beemer01
Active member
Day Seven - Watson Lake to Carmacks, or Chaos on the Campbell
We rolled out of bed early, Fran earlier than the rest of us. We repacked our bikes, storing the removed street rubber in one of the out buildings at the Air Force Lodge. We grabbed a cup of coffee and went to gas up everything, now including all auxiliary gas tanks and empty gas cans. 350 miles to Ross River and a whole lot of wilderness to cover.
I offered up that a common practice was to air down your tires to 25 psi or so for improved traction and handling, at the risk of tire or rim damage in really bad stuff. Every man for himself - we all took some air out of our respective tires, fingers crossed.
The Campbell starts out paved as we roll past the Sign Forest, but quickly collapses after that. The first stretch of construction, we have no idea what the 'to-be' road was going to look like, but they sure had it torn up getting there, it was not motorcycle friendly,though the sign girl, suitably bribed by Fran's charm and Jolly Ranchers was.
We followed a pilot truck through the ten mile stretch of road work, which included extended stretches of wet Calcium Chloride treated road bed. (Given that the Campbell is usually deserted I wonder why this huge effort?).
The road work in our rear view mirrors, we began to get our gravel legs and got used to the knobbies. I ran a Conti TCK-80 front and a Heidi rear, Fran ran a TCK-80 front and a car tire on the rear, and Thomas rode Conti TCKs front and back.
The road turned into a pretty darned good gravel road! Nicely packed and graded for early season, we found ourselves running at a pretty steady 60 with occasional bursts up to 70. We stopped for a break and Fran and I high fived ourselves over how great the roads were and how well the bikes were behaving! Thomas, notably, did not join our premature celebration.
And then it all turned to crap. Really bad crap. Deep freshly mined gravel that was about fist sized with razor sharp edges, the kind that wants to rip the handlebars out of your grip, the kind that wants to lead you off the narrow paths that appear occasionally and hurl you off the road at speed when your front tire hits the softer stuff at the edge of the road. The kind that leaves dense dust hanging in the air for ten minutes after you pass thru. The kind with holes and washouts despite the gravel.
Yeah, like that.
Speeds dropped to 35-40 MPH and there were miles and miles where I think I simply stopped breathing. Fran believes stopping only at wide spots on the road to take a break or refuel. I no longer saw wide spots, I just saw it getting worse and worse.
We stopped in the middle of the narrow road, emptied our fuel cans into the tanks and compared notes. This was doable, but taking a toll mentally, physically and mechanically. Fran's sport suspension was taking a beating, the kind that can result in failed shocks and cracked frames. WTF was the point of dumping loads of gravel like this and not grading or compacting it?
We retightened our loads and got back at it. Remember this is a 350 mile stretch with zero options other than stay at it and carry on.
I took point and hoped for the best, my friends headlights reappearing occasionally in my mirrors.
Until they didn't appear.
I braked to a stop and waited and waited. When they didn't catch up, I knew there has been a problem. The headsets are line of sight only, so of no use here. Groaning, I turned my bike around on the narrow and unforgiving road and headed back.
Thomas had experienced a flat. His bike had been wrestled up onto the center stand and he and Fran were working on the rear tire. The tire had under 100 miles on it. The 'hole' was a gash in between two of the knobs on the rear tire, the problem was the size of the gash easily 1/2 inch.
That must have been a really fast loss of air. But no worries, we had the requisite tire repair kits and electric pumps. Fran coated a tire repair worm with some of the rubber cement and put it in. And added another. And added another trying to fill this gash. The moment of truth.. we aired up the tire and the patch seemed to hold.
For perhaps five miles.
It began to leak, presumably at the same spot, again. Holding our collective breath we added still another worm coated with rubber cement.
BTW.. for all of you who blissfully believe you have a tire repair kit on your bike, be advised that even unopened tubes of rubber cement dry up in a couple of years. And you don't know this until you open said tube in your moment of dire need.
Fortunately we had one or two tubes that actually had liquid rubber cement.
To make a long story short, this ritual was repeated seven times in 50 miles, finally the worms blew out completely and vanished in the gravel. I had some BMW issued plugs that seemed better suited for a gash like this.. we used the last of our rubber cement and jammed them in. We had very low confidence in any repair we could do holding up in these punishing conditions.
We held a caucus in the road. We were out of gummy worms, BMW issued plugs and rubber cement. It was perhaps 6:00PM and we were at least another 40 miles to Ross River. The decision was made for me to ride ahead to Ross River and try and buy more tire repair stuff, they'd have to have it there. Unless they were sold out. A distinct possibility. I was also open to any alternative technology to this situation.
I went ahead, my GS was now designated our official support vehicle for this trip, and got to Ross River. This town is essentially a Reservation town, a bunch of shuttered auto repair shops, the mandatory Gas/Grocery store perhaps a hundred houses, dusty streets and a bunch of mangy dogs lying around in this early evening.
Gas was a pretty high priority for me so I stopped at the pumps behind the grocery store and topped off all my containers. A local riding a 4X4 pulled in behind me. I put on my best 'American Tourist in need of help' face and explained my dilemma. 'Turns out he is a mechanic and works for the only other profitable business in town, a heavy equipment operation. He gives me fairly general directions to the home/business and told me to knock on the door of the house in front of a large yard of equipment and a huge outbuilding and ask for Dennis. With a decidedly non-mangy German Shepherd chained to the front porch.
Shift focus back to my intrepid fellow motorcyclists back on the Campbell, the BMW plugs had blown out, amazingly enough nearly in front of a side road leading back to an actual dwelling..an inhabited cabin! The owners of this cabin had offered assistance in the form of driving the flattened tire and wheel 30 miles (there was a back route that was even rougher than the Campbell) into town to a guy they knew. Removing the rear wheel from an RT requires removal of the muffler and other stuff, but Fran and Thomas got 'er done and Thomas took off in a pick-up truck with two absolute strangers. Fran swears he heard banjo music as they left. The guys left their huge mongrel dog to watch over Fran.
Shift back to me, I persuaded the attentive German Shepherd that I was no imminent threat and I knocked loudly on the front door... trying to overcome the din of a television tuned to the NHL playoffs. Dennis answered and said he'd try to help. SUCCESS! I hoped. 'Turns out Dennis is the owner, but not one of the heavy line mechanics, who were gone for the day. We wandered back to the Work Shed and he rummaged around in the tire repair area. For $20 he sold me more gummy worms, more rubber cement and a really cool German made truck tire patch, which I had no idea how to use.
I headed back, eyes peeled, hoping against hope that I'd find my buddies riding cheerfully and fully inflated into town. No such luck. I found Fran dozing on the side of the road, Tom's bike up on the center stand and no rear wheel and no Tom.
Fran awoke and filled me in. 'Sounded a lot more hopeful than any plan I had been able to concoct.
Thomas eventually returned with the tire fully inflated and a repair of a truck tire patch internally mounted in the tire - professionally done by someone else back in Ross River. I think he said it was a Priest who did the repair, I'm not sure. We all thanked these 'Angels of the Campbell' and slipped them some currency to cover their gas costs. Anyhow the presumably now blessed tire and wheel went back onto his bike - this takes a few minutes - and we are off again, fingers crossed!
We all rode together back into Ross River, topped off our tanks and took stock of our situation. The last few miles leading into Ross River were perfectly civilized gravel, and the map indicated pavement ahead. There was really no official place to camp in town, it was obviously still daylight at 9:30PM (Check your calendar and latitude) so we decided to ride on to Carmacks.
The road ahead was indeed paved and the evening bright and lovely. We sped along hoping never to hear Tom on the Bluetooth reporting another blowout.
Midnight in Carmacks, YT
Right.
Anyhow we made Carmacks around midnight, and found the only operating camp ground along the Yukon River. The entire operation is for sale - as is about everything else we saw in the Yukon- but the owner accepted $20 cash and allowed us to park our bikes in a 'camping' area down by the river. I broke out some freeze dried backpacker's meals and we all dined quite well. We would actually have eaten anything and been happy that night, but backpacker's meals have progressed and developed over the years and are quite now edible, so few of the old side effects seen (and heard) back 30 years ago they they were first introduced.
Tom and I pitched our respective tents and we noted that Fran had opted to set his tent up on top of a picnic table. We didn't ask why, just pulled our baseball caps down over our eyes and went to sleep praying that the Dempster would be easier riding tomorrow.
Oh Boy. We were seriously wrong. Again.
We rolled out of bed early, Fran earlier than the rest of us. We repacked our bikes, storing the removed street rubber in one of the out buildings at the Air Force Lodge. We grabbed a cup of coffee and went to gas up everything, now including all auxiliary gas tanks and empty gas cans. 350 miles to Ross River and a whole lot of wilderness to cover.
I offered up that a common practice was to air down your tires to 25 psi or so for improved traction and handling, at the risk of tire or rim damage in really bad stuff. Every man for himself - we all took some air out of our respective tires, fingers crossed.
The Campbell starts out paved as we roll past the Sign Forest, but quickly collapses after that. The first stretch of construction, we have no idea what the 'to-be' road was going to look like, but they sure had it torn up getting there, it was not motorcycle friendly,though the sign girl, suitably bribed by Fran's charm and Jolly Ranchers was.
We followed a pilot truck through the ten mile stretch of road work, which included extended stretches of wet Calcium Chloride treated road bed. (Given that the Campbell is usually deserted I wonder why this huge effort?).
The road work in our rear view mirrors, we began to get our gravel legs and got used to the knobbies. I ran a Conti TCK-80 front and a Heidi rear, Fran ran a TCK-80 front and a car tire on the rear, and Thomas rode Conti TCKs front and back.
The road turned into a pretty darned good gravel road! Nicely packed and graded for early season, we found ourselves running at a pretty steady 60 with occasional bursts up to 70. We stopped for a break and Fran and I high fived ourselves over how great the roads were and how well the bikes were behaving! Thomas, notably, did not join our premature celebration.
And then it all turned to crap. Really bad crap. Deep freshly mined gravel that was about fist sized with razor sharp edges, the kind that wants to rip the handlebars out of your grip, the kind that wants to lead you off the narrow paths that appear occasionally and hurl you off the road at speed when your front tire hits the softer stuff at the edge of the road. The kind that leaves dense dust hanging in the air for ten minutes after you pass thru. The kind with holes and washouts despite the gravel.
Yeah, like that.
Speeds dropped to 35-40 MPH and there were miles and miles where I think I simply stopped breathing. Fran believes stopping only at wide spots on the road to take a break or refuel. I no longer saw wide spots, I just saw it getting worse and worse.
We stopped in the middle of the narrow road, emptied our fuel cans into the tanks and compared notes. This was doable, but taking a toll mentally, physically and mechanically. Fran's sport suspension was taking a beating, the kind that can result in failed shocks and cracked frames. WTF was the point of dumping loads of gravel like this and not grading or compacting it?
We retightened our loads and got back at it. Remember this is a 350 mile stretch with zero options other than stay at it and carry on.
I took point and hoped for the best, my friends headlights reappearing occasionally in my mirrors.
Until they didn't appear.
I braked to a stop and waited and waited. When they didn't catch up, I knew there has been a problem. The headsets are line of sight only, so of no use here. Groaning, I turned my bike around on the narrow and unforgiving road and headed back.
Thomas had experienced a flat. His bike had been wrestled up onto the center stand and he and Fran were working on the rear tire. The tire had under 100 miles on it. The 'hole' was a gash in between two of the knobs on the rear tire, the problem was the size of the gash easily 1/2 inch.
That must have been a really fast loss of air. But no worries, we had the requisite tire repair kits and electric pumps. Fran coated a tire repair worm with some of the rubber cement and put it in. And added another. And added another trying to fill this gash. The moment of truth.. we aired up the tire and the patch seemed to hold.
For perhaps five miles.
It began to leak, presumably at the same spot, again. Holding our collective breath we added still another worm coated with rubber cement.
BTW.. for all of you who blissfully believe you have a tire repair kit on your bike, be advised that even unopened tubes of rubber cement dry up in a couple of years. And you don't know this until you open said tube in your moment of dire need.
Fortunately we had one or two tubes that actually had liquid rubber cement.
To make a long story short, this ritual was repeated seven times in 50 miles, finally the worms blew out completely and vanished in the gravel. I had some BMW issued plugs that seemed better suited for a gash like this.. we used the last of our rubber cement and jammed them in. We had very low confidence in any repair we could do holding up in these punishing conditions.
We held a caucus in the road. We were out of gummy worms, BMW issued plugs and rubber cement. It was perhaps 6:00PM and we were at least another 40 miles to Ross River. The decision was made for me to ride ahead to Ross River and try and buy more tire repair stuff, they'd have to have it there. Unless they were sold out. A distinct possibility. I was also open to any alternative technology to this situation.
I went ahead, my GS was now designated our official support vehicle for this trip, and got to Ross River. This town is essentially a Reservation town, a bunch of shuttered auto repair shops, the mandatory Gas/Grocery store perhaps a hundred houses, dusty streets and a bunch of mangy dogs lying around in this early evening.
Gas was a pretty high priority for me so I stopped at the pumps behind the grocery store and topped off all my containers. A local riding a 4X4 pulled in behind me. I put on my best 'American Tourist in need of help' face and explained my dilemma. 'Turns out he is a mechanic and works for the only other profitable business in town, a heavy equipment operation. He gives me fairly general directions to the home/business and told me to knock on the door of the house in front of a large yard of equipment and a huge outbuilding and ask for Dennis. With a decidedly non-mangy German Shepherd chained to the front porch.
Shift focus back to my intrepid fellow motorcyclists back on the Campbell, the BMW plugs had blown out, amazingly enough nearly in front of a side road leading back to an actual dwelling..an inhabited cabin! The owners of this cabin had offered assistance in the form of driving the flattened tire and wheel 30 miles (there was a back route that was even rougher than the Campbell) into town to a guy they knew. Removing the rear wheel from an RT requires removal of the muffler and other stuff, but Fran and Thomas got 'er done and Thomas took off in a pick-up truck with two absolute strangers. Fran swears he heard banjo music as they left. The guys left their huge mongrel dog to watch over Fran.
Shift back to me, I persuaded the attentive German Shepherd that I was no imminent threat and I knocked loudly on the front door... trying to overcome the din of a television tuned to the NHL playoffs. Dennis answered and said he'd try to help. SUCCESS! I hoped. 'Turns out Dennis is the owner, but not one of the heavy line mechanics, who were gone for the day. We wandered back to the Work Shed and he rummaged around in the tire repair area. For $20 he sold me more gummy worms, more rubber cement and a really cool German made truck tire patch, which I had no idea how to use.
I headed back, eyes peeled, hoping against hope that I'd find my buddies riding cheerfully and fully inflated into town. No such luck. I found Fran dozing on the side of the road, Tom's bike up on the center stand and no rear wheel and no Tom.
Fran awoke and filled me in. 'Sounded a lot more hopeful than any plan I had been able to concoct.
Thomas eventually returned with the tire fully inflated and a repair of a truck tire patch internally mounted in the tire - professionally done by someone else back in Ross River. I think he said it was a Priest who did the repair, I'm not sure. We all thanked these 'Angels of the Campbell' and slipped them some currency to cover their gas costs. Anyhow the presumably now blessed tire and wheel went back onto his bike - this takes a few minutes - and we are off again, fingers crossed!
We all rode together back into Ross River, topped off our tanks and took stock of our situation. The last few miles leading into Ross River were perfectly civilized gravel, and the map indicated pavement ahead. There was really no official place to camp in town, it was obviously still daylight at 9:30PM (Check your calendar and latitude) so we decided to ride on to Carmacks.
The road ahead was indeed paved and the evening bright and lovely. We sped along hoping never to hear Tom on the Bluetooth reporting another blowout.
Midnight in Carmacks, YT
Right.
Anyhow we made Carmacks around midnight, and found the only operating camp ground along the Yukon River. The entire operation is for sale - as is about everything else we saw in the Yukon- but the owner accepted $20 cash and allowed us to park our bikes in a 'camping' area down by the river. I broke out some freeze dried backpacker's meals and we all dined quite well. We would actually have eaten anything and been happy that night, but backpacker's meals have progressed and developed over the years and are quite now edible, so few of the old side effects seen (and heard) back 30 years ago they they were first introduced.
Tom and I pitched our respective tents and we noted that Fran had opted to set his tent up on top of a picnic table. We didn't ask why, just pulled our baseball caps down over our eyes and went to sleep praying that the Dempster would be easier riding tomorrow.
Oh Boy. We were seriously wrong. Again.
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