Chapter 8: Cycling the Golden Circle
Lying here, wrapped up in a cosy blanket gazing out at the drizzly harbour of Auke Bay, makes the past week of cycling the Golden Circle in Alaska and Canada feel like a bit of an epic dream. The fading mosquito bites on my ankles remind me, though, that I did in fact spend the past week on the road in the company of glorious mountains, lakes, rivers, the world’s smallest desert, with some bears and headwinds thrown in there for a challenge (those are enough spoiler alerts!). I think Alaska, the Yukon and all its wildness has taken a little piece of my heart.
Day 1: Juneau to Mosquito Lake via the ferry to Haines, 31 miles (52km)
The sun had already been awake for an hour or two as I packed up the final few things for the next stage of my cycle adventure. Take the hummus out from the fridge. Pack phone charger. The ferry terminal was not far from Jodie’s place, so I made my way over with a very heavy Sirocco loaded up with 6 days’ worth of food, and checked in with a person at the ticket desk who, like me, also seemed like he’d just woken up.
The ferry M.V. Hubbard is part of the Alaska Marine Highway System, one of the main ways Alaskans get around (the land is a little too unforgiving here for great road networks). Hubbard was so new, it had only been in action for one month and still had that new boat smell. I was headed to Haines, from which I’d cycle in a clockwise direction to Skagway.
I headed to the ferry’s famous sun chairs in the solarium, a three-walled area with open access to the stern deck aka the best views in town. Inspired by the person next to me who had quickly made themself comfortable by converting one of the chairs into a bed, I got out my sleeping bag and blew up my pillow, too.
The ride went by quickly, aided by the cheapest coffee I’ve had in the US yet (Alaskans may object to me saying Alaska is part of the US sorry) — $1.75, how’s that for a deal! As imagined, the deck boasted impressive views of the mountains lining the Lynn canal. The highlight of the ride was passing a humpback whale playfully thwacking their flippers on the ocean’s surface and jumping up now and then.
Rolling off the boat, I made my way into Haines, one of the few towns I’d encounter on this trip. Having fully stocked up my kitchen (aka my yellow bike pannier) prior to leaving, I cycled straight through the town. From the first few pedal strokes, I knew the views on this ride would exceed my expectations. It wasn’t far to go that day and it was virtually flat, a gentle entry into a week of cycling that would undoubtedly challenge my body, mind and spirit in many ways.
It was unclear where exactly Mosquito Lake campground was located. After following Mosquito Lake Road, a good start I thought, I ended up at a cul-de-sac where I was met by three barking dogs who cornered me. As I tried to find an escape route, I noted a lemonade stand with three kids standing around it. Over the barking, one of them ask me, ‘Do you want to buy some lemonade?’ as if there were no dogs blocking my ability to do anything at this point.
Eventually I broke free from the gang and after a deep breath, I cycled up to the young entrepreneurs at the lemonade stand. Selling lemonade at the end of the road in a rural part of Alaska deserves the utmost respect. One of them complimented me on my fanny pack as I got my $3 out to pay for the generous serving of the sweet liquid. Only after the first sip did I realise just how thirsty I’d been. It’s amazing what you find at the end of some roads, and how a simple cup of lemonade can improve things so drastically.
After admitting to the kids that I was a bit lost, one of them kindly pointed me in the direction of the campground. It was at the end of an unsigned dirt driveway, a modest patch of grass with a few pieces of rubbish scattered around — wildlife bait.
Having got the message loud and clear about the potential for wildlife co-inhabitants in these necks of the woods, I made lots of noise as I set up my tent to ensure any wildlife would know I was visiting. Having another camping party would have been nice for peace of mind, but it looked like it would just be me for the night. While cooking dinner I realised what was an apt name Mosquito Lake is for this place.
Day 2: Mosquito Lake Campground to Million Dollar Falls Campground, 109km
Today would be the longest day of the trip distance-wise. That, and I had 1000m of climbing to look forward to just after crossing the Canadian border. Knowing this, I left early — for me, at least — a departure partly dictated by the sun’s early presence at this time of the year. A sweet dog (unrelated to the barking gang the day before) raced me down Mosquito Lake road so far that I wondered if I should either turn around and make sure they got home okay, or adopt them and take them on the rest of my ride (not sure how Nyla would feel about that). I was tempted, but soon the dog slowed and left me to ride the rest of the way.
The Canadian border crossing was chill, as I expected it to be. Despite declaring I had one broccoli floret, half a zucchini and one avocado in my bag, all they cared about was if I was smuggling alcohol or cannabis into Canada. With neither of those substances to declare, the officer wished me a good day and I rolled on in the comfort that the distance markers were in kilometres again.
The climb, during which I would pass through three time zones (Alaska, Pacific and Mountain) and two Canadian provinces, graced me with the constant unfolding of mountains distracting me from any potential misery or tedium of the cycling part. I pretended that the row of mountains lined the left side of the road were cheering me on. The snow thickened on the peaks the higher I climbed. There was some serious avalanche material up there on those mountain faces — I’m glad there was a bit of distance between us. I lost count of how many times I cried at the power and immensity of this wonderland I was traversing.
The dark green alpine valleys widened. At one hill crest, the road unfolded below snaking alongside a gushing river, revealing the final climb. Almost there. I got to the summit of Chilkoot Pass around lunchtime, pleased to find a car park at a trailhead with a toilet. Disconcertingly, the bear-proof rubbish bin had claw marks etched into its side. It was as if the bears knew these contraptions were built for the very reason to keep them out, but took up the challenge anyway.
A van was parked in the car park, and soon enough I met its owners returning from a hike. They’d not seen a bear, but bear prints in the mud. The guy had seen a grizzly just a couple of kilometres from here two weeks ago. Maybe I’d been being too lax, I thought, so after eating a wrap and getting too cold I cycled onwards down the hill, my eyes peeled for animals.
When cycling, especially when I have gained momentum, I find it hard to stop and attend to my basic needs even when those needs really need to be met. The windchill was extreme, though, so I reluctantly pulled over and put on some fleece pants Jodie had lent me. I didn’t realise just how cold I’d been until I put those pants on. A cosy hug for my legs, what a game changer.
Just as my morale was waning a little, I saw the Million Dollar Falls campsite sign which filled me with much relief. I took the first available spot sandwiched between two camper vans and set up my tent. The rain started after that — I like to think it had been waiting for me to create my shelter first. First a drizzle, then a shower, and it continued all the way through the evening and overnight. The campground had a sturdy cooking shelter, but after dinner and a glance at the million dollar waterfall (free to view actually), I curled up in my sleeping bag and finished the book about one man’s journey to Alaska. It finished with a call to visit this place if you get the chance. It also warned that any place you visit after Alaska might be ruined given the high bar this place sets for beauty.
Day 3: Million Dollar Falls Campground to Pine Lake Campground, 95km
For some bizarre reason I’d gotten too hot in the night and stripped off the three or four layers I had been wrapped up in. That backfired when I woke up to a freezer of a tent, which always makes getting out of the warm cocoon of a sleeping bag near to impossible. I eventually coaxed myself out with the prospect of hot coffee and porridge (and the one unsquashed banana left). Outside the sun was shining and the mountains dusted with icing sugar.
I ate breakfast sharing the only sunny bench with Tessa, a graphic novelist based in Seattle and the first bikepacker I’d met on this trip. She had some time before her international book tour next year. For her, getting into Haines Junction meant reception, which meant continuing an argument with her publisher about the book cover design. She’d biked all over the world and clearly knew Alaska well. After a good chat we parted, each to stuff our wet tents back into their bags and set off for the day.
The road took off from where we left the night before and continued a grinding climb. A few cars passed now and then, but was mostly empty enough to make me feel like the only person for days in this vast landscape. I meditated to the whir of Sirocco’s wheels, a sound that I now associated with this mobile home I’d created. The sense of remoteness was stark that morning. Noticing that I was beginning to take the unbelievable scenery for granted, I paid even greater attention to how the contours of the peaks and alpine valley shifted as I journeyed onwards, one pedal at a time.
The clouds occasionally obscured the sun, and it remained a three-layer type of temperature for most of the ride that day. I’d expected the undulations to continue, but was pleased when the road opened out onto some more manageable gradients. The flowers on the roadside were delightful.
I stopped every hour or so for a gulp of water and a snack, but not for long each time: the word got around the community of mosquitos that a warm-blooded mammal was in the vicinity to feed on. I lasted about 40 seconds before they clouded me with their motivation to suck my blood.
Finally, signs for the motels and gas stations in Haines Junction began to appear, and a considerable climb down into the town began. Neither service would be of use to me, but I’d heard from four people independently that the Village Bakery was worth a stop. My doubts that they would have vegan options were immediately blown away. The first thing I set my eyes on was a ‘Vegan Yum’ sandwich followed by a peach oat slice, a coffee and some dried mango. This was a hungry cyclist’s dream. On the wall behind the cashier, right next to the coffee menu, hung a sign advertising bear spray. Coffee and bear spray are sold with equal urgency up here.
It was especially busy for a Friday afternoon. When I connected to the cafe’s wifi and checked my messages, Jodie had messaged me to say there was a bike race happening on Saturday, starting at Haines Junction and funding at Haines: the same route I’d just cycled, only in reverse and over three days, not one. I had an immense appreciation for all the competitors. It also explained a lot of things, such as why there were more Lycra-clad people lining up for coffee than I’d seen on the road, and why I couldn’t get a bed at the backpackers here.
With that new information, I gulped the rest of my coffee and made tracks for the first-come-first-served campground, a few minutes up the road, in case it was already full. Luckily there were a few spaces left. ‘You racing tomorrow?’ Asked the ranger as I struggled to close the bear-proof food container. I told her no, but that I’d just ridden in from Haines. She predicted it would be packed tonight, with 1500 competitors and 200 support vehicles expected for the race the next day.
Day 4: Pine Lake Campground to Takhini River Campground, 98km
Haines Junction had marked the start of the second leg of the Golden Circle (more of a triangle), joining on to the Alaska Highway. Jodie had told me the road to Whitehorse was mentally challenging due to several long flat stretches. I knew I’d need a bit more effort to keep the spirits up and decided to break the section up into two days. I was in no rush.
It didn’t take long for the road to open so much that it was impossible to see the end of it. The traffic was a little heavier, for the Yukon at least, about one vehicle every 5 minutes now. Several RVs with names like Alpha Wolf and Cougar overtook me, clearly relishing the speed they picked up on these long stretches. For cyclists, the roads had the opposite effect and a bit of a headwind was all it took to slow me right down. Even on the downhills, there was not enough momentum to sustain a good whizz.
Sometimes I momentarily forgot where I was because of the evolving landscape. I could have been in the Scottish Highlands or Swedish Lapland (not that I’ve been to either - just guessing what it might be like there). The mountains here were rounded, softer, less snowy than the jagged icy ranges between Haines and Haines Junction. It was beautiful in its own humble way.
When it got hard, I wondered how the race to Haines was going and it made my ride feel cruisy in comparison. The social highlight of the day was a group of high-vis vested people picking up rubbish on both sides of the road cheering me on, just what I needed to keep going.
Passing the ‘campground turnoff: 2km’ sign felt like more of a milestone that it should have. It was bittersweet, however, knowing that I had 15km of gravel road of unknown quality to navigate after the turnoff. Most of the gravel road was jutty and loose, a less-than-ideal type of road for Sirocco’s poor non-gravel tyres. My panniers squeaked at the back as if to ask when this bumpy ride would end, but overall Sirocco did well given how shaky it got.
Respite from the dust took the form of lunch on the bank of the Takhini River. As I arrived, a guy was getting out of his pack raft. We exchanged a bit of light conversation, and then left me to bask in the welcome shade and eat my wraps with the lady of my hummus and some perfectly ripe avocado I’d just opened.
Back on the gravel road, I sped up to the pace of a slow jogger and tried separately to patch together smooth islands of road to jump between, even if it meant veering onto the other side of the road for a bit. With the sun pelting down, and gigantic elk prints in the dusty roadside to remind me to be alert of wildlife, this was multitasking at its finest/most uncomfortable (depending on which way you look at it). Battling the negative talk away and not trying to think about the fact I’d have to re-trace my steps on this same road the next day, I bumped along, feeling way out of my depth. This campground better be worth it, I thought.
Takhini River campground, when I eventually arrived, was small but had ample shade. I pitched my tent under some young pine trees with bear claw marks scraped on the trunks, hoping they had got what they came for and didn’t need to return. The sense of accomplishment was strong that afternoon, both because of that rough road and that this was the half way point. Four days down, four to go. I lay in my tent for most of the afternoon, listening to podcasts and the occasional squirrel making that rattlesnake noise they make, and watching the menagerie of bugs and insects accumulating between the inner and fly of my tent.
Day 5: Takhini River Campground to Takhini Hot Springs Campground, 83km
There’s nothing like a gravel road to make you appreciate the relative smoothness of ashphalt. I vowed I’d never complain about the highway road conditions again. Today’s ride was nothing too remarkable, a slow transition from feeling as if literally in the middle of nowhere to joining back with livelihood and civilisation. The road got increasingly busier with more logging trucks this time. It took me back to my trip down Vancouver Island (minus the rain), which now felt like a long time ago.
I don’t usually listen to music or podcasts on the road, but in need of a motivation boost to get to the next camp I put on two podcasts, one about whether AI was getting out of control, and one about tikanga and New Zealand law. With something else to focus on (don’t worry, I was still paying attention to traffic!) I got to the turn-off to the campground in what felt like no time, ate lunch under the cool of a tree and continued on.
The campground I stayed at neighboured some hot springs, the main reason most people make a pilgrimage out that way. Those who know me know I don’t jump at the idea of entering my body into bodies of water, so the hot springs did not excite me as much as the free wifi did if I’m honest with you. However, at dinner I met a woman who’d been hiking around the area and after hearing her extravagant experiences of the hot springs, I was convinced to try them . That is, until we learnt the power had just gone out. When it came on later that night, I was already tucked into bed.
Day 6: Takhini Hot Springs Campground to Whitehorse, 28km
Instead of factoring in a rest day to this trip, I decided to have a nero day (near zero - as they say in thru-hiking speak) and spend some time in Whitehorse, the Yukon’s capital.
My tent had captured the morning sun’s warmth by the time I woke, creating a sauna of its own. Leaving the campground, I re-traced the road for a good 15km, all pleasantly downhill. The main highway onto downtown Whitehorse had collected up some traffic, and just felt like a means to an end to get to Whitehorse, pop. 40,000. Whitehorse, like Juneau, is an adventure lover’s dream. Every second vehicle parked outside each house was either an RV or a car with a canoe strapped to the top.
Whitehorse lies along the pleasant Yukon River, nestled in a little area down from the main highway. It is named so because of the rapids nearby that to First Nations Kwanlin Dün resemble the mane of a white horse. At first, Whitehorse struck me as a remote — the next biggest town is a 24-hour drive away — but when I thought of it in relation to anywhere in new zealand, its probably quite central. People probably think of New Zealand in the same way.
Main Street was bustling with an eclectic mix of tourists and locals. Outside the outdoor store, I met another cycle tourist, Jann from Germany, casually cycling his way to Argentina. It made me feel what I was doing was simply a light jog.
After piling up my pannier with an excessive amount of food for the last two days of the trip, I made my way to my Warmshowers host for the night. Ed was packing up the house for his own 9-week cycle trip with his family, so I was grateful for his hospitality despite being busy with the planning and cleaning. Ed and his family had cycled the length of New Zealand a few years ago, one of many countless inspiring long-haul adventures, so we had a fair bit to talk about over a delicious stir fry. He gave me helpful tips on the area and where to explore the next morning
Interestingly, Ed told me that Germans love visiting the Yukon so much that there’s a direct flight once a week from Whitehorse to Frankfurt. That explained the German visitor guides I’d seen a few of in cafes and campgrounds. I really appreciated having curtains that night, as going to sleep in the dark had begun to feel like a distant dream due to sleeping in a tent during summer solstice. I slept so well that night.
Day 7: Whitehorse to Conrad Campground, 85km into a headwind most of the day
What an eventful day. The famous last words I uttered to Ed as I left was that I had had got no punctures so far. Well, today changed that fact. About 30km into the ride, after cycling on an unimproved road for 5km, I noticed my speed had dropped significantly. While I started off by blaming the incessant headwind, I stopped to check my tyres. Why is it always the back one? To be fair on Sirocco, he’s been holding up so well and it was an inevitability that this would happen one day. This was my chance to prove my bike-fixing capability to myself. Nothing is unsolvable.
Mysteriously, I couldn’t find the cause of the flat tyre. No sharp bits sticking in — it must have been an issue with the inner tube’s valve. Anyway I won’t bore you with the technicality of it all, but it took about an hour to put in a new inner tube, after a few solving a few familiar issues. I was in no rush and was soon back on the road with a semi-pumped up tyre.
As the landscapes surrounding me became more and more beautiful, the headwinds became more and more powerful. The chronic lack of shade didn’t help either. This day was a lesson on being uncomfortable, I concluded, and I needed to work through it.
On one of the longer stretches, a car coming the other way slowed and waved me down. ‘There’s a bear with her cub on the side of the road, about a mile away!’ He said with great excitement. I thanked him and went into bear-alert mode, scanning both sides for a black or brown lump and singing the Bear Necessities out loud, a tactic I’d decided on a while ago and had been practising. This was the moment.
A mile had passed, and my singing must have worked (or a loud car had just gone past) — no bear in sight, for now at least. Just as my alertness was waning, I spotted two black things crossing the road in the very far distance. Bears! For better or worse, a big petrol truck drove past at that very moment, scaring them up the bank. Moments later, they were out again, eating what must have been super tasty dandelions on the roadside. I slowed, trying to determine a plan for getting around these guys.
Before I could make one, a pick-up truck hooned by, driving towards them and honking excessively. The bears retreated again. Was the driver trying to do me a favour? I don’t know, but I felt really sorry for the bears. Maybe better that, though, than getting too close.
Another long stretch. This time, a couple of cycle tourists came towards me over the crest of the hill. They seemed to be in excellent spirits; their level of cheeriness did not match the gradient of the hill they were climbing — and then I saw why. To my right, a large lake appeared with waters reminiscent of tropical beaches: deep blue patches encircled by lighter shades of blue and sand. This was Rainbow Lake, a geographic phenomenon significant to the Carcross Tagish First Nations. It came just at the right time to fill me up with enough awe to get through the next 10km to Carcross.
The town of Carcross, short for Caribou Crossing, is a peculiar destination and popular with busloads of cruise ship passengers who make day trips out from Skagway to see its many sights. First, there’s Carcross Desert, the world’s smallest desert. The downtown area is a mix of a commons area surrounding a totem pole and interpretive signs about the Carcross Tagish First Nations, and a few Western-style shops from the gold rush era. Then, across town (all two streets of it) there’s Bennett’s Beach. All of this surrounded by an alpine environment, lakes, and a world-class mountain bike park.
My main intention in Carcross was to get my tyres pumped up to prevent future punctures (here’s hoping). The guy in Icycle (what a great bike shop name for somewhere with so much snow) had also raced the Kluane Chilkoot race over the weekend. It seemed the whole of the Yukon had been involved in that event one way or another! He pumped my tyres up with his fancy electric pump, and I rolled back on for the final 16km of riding for the day.
The campground I stayed at, Conrad, was located on part of a lake called Windy Arm. The good thing about the wind, I remembered, was that it meant no biting insects! I could eat my dinner in peace. Having seen a few bears that day, the possibility is be joined by one for dinner was not out of the question so I kept a good watch out for them while I ate my burrito, and then block of chocolate.
It’s days like this one that really test one’s limits and makes you reflect on how you respond to stressful situations. I tend to catastrophise when problems or uncertainty arise, so I’m proud of myself for channeling a more pragmatic mindset and going into problem-solving mode. What’s an adventure without some road bumps eh?
Day 8: Conrad Campground to Skagway, 90km
If there’s a day to finish a bike ride on to leave a strong impression, this is the one. The thought of reaching White Pass at 1014m above sea level, only to cycle straight down to the small town of Skagway at sea level, made me curious for what the day had in store.
I tried to leave as early as possible, hoping that the headwinds would be less powerful in the morning. That turned out not to be the case, so tolerance of the wind it would have to be. It all made sense though — it’s moments like these that eight years of daily commuting in Wellington trains you for.
The road was delightfully quiet for the first couple of hours, the occasional RV or petrol truck passing politely. After skirting the side of Windy Arm, the road would rise over a headland, then down again. Around, up, then down. I find it mentally easier to do one solid climb to get the elevation out of the way in one go, but this climb was not that. Gotta take what comes eh.
As the day cruised on, I encountered many busloads of cruise ship passengers on day trips clustered at the viewpoints. A historic train, the Yukon White Pass rail, runs through these mountains, and so too does a famous old gold rush route, the Chilkoot Trail. All these attractions made for a popular route.
The people I had talked to about this ride described this final stretch as a constant unfurling of grandeur, each corner exposing another chapter of other-worldly landscape the closer you get to the final point of Skagway. Once at the plateau, the terrain shifted into a subalpine moonscape. Stunted trees grew from grey rock islands dipping in and out of the lakes. My admiration for anything that grows (or attempts to grow) in these conditions, especially in the Alaskan winter, never ceases.
Thinking about how cold it could get up here, I stopped complaining about the headwinds. These gusts were probably a gentle summer’s breeze in comparison to the harsh winter. I found a sheltered spot to eat lunch, overlooking this eerie environment. With a body buzzing with bagel and moon rock energy, I gathered the momentum to climb steadily to White Pass, the highest point for the day. Near the top, a person cheered me on from the comfort of their truck; it meant more to me than she probably thought it did, having not spoken to anyone else that day. One more corner, past the Welcome to Alaska sign surrounded by people holding US flags and taking photos, then the Downhill Whizz began. A descent of 1014 metres, interrupted only once by having to stop to pass US customs.
Zooming down that hill was like being eaten up by the mountains. I sunk further into their forested folds, rapidly losing all that elevation I’d accumulated over the past week in such a short space of time. ‘Losing’ is perhaps the wrong word to use here because it implies deficit, but what I gained from this exhilirating, challenging, humbling, wild ride is much more important to emphasise. I rolled into Skagway, which I later learnt means ‘windy place’ (makes sense), a town engulfed in mountains and cruise ships of equal magnitude.
There are figurative and literal ups and downs of cycling — this week struck the balance between them excellently. I’m looking forward to letting my mosquito bites heal and sleeping in a room with curtains again. Now I’d better get onto planning the fourth and final stage of the cycling part of my travels: two weeks in the Canadian Rockies. In many ways, this was just a warm-up.
