse. While planning for this trip we were both nervous about her knee and resolved to go easy at the beginning. So far, the strategy has worked gangbusters. We are becoming leaner and meaner by the day.

With the trail being hard and fast, we decided to head over Rainy Pass before the dogs and planned to stop In Rohn to let Iditarod come through. Descending Rainy was remarkable in that there was no snow, lots of ice, open water, loads of roots and rocks - perfect for bikes, terrible for dog mushers.

When we arrived into Rohn, the checkers, handlers and assorted media were all in position for the first teams to start coming through and we were enlisted to be 'handlers'.

After the first day, it seemed like we were with the Red Cross at the site of a massive battle. Broken bones, broken sleds and broken dreams were scattered all over the dog yard and full-grown men were openly crying. I can say with almost 100% certainty that 2014 will go down in infamy as the worse Iditarod trail, for mushers, ever. 

With only a handful of remaining teams behind us on the trail we set out again, on what for us, on bikes, is a great trail. Within a few miles we came across a rescue of a musher with a broken ankle. Hours later we passed a concussion victim wandering around in overflow, also with a broken ankle. When we camped near open water, a musher crashed her sled into the creek and needed our help extracting it. Unreal!

We have made it into Nikolai and the last of the dogs are soon to pull out, ahead of us, tonight. My hunch is, that we haven't seen the last of the mushers but soon the trail will be lonelier and less hectic.

I imagine there will be a lot of negative press about the Iditarod Race choosing to use the North Route as opposed to starting in Fairbanks. I would like to say however, that the trail crew did an outstanding job making the trail they did, under these conditions.

Our Carver fatbikes are our machines of burden, exquisitely designed for the task at hand and our bodies are the beasts that power them. I am grateful to be cyclist and not a musher.

Through the Woods

Crossing from the Kuskokwim drainage to the Yukon, through the Innoko, is some of the most remote and wild terrain I’ve ever been in. It seems to stretch on forever. We were very lucky in our traverse but it is easy to imagine, when you are out, that bad luck could be real bad luck. The snow off trail is sugary and bottomless. Without the path, progress would be nearly futile.

There was a feeling of jaws closing in on us on our way to Ruby. Each day presented a new challenge, from strong headwinds to new snow, the land was reclaiming its place and the temporary trail was being erased behind us. After Iditarod passes, that stretch of trail becomes lonely. We saw two snow machines going north and one south, in 4 days. 

Overall all our equipment is doing fine and I can no longer imagine this kind of travel without the Titanium Goat wood stove. That said, we do have repairs and plan to spend a day here in Ruby.

When we pulled into town yesterday the village seemed abandoned. Finally we found someone and they informed us that everyone was at a potlatch at the school and invited us to come. The circumstances were less than happy, as the community had lost a loved one. We felt a little out of place but due to the incredible hospitality and generosity we were fed and made to feel comfortable. I have no words to describe how much I love Alaska and Alaskans.

Quyana for everything.

The Northern Lights Have Seen Queer Sights…

All through the Innoko, when the riding was tough, I thought, 'once we get to the Yukon, everything will be easier. It will be flat, well traveled and little streams of alcohol will come trickling down the rocks.' It was not to be.

The same storm also deposited snow on the river and even though there is much more traffic it never firmed up. Low tire pressure and low gear grinding was on the menu each day. We worked twice as hard for less than half the miles. But we can't complain, as we were almost always able to "ride".

I inquired before we left home, about an old friend who lives in Galena and was told that he was in Fairbanks. After an icky picnic of potato chips, processed cheese dip and candy, in front of the Galena store, I inquired again about my friend. He was indeed there, living in a boat after his home was destroyed in last springs break-up. We went and found him.

Many moons ago when I first knew Jake, he and two others were preparing to float the Yukon from Circle in a home made raft, replete with a greenhouse and chicken coop. They made it to Galena and Jake never left.

We spent the night catching up in his comfortable, if small, boat. His life on the river has been rich in experience. A "neolithic Athabascan" lifestyle suits his Russian personality and it's hard to imagine him living anywhere else, save Siberia.

Jake kept mentioning in passing a character named Sidney. Finally I interrupted him to ask, "You don't mean Sidney Huntington, do you?" Indeed, the same. Sidney Huntington is alive in Galena at the age of 99. Jake appreciated our excitement and arranged for us to meet him the following day.

Sidney is deaf, 99 and lives in the Galena Pioneer Home, but his mind is 100% there. We wrote questions on paper and he let out amazing tales of growing up on the Koyukuk and Yukon, politics, Pebble and the current state of the State. Everyone said he was in good form for meeting people. The conversation was followed by a meal of beaver that had been caught by one of his sons and cooked to perfection by one of his daughters.

For those who have read 'Shadows on the Koyukuk', you will no doubt understand my being starstruck. For those who have not, proceed to the closest book seller, buy a copy and read it. You will not regret reading of the tales and trials of this legendary Alaskan.

We are off the river and preparing for a new chapter - the portage. If all goes well, we will receive our package in the Kaltag PO tomorrow morning and be on the trail for the Norton Sound.

We have passed our three week mark and life at home feels long ago. Because of our amazing camp, we do not feel spent or exhausted. Even after a hard day, an evening around the warm stove with hot drinks, food and blissful sleep revives the soul and readies the body for a new day. Tomorrow will be another 'new day'.

Portage

My friend Hig says, 'that adventure isn’t in what you plan for but rather what you didn’t plan for’. If this is true, our adventure has ramped up since Kaltag.

We pulled into Kaltag, off the Yukon, in the evening and were unable to retrieve our sixth of nine food drops from the Post Office so we met some locals and slept indoors. The next morning at 9AM I went to the PO, explained who I was and that I should have a box. The woman said there was no box for me there and that maybe it was with the rest of the Ultrasport boxes at the school. Umm, okay. 

When I found the office woman at the school and explained myself, she immediately began apologizing and said she assumed “we” had all come through. Why is she apologizing, I wondered. When she opened the storeroom door I understood. Flat rate boxes were all over the place, opened and ransacked. 

Most people who know me know me as a mild mannered, fun loving, down to earth person. People who know me well, also know that buried deep in my Viking genes lives an often-dormant Berserker. When the scales of moral outrage are tipped beyond a certain point the Berserker awakens and takes charge and I watch passively through my eyes as he takes care of business.

Normally, I would never raise my voice to an educator of children. They are our nations most prized possessions. We should erect statues in their honor, and should value them above military generals, pop stars and politicians, but this was wrong. The Berserker had a conversation with the teacher. “I’ll never let this happen again.” she said, as I stormed out of the building. “Good” I said, ‘It had better not.” 

Once we supplemented our missing food at the local store we hit the trail for Unalakleet, over the Kaltag Portage. We were on, for the first time in weeks, a firm trail and a brisk east wind was at our back.

Weeks ago, while pushing hard on the pedals in soft snow, I heard a pop sound come from my drive train and felt my cranks spin without resistance. I didn’t need to look to know that I had snapped my chain. Although the chain was only a week out of the box before we left, I was not too surprised. This kind of riding is hard on chains. However when I went to replace the pin in the spliced chain, I was alarmed at how easy it slid in. It felt like I could have pushed it back in with my fingers, rather than the mechanical puller. 

Breaking links in this chain has become an almost daily occurrence since then, sometimes more than once a day. I have lost so many links that in the final push into Unalakleet I had two options for gear shifting. This chain, mind you, is advertised as being perfect for all weather, year round conditions. Pure marketing. It is junk. I blame myself for not being more critical at home, when I had the chance. However, when I have to take my gloves off in 0º weather with 20 mph winds, my blame and wrath are on the manufacturer. We have been building chains since before the industrial revolution. Hasn’t this technology and engineering been resolved long ago?

On the Kaltag portage there are two BLM shelter cabins. Just before reaching the first one my chain broke again. This time while repairing it, I looked down at my derailer and noticed that the bearings of one of my pulleys was blown out. It’s the little things that’ll get you. I pushed the bike to the cabin and hoped that I could find some solution to the problem.

Inside, I found a small flat file and a washer. After three hours of filing, I had rounded the washer to fit into the bearing race and then cobbled together, with a ballpoint pen and tin foil, an inner sleeve. Surprisingly, it worked. 

It is near impossible to be frustrated or angry long, on the portage, in perfect March weather. This is an ancient path, separating two cultures, the interior Athabascan and coastal Inupiak. We felt Susan Butcher looking down on us from her perch atop Old Woman Mountain and imagined all the adventurers who have passed through this corridor. 

We have been having the kind of March days that I spend the other 11-month dreaming about. Our friend Derek has sent me a new chain and pulley, we have received our 7th drop and we are now on the coast. There are very favorable trail reports north of Koyuk, as the caribou are there and the hunters have been out. 

The adventure continues. I only hope it be the kind we planned for and not the kind we didn’t.

Sea Ice

My favorite memory, of riding a bike, was from 1998 when I rode from Nome to Unalakleet. The day I left Koyuk, there was a 30mph north wind at my back and the trail across the sea ice was rock hard. As I rode, fata morgana (mirage) played tricks on my eyes and the Reindeer Mountains stretched vertically into wild and unearthly contortions. I made it to the shelter cabin in a blissfully quick, couple hours.

As we drew nearer to the coast on this trip, I began to quietly fret about that 30mph wind. As Dick Griffith says, 'the wind is always blowing from the direction you're going.' 

Our passage on Norton Sound has been without incident or undue suffering. The trail has again firmed up, the winds have been very light and the sun has shone strong. Happy hunters stop on there way to, or returning from the caribou and continue to give us favorable reports from our trail north. This is a good time of year, maybe the best.

As we pulled into Koyuk, Kim stopped to draw attention to the fact that we will be leaving the now very familiar Iditarod and Irondog trail markers. We see these orange and blue markers in our sleep and must have passed many thousand of them at this point. From here we diverge and take a new trail to the north - to the arctic circle. Very exciting.

We have met many amazing people on our trip so far but it is always refreshing to see an old friend. Robin Child has been teaching for the last two years here in Koyuk and greeted us as we pulled in. We slept in her yurt last night, had a dinner of fresh caribou and seal oil and stayed up way past our bedtime, telling stories. 

I feel lucky to know so many amazing women. Women who are unbridled from the structure and confines of "traditional" womanhood and who make the life they wish to live. Rural Alaska seems to have an abundance of empowered women who are not afraid to chop wood, haul water, build boats, shoot guns, etc. and be both educators and students to the place they make there home in. Robin is one of these women. 

Again I/we are waiting for the mail plane. The remaining part for my bike has been on almost as wild a trip as we have been. Sent to Unalakleet, forwarded to Koyuk, missent to Shaktoolik, returned to Unalakleet and finally re-forwarded to Koyuk. Hope it makes it. 

One more food drop remains and if all goes well, the next post will be from above the Arctic Circle. 

Seward Peninsula

We've made it to Buckland, over the Seward Peninsula. This will be our last food drop before the circle and Kotzebue. Spent a few hours soaking in Granite Hotsprings and had my derailer pulley hand delivered by our friend Robin.

This morning we left Bear Creek shelter cabin early, in the most incredible ice fog. This landscape is so vast and devoid of forest and the fog added to the deep mystery of our surroundings. It broke by early afternoon and we rode an amazing trail into the village, where once again, as luck would have it, there was a potlatch going on, at the school.

This time it was a celebration of life and even though we stuck out like sore thumbs, it was less awkward and our presence was an accent to the theme. “Where you come from?” “Why you doing this?” “Are you scared?” With a mouthful of food, we try our best to answer these questions and start in with our own.

We have been eating well the whole trip but it seems to just get better the further north we get: white and black muktuk, caribou steak, caribou burger, foul soup, moose sausage, seal oil, akutaq, and lots of dry fish.

We're spending the night in the school and hope that the PO still has our box in the morning so we can hit the trail for the home stretch.

April Fools

“Buckland to Kotzebue is well traveled and should be a really good trail for you guys.” This is a statement we heard since Koyuk. As we drew nearer to Buckland the same sentiment was repeated and our confidence grew.

In Buckland, we met an older man who grew up in Candle and began driving dogs at an early age. Beyond giving us trail advice, he filled us with stories of his youth, growing up in the region and running dogs. Buckland has the honor of being the Alaskan community with the most dog teams (I believe per capita) than anywhere else.

The pertinent trail description was very clear and came from the lips of a well-traveled veteran. “Follow the Buckland River to the bay, cross the bay, follow the shore of the Baldwin Peninsula until you come to a shelter cabin where the trail will cross the peninsula. From there just follow the trail to Kotzebue.” His advice sounded straight forward and within our means. “And yes, it should be well marked and well traveled.” he said.

The river was windswept, free of snow and therefore very fast. When we reached the bay there was a fork in the trail; one went east across the ice and the other west, which seemed to follow the shore – perhaps to Candle or Deering. We headed east and crossed the bay, but rather than follow the shore, the trail went on land and headed east. Moose, herds of caribou and fox filled this beautiful valley but after a few miles of due east travel we stopped. “This seems wrong.” Kim said, and I agreed. For the first time on the trip, we backtracked and returned to the intersection.

Back at the fork, we headed west for a few miles but this too didn’t seem to fit the description – at all. The trail seemed to stay on the north side of the Seward Peninsula and we needed to cross the sea ice to the other side. Totally confounded, we returned, once again, to the intersection and hoped someone would be out, that could set us straight.

After an evening of meditation we convinced ourselves that the first trail seemed to make the most sense and once again we headed east. Past our previous turn-around we saw a herd of caribou in the many hundreds. We tried to be stealthy on our approach but they saw us and ran. When they did, it sounded like a roar of thunder and the light snow was kicked up into a cloud in their wake. Amazing.

Eventually we came to a shelter cabin. The morning was chilly so we went in, lit a fire and hoped to find clues to settle our uncertainty.  We found none. Our insecurity became oppressive but we decided to continue on. “Well no one has ever biked to Selawik either.” I joked.

Outside, the distant sound of an approaching snowmachine was welcome. We went out and waited for it. “Nope, this trail goes to Selawik.” The driver said. “You need to go back to the fork and follow it.” “Most Bucklanders have been using another trail that you will eventually intersect while crossing the bay.” Our sage wisdom had come from someone who had not been out this year and because of rough shore ice people had opted for a new route across the bay.

The next day we were on the east shore of the Baldwin Peninsula - heading north to our final destination. We were both excited to be within hours of completion. No one has ever done what we were doing and getting to Kotzebue, under our own steam, has been an ethereal goal for so long but I couldn’t help feeling a little sad too. This has become life; wake up and ride - stop and camp – repeat. The further north we go the better it gets, just like I imagined it would. I was tired but I wasn’t ready to stop.

In the early part of the day, two hunters stopped to inspect our bikes and inquire with the usual line of questions: “Where did you come from?” being the most common. Through the goggles, parka, hood and hat I thought I recognized one of the hunters; “Are you Seth Kantner?” I asked one of them. “Yes” he said.

Winters in Alaska are long and dark. As a result, I developed a love for reading at a young age. There are too many “favorite” authors of mine to list but when the categorization is whittled some, it becomes easier. Without question, if someone askes me what my favorite Alaskan books are, I respond, “‘Ordinary Wolves’ by Seth Kantner and ‘Shadows on the Koyukuk’ about Sidney Huntington.” We met the giants of Alaskan lore, while on the trail. Perfect.

Our next encounter was with a hunter returning to Buckland after delivering caribou meat to elders in Kotzebue. He wore the face of a man who lived life on the trail – sunburnt cheeks, well-worn clothing and a generous smile, that stretched to his ears. “Do you like muktuk?” he asked. “Yes we do.” He reached into his sled and opened an Alaska Commercial shopping bag and handed us a fat chunk of this precious energy food. At the next shelter cabin we ate nearly half of it and we didn’t need to snack for the rest of the day.

Because the Baldwin Peninsula is low elevation, the wind generators of Kotzebue were visible for hours. When we finally passed them and came to the end of the trail, at an intersection of road, we stopped to savor the moment and Kim began to cry. The little trail in Knik, where we had parked our car, 37 days earlier, had led us to the Arctic.

Beyond being a bike trip, this felt like something more. More than on any other trip I felt like we had tapped into something - something very hard to describe. It felt like we had tapped into the heart of Alaska, and it seemed strong and full of life.

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