The Dalton Highway

Eight days traveling through Alaska before the actual expedition had even begun

Tobias Renggli

Three days until kilometer one

When I stepped out of the car in Prudhoe Bay, I had been on the road for almost three days. The trip from Switzerland to Anchorage had taken about 40 hours, with layovers in Philadelphia and Seattle, followed by another 25 hours or so by car all the way to the far north of Alaska.

The longer we drove, few and fewer was left. First the cities disappeared, then the houses, and finally the trees. In the end, there was nothing left but the tundra, the pipeline, and a road that had been built to service the oil fields on the Arctic coastline.

I had spent eight months working on this project—seeking sponsors, organizing equipment, giving presentations, studying maps, and, on the side, completing my university degree. I had trained surprisingly little for what now lay ahead of me. Nevertheless, I wanted to ride about 1,200 kilometers from here to Talkeetna, where Heli and Laëtitia were waiting for me and where we would set out for Denali a few days later.

On the first day, I didn’t get going until the afternoon. The road ran smoothly through the flat tundra; it was about minus 30 degrees, and the wind was blowing snow across the pavement. The Arctic landscape is one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen. And cycling through it on a packed bike felt like a dream.

I saw two arctic wolves by the side of the road. After 80 kilometers, I stopped. The journey I’d been talking about for so long was suddenly no longer just an idea. It had finally kicked off.

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The cold doesn't let up

The first few days were less romantic than the photos might suggest. At minus 30 degrees, biking becomes a constant battle to maintain body temperature. My legs generated enough heat, but my hands, feet, and face didn’t. As soon as my toes went numb, I’d get off and jog a few hundred meters alongside my bike until I could feel them again. Then I’d ride on until the whole process started over.

I hardly took any long breaks. If you stop, you cool down, and anything damp freezes. Eating, changing clothes, using the camera—even a small repair—becomes complicated when you want to avoid taking off your gloves as much as possible. That’s why I often rode until late in the evening, sometimes until around midnight. At the same time, I wasn’t eating enough. The cold dampened my appetite, even though my body needed significantly more energy than usual.

My legs were also less prepared than I was willing to admit. I’d had the whole winter to train and had spent almost all of it organizing the trip. After four days, every climb felt as if I’d already completed an entirely different trip.

My mood shifted just like that. One moment I was convinced this was the best thing I’d ever done. Shortly afterward, I was standing on the side of the road wondering if the tip of my nose was freezing off. I actually did suffer some minor frostbite.

That wasn't particularly reassuring, because the Dalton Highway was really just supposed to be a warm-up for Denali—the coldest mountain in the world.

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A Street That Was Not Built for Bicycles

The Dalton Highway isn’t a scenic route. It exists so that trucks can transport supplies to the oil fields in Prudhoe Bay. The Trans-Alaska Pipeline runs parallel to it, and in between lie vast stretches of nothingness.

The trucks appeared utterly oversized next to my bike. Many drivers looked as though they didn’t quite know what to make of a cyclist on their road. In the end, they were extremely friendly.

Word quickly spread over the radio that a Swiss guy was heading south. The drivers often knew about me before they even saw me; they’d drive past me at a respectful distance and give me a wave. I waved back, and for a few seconds, the empty road didn’t seem quite so empty anymore.

In Coldfoot, I found the first real restaurant in days. I ordered a burger, an omelet, fries, a small salad for the vitamins, and a liter of Coke. All around me were truckers, pretty much exactly as you’d imagine them. One of them was a world champion in a bearding contest.

They were amazed that I was traveling by bike. Some of them drove the same route several times a week, all year round.

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Easter beneath the Northern Lights

During the first few nights, I saw the Northern Lights every single time. Sometimes they didn’t appear until late, while I was still on the road and only had the light from my headlamp to see the road ahead.

The fourth day was Easter.

Before leaving, I’d considered postponing my departure by a few days so I could spend some more time at home. But that wouldn’t have fit into my schedule for Denali. It wasn’t so much about Easter itself. What was on my mind was that two years is enough time for a lot of things to change back home. During the months leading up to my departure, I’d spent as much time as possible with the people who matter to me. Still, when you’re setting out on a long journey, there’s never a moment when you can say, “That’s enough now.” You just set off at some point.

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The Arctic Circle Changes Everything

North of the Arctic Circle, the road was frozen solid. In some places, it was bare ice, which is why I rode with studded tires. They slowed down the bike, but kept me securely on the road.

Then it got warmer. Not properly warm—just a few degrees above zero. That was enough to soften the surface within a short time. The hard ice track turned into deep slush that stuck to the tires, frame, shoes, and chain. At some point, the chain started popping out of the drivetrain every few seconds. I’d put it back on, ride ten meters, and find myself standing next to the bike again. After a while, I was just pushing the bike.

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A Simple Life

In the first few days, I was thrilled about the Dalton Highway. Towards the end, things got harder. The cold, the wind, the mud, and the long days started to take their toll.

I’m certainly not complaining—I was well aware of just how manageable my problems actually were.

I had no exams, no urgent emails, no presentations, and no ten tasks hanging over my head at once. I could hardly spend any money because there was nothing to buy along large stretches of the route. My biggest problem was a dirty chain. Actually, it was my only one.

After months in which almost every day had consisted of planning, organizing, and making decisions, this was a huge simplification. My daily routine was reduced to just a few things: riding, eating, staying warm, sleeping, and setting off again the next morning.

Not every kilometer was exciting. Some stretches were long and monotonous, and sometimes nothing happened for hours. That, in particular, felt good.

Fairbanks

I reached Fairbanks after eight days. I was tired, hadn’t eaten enough, had lightly frostbitten my nose, and my legs were only slowly remembering how to ride a bike. At the same time, I had accomplished the first leg of the journey, on a bicycle that I still didn’t yet have a week before the adventure began.

From Fairbanks, I continued on toward Talkeetna. Waitin' for me down there were Heli and Laëtitia, along with several hundred kilograms of expedition gear and a plan that nobody was quite certain would work.

I was scared of Denali. The mountain is huge, the temperatures are freezing, the approach is unclear, and after that bike ride, I didn’t feel as fresh as I’d hoped. Nevertheless, I was looking forward to it.

The eight days on the Dalton Highway hadn’t dispelled my doubts. But they had at least kept me from thinking about them all day long.

Now the real adventure can begin—on to Denali—but that’s yet another story.

*Tobias Renggli is on his way from Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, to Ushuaia, Patagonia. 35 countries, 35 highest peaks, about 40,000 kilometers under his own power.