by Neil Peart
At dinner that night the three of us were limply good-humored, and Selena kept teasing Brutus about his bad planning, and how tired and sore she was. Then, as we discussed the events of that day, Selena shook her head and said, “I can’t believe how much can happen in one day!” She made me proud.
A few days later, before the second half of the show at an amphitheatre near Buffalo, New York, Selena was leaving to go back to Toronto, and I said goodbye to her outside the trailer dressing room. As I hugged and kissed her, I told her, “I love you, and I’m proud of you — in so many ways.” And the last time I saw her, on the morning of August 10th, 1997, I had ridden ahead of her on my motorcycle to guide her through the back roads of Quebec to a gas station in Hawkesbury, Ontario, and once again I hugged and kissed her, and told her I loved and was proud of her. Now I was so glad those words had been spoken, and I was grateful for other good memories too.
Most of our family travels had tended to be at my convenience, at the end of one of my solo adventures, for example, when Jackie and Selena would meet me in Hong Kong, Nairobi, the Ivory Coast, or Paris, or join me for a break in a Rush tour in Boston, St. Louis, or San Francisco. But just the year before, in the spring of 1997, I had taken Jackie alone to Tahiti, Bora Bora, and Moorea for a couple of weeks, and at the end of it she told me that the nicest thing about it was that for the whole time she had felt like she’d had all my attention. Typically, I hadn’t thought of that as being an important factor, but in retrospect, I was sure glad I had done that. Sometimes — however unknowingly — I hadn’t been such a fool.
Aug. 31 Dawson
Up at 5:30, chipping the ice off saddle. Now at Klondike River Lodge for breakfast, at turnoff for Dempster. Should I try it or not? 380 kms (238 miles) to first gas stop. Current fuel range makes that . . . marginal. Then there’s the mud story — deep, slippery clay up here on the permafrost, the worst possible hazard when wet.
Well, I’m here at “Mile 0” anyway, so something (stubbornness? optimism? stupidity?) is pushing me that way. There’ve been at least two dry days since the Jeep guy was up there, so . . . maybe.
One guy at the Klondike River Lodge just asked a truck driver, “How was the trip?”
He just shrugged, “Muddy.”
Oh boy.
At the start of the Dempster Highway a large sign announced that there were no emergency facilities available on this road, and that, basically, “You’re on your own.” Fuel was my main concern, and I kept the engine speed below 3,000 RPMs, went as light as I could on the throttle, and even pulled in the clutch on downhills. The surface varied from loose gravel, where I tried to follow the firmer ruts left by the trucks, to long stretches of hard-packed clay, which were almost like pavement. About once an hour I encountered another vehicle — big semis trailing long dust clouds, camper trucks, and the odd car or pickup — but, I noted, it was “a lonely old road.”
Low spruce forest rolled for miles in every direction, gradually giving way to stretches of barren tundra, and I described the landscape as “spectacularly bleak and barren.” Small ponds at the roadside had a skin of ice at the edges, and the air was so cold that the bike’s oil temperature hardly registered on the gauge. I covered half the oil cooler with a piece of cardboard torn from a cigarette package, and that worked fine.
Apart from the usual ravens, I saw a few gray jays and many willow ptarmigans, a grouse-like bird, which at this season were halfway between their plumage of summer brown and winter white. I was riding slowly enough to identify the many birds of prey: peregrine falcons, gyrfalcons, rough-legged hawks, and harriers hovering over the open areas. A fox crossed the road in front of me, brown with a white-tipped tail, like the friendly one back at Telegraph Creek, and I spotted a few hares and ground squirrels, and a couple of caribou melting into the bush in the distance. I was a few weeks early for the big caribou migration, and I saw none of the bison and bears Brutus and I had encountered on our way to Yellowknife.
Eagle Plains marked the halfway point on the Dempster, and I was relieved to see the long, low complex of buildings come into view. Another “everything” sort of oasis in the wilderness, it included a gas station, restaurant, motel, several big outbuildings for road-maintenance equipment, a tall radio tower, and a windsock for helicopter landings. I pulled up to the gas pumps at about 1:30, glad to see that my fuel-sparing measures had worked; I had covered the first 380 kilometres without even hitting my reserve tank, never mind having to use my spare gallon can. It looked as though I could make it to Inuvik in another six hours or so, if everything went well, but I was aware that the rough stretches of mud and construction would still be ahead of me, so I was taking nothing for granted.
A sign at the restaurant door said “Please remove wet, muddy, or bloody footwear,” the last of which gave me pause, but I presumed they meant hunters. Large areas of land at the roadside had been sign-posted as native reserves, with hunting “by written permit only.”
The walls were covered with framed photos and documents telling the story of “The Lost Patrol,” a group of Royal Canadian Mounted Police who had become disoriented and died of starvation just north of there, in the winter of 1910. The Dempster Highway was named after the Mountie who had found their remains the following spring.
In open areas I had noticed a long straight line of discolored vegetation cutting across the landscape, and from other old photographs on display at Eagle Plains I learned that this track had been left by a “cat train,” a bulldozer-drawn caravan that had followed the seismic lines in search of oil. However, this cat-train had passed only once, 44 years ago, which demonstrated the fragility of the Arctic landscape.
Amazing sweeping views from here: hills, rolling tundra, distant low mountains. The open area after Eagle Plains in crimson and rust colors, among rounded, elephantine hills. Brutal wind, sweeping through the grasses and shrubs, and shoving me all over the road. When it was strong and steady, I was practically riding side-saddle, on the corner of the seat.
Up and down and around, the road like a gravel dike laid over the tundra.
Just north of Eagle Plains, a sign announced the crossing of the Arctic Circle, and I stopped to mark my claim to this new territory in the primitive animal fashion. A van pulled into the bitterly cold, windswept parking area, and its solitary driver offered to take one of the few photographs from my travels which had me in it, standing in front of the sign and spreading my rainsuit-covered arms.
The next sign I passed announced the border with the Northwest Territories, and the wind seemed to suddenly switch to the opposite direction, then it died altogether as I descended to the wide delta of the Mackenzie River. I followed the track of dirt and gravel through walls of shoulder-high spruce, with a few stunted tamaracks and shrubs in yellow and orange. The evenly spaced dwarf birch and scrub willow reminded me of the creosote bushes in the Mojave Desert in California, one of many reminders of a desert landscape in the lower Arctic.
The road worsened considerably as I rode on, particularly in the areas of road construction. Just after a small ferry carried me over the Mackenzie River to Fort McPherson, a long stretch of the road had been graded bare of gravel and soaked by water trucks, presumably to hold down the dust. An older “flag lady” with a walkie-talkie was controlling the traffic on the one open lane, and when she waved me forward, my wheels sank into the greasy clay ruts. I rode as slowly as I could, gently fighting for control, but with zero traction available, my rear wheel slipped sideways, and in an instant I was down and sliding in the mud, the bike bearing down on me from behind in a slow circle.
In those few seconds of slow-motion perception, I was sure that the bike was going to end up on top of me, but it slid to a stop just behind, both of us painted with reddish-brown slime. I was muddy but unbowed, seemingly unhurt, and grateful once again for my strong boots and the armored padding inside the leathers, which protected my elbows, shoulders, knees, and hips.
The only apparent damage to the bike was
a snapped-off turn signal, which a little duct tape would remedy, but the tipover in Telegraph Creek had shown that I could barely raise the bike even without its load. I removed the tankbag, the tent and sleeping bag, the gas can and the right-side luggage case, but the one on the left side was trapped under the fallen machine.
It occurred to me then that one of my legs might easily have been caught like that, wedged under the hot exhaust pipe even, and I felt lucky for a moment. But I still faced the problem of getting moving again. My boots flailed in the viscous goop as I took hold of the bars and leaned down to wedge my knee under the bike. I put my body into it and strained mightily, risking heart attack and hernia, but despite my grunting efforts the glutinous muck refused to let it go. Now I considered the reality that I should never have tried that journey alone, if I couldn’t even lift the bike if it fell. Judging from my experiences with Brutus on our first journey into the land of permafrost mud and rainy construction zones, it was likely to happen again.
A tractor-trailer came looming down on me from the other direction, so I skated my way through the mud and off the road, out of its way. I took a moment to collect myself and consider my plight, hoping the big truck could squeeze past the fallen bike. The flag lady came running from her post a quarter-mile back to see that I was all right, and I was touched by this neighborly concern. I didn’t like to ask her to help me lift the bike, and was trying to decide if I would swallow my pride and flag down the oncoming truck and ask for help.
I didn’t have to. The semi came slithering to a stop beside me, and a short, dark man in coveralls hopped down from the cab, asked if I was okay, then bent to help me lift the bike. He had obviously recognized my situation, and on remote roads in the Arctic, travellers helped one another, knowing that one day they might be stranded themselves and need assistance from a stranger. The job was easy enough with two backs and four feet on the ground, and my Good Samaritan of the North helped me get the mud-covered mess back on its wheels and pushed to the roadside.
I put the bike back together and soldiered on, making it to the next little ferry at Arctic Red River. During the short ferry crossing I had a chance to look more carefully at the poor muddy motorcycle, and I saw there was more damage than just the broken signal light. The handlebars and shifter pedal were slightly bent, the plastic engine guard was broken, and the clear plastic headlight protector had been cracked by a flying stone, probably from a passing semi. The repair list for Fairbanks was growing.
The ferry attendant, a friendly man who was probably from the Dene (den-ay) people of the Gwi’chin Nation (unless he was Chinese), told me the other motorcyclists I had heard about from the Jeep driver were Belgians, and one of them had “hitched a ride out on an eighteen-wheeler.” Injured, apparently. The ferryman seemed surprised that they could make it all this way and then crash on the Dempster, but I wasn’t. I was worried.
The ferryman produced a rag and cleaned my lights and licence plate, then fetched some clear tape to fix the headlight protector. Tactfully, I asked if I could “buy him a coffee,” but he gracefully declined, speaking in the direct, almost monotonal cadences of the far north. When he asked how I was enjoying my journey, I told him it was tough going, but very beautiful. “Especially at this time of year,” he agreed, then gestured up toward the rolling tundra above the delta, and said, “From up there, it’s like a painting.”
From then on the road was better (which is to say, not under construction), and I had a smooth, fast cruise (with only a few of what my journal called “yikes moments”) on the narrow, hard-packed tracks between the gravel berms left by the big rigs.
Having lost a time zone at the territorial border, it was nearly 9:00 by the time I approached Inuvik, but when I hit the short stretch of paved road which connected Inuvik’s airport with the town, I felt relieved and exhilarated. Fourteen hours it had taken, but I had made it, all 820 kilometres (512 miles), and but for those last ten kilometres of sweet black asphalt, it had all been gravel and dirt (and mud).
The first building I encountered was the Finto Motor Inn, and with no wish to explore any further that day, I stopped right there.
The Dempster is mine (one way, anyway) and the Arctic Circle is mine, forever.
Late dinner in Cabin Lounge, large whisky, decent Caesar salad, chicken on kaiser, red wine.
Good music playing once again, Nirvana Unplugged. Makes me think of Kurt Cobain: he shot himself, left wife and daughter behind. Hard for me to imagine, but I still feel for the guy.
Thoughts so often wandering to Jackie and Selena, especially their ends, and have to consciously try to steer away from that direction.
The next morning, September 1st, was dark and gloomy, and I felt tired and worried. The weather forecast had changed from “rainy” to “cloudy,” but the waitress told me she thought it was going to rain. I was truly fatigued and in need of a rest, sore all over from tension and exertion, and I had hoped to spend a day in Inuvik, way up there at the end of the northernmost road in Canada. Maybe I would find a way to visit Tuktoyaktuk, a nearby Inuit community on the Arctic Ocean.
But if it rained heavily, I would be in trouble. There was only one way out again, the Dempster Highway, and if that road was no longer a mystery, it was still an obstacle. On a rainy day I would not be able to make it, and I could be stuck somewhere for days, unless I hitched a ride out on a truck, like the Belgian had. So I was afraid, but my fear was not about falling, or getting hurt, or breaking down, or having a flat tire (though those hazards were certainly on my mind). Much more dangerous to me was the idea of being stuck somewhere, with too much time to think and the feeling of being trapped. I decided I would take a chance on one more dry day, and make my escape.
Just as I started loading the bike, the raindrops began, and I leaned on the motel doorway, bags in hand, dressed to go. What to do? Stay and wait it out, or go and hope I wouldn’t get stuck somewhere? No answer, really. You can’t guess the weather. I made a brief circuit of the little town, through the main crossroads with a few stores, another big hotel, and the famed igloo-shaped church, then filled up with gas and headed south.
On the short paved stretch of road leading out of town, I remembered riding the other way the previous night, feeling proud and exhilarated. Now I was frightened, weak, and weepy, truly dispirited, and as the paving ended, I found myself swearing out loud at the road, the rain, my life, and whatever Power might be responsible for all my bad fortune.
But lacking the solace of faith, I also lacked anyone to blame.
You can drive those wheels to the end of the road
You will still find the past
Right behind you
CARVE AWAY THE STONE, 1996
Chapter 4
WEST TO ALASKA
Shadows on the road behind
Shadows on the road ahead
Nothing can stop you now
GHOST RIDER, 2001
The sun came out by the time I made the Arctic Red River ferry, and the day remained bright (and dry), though I had to curse the water truck I had to follow through the same construction area where I had fallen the previous day. In the early afternoon I reached the halfway point, Eagle Plains, and knew the worst was behind me. I decided to stop there for the night and get some rest, and as I checked in, I said to the man at the front desk, “Yesterday this seemed like wilderness; today it seems like civilization.”
At sunset, I poured a glass of whisky and walked outside to enjoy the spectacular view, looking far over rolling billows of green, gray, and dark red. Peace settled over the land as the wind fell off at last, for that ceaseless, roaring wind had felt harsh and chaotic, at least to my little baby soul. In Bruce Chatwin’s Songlines he writes about an Australian who goes crazy and starts shooting the wind, and I could always relate to that — especially when I was battling a headwind on a bicycle, but even when I was just trying to be still.
Leaving Eagle Plains early on a sunny morning, the rest of the way back to Dawson p
assed fairly quickly through the low forest dotted with crimson and yellow and the sharp-etched gray mountains. Still pools near the road reflected the clear sky, and I noticed ice around their edges, though I felt cool rather than cold. Getting used to it, I decided, or getting used to wearing all my clothes. With more confidence and less concern about fuel conservation, I made it back to Dawson in an hour less than the six it had taken going out, though I did have to use my spare can of gas. However, I noted, that’s what it’s there for.
In Dawson I stopped for a quick sandwich at Nancy’s, then found a payphone to call the BMW dealer in Fairbanks, hoping to make an appointment for a couple of days later for new tires, an oil change, a look at the front brake pads, and some damage repair. The voice on the phone was gruff and laconic, and when I told him I was travelling his way and wanted to get some service work done, he growled, “Left it a bit late, didn’t you?”
Thinking he meant that I should have called him sooner for an appointment, I told him that I’d just arrived back in Dawson, and was only now able to predict when I might get to Fairbanks.
“No,” he said, “I mean late in the season.”
“Well,” I said, “this is when I got here.”
“It’s September now, you know. It could snow any day. What you gonna do then?”
“Well, load the bike on a truck and haul it out, I guess. I don’t know.”
I began to think of him as Mister Dismal, though time would prove me wrong. His manner was only the voice of the “old Alaska hand,” impatient with naive travellers from Down South. When I mentioned my concern about the front brake pads, he asked the year of the bike. I told him it was three years old, and he said he didn’t think they could be worn yet. Then he asked “How many miles on it?”, and when I told him “just over 40,000,” his tone softened. “Oh, you’re a rider. You’re a real rider.” Evidently I was now worthy of respect, and he agreed to do what he could for me when I arrived in Fairbanks.