I arrived in Anchorage by plane this time. And I was not alone. Andrea, my partner, and Jason, a good friend, were along for the journey. I was glad to have 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 far away is. The long-haul trucker, the cyclist, and the airplane pilot all perceive distance differently. Gravel roads, paved roads, highways, traffic, good weather, bad weather, flat fields of corn, and mountains on the horizon all shape how far away a place feels. There are distances that have to be felt to be appreciated. Gazing at a map is no substitute.
In Alaska, getting from one place to another is dictated by the seasons. The further you get away from Anchorage and the later in the year, snowmobiles, boats, and bush planes become the standard. 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 headed 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 most remote 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 keep your distance and drive alone. We reached the Arctic Circle and kept going, marking the farthest north any of us had ever been. We navigated past Finger Mountain, up Gobbler's Knob, and down Beaver Slide before reaching Coldfoot, the halfway point of the Dalton. Alaskans prefer landmarks over mile markers.
Open year-round, Coldfoot Camp is a fuel stop and rest area for truck drivers. There are a half dozen mismatched 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 and only had two single beds. 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. 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 the road 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. We finished our tater tots and went back to our room.
When we set off in the morning, everything was frozen. Fortunately for us, the cold temperatures had solidified the driving surface, giving us better traction. We climbed over the Brooks Range through Atigun Pass, 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 also 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.’ The sign has a cartoon horse lying on its back, 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 that 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 set out to accomplish something that I’d never done before, a challenge that felt daunting. I came a long way, and I am proud of that.
I also realized 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 folks stuck in traffic, and friends willing to join in my adventures, to see the world from the bottom of Argentina to the tundra surrounding us.
Now, it was time to go home.
