Denali by Gravel Bike: Savage River to Sable Pass

24 August, 2022

Sometimes, life goes as planned; other times, there’s a landslide.

Shortly after Liv’s offer to sponsor a ride along the length of the 92-mile Denali Park Road and back, a slow-motion landslide near mile 45 prompted a several-year shutdown to allow the design and construction of a bridge bypassing the chronically unstable mountainside. Disappointed, but not deterred, I decided to make a long out-and-back day ride from the Savage River bridge at mile 15 to the closure at mile 43.

On an ominously cloudy morning in August, I rode out before dawn on a gravel bike laden with snacks, rain gear, more snacks, and a large canister of bear spray that I strapped across the handlebars. It was 38°F, and I threw a windbreaker on over a light wool pullover. The ranger’s checkpoint at the Savage River bridge was still closed for the night, so I entered my travel plan in the road register and set off up the incline out of the river valley. After less than a mile of climbing, I paused to shed the jacket and pullover, comfortable in a t-shirt with my internal furnace roaring away.

The valley of Sanctuary River, several miles in, brought my first long descent. While speeding downhill, I discovered that thermoregulation would be more of a challenge on a bike than it was on foot! I quickly stopped to retrieve the wool and the windbreaker, along with gloves and a woolen face buff to shield me from the cold wind of movement. At the next uphill, despite my continued immersion in the stony chill of mountain shadows, it was back to the t-shirt. I resigned myself to the inevitable wardrobe adjustment every few miles, cheered by the promise of frequent gummy bear access.

As I rode through an area of higher brush and scattered trees, movement caught my eye through a stand of willows. I left my bicycle in the roadside thicket, carefully making my way through the willows to an opening in the branches with a view of the slope below. Across golden-tipped greens and burgundy splashes of blueberry bushes moved the soft browns and whites of a large bull caribou, antlers swaying as he grazed his way through the tundra. Beyond him, several cow caribou wove in and out of spruce shadows. Another bull rested on the ground, invisible but for the dark rise of his antlers from among the leaves. As I watched from the trees, the small group drifted near enough for me to hear the crunch and tear of their grazing and the clicking of tendon over bone as they walked.

Among ungulates (hoofed mammals), caribou hold a special place in my heart. They are creatures of the far north, adapted to survive the depthless cold of a long, -50°F Arctic night, deep snow, large predators, and the summer challenges of the marshy, clinging tundra and voracious clouds of insects. Their long fur provides extraordinary warmth, hollow hair shafts giving an additional component of insulation to their beautiful coats. When you look at a caribou’s trail through snow or mud, you can see the wide splay of hoof that acts like a snow shoe, carrying them gracefully across both the winter’s snowdrifts and the mires of summer. Spectacular antlers distinguish the males, brow and bez tines leaning noseward above the face and main beams swooping back over the shoulder before rising skyward and spreading into the reaching tines of the crown. Cow caribou are unique among deer species in that they, too, grow antlers, albeit smaller than those of the males.

As the caribou moved on, I crept back through the willows to retrieve my bike and continue my ride. By mid-morning, I crossed the Teklanika River and began the climb towards Sable Pass, the highest point on my ride. I was passing the jumbled ridges of Cathedral Mountain to my east when I encountered a road sign indicating a sheep crossing. Glancing at my watch and seeing that the hourly closure began in 5 minutes, I settled myself on the rocks beside a creek and raided my packs for lunch. As a day traveler, I had forgone the weight of a backpacking stove, opting for a thermos of hot water which, added to a packet of freeze-dried chicken stir fry, made a welcome meal.

The sheep closure that had prompted my lunch break marks one of five sites on the Denali Park Road with hourly ten-minute traffic closures to help protect normal wildlife movement. In areas where the road bisects key Dall sheep habitat, the closures allow this shy species a window of quiet, free of pedestrian or vehicular traffic, to cross the road in comfort.

After finishing lunch, I resumed my climb towards Sable Pass. Until this point, I had not appreciated the difference between hiking and biking when it came to elevation gain. While I was ascending [marginally] more quickly than I would have on foot, the burning in my legs set in with disproportionate speed. I imagined how I must look to the passengers of the occasional passing tour bus: sweat-soaked despite the chill air, mud-spattered from the spin of my tires, and grinning with the joy of a physical challenge in a beautiful place. My hair, ever wildly animated with a life and will of its own, sprang in wild tangles from beneath my helmet, contributing to the overall crazy outdoorswoman impression. I have never been capable of achieving the effortlessly stylish look that some folks maintain during activity [to be honest, I can’t pull it off any other time either], but I have never minded my somewhat madcap appearance. It’s a fair reflection of the cheerful, artistically chaotic contents of my mind.

Near the summit of the pass, the land opened around me into long views of rolling tundra and the glaciated peaks beyond. I stopped to rest my sore muscles and scanned the surrounding hills with my binoculars. Sable Pass, which is closed to humans year-round with the exception of the road corridor, is an excellent place to spot wildlife. The distinctly blonde coats of Denali’s brown bears blend almost magically into their surroundings and require an attentive eye when they aren’t moving or silhouetted against the sky. My careful search was borne of both my love of observing these beautiful animals, and of the desire to see them in time to avoid a surprise encounter. Unbeknownst to me, it was the return trip that would provide the day’s dose of ursine excitement…