Ride Guide

Alaska: Into the Heart

Mt. McKinley and the Denali Highway showcase the best of Alaska

Bill Wood

North America’s highest mountain is playing a game of hide-and-seek.

We know it’s out there, because every once in a while, we catch sight of it through the trees. But thus far, it’s been only glimpses.

We’ve got a lot planned for today, including a 120-mile stretch of unpaved “highway,” so the six of us are up and on the road early from our overnight base in Talkeetna, a couple hours north of Anchorage.

This being Alaska in the summer, it’s pretty much impossible to get up before the sun. But it still feels a lot like dawn as we aim the KLRs north on Alaska Route 3.

Our first objective is a view of Mt. McKinley, which, at 20,320 feet, is the tallest mountain on the continent. In fact, if you took New Hampshire’s Mt. Washington and stacked it on top of Colorado’s Pikes Peak, the resulting balancing act would be only 80 feet taller than McKinley alone.

The road is a two-lane through endless forest. Sighting down that narrow, tree-lined canyon, we can see a jagged row of gray mountains to the northwest. And from time to time, when the road aims just right, there’s a hint of something large and white.

It’s a fact that many people traveling to Alaska never get to see McKinley at all. The mountain is so massive that it makes its own weather, shrouding itself in clouds most days. But we’ve got crystal-clear skies, so there’s hope.

As we continue north, McKinley continues to tease us with a glimpse or two. But when we reach the Chultina River crossing at mile marker 132, suddenly the trees part, and the mountain gives us the full monty.

The view is breathtaking, from the muddy water of the Chultina through the green of forest and rocky gray of lesser mountains, several of which are well over 10,000 feet. But dwarfing all of that is the incredible presence of a towering Mt. McKinley.

A quick check of the map shows it’s 40 miles away. But this is the closest you can get to it with your own vehicle. More than 1 million people visit Denali National Park each year (see “Going to Denali,” right), but they have to stop at the visitor center, about 65 miles from the peak, and trade their cars, motorhomes or motorcycles for tour buses.

We linger at the bridge for a while, burning up pixels in the digital camera, then continue north, with McKinley constantly peering over our shoulders.

• • •

According to the map, today’s leg of our Alaska adventure is about 270 miles. And according to that same map, this place—Cantwell, Alaska—is the only actual town we’ll pass through.

The dot on the map and the town itself appear to be about the same size. There’s a combination gas station and small general store, one restaurant, and a few dozen homes. Little do we realize that this is as much civilization as we’ll see for the next two days.

We fill up the bikes, stuff water bottles and energy bars into our saddlebags and turn right onto Alaska Route 8, known as the Denali Highway.

Somewhere out there, about 135 miles ahead, there’s another dot labeled Paxson. We aim for it and go.

This is a state that has only 10 numbered routes. And three of those —including the Denali—are of the non-asphalt variety. It’s part of the Alaska experience.

The guidebooks all warn that tackling the Denali is a major undertaking. They recommend that car drivers carry two spare tires, plus plenty of water and food in case they become stranded. And they caution that the maximum safe speed on the rough, washboard gravel surface is 30 mph.

Clearly, they’ve never considered using a more appropriate vehicle: a modern dual-sport motorcycle. The KLRs float over the washboards at an easy 50 or 60. What must be a bone-jarring ordeal in a car is nothing more than an easy sightseeing cruise for us.

• • •

OK, we’re getting the idea: Alaska is big. But as we stop at an overlook about 20 miles into the Denali Highway, we discover the other thing it is—empty.

The road climbs several hundred feet to a place where we can get a clear view of the Alaska range, extending northeast from Mt. McKinley. It’s a serious wall of mountains, capped by Mt. Hayes, at 13,832 feet.

In 46 states, that would be the highest point. Here, it’s only about 100 miles from McKinley, so you’ve never even heard the name.

Below, the Nenana River winds through a marshy valley, forming itself into braids and backwater lakes that stretch off toward the horizon.

The mountain peaks are probably 30 miles away, and we can trace the course of the valley for a distance of 50 miles or more. In that entire sweeping view, there’s not a single town, or road, or farm, or house.

Nothing.

We stand by the bikes in complete silence, trying to fit the huge emptiness into our limited, Lower-48 brains.

• • •

Things only get stranger as we continue across the Denali Highway.

We go for a half-hour or more without seeing even a single other vehicle. Then, 52 miles from Cantwell—in other words, a long, long way from anywhere—we come across the Gracious House, serving up everything from lemonade to hard liquor. It’s like an apparition that’s there, and then gone.

We arrive at a one-lane bridge across a river as wide and full as the Mississippi. There’s no traffic, so we just park the bikes and walk over to the edge. Looking down into the racing water, we see it’s churning with milky rock flour—the fine dust released as a glacier melts. Our map indicates the river is the Susitna, which begins at the toe of a glacier of the same name and ends 260 miles later when it empties into Cook Inlet.

Farther along, the road rises above the valley floor on a narrow, winding ridge of sand and gravel. The ridge wanders across the valley, supporting the road 20 feet or more off the mud and bogs below.

You’d swear it has to be manmade—the result of some incredible public works project designed to build a road across the Alaskan interior at all costs. But it’s an entirely natural formation known as an esker.

Long ago, when this area was covered by glaciers, a stream carved out this path through the ice. As water flowed through this tunnel, confined by ice walls on each side, it carried rocks from the mountains that got deposited along the way. When the glacier melted away, it left behind that built-up stream bed, well above the ground.

It’s just another example of how everything—even a stream—is different in Alaska.

• • •

Want to get yourself in trouble on a motorcycle ride through Alaska? Here’s how:

We’re closing in on our overnight destination—a small group of cabins at a place called Tangle Lakes, near the east end of the Denali Highway. But before we get there, we’ve got one more item on our list of things to do: We want to go trail riding.

For all its vastness, Alaska doesn’t offer a lot of motorcycle or ATV trails. But the Denali Highway does have a small trail network that’s open to bikes.

Several are in low-lying areas that the federal Bureau of Land Management warns can be boggy. So we pick the Osar Lake Trail, which cuts off from the highway right near the top of MacLaren Pass. At 4,089 feet, this is the second highest spot on any road in Alaska, and we figure that high probably means dry.

That’s true as far as the ground is concerned. But above us, dark clouds are gathering.

Hmmm. Take the smart way out and head for the cabins, or taunt fate by going trail riding on a high ridge with a thunderstorm bearing down? It seems like such an easy decision now.

Of course, we choose the trail, which, according to the BLM, “crosses glacial eskers.” By now, we know that means rocks, and lots of them.

Just a few hours ago, the KLRs were carrying us and all our gear at 70 mph on the pavement. Now, loaded the same way, they’re picking their way over a moderately rough trail, and doing surprisingly well. The stock gearing is way too tall, but the motor’s willing and the suspension—jacked to the max—only bottoms out on the biggest rocks.

We ride for a while, finally reaching a high point from which we can survey a valley below. There are a few ponds down there, and in one of them, it appears there may be a moose. So we head off to investigate.

Of course, it turns out that the thing in the lake is a vaguely moose-shaped rock. And it isn’t until we stop alongside it that we notice the dark clouds have swept in fast, and they’re right on top of us.

We turn around and cover about a hundred yards of the five miles back to the road before the sky opens up and we get hammered.

Hail falls so fast it builds up on the ground, and so hard it hurts through an Aerostich suit. That’s followed by a downpour of rain, and wind so fierce it lays the vegetation flat against the ground.

While dry, the rocks and dirt offered decent traction. Now, they’ve turned to a slick, gooey mess visible only in brief glimpses through sheets of rain. At one point, the KLR kicks off a rock and I can feel the wind move it several inches left in the air.

Finally, we make it back to the road, and head down off the summit. And in keeping with the changeable nature of weather in the mountains, we get out of the rain within a few minutes.

By the time we reach the cabins, just 15 miles from the trailhead, the sun is out, it’s completely dry, and a northeast wind is blowing in smoke from massive forest fires a hundred miles away.

By 11 p.m., we turn in as an angry red sun, obscured by haze, finally gets close to the horizon.

It’s just another day in Alaska.—Bill Wood

Going to Denali

Alaska’s No.1 tourist attraction

Just about everybody who goes to Alaska visits Denali National Park. In fact, the place is so popular that it attracts more than 1 million visitors each year.

The main attraction is Mt. McKinley—or Denali, as Alaska natives call it—which towers 20,320 feet into the sky, making it one imposing and majestic chunk of rock.

But there’s more to Denali, the park, than Denali, the mountain. The Alaska range includes countless other spectacular peaks and many large glaciers. Plus, the park covers more than 6 million acres, with a complete sub-arctic ecosystem and a huge animal population that includes grizzly bears, wolves, Dall sheep and moose.

There are plenty of hiking trails, along with opportunities for mountain-climbing, bicycling and camping.

The only real downside is that you can’t ride your motorcycle inside the park. In fact, you can’t even drive a car.

That’s because, due to the popularity of Denali National Park, the National Park Service only allows private vehicles on the first 14 miles of the park’s main road. From there, you must park and walk, ride a bicycle or take shuttle buses throughout the park. Because of that, reservations are highly recommended, and you’ll want to plan your trip far in advance.

You’ll also need to budget a bit of money, with park admission at $10 per adult and shuttle bus rides ranging from $18 to $35.

While Denali qualifies as a remote Alaska destination, located about 240 miles from Anchorage, it’s one of the most tourist-friendly parts of the state, with hotel rooms and restaurants located just outside the park entrance. Prices are about normal for Alaska (in other words, high for anyplace else), with hotel rooms starting at about $100.

And remember that just because you go to the park, there’s no guarantee you’ll actually see the mountain. The weather cooperates only about 30 percent of the time, which means that a lot of folks spend a lot of time at Denali gazing up into the hazy clouds, instead of staring awestruck at a mountain.

Still, even with that caution, Denali is worth it. This truly is one of the planet’s most impressive wonders—if you’re lucky enough to see it.—Grant Parsons

The gravel Denali Highway felt incredibly remote, at least until we found a trail off it.

That’s as much of Denali as some people see.

Out there is 13,832-foot Mt. Hayes, just another small hill along the Denali Highway.