Teslin Lake, the Yukon

WHOOPS, second get-off of the journey. This was two days ago, up around 6,500 feet on a mountain west of Toad River, British Columbia. Bob and I were 20 miles off road and struggling up the final 200 yards to the summit.

He made it, and even after I clipped him because I had too much speed and too little control while we were both struggling for traction up the final stretch. He’s got a pretty good bruise on the back of his left calf, administered by my right boot.

I keep calling the piglet a light motorcycle—and she is—but when she’s flat on her side on a steep grade with terrible footing, it takes two men to get her back up on her wheels.

I got all the gear off her except the left sidecase, she was lying on top of that. Bob trudged down the rocky slide to help lift her. He offered to help get her running again, too, but I said I’d do that myself, just as a point of pride after wiping out.

I asked Bob to enjoy the view from the summit, I’d get up there sooner or later.

Imagine blowing up a 40-mile brick wall and then riding over the debris. That’ll give you an idea for the feel of this little side adventure on the road to Alaska.

That heavy 6.6 gallon tank was a factor in the piglet ending up on her side within sight of the summit. I had filled the tank only about 10 miles before we turned off the Alaska Highway to ride back into the bush a ways.

The biggest part, as always: operator error. I needed to slip the clutch more, crank the throttle less.

Also needed to air down the tires, and didn’t. I had two-up pressure front and back.

Piglet was badly flooded after we went over, and I didn’t want to risk running down the battery trying to start a flooded engine in the middle of nowhere. There must have been a pint of fuel in the airbox because I tied a knot in the vent hose before I shut off the petcock, the fuel valve to the carb.

The hose was pouring quite a bit of gas onto the ground, so my attention went there first. Will remember to do those two chores the other way around next time.

In any event, once we got her back up on her wheels I removed the airbox cover, the fuel tank, the spark plugs, got her nicely aired-out and running again.

I left the sidecases and all the rest of my gear on the hillside because I doubted I could get her going up the grade from a dead stop fully loaded.

She was hard enough to get going unloaded. These photos don’t do justice to the steepness of the grade. Tall bike, can’t flatfoot her, on a loose grade she’s a handful.

Thirty minutes after the spill, up the hill we went.

This is just about up into the alpine region for this part of British Columbia.

Pretty flowers on the ground. We sat among them and Bob prepared lunch.

Crackers, summer sausage, cheese…

Why does food always taste better in the outdoors?

Because we’re built to be in the outdoors.

At all times.

Spotted in a biker diner in Fort St. James, British Columbia.

Look how fresh, newly cut off the block.

Yes, I will have another slice, amigo…

My grubby paw here. Best lunch ever, even if my hands did reek of gasoline.

A great lunch in fine company. Bob’s a smart man with superb horse sense and interesting life stories to tell.

He’s widely traveled on two wheels in the Arctic, Australia, South America… Has been to the places I’m headed.

It was too bad this had to be a short outing for him. We rode together for four days, until yesterday, when he turned south for home at the Stewart-Cassiar Highway junction west of Watson Lake. His hand had been fractured in three places recently and riding gravel had been hard on it. He didn’t want to antagonize it further.

A good call, if not the one he preferred to make.

After lunch at the summit, I needed to stop on the way down and reload the piglet. The plan was for Bob to ride a few miles beyond that point and wait for me at a small lake or pond we had passed on the way up.

While loading the bike I kept my head up and looked over my shoulder every minute or so. A little situational awareness can’t hurt. We had seen bear sign all the way in. Sign to a remarkable degree.

In other words, we rode through more bear shit than most people will see in a lifetime.

We camped bushwhack style on our way north through British Columbia and into the Yukon. Didn’t stay in campgrounds, just found our way into places where we could pass the night and not be noticed. Bob was familiar with all three spots; he had hunted them in years past, for bear, moose and mule deer.

Looking back, I guess we had some kind of river theme going. Not that we planned it that way, but it’s always nice to sleep to the sound of a river.

First camp was on the Peace River, second on the Muskwa, third on the Liard.

There’s a big hydro project under construction on the Peace. The valley where we camped will be a lake one of these years soon.

Our camp on the Liard. We set up on a spit of sand between an eddy and a backwater that becomes a part of the Laird when the river’s high. The backwater was teeming with tadpoles.

One swam into my bean pot while I was washing it. I watched it eat bean scum for a while. Hungry little critter…

Our camp on the Muskwa. The water’s silty but makes good oatmeal.

The top of a letter my 4-1/2-year-old granddaughter dictated to the bride the other day.

This morning, the plan is to ride on to Whitehorse, change oil and try to buy a new rear tire somewhere and throw it aboard to mount at a later date. I think the one I’ve got will be just about gone by the time I get up past the Arctic Circle and on to the coast at Tuktoyaktuk, Northwest Territories.

Until next time, mark me 5,008 miles downrange of Little Rhody, and running north 1,000 miles to the sea.

Tony DePaul, June 15, 2019, Teslin Lake, the Yukon, Canada