Today was a quality day for simply enjoying the roads. We headed out of McBride and into the mountains, which reversed their earlier growth and shrunk to conifer-covered hills, eventually ending in smooth, rolling mounds of pasture land and farmland near Dawson Creek. I enjoyed leaning the Suzuki back and forth through the tree-lined curves, each one a little different than all the others. Bridges overlooked river-bottom gorges and changed the scenery, but most of my attention was on the road and the bike. I let my thoughts fly around, and they touched on everything from my future motorcycle racing plans, to my new post-college job that I was going to start shortly after this trip, to grappling with the roots of past arguments I had with people. These thoughts faded in and out, depending upon the current view, a rest stop, or personal interest.
After cranking through these miles, we finally made it to Dawson Creek, the beginning of one of our trip’s highly desired – though possibly illogical – intended routes: The Alaskan Highway. We drove deliberately into town to circle the rotary that contained Milepost 0, the official beginning of the “highway”. I was fairly sure its severity was more myth and legend than reality, but it was still the road to our Mecca. We rested that night in the Caravan Motel of Fort St. John, British Columbia, getting ready to run down some mileposts (and kilometerposts).