It took me a couple days to feel like a normal person again. That trip really kicked my ass. But I was satisfied that I saw Denali on a good day. It was awesome, and it was done and over with. But I still had two more bike tours planned, the next one being a 104 mile ride northeast up the Glenn Highway to the Matanuska Glacier, a large glacier on the northern end of the Chugach range. The good weather had passed and it was back to rain and erratic, unpredictable weather patterns in the mountains. So I waited for another good window, and in the meantime, got familiar with the bars in downtown Anchorage.

I spent some time emailing women online, because I was curious to know where the good bars were in town.. Since I was visiting from out of town and had some extra free time between bike tours to check out the local scene. And because I was curious to see what else they like to do around town. And then maybe one or two other random questions about their profile, and maybe if they were up for the randomness of it, meet up for a drink at a classy local establishment.

On that note, I noticed that the drinkers up there were some rowdy people. I was out with a lady one night in downtown, and a local guy next to us explained to me that a lot of the local drinkers are energy workers in Alaska’s oil industry way up on the North Slope. They go up for two weeks at a time, work for 60 hours each week, and then fly back to their homes and take the next two weeks off, which they end up spending getting shit housed at the bars.

“Up here, we only care about four things,” he said.. “Eatin, drinkin, fightin, and fuckin!”

I came back from downtown the next night and noticed that the clouds had lifted off of the Chugach Mountains. I found my window. When it’s nice, I realized, now is as good of a time as any.

I got my gear together and left the hotel at 1:00am for a 104 mile ride northeast up the Glenn Highway. Hopefully I would get there by the next afternoon, camp at the Grandview Cafe, and come back to Anchorage the following day. 208 miles, two days. With cargo. The first one being mostly uphill and overnight. I had obviously learned nothing from my previous trip.

There was plenty of light outside to get me through the early morning. The glow of dusk was endless as I rode under the twilight in what felt like a morning that would never end. The midnight sun was just below the red horizon to the north and the mountains to the east carved dark green shapes into the sky.

After 30 miles, the road turned northward and passed through the Matanuska Valley. The sun would be up in an hour. Mist hovered above the ponds and marshes. Clouds hung above the mountains to the south. To the east, Lazy Mountain rose high above the town of Palmer, where I planned to stop and get breakfast.

Palmer was the last town on the highway that I knew of to get food before going into the mountains. After that, I could have found a roadhouse every 30 miles or so, but nothing I could rely on. I sat outside McDonalds for an hour and waited for them to open before realizing that a grocery store and Starbucks in the shopping center were open already. The lady at Starbucks told me that she goes with her family up the Glenn Highway every year and camps around Mile 85, a forested area near the pass with a number of lakes and back roads.

Just east of Palmer, Lazy Mountain stands 3500 feet above the valley. The Matanuska River comes out of the range and passes around it from the east. The highway goes alongside the river for the next sixty miles upstream until passing within eyeshot of the Matanuska Glacier. That was where I meant to go.

After passing through a heavily forested, uneventful part of the highway for 10 miles, I reached the river. Up ahead, the morning sun broke out of the clouds. I stopped at a lookout where the river braids across a gravel bar a half mile wide.

This river, like many in Alaska, is glacier-fed. Over time, glaciers move along their valleys, grinding the bedrock underneath into powder, which gets carried downstream by the melt. Whatever sediment isn’t carried out to sea ends up accumulating on the riverbed, causing the rivers to braid over large gravel bars. Backpackers often attempt to ford rivers like this by scouting out the smallest braids they can find. I’m nowhere near that ambitious. Not yet.

The valley narrowed and the highway followed closely by the river until it passed by King Mountain, a large solitary mountain that looked as if it stood out over the land for many ages. I remembered seeing it online when I scoped out that highway on Google. Too bad I didn’t think to scope out the rest of the highway, or I would have been more prepared for what was coming.

To my disappointment, the highway parted ways with the river and climbed steeply along the facing ridge, gaining a lot of elevation at very little distance. So this road did have some grades, and they were ugly. Shit. I wasted no time getting started and hit the first climb for twenty straight minutes.

It turned along the slopes of the Talkeetna Mountains, giving me plenty of scares whenever I looked over the guard rails. I was inches away from one wrong move, which could send me tumbling over rock slides for hundreds of feet. I turned back and saw a great view of King Mountain rising high above the river and forest to the west.

Out ahead, the highway continued to climb, occasionally giving way to a downhill coast to a stream, and then winding even further upward. I did nothing but climb for the next hour, hoping that I would come around a turn and see the road level out, only to see it go further upward.

Somewhere in the middle of this, I passed a lady named Renee, who was on a tour from Anchorage to Los Angeles. It was her second day in. She spent the last night in Palmer, planned to get over the range, and continue towards Glennallen in the east. After talking I bit, I passed by, pushing hard into the next mountain grade. She had more cargo and was pacing slowly for the long term, and obviously intended on saving her strength. Instead of say, leaving in the middle of the night for two centuries back to back.

At this point, the top of the pass was five miles ahead. To my right, the mountain slopes curved down to the edge of a gorge, where at the bottom, the Matanuska was raging in the late morning sun. Lakes were everywhere along the slopes, drawing local people far and wide to come out in trucks, RVs, and fishing gear.

I finally made it to the top of the pass around noon, and the valley opened up ahead. To the south, the Matanuska Glacier reached far across the valley, carrying ice and rock from the high places of the Chugach range, where it turned upward for another twenty miles. Headwaters braided out from the glacier, forming the river, and carving into the ravine downstream.

Lion’s Head, a small, horn shaped mountain, stood on the north end of the valley. It was the remains of an ancient volcano that had been scraped away by glaciers long ago. After millions of years of friction, it was all that remained of a prehistoric mountain in the alpine country. And still, this place was as wild as ever.

The fatigue finally caught up with me at mile 100. I crested the high end of the pass, and hoped to get 9 miles of mostly downhill, where I would set up camp at the cafe, get some coffee and red meat, take a long nap in my tent, relax and enjoy the rest of the afternoon.. oh shit. I came around a turn and looked in horror as the road went downhill at a 7% grade for almost a mile to the bottom of a canyon, then crossed a bridge and went back up the other side at 8%.

Already exhausted from riding all night, and with only four miles to the campground, shelter, and hot food, I had to haul my cargo up a fucking mile of hard uphill. Dammit.

Bitterly, I coasted down to Caribou Creek and started a long climb up the other side. A climb like this in the early morning is one thing, but I had already been on the road twelve hours. I fought my way up the other side, inch by inch, swearing and taking breaks every few minutes. It made no difference.

The road finally leveled out, and I descended to the cafe where I got the best Philly Cheesesteak of my life. I’m pretty sure my chest hair increased by 8% that day.

The Grand View Cafe is on mile 109 of the highway, on the eastern slopes of the range. It has a restaurant, RV park, tent sites, families, dogs, campfires, and short hiking trails out to the river. When I got there, I set up my tent, locked my bike, ate a rewarding lunch, and took a nap until the late afternoon.

I got back out and saw Renee setting up camp at the site next to mine. She planned to keep going east to the town of Glennallen the next day, another 75 miles of mostly gradual descent from the range, then make her way out of the state and into Canada after that. For this trip, I would be turning the opposite way, riding 104 miles back to my hotel in Anchorage.

Next time I want to keep going east. The highway descends out of the mountains and levels gradually into a large plain of lakes, tundra, and spruce forests before reaching Glennallen, the Copper River, and the edge of Wrangell-St. Elias National Park. From there, you can see the St. Elias Mountains, some of whom soar higher than 15,000 feet. The Copper River flows along the edge of the plain, and is famous for its salmon, who migrate upstream to their spawning grounds every summer by the millions. People and bears alike wait for them in the river, easily catching more than they can ever eat. I would love nothing more than to get out there, wait by the water, and eat one right out of the river like a fucking caveman.

A family in an RV saw me with my bike and gear, covered in a night’s worth of dirt and sweat, and wanted to know where I was headed. Then they offered me some of their campfire hot dogs and homemade wheat beer. I’m never one to turn away good road magic, and took them up on it.

Isolated rainclouds came in from the east and ran me back into my tent, where I slept like a rock.

My phone alarm went off early the next morning and I didn’t want to get up. I’m pretty hit or miss when it comes to camping. Either I’m asleep peacefully, or I’m tossing and turning, waking up every 45 minutes. Thanks to the workout I got the day before, and the light drizzle of rain on the tent ceiling, I had a calm, uninterrupted sleep all night.

I packed up, got a quick breakfast, and turned west on the Glenn Highway, dreading every second that I would have to climb the far end of the 7% grade at Caribou Creek. It was the same distance as the day before, just a notch lower in difficulty. Instead of climbing 8 feet, I would only climb 7 for every 100 in distance.

I descended down the facing grade, crossed the bridge, and got moving at a good pace as soon as it got to 7%. Ten minutes later, I got to the top, surprised at how much better I felt. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was easy, but it was, I would say after a good night’s rest, doable. It turned towards a short descent, another steep climb, and then mostly downhill for a while.

Every awful climb I endured the day before was in my favor now, and my cargo weight made me go even faster. I was on the side away from the guard rails, my confidence was at an all-time high, and I had no problem shifting into high gears, flying down the grades, following the Matanuska for 60 awesome miles all the way out to Palmer.

I got there in the early afternoon, coasted down a big hill, and made the mistake of getting dinner at McDonalds. A man standing in line recognized me from the campground, reminding me of how small the world is in a big state like Alaska.

I was just about at sea level when I left Palmer, turning south at the junction towards Anchorage. It might as well have been uphill with the headwind I was getting. That, and to the traveling cyclist, a McDonalds combo is the equivalent of adding ten pounds of rocks to your cargo. The last 40 miles back were uneventful, and I had to deal with the added punishment of two centuries worth of riding and a full stomach’s worth of bricks to burn off over the next few hours.

I got to my hotel at 6:00 that evening and fell asleep without bothering to eat or take a shower.

I had two bike tours behind me now. Both of them kicked ass. Both of them were brutal. And both of them were unbelievably rewarding. Would my last ride on the Seward Highway bring its share of challenges and blow my mind like the first two did? Probably. Would I have a bigger, fuller beard after it’s all said and done? Absolutely.

Part 3: Downpour on the Kenai Peninsula

The problem was that almost every single day had rain in the forecast, and I really didn’t feel like riding on cold, wet roads. That, and I was hoping for a good sunny break like I got up in Denali. As I’ve said already, Alaska is beautiful regardless, but only during clear sunny weather do you get to enjoy the scenery to its fullest.

Unfortunately, in the summer, coastal Alaska tends to be cloudy and rainy just about all the time. So I waited a few days, spent some time on short day rides in the forest parks around Anchorage, got work done in my hotel room, screwed around and wasted time.

I went up to the trailhead of Flattop Mountain one afternoon on my bike. It stands right at the edge of the Chugach Mountains east of town, and is a popular day hike spot for the locals. What I didn’t realize was how steep the climb was to get up there, and was actually pretty well beat up by the time I reached the parking lot by the trailhead. The mountain was covered in clouds, so climbing to the summit just to look at fog seemed kind of pointless. I got a few pictures of the valleys around and went back down to Anchorage.

I finally got my train ticket to Seward a day or two later. There was a 30% chance of rain in the forecast, but with three days to spare before flying home, it was now or never. I rode to the station early the next morning, checked in my bike, and boarded the train.

To say the least, the Alaska Railroad was impressive enough for me to recommend to any visitor. Many of the train cars had upper decks with glass dome ceilings, allowing tourists to sit and view one breathtaking panorama after another. As soon as the train started, people scurried to the upper decks to get good seats for the ride southeast. Knowing that I was going to see all the same places the next day on my bike anyway, I didn’t bother to join.

We went southeast along the Turnagain Arm, a large inlet that flows between the Kenai Peninsula and the Chugach Range. The Kenai Mountains and the remote town of Hope, Alaska stood five miles to the south across the water. Five miles as the eagle flies, and ninety if you want to drive there. Up ahead, the morning sun broke out of the clouds, casting gold onto the water. The announcer pointed out some dall sheep high on a ridge to the left.

I got breakfast in the dining car and slept for an hour. I woke up and noticed that we were already somewhere in the Kenai Range, parting ways with the Seward Highway and climbing up over the next mountain pass to the east. The forests in this part of the state were darker, denser, more lush and enchanting, and were part of a temperate rainforest that spans from that area to the southeast and down Alaska’s panhandle. In this climate, conifers can grow for longer seasons than those of the boreal forests throughout Alaska’s interior. I looked out at the land, and clouds hung low over the valleys, reminding me of the woodlands of the Pacific Northwest. It was a dreary, charming landscape.

We went along a cliff, through a tunnel, past a waterfall, and stopped on the announcer’s word along the facing ridge of Spencer Glacier, whose blue ice had carved a steep, mile wide valley into the earth.

The train rejoined the highway, where I planned to ride that day, and made its final descent through the dense forests to the depot in Seward.

Seward is a beautiful place. A small fishing town along the rugged coastline of the Kenai Peninsula, it sits on the western side of Resurrection Bay, which flows south between mountains and islands for twelve miles before reaching the open ocean. To the east and west, there is nothing for hundreds of miles but a rugged glacial coastline and an occasional fishing town or village. Directly west, the Kenai Fjords National Park draws tourists and backpackers, many of whom come down on the train from the north and ride commercial cruises within eye shot of the glaciers and sea life. The more ambitious people traverse the fjords with kayaks or packrafts. And if you take a boat and fishing gear out to sea, you can catch more salmon and halibut than you will ever know what to do with.

To say the least, I regret my decision not to stay there longer. I made time for a quick stop at the Resurrect Art Coffee House, a cute little place in downtown, chatted with the barista, fueled up on some pastries, and got started on a 68 mile ride north through the Kenai Mountains. I passed the marina on my way out, catching a good scent of a recent catch from a town fishery. Fuck, I have to come back here.

I was 30 miles into the mountains. They seemed to close in around me. And yet, every uphill climb I did on that highway was a breeze. Nothing like the grades I fought on the Glenn Highway, or the ones at Denali that made me almost give up and turn back. I crested one easy hill after another, following rivers through the steep, narrow valleys and cooling off under an occasional drizzle.

Halfway through the day, I stopped at Summit Lake Lodge and got a hot meal. The owner told me that it was the highest point in the range, and that everything afterward was at a downhill descent all the way to Turnagain Arm and the edge of the ocean.

I stopped an hour later at a ravine to get some pictures, and noticed a large bird gliding a hundred feet right above my head. When I looked again, I realized it had a white head. Holy shit, that’s an eagle! It turned and flew out over the gorge, catching an air current and flying upward in long, slow circles until I could barely see it anymore. I got back on my bike and made for Turnagain Pass, twenty odd miles ahead, and planned to camp that night.

Each of my three bike trips in Alaska had their set of challenges. In Denali, it was the 10 mile climb up Sable Pass with heavy cargo (especially that fucking bear canister), the clouds of mosquitoes, and sleep deprivation induced delirium. On the Glenn Highway, it was the fact that I had to climb an 8% grade after biking for more than 100 miles overnight. On this trip, it was the wall of rain that hit me in the face when I came around the turn at the bottom of Turnagain Pass.

In no time at all, I was drenched. I hadn’t done my homework and bought waterproof gear or eye protection. As the downpour hit me in the eyes, I picked up the speed to get to my camping spot, where I could hopefully set up a shelter and dry off.

I reached the rest stop on the highway, found the large hill to the west, and looked for an easy way to get to the far side and set up my tent. I needed to hurry the hell up, it was getting cold and the rain wasn’t stopping. I found a game trail that led out to the side of the hill, crossed a creek, pushed through a bramble of willows, found a level spot away from eye shot of the highway, set up my tent, and got my ass inside.

It rained all night. I don’t know if it was condensation building up on the tent walls, or a leak somewhere, or both, but water kept accumulating on the corners. It was a cheap $40 Wal-Mart tent that just big enough for a cub scout, and as far as I am concerned, was a piece of shit. I spent two hours mopping water from the tent floor before I finally decided to just sleep through it. If it wakes me up, so be it.

My sleeping bag ended up saving my ass. I woke up and noticed that it had gotten lighter outside. It was 6am. I had slept for four hours. Good enough.

The downpour stopped. Outside, the landscape lightened and a break of sun came out on one of the mountains. It wouldn’t stay that way for long. The rain was hitting the tent in rounds all night, about one every 30 minutes, so I knew I had to get moving.

I packed up, hiked back to the rest stop, and got my gear together in one of the outhouses. I got my tent out and threw that piece of shit in the trash, drank a reserve bottle of water, and had a bag of beef jerky for breakfast, freeing a good ten pounds from my cargo.

As soon as I got back on the road, another downpour hit me head on. In that early hour, I could feel the cold right away in my fingers and toes, which started to go numb after twenty minutes. I supposed it’s to be expected if you’re using fingerless gloves and cotton socks, yet another backpacking lesson learned the hard way.

I came down the pass to the edge of the inlet shoreline, an absolutely stunning vista of panoramic scenery, with tall, breathtaking mountains to the north, south, and east, but I was too groggy, hungry, cold, and pissed off at the weather to give a shit. The highway turned southeast, crossed the rivers that emptied into the Turnagain Arm, and then went northeast along the shore for 40 miles all the way back to Anchorage. Fog hovered around the tops of the mountains, and the valleys between them were dark and grey, taking in one downpour after another. More cold rain hit me as I traveled east. When is this shit going to stop???

I was 20 miles from Girdwood, a ski resort town along the highway. I planned to find a roadhouse or diner there and get some much needed shelter, hot food, and most importantly, coffee. When I arrived, I found a shopping center right by the highway with a family restaurant.

I tried to lock my bike and the key to my U-lock stopped half way. Fuck. Weather and dirt must have worn it down, rendering the thing useless. Could be worse; at least it didn’t happen after locking it. Then I would have had to bust it off with a car jack or blowtorch, and maybe convince a few people that I’m not trying to steal my own bike.

I parked it next to the front door of a coffeehouse and went inside for some coffee and pastries. I got in line behind a group of cute hippie girls, one of whom had done some touring herself. Apparently, it was supposed to be nice that day and a festival was going on in the town. They told me I should come along. If I hadn’t already made plans in Anchorage that night, I would have taken them up on it.

I rode a few streets into the town and found the trailhead to the Bird to Gird Trail, an awesome bike path that goes along the ridges above the highway for 13 miles. Up ahead, clouds broke up where the fjord met the ocean, giving way to a bright blue sky.

A warm, dry, powerful tailwind hit me from behind, sunlight broke on the bigger mountains, and just ahead, another eagle flew above a spruce forest along the slopes. They are abundant in the boreal country, especially along the mountainous shorelines, where perch sites are plentiful and views of the water are far and wide.

The trail climbed uphill a few hundred feet and then descended back to the shore, ending at Bird Point, a bird sanctuary where you can walk up to a platform and watch eagles in their habitat. I didn’t see any, and figured they were out catching their food from the water.

I got back on the highway, the sun was finally out, and an even more powerful tailwind pushed me along. I barely even had to pedal. It was great severance pay for all the shit that I had endured the night before. Alaska’s climate, unpredictable though it may be, can sometimes work in your favor. Cyclists passed me going the other way, fighting the same wind current that I was enjoying. Watching them do that was an added bonus.

I got to Anchorage an hour later, and saw yet another eagle gliding into the air currents high above the marshy shoreline. My hotel was near downtown, another 7 miles north through the city. I just about coasted the rest of the way. I did it. I got to Alaska, I saw more unbelievable things that I could ever remember, and I toured what are without a doubt some of the best highways in America. What I saw and did in this countryside would stay with me forever.

I had met a lady named Ana the week before, who was living in Anchorage for the summer and working at a hot dog stand in downtown. I thought it would be funny to give her a surprise visit. So my trip ended as I sat next to her hot dog stand at one of the city parks, eating reindeer sausage and restoring my body of same badly depleted calories and protein.

Two days later, I was on an overnight flight back to Chicago.

It has been a year and a half since I made that trip. And I’ll be honest, there is not a single day that goes by that I don’t think about that wilderness. Even now, I scribble out bike routes, backpacking ideas, rafting trips, more places to explore in Denali, the eastern ranges, the rest of the Kenai Peninsula, it’s just endless. I want more than anything to get back out there again. It brings solitude and adventure like I have yet to find anywhere in the lower 48. Anywhere. There isn’t enough time in a whole summer for me to see everything that Alaska has to offer. But I’ll try. I’ll try to be satisfied. And I’ll be back with a new and better itinerary.

Part 4: What Should I Do In Alaska, Dan Hagen?

Cycling Denali Under the Midnight Sun

Alaska was a new world for me that summer. I spent months planning a three week trip to Anchorage at the end of June, laying the ground work for what would become three unbelievable bicycle tours across the state, each with its own challenges and rewards. Each tour was unique, and each was like nothing I expected.

I found a hotel near downtown Anchorage with a good weekly rate, booked three weeks from late June to early July 2012, boxed up my bike, and spent a long and shitty flight on a plane that got to the Anchorage Airport at 2 in the morning. It was days away from the summer solstice. A glow of twilight lay over the city, and the air was warm. Clouds hovered above the Chugach Mountains to the east. I went to sleep at the hotel with an odd case of jet lag, thanks to the 22 hours of daylight that Alaska gets in the summer. But I made it. And the next three weeks would entail some of the best tours I have ever done.

Denali was the first place I wanted to go. I have loved mountains ever since I was a kid, and this was my chance to see the tallest one in North America. At 20320 feet, Denali rises three times as high as most of the mountains around it, making it visible for hundreds of miles across the state. I wanted more than anything to see it in the clear. And not just to see it, but to earn the right to see it from a bicycle. I had to get my bike out there, get into the park, and be in good sight of it on a nice day. Everything else about my trip could be a complete failure, and I would still leave Alaska feeling satisfied if Denali decided to appear on my ride.

According to the locals, it shows itself one in every three days. The rest of the time it is covered in clouds. It’s so big that it generates its own weather system, meaning that it can be a great day everywhere else on the range and you’ll still find blizzards high up on its ridges, and shrouds of cloud cover concealing its beauty. My challenge was making sure that I got out to the park when it decided to show itself. For the first few days, this turned out to be a waiting game.

The weather forecast looked pretty hit or miss. So I got comfortable and waited. My whole trip hinged on this, and I could wait as long as I had to.

Later that week I got a message from a local OkCupid girl who I was flirting with, telling me that she was up there, and that the weather was supposed to be good for the weekend. I looked at the forecast again. She was right. Highs in the 70s and clear. I rented an SUV, packed my bike and gear in the back, and got moving around noon.

I got to the park at 4:30, sparing me about an hour to get food and a backcountry permit, and gear up for what I had spent months working up to: An overnight ride on the park road under the midnight sun.

The ranger at the backcountry office gave me a bear canister to bring along. It was huge, heavy, awkward, and almost didn’t fit into my cargo. But durable enough that not even a grizzly bear can bust it open and eat my food. I worked out a schedule with the ranger and was on my way. One day of riding overnight to Wonder Lake, 85 miles to the west, camp for the morning, camp again halfway back the next night, and then finish the day after that at the welcome center. If luck would have it, the mountain would show itself.

I got moving on the paved section of the park road between the headquarters and Savage River, which goes straight along the valley south of Mount Healy, a large 15 mile ridge system of rugged alpine ridges that tower above the taiga forests along the valley. At its summit of 5700 feet, it gives a good view of the Denali massif 60 miles southwest. I pushed onward through the valley under a light shower coming off of the mountains to the south. At this elevation, the forests started to thin out and I could see all of the mountains pretty clearly.

A short descent to the Savage River brought me to where the pavement ends and the fun begins. I stopped at the campground to refill my water and made small talk with a lady staying there with her family. She wanted to know where I was headed. They always do. People see me with the bike and all of my gear, covered in days worth of sweat and dirt, and always want to know where I’m headed. I don’t usually mind. Most of the time I’m ready to see people again after going alone for hours on end.

I crossed the river and started my climb around the side of Primrose Ridge, a small 1500 foot mountain mostly covered in tundra, and a popular spot in the park for day hikes. A short descent down the other side brought me to Sanctuary River and the mountains after it. I made it to the Teklanika River Campground thirty minutes later and took a break. I was making decent time. It was late evening, the elevation was well under the tree line, and the arctic mosquitoes were out in swarms.

From the below the bridge, the Tek River braided its way northward, narrowing through a large canyon and flowing out of the park. The midnight sun lit up the canyon and the mountains around, casting an alpenglow on the landscape. At that latitude it sets for a few hours into the night before coming up again around 3:45 a.m., but never far enough below the horizon that it doesn’t light up the northern sky in orange and gold. People say that the wilderness up there is pristine. When you see the midnight sun casting fire on hundreds of ridgelines, you know they aren’t kidding. I turned south and began my ascent up Igloo Canyon and Sable Pass.

In no time, I left the river, the mosquitoes and the tree line for what turned out to be the hardest uphill climb on the whole road. Ten miles of steep grades and thinning air, along with the fact that it was a dirt road, and that I had heavy cargo, thanks to that fucking bear canister, wiped me out not even halfway up. I was not expecting it to be that rough. But it was outright brutal.

The road went up Igloo Canyon for five miles, the tundra gave way to dirt, and soon I was spitting distance from the tops of ridges on both sides. It turned west for another 5 miles of hard uphill grades along Sable Pass. Ridges passed behind and below, more of them appeared a few miles south, and still, the road turned uphill again and again along the side of Sable Mountain. I stopped to take breaks I don’t know how many times. It made no difference. My training did nothing to prepare me for this. I guess I just had to take my time, something I couldn’t stand to do. I wanted to see the Mount McKinley from a bicycle, and I didn’t care what kind of beating I would end up taking to make it happen.

I pushed on and on between the rocky ridge tops and finally crested the pass just shy of 4000 feet before making an 850 foot descent to the East Toklat River, and then another climb back to the nearly the same elevation along the side of Polychrome Mountain. I was wearing out, standing on my pedals, pushing uphill with a shit load of cargo and thighs burning my legs alive. THIS HAS GOT TO FUCKING STOP. I came around a turn and a big grizzly bear stood right in the middle of the road twenty yards ahead.

SHIT!!!! I slammed on my brakes, sliding on the dirt and gravel. The bear jumped and took off down the hill, disappearing into a thicket of willow bushes. I stood there quietly for a few minutes, listening for it to come back, my heart rate completely off the charts. I was finally sure it was gone, and slowly rode by saying “Hey big guy! I’m not gonna bother ya.. Just passing on by, big fella!” After a hundred feet, I picked up the pace and got the hell out of there.

I reached the top of Polychrome Pass a few miles later. I had been climbing for two hours. Maybe more. I don’t know. But I had to stop and recover my strength. I didn’t have a choice anymore. With no one else out, I had the road to myself, and sat on the edge of a 1000 foot drop off, looking out at the valley ahead. The valley along Polychrome Mountain spans for five miles before sloping upward towards Mount Pendleton and the backbone of the Alaska Range. From there, five glaciers feed its streams, eventually joining the East Toklat further back. It is a diverse and colorful valley, and a popular overlook in the park. I rested for 45 minutes, taking in the solitude and trying to get my head together for the rest of the ride. On the bright side, I was high above the tree line with no worry of the mosquitoes, who I still hate to this day.

I coasted to the rest stop at Toklat River. It was 3 in the morning and I was finished. The rest up on the mountain didn’t do much for me. I undershot the difficulty on this trip, and just wanted to get back to the welcome center. I felt like a failure, but I had had enough. The next mountain pass had a climb of 950 feet, more of the same shit. And from where I was, I was just over half way to my goal. Whatever, I’ll see Denali some other time, maybe come out on a shuttle later the next day after getting some food and sleep. I decided to cut my losses, wait a few hours for a shuttle bus, and go back.

I didn’t even feel like finding a place to set up camp. My morale was altogether gone at this point. So I went into one of the outhouses, locked the door, got my pillow out, and went to sleep.

“Good Morning!” It was 6:00 a.m. A park ranger caught me sleeping in the outhouse. He was laughing.
“Hey uh, sorry, I’ll get out of here in a minute..” I sat up, half awake.
“No, don’t worry about it, get your rest! It’s a good shelter, isn’t it? I’ll go ahead and work on these other ones. Take your time and come out when you’re ready!”

Well that’s cool of him, I thought. I still felt a bit too weird staying there any longer, so I got up and came out.

We made small talk for a bit. He was an older fellow in his sixties, a bit eccentric, and happy to meet visitors. I told him about my trip, how I climbed all of those mountain passes, and was ready to just screw it and go back. He laughed.

“You sure you don’t want to go for it? The mountain is in the clear this morning!”
“No, I think I’ve had as much as I can take of this..”
He laughed again. “Well, you got all the way up Sable Pass, that’s pretty good!” I guess so. But I still felt like I had lost the battle.

I told him about the 500 pound beast that I scared off with my bike last night. “That’s a good bear,” the ranger reflected. “Well, I have to get some work done. The bus is coming in two hours. Just relax and walk around, go up on the ridge over there if you want. The sun should be coming up any minute.”

He went to work on the outhouses and I walked 100 feet up the facing ridge of the river and sat down. The sun had already lit up the Divide Mountain to the south. I relaxed and listened to the Toklat River rushing along, thought about everything I went through to get out there, and then I got my head out of the fog.

What the hell was I doing? I didn’t come all the way out here just to give up and turn around like a pussy. I spent months of planning, buildup, expensive decisions, just to get out to the park with my bike. And then the ride itself was even more trouble. And for what? To turn around and go back, one mountain pass away from my goal. And on a clear day, no less? I would never forgive myself for that. That’s not going to fucking happen. Not now. Not ever.

Fuck it, I’m going.

I came back down the ridge and got my gear together. The ranger saw me and came back over. “Change your mind?”
“Yeah, I’m going for it. I won’t forgive myself if I don’t. How far is it to Eielson?”
“About 13 miles. But you’ll see a better view before that at Stony Hill.”
“That’s doable. I think I can manage it if it’s just one more climb.”
“Yeah, you got a few hours rest, so that should help. Good luck!”

I said thanks, and got started on my climb towards Highway Pass, the highest point on the park road.

The road quickly ascended away from the tree line and into a narrow valley of tundra, and there was nothing easy about it. But I got my morale back, and with some rest, the last bit of strength I needed to climb through the barren, alpine country returned. Trees gave way to grass, grass gave way to dirt, and dirt gave way to rock. I pushed upward for 45 minutes, shedding layers and stopping at different times for water and energy bars. Up ahead, the snow capped ridge of Denali’s north summit appeared slowly at the top of the pass. THERE IT IS!!!! BY THE GODS!!!

More excited and delirious than ever, I crested Highway Pass, crossed a small stream and climbed a few hundred feet to Stony Hill Overlook, the first spot on the road where you can see the whole mountain. There it was, the face of Mount McKinley, the tallest mountain in North America, standing higher than anything I have ever seen. I had no idea that anything could be that huge and that magnificent.

WHAT!!! THE!!! FUCK!!!!!!!! I was out of my mind with exhaustion, hunger, caffeine deprivation, maybe some mild altitude illness. None of that mattered. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was worth every second of pain and suffering I had endured to get out there, at the end of the hardest and most backbreaking bike ride of my life. Whatever. I was there. The rest of the park was still waking up, but I was there, high up on Stony Hill, looking at a vista that would stay with me for the rest of my life, certain that nowhere else in our continent can any range of mountains rival that of Denali and her sisters in sheer size and majesty.

I finally calmed down and kept going. I had four miles left. I descended Stony Hill and went over Thorofare Pass, the last climb of the trip, and easily a short one. Down the gorge to my left, a family of caribou ran along the glacial headwaters of the Thorofare River, a tributary of the larger and more powerful McKinley, which flows westward across the valley ahead for 15 miles before turning northwest into the forested plains and beyond.

At mile 66, the Eielson Visitor Center sits on the side of one of Denali’s facing mountains, offering a great view of the range and a rest stop for tourists, water, restrooms, and a few exhibits. When I got there, arctic squirrels were frolicking around the picnic tables. The first eastbound shuttle wasn’t due for 45 minutes. So I sat down and waited.

Meanwhile, the first westbound bus showed up. Tourists got out and started taking pictures. Then another one stopped with even more people. Before long, the whole place was buzzing with tourists. An older couple saw me with my bike and gear, covered in dirt and a night’s worth of sweat and wanted to know where I was headed. I told them that I spent the night riding out there on the park road, was about to take a shuttle bus back to the park headquarters, get some food, and then drive back to Anchorage. They thought I was crazy, and they were right.

The shuttle bus showed up, I secured my bike in the back, sat down, and fell asleep before my head hit the seat.

The bus reached the welcome center a few hours later, I locked my bike in the rental SUV, got an unbelievably great tasting burger from the park restaurant, got rid of that fucking bear canister, and drove out of the park.

Even when the weather is outright awful, you can still find beauty and magic in Alaska. It’s everywhere. But when the sun comes out and lights up the land, there is really nothing like it. On that day, the mountains glowed an emerald green color in the midday sunlight. White clouds passed above the ranges, casting shadows on the ridges and valleys. I stopped everywhere on my drive back to take pictures.

When I stopped at the South Viewpoint to see Denali, it was already shrouded in clouds again, reminding me that like the rest of Alaska, it’s a beautiful place on its own terms.

I got back to my hotel a few hours later, took a long nap, and walked into downtown Anchorage for some well-earned seafood and craft beer.

Part 2: Last Minute Century on the Glenn Highway