Chapter 1 - Seeking the Lost Coast
The realizing a Dream Tour
This adventure was originally shared with Salsa Cycles in 2016 when I rode as an adventure athlete for them. Nearly ten years later, biking down Alaska’s Lost Coast is still a grand adventure worthy of pursuit for those looking for a remote landscape in which to be tested by rugged terrain and unpredictable weather. I hope you enjoy this five part series.
Ever since I threw my leg over the top tube of a fat bike, I have wanted to ride on a beach. To experience the feel of the big tires imprinting their treads into the sand, only to be washed away without a trace by the swing of the tides. I have ridden fat bikes across endless desert plateaus; down cobbled canyon bottoms; through expansive fields of tundra; and of course, up snow machine groomed tracks. But until this past summer, I only day dreamed of riding along a rugged coast line which was under a continual assault from the powerful whims of Mother Nature.
At 4:30 PM on a Monday afternoon, our Alaska Airlines jet touched down on the tarmac just outside of the small fishing village of Cordova, Alaska. The weather was stunning with clear skies and temperatures in the 70’s. It was actually too warm for our preconceived notions of what we would encounter. Seeking shade outside of the tiny terminal, we began unboxing our overfilled bike boxes. On went wheels, handlebars, and pedals. Tires were inflated. Food and camping gear were sorted, and placed in their proper homes on the bike. By 5:40 PM the chores of preparation were complete, and we were ready to stretch our legs with the first few pedal strokes.
We were a group of five. My four partners were some of the most well-accomplished cyclists and adventurers of recent times. The man who was responsible for our current trajectory, was the famed Alaskan adventurer, Roman Dial. This professor of biology has a storied reputation of creating and tackling the most grueling adventures whether it be finishing on the podium in the world’s toughest adventure races or pioneering new routes in some far off region of our planet. A “charger” of life, Roman seems to be always on the move, testing what is possible given a little willpower.
Steve “Doom” Fassbinder is an unassuming endurance athlete who brought pain to many during his 24-hour mountain bike race career. In the hall of fame for his prowess of winning such races on a single speed, Doom’s engine doesn’t fail no matter what the conditions. In recent years, his will for exploration has lead to many wild adventures involving all matters of human propulsion—from foot to bikes to pack rafts. A talented photographer and story teller, Doom is always seeking out the next defining challenge.
A trip such as the one that was beginning, would not be complete without the presence of perhaps the most experienced adventure cyclist in the last 15 years, Mike Curiak. Mike has seemingly spent his life expanding the realm of where bikes can be ridden. Beyond demoralizing his fellow competitors in the unrelenting Iditabike, Mike has adventured far and wide on tires of all sizes—going so far as to even contemplate a ride to the south pole. He is a technician in nature with his analytical mind prepared to deal with any unforeseen circumstance.
Jonathan Bailey is a world class athlete whose laid-back style and continual energy are contagious for all who surround him. Along with an exceptional ability to suffer, JB’s technical skill on a bike is awe inspiring. Though he can compete with any on bike, he is more at home with just experiencing the elements of an adventure void of competition. A skilled professional mechanic, JB can manufacture and adapt anything when disaster happens on the trail.
Crux No. 1: The Delta
With the first splash of grey silty water I was welcomed to the Copper River Delta. Nearly 50 miles wide, this massive delta is home to an abundance of bird and marine life, including one of the planet’s most prolific salmon breeding grounds. Traversing this vast expanse of sand bars, braids, and mud flats was the first crux of our route. With each footstep I found myself wading deeper into its cool waters. It hadn’t taken long to get wet.
On the other side of the waist deep channel, my tires touched sand for the first time. A vast plain of sand and grasses stretched out across the horizon. Riding smoothly into the landscape, the first signs of the other inhabitants of the delta became apparent. The massive prints of the brown bear were startling reminders that we were of the minority and only visitors in this wild land.
Before long, our dry sand was overcome by ankle deep water. Our riding was suspended. We pushed our bikes ever onward taking care with each footstep to avoid falling into unseen holes. Eventually, we came to a water expanse of unknown depth. Testing the waters, Roman waded into the murky, meandering current. At this point, it became apparent that it was time to inflate our pack rafts. We were done pedaling.
Finding pieces of drift wood to support our bikes as kick stands, we inflated our rafts and prepped for paddling into the soggy terrain. After Roman’s short, thigh deep crossing, we continued our journey across the delta on foot while pulling our bikes behind us on the rafts. Under the beautiful late daylight, we continued to splash across the horizon, making our way to the sands of the Alaskan gulf coast. It wasn’t long before we were taking our first paddle strokes of the trip. As the day faded towards late evening, we found ourselves in a surreal dreamscape. The vibrant colors of the setting sun were contrasted by a deep fog rolling in from the coast. The full moon somehow pierced the shrouded eastern horizon, adding an element of drama to already indescribable scene.
Seemingly navigating by braille, we stared continuously at our GPS, seeking some place to find a safe sanctuary from the encroaching darkness. Failing to bring a single headlamp among the five of us (it was after all, the Land of the Midnight Sun), we were adrift in a land of nothingness—only the pale white light of the moon let us know what was up versus down. Drifting aimlessly with the current, we intersected the tip of an island with the precision of those who had been their before. As we hoped, the island was not a marsh of wetlands, but rather, a high spot of dry sand dunes and thick vegetation. We could camp here comfortably without the worry of being overcome by a rising tide.
The next morning dawned much the same as the previous day ended…with a deep fog obscuring the landscape ahead. We enjoyed the warmth of our driftwood fire with the morning dew blanketing everything in sight. After leisurely breaking camp, we paddled once again into a horizon of greyness. The sun was out there somewhere. High overhead its rays of warmth struggled to penetrate to the earth’s surface. Alternating between paddling and wading across a sea of emptiness, our crossing of the delta was only interrupted by the sound of hundreds of unseen seals splashing off sand bars and into the river water or by the dull hum of salmon fishing boats trolling for their abundant prey. And thus, we experienced the Copper River Delta.
Late in the day, our senses finally indicated we were close to our sought after coast. Our ears first picked up the roar of an active surf. Soon thereafter, we could see the spray of whitewater rolling into the sandbars revealed by a low tide. Encountering two fishing boats stuck high and dry because of the low tide, we paddled across a protected channel to a spit of sand that our maps indicated was the coast. It had taken us nearly a day and half to blindly overcome the 50 miles of the Copper River Delta.
