Category Archives: Motorcycle

Alaska, after the Dalton

So, having found our way to the top, or at least, a top, of the Pan-American Highway, how do we go south? The Pan American isn’t a road as such, or a route, it’s more of a concept. So, we might go this way, or that way. South, somehow. It also kept the option of diversions open – if we didn’t actually have a route.

I’d read about the D2D back in February and was mystified by the constant refrain of ‘It’s Not a Rally’.  So what was it?

Alaskan steaks!

Clearly, seeing as it was an adventure biker event and we were ‘in the area’ we needed to find out.  And, it’s definitely south of Prudhoe, and only a weeny diversion away from our route back to Anchorage. Oh, and over the border in Canada. We’d booked in On-line but were aware that they were expecting ‘larger than ever numbers’.  The main events took place on the Friday but tickets for the meal, one of the main events, went on sale 12 midday on Thursday.  They were sold out by 5 when Nate, a young American from Rhode Island, who shared our camping pitch, tried to buy one.

To be honest it was Fairbanks that we had come from as that was when we turned east and headed for firstly Tok, then Chicken and on to Dawson but we were expected to say Anchorage as nothing else made much sense.  If the conversation with our new acquaintances developed we’d explain that we’d flown into Anchorage, bought our bikes there, already done the Dalton and headed over to Dawson when returning from that.  Yes, we’d come across the Top of the World road. 

The Top of the World road (TOTWR) is precisely that.  It rises up to about 1000m for over 100km.  It undulates from one pass to another at times sweeping round corners to display fantastic views of the snow topped Mount Sorenson range or tree filled valleys below. It peaks at the little border post where it got to 1280m.  On our way back we had been told that caribou were migrating and passing across the road up by the border post.  When we arrived one guy checked our documents while the other was clearly scouting the area for caribou.

Our route across TOTWR had had it’s moments.  Gid was leading along the paved road, a perfect surface as many highways start.  When about 10miles in there was a black patch.  A lot of the repairs are in different colours from the original surface being produced from the natural materials nearby – sand, mud, black tarmac (shipped in),  grey rock compressed to gravel (if you’re lucky) .  Gid’s voice came blasting through the intercom.  ‘Shit, shit! That’s deep’. He’d clearly had a wobble.  ‘That’s deeep!’  With barely time to stop myself I came to a stand still, in it.  Not 6 inches as he’d said but definitely a good 4.  Chatting to some bikers later others had clearly been there to with equal tales of surprise and dismay. All happy to laugh about it now it was history.

Other excitement on the TOTWR occurred the following day.  One chap exclaimed that he’d had a heck of a time coming across in 6 inches of snow.  Mark, a new friend who is part Indian, an avid rider and has lived in Alaska all his life reiterated this saying that he wouldn’t have made it if it hadn’t been for the tracks of the car in front of him.  A third person in a car was also dazed by the weather up there.  All agreed it was six inches deep. The latter continued that he’d seen 3 or 4 flash fires from the lightening. In our first two days in Dawson we’d got used to the oppressively hot mornings and thunderstorms in the afternoons.

1% of Alaska burns out every year.  To give that some perspective, 2% of Alaska is populated.  The fires are left to burn out as that is a part of natural regeneration.  The old burns down, clears the leaf litter and debris all of which rejuvenates the soil. The roots of the plant Fireweed are fire resistant so it regenerates quickly.  It’s also a prolific seed producer which in turn brings in the birds, squirrels etc.  And off it goes again.

Whilst all was clear for our way back to Anchorage, where we were getting the bikes serviced, it wasn’t the case one week later when we returned to Tok, the launch point for the TOTWR. Revisiting Eagles Claw campsite, a bikers campsite at Tok, the chatter was all about the road being closed between Dawson and the more southerly town of Whitehorse, because of forest fires.  It had been closed for a couple of days and we were strongly advised not to go that way.   The following morning the road closure was confirmed by the Yukon news station.  Several days later it was still closed with one or two trips being lead with a pilot car, as a lady hoping to make the journey was telling me.

So, the D2D. Bikes were arriving from all points. The widest possible range of old and new adventure bikes, and a few brave cruisers (Hi Behr, hope the 34-year-old Electraglide made it home to Germany!). The poker run turned out to be – in the continuing good weather – an enjoyable 60 mile or so loop along local dirt roads, stopping at places of interest to draw a card. When we looked a bit nervous on the surface in places (read – slow), Nate was good enough to stick with us as others whizzed past. In the end, only one little bit felt challenging, but we’re definitely slow. The ride looped back to Dawson for a jolly good natter with other bikers at the steak feast prepared by Dawson Fire Department (proceeds to local charities). Then outside for the biker games, which definitely planted ideas for our RoSPA SMART training team back home. Mark appeared again here, as a bit of a star (opening the slow races – on his Ducati). And, as well as the (informally) organised events, an awful lot of chinwagging, and I suspect, beer too.

We hadn’t twigged before we got there, but Dawson City is the famous historic town at the centre of the 1898 Klondike gold rush. Well, it wasn’t historic then, just a gravel bank that the local Athabaskan Indians appreciated as a summer camp. They withdrew as swarms of smelly prospectors turned up by boat, and built a camp. Enterprising non-prospectors quickly built a town. After the gold was gone, it quieted down a lot, and now is reinvented as a living memorial to the gold rush (ahem, tourist town), with still a bit of a supply centre for the remaining local miners. Many of the buildings have stood still although some explained that many decades of the permafrost melting and re-freezing beneath the buildings had shifted the foundations severely.  Now some are decidedly wonky.

That big grey thing is a gold dredger. These gigantic barges were winched through the river bed, banks, and shoals, washing gold out of the gravel. A reminder that for all the romance of “panning for gold”, the early 20th century was an industrial age.

Dawson City is at the confluence of the Klondike and the bigger Yukon, and the river boats came downriver from Whitehorse.  Sourced with snow melt in BC, Canada, just kilometres away from the Pacific south-west coast of Alaska it heads north and inland and has carved a route out all the way to near the Bering Strait 1,980 miles away. The fast flowing water that passed our camp site was thick with silt. It’s hard to imagine it frozen solid throughout the winter.  Sufficiently so that it will take the weight of fully laden trucks as clearly the 24hr ferry can’t operate. During the months of non-drivable ice, the part of the city over the river is isolated.

Photographs recorded the harsh conditions and ill-prepared prospectors.  The latter was reiterated throughout the graveyard where tomb stones displayed the names of failed young hopefuls at the tender ages of 26 / 27.  The paddle boat graveyard was another vivid record of a by-gone days although the structures to lower the boats into the water still existed, as well as one hauled-out old timer to tour.

The Dalton Highway especially is billed as long distances between any services, but other, more workaday routes in these parts still strain the endurance of riders and, especially, motorcycle fuel tanks. The main road (really, it is!) from Anchorage/Wasilla/Palmer to Tok, had my bike 60 miles into reserve before the well-named Eureka Lodge around halfway provided fuel, coffee (25 cents!), food, and more bikers. The Top of the World road also involved a bit of vapour running, and those roads weren’t the only ones. Gid’s Himalayan seems to have a rather panicky fuel gauge, but also it seems to be thirstier than Clare’s. Maybe it’s just more loaded or bulky. The big bags on the front tank bars do provide a lot of weather protection, though. 60 miles into reserve (as in, the dashboard flashes, there’s no tap), gives a total range of something over 200 miles (haven’t actually conked out yet), and then there’s 2 gallons (~8 litres) in the can on the back. Clare’s front tanks total 6 litres, so we probably both have around 300 mile range.

On these long connecting roads, there will be a few small communities along the way but nothing more than a few scattered dwellings that are in a full tank distance.  The sheer distance between places is remarkable for a mere Brit. That’s not just Alaska – now we’ve moved into the Yukon, although the scenery and signage differs, the immense distances and rare communities continue.

From Wikipedia:

  • Alaska – 665,384 square miles, population ~733,000 (nearly a square mile each), the main part is roughly 1,500 miles long and wide.
  • Yukon – 186,272 square miles, population ~45,000 (about 4 square miles each), around 1,000 miles along the two short edges.
  • Great Britain – 80,823 square miles, population ~66,000,000 (about 1/743rd of a square mile each), 600 x 300 miles.

Highways are frequently numbered and often named. The longer ones, unless they really are major arteries are typically some part dirt road.  Even on metalled sections, ‘repairs’ are frequently areas of gravel spread across the road sometimes for 100m or so and have been known to cover several miles. The weather isn’t friendly to roads. Spring melt floods regularly wash away anything in their path, so some parts simply aren’t worth making up nicely as they’re re-laid annually. And often there’s frost heave or problems with permafrost – many roads are basically millions of pounds of gravel laid onto the permafrost, again, it maybe isn’t worth making a nice finish. But gravel roads can’t take much traffic before they corrugate, and the dust is a major hazard which prevents high density/high speed traffic. So, dirt roads rule in the sticks. They’re a lot better than Latvian ones though, loose tomato sized rock surface and pretty tight bends were frequent there.

The Dalton or the Dempster?

Sitting in our armchairs at home we’d barely heard of the Dempster, not until it was featured in Motorcycle News just the week before we flew out.  A pair of tour leaders exclaimed that it had been on their bucket list for a while and they’d just achieved it.  That was our first awakening to it’s existence as a biker road.  Out here it’s definitely the one to do.  ‘You’ve got to do the Dempster!  The Dalton just dumps you in an oil field,’  one enthusiast was trying to persuade me.

Although some of the resident bikers in Anchorage we’d spoken to have never done the Dalton and don’t intend to, because of the difficulties in riding it, it’s clearly yesterday’s challenge.  As we’d continued on our travels around Alaska bikers told of their Dempster ordeals. 

‘Six inches of thick mud all the way’, one grave looking soul who’d just finished it told us. 

’80 kph is the only way to crack it. That way you just fly over the pea gravel.’ 

Wallowing around in the Canadian gravel, some pea sized, some egg sized, which, all agreed was dug up from the river bed and smooth felt like walking on marbles, as opposed to the Alaskan mountain gravel that is crushed and jams together when pressure is applied, was not a great option.

‘It took a while of wallowing to even think of trying it but it worked!’ Richard exclaimed still pumped up with riding at 80Kph across the gravel and beaming from the success.  Luckily our 24hp bikes probably won ‘t get to 50mph in deep gravel (who knows?). What a relief.

So, all these dirt roads and wobbly moments – what was the damage? Luckily, we haven’t yet had a spill on these Himalayans. That compares to 3.5 drops of our UK Himalayans, in few miles. But Gid’s bike had been on the deck twice by now. Once, after dismounting in a highway rest area, on a seemingly well chosen surface, the bike decided to lie down. BANG went the airbag vest as the leash pulled out, leaving Gid standing bemused and squashed beside it. No damage apart from a £25 airbag cartridge. The other time, in Safeways’ car park, after shopping, Gid pulled a little on a loading strap, and the bike just toppled. The strap was on the left, and the bike toppled right. It’s a known defect of the Himalayan 411 that, designed partly in the UK, and otherwise Indian, it prefers to be parked on the left hand side of the road’s camber. Especially when loaded. In other words, the side-stand is too darn long! Clare’s UK 2018 bike got an adjustable, but driving on the left, Gid’s UK 2023 seemed to indicate the defect was fixed. Not so. And the forums confirmed it. A solution was needed, we can’t carry on crossing the road to park when there’s population.

We’d headed back into Anchorage for the bike’s 3,300 mile service. We figured it best to have this done at the shop because they know what noises a Himalayan should make, and it might help with any future warranty issues. We also picked up our proper Alaskan plates and title documents.

Tim at Wasilla, having helped us previously when setting up the bikes, had generously offered to shorten our side-stands. We’d had some delays in Anchorage. Getting lost on the way out didn’t help. But when we finally arrived at Tim’s another mate had turned up with an unexpected extra elderly BMW to salvage. Didn’t know BMW did orange bikes. Inexorably, our offer to treat Tim and his wife to a feed was defeated by the clock. Heather, Tim’s wife, generously fed us! A sheepskin seat cover also came our way. What a lovely generous chap! Clearly he’ll need to visit us in the UK.

A couple of people had mentioned McCarthy while we at the Eagles Claw. ‘The place is a copper mine museum and it’s about 60mi on a dirt road but that’s ok once you pass the fishing bridge,’ Stranded Strommer Steven, waiting for parts for his broken down V-Strom had told us.   ‘And you can bike across the footbridge to get there.  Cars can’t but bikes can’.  That clinched it.  I had visions of a suspended rope walk bridge that I could cross on a motorbike.  It was straight out of some of the videos I’d watched of Vietnamese ladies, infants on their backs, careering up the side of mountains on heavily loaded 125s.  Now I had the chance of crossing something in dare-devil fashion. Nervous anticipation was quick to set in.

The road up there was no problem. It was somewhat corrugated but corrugation, mud and gravel in moderate doses were no problem now. Then there was the fishing bridge. Smooth wide concrete across a braided gravelly river. The word was out, the salmon were coming in. There was an air of excitement. It was evening and pickups were arriving regularly, parking on the gravel banks and everywhere else. The river was shared by the rod guys, the wader guys dipping nets wielded at the end of 20ft poles and the bald eagles over head. Spectators watched along the road side. It was definitely a community event, although we didn’t see so much success. After the fishing bridge there was a worrying road sign, clearly designed to deter traffic from proceeding, but actually apart from the road being a bit narrower than before, it was nothing to worry about.

The village of McCarthy, 1km after the narrow but extremely solid metal footbridge we had ridden over, offered tourist facilities and a general store with the usual frustrating mix of things one doesn’t really want, Alaska’s slowest Wi-Fi, and cheapest ISO propane bottles. We rode on to Kennecott where we joined a Kennicot mine tour (Both spelt correctly). Fascinating: Back in the early 20th century it made a ton of money for the owners, and was abandoned in 1938 when the copper ran out. Keen to do some walking we were back the next day, plagued by mozzies at first as we walked along the dingy old wagon road, and on past the mill to visit the glacier. Our first real walk since we got here. And, Ting-a-ling, we remembered the bear bells! Knackered, we dined out that night – luxury. Actually, Alaskan groceries are so expensive that cheaper eat out options are pretty competitive.

From McCarthy (Hwy 10), we headed back to the main road, but this time turned left, heading south-east: towards Canada on the Alaskan Highway. Although Alaska is huge, it has few highways – we probably had traversed most of the metalled ones outside of cities.

It was, rather tidily, July 1st when we crossed the border. Clare’s “tiny bear spray” turned out to be, formally, “pepper spray”, ie for defence against humans not bears, not allowed in Canada, so she had to fill in a form and surrender it. While she did that, I idled round the bikes, and found another missing bolt (running total 3 lost plus 1 tie-wrap, and 2 loose). Easily fixed, but we need to watch our stock, despite commercial and Tim’s replenishments. Well, as we head into Canada, it’s only 2,000 miles until the bikes need another service (perhaps done ourselves this time), and the rear tyres, especially Clare’s, look pretty worn (after only 5,000 and 4,000 miles respectively). So we were already thinking of a service stop.

The full range: CT125 to GS, we’re in the middle.
Eureka Lounge was a vital fuel stop – and good grub. As tour guides Moto Quest know.

Our month in Alaska is done. The overwhelming impressions are: Space, sun (!), empty dirt highways, moose at any point, friendly helpful folks – and a lot of motorcycles.

Getting Up To Speed – Starting on the Pan American

Our flight to Anchorage was a great improvement over the last time we came here – thankfully. This time all our bags made it too. Based at Melissa’s AirBnb with all we need (bed, space, covered workspace for fettling motorbikes and a helpful host), we strolled over to The Motorcycle Shop (TMS) where Andrew McConnell was very helpful and there’re the bikes. A slick operation later and we’re off to the insurance place. All is good, the quote for us foreigners comes up fine. But. But the actual insurance co only takes cards … that have zip codes. Oops. Cue an afternoon of thrashing about. Unfortunately a Friday afternoon. Which isn’t enough to sort it. Paperwork is sure stressful. But, anyway, we leave with a one week’s cover.

It also turns out that getting a local SIM card isn’t entirely simple either and certainly not cheap. In the UK I pay £6/month for a good enough service. Last summer, in Latvia, my SIM for Europe was about €10/month. Here, there’s nothing below about $30/month. Wow. And the only card we’ve tried so far in my phone, wouldn’t work – we’re told none will. AAT, $40/mo 15GB, works in Clare’s, but what a price!

One gallon milk bottles are a rather daunting prospect for a motorbike tour. Customers are advised that they can only purchase two bottles. Some of the shelves in the store were also running low of stock too. Very covid-esque. Local news told of a propellor being broken on the supply ship which had failed to reach its destination. Thankfully powdered milk was still available. Sorted! But it did start to explain why goods at least are so expensive.

Fully loaded we set off for Seward as our first 300mi initial running in trip. A max of 3000 revs means our top speed is 40mph. We soon observed the signage that states ‘5 vehicles following – pull over and let them pass’, which seemed to work well enough. Gave us time to check out the locals…

Seward Highway Traffic

The Seward Highway, featured in ‘501 must take Journeys’ is indeed very picturesque. Views across sea inlets to snow topped mountains are all very dramatic but the road itself is rather dull. Although it follows the coastline and gently sweeps in and out my lasting impression is of it being on an American highway – mainly broad with long sweeping curves on the sections when it isn’t dead straight. But at 40 mph it doesn’t really matter. Running in a Himalayan is a slow process.

The Himalayan could be described, as Itchy Boots (an infamous motorcycle tourer and blogger) has said as, ‘under powered and over weight’. That’s rather harsh but probably right. I was highly amused to see that the Owners Manual states a maximum speed of 70mph. It’s low down torque and overall speed make it a perfect bike for mountain climbs with sight seeing. In second gear it pulls steadily up the steepest pass. Even when the throttle is released, because of deeper gravel or a series of pot holes etc., the speed drops off but is perfectly happy to pick back up again.

We made it down to Homer, a thriving peninsular with a mix of commercial and tourist activity. A sign displayed that short term parking was no more than seven days but the tourist scene has a board walk of all the familiar niceties- ice creams, snacks, coffees and a few attractions. Undoubtably the star of the day was a bald eagle consuming some road kill perched on a sign across the road. A close second was a moose with her newly born calf we’d seen along the way.

Homer Resident

Back from Homer, and our fleeting visit to Seward, we handed the bikes back to TMS for the first run-in 300 mile service. It has to be said shop servicing is expensive up here, especially in peak time – now! But we’re beginning to realise that everything is. Got them back, and spent the next 24 hours adding our previously prepared and brought accessories to the bikes. Gid’s appeal on the ADVRider forum, for loan tools or covered space (posted before Melissa, our host, had offered her garage), raised a few great offers, as well as alerting the locals to the presence of two ‘clueless’ Brits: Thus Mark, a frequent ADVRider contributor, accosted us with a friendly tease about our English voices as we perused the chain lube at TMS. The best offer though, was from Tim, who invited us into his spacious workshop, where we admired his various moto projects before cracking on with final jobs needing tools we didn’t find it sensible to bring. As icing on the cake, Tim treated us to a lesson in tubed tyre dismounting and mounting, for puncture repairs. We hadn’t got around to this back home – our experience is with tubeless and the “worms”.

Finally, we set off North. The wrong way! But really (or anally), one has to start at the “start”, and the northern end of the Pan American Highway is Deadhorse on the coast of Alaska’s North Slope.

Dead Horse, the end of the road, is not a town but an industrial camp that supports the Prudhoe Bay oilfields

The Dalton Hwy Guide 2024

Just thirty people live there all year round with an influx arriving for the summer season, although a lot of construction is in the winter as ice is more stable than the ground.

That step north, and back, was possibly the most challenging riding we’ll encounter for many months. It requires carrying extra supplies. Not just food and water but also gas – a new one for us (spot the 2 gallon gas can in the photos). The longest hop between gas stations or food outlets is 240 miles. Gid’s bike runs for approximately 210mi including his tank’s reserve of 50mi. That’s taking it right down to the fumes before topping up from his reserve container. Mine for some reason does an extra 30mi per tank. Obviously my smooth and economic gear changes, optimum tyre pressures, unaggressive acceleration make all the difference! The Camping is (mostly) free though which includes a drop toilet but usually no water unless filtered from a stream: So the bikes were loaded up with gas and drinking water. Once at Deadhorse basic rooms at about $220-$260/night are little better than a run down dormitory block, although with private rooms and comfortable but after a couple of days on challenging roads it had a shower and felt like a palace.

To reach Deadhorse, iconically the start of the Pan American, the Dalton Highway is the only road, built as a “haul road” for the oil industry, and it has a reputation for being challenging.

The road is narrow and has soft shoulders, high embankments and steep hills. There are lengthy stretches of gravel surfaces with sharp rocks, potholes, wash boarding and, depending on the weather, clouds of dust or slick mud, Intermittent sections of pavement can de deceptively smooth, until unexpected and sometimes very deep potholes. Watch out for dangerous curves and loose gravel.

The Dalton Highway Visitor Guide Rev 2024

Dear Reader – don’t think we’re all alone: We’ve already lost count of the number of other folks we met who are also attempting (or, rarely, finishing) the PanAm. In our “camp” at Deadhorse, two cyclists had flown in to start. We met bikers doing it. There are those military looking German-registered 4×4 trucks at regular intervals. Names, alas, have already slipped our minds. There are also many bikers on shorter adventure rides (Short? Rhode Island to Deadhorse – try asking Google for a route) and on tarmac, Harleys and the like.

On our way north, three bikers arrived in Coldfoot, one of the very few settlements and gas stations along the way. They had just come in from the north over the Atigun Pass, where the Dalton climbs over and through the Brooks Range. There, the guide book informs us, storms can dump snow at any time of the year. They looked worn out. Conversation sparked off and one chap exclaimed that they had had a really difficult time getting up the northern side of the pass to the elevation of 1422m as they had had to cope with thick mud. Their bikes were certainly extremely dirty. He paused for a moment and said that on reflection it had been worth it but we should expect a tough time.

We had a couple of hours or so to ride before reaching the pass. Our route up seemed fine but we’d been warned that the northern side was much steeper and that we could expect the temperature to drop significantly. From our own monitoring of the recent weather forecasts of the area up to Prudhoe we knew we could expect fog or freezing mist. Temperatures further north at Prudhoe had been as low a 1 degree C. Freezing mist would be a new one on us.

Both of us must have been pondering the ordeal to come and how we would fare. We had contemplated doing some off-road courses this last winter but the weather was so wet in the UK and our bikes at home were fitted with 70/30 tyres, not knobblies that are suitable for mud. Gid on his first off-road effort back in the UK covered 100m before sliding into a tree, whereas, on a different occasion I had made it a whole 10m before the front wheel slipped away from beneath me in mud. Our bikes, now fully loaded, with the same 70/30s tyres weren’t going to cope well in extreme mud.

Our trip over the Atigun Pass was awesome. The wind and strong sunshine had dried out any mud and the truckers had flattened it. We only saw the merest hint of mud. My concern was burning my brakes out on the way down the steep mountain side. In fact, we were lucky with the weather the whole trip: No mud, no snow, and the freezing fog burnt off at Deadhorse, giving a clear view of mountains 120 miles away.

I was retelling the tale to a cheerful flag man who controlled traffic at one of the road work stops. With large machinery working along the road passing traffic is guided behind pilot trucks through the road works. He proclaimed in a slow American drawl, ‘That ain’t thick mud’. He continued with a broad smile across his face, ‘But they like their story so we’ll let them run with it.”

One week earlier, he exclaimed they had had 1 1/2 foot of snow in a day. ‘It only cleared a couple of days ago,” he said. The snow and subsequent ice had been the cause of a wide-load trucker veering off the edge of the road down the embankment. We’d passed that a few miles back. Its load of pipes had already gone. The truck itself would be salvaged just as the other three up ahead had already been retrieved.

Southern ascent of the Atigun. No mud today!

Our spin chilling moment was when faced with crossing 20m of freshly tipped rubble, forming a low berm along the centre of the road. The side-dumper truck, whose load needs a vehicle with 16 axles along its 20 metre length, was blocking the lefthand carriageway. Our pilot car merrily jumped and bounced across it. Well … we made it! But not without some heart stopping moments as the bikes bucked and jerked their way across. On our way back this memory was still with me but there was no sign of where the work had been. All was smooth and flat. I shouldn’t have been surprised as the Dalton Hwy had taken a mere 159 days to construct the entire length of the road back in 1974, describe by many as a ‘momentous feat’. Of course they’d finish that bit in 24hrs!

Most of the campgrounds are provided by one or other of several apparently competing public bodies, and follow a formula of lots of space, gravel to pitch on, a sturdy restroom hut with pit toilets, picnic tables, bear proof rubbish and food bins – and that’s it. Usually no water supply other than treat it yourself from a stream. On reaching Galbraith Lakes, a fabulous spot in the lee of the Brooks mountains on the slopes down from the Atigun Pass we realised we didn’t have enough water. A previous campsite had got the water filtration kit out of the packing. Using our tiny hiking/emergency filter confirmed it as a back breaking lengthy process. Signs at Galbraith stated that the stream leading into the lake was highly contaminated with giardia. Either, boil the water rapidly for 5 mins – our biggest saucepan is 1.5 lt and how much gas have we got? Or, filter it to reduce the risk. Yep, we’ve got a filter. We decided to ration our water.

  • OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Most campsites provide bear proof rubbish bins and food lockers but on one occasion the food lockers were missing even though a sign declared that there was bear and wolf activity in the area. Gid cunningly fitted his food panier with an alarm exclaiming, ‘That should be enough to scare them away’ Revisiting the panier a little later it all seemed to work ok as off went the alarm. Equally, he’d lined he entrances to our tent with throwing rocks in case of a bear or wolf attack. Relieved at our cunning we relaxed into a deepish slumber. It wasn’t ’til the morning when I went to retrieve our breakfast that we learnt that Gid had failed to reset the alarm.

On the northern side of the Brooks range the land is cold, flat, featureless Tundra. Very little can grow. The permafrost 1ft down limits the depth of roots and the resulting height that bushes etc can grow. The plants have developed strategies to deal with the harsh conditions. Some of the spruce trees although they look emaciated might well be 100yrs old. The dark buds of the Blackish Oxytrope plant absorbs the sun’s heat at the onset of spring, whilst still under the snow. Thus warming and melting the surrounding snow to get a head start.

At Galbraith lake we spotted our first caribou. It was a snow patch that moved which was pointed out to us by a Wild Life and Fisheries ranger who was there with a group of children. Caribou eat lichen which is a nutritious, high energy food but in the last few years the snow has melted during winter and frozen leaving the lichen covered in ice. With their food source inaccessible the numbers of caribou have adversely suffered.

Further north we started to see muskoxen. The art of spotting them if they weren’t near the highway was to look for semi rotting hay bales. Voila – now you’ve spotted muskoxen in moult.

We survived the Dalton Highway! And, of course, got a few stickers.

An Historical Tour

Apologies, this is published about 3 months after we got back! A certain lack of immediacy pervades it.

So, exit the wilds of Scandinavia to a different mode of touring. From here on,we have crowds of cities, book-loads of history.

We knew little of Finland before. One salient point striking us Britons, not just about Finland but everywhere until near home, was how recent so many countries are. From Finland through to Poland, for most of the last several hundred years they had been part of the Czar’s empire. Freed in the Russian Revolution, all but much of Finland were back under Russia’s thumb by 1940 or 45, until the end of the 1980s. So “independence” in the modern age lasted just 20 years or so, before restarting in 1990 or thereabouts. And in that 20 years, they’d fought amongst themselves quite a bit. In the last hundred years north eastern Europe’s national borders have been far from static, and don’t entirely match the language and cultural boundaries. So a lot of the “history” felt as if it were still lurking nearby, and might resume any moment. Well it did resume: The ongoing war in Ukraine added a very big dose of edginess to that feeling.

I should probably apologise for my historical ignorance demonstrated below, and for accidentally treading on anyone’s sensitivities.

We rented a budget apartment in Helsinki for a few days. Importantly, we were able to get one with secure parking, although access was convoluted. It was a sunny 4km hike into central Helsinki. Nice to wander and explore, as true tourists. We found a huge deli supermarket, the first time since Copenhagen there had been such a choice of yummy, or healthy, things. Though, no, there weren’t any paper maps of eastern Europe in the shops. Lots of history to visit and try to comprehend.

The Russian Orthodox Cathedral in Helsinki (I think!)
Russian Orthodox Architecture
An Industrial Era cannon defending Helsinki
Industrial era cannon on island of Suomenlinna outside Helsinki
A WW11 era Finnish submarine from the Winter Wars
WW11 Finnish submarine Vesikko

On 16th August, 2 months after our ferry to Holland, we boarded the comfy ferry from Helsinki, to Tallin, capital of Estonia. Aboard we chatted with pair of Latvian bikers and admired their Smartin Adventure luggage and crash protection on their bikes, a new TransAlp and a T7. Another  young Lithuanian was on a CFMoto. Of course, we all had been to Nordkapp.

In Tallin we stayed at a curious camping-in-a-garden, in a sort of cubicle in a sort of gazebo. It worked well enough, and was walkable to the centre. It’s a lovely old town, although far less old than it looks, being rebuilt, after WW11 laid much of it flat. Like many Baltic ports, it is famously an “Hanseatic” city, founded by the medieval trading alliance. We started learning about the Livonians, and were surprised to learn that they and others brought (presumably, imposed) Christianity to these parts only around the time the Muslim Ottomans finally extinguished the Christian Byzantine Empire at Constantinople, in the 15th century, 800 years after the monks brought Christianity to the back-end-of-beyond island of Britain. But, of course, the Romans never controlled this territory or anywhere nearby. What did they ever do for us, eh?

We knew Clare’s bike would be due a major service while we were away, now it was due, and my rear tyre looked pretty sad. Unfortunately no outfit in Helsinki could fit the big service in over our three days planned stop, but Helsinki Honda did do me a new tyre. I’ve ended up defaulting to Bridgestone’s BT23, my earlier fitting of 80:20 road/offroad adventure tyres brought no reward on dry gravel tracks or wet grass, and they’re never in stock; the BT23s seem to always be ready, be it Oban, Worthing or Helsinki. Yamaha Tallin did Clare’s big service and a fork service too. Mechanic one of those slightly curmudgeonly sorts who will often go a bit beyond. Good value, that was.  Two pillion runs as we shuttled about for a day exploring Tallin.

We explored further east in Estonia, along the northern coast, ending up in Narva, whose medieval fortress looks across a river at a contemporary Russian fortress. Nearby is a heavily secured border crossing, much less busy than it was before 2022. The mediaeval fortress was interesting to explore, but had been rebuilt. We recalled our cycling adventures in the ‘stans, also part of the Czar’s empire, later the Soviet Union, now independent. There also, the great historical castles were quite often thoroughly maintained, and kept in good repair. We saw a lot more of it as we worked our way west. A very different approach to here in the UK, dotted with scenic ruins, most of which have been left unrepaired since Cromwell blew them up.

We’re in Narva. That over there is Russia, the sea is not far to our right.

I’d always thought of the three Baltic states as “small”, but actually they are each very roughly twice the size of Wales; yet the combined population is less than twice that of Wales, so there’s plenty of forest. Somewhere in the Baltic capitals, we managed to acquire a paper road atlas of the three countries. It made planning a lot easier, and just fitted in my map case. Many of the minor roads were unsurfaced, often the atlas legend was a good guide. As remarked in our Finland posting, we’re pretty slow on dirt roads! Having escaped from the Soviet Union only 30 years ago, and being sparsely populated, the countryside in the Baltics is often a bit unimproved. As always in countries with lots of space, there are derelict buildings – it must make more sense to start again on a new plot.

It’s a small world. We stopped at a rather posh campsite, and there, again, was a German couple from the Tallin campsite-in-a-garden. Less probably then arrived 2 guys, Danes, a father on a Harley and son supporting in car, we’d met before at a curious backroad roadhouse in Finland. But, to confuse us, they’d parted from the second biking father & caged son they were then with, and, they’d exchanged facial hairstyles – the beard had moved to the son. Monthly shaves, like me! Beer was a reasonable €1.50 for a can, so I had my first since Denmark or Germany.

Speaking of beer, somewhere random in Estonia, we turned a corner on a country road, and dropped straight into a random breath test. Clear, of course, and no trouble, but a reminder that from Tallin on, there are really rather a lot of police about. In Scandinavia they are almost invisible. Poland, too, we were pulled over there for no apparent reason, and the cop’s explanation seemed rather, err, weak. Apparently there had been a lot of accidents, so he was certain he wanted to check our V5s (vehicle registration documents). Not sure how those avoid accidents, and he didn’t check our insurance, tyres, or breath. Perhaps he was just curious – seemed a nice chap.

We moved on to Latvia. And wondered in our ignorant English fashion – why are there three countries here, anyway? As so often: Language and religion. Each of the three is quite distinct: Estonia’s language is related to Finnish, and Lutheranism dominates religious life, plus a fair following of Orthodox churches. Latvia’s language is one of the last remnants of the Baltic family, and again Lutherans are the most common religious community. Lithuanian is also a Baltic language, but quite different from Latvian, and most of the population is Catholic. We were also noting, whenever we learned about recent history, that the monolithic Soviet Union, that dominated a lot of the UK’s foreign attention in our youth (the far off sixties, seventies and eighties), wasn’t quite so monolithic after all. The three Baltic states (and for that matter, the ‘stans) did a lot of stuff their own way, and were quite careful of their borders and differences. Much more like the USA than the UK, except that Russia was rather more dominant than the USA’s most populous state.

One of the most fascinating places in Latvia was a 1980s bunker, built by, and for, the government, so they could continue during and after a nuclear war (that’d be, ahem, our bombs then. Blush). The Latvian civilian politburo probably weren’t treated to the latest technology available, and, the Soviets didn’t much go on consumer electronics, and it had to work in a nuclear war, and, it was a bunker, so the technology and ambience looked pretty archaic. You could film Stalin, or Hitler, or Churchill working in this bunker and “continuity” wouldn’t baulk at almost all the equipment. It would have impressed Lloyd George or the Kaiser though. And it might still work, unlike modern electronics with a 5 year life. The generators do still work, as they use them to power the sanitorium above the bunker.

It’s ok – Clare doesn’t speak Latviski or Русский!

It might seem a bit of an odd, though pleasant and countrified, location for the, still operating, sanitorium, but apparently it was built there only to disguise the bunker. Did MI6 know about the bunker? Well, Latvia wasn’t alone – try googling “UK cold war bunker”. Indeed – Subterranea Britannica describes several, albeit smallish, cold war bunkers in our home county Sussex alone!

Bunker green by Dulux
They still run, we’re told
Not sure if way in or way out!
Tactfully, there’s no national emblem on those planes

Riga gave us a shock by having an actual, congested, rush hour. After two months of absent or free traffic, this was a shock. Rather smelly, too, as many of the vehicles date from the early days of Europe’s diesel boom. Well, we have one at home, too. Riga’s old town was attractive, but mostly a late 20th century facsimile as it was flattened in WW2. We listened to a church organ concert and visited the city market. Perhaps Latvia has more liberal trade practices than it’s neighbours as I was able to buy medicines that needed a prescription in some countries (not in the UK), and a SIM card for Europe because my roaming had ended after 2 months (thanks Boris). We stayed in a cheap hotel, and were entertained by the top floor guests who were migrant workers – all men – from Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan and more. We had language-hampered reminiscences of our time in those lands. The communal kitchen was very well used, but fortunately I didn’t have to take Clare any plov.

Riga, new and old
Babushkas!
Riga, old and new

Out of town, sometimes in town, our time in the Baltics probably produced around one castle a day. There’s loads. Many are in good repair, some are ruins. Trakei was particularly striking.

Trakei, Lithuania
Trakei, Lithuania. What’s she done to deserve that?

Lithuania’s Hill of Crosses grabbed our attention shortly after crossing into Lithuania. Pretty much all summer, if we’d seen a religious site, it was Lutheran, or latterly, sometimes Orthodox. Hill of Crosses is all beads and Popes (three, IIRC). It was sort of charming, attractively scruffy, but also a little creepy. Its actual religious purpose is, well, it just is. No miracles or martyrdoms. It does

to mark an element of national consciousness for Lithuanians. Perhaps in repressive times crosses were tolerated and national symbols not.

We travelled east to Vilnius, capital of Lithuania. Vilnius is scarily close to the Belarussian border. Unusually for us, we didn’t think of going and peering over the fence, to add Belarus to our little list of countries we have seen close over a border, but not visited (for the record: Iran, China, Afghanistan, Russia). This is a tense part of the world: NATO countries’ territory squeezes nervously through a narrow gap between Russia and Belarus; and that exclave of Russia, Kaliningrad, is surrounded by NATO countries except for its Baltic coast.

Vilnius is a nice old town, mostly original as it wasn’t flattened in WW2. It’s also less medieval, less Hanseatic than the coastal capitals (the Hanseatic League was nautical), it’s more 18th or 19th century. But our enduring memory of it is the horrible museum of the worst period of the 20th century when they endured two Soviet occupations and one Nazi one. The small museum is actually in the old KGB premises and mostly details the Soviets’ appalling oppression and methods. It was also eye opening how long resistance against the Soviets endured, nearly till Stalin’s death.

Vilnius Cathedral, outside
Vilnius Cathedral, inside

So it’s no wonder that Vilnius was enthusiastically hosting its second Military Tattoo with bands and parades by many NATO allies. Just the second, in 2023: They started in 2022, odd that. It was free to attend, and we waited on a bench for it to open. We were joined by a military officer off duty with an injury. He had relatives studying in UK, and we chatted about, well, stuff. Alas, that was it for the entertainment, the VIPs were all in situ, the parade descended the boulevard towards our temporary auditorium, prepared for the ceremonial entry, and – the heavens opened. And how. Totally torrential, and it didn’t stop. Military intelligence had warned of it, and they’d been handing out free ponchos for a while, as even the VIPs had no roof. But this was mega rain. Even the submariners gave up*. Also, the wind started blowing parts of the auditorium over. The outside audience, including us, broke and ran, hiding under the great portico of Vilnius Cathedral. Which unfortunately was also very tall, and facing into the wind, so only kept some of the rain off. I think the event was abandoned.

*Fiction on my part, Lithuania does not operate submarines.

Off from Vilnius, by the afternoon we were in Poland …. what? I haven’t written about motorcycling in the Baltics? Oh? Well it’s fine. Pretty good, not too busy, main roads – where there are motorways we avoided them. Pleasant minor roads. A lot of forest, but it’s normally cut way way back from the road. A lot of the minor roads are unsurfaced, and many then have very loose surfaces, but aren’t much corrugated. Most of the countryside is flat, and the population is modest (and doubtless easily displaced in Czarist or Soviet times), so the roads are usually pretty straight. So unless you actively want to ride dirt roads, it’s not especially interesting riding. There were some pleasantly winding bits though. There are campsites, and cheap hotels, and apartments for short rents. Food is cheapish but you won’t find low fat yoghurt and muesli.

Oh yes, Poland. Ah Zlotys. Didn’t have any. But cards accepted, so we’re good. This border area of Poland is quietly pleasant, a sort of Kotzvolds perhaps. Everyone has been friendly all along, this is no different. I can’t remember if there was really a border; it’s all very European and easy. The day after, we arrived in Gdansk, as following our Baltic theme, we’d take the coast, rather than head for Warsaw and other cities. We rented a little apartment. With secure-ish parking, but rubbish instructions to get in. Including, we didn’t know that non-resident motor vehicles aren’t allowed in the day. So the apparent baffling one-way system is, actually, and really, a no-way system. Good job we didn’t know, because we got in, eventually. And, unusually for a flat advertised as in the city centre, it actually was.

Gdansk is a fair sized city, yet the central old town area is compact and very walkable. Again, “old” town means rebuilt after WW11 to look like the old town. A clue is probably that walls and roofs tend to be straight. Attractive though. We spent a day sightseeing (and getting a haircut) and another day seeing most, though not all, of the WW11 museum. Like the museum in Vilnius, it could, maybe should, give one nightmares. Learned a lot. WW11 was large in Britain’s historical background during my 70s childhood, and I vaguely remembered the 37m+ death toll from WW11 – now we were in areas where the bloodbath was at its worst. In comparison, history I’ve read since suggests that the UK government was quite careful to limit its casualties to under 0.5m, as the memory of losing 4m in WW1 was fresh.

Now, following the Baltic coast west from Gdansk on motorcycles, for us, was a mediocre plan. This is Poland’s riviera, and like England’s, it has an air of having seen better days. But it was still crowded, and even at the fag end of the season, plenty of Poles and maybe others, were ambling about, idling outside tat shops or licking ice-creams. It’s not as pedestrian and bicycle friendly as Germany or Holland, but there’s a lot of crossings! Chug, chug went the bikes, 50kph almost all the way. Still we saw some beautiful beaches, the Baltic was warm and not very salty, and camping was cheapish.

We crossed into Germany, still in a holiday zone. Even though this was our first time ever in the ex-DDR, everything looked smarter, and bigger, and shinier, especially the prices. More cycle lanes. The Ruge campsites were organised to a painful level of do-this, don’t do that. It’s rather the same in our UK Camping and Caravan Club; could it be camping brings it on? Of course, if you actually got past the notices and systems and spoke to the Fraulein of the campsite, she couldn’t be more helpful.  I can’t remember whether Poland or Germany, away from the coast, we stayed at a huge, old, much underused, disorganised campsite with creepy dark pathways to giant, echoing, slightly decrepit shower blocks. No notices there.

Although there were still lots of (other) tourists, the roads became much freer. The speed limit went back up to 100kph (for the first time on ordinary main roads since leaving Germany in June). More to the point, we welcomed the end of the ex-eastern bloc habit of posting micro limits covering a few metres, with ambiguous endings. 1 ferry, to island of Ruge, very scenic and perfect, very expensive.

At home we have a Simon Weir guidebook, and before we’d left home, we’d grabbed a few GPS files from it. They were nice roads, strung together with little bits of Autobahn. Little used autobahn at that, so the answers are: Just about 140kph true flat out in 6th, and gets-wobbly-at-the-front at about 170kph. But our IT was frustrating at times, and reversing GPS routes doesn’t work well when there are slip roads onto dual carriageways, especially if you don’t know the local town names. Oops. A cheerful old codger in the welcome caravan at a huge campsite relieved the frustration with a bit of comedy. He was a right joker he was, directed us to a wriggly pitch full of odd noises. Woke up in the morning to a tent full of molehills. I had a minor scare, thinking my bike was leaking oil, but it was just the very thin Norwegian “Racing” chain lube reacting to warm continental temperatures.

Celle, and SilberSee camping. Celle’s a charming old town, with enough to see. We stayed two days. The campsite was lovely, loads of space, freeform pitching, few punters, and a big, warm, lake with a beach. And a simple restaurant. We dived in and caved in. My diary says: “Decided to walk into Celle but bus arrived. Driver chatty, used to play darts with BAOTR at Bergen Belsen (!). Wandered town, old and neat and pretty, homogenous tho. Castle,  more palace, outside impressive. Walked back via supermarket,  but 500m from home the same bus driver insisted on giving us a freebie. Swam again”. We fixed a minor electrical issue on Clare’s bike and cleaned a leaking fork seal on mine, both satisfactorily.

The next campsite, the distinguished looking owner saw the bikes and became chatty. The more so as we each explored our previous travels.  Stunning photos arrayed on his wall. Herr Wolf had had some epic journeys especially in Africa, way back when. On, natürlich, a BMW flat twin. With a sidecar, which, in retrospect, he wasn’t convinced about. The bike was still in his barn, worn and dusty and sans sidecar, but looking sound.

7th Sept. Having decided to skip a flog across the Ruhr and then Essex we entered France. The frontier signage was even less than usual. Clare didn’t notice until we sat down for lunch when I mentioned it. Immediately, a lady passed and said Bonjour, then Bon Appetit. Voila!

Our trip ended with some lovely French roads, charming villages, towns and cafes. A last minute booking on the Dieppe ferry, which drops us almost back home after a 4 hour crossing. Before that, a last leisurely coffee outside a harbourside cafe filled with old radios. Finally we survived the challenge of getting out of Newhaven, on the wrong, or right, side of the road, in the dark.

The Continent sees us off in style – two days before we’d have been thrown out!

We were away for just a few days short of our post-Brexit 90 day limit, and covered almost exactly 8,000 miles. What a lovely trip!

Forests, more Forests – Finland

The plan had long been that, after reaching Nordkapp, we’d bum about a bit in northern Norway, travel south through Finland, then home east via the Baltic coast. Well, we’re well on our way, here’s an update.

We did indeed bum around in Norway a bit more. Rode around the the most easterly bit of Norway, peered over the border at Russia. Took a short hike to the “triple border” where Norway, Finland, and Russia meet. Only Norway guards it, and the very civil national service lads explained the rules. As you might expect, nobody was allowed to approach the Russian segment. Then, to our surprise, they said that, since Brexit, we were also not allowed on the Finnish segment. I’ve no idea why. Happy Europeans romped around it, taking pictures with the guards. But we got our first glimpse of Finland, and saw another lump of Russian forest, while we picnicked in Norway.

Border Guards get plenty of photo practice! Norway left, Russia right, Finland behind Gid.

Finland was going to offer us miles and miles of peaceful gravel roads with us wild camping where we pleased by a lovely lake for a swim (sans, obviously though mysteriously, any biting insects). It was not to be.

Firstly, the Finns have tarmaced a bigger proportion of their roads than we’d assumed. Which is just as well, because, well, of us.

Our access at home requires passing 50-500 metres of roughish track, that has to be taken slowly because it’s so uneven, and also quite crowded. I (Gid) feel quite chuffed that standing up on my 500X, I can take some of it at nearly 30mph/50kph quite comfortably, and remembering driving cars in Canada, and riding dry tracks on a slick tyred MTB, I thought biking on well graded gravel would be fine. However, our home surface is mostly quite compacted, so firm under tyre but, err … faced with a real gravel road, that’s a lot flatter, but also usually rather looser, I can go …about the same… Clare’s somewhat slower (and actually standing isn’t feasible on her MT07). Well 50kph max doesn’t really cut it if you want to ride 300 kilometres a day. Plus, it’s uncomfortable sitting, and arduous standing for long periods (my longest was about 25km, I think). It’s also possible that our firm and rather slick road tyres and Clare’s firm suspension don’t help – we both recall enjoying a led trip on CRF250s around Fuerta Ventura’s dirt tracks: Although that probably wasn’t much faster, it felt a lot more natural: tyres, pressures, soft springs and lightness probably account for that. And also, perhaps critically, neither of us has the skills to use offroad steering techniques (ie slinging the back end out to use drive to make the turn, whatever it’s called), and have to corner at speeds where the front wheel can get enough grip, which was often “dead slow”. A real eye opener, and if we aspire to do longish trips where the roads are gravel, we need to resolve.

So, we pretty much stayed on Finland’s tarmac. Mile after empty mile of it. Little traffic. Lots of trees. Occaisional reindeer, who own the road. Seriously, lots of trees. And so, mostly, formal campsites, too. They usually have pretty good facilities. Even some informal, but known, campsites had toilets, which was nice. And everything seemed a bit cheaper than Norway, though not by much.

Shop cashier told us to go back 3km and take the track to the lake. A lovely camp spot.
For €20 this had showers and a huge lake.

We had some nice stops as well, especially those connected with Sami culture. Ok, and Santa’s HQ. Clare found out about a famous hiking trail, the Bear’s Ring. Of course, we got to the tourist info for it at 4pm on Sunday, just before it closed. To be told that the bus link to resolve the logistics ran on Monday at 9am. But not on Tuesdays. Cue absolutely frantic getting ready-ness. We’d been scratching our heads about carrying capacity, couldn’t resolve it. My ancient 35 litre packable sack would suffice, both it and me groaning, but Clare had only a micro bag. In the end we bought a new 50 litre rucksack, Intersport’s cheapest. I took the heavier stuff and Clare took the bulk.

The Bear’s Ring is 82km, and the terrain is middling for a hike. We took the default 4 day/3 night option, although a slight misunderstanding of the (must be used) camp locations put us a bit out of sync with other folks from the bus: But, maybe the peace was a good thing.

Apart from a cafe in the middle, good for 1 meal, there’s no resupply option, so food has to be carried. We were super lucky with weather, fine, fine, fine and fine… until, literally the last, steepest, hour. When it rained in biblical fashion. Before we could don waterproofs, we were soaked. After 30 minutes, wading up and down the torrential path, we spied a shelter hut, crowded. Where we all sat and stood the last of it out. Before leaving, we emptied our boots. I was wearing shorts, and my boots had cupfuls in. Clare’s fabric trousers had at least deflected such gross amounts. Let’s be clear: We both had decent waterproofs, but it happened too quick to don our overtrousers.

I think this was late on the last day, before the sky turned black…

We indulged in an hotel for a night to recover. The boots took a few days…

From there, it wasn’t so far to Helsinki. Where starts, really, a quite different phase. From wildness and scenery and lots of camping, we’re now faced with dense history, a border every week. A cultural and historical tour of a part of the world that our anglo-centric history gives us little knowledge of. Another post, I think.

Nordkapp?

23rd July. Well, here we are: Nordkapp, the iconic European touring destination. We know we’re at 71° North plus a bit. But where, actually is the kapp bit? It seems the problem with Nordkapp is that it’s a 300m high cliff. Warm land, cold sea… so yup, it’s under this cloud somewhere, as are we. The extensive flat, stoney area is full of people, especially motorcyclists røyking, wandering around saying “where is it?” in a multitude of tongues.

Photo of the plateau on 25th, with much less cloud. Or wind.

The more numerous folk who have sensibly travelled in motorhomes, are inside them, probably drinking, waiting for the sun to break through. They’re not inside the commodious cafe/museum/shop building, because, like the motorcyclists, they will be charged £25 each to enter, and it’s “røyking forbudt”. There’s a lot of bicycles, too. But the actual cyclists are inside because, commendably, hikers and cyclists are free. And don’t, by and large, royk. The other reason they’re inside is it’s blowing a hooley, and blooming cold, and they’ve just climbed 300m. A nice tourist took our murky picture at the monument.

But we dun it! It does feel like a diminished achievement compared to this cyclist from Milan, and these other long haulers from Belgium (…wistful moment…), but we dun it: It’s taken us 5 weeks, and about 5,850 km/3635 miles. Rather indirect and explorey miles.

Two days later, we hiked to the roadless point that is actually the northernmost point. A much nicer day, and, this place, Knivskjellodden, slopes gently into the sea, so we lunch at maybe 20m, in clear blue sky. We can see Nordkapp, hurrah! The poor folks at the visitor centre can’t see us though, because the top of it is inside a cloud. Rather beautifully. We think Nordkapp is the leftmost bit of land.

To be fair, we did then pop in briefly at the top, and the clouds did break at odd moments. So we got a new photo.

And Clare found a rainbow.

Except… did I write “actually the northernmost point”? Ah, well, of what though? Trophy or not, Nordkapp and Knivskjellodden are actually on an island. It’s not, therefore, the northernmost point of the European mainland. And the island of Svalbard (Spitzbergen) is hundreds of km offshore, to the north. But, you can’t ride, or walk, to Svalbard. Nordkapp, then, is the most northerly point of Europe you can get to by road.

So, another quest required: Ride a day east to Slettnes, the most northerly point of the european mainland that you can get to by road. From there it’s an 2 night hike to Cape Nordkinn, the most northerly point of the european mainland. But we’re not set up for that, and settled for a short potter. Here’s the trophy shot of me (Gid) having a chilly dip in the Arctic Ocean, with Slettnes Fyr in the background. While I was drying in the sun, a minke whale came by just offshore. A memorable day.

We’ve taken longer than most motorcyclists to get here, but explored a lot. Our thanks, anyways, for the great advice from Norwegian and other motorcyclists and occasionally non motorcyclists we met along the way. Especially Froda, and we hope you got your other rubbish home safely.

Onwards – east, and then south, aiming, roughly, for Helinski.

Yo Yam! Hi Honda!

Time, perhaps, to reactivate our blog?

Five years have passed: Eventful, frustrating ones – grounded by this, that, pandemics, injuries, tennis, the other – but finally we’re ready to go on another (modest) adventure. The new bikes are ready, and loaded to go:

Yes! These have engines. It’s all the fault of our Cairns Warmshowers host, Nick. Nick’s travel theory is that mountains call for engines. At least one of us is definitely convinced.

So, we’re all loaded up with the intention of trundling slowly, but much faster than before, to Norway’s North Cape. There’s definitely mountains en route. In maybe 2015 we cycled from Bergen south to Denmark, so we’ve crawled up some of them. After Nordkapp, we hope for a long, relaxed loop home via Finland and the Baltic states, then west along the Baltic coast. Brexit, alas, has limited us to 90 days, as there are no non-Schengen countries on the route. We planned this so long ago that St Petersburg was originally contemplated, but no longer.

Fingers crossed we manage it this year, unlike 2020, 2021, 2022…