I arrived in Anchorage by plane this time. And I was not alone. Andrea and Jason, a good friend, were along for the journey. I was glad to have some companions for this section, but I doubt they appreciated how far away Alaska is from home.
Flying feels like cheating. Everyone has a sense of what is far away. The long-haul trucker, the cyclist, and the airplane pilot all perceive distance differently. Gravel roads, paved roads, highways, and traffic, good weather, bad weather, flat fields of corn, mountains on the horizon all shape how far away a place feels. Gazing at a map is no substitute. There are distances that have to be felt to be appreciated.
In Alaska getting from one place to another is seasonal. The further you get away from Anchorage and the later in the year, snowmobiles, boats, and bush planes become the standard. On a previous trip I was told that Anchorage is an hour away from Alaska. I’ve only experienced a very narrow version of the state, never needing to travel by air, water, or ice road. We arrived in the fall, so a rental car would suffice. We drove north, passing through Fairbanks and Livengood, until we reached the start of the James W. Dalton Highway. A road named after an engineer who spent years exploring Alaska’s remotest areas in search of oil. I bet he used an airplane.
There are distances that have to be felt to be appreciated. Gazing at a map is no substitute.
Fall in Alaska is brief and rainy. The Dalton Highway’s surface becomes a wet mix of gravel and mud. The mud collects on your windows, blocking visibility, so it’s best to stay far behind other vehicles. We passed the Arctic Circle, marking the farthest north I’d ever been. Alaskans use landmarks, not mile markers, to measure distance. We navigated past Finger Mountain, up Gobbler's Knob, and down the steep side of Beaver Slide before reaching the community of Coldfoot and halfway point of the Dalton.
Open year-round, Coldfoot Camp is a fuel stop and rest area for truck drivers. There are about a half dozen mis-matching wooden buildings around the property. A garage, a barracks style hotel, post office, helicopter landing pad, and tons of space for semi-trucks to park up for the night. Gas was $7 per gallon, all dinner options came with tater tots, and the cheapest room was $250 for the night. We all crammed into one room and Jason was kind enough to volunteer to sleep on the floor. The woman checking us in asked where we were headed. I told her “Deadhorse.” She warned us about the road conditions ahead. The combination of rain and truck traffic had created long stretches of slippery ruts. At dinner we talked to a pair of moose hunters who had driven it that day. Their advice was “Just hammer down, you'll be fine,” which I took to mean keep your foot on the gas and don't slow down. Noted. We finished our tater tots and went back to our room for the night.
When we set off in the early morning, everything was frozen. The section of road between Coldfoot and Atigun Pass is primarily built on permafrost. The freeze-thaw cycle causes the road to heave in places, creating a roller coaster-like feel at times. Fortunately, the cold temperatures had solidified the surface, giving us better traction. We climbed over the Brooks Range, topping out at 4,739 feet, before descending back to sea level on the other side. We spotted musk ox in the distance. Five adults, two youngsters. The north side of the Brooks Range is vast stretches of treeless tundra, with the ever-present Trans-Alaska Pipeline running through it. A shiny silver, four-foot-wide tube rests atop steel legs, about ten feet in the air. Built in the 1970s, the pipeline transports crude oil from Prudhoe Bay, across the length of Alaska, to Valdez.
The pipeline guided us into Deadhorse, a remote industrial outpost. The buildings there are designed to withstand Arctic winters; they too stood on stilts and had small windows. We pulled up to a building with a sign hanging on the outside saying ‘Welcome to Deadhorse. End of the Dalton Highway.’ In the middle is a painting of a horse lying on its side, tongue hanging out, surrounded by gestural stink lines. Stickers from previous travelers cover the wall around it. I didn't bring a sticker—it felt like littering. Andrea encouraged me to have my picture taken in front of the sign. At first, I declined, saying I didn't need a picture, but she pushed back, saying, "Maybe the picture isn't for you?" I walked in front of the sign, crossed my arms behind my back, and Andrea took the photo. I couldn’t help but smile, despite myself.
Part of me was astonished to be standing here at the end of the road. Part of me couldn't help but think of the long drive back to Coldfoot we still needed to make. It started to snow. We got back in the car, and Jason looked over and asked me, “Do you feel complete?” I didn’t know how to answer. After 4 years and nearly 40,000 miles, I had finally driven the entire length of the Pan-American Highway. But I also knew no trip was going to make my life complete. I had set out to accomplish something that I’d never done before. I took on a challenge that felt daunting. I came a long way, and I am proud of that.
I also realized true satisfaction comes from the small, everyday moments. It was those little things I encountered on the road that stayed with me: the kind encouragement and curiosity of fellow travelers, people offering food and shade to travelers in stuck in traffic, and friends willing to join my adventures, to see the world from the bottom of Argentina to the tundra surrounding us.
Now, it was time to go home.
