The road to Alaska: Four women, adventure bikes, and a 49th state

We can feel the chill blowing down from the mountains as we climb out of the valley and closer to the base of the biggest ones. Frosty air swirling around us, we barrel towards a storm cloud, head down, throttle steady, and then shoot out the other side. The rain lingers for just a moment as we burst into the sunlight. It looks like something out of a simulation: We ride through a shimmering wall of water, the sun beating down from a perfect blue sky, waves of rain bouncing around us, droplets glowing and shining as we ride through.

We were headed north, and would be for at least a week. The four of us had met just the day before in Bellingham, Washington, set out in the Pacific Northwest rain on winding farm roads to the border at Abbotsford. A brief stop at the checkpoint and our trek had officially become real. Keeping gas stops and lunch short and sweet, we rolled into our first hotel of the trip only a few hours behind schedule, despite the intermittent rain. Walking next door to dinner, we stopped to catch what was to be the last real sunset we'd see for at least the next two weeks.

The three friends with me had had arranged for one-way rentals through MotoQuest, the famed "transporter specials" that allowed a rider to fly into Portland, Oregon, and rent a bike at a fraction of the typical cost in exchange for delivering it in Anchorage in under two weeks. Lauren, who had flown in from Milwaukee and usually piloted a Harley-Davidson Pan America, was on a BMW F 850 GS. Steph, from Phoenix, was on a newer version of the same bike, and was the only one who had yet to ride an adventure bike for any length of time, her own bike at home being a Triumph Street Scrambler. Christina, from Long Beach, California, was lucky enough to score a BMW R 1250 GS for the trip, had some extensive time on large ADV bikes prior to this, and had already placed a deposit for her own R 1250 GS a month before. I ride a 2019 Moto Guzzi V7 that has been with me to all of the lower 48 states and back, a few times over. It was the reason for this ambitious trek to the Alaskan Frontier: my quest to get it to 100,000 miles and a 49th state.

We ran into a few challenges on day one, the biggest of which was an oil leak from the final drive seal on my bike. I had flashbacks to a few years previous, when I had a similar leak during a cross-country trip, and struggled to find a replacement seal even in a heavily populated area with multiple options for Moto Guzzi dealerships… There was no way I would find one up here, 300 miles into British Columbia. I knew from my own experience that as long as I wasn't losing too much oil, the bike would continue to function just fine. A quick trip to Walmart for a rag and some zip ties, and the careful application of both around the bottom of the final drive boot, and I was ready to find out how far I could get on hopes and dreams.

As we packed up the last of our things, we went over the day's route and weather prediction. More rain, almost all day, but plenty of opportunities to stop and warm up if we needed to. We weren't quite so far north that we needed to be wary of our fuel consumption, and we set off with high hopes.

The day passed in a wet blur, and it wasn't until we rolled into Smithers, British Columbia, a small town set at the base of the Babine Mountain range, that we had a little taste of what was to come. Massive peaks loomed in the distance, low-hanging rain clouds unfurled around them, the skies dark and moody. One blink later and we loaded up in the morning, a late start to the riding so that Lauren could get in some work. Our goal was to meet a local adventure friend, Golnoosh, and take a side quest to Stewart to check out some glaciers.

Golnoosh, on her Yamaha Ténéré 700, met us just a few hours up the road and led the way down Highway 37A to Stewart. We left some of the rain behind and were rewarded with epic views of the coastal mountains as we wound our way down the canyon towards Stewart. About halfway there, we pulled over to snag a photo with our first glacier of the trip, Bear Glacier, and then hurried onwards to town to check into our AirBnb. Stewart sits on at the very end of the Portland Canal, a 71-mile-long inlet that also marks the lower border of the state of Alaska. Hyder, a U.S. town and result of a cartographical error, sits just two miles across the border from Stewart, and is only accessible via road from the Canadian side. Our goal was to get to the viewing point for the Salmon Glacier, situated high in the pass above us, down a mostly maintained dirt mining road.

The river dropped steadily below us as we wound up the side of the pass and the road become more and more narrow as we went on. Every turn offered a new perspective of the craggy peaks surrounding us, each as gorgeous and awe-inspiring as the next. Finally, we rounded a corner and were halted by avalanche debris, a huge mountain of snow and rocks, not quite melted enough to let a bike pass through without chancing it on an icy muddy strip of trail. Nonetheless, the view from that vantage point was breathtaking. The glacier tumbling down the far side of the valley, murky blue water pooling below and cascading down the canyon towards the ocean and Stewart. If the debris hadn't stopped us, we would have been able to ride directly up to the toe of the glacier, something that I definitely need to make a return trip for.

Our return to civilization in Stewart provided our first taste of what it was like to ride through remote areas like this: The only restaurant in town ran out of food within about 20 minutes of our arrival. We had figured that options might be sparse a little further north, but this was supposed to be an actual town! A quick trip next door to the Cut-Rate Foods grocery, and we had ourselves a small selection of microwave dinners and snacks to make up for it. We knew we needed to keep this in mind going forward, and the next day we made sure to stock up on supplies when our gas stop in Dease Lake included a very well stocked market and deli.

Leaving Stewart and heading north, we were officially on the Cassiar Highway, one of the two main thoroughfares on the westernmost route to Alaska. Here, the pavement is a dream, smoother than most U.S. two-lane roads, and the weather finally cleared to give us some sunshine as we made our way into the more remote leg of the trip. We had an overnight at Jade City, a kitschy tourist trap with four motel rooms and no gas, and the next morning, after taking a left turn when the road dead-ended at the Alaskan-Canadian Highway, marked our longest stint without filling up — a mere 150 miles. The Alcan was in only slightly worse condition, the frequency of the frost heaves increased as we headed west again, and thanks to some recon from a friend on the road ahead of us, we rolled into Whitehorse, Yukon Territory, prepared for what the next few days would bring.

Each night so far on the trip, we would take a moment at dinner to reflect on the highs and lows of the day's adventures. I've done this before in groups from three to 20, at adventure training courses or around the bonfire at moto-campouts, and I love the effect this has on those who share. What may be a high for one rider may be a low for another, but mostly it gives you a chance to reflect on your experience and to share some joy (or commiserate) in others' perspectives of the day. I noticed that by day three, I couldn't find a low point in my days. That the cold, rain, and whatever else could barely touch the joy I felt in being smack dab in the middle of the adventure that I had dreamed about for so long.

This feeling persisted as we tackled the rough road from Whitehorse, in the Yukon Territory, across the border to Tok, Alaska, arguably the worst mess of gravel, frost heaves, and construction that I have ever seen in my life. The Guzzi reminded me that it detests gravel, and the wavering power in the rear wheel and flashing ABS sensor kept me in third gear or below crossing the sometimes half-mile-long gravel stretches. I had been checking my shadetree fix after every long stretch, and even though the zip ties held, I was sure that the washboard gravel would shake something loose. From Tok to the Alaskan border was slightly better, and post photo-op and border crossing, we were treated to the biggest tease of fresh asphalt. Followed shortly by even more gravel and frost heaves. We had gotten a tip to always hop to the front of the pace car line when we encountered one-lane-only construction, and that tip paid off time and time again.

Our route that day took us past Wrangell-St. Elias National Park, the largest national park in the United States and home to some sleepy but active volcanoes. Our goal was to get to Valdez, Alaska, one of the few suggestions from a fellow adventure friend that we ended up opting for, and it ended up being one of the overall highlights of the trip. The route follows a wide rocky river, racing quickly up to Thompson Pass, the highest point on the single road that goes to Valdez. I've never seen so many terrain and elevation changes in such a short amount of miles! We went from green boreal forests, to mountains and glaciers, winding up through snow fields and finally popping out the far side of the pass to one of the most breathtaking views I've ever seen.

Within minutes, we were racing down to the canyon floor, joining up with the glacial river that courted the roadway, opening up to rocky canyon walls and breathtaking waterfalls catching the sunlight that filtered through the high peaks on either side. The walls closed in around us and within a few more turns, widened out into a floodplain littered with uprooted trees. We passed an avalanche scar on the right, where it looked like someone had taken their hand and wiped the side of the mountain clean, depositing the debris on the far left side of the road in a twisted mass of spruce trees and boulders. The terrain left no doubt that the seasons were brutal and unforgiving.

This day was our last day on the road as a group of four, and as we counted down the miles to our arrival in Palmer, it seemed almost surreal. Here we had ridden the length of the Cassiar and Alcan Highways, through half a dozen mountain ranges and thousands of miles, we had stayed in some creative places — motels, cabins, hotel chains — eaten picnic dinners in parking lots and cheered when we found a functioning espresso machine in the middle of absolutely nowhere. It seemed like the trip shouldn't end so quickly!

Luckily for me, it wouldn't. While the girls had scheduled the drop off of their rental bikes in Anchorage, a relatively painless process thanks to MotoQuest's proximity to the airport, I had initially planned on booking the Mainline Ferry from Whittier down to Seattle for me and the Guzzi. I found out about a week before the trip that the entire Mainline Ferry summer schedule was canceled due to a staffing shortage. I would have to ride my motorcycle back the way I had come, and I would have to do it alone.

It was precisely on Tuesday, June 4, sitting at a bar in Palmer, Alaska, when I realized just what I'd managed to do. I had been talking about — plotting, really — this trip for years now. And here I was. The furthest from home I've ever been on a motorcycle, and about to start the daunting task of running it back to California. I choked down the tears, finished my burger, and put any and all doubts behind me. I had already ridden the roads, I knew what to expect, and with any luck, the weather would be just a little bit more reasonable on the way back down.

We had planned a few rest days in Palmer, and boy did we put those to good use. First on the list was a flight tour of the Knik Glacier. Pilot Sarah Burch took us up in a small four-seater bush plane, and it was one of the best things we could have done. Spotting moose from the air, getting a bird's-eye view of glacial lakes that haven't been touched by humans, and following a glacier around the back of a craggy peak are all things that will stick with me for a very long time. Wanting to make the most of their time with the MotoQuest bikes, Lauren and Steph took their BMWs out to ride Hatchers Pass the next morning, and followed it up with a ride past Anchorage to Whittier, stopping only at the tunnel when they realized they may not make it back in time for the bike check-in.

Turning south, heading for home

By this point, we had been on the road for 12 days. With our various side trips, rest days and whatnot, it had been relatively easy going as far as mileage, never going over 400 miles in a day. I knew that in order to make it back across the border in time, I would have to do the reverse route in just six days.

I set off the morning of June 6 nice and early, stopping for an espresso at a roadside shop with views of a glacier, and arriving at the first gas stop of the day in time to order a tasty lunch. Launching out from the crossroads, I turned up the volume on my Sena and bopped along to a playlist, knowing I only had two hours to go until I stopped for the night. About 80 miles down the road, I realized something was not quite right.

I was passing a lake on my left, littered with large ice chunks and bordered with tiny cabins. The urge to pull over and take a picture of the ice was what made me realize — I hadn't passed this lake on the way into Palmer a few days before! I stopped and queued up my Google maps, which unsurprisingly did not load, and switched over to the Garmin Explore app to check my location. A sinking feeling hit my stomach. I was off course, and so far off course that the next town north was Delta Junction, 70 miles ahead. I had missed the turn onto the Alcan, and instead was headed up the Denali Highway, putting me on the opposite side of a particularly large mountain from Tok, where I was staying that night. Rather than be dismayed over such a silly mistake, I instead thanked the road gods for the extra miles, turned around and bombed back down Denali Highway to my lunch stop to refill my now half-empty tank.

Arriving in Tok, four hours behind schedule and after a surprise total of 466 miles for the day, I collected a sandwich from the local grocery store and checked into my hotel to find a slew of MotoQuest BMWs lined up in the parking lot! Clearly I had made the right choice in accommodations. In chatting to another ADV rider on an Africa Twin while unpacking, we discovered that not only had we stopped at some of the same spots on our journey, but that we had some adventure friends in common!

I spent that night mentally preparing for the road the next day, and with the reality of gravel and frost heaves fresh on my mind, set out early as I could manage to get a head start on the carnage. Mark, who was on the Africa Twin, ended up catching up to me at a few points in the ride, leapfrogging each other with various gas and snack stops. It really is something special to get to share the road with so many other riders, each making their own pilgrimage up and down these highways, sharing tips and stop suggestions. The camaraderie was at an all-time high, because it really does take a certain type of person to step up and out of their comfort zone, striking out on the loneliest roads in North America, just to prove that they could.

I found an equal amount of that passion when I arrived at Yukon Motorcycle Park, just south of Whitehorse that night, rolling in with plenty of time to order a burger and tour the motorcycles scattered throughout the cabins. One group was headed north, originating in Southern California like I had. A solo rider, a very nice French-Canadian man on an Indian Scout was headed south to Vancouver Island, and a couple, Diego and Monica, on a pristine Benelli, who had started their journey three months earlier in Ushuaia, Argentina, were headed for Prudhoe Bay. Despite Diego not speaking any English or French, the group found that many adventure terms crossed the language barriers just fine, and we had a great time checking out each other's bikes before turning in for the night.

The next thousand miles flew past in a blur of mountain ranges, wildflowers and gas stops. The road really felt different when the sun was shining, the warm breeze brought the smell of fresh green growth, and I found myself stopping to pick the bright purple lupine on the side of the Cassiar more than once. Already yearning for home, and simultaneously deciding that I must do this trip again, I was conflicted about what the end of the journey would bring. I already felt the weight of the miles. My body was exhausted and muscles cramping at the slightest strain. I hadn't seen a sunset since the first night of the trip. The summer solstice was a little over a week away, and that far north it didn't fully get dark overnight. Settling in for the last night on the road, I decided that I could make the push the next day, 480 miles over the border to my landing spot in Edmonds, Washington.

In usual motorcycle trip fashion, the last day of riding proved to be the most difficult. A storm blowing inland from the coast sent high winds through the canyons of the mountain route I needed to take, whipping up gusts over 45 mph and sending me and the Guzzi sideways into the oncoming lane more than once. Crossing the border once again at Abbotsford, I stopped to take a picture at the "Welcome to Washington" sign, and queued up a route my friends had suggested. I paused to check my final drive seal for what felt like the hundredth time, thoroughly impressed that such a quick fix had lasted 6,000 miles. There really is such a thing as luck of the road, and I hoped that I wasn't using up the last of it that day.

Blasting down the 5 freeway was surreal. Packed into heavy traffic, my mind recalled the empty mountain roads I had just spent weeks riding through. I took an exit and then a sharp turn through a neighborhood and found myself on the iconic Chuckanut Drive, hugging the eastern edge of the Salish Sea, just north of Puget Sound. In stark contrast to the scrubby mountain canyons that had filled my morning, this was a bonafide rainforest, lush and mossy growth coating every surface on either side of the road, occasionally opening up to breathtaking views of the bay beyond the coastal redwoods and red cedars. A sharp hairpin turn and a small building marked my destination. I turned off and followed a single-lane drive as it wound down to the shoreline, depositing me in the parking lot of Taylor Shellfish, a 100-year-old oyster farm tucked into the quiet bay.

While I knew I still needed to get the Guzzi down to Southern California eventually, I couldn't help but feel like this was the true end of the journey. I sat and watched the sun sink behind the islands in the bay, enjoying my hard-earned oysters and a sense of quiet contentment settled over me. State 49, check!

That left only one real question: How on earth could I get this Guzzi to Hawaii?