We sit and exchange our basic information. Richard is from Montreal on a three-week trip. Having laid the out the essentials, we continue to talk and find sufficient meeting points to agree to have dinner together at 7 o’clock – I have heard that there is outfit in Hyder selling a seafood dinners out of an old school bus and I am keen to try it.

In the meantime, Richard goes to see the bears and I turn my attention to the Internet.

It is almost 7pm when I am reminded by a fellow internetter that I shouldn’t be late for my “dinner date” and I pack everything onto the bike and set out across the border for Hyder. The crowd around the bus suggests a good meal and I am pleased. People waiting for their fish dinners ply me with questions – mostly the standard ones but someone with greater imaginative faculties asks me, as I find a place to lean my bike, if I happen have a map which details all the best places to eat which led me here. I inform him that this is an innate ability.

The seafood bus - well worth a visit if you happen to be in Hyder.

An Australian motorcyclist, armed with sardonic wit and a world-weary air, launches without much preamble into challenging verbal contest. He is reasonably respectful of my miles pedalled but Richard is a little late and Grant teases me unmercifully when I say I am waiting for a dinner companion. When Richard arrives, Grant immediately mocks, referring to him loudly as my ‘hot date,’ however we sit together and feast on crab and prawns and the evening passes pleasantly enough.

Grant and Richard at the dinner table.

The aftermath.

The bus closes and, on my advice, we all make our way back to the Stewart Provincial Park, crossing the border yet again. I admit, at the border post, to having entered the States for the purpose of eating dinner and after a dicey moment the uniformed girl’s officious façade cracks for a second in a wry smile.  She recognises me from last night anyway and waves me through without thoroughly scrutinizing my passport again.

The camp has been invaded by a large group of boisterous campers with matching tents who are sitting together in the picnic shelter and threatening, collectively, to sing. We pitch our tents and then Richard sits by my tent in the dark to talk a while. We are soon joined by Grant, who dominates the conversation with his decided opinions on everything.

We retire. I sleep badly, the beer and wine I consumed with dinner making for a restless night.

The rowdy neighbouring group rise early, with much shouting and stomping, car alarms going off, oblivious to all but themselves. Richard is the first of our trio to rise and he peers into my tent. Outside the weather is dank and grey. Grant also materialises and we all pack and head for the King Edward Hotel, an architecturally undistinguished building on the main street of Stewart, attracted by the breakfast special prominently advertised throughout town.

Eggs, bacon and hash browns make a very welcome change to porridge as does sitting at a table watching the light drizzle and swirling mist from the other side of a sheet of glass. Again talk is dominated by the droll repartee favoured by Grant. His discourse is largely a mixture of boasts and insult, only slightly softened by wit. He is originally Australian, but has been living in Canada for years and is currently travelling the Americas by motorbike searching for, or fleeing from, himself – it is not entirely clear which. Sensitive and cruel in equal measure, he is engaging and funny but fends off connection and human warmth.

Richard and I decide, despite the weather, to ride to see the Salmon Glacier. We organise to leave our panniers at the King Edward and set off. It is still drizzling and the clouds are swirling around the visible mountain tops which doesn’t bode well for our mission as we will climb around 1000 metres to our destination. However, we stock up on snacks at the store and set off in high spirits. The border post marks the end of the tarmac and we soon hit the muddy gravel surface, cycling past the bear viewing platforms at Fish Creek.

I have already ascended this road with Debbie and Wendy so I have some idea of what to expect. The road winds along the bottom of the valley, flat initially, passing various abandoned mines. As we start to climb, we cross the international border again back into Canada – this imaginary line is etched into the landscape with a 3 metre wide cleared corridor running across the mountains. Every ten years this Sisyphysian labour is repeated in the interests of national integrity.

The US/Canada border etched into the mountain.

The road rises above the river valley steeply and as we climb we enter the cloud. Far below, the glacier shifts in and out of sight through the drifting tendrils of mist. I have seen the glacier with Debbie and Wendy but Richard is disappointed. A few other tourists pass us in an assortment of cars, RVs and motorcycles. They pause, on their return journey, to tell us that there is nothing to see at the summit, only rain and mist.

We are undeterred – if rain and mist is all that there is to see then we will see rain and mist.  We climb steadily – around 1000 metres over twenty kilometres on the muddy wet surface. Towards the summit, we pass a hand-written sign advising us that the bear man is on the glacier. Since the glacier is veiled, meeting the bear man becomes our alternative mission.

Richard surveying the Salmon Glacier. (Movie reference please?)

Finally, the silhouette of a pair of outhouses and a small orange tent come into view. We have reached the summit. It is raining quite heavily now and the bear man, the inhabitant of the orange tent, is sheltering in the back of his station wagon. A licence displayed on the window of this vehicle legitimises his business of selling DVDs, books and post cards, all featuring quite extraordinary images of bears going about their lives.

The bear man reclines in his car, a softly spoken man 74 years of age. His bicycle, which he rides down into town along the road we have just ridden, to restock on supplies, leans up against one of the outhouses. He has been coming to this place for decades, living on the summit from June until September, walking and photographing the wildlife.

He informs us that 15 kilometres further down the road on the other side of the mountain the weather is clear and another glacier is visible. Going down the mountain means coming back up again on the return trip and I am reluctant. I suggest trying to hitch a lift with the next car that arrives and then wander off into the fog towards the actual summit of this mountain we are standing on.

Drawn up onto the summit.

The mountain, off the road, is a mystical landscape, the gnarled forms of the stunted spruce in clumps on rocky outcrops, sit above clear pools of water connected by fast flowing streams. Everything is cushioned by rounded pillows of thick green moss. Flowers in all the colours of the spectrum lure me onwards and upwards, stumbling and slithering on the slippery mossy rocks. Banks of snow lie on the ground amidst the delicate flowers, yellow, orange, red, blue, purple, white – I am totally awestruck by this beauty.

Wildflowers on the mountain top.

What were all those people in cars thinking when they told me there was nothing to see at the summit?

Beautiful - I was truly awestruck.

I cannot imagine a more beautiful place.

Looking down I see the car park and our bikes far below. A car has arrived and Richard is disappearing into it – he has his lift to see the glacier on the other side of the mountain. I find my way back down chilled and wet.

The bear man invites me to sit down on the edge of his station wagon and offers me a slice of buttered raisin bread and then, noting how fast it disappeared, a second. I ask him about his family and his life as the bear man of the Salmon Glacier.

Suddenly, I realise how cold I am and go to change my wet fleece top for my down sweater which I had the foresight to pack in a couple of plastic bags. I can’t make my frozen hands function well enough to operate the zips and fastenings on my clothes and I’m still struggling with them when Richard reappears in a similar state. He changes and then helps me do up my buckles and zips and we jump on our bikes to descend. Warmth is now utmost on our minds.

The descent is faster and easier on our legs but hard on the bikes. They bounce and rattle over potholes, corrugation and stones and mud coats everything, grit grinding away brake pads. The King Edward boasts a laundromat and this is our destination.

On arriving in Stewart, we pause briefly at the general store to eat yoghurt and gummy bears. Grant is seated on the veranda holding forth, his audience a starry-eyed youngster with a jeep planning a pan-American tour and a sceptical Dutchman with a motorbike. They are swapping traveller’s tales.

Richard and I make for the warmth of the laundromat and I search my panniers for something to wear while I wash my essentials, which are all equally filthy. We unpack, sort and order, making ourselves totally at home to the evident dismay of the hotel staff and the discomfiture of fellow launderers.

Getting steamy in the laundromat.

With the washing finally rotating in the dryers, we move to the dining room to join Grant. Dinner, sadly, does not measure up to the standard set by breakfast but I am content, nonetheless, with my cod and chips. Eventually warm and fed we repack our bikes and venture out into the persistent drizzle. The noisy campers still preside over the campground; they spill out of a van, as we are setting up our tents, with loud exclamations and an astonishing array of uncontrolled bodily sounds. We hide in our tents, giggling in dismay.

Next morning as our little trio break camp there is an unspoken agreement that Richard and I will continue to ride together, at least for the day.  Grant moves off to the bakery, a brief pause outside the window reveals him leaning back in his chair declaiming from the central table, a wary audience in thrall.

We decide to repeat the breakfast extravaganza of the previous morning at the King Edward. I upgrade today to the “Hungry Miner” – a three-egg affair with not only bacon and hash browns but also sausages. Next stop the general store for a final top-up of the food pannier, some minor bike adjustments and then Kylie’s Carwash, a coin-operated pressure hose. Clean and lube completed, we finally hit the road.

The sun shines sporadically, the clouds lifting as we cycle the road back to Meziadin Junction. We take innumerable photos and pause at Bear Glacier for a while. We make good time and turn back on to Highway 37 in the afternoon sun. Cycling past a creek with a track running beside it we stop to make camp – cooking and housekeeping companionably, filtering water and taking turns to bathe in the river. Conversation without Grant’s input is less combative.

Passing by Bear Glacier on the return journey.

Bear Glacier.

The morning brings clears skies and warm sunshine as we go about the laborious daily business of breaking camp. On the road we are just settling into cycling when a lake distracts us. The water is cool, much colder below the sun-warmed surface; I swim across the lake while Richard tries his luck at fishing. I float on my back awhile and then return to shore to sit in the sun, relaxed and easy. Richard fishes without success and I try my luck, after adjusting the rig, with a similar result. We set off again and too soon we reach the turn off to the Nass River Valley where our ways part. We say our goodbyes briefly and go our separate ways – mine a gravel road, narrow and rough, with little traffic and Richard’s continuing on the tarmac surface of Highway 37.

Fishing without result.

The afternoon sun is hot and in the valley is unrelieved by any breeze but I enjoy the tranquillity and isolation. The sun shines through fireweed stands. The plants are releasing their seed – pinpoint stars of light floating lazily in the warm air. A young black bear pads calmly down the road ahead of me and I slow down to watch him. He stops and glances at me and continues on his way, disappearing momentarily into the brush and then returning to the road and ambling on. A car approaches from the opposite direction and the bear disappears. The driver pulls up and we discuss the bear, bears in general, the road, potential campsites.

Fireweed has been my roadside companion just about all the way from Deadhorse. When the last flower drops summer is over.

A distant bear going about his bear business.

Riding into Stewart.

As I crest the summit of Windy Hill and come down the other side I am still battling. I am cycling past Bear Glacier when two women picking through the rocks on the embankment greet me. Debbie and Wendy are from Smithers, on a day trip to Stewart and, after a moment or two, of conversation I, somehow or other, find myself in their battered pick up truck, my bike and belongings bouncing around in the tray. The psychology of this is interesting. I would never, ever, accept a lift on what I consider to me my main route down the highway but on a ‘side trip’ where I know I will have to return along the same road I feel it is (almost) acceptable. Nonetheless, I feel slightly guilty and uncomfortable in the vehicle.

First glimpse of Bear Glacier.

We drive through Stewart, a shrinking coastal town with a moribund set of industries that no longer provide any local employment, and across an international border to Hyder, which is in Alaska, USA. Hyder, even smaller than Stewart, is also a dying town of tumble down buildings and we quickly pass through it to arrive at Fish Creek where a boardwalk over the stream allows visitors a bird’s eye view of fishing bears during the salmon run. We pause for long enough to learn that the there aren’t any bears currently performing and continue along the gravel road up the mountain to view Salmon Glacier.

Salmon Glacier.

Debbie and Wendy cannot be silent; they pass comment on everything, but particularly the weather. They resent the clouds for spoiling what they imagine might be the perfect photo. The road continues to rise and Wendy, the passenger who is afraid of heights, becomes increasingly agitated, Debbie, the driver, is alternately sympathetic and mocking. Half way up the hill, neither at the head nor the toe of the glacier, we stop and, after some indecision, return to the bear viewing station in the valley.

Two young bears are concealed in the brush. Their audience, the majority armed with cameras sporting massive lenses, worth thousands and thousands of dollars, is patient and resigned. The bears rustle around, teasing their public for a while, before making a casual entrance. As the bears appear, there is a sudden flurry of activity and motor drives start their rapid clicking.

The bears are sleek and handsome, a couple of three year old males – regular performers here, apparently. They wade into the shallow water making short careless sprints after the fat salmon which swim sluggishly, almost spent in the stream. One bear musters up the enthusiasm to run down a catch and feeds on the huge fish. Bones crack as the bears uses teeth and claws delicately to eat the favoured parts – skin, roe, and brain – discarding the rest of the carcass. The smell of rotting fish is dense.

Gathering up the energy to chase down a fish.

Getting serious about chasing fish.

Grabbing one.

Wendy and Debbie have to return to Smithers to tend to their dogs and so I unload my bike and belongings from the truck, relieved to be independent again, and return to watch the bears a little longer. The bears fish, wrestle, play. One sits down and then rolls coquettishly on its back to appreciative signs and murmurs from the crowd.

Messing around.

Relaxing.

Side act: mother duck and her sizable brood.

Eventually I leave, wanting to avoid getting caught in the dark on the road, since I will have to ride on the other side of the creek from where I have been standing, protected on the boardwalk, with nothing between the bears and me. I make my way back to Stewart singing bear songs and ringing my bell, stopping briefly at a rather desolate inn, which advertises a camp-ground, in the self-professed ghost town of Hyder. I pay to pitch my tent but flee after giving the campsite a cursory glance, pausing only long enough to get my money refunded. The provincial campground in Stewart is dark and damp but more welcoming.

Dinner is followed by an abortive attempt to shower. Armed with a ‘loonie’* I go to the shower block with the sole aim of washing my hair. Bathing is an activity I have largely neglected since leaving Whitehorse, lakes and rivers have provided an occasional opportunity but now hot water seems called for.

I am forewarned that my ‘loonie’ will only give me a four-minute supply of hot water so I strategically line up my shampoo and conditioner. Everything ready to go, I strip naked in the cold concrete washroom structure, deposit my coin and…. nothing happens. … no water, not even cold water. I curse, prolifically, shake the moneybox, push buttons but to no avail. Vanquished, I dress, pack up my things and return to my tent sadly frustrated.

Next morning I breakfast and pack up early and head to the main street. Restocking my food pannier is the pragmatic reason for me being here in Stewart, which boasts of not one but two well-stocked grocery stores. Food shopping in regional stores is an uncertain business but here at one shop I am rewarded with a bag of dehydrated vegetables to top up the supply bought in Anchorage – a lucky find – and at the other a package of stylishly shaped multi-coloured organic veggie pasta.

At the check out, I discover the more attractive of the two shops, an old-fashioned general store, has free Wi-Fi and so I settle down with a coffee and a pastry on the veranda, which commands a view down the main street, to attend to my communications.

*A loonie is a dollar coin and a toonie is a two dollar coin in Canadian lingo.

The sun is already behind the mountains and it is cold but finally an open meadow on top of a ridge with a line of trees and brush protecting me from the view from the road presents itself. I find a level spot, eat what doesn’t need to be cooked, straight from the pannier, and set up my tent.

The next morning Lake Kluane soon comes into view but a vicious wind whipping along the valley is blowing me back the way I came. Relentless wind and ill-humour are close companions and I battle both all morning.

At Destruction Bay, I cycle past a private RV camp intending to push on until I spot a sign claiming a baker on site. Too tempting. Cinnamon rolls, wi-fi and an endless cup of coffee vs. headwind. What would you do? Four hours, a hamburger and a hot shower later, I am still there.

From inside, it seems the wind has abated so I set off further fortified by two home-made chocolate chip cookies stashed in my handle-bar bag for later. The wind, it turns out, is as vicious as ever but the campground is not far.

At the entrance to the campground a large sign exists to discourage tent camping. The area is covered by bushes with berries favoured by bears. Hand written signs warn that one has been sighted the night before. I put up my tent – what else can I do?

A dire warning to tent campers.

Bears preferred food.

I wasn't deterred from putting up my tent.

A girl wanders over with a chocolate-coloured Labrador to discuss bike trips and invites me over to her campsite, where they are also sleeping in tents. She and her companions are from Whitehorse and they offer me a ‘veggie dog’ and introduce me to smore – a sandwich of sweet biscuits, toasted marshmallow and caramel filled chocolate.

The next morning I set off again against the wind. At the bottom of the lake I can barely stay on the bike or keep the bike on the road. As I turn around the lake, for a blessed while, the wind is behind me but I swing into it again a mile or so on. All day I ride into the wind. Pushing down one hill against the wind, I crack and do a sudden U-turn for a brief respite and I am blown effortlessly uphill the way I came. Heartbreaking.

The wind blowing across the bottom of Kluane Lake - I could barely stay on my bike.

Haines Junction finally arrives and I head for the visitor centre to enquire after the next camp site but get sucked into the bakery opposite – more cinnamon rolls and a slice of pizza – the food is not great but the café is welcoming and there is wi-fi to feed my cyber addiction. I buy a slice of quiche for dinner and cycle a mile to the campsite  – it is noisy and ugly; dogs left in RVs howl and bored kids amuse themselves splitting wood, a raucous group are having a party.

Valdez is where the Trans-Alaska Pipeline, that I followed for five hundred miles along the Dalton Highway from Deadhorse until Fairbanks, terminates. The pipeline carries millions and millions of gallons of crude oil each year over the eight hundred miles that lie between the oil fields of Prudhoe Bay and the port at Valdez. The pipeline’s existence, and all that it entails, has always been controversial in Alaska, constantly pitting committed environmentalists against equally dedicated pro-developmentalists. It was here, in Valdez, that the oil which caused the devastation on Prince William Sound was loaded onto the Exxon Valdez shortly before it ran aground on Bligh Reef.

The holding tanks at Valdez at the end of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline.

In July, Valdez is swarming with tourists who come to fish in waters that are positively seething with running salmon. Competing with the tourists are bears, seals, sea lions, bald headed eagles and a host of other wildlife. On my way out of town, I cycle ten miles off the highway to witness this feeding frenzy before tackling the Thompson Pass.

The scene is slightly bizarre – RV’s are lined up in parking bays along the road and their owners are lined up along the shore, in droves, hauling fish out of the water and then, for the most part, simply throwing them back.

Tourists fishing for salmon in Valdez.

There are bear crossing warning signs at strategic points on the road and large flashing illuminated signs implore people not to approach fishing bears. I didn’t, however, see any bears myself.

Traffic.

Bald-headed eagles perch on the tree tops, calming surveying the fishing prospects from the land, while sea-lions, seals and sea otters advance from the water. The sea is murky and so for the most part the fish are not clearly visible, only the occasional dorsal fin breaks the surface.

I chat for a while with a woman who is patiently waiting while her husband fishes. We share her binoculars to get a closer look at the animals while she tells me about the bear she saw playing on the shore yesterday evening. I wonder whether I should stay for a night in the hope of a repeat performance but I find the whole scene a little disconcerting and so eventually I decide to tackle the pass instead.

Denali National Park is one of Alaska’s wilderness areas that is relatively easy to access and consequently it receives thousands and thousands of visitors during the summer. It is a large area that has a single unmade road running through it and to limit the amount of private vehicles entering the park, in order to preserve it to some degree as a genuine wilderness area, there are regular buses running the length of the road. These buses offer a range of tours to different points of interest and drop campers and hikers off at the more distant camp sites.

I spent my first night in Denail camping at Reily Creek Camp Ground, a large camp ground near the entrance of the park – this camp ground has everything to make a camper forget they are away from home, including wi-fi internet!

Camping in the States is something different to what I am used to: people have huge RVs (recreation vehicles), which they tow their car, generally a hefty 4-wheel drive or pick-up truck, behind. I saw one RV that was towing not only a car but also a trailer full of ATVs (all terrain vehicles).

ATVs are ubiquitous. The purpose of these small four wheeled machines is primarily recreational, I presume, and they serve to allow their users to avoid walking anywhere at all. ATVs make a mess of bike tracks, camps grounds and the land in general. They spread gravel on the paved bike paths that run alongside some major roads, they make camps sites noisy unpleasant places to be and they cause erosion and vegetation damage. They are banned in some areas but evidence of their presence is almost everywhere. That said, however, I didn’t see any in the Denali Park where they are prohibited.

The Reily Creek campground was full and so after an ‘unofficial’ conversation with a park official I wandered the camp ground looking for some friendly looking people with a bit of spare space. Going straight to the ‘walk-in’ sites, I came across Phillip, a German biologist who had been attending a conference in Fairbanks, who agreed to let me squat on a vacant area of his site. We sat up talking about things for a while.

Next day, I moved on to Sanctuary Creek, 29 miles into the park. I unloaded my bicycle and set up camp and then took off on my now blessedly unburdened bike to explore. The gravel road winds through forest, along rivers and creeks and above huge glacial valleys. Forest fires both north and south meant that despite clear weather Mount McKinley was shrouded from view. I rode 40 miles as far as the Polychrome Overlook where three glacial rivers meet in a huge river valley.

I had intended to leave Denali the following morning to continue my journey south but at the entrance to the park I suddenly made a spontaneous decision to go back, further in, all the way to Wonder Lake. I threw my bike on a bus for the 89 mile journey to the campground at the lake and sat back to enjoy the five hour trip and to make the most of the possibility to concentrate entirely on the views and to look for wildlife. I was rewarded with an exceptional bear sighting – a young grizzly bear browsing close to the road was curious when the bus stopped and walked straight past us and down the road. If I’d stretched my arm out, I could have almost touched it as it walked past.

The next morning I woke early, broke camp and loaded my bike to ride a 20 mile section of the road back towards the entrance. The area around Wonder Lake is marshy and wet (which explains all the mosquitoes at the camp site), the perfect habitat for moose and I saw several cows with their calves. It was really beautiful riding in the morning watching Arctic terns, ducks and swans and other aquatic birds in the series of small ponds and lakes beside the road.

Other animals I saw in the park include snow-shoe hares, squirrels, foxes, moose, ground squirrels and lots and lots of birds.

Bear.

Fox.

Ground squirrel.

Ptarmigan.

Ptarmigan family crossing the road.

Snow-shoe hare.

Moose cow with her calf.

Pond in the sky.

Polychrome Overlook.

Bear.

The fundamentals of bear safety are quite simple. There are three main points:

1. Keep your food far away from where you sleep, preferably in a bear proof container of some sort.
2. Don’t surprise a bear.
3. Don’t get between a sow and her cubs.

Number One is quite easy to acheive – cook at least 50 metres from your camp and store your food the same distance away but not in the same spot. Anything that has a strong scent should be considered ‘food’ and this includes toothpaste, shampoo and other toiletries.

Number Two is harder to manage – it’s easy to forget about bears and so, potentially, to come across one unawares. You can buy bells which may alert bears to your presence or you can sing or shout while you are walking (or riding) along.

I have a few bear songs I like to sing. My favourite is The Teddy Bear’s Picnic – it goes like this.

If you go out in the woods today
You’re sure of a big surprise.
If you go out in the woods today
You’d better go in disguise.

For every bear that ever there was
Will gather there for certain, because
Today’s the day the teddy bears have their picnic.

If you go out in the woods today
You’d better not go alone.
It’s lovely out in the woods today,
But safer to stay at home.

For every bear that ever there was
Will gather there for certain, because
Today’s the day the teddy bears have their picnic

Every teddy bear, that’s been good
Is sure of a treat today
There’s lots of wonderful things to eat
And wonderful games to play

Beneath the trees, where nobody sees
They’ll hide and seek as long as they please
Today’s the day the teddy bears have their picnic

Actually I can never remember all the words but I just sing bits and pieces of it as I ride along and make up new words.

Sometimes the Playschool theme occurs, as well, because of the first line.

There’s a bear in there
And a chair as well
There are people with games
And stories to tell
Open wide
Come inside
It’s Playschool…

And at other times I just sing whatever bits of whatever songs I can remember.

Number Three, ultimately, depends on Number Two – if you know there is a bear around then you can make sure that you don’t get between it and it’s cubs but if you don’t… well, there could be trouble.

I also saw these bears on the highway.

Bears in the house.