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.

There are very few permanent residents on this road. The main settlements are work camps – mostly to serve the pipeline and maintain the road – which house workers, who are generally based in Fairbanks and Anchorage and often much further afield. Like all life on the tundra, most activity takes place during the short summer. Places like Coldfoot have a winter population of a mere 12 people.

Truck drivers are constantly mobile, but extremely important, members of this community. Their importance is not surprising given that the community centres on the road which, in turn, exists for, and runs parallel, to the oil pipeline.

Most members of this community are transient – the truck drivers, for example, might work on the Dalton for only a season or two before moving on to other things. However, in a testament to the strength of the ties, I saw, prominently displayed in all the places where truckies stop, a sign asking for donations to help ‘Dirty Shirt’ Joe, a truck driver who had fallen on hard times through ill-health.

The community is tight-knit but open enough to accommodate this constant flux of seasonal workers and other temporary members. I had no doubt of my honoury membership for the time that I was travelling down the Dalton Highway. As a cyclist, one is viewed with considerable amusement but also a reasonable amount of respect. The truck drivers – despite jokes about cyclists as speed humps – behave impeccably, swinging out to the opposite side of the road and slowing down to a crawl so as not to spit gravel and raise choking clouds of dust. They respond amicably to a smile and a wave and when the need arose a truckie didn’t hesitate to carry a package for me down the highway to Fairbanks.

Most people are in contact via radio on the road and so often when I stopped to speak to someone they would tell me that they knew I was coming. Messages can be ferried up and down the highway merely by asking someone to pass it on. People stop to give a weary cyclist gifts of food – crackers and smoked salmon spread, fresh fruit and vegetables, chocolate, a US army ration pack, trail mix, a fried chicken dinner.

Everybody I met was curious about where I came from and where I was going.

Heading up the Atigun Pass in the rain.

Half way up the Atigun Pass looking down.

The end (from my perspective, having started at the northern end) of the Dalton Highway. I had the strangest desire to do it all again when I reached this point.

One of the most curious and sad sights I saw on the Dalton Highway was a man, originally from Cuba, living in his car at Milepost X with all his belongings - CDs, tools, baseball hat, guns - spread out on the bonnet for sale.