May 16 - 22, 1996 / Volume V, No. 20

It's dry and desolate, and the sound of constant gunfire permeates the atmosphere - this place could be post-WWIII Australia, or maybe New York circa Planet of the Apes.

They say Alaska is only 25 minutes' drive from Anchorage. That may be true. But drive 25 minutes in the right direction, and you'll encounter scenes straight out of Mad Max and Tank Girl. This is the outskirts of Palmer, in pre-nuclear war Alaska.

Buried in a 1200-foot high dust cloud, we push our wimpy vehicles past garbage dumps littered with rusted-through, bullet-riddled hulks that must have once been cars - around ruts in the road certain to destroy our vehicle with the slightest miscalculation.

Monster trucks and ATVs are the dominant form of life in this region. Their trails blanket the forest for miles around, their noise as omnipresent as the sound of screaming revelers. Many of these people are obviously unconcerned about the amount of trash they leave behind - the side of the road is littered with beer containers.

Parking is scant until Thunderdome. In the pall of dust it looms gigantic - a leveled hump about 25 feet higher than the rest of the earth around it, maybe an acre square. Trails come off every side, and a regular traffic stream pours up and down the sides, revving engines high, catching air, above all trying to keep from spilling beers under the strain.

We park in the middle of a trail, think better of it, and park on the river side of the Thunderdome. Camping on the Thunderdome itself is a frightening prospect - riotous neighbors and ground covered with glass guarantee an exciting but risky, time. Our neighbors warn us, "There's a lot of us and it'll be pretty loud tonight."

We thank them for the thoughtful warning, trust our vehicles to their care, and head out onto the post-apocalyptic riverbed on bikes. I don't think we saw another biker until we reached civilization.

The surface of the riverbed is an extremely fine sand, two to three inches thick. We can barely pull five miles an hour, with an array of cars, trucks, ATVs and dirtbikes circling us like vultures.

Jim Creek isn't far from the Thunderdome. There's no bridge, and it's about three feet maximum depth at its shallowest. We spend some time watching cars cross, gauging its depth. A Gremlin takes a shot at the crossing, gets up a good deal of speed, splashes into the water, and barely floats to its destination. The occupants cheer loudly.

A jeep filled with five standing people in the back, holding onto the rollbars, approaches the river. These guys are incredible - totally buff, shirtless, holding beers and screaming in glee about the crossing they're about to make. They ride it out magnificently, though the truck seems to sustain some damage. To the damage report of a passenger, the driver responds, "Mellow out, dude."

Our confidence shaken, it takes the urging of locals before we attempt the crossing. On the way back, Scott will ride through the creek and make it across, boots soaked through. But by and large, we follow the recommended approach of taking shoes off.

There's some great riding to be had back here. The trails are technical, the hills layed out in the fashion of a mellow roller coaster - short ups and downs with lots of obstacles and banked hairpin turns. The surface varies from rocks to torn-up tundra. And there's a bit less dust.

Wild roses grow in abundance. They are dry, with no leaves or flowers. The nuclear winter took care of that. Reduced to their thorny essence, the proliferation of roses proves most difficult as we wend our way through a complex network of increasingly overgrown trails.

First the washouts, demanding short portages of 200 yards or so, through the supremely painful understory. Eventually, the trails become impassable. We find ourselves in that all-too-common rut of entering increasingly more terrible terrain - convinced that going back is too hellish and that the end of the rainbow must be soon to come.

Soon there are no trails, as we struggle to lug our bikes on a straight-line course back to civilization, following the now-welcome sound of off-roaders. The route is treacherous and bloody, and as we climb the 'wild side' of the sand dune, we recall how earlier we laughed about the foolishness of going down there.

I'm not sure about the powder run down the tame side. Exciting, but a bit slow, and definitely bad for the bike. Crossing Jim Creek on the way back provides welcome relief to our burning legs. We make camp next to a pair shooting rifles into and across the river, eat dinner and watch the sun set.

Sleeping outside is a viable option but for the risk of getting run over. I do it anyway, falling asleep to the sound of gunshots. They're going up into the air and bound to come down somewhere nearby. Covering my face won't help; being in a tent won't help.

I shrug mentally as I fall asleep. Danger lurks everywhere on a bike trip - it's part of the fun. Drunk drivers and falling bullets are a fine complement to the risk of breaking your neck in a fall. And if you do break your neck or get shot, at least you know there's someone with a really cool truck available to extricate you.

I'm hooked! How do I get there?

Jim Creek flows into the Knik River Valley, across the river from Hunter Creek, just a couple miles down the Old Glenn Hwy. A popular destination for Palmerites in heavy 4x4 vehicles and ATV's, we ventured out with four bikes, the VW bus and a late model Honda Civic Wagon.

It's easy to find. Just take the Parks Hwy towards Palmer, cross the Knik River, exit right after that at the Old Glenn Hwy, and continue a couple miles up the road. Turn right on Plumlee Rd., go to the end of Plumlee and take another right.

Now you're in the dirt. If your car is up for the drive, you can ride the riverbed all the way to Knik Glacier, clearly visible in the distance if the dust clears enough to permit the view. Or if your car sucks, venture out on bikes. Better yet, just crack a few beers and start shootin'.