Photo courtesy Ben Abbott

Ben Abbott attempted to pedal from Fairbanks to Valdez over spring break. The first part of his journey was documented in last week’s edition.

Part II: Tuesday March 11th—Milepost 185

After cresting Isabel Pass, I stiffly dismounted my frozen bike and hobbled behind Paxon Lodge. By cloud-diffused moonlight I found a clearing and started a pot of water. As my tasteless lentils began to boil, a dark form leaped from the spruce forest and darted towards me. I jumped to my feet, brandishing my dinner above my head.

My nocturnal aggressor backed down after seeing I was armed. It was a beagle. The dog circled camp, barking dejectedly for a few minutes before pursuing other “prey”.

Snow started falling at 2 a.m. and finally drove me from sleep at 7a.m. Two inches had buried what I now recognized as a landing strip. Grateful there hadn’t been any air traffic, I brushed off my bike seat and dumped snow from my riding shoes. With numb hands and wet feet I rattled back onto the Richardson.

I swooped past Paxon Lake and Meier’s Lodge. As the road flattened I rode past a snowshoe hare carcass crushed into the buzz strip. Raven droppings surrounded the road kill. The food chain is short and quick up here in winter. David Bowie played on the IPod and I pushed southward into the blinding sun.

The deep drifts and rolling spruce hills from Meier’s to Gulkana looked like a scene straight from “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” Imitating the snowman’s voice, I ran an inventory of my food:

“Four freezer bags of quartered potatoes, three boxes of Spiderman and Batman fruit snacks, a jar of peanut butter, a bottle of honey” I broke character and grumbled, “those have done me a lot of frozen good—a loaf of wheat bread, 15 strips of fruit leather, two boxes of Nature’s Way granola bars, a pound of lentils, eight one-serving bags of oat meal, a bag of Hershey’s kisses, three apples, two bananas, and one Snack Pack pudding.”

Like the honey and peanut butter, my water was frozen. By lunchtime the bottle I’d been gripping under my arm for 25 miles was finally liquid enough to drink. I rumbled to a stop at the base of a large hill. The cold had made sauce out of my apples. I chased some fruit mush with slushy water and cranked into the slope—grateful for the strenuous climb to warm my chilled muscles.

At 4 p.m. a gray minivan slowed beside me, rolling down its window—third car that day. A round head with sunglasses emerged from the driver’s side and bellowed a familiar hello. It was Marc and Marilee from UAF. They and their two kids piled out and surrounded me. Six-year-old Aiden immediately asked,

“Are you biking ‘cause you have to or just for fun?” Marilee showered me with juice boxes and granola bars—parents are always well equipped—and they offered me a ride home.

“I just feel so bad for you.” Marc compassionately admitted, finally insisting on giving me a pair of Chums.

Twenty miles later I unrolled my bag under a semi trailer in the outskirts of Glennallen and coasted to the Caribou Café. After a heaping plate of fries and pasta salad I stopped at the grocery store. A heavily tattooed twenty-year-old was collecting carts in the parking lot.

“You got toothbrushes?” I called out, rolling up to the automatic door.

“Four brands. Aisle two, six feet in on your left—nothing stiffer than a medium though, damn pity.” Content with the accurate service, I purchased a medium and brushed three days’ fuzz from my teeth as I inched up the hill towards “home.”

The leaf springs of the trailer I was sleeping under woke me around midnight as they popped, contracting with the cold. By morning I’d decided to hitchhike back to Fairbanks. At 8 a.m. I stuck out my thumb.

After nine brutal hours of car exhaust and sunburn at the Tok Cutoff junction an elderly man took me to his home.

“These people aren’t heartless they just all live within ten miles of here. You need a sign.” Sam’s wife Viola cooked up a huge pan of “goulash” as I squeaked “Fairbanks” onto a piece of cardboard with an intoxicating permanent marker.

After 20 minutes more at the intersection I gave up and started pedaling north.

At milepost 135, with the Wrangles glowing behind me, the valve on my Thermarest wouldn’t unscrew—frozen with spit. I stuffed the pad up my shirt and scraped frost from my down bag, trying to restore some of its loft. It was minus 10 with 230 miles to go.