ENLael Wilcox was born and raised in Anchorage, Alaska. In 2017, she rode all of the major roads in her home state—alternating with working weeks at a bike shop to fund the trip. That year, she met her wife Rue and they went back in 2020 to ride the roads together and make a short documentary called “Lael Rides Alaska”. After setting a record for riding around the world last year, Lael rode the Top of the World Highway and Dempster Highway in the Canadian Arctic this summer as a continuation of the Alaska project.
Top of the World Time Trial
From Chicken, Alaska to the Arctic Ocean
Words by Lael Wilcox, photos by Rugile Kaladyte
Over a hundred years ago, during the gold rush, this tiny community got a post office and had to decide on a name. They wanted to call it Ptarmigan, for the flightless wild birds in the area, but they couldn’t agree on the spelling. So, they settled on Chicken. Fast forward 123 years and I’m standing with my bike on the hill next to the Chicken statue, made by students out of recycled high school lockers. It’s just after 1 in the afternoon and I’m ready to ride.
A time trial is pretty simple. You pick beginning and end points, start the clock and everything counts until you make it to the finish. I’m aiming for the Arctic Ocean on the North Slope of Canada. The ride is 685 miles (1100km) with 33,000’ of climbing (10,000 meters). I can count the communities with services on one hand. It’s almost all gravel.
Chicken is where Alaska Highway 5 turns to dirt. I’m carrying a tent, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, camping stove, dehydrated meals, a down jacket and a rain kit. It’s late August and that means fall weather in the Arctic. The season is rapidly changing. I squeeze the rubber chicken dangling off of the metal chicken statue, get on my bike and take off. In my mind, the ride is segmented by logistics. It’s 42 miles to the Canadian border then another 65 to the first ferry to Dawson City, all on the Top of the World Highway. I’m flying high, jamming on the pedals, climbing and descending above the trees. There’s fresh snow on the peaks, but I’m lucking out with t-shirt weather. There’s a single car ahead of me at the border and I quickly pass through. The rush of the first checkpoint completed.
Welcome to the Yukon and the time changes, moving the clock forward an hour. I keep cruising. A couple of ladies in a truck pull up next to me. The passenger lowers her window and is losing her mind with excitement. “She smiled! That’s got to be Lael. And who else but Lael would be out here on this lonely highway at 7:30 at night?” I’ve probably seen a total of five cars so far. What a sweet surprise! It’s a 3,000’ descent to the Yukon River. I’m feeling pretty empty and I boil some water to stir together a camping meal while I wait for the ferry. The spaghetti is rehydrated in 10 minutes and I shovel it down on the ride across the river. One thousand calories in the belly and I’m ready to go. I see the last of the light passing through Dawson City– the 19th century buildings of main street are colorful and well kept, like a Hollywood set. All the businesses are closed and the streets are quiet. Everyone is asleep. I think about timing and think about trying for a hotel room, but I’m so fired up, I don’t want to stop. I’m ready for the night shift. I’ll click off 25 miles of pavement, turn onto the Dempster Highway and start looking for a campsite. The aim is to sleep when it’s dark, get some good recovery and ride fast.
There’s a spire of grey light and it’s growing up over the sky and into an arch. It’s early in the season for the Northern Lights and I’m riding under them. Around 1am I pull into a gravel pit to camp, a good open space to stay away from the bears in grizzly country. Boil water, stir camping meal, set up the tent, blow up the pad, zip myself in, set the alarm and I conk out. The sun is high when I wake up. I get through a half bag of biscuits and gravy, pack the rest to go and roll out. I have a ten mile warm up in the woods and then I climb above the trees and into Tombstone National Park.
The hillsides are a carpet of green, yellow and red that the road winds through. Every car passing by kicks up a plume of dirt and dust. Glasses down, mask up. I try to protect myself. There’s exposed rock, braided rivers and flocks of brown ptarmigan with flecks of white as their feathers change colors from summer to winter. I keep cranking and I let my mind run free. I make it to the boreal forest— swampy and scrubby it feels like home. After a freeze, there aren’t any mosquitos. So lucky! A pull out on a high plateau is a perfect camp spot. I run through my chores, charge my devices and I’m out like a light.
I start the next day with 20 miles to Eagle Plains, the halfway point on the Dempster Highway and the first building I’ve seen since Dawson City, 260 miles back. They have fuel pumps, a restaurant and rooms for rent. It’s not until I step inside that I feel the exposure from the last two days— the constant wind, sun and dust. There’s a dog watching the road and waiting to greet me at the entrance. I order French toast, oatmeal and eggs with hash browns. I pour my own coffee and pump honey into a cup of hot tea. The walls are adorned with moose antlers, bear skin rugs and photos of the old timers. This place stays open in the dead of winter when it’s 50 below.
I eat as much as can, layer up, pet the dog goodbye and get back on the road. It’s straight down and straight back up and I’m at the Arctic Circle and into Hurricane Alley. A truck pulls over to warn me about three grizzly bears up the road, but by the time I get there, they’re gone. The pitches are steep and I battle my way up to the pass that serves as the border to the Northwest Territories where the time zone changes for the second time. The wind is biting. I put on my full rain gear, buff over my face and hood over my helmet to fly back down.
I catch the midnight ferry across the Peel River. The operator laughs and asks if I’m going to ride all night. “No way! Is there a good place to camp?” “You can camp anywhere. There’s a campground up the next hill.” He points across the way. It’s oddly comforting to have a picnic table and it’s cold enough that I can see my breath. I’m toasty in my tent.
I’m out of the mountains. The road is hard and fast and it’s a morning ride to the final ferry across the McKenzie River. I’m inching my way up the map. The farther I go, the colder it gets. With the wind in my face, I pass the Inuvik Airport, a tiny pre-fabricated building with a landing strip. I turn into the town and feel unexpected relief. I’ve been so focused on moving forward that I didn’t even realize my level of exhaustion. I check the weather. The wind should die down in the night with gale force winds coming the following day. My window is closing. I’ll shower, sleep and set off in the dark.
I’m up at 2am, wolfing down a huge plate of spaghetti and back on the deserted streets. I have less than 100 miles to the coast. Leaving Inuvik, there’s a faint light in the sky. My heart is full of hope.
I watch night become day. The road rises past craters full of water and the horizon feels endless. I’m churning the pedals hard and steady. The road is soft and empty. I know I’m getting close when I see a couple of pingos rising out of the earth like miniature volcanoes. Then I see the oil tanks and finally the tiny village of Tuktoyaktuk. It’s a bluebird day and everything is coated in golden light.
I can smell the ocean before I see it. The road ends at the water and I stop at the giant Arctic Ocean sign. A couple walk up with a bottle of champagne. The lady pours me a taste in her plastic cup. “Down she goes cause I’ll need the glass back.” The elapsed time is 3 days, 20 hours and 38 minutes. Rue hugs me tight, gives me her sweatshirt and my life feels perfect. I pull up my hood and lay down in the tundra. The last thing I remember is saying “This is spectacular.” before falling into a deep sleep.
The locals warn us about the storm. We pack the bike into the car and head south. The next day a hundred mile an hour winds strike the coast, literally blowing down houses. Due to climate change, Tuktoyaktuk will have to relocate in the next 25 years. This is incredibly sad. As a rider, I feel like it’s important to see and share these places as they are changing. There’s no place like the Arctic. It’s harsh and beautiful. At the same time, I feel at home and exposed; strong and vulnerable. Essentially, I feel in love.
I didn’t know this ride would trigger my body to change modes— from riding hard and flying high into hibernation. I’m deep in the cave, but I trust that when the days start getting longer I’ll be ready to get back out there.
