13/07/2009 by Brigid.

Neither of us fancied using the unisex shower block with its, rather too public, cubicles. So we made do with a change of undies and quick dab with the anti-bacterial wipes that I had bought as a precaution against swine flu. Needless to say, the restaurant was closed on Sunday, so we would have to look elsewhere for breakfast. But we had more immediate problems. John went off in search of jump leads while I brewed up some coffee and began to “strike” camp.

Once the Triumph was started, we didn’t dare stop for anything until the battery had had a chance to recharge. Luckily, the first convenient breakfast stop was 50km down the road at the Buckinghorse Ranch, and we had enough fuel to get there. The café only had 3 or four large tables and, unsurprisingly, was doing a roaring trade. The lone gas pump was out of service, but there was another service station across the dusty road.

Refreshed and refuelled, we rode on.

To be honest, there was not much of note. Fort Nelson was not much more than a blob on the highway. We pulled off again for fuel and a milkshake at A&W: again, being Sunday, it was practically all that was open.

100km or so on, the road became more scenic, weaving through mountains with stunning views over forestry and lakes until we arrived at Toad River, our overnight stop.

We had intended to camp again, but since it there was a little rain in the air, we were glad to find that they had a cabin still available. It felt good to be warm and dry, so we did our best to ignore a distinctly stale smell wafting in from the basin waste pipe in the bathroom. We unpacked, showered, and wandered back over to the café for a burger.

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13/07/2009 by Brigid.

The various disappointments of Grand Prairie made us all the more determined to camp out this evening. We had two more days to get to Watson Lake, so we didn’t need to achieve more than about 340 miles in a day.

After last night’s experience, and our dislike of continental breakfasts consisting of donuts and lurid-coloured cereals, we decided to have breakfast in Dawson Creek. So, having taken the obligatory photos of “Milepost 0″ and the “Start of the Alaska Highway” sign, we found a nice little diner serving a traditional breakfast of … quesidillas and fajitas.

We felt a tinge of regret as we started out on the Alaska Highway. It seemed a bit of a sham to have photographed ourselves at the start, knowing we wouldn’t be going further north than Watson Lake, barely into the Yukon, let alone Alaska.

In true Route 66 spirit, we found an historic cut off that took us across an original timber-built curved bridge on a section of the old Alaska Highway. In reality the road is now just a loop off the main highway, leading to the Kiskatinaw Provincial Park and a campsite, but it was an interesting detour involving a surprise section of deep gravel.

We passed through Fort St. John, stopping only for gas but, 100km further on, we were parched and needed a break. The Shepherd’s Inn seemed to fit the bill. The Milepost book had a tempting advertisement for lunch and dinner menus of homemade fare and “refreshing fruit drinks from local fruits”. May be it was just the wrong time of day, but we found only a rather surly waitress and a choice of coffee or commercial bottled soft drinks … Oh, and a bookstand full of worthy titles like, “Seven Secrets to Preserving Your Virginity”. Seven? Clearly, the facts of life are more complicated than I thought!

We arrived at our campsite at Pink Mountain just before 6pm, at the same time as two BMW riders from Alberta, and a Frenchman, who we had earlier come across on the side of the road. They were just stopping for dinner and fuel, so it seemed the sociable thing to do to eat with them – and just as well, as the place was about to close up for the day.

The meal was unremarkable, save for the fact that John left his auxiliary lights on while we ate, and came back to a flat battery. Luckily, the parking lot for the restaurant was above the camp site so, even though we couldn’t bump start the bike, it was easy enough to push across the highway and up to our tent site.

The Pink Mountain camp site bills itself as “one of the nicest on the Alaskan Highway”. I beg to differ. Perhaps I am spoilt, in that I expect separate Ladies and Gents shower facilities or, at the very least, a private cubicle. And, though I appreciate, we are in the middle of nowhere, a flush toilet would have been preferable to the single, revolting, privie that passes for a ladies lavatory.

Having had an interminably boring conversation with a German, to whom John had unwisely offered a can of beer, and two young cyclists, we made our excuses and retired to our tent.

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