> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.smdp.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # Lance Schmidt rides through Alaska's Interior on his motorcycle - URL: https://www.smdp.com/easy-writer-20050908/ - Published: 2005-09-08T15:00:00.000Z - Updated: 2026-10-25T00:56:54.000Z - Author: Guest Author - Tags: Environment, Santa Monica, #archive-import *NOTES FROM THE ROAD Entering the depths of Alaska’s underbelly* (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.) Deadhorse, AK — Now that the lovely professor was back home in Santa Monica thousands of miles away, safe, confused, and out of harms way, I could focus my attention on riding and exploring this beautiful land unencumbered. The Interior is breathtaking. It is wild and for most that live here, it is the only place in Alaska, if not the entire world, in which to live. Summer is intense, short-lived and bittersweet. It usually begins in early July and ends abruptly in mid-to late-August. The days are long and the nights are short. The climate is unpredictable. Temperatures vary. Snow and frost can sweep through, followed by several hot days preceded by many rainy weeks. Fires race through the bush unabated, making travel even more treacherous. Wildlife is everywhere and becomes more menacing and ornery as the food supply dwindles and winter begins to creep its way down. For a motorcycle adventurer heading past the Artic Circle the unpredictable weather meant a constant guessing game of what to bring and what to wear. The elements can strike hard and fierce. If caught unprepared, the elements can kill a person in a matter of hours. Nobody knew this better than my Alaskan guides, Phil and Andy, who had invited Darrien and me along on their somewhat secretive mission into the Bush and to the top of (or the end of) the world. Day 19: After a few days exploring the outskirts of Denali National Park, the team headed north on the Steese Highway past the majestic Mt. McKinley. In the Interior, hotels are non-existent. There is little or nothing for hundreds of miles. Outposts serve as the hotel, store, gas station and post office. But most importantly, for the weary travelers and hardened sourdoughs, they are a conduit for news, weather and gossip. We pulled into a road house just outside of Central. Phil knew the owners of the Chatanika Lodge, which happened to be adjacent to an old gold dredge abandoned in the early 1960s. The entire area around Central was and still is the most active of all Alaskan mining districts. Entire towns and services were built in this area almost overnight in an effort to support the sluicing of this precious metal. As gold reached upwards of $400 an ounce in late 1978, Central became once again a gold mining destination. After taking a well-deserved shower and checking into our bunk rooms, we all met at the bar to get a home-cooked meal, relax and have a drink. Looking around the bar and adjacent dinning room, Andy commented that there couldn’t be any wildlife left in Central as most of them were hanging on the walls or decorating the doorways. Sitting next to us were a few local sourdoughs that took an interest in the new arrivals. Phil explained that he was going to drop off supplies and equipment to some folks in Deadhorse. He also was training a new guide and taking along a few passengers. Phil was an Alaskan native so he new the ropes of interpersonal communications in the bush. They started a banter that was classic Alaskan — not revealing too much, testing each other’s toughness while being polite as hell. The conversation turned slowly toward gold. “You guys up here for the yellow stuff?” said one of the sourdoughs. “Nah, just poking around,” replied Phil, glancing down at his newly acquired Crown-rocks. “Why? You got a spot we can look at?” Day 21: We headed out toward the roughest part of the journey — where rubber meets the road — 600 miles of dirt and gravel traversing the harshest area in Alaska. Both intense and boring, the journey on the “Haul Road” is the last leg where the Alaskan Pipeline ascends its flow downward to Valdez. Long-haul truckers compete to feed it, Homeland Security and BP protect it while crazed interlopers on motorbikes roam it. We began our journey, as Phil suggested, taking a side-trip to an old mining camp that he hadn’t seen, but was told about. Through the miracles of GPS navigation and their clients’ intuition, we fell on this mining camp set in the valley of an incredible set of peaks — both of which had impressions of switchbacks spiraling to the top. We decided to split-up and take two routes. Both routes appeared to lead back to the mining camp so Darrien and I headed up on the south face while Phil and Andy took the west. Darrien hit the guns and became the lead onto a trail that was more suited for Dahl Sheep than two dopes on bikes. As we maneuvered the bikes around the tight precipice, we came down onto a half-boarded-up hole in the shale. “That a mining tunnel?” I asked Darrien, knowing full-well it might be. “Yep, sure looks like it,” Darrien said. “Let’s go check it out.” We both dismounted the bikes and approached the tunnel. As we approached the abandoned gold shaft it took on the properties of an ancient metro-line. It was half-covered by boards and was posted with a “closed mine” red piece of tape. Darrien threw back the boards to the tunnel. I walked in with a cocky swagger entering the “E” ticket. Without thought or hesitation, I started exploring with reckless abandon. As I walked down further, water from the sides of the shale walls began pelting me and I knew that I was in trouble. I headed back about 200 feet towards the tunnel. Then, as I grabbed a side of wet shale, the thunder struck. The way out had collapsed in front of me. Day 22: It had been almost nine hours spent in the blackness and horrific solitude of a collapsed mine. I cannot explain it. Suffice to say, it challenged me. The flicker of light did not come too soon. I was in ankle-deep water when I heard a rock fall in front of me and a voice that that I had come to cringe, but now, sounded like John Wayne. “You OK, pal?” came the voice. “I guess, what is going on?” I said, half incoherently. I was rescued from my first, and hopefully, my last mining accident. What was to follow however might make me reconsider my rescue. (You may reach Easy Writer at:) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/55/9f/559f9abc-8372-4a2e-8c2d-27386da4e363/content/images/2026/10/090805-18_02.jpg) to the Daily Press Let there be light: Easy Writer emerges from the “hole” after a horrific nine-hour tour. (Photo: Lance Schmidt/Special) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/55/9f/559f9abc-8372-4a2e-8c2d-27386da4e363/content/images/2026/10/090805-18_04.jpg) to the Daily Press Easy discovers some friendly aliens while on the peaks of the Brooks Range (Photo: Lance Schmidt/Special) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/55/9f/559f9abc-8372-4a2e-8c2d-27386da4e363/content/images/2026/10/090805-18_05.jpg) to the Daily Press Easy discovers some friendly aliens while on the peaks of the Brooks Range (Photo: Lance Schmidt/Special) ![](https://storage.ghost.io/c/55/9f/559f9abc-8372-4a2e-8c2d-27386da4e363/content/images/2026/10/090805-18_06.jpg) to the Daily Press (Top) The Chatanika Lodge. (Photo: Lance Schmidt/Special) *Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on September 8, 2005.* [Read the original PDF.](https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/smdp%5Fbackissues/090805.pdf?ref=smdp.com)