-----Our alarms went off at our now-usual time of 6:00—10:00 to our Eastern Time-aligned bodies—and we readied and packed and left for the lobby a little before 7:00. Our earliness was a necessity, as the tour van had pulled up before its scheduled arrival at 7:15. We were introduced to our tour guides: the first had moved to Alaska at age 18 and had spent time as a jack-of-all-trades, and the second, who was a dead ringer for Xaeraz's dad, served as a secondary guide when the first needed a break from the narrating.

-----Our tour mates on the route were two older couples, one from Louisiana and the other from Chicago. The latter we'd seen eating at Fast Eddy's, as they'd stayed in Tok the same day as we had.

-----The Fairbanks area is spread-out, and on the way out, our first stop came at a spot near the Alyeska Pipeline, where the informational signs told us a bit about the pipeline's construction and the methods used to combat permafrost and earthquakes. The road was four-lane at that point, but it thinned to two as we exited. This was the Elliott Highway, a twisting and turning "paved" road whose potholes and frost heaves proved to be far worse than the unpaved parts we were soon to encounter. The driver knew the road from having driven the route several hundred times, and as such knew from instinct which frost heaves could be taken at full speed, but those of us who were unfortunate enough to be stuck in the back two rows felt the full airborne brunt of these launches. But hey—it's their suspension taking a beating, and we got what amounted to a free visit to the chiropractor, so it all evens out in the end.

-----Throughout the entire drive, we got an in-depth look into the rich history of Alaskan life and politics, including the history of the pipeline and the associated haul road that became the Dalton Highway. The Dalton was only opened to public travel in sections, and it's only relatively recently in the highway's short history that they've allowed non-industrial traffic all the way up to the Prudhoe Bay area. By all accounts, there is nothing in Prudhoe Bay for tourists and life up on the North Slope amounts to an endless industrial wasteland.

-----Initially only known as the North Slope Haul Road and least commonly as its official number as Alaska Route 11, the Dalton Highway runs for over 400 miles from Livengood Junction, around 80 miles northwest of Fairbanks, all the way up Deadhorse near the Arctic Ocean, where the oil companies control access to the Arctic Ocean itself at a rate of—at least, at one point—around $50 a head. Along the Dalton, there are only two places to get gas, with one—the Hilltop—near the beginning of the Elliott, sort of an honorary Dalton gas station.

-----We caught the crackle of CB radio signals from truckers, and we overheard their interesting conversations before passing them, when they wished us a safe travel. We bumped and bounced along the pavement we learned that, with the decline of oil prices, Alaska's budget more or less ran out and only the most critical road fixes are put into place. Thus, they're perfectly fine with letting the paved Elliott and the few paved parts of the Dalton deteriorate and revert to their gravelly origins, but they both need to stay open for the trucks; anything that shuts down the Dalton for any length of time is either a state emergency or treated as seriously as such.

-----The unpaved Dalton Highway was actually in much, much better condition overall than what little they'd paved, and it got to the point that the passenger contingent collectively held its breath when we went back onto pavement, as strange as that is to say. But the Dalton unpaved sections are also nothing like the awful gravel breaks that dot the Alaska Highway, as the Dalton is packed down with heavy machinery of all sorts, to say nothing of the heavy machinery on the trucks that use it. It's mostly compacted mud with enough gravel and chemical treatment to hold it together. Despite the scenery, one is never far removed from respecting the Dalton as first and foremost a haul road, which includes radioing possible oncoming truckers over blind hills and pulling off to the side to allow them the right-of-way.

-----We stopped at enough pull-offs to stretch our legs and to keep from being overly jiggled from an accumulation of bumps in the backseat. It began to rain off and on, generally stopping before a pull-off only to begin anew once we exited the van. Liquid sunshine did little to dampen our lively spirits and livelier conversations.

-----One of the nicest places we turned off at was just past the long, sloping, and narrow Yukon River Bridge, where a small information center staffed by a member of the Bureau of Land Management and a few informational signs lay. We'd crossed a narrower (and presumably deeper) part of the Yukon just outside of Whitehorse, but this was the Yukon resplendent, with a wide girth and quick flow that carried whole tree trunks like toothpicks in its gentle rush. The rain was of little concern, but the wind was absolutely biting, going right through our parkas, hoodies, and shirts. As for our jeans, we might as well have been wearing shorts; only long underwear would have made a dent in the wind chill's bite.

-----Sixty miles past the Yukon River Bridge lies the Arctic Circle, and the weather steadily worsened the further we went. The rain turned the highway, usually packed down with calcium chloride, into a pasty mud that stuck to whatever it could get ahold of and then almost immediately thereafter hardened. By the time we stopped at Finger Mountain, 17 miles shy of the Circle, there was a layer of mud buildup so thick and even that the license plate was barely discernible, and the rear window and taillights were completely caked. By the time we were on the way out, we could run our hands over it and it wouldn't come off, and the few flakes around the wheel wells came off in hardened chunks.

-----Finger Mountain was where we really took a hit from the cold. There are still thick snowbanks at that latitude, one of which we traversed on a walking trail that overlooks Finger Mountain, which is so named for a rock that looks like an upturned finger. (Exactly which finger is a matter of debate.) The mountain had been known by natives for thousands of years and was a guide from them to fur trappers to Dalton Highway engineers. One could still see for ten miles in any direction despite the cloud cover and rain, as the area was mostly tundra save for just a few hearty species that could endure the harsh, dark winters. The further north we went, the more the trees turned into one species: black spruce. From our vantage point, we could see hoodoo-esque granite formations that dot the landscape, known as tors, of which the most notable one is the namesake of Finger Mountain.

-----When the oil money flowed into Alaska's budget, they'd had enough to throw at a project to pave sections of the Dalton Highway, but since oil prices dropped, the sections are simply torn apart when they get too damaged instead of the constant repaving that would only get frost-heaved into oblivion in a matter of one season. It was the worst and most bumpy section and included signs for sections of the highway given nicknames by the ice road truckers, such as Beaver Slide. (An earlier section, called the Roller Coaster, went down and then up at such a precipitous angle that, while it may not have been the maximum 16% grade of the highway, it sure felt to be at least close.)

-----At long last, mile 117 got us to the Arctic Circle, a truly triumphant moment after such an adventurous ride. It is, perhaps, the only reason for any non-trucker to travel the Dalton; access to the Arctic Ocean means paying steep prices to oil companies to whom we've already paid great dividends through our gasoline purchases. The road is nothing if not a grind; one really has to want to endure its conditions in order to make it to that sign separating the far north from the True North.

-----We did not spend a great deal of time in the true Land of the Midnight Sun, for in true Alaskan rest stop fashion, no trees have been cut to allow for any sort of view. Had it been clearer, we might have caught a glimpse of the Brooks Range, far to the north, where the Dalton continues via the treacherous Atigun Pass. After seeing what the first hundred or so miles had in store, we were all quite happy to have our northward journey end there. Even our guide, a hardened veteran of everything Alaskan bush life has to offer, said that he'd never gone past the Circle while on the Dalton because he recognized the sheer futility of a non-trucker making it to Deadhorse. (He's still going with his wife later in the year because Prudhoe Bay is on her bucket list, but otherwise he couldn't care less.)

-----After waiting behind a bus of excited tourists, we got our pictures made at the Arctic Circle sign and then headed to a nearby campground for hot cocoa and homemade beef stew, both of which was serviceable. However, upon doling out the cocoa, it began to rain enough that the tour guides made the executive decision to have everyone eat in the car, which was alright by all of us. They handed out bags of food for the return trip (featuring a ham sandwich, some pretzels, and a bag of peanuts) and presented placards that certified that all of us had indeed made it to the Arctic Circle.

-----Our tour guide said that in all of the times he's taken groups to the Circle, he'd been stunned by the few times it'd rained there. It could be pouring at Beaver Slide just a few miles south, he told us, but it rarely rained at the Circle. Our group made for the third time he'd seen it do so, and he said that our rain was by far the worst. The road turned into little more than a grooved mud pit, once again sucking you back into the harsh reality that, unlike such roads as the Beartooth Highway, Teton Pass, or even the Alaska Highway, it's not a journey that allows you to wax poetic a great deal. It's an industrial road that happens to cut through beautiful territory, and it's not designed for travelers to see great vistas; even the rolling tundra is most always interrupted by evidence of the ever-present pipeline. The beautiful and eerie wilderness, devoid of any sign of life save for the cold industry of the pipeline, imprints upon its passengers a gratefulness at not having to drive the thing.

-----It's fitting that these roads have names out here in the wild northwest. Their numbers mean little to anyone, and their names mean that they are like personalities of the landscape, easy in some places and temperamental in others. One does not drive a road like the Dalton; one negotiates with it and gets to know it well enough to coerce it into doing what you want. In an odd way, it encourages a personal relationship with the few roads that link the towns that dot the landscape.

-----We stopped once again at the Yukon River, this time across the road from the turnout we'd stopped at on the way up. Our guide wanted to catch up with some old friends, which turned out to be a mother and son who came from a family who built a cabin up the Yukon River and only accessible by hike and boat in the summer and snowmobile in the winter. The son, who called himself "Yukon Jeremy," had wild eyes, beard, and teeth, and makes for one of the Alaska's kookiest characters. As other members of the group spent time around the small shack where they sold handcrafted trinkets, we went down to the shore of the Yukon River to soak the beauty in once again.

-----The Yukon River camp is one of the scant few gas stops along the highway, as they're placed in optimal locations for the truckers. From the Yukon River, it's over a hundred miles down south to the Hilltop Truck Stop along the first few miles of the Elliott Highway much closer to Fairbanks than the rugged pavement drop-off that defines the southern terminus of the Dalton. While the co-guide advised all travelers to get gas in Alaska everywhere you can find it, our intrepid driver trudged on.

-----We left the Dalton and got back onto the rough pavement of the Elliott and managed to make it all the way until 17 miles north of Fairbanks, when our tour guide abruptly announced, in an incredibly crestfallen and embarrassed voice, than the van had run out of gasoline. We sputtered to a stop and pulled off on the side of the road as much as possible. He got his phone out and was able to contact a friend who lived in a rural subdivision outside Fairbanks to get to us with a five-gallon tank, and while we were promised 15 minutes until rescue, it was nearly 45 before he finally arrived. Attempting to actually get the gas inside was another problem, as the van—either as a fuel theft deterrent or simply a matter of design—needed either a pressurized fuel nozzle (as would be found at a pump) or a special nozzle to keep the line open for manual refueling. Not having yet consulted the owner's manual, our guide got fed up after several minutes of dealing with the slow drip that he began to try and start it up, but the engine would not turn over.

-----It became a team effort to scour the vehicle for the nozzle, and eventually it was located and utilized. As fueling commenced, the mood was light; despite over an hour being stopped, we kept ourselves entertained between the constant fight against mosquitoes and the ever-growing supply of van inside jokes. The gentleman from Louisiana was getting especially punchy, his wife kept laughing every time I mentioned Big Daddy's Barbecue (a place highly regarded by both tour guides), and my dad once pranked one of the guides by putting eye drops in and then pretending that he had been crying, which is one of those things that was a heck of a lot funnier in the moment than can ever be adequately described.

-----Once all five gallons had been emptied into the tank, the engine was fired up and we squeaked up the hill to the Hilltop station, where the van was fully fueled before coming back into Fairbanks and dropping us off in the order in which we had been picked up. It was nearing 9:00, and while the sun was still high enough in the sky to pass for mid-afternoon, Big Daddy's Barbecue was open until 10. We got back to the room, dropped off our stuff, figured out where Big Daddy's was, and got there by 9:15.

-----Alaska consists primarily of transplants, and this holds especially true for metropolitan regions. While this cuts down on genuine Alaskan culture, it means that, for instance, when a sign says "barbecue," they mean business. Our "Carolina platters" had some of the best barbecue I've had on any trip and rivaled anything in North Carolina as well. Their blackened parts—usually charred—were as juicy and tender as the meat itself, and made for such a heavenly bite that I actually cried a single tear of joy. Their meat portions—a full half pound, going by their menu—were served on what appeared to be a pancake but upon closer inspection was in fact a corn cake, and it tasted like thin cornbread. It made for a wonderful complement to a wonderful barbecue that was excellent enough as as a solo act.

-----The transplant nature meant that a lot of the folks there are actually from the South; a fellow who was cleaning up heard the tail end of one conversation and nearly correctly guessed our Carolinian origins, while our Tennessee-born waitress also immediately caught on as well. (What little twang we have must echo quite a bit.) While the radio pumped out country songs I hate interleaved with pop songs that I also hate, I didn't care. It was nice to have multiple glasses of sweet tea that's actually, y'know, sweet for a change.

-----I'm finishing up typing this at past midnight here, and it's still bright enough outside to walk a dog—and there's something wonderfully unsettling about that fact.

-----Tomorrow: we explore Fairbanks a bit more.