By GoatÂ
Well after our early morning rendezvous with the tight security protecting Canada from invasion by American ruffians such as our selves. We were finally in our first “foreign� country, and from the mountain pass vista separating the sovereign nations it did appear our days ride might be downhill all the way as some people had suggested… It wasn’t of course, but the Top of the World Highway more than made up for any lack of coasting. The remarkable thoroughfare began its life as a “short cut� connecting the early mining camps on the Fortymile creek, and the boomtown of Dawson city. What makes the route interesting and spectacular, is the way it winds along ridge tops – remaining on top of the world, rather than plunging over a mountain pass and following meandering river valleys like a normal road. In fact once we had managed to scale the pass and gain entry to Canada – the road stayed mostly flat (rolling hills of course, but no drastic inclines) meandering along the hilltops with stunning views in every direction.
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The day was so clear and the panorama so far reaching tat we could watch scattered storm clouds flitting about like malicious butterflies. Leaving their (fleeting) mark on the sun dappled lands to the north and south. Unfortunately these meteorological apparitions flitted our way too and we would be suddenly engulfed in torrential down pours of giant raindrops mixed with sleet and hail. Forcing us to leap off our bikes and rummage around in (formerly) dry bags, extracting our motley assemblage of rain gear, in a fairly futile attempt to keep from getting more wet. Sean’s hand-me-down gore tex jacket seems to soak up water rather than repel it (though he would be the last to complain) and the frog toggs Jacob and I carry are nice and light weight, but lack the ability to hold off serious down pours. Mercifully, the thunder heads as a rule flitted off as suddenly as they had descended, returning us to sunshine and epic views, and allowing us to peel off our sodden raingear and dry our rumpled wings.
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Jacob was rather exhausted after his (self imposed) ordeals of the last few days, and managed to lag rather far behind, forcing him to ride rather further for his lunch than he was disposed to – a feeling he communicated with great urgency when he at last arrived at the lunch stop Sean had chosen. It was a rather amusing tirade, and I’m afraid he got less sympathy than he deserved. After lunch with hunger and tempers appeased we continued to wend our idyllic way to Dawson. Eagerly anticipating the 14miles of down hill promised by the cycle tourists we met in Chicken, though we were a little inclined to distrust their information as they had also told us that the road was terribly maintained on the Canada side of the border and rough through out. Perhaps it was bad for a road bike with skinny tires, but the road was mostly paved and glassy smooth as far as we were concerned.
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Doubts aside, towards the end of the day we rounded a bend and right next to the Dawson city welcome billboard, was a yellow sign cautioning us that 14kilometers of steep down hill lay in store. Cheered by the sight we gave our informants the benefit of the doubt on their carelessness with units of measure. And blasted down the hill into Dawson city. My speedometer clocked me a 45 miles per hour, and the hill was kind enough to let us hold that speed all the way to the Yukon river whose mighty waters we had last seen several hundred miles away in Alaska. The little diesel ferry chugged up almost immediately and disgorged us on the other side into the teeming metropolis of Dawson city (pop~1500).
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