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# Alaskan adventure not for the faint of heart
- URL: https://www.smdp.com/alaskan-adventure-not-for-the-faint-of-heart/
- Published: 2005-09-15T15:00:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-25T01:00:57.000Z
- Author: Guest Author
- Tags: local, Santa Monica, #archive-import

*By LANCE SCHMIDT Special to the Daily Press*

(Editor’s note: Santa Monica resident Lance Schmidt is spending his last summer days cruising through Alaska on his motorcycle. He will provide a glimpse into that world for Santa Monicans every Thursday until he returns home in September. Check out smdp.com/archives for previous reports.) Alaska has started to grow on and around me like an insipid strangler vine. Unlike the lovely professor — who abandoned me midway through the trip after realizing she’s a lesbian — you want to be in her clutches but pray she doesn’t take you down.

The men and women who live in this wild-ass place are a breed apart — full of life, opinions, passion, fortitude and contradictions. The work-hard-play-hard title would aptly apply to this breed but is far too mild of an expression, rendering it a cliché.

Alaskan’s politics is of statehood loyalty. Environmental pragmatism, a combination of liberal social values coupled with a libertarian view of self-reliance make for a gritty constitution. To me, they respect and revere their native brothers and sisters far more than we do in the lower 48\. They are skeptical but friendly to outsiders and do not consider you a true Alaskan until you have had residence for more than 20 years. Most pack a piece and know how to use it.

Day 23: After my rescue from the darkness of the mine shaft, I was once again at the bottom of the food chain in the group. I created a huge burden not only for my benefactors but also put their lives in danger. For the good part of two days, hardly a word was spoken about the incident or to me. I followed behind like the wounded and disrespected Dahl Sheep that I was.

Alaska is one of the only states in the U.S. where men outnumber women. The reasons are simple: The state is relatively new, settled primarily by rugged miners and oil men and the environment is the harshest in the nation. Not a place for a dainty young hottie looking to meet “Mr. Right” but the perfect environment for the seasoned urban snow cougar hunting local prey. A special treat for these vixens of the north is when they come upon a naïve wandering piece of game limping along, ripe for the taking.

Day 24: A better day than the last. The group was going to be riding in some fairly nasty terrain so we realized that we would be relying on each other more. We would be heading past Coldfoot and onto the final throws of the Brooks Range where we would summit Hatcher Pass about noon, get in an hot MRE, then sweep down the North Slope into the noticeably colder and windy barren tundra and on into Deadhorse before reaching the end of the Earth preparing for its nightly freeze.

Our trip thus far had paralleled the Alaskan Pipeline which the Haul Road serviced on its way back from Prudhoe Bay, making its 816-mile one-way trip to the ice-free port of Valdez where it pumps its cargo into huge tankers sailing to refineries all over the world.

Construction began on the Trans- Alaska Pipeline System on March 27, 1975 and the first drop of oil moved through the 48-inch diameter insulated pipe on June 20, 1977\. It was the largest privately-funded construction project of its day, costing $8 billion to construct. So I am told, it paid for itself in less than a week. More than 14 billion barrels have moved through the Trans Alaska Pipeline System to date.

We rolled into Coldfoot and set-up shop at the last outpost that was the last remaining semblance of civilization before riding the last-leg of our sojourn North.

The place was bustling with motorcycle adventurers, truckers coming in for supplies, as well as various freaks from all over the world trying to show their stuff. Coldfoot holds the distinction of holding the record for the most extreme variation in temperature in the world for one year — recorded in 1987-88 with 97 degrees and 82 Fahrenheit — a spread of 179 degrees. The women of Coldfoot Services seemed to relish this distinction, as well as its mostly male clientele.

Phil, Andy, Darren and I pulled into “last call” for the “Buffalo Train” that would serve as our last hot meal for awhile. As we set our plates down, the diminutive blonde waitress approached us to inquire about our drink selection.

“So, Mr. California what’ll ya have,” asked Sandy, who had moved up from Montana last year and was considering staying on for the long-haul winter season.

“Alaskan Amber,” I said, with a smile as the muck crackled my lips. “Pour it like you don’t own it.”

“I don’t,” said Sandy, with a wink, “but I could, if I wanted to.”

Day 25: We rolled into Deadhorse and onto this barren, desolate and incredibly surreal area of the arctic. This is where the sweet is pumped and sent onto its final journey towards its destination as propellant to internal combustion engines, catalyst to Tupperware and a primary ingredient to latex fetish boots.

Since Deadhorse was essentially a “company town,” we needed clearance to stay and co-mingle with the locals. Phil had arranged for us to stay just outside of the oil rigs and be guests of Conoco- Phillps and British Petroleum. We were housed in what is essentially an elongated trailer park on skids. The bunk house was equipped with a restaurant, movie theater and a gift shop.

Day 26: I awoke to the sound of the banging on my door and a stern command of a military wake-up call.

“Wake up,” came the voice, “if you want to get your name on the books you got 10 minutes. Coffee is on the bus so grab your trunks and a towel.”

I grabbed my things and in the bright sun of a 7 a.m. North Slope morning. I hustled onto the dark blue fortified bus along with what appeared to be a full-military escort.

As we approached the oil rigs, we went through a security checkpoint and were commanded not to take pictures.

The bus approached the end of the line — past game, oil rigs, diamond drilling bits and snow cats preparing for the winter ice roads. As we got to the Arctic Ocean, it became apparent to me that this was indeed no place for the faint of heart. It was, as I explained to Phil, Andy and Darren, the only reason I came this far to be woken up this early.

We drove up to the laps of the Arctic Ocean that had absolutely no resemblance to the Santa Monica Bay, save for the stillness and murky appearance.

I dove into the Arctic Ocean (34.2 degrees Fahrenheit) and became an official member of the Arctic Ocean Polar Bear Club as my amused compatriots in their parkas looked on with bemused grins. (Next week: Easy Writer makes his journey home with a more chilling confrontation. You may reach easy writer at:)

![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/55/9f/559f9abc-8372-4a2e-8c2d-27386da4e363/content/images/2026/10/091505-17_01.jpg)

(Photo: Special to the Daily Press)

![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/55/9f/559f9abc-8372-4a2e-8c2d-27386da4e363/content/images/2026/10/091505-17_03.jpg)

to the Daily Press Easy Writer gets dirty while stuck in the Alaskan mud. (Photo: Lance Schmidt/Special)

![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/55/9f/559f9abc-8372-4a2e-8c2d-27386da4e363/content/images/2026/10/091505-17_05.jpg)

to the Daily Press Clockwise from top left: (1) Pipeline River snakes down to the Artic Slope. (Photo: Lance Schmidt/Special)

![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/55/9f/559f9abc-8372-4a2e-8c2d-27386da4e363/content/images/2026/10/091505-17_06.jpg)

to the Daily Press Clockwise from top left: (1) Pipeline River snakes down to the Artic Slope. (Photo: Lance Schmidt/Special)

*Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on September 15, 2005.* [Read the original PDF.](https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/smdp%5Fbackissues/091505.pdf?ref=smdp.com)