Two If By Land (2024)

10/01/2024

We have a little piece of exciting news to share. We’re in print! As a life-long lover of all things paper and ink, this is truly exciting. Go pick yourself up a copy on Amazon.

We are incredibly grateful to and the fine folks at for putting this book together. It is clearly a labor of love and we feel truly honored to be featured alongside the legends in this book—adventurers whom we admire and who have been longtime inspirations to us. It was fun to relive briefly that life-altering journey south and to try to encapsulate it in a handful of photos. I hope that some who flip through these pages will feel inspired by the stories and photos and advice and take their own fateful leap into the unknown.

28/09/2023

Around our dining table at home, in the months leading up to our departure, we leaned over a paper map. I read the unlikely names of the distant towns with bemusement. I recited them in my head, as if familiarity would provide a safe passage. Livengood. Coldfoot. Wiseman. Deadhorse. In the names there seemed to be a story or a warning—a mythology written in geography. Some image must have formed in my head as the names crossed my lips; a vague approximation populated with steel barrels, log cabins, and grizzled men with long gray beards and dirty flannel shirts. A parody of frontier life perhaps. But what I could not conjure in that imagined landscape is the spirit of the place. The phantom that is so difficult to capture in an image or convey in a story which might, in a moment of quiet, gracefully appear in the moss caulking the logs of an old church, or in the shaky lines of a hand painted sign, ‘Wiseman was established in 1908 and has been a viable town ever since’, or in the particular mosaic of objects collected or discarded, rusting and repaired, that form a map of a particular life. Deliberately these places were settled and with great effort they persist. From the crucible of the Arctic, from the edge of the human world, they seem to sing a song that can easily be lost in the drumbeat of modern life, I am here, by God, in spite of everything, I am here.

27/09/2023

The most frequent traveler on this isolated road is the trucker. Seemingly everyone we met warned us about them—hurling along at ungodly speeds, kicking up rocks the size of softballs, breaking windows, forcing riders off the road into the deep gravel. I made an effort to wave to each of them, hoping to demonstrate the fragile humanity balanced on these two wheels, and show respect for the driver who, at considerable risk, hauls supplies through this terrain. I felt no shame in pulling over and letting them pass when I needed to and they often thanked me with a wave or a toot of the horn. This is their road and I am just passing through.

20/09/2023

Rare capture of the three of us by the very talented

19/09/2023

We arrived early that afternoon not by our free choice, but according to our reaction to the conditions of the road and the weather, reactions that at the time disappointed us, having been forced to compromise when the weather turned and accept as a campsite the modest gift of flat ground a short distance from the road. Our intention on this short diversion to Galbraith Lake was to discover among the river rocks, so similar in our eyes, signs of life—the fossilized evidence of the once ancient seabed of the north slope, and to hold in our hands some earth-embalmed seashell, coral, or crustacean. But purposes are often hidden from us, and—although we found a fragment of ancient coral, a treasure for certain—we brought with us a gift we did not know we carried. Arriving into the storyline of another, riding right into their camp, we must have seemed an unlikely sight—a man and a woman on a motorcycle. Perhaps the significance of these choices and the forces that move us are mysterious and can only be glimpsed upon reflection. But we accepted that perhaps this was the truer reason for our being there and on the floor of that ancient seabed, deep within the Arctic circle, we sat around a stove with a fossil in one hand and a fried taco in the other and the warmth of human kindness sustaining us.

14/09/2023

eadhorse. While that would have been an interesting experience, it simply wasn’t within our budget. A oil worker told us a room could cost as much as $400 a night. That’s not a major issue, I guess, when you are pumping millions of dollars worth of oil out of the ground everyday. There weren’t many options to camp in the tundra, and polar bears (the only bear that will hunt humans) we’re known to occasionally wander around. We aimed for Galbraith Lake where there was a primitive campground. It would have been a long ride in the best conditions, but shortly after the oil fields faded from the rear view mirror, we were slowed down by rain and strong winds. Rain was the last thing we wanted, as it can quickly transform the dirt road into inches of slick mud. For a time, we pressed on, but what began as a light drizzle was approaching a downpour, so when we saw some tracks leading away from the road we decided to call it quits for the night. We were still several hours from Galbraith Lake.

10/09/2023

Weather conditions continued to be favorable on our second day on the Dalton, though the air was hazy with smoke from southern wildfires and cast an ethereal pall across the landscape. We had around 200 miles to cover to reach Deadhorse. We crossed the Brooks Range at Atigun Pass, ascending and descending the 12 degree switchbacks with much more ease than the heavily loaded supply trucks. The Brooks gave me the feeling of being incredibly remote and perhaps due to this it possessed a unique beauty. It was the final significant landmark we had identified on a map. At the time it seemed unfathomably distant, just barely nearer than Narnia or Mars. Beyond it lay a sprawling expanse of wild tundra, home to musk ox, grey wolves, dall sheep, grizzly bears, moose, half a million caribou, and even the occasional polar bear. With the exception of the road construction areas, which were considerable and in which we felt the most endangered as we had little control over the speed or the terrain, crossing the 140 miles of tundra felt like a dream—a passageway between worlds. Absorbed in my senses, alone with my mind, listening to the thrum of the engine, feeling the vibration of the road wash over me hour after hour, we drew ever nearer to our long pursued destination.

09/09/2023

We refilled our tank at Coldfoot and pressed on. The truck stop is roughly halfway between the beginning and end of the highway. It is the only place to get gas or food until Deadhorse. Most people stop there for the night, but feeling energized by the Arctic light we decided to continue. The sun, suspended near the horizon, cast a golden spell across the landscape. I felt we had the whole world to ourselves—the construction crews had left and there were no trucks in sight. Before us, the face of Mt Sukakpak glowed in a magical light.

06/09/2023

It is hard to look realistically at something like the Dalton Highway. Perhaps because it seems unlikely to even exist, reaching as it does across an incredibly lonely swathe of Northern Alaska, penetrating into a nearly inaccessible wilderness to the shores of the Arctic Ocean. I felt a swell of joy and pride at the prosaic sight of the green road sign marking the start. Quite unintentionally, over the last few weeks, this road had become my white whale. When I was recovering from my concussion in Yellowknife, uncertain about the future of our trip, and uncertain, frankly, of the future of my brain, it seemed that the whale had gotten away. I eventually recovered and we continued our trip, but unwilling to confess my mounting obsession with the Dalton and unable to focus on any new destination, we drifted southward in a doldrum. Diana would have been content to bypass the route, but she must have seen what I had been unable to recognize. We need to have a serious talk about the Dalton. I thought I had given it up, but she knew I hadn’t. And as she did in Bolivia, she propelled me to act by believing in me before I could believe in myself. A week or so later we found ourselves standing beneath that impassive highway sign, about to embark on the road to Prudhoe Bay as we had long imagined. But we could not have imagined the circuitous path that took us there, the strange poetry of events, or the incredible kindness of strangers. We could not know how susceptible my brain was to another impact or how damaged my helmet was from the fall. We could not add up to a graspable sum all that we had learned and experienced. So, as was our ritual, we found an unclaimed space and laid our sticker, like a prayer, upon the cold metal. Then, grinning foolishly in our helmets, we snapped a selfie and set off down the highway.

04/09/2023

We would have preferred to change our tire in Anchorage, but we didn’t have time to wait. It would take a week for a tire to arrive. So we pressed on another 360 miles to Fairbanks, trusting in the reassuring words of a mechanic—it should get you that far no problem—and in the fates in whose sovereign hands we had grown accustomed. The k***s of the tire still had plenty of rubber left, but between the protrusions cracks had begun to form. The structural integrity of the tire, on which so much weight rested and on which everything depended, was suspect. Like shamans we try to divine significance from esoteric signs—the hue of the puff of smoke from the exhaust in the morning, the color of the oil on the dipstick, the shade and texture of the spark plug ceramic, the vibrations, the ticks, the flex of the frame. From the sum of these numerous and imperfect signs, a message comes, settling like a feeling—it is good enough or it is not good enough for now. We have learned to ride on compromises and caveats. We have observed that these seemingly inconvenient and premature failures have led us towards something good. We try not to complain. Like water we move where the earth channels us. In Fairbanks, we mounted fresh rubber on the rear wheel—a chunkier, more aggressive offroad tire. The start of the Dalton Highway was at hand. And this rugged road built to haul supplies to the northern oil fields can be treacherous, even for the most fastidiously prepared.

01/09/2023

I felt the wilderness was so close. We didn’t have hiking boots and we hadn’t done any research. The Denali Park bus let us out at mile 43 above a gravel bar near where the Pretty Rocks Landslide made the road impassable. As we climbed down some stairs, a park ranger casually reminded us that it was safest to keep our distance from the edge brush so the bears could see us. And make sure you tell me if you see a bear when you come back! I smiled and nodded uneasily. We trekked along the edge of the slope, crossing and recrossing the stream that braided through the valley. Every few steps I peered into the brush for a large black or brown object. The expansive gravel riverbed was the closest thing to a trail we had seen. More than a few miles from the visitor center, there were no maintained trails, no signs, little evidence of civilization at all, just a dirt road and a few old school buses. We were encouraged to simply set out in whatever direction toward whatever destination for however long we wished and to return to the road to catch a returning bus before the last one departed. In the distance we saw the ridge line of the Polychrome mountains, so we set off to find a better view. Climbing up a hillside on the spongy loft of tundra, the brush rose up around us. It was denser than it appeared from below. This would be a good place to stumble upon a bear. I tried to talk loudly but I could think of nothing to say. Nonetheless I began to yell whatever sprang to my mind. I hoped there were no other hikers around to hear the gibberish I was yelling. We came to the top of the hill. It rolled gently downward again toward the inverted image of the distant mountains reflected in the glassy surface of a pond. I stopped my nonsensical yelling and felt a tingling and engulfing stillness. My silence felt profane, as if I was taunting the wilderness with my too passive presence. I almost felt as if I should make myself known, to warn the wilderness that I was there witnessing it in a state of such uninhibited repose. A moment later gentle ripples appeared across the glassy disc, obscuring the image of the mountain and blending it with the sky below.

31/08/2023

There’s a bear! Stop the bus I see a bear. Where is it? There! By the rock? I just see a rock. Is that a rock? That’s a rock. Are you sure? Yeah that looks like a rock. It’s not moving. I thought it was a bear. False alarm! It was a rock.

30/08/2023

We paralleled the Alaska Range searching for Denali. Giant, but aloof, it is often shrouded in a storm of its own making. Coming around a bend, a white form towered above the horizon and there was no question that it was ‘The Great One.’ Even at a great distance, it’s imposing presence dwarfed the surrounding peaks. At 20,194 feet, it is not even among the 100 tallest mountains in the world. But it is nonetheless impressive, in part because it is so isolated. It doesn’t belong to a great range. In fact, no other mountain in the world rises so starkly, climbing 18,000 feet from base to peak. By comparison, Everest measured from base to peak is 14,430 feet. Many summer visitors to Alaska are unable to see Denali, which only adds to the lonely mountain’s mystique. And to see it, unveiled and silhouetted against a clear blue sky, imparts a special kind of feeling, as if you have been invited to step into the temple and look upon the alter.

We pulled off of the highway at mile 135 to get a better view. We were about 40 miles from the mountain.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god. A woman ran from her car and thrust herself towards the stone wall retainer, her hands thrust forward, fingers splayed. There he is!

There on the distant horizon, Denali stood, glimmering, white, and unmoved.

14/08/2023

Top of the World Highway began as a pack trail out of Dawson City during the gold rush. It was later extended into a mostly unpaved 79 mile road that winds along ridge lines over sweeping valley views. It connects Dawson City in Canada with the village of Chicken in Alaska. One of the most northerly roads in the world and the most northerly border crossing in North America, it can be treacherous when conditions are wet, but in dry weather it is a dream.

14/08/2023

Horace appeared to be only superficially damaged. A vice, a mallet, and a few determined blows got things back into shape. It felt good to be reunited with the bike. The first short ride illustrated to me how much mental energy is needed to ride a motorcycle—throttle, clutch, shifter, foot brake, hand brake, turn signal, map, speed limit, stop light, oncoming traffic. Add to that the unpredictable quality of northern Canadian roads—potholes, frost heaves, construction, gravel, and mud. It is a lot for a brain to process. Nonetheless we were determined to continue even if we could only do a few miles a day. Our first ride was 13 shaky miles to Yukon Motorcycle Camp where we commiserated with like minded riders, a couple days later we covered 55 miles to camp at a picture perfect site on Fox Lake, the next day, feeling more confident, we put in 288 miles on the punishing and unpredictable Klondike Highway, passing the start of the Dempster Highway, the highway we crashed on hundreds of miles north. At the end of a long day, rolling into the funky northern outpost of Dawson City again felt like a sort of triumphant homecoming. The Dempster had laid us down and knocked me out, but it didn’t take our spirit. We were back on the road and heading to Alaska!

13/08/2023

Through all the chaos after the accident, Diana managed everything. I was little help. I don’t know what I would have done without her. It is a strange experience to injure your brain, to be confused by simple instructions, unable to create new lasting memories. To appear from the outside to be healthy, but to know that you’re not all there, yet unable to pinpoint what is missing. Diana’s unwavering patience with me and her diligence in sorting through our daily needs as well as the bike shipping and insurance claims, allowed me to not only get the rest I needed, but to even enjoy that time.

13/08/2023

You don’t always return along the same road you traveled down. I lay on the floral duvet of the bnb and spread my handkerchief over my eyes to block out the sunlight. It was midday, but the sun never really set anyway. Ten minutes of mental focus strained my injured brain and required an hour of rest. Sometimes I slept, sometimes I just let my mind wander. It didn’t wander far. I found I didn’t have the mental energy to read so when I wasn’t napping, I took up residence in the communal kitchen where I would listen to stories from a rotating cast of travelers—a hunting guide heading for a month in the bush, a pair of yogis leading sessions at the music festival, an amateur conductor and a full time wanderer. Conversation felt like healing. Diana led me on short daily walks through the city of Yellowknife—the small capital and only city in the Northwest Territories known primarily as a winter jumping off point for views of the Aurora Borealis. Every morning we got coffee and a pastry and most evenings she cooked fresh fish from Slave Lake. I devoured every kind of brain food we could find—walnuts, fresh fish, canned fish, blueberries, and dark chocolate. We looked for signs of my mental energy increasing. At the end of a week I felt functional, though not yet back to normal. We needed to fly to the city of Whitehorse in Yukon Territory where Diana had arranged to reunite with Horace. (No small feat getting the motorcycle from Ft. McPherson to Whitehorse but that story is shared elsewhere.) Our trip was still in jeopardy. We still weren’t certain whether I had the mental strength to ride or if Horace was rideable. And Whitehorse was still a long way from home if we found we couldn’t continue.

11/08/2023

The morning after the accident, we packed our bags, said goodbye to David, and, along with a charge nurse and three native people, squeezed into a minivan bound for the airport in Inuvik. It would be a bumpy two hour ride. My memories began to settle back into place. I remembered meeting Willie two days prior though I devastated that I couldn’t recall the taste of the fish he brought us.

I watched out the front window of the minivan as we rattled down the dirt road. The gravel road extended to the horizon and all around was stillness and boreal forest. I felt a swelling inside. How lucky we were to be there, to have followed this road so far.

What time is our flight? I asked as Diana sat me down with the luggage. She went to find a vending machine. The Inuvik airport was tiny with only two gates and no security check. But as soon as she left, I felt lost. I could not recall the direction we had come from or in which direction she had gone. My mind felt constantly distracted, though not by anything particular. It seemed that new information wasn’t quite landing in the right place and got misplaced as soon as it arrived. Diana returned with a Snickers bar and all was well. What time is our flight?

The donut of truth is what we call it. I lay down on the shark-gray mat and admired both the artificial sky embedded in the ceiling and the strange miracle of modern medicine. This donut would photograph my brain and a specially trained professional would read the message and tell me if I would be ok. A brief whirring-then, ok that’s it.

We huddled over the monitor. There was a duotone image of a walnut on the screen. Dr. Ho pointed to the image. I don’t see any bleeds. This, in my view, is a perfect brain.

Is it ok if I record you saying that?

Doctor Ho advised us that every concussion is unique and there is not a standard recovery protocol or time period. A lot of rest and patience was needed.

You will have decide when you are healed.

11/08/2023

Motorcycling has risks, especially when riding in remote places. Several weeks ago we had an accident on the Dempster highway, far north of the Arctic Circle. We’ve told the story many times now. Fortunately it has a happy ending.

I could tell by the expressions of joy on their faces that I had said something impressive. What else do you remember? An image floated to my awareness from across a great expanse: I saw a thin man with a mangy beard standing waist deep in murky water. He dunked his head quickly beneath the surface of the water and, emerging, flung his arms to the sky in childish glee. I decided to take a chance—I swam in the Arctic sea, if I’m not mistaken. Their faces lit up in disbelief. Tears welled up in Diana’s eyes.

From a deep, warm darkness I began to emerge. Fragmented impressions of the last 24 hours began to integrate into a still incomplete, but increasingly comprehensible picture. This hospital bed, this nurse, that mustached policeman, the pieces of overheard phone calls earnestly and urgently made, a KitKat bar. I knew, but I could not remember, that I had a motorcycle crash somewhere in northern Canada, that Diana was fine, that I was in a medical facility, and that I had been cared for overnight by a nurse named David. As I slowly stood and walked to the hall, I expected to see rows of hospital rooms with more patients and more nurses, extending down to a bay of elevators leading to more floors and units with specialized gleaming white instruments—the western medical machine abuzz with energy—but turning the corner all I saw was a wall of orange smoke through an open bay door, and faintly, beyond, a few small buildings. There was no other room, no one else there but the three of us. We were a long way from a hospital. I realized I had been smelling the fires burning. What is burning? Forest fires. They had to close the Dempster Highway actually. (Cont)

01/08/2023

As I compared the caloric content of various boxes of instant noodles, I heard a soft voice speak to me. Where are you heading for the night? An elderly native man stood beside me. I responded with intentional vagueness, Oh we’re just going to camp someplace. That’s fine.. I have an empty shack with a bed in it and you’re welcome to use it if you want. It won’t cost you anything.

We don’t leave the comfort of our homes for the pleasure of modestly priced campsites; we venture out to discover something for which we haven’t the ability to ask, for moments we might cynically describe as random (but store within ourselves in a special place set apart from the mechanical, material, and nihilistic). We desire to connect our lonely selves with an indescribable something. So when this elderly Gwich’In gentlemen in a ragged baseball cap invited us to his camp, I felt the competing urges of self preservation (I don’t know this man) and discovery (what a unique invitation). A soft and quiet sense, attuned perhaps from years of travel, nudged me like a gentle breeze. And although the campsite was nearby and reasonably priced, I decided to take him up on his offer.

He sped off on his fourwheeler and we hurried to start the bike and follow. Just outside of town he led us off the main road, through overgrown grass and up a steep hill. The path wandered through long abandoned assets, old trucks and rusted machinery. At the shack, we laid out our sleeping bags on an old twin mattress, cradled between stacks of westerns on vhs tape and weathered magazines. He brought us fish freshly caught in his nets and processed on site, which we fried and ate in the open air. Into the wee hours of the night we chatted. He shared stories of his childhood in the Arctic, moving with his family in a teepee, playing games with his brother, covering his face in clay to keep mosquitoes away. He spoke openly and generously. He was a logger and a trapper. He was an aficionado of old Hollywood westerns.

(cont.)

31/07/2023

A few more shots from Tuk before we go.

29/07/2023

Inuvik, Northwest Territories was the end of the road until 2017 when the 95 mile extension to Tuktoyaktuk was completed. We slept outside of town at Ják campground to rest before the final and most infamous stretch of the Dempster highway.
The last photo shows the picturesque view of the hamlet of Tsiigehtchic from the McKenzie river ferry.

27/07/2023

When you are first setting out toward something very far away, factors like quiet, crispness of light, and lack of infrastructure can seem too minor, or too contrived, maybe, to imagine into any sort of fullness as to ask for them. But when they condense into a happening, they are potent.

The clouds were crowned with prismatic color and the north wind, gentle as it was, shook the burst heads of the Arctic cotton grass like little wooly bells. I was filled with the sense that we had come a very long way. I stepped off the gravel into the spongy loft of the tundra and was certain that there was not a thing I could do or could have done to deserve being here. The shrill of bird I did not know the name of rose up from one of the nearby lakes and even though it chilled us like the shrieking of a rabbit caught in a snare, I wanted the end of the road to be here. I never wanted to stay anywhere so much as I wanted to stay here.
-D

22/07/2023

I want to tell you about the Dempster highway, a name, like so many, like the Cassier or the Inuvialuit or Fort McPherson, that held no meaning for us until a few weeks ago. As we moved northward, the vessel of the name began to fill. With the stories people told, yes, but more with the content of their gaze. The Dempster held some mystical significance that bordered on undefinable. And represented unfulfilled dreams, impossible lengths, the limit of one’s capacity, and the limit of a continent. The name itself is steeped in lore, scattered through the north, of a lost patrol, hardy mountain men defeated by a blizzard and perhaps hubris, buried in ice 25 miles into a 600 mile overland journey from the northern outpost of Fort McPherson to Dawson City. The corporal who led the relief patrol to locate the unfortunate group was named William John Dempster. It would be nearly 70 years until the gravel highway that bears his name would be completed. So passing the sign that pointed the way to the Dempster highway and the Arctic Ocean, we had already begun the journey in our mind, had already planted the seeds of meaning. As the harvest of our own passage was ready for the reaping, we pointed our wheels towards the remote and distant north, down the 600 mile berm built of dust clouds, pea gravel, pot holes, and legends, and lay our destiny at the shore of the arctic sea.

19/07/2023

Let’s take one last stroll through Dawson before we leave.

19/07/2023

Before we leave Dawson, let’s take one more stroll down the street.

18/07/2023

Dawson City, a boom town at the confluence of the Klondike and Yukon rivers, attracted thousands of desperate dreamers in 1897, fleeing economic recession and intoxicated with visions of gold. They were young men, mostly from Seattle and San Francisco, who made the arduous journey to stake a claim in the Yukon. Today the town, like a living relic, retains the charms of its boom days. Tourism is the primary draw, but the journey is still long and seems to filter out all but the most committed. To the east is the remote Klondike highway, strewn with potholes. There is no permanent road to the west. A ferry carries vehicles across in the summer and in the winter the river freezes, creating an ice road 12 feet thick. For us Dawson was the last stop before setting off north on the Dempster highway, 600 miles of isolated dirt road to the Arctic Ocean and 600 miles to return. My rear tire had not held up well since Prince George and after making some phone calls I arranged to have a new tire air freighted from Whitehorse. We meandered around town for a couple days while we waited for our new rubber to arrive. We spotted a motorcyclist we had met earlier in Watson Lake. I’m done. I did it. I dipped my toe in the Arctic Ocean. I’m going home. He wore a particular kind of road weary exasperation on his face. It was an expression we would become familiar with as we met more riders heading south. Dusty and weather worn, it masked the pride I knew he felt. He offered us little encouragement. Definitely get that tire replaced if you are going to try to ride the Dempster.

07/07/2023

Haines, Alaska didn’t experience the boom from the Klondike gold rush that ballooned nearby Skagway, nor do the cruise ships stop here. Haines remains a sleepy and remote town. It was called ‘the end of the trail’ by the Chilkat Tlingit people, who for generations navigated the Chilkat and Klehini rivers, and crossed the Chilkat pass on foot to trade with interior tribes. We stayed only a night, camped near the ghost town of Dyea, before heading north following the old Dalton trail on the Haines Highway. It was a route we had been anticipating for days, but we were met with low clouds and cold rain. We gritted our teeth and pressed on.

05/07/2023

I felt a soft tap on my hand. I looked down and saw a bundle of leaves reaching up to me from the grasp of a small child. They were recently picked from a nearby bush. The child said something in Swiss. I do not speak Swiss but examining the leaves I think I understood. Each leaf was embellished with a unique pattern-a playfully curling mono weight line. A tracing of a route, a record of a life entrained in the leaf. Thank you I said. She brushed her bangs from her forehead in a very deliberate manner and rushed to harvest another batch of these natural topographs. Our own meandering path had finally led us to the Yukon. A name rich with legend, feeling almost as remote as fiction, a fantasy of gold miners, endless winters, and grizzly bears. Yukon. In this land of legend, we first touched our wheels to the fabled Alaskan Highway which extends like a shock of lightning across the great wild north of Canada. It is a pilgrimage for many drawn by the legend or the grandeur or the audacity. To draw, briefly, the playful doodle of their lives in a long parallel with the life of others who likewise are drawn. My own grandparents, in their golden years, drove their camper along this road many years ago.

Two If By Land

10/01/2024

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