Day 39
   
   6/5/01
   Mile 3690
   Watson Lake, Yukon Territory
   
   I had camped not far from the road, and was amazed at how little
   traffic there was during the night. After 9pm, the RV crowd has
   already plugged in for the night, leaving only a few cars and rare truck. I
   doubt there were even 20 vehicles from 11pm-5am, but I can't be sure, as I
   was dead asleep.
   
   It rained a bit toward morning, only a sprinkle. I cooked some oatmeal
   and packed up camp, and came down off the ridge I'd been on. The sky
   was mixed, and before long a headwind blew up.  That can only mean one
   thing - rain would soon be on its way. But I wasn't in it yet, so
   decided to just enjoy the day while I could, riding happily along.
   
   I came across a stretch of gravel. The Alaska Highway, for all it's
   grandeur, was now a dirt road. This lasted for about 5 miles, then a
   short section of pavement, then 10 miles of gravel. Still, I could travel
   acceptably with skinny 700x23 tires.
   
   And in the middle of that gravel road, a passing road crew worker in a
   pickup truck flagged me down. "Road's closed ahead," he said, "bridge
   out. You'd best turn around and find a hotel or something, gonna be
   about 4 days."
   
   A bomb had been dropped on my plans; that was very bad news, as I was
   barely going to make it in time as it was. I talked with him a bit
   further, and got a few details. The construction materials needed
   wouldn't even arrive till tomorrow, and he himself was stranded on the wrong
   side.
   
   All I could do was proceed, however, and take a look. I began to plot
   alternatives. No other roads were available, so that was out. Maybe I
   could get someone with a rowboat or canoe to take me across. Time to
   have faith in myself; I've been in enough situations like this that called
   for a workaround, and managed to get by somehow.
   
   I stopped at the Contact Creek gas station, where many people hung out
   waiting. I sat a while too, but decided to go have a look.
   
   I rode up to the edge, and my heart sunk. A 50+ foot gap was washed
   away. The drop was at least 30 feet down to a raging, class-3-rapids
   river far too swift for a rowboat. Perhaps I was truly stuck. There was a
   small section off to one side with a sliver of culvert still standing,
   but badly sagging well below the roadbed and looking like it would give
   way any second. I sat on the guardrail, idly talking to the workers, who
   were also idle and waiting on materials.
   
   And I kept looking at the sliver of culvert remaining.  It had an arch
   of dirt across it, about two feet wide.  If I had any hope of getting
   to the mountain on time, that pitiful arch was it.
   
   I weighed the options.  It was incredibly risky, but there was also a
   risk in getting to Denali later, when avalanches are more common.  And
   the last thing I had said to Mike Wood in Galveston was, "Some way,
   somehow, I will be there."
   
   If I was going to do this, it had to be soon.  Roadbed was continually
   eroding and giving way, with avalanches of dirt falling periodically
   into the river.  I knew I couldn't just walk across pushing the bike;
   the arch was at a slant to one side, and the bike was too hard to control
   while pushing.  I took off all the packs, even emptied the water
   bottles to make it as light as possible, and moved over to the edge.
   
   My stomach did knots. I knew if the arch collapsed while I was on it,
   my percentage survival probability was in the single digits. I'd have
   tons of dirt and metal burying me, or be washed into the rapids. I
   gritted my teeth, knowing that this could well be the final moments of
   my life, and...
   
   ...walked across, pushing the bike, totally focused. Quickly, I might
   add. It raised a bit of commotion with the other people milling about.
   I deposited the bike, and practically ran back across. This time, I saw
   onlookers with cameras ready, hoping to get the "Man falls to his
   death" photo. I grabbed all my gear, bundled it up in my arms, and crossed
   for the third and last time.
   
   It was unquestionably one of the riskiest things I had ever done in my
   life, and I sat for a moment collecting myself as I reassembled my
   gear.  I couldn't believe I had just done that.  But here I was, on
   the other side.
   
   One of the construction foremen came over to me, eyes glaring as big
   as saucers.  I thought for a moment he was going to pound me for doing
   what I had just done.  Instead, he said not a word, just shook his
   head, and walked away.
   
   He didn't need to say anything; the look had said it all.
   
   Make no mistake, this was the largest culvert arch in the world, bar
   none.  Built less than 3 years ago at a cost of $11M, it was 23m (76')
   wide, 8.2m (27') high, and 35m (115') wide.  And the "creek" had
   washed it out; that should give you an idea how much force was behind the
   water.
   
   I pedaled off, up the hill and away from the scene, still on edge from
   the leftover adrenaline.  A few miles up the road was a roadhouse
   where I stopped for a quick bite, and to refill my empty water bottles.
   They were, needless to say, quite surprised at my presence.  When I told
   them how I got across, they said, "You must be an American."  I'm not
   quite sure what to make of that.
   
   A road worker was also there, talking to the owners about the washout.
   The water had undercut the sides of the massive culvert, so no force
   was present to support it, causing the collapse.  The worker relayed
   the story about how a new bridge was currently being shipped from Grand
   Prairie.  When it got to a weigh station, a low-level inspector told
   them "You can't take that up the Alaska Highway, it's too large."  The
   driver told him, and I quote, "Listen you nitwit, there won't BE an
   Alaska Highway if we don't get this bridge put in."  Staunchly determined to
   uphold the letter of the law, the inspector again refused.  Phone
   calls to supervisors, and their supervisors, finally produced a resolution,
   with all the paperwork that entails.
   
   I headed onwards, crossing the border of the Yukon.  The skies looked
   ever-worsening, and finally let loose a few miles from Watson Lake.
   Heavy rain, with lightning and thunder.  I pulled into a campground
   and took refuge under an overhang for the night.
   The forecast: three days of rain.
   
   This road is making me fight for every mile.  I was going to give it
   one.

Yesterday - Today's Photos - Tomorrow