Behind me, the sky has cleared to a rare blue in these steep, dark mountains. It is pleasant, beautiful riding, so different from the otherworldly riding of the morning, shadow mountains passing in and out of sight in veils of low, slow-moving clouds, tendrils of mist hanging down from the clouds, far-off high mountain places showing for brief moments, waterfalls coming straight out of the clouds to splash on rocks below. Ahead, I see the mountains in shades of gray, the gray of heavy rain, and I stand on a line between two worlds, clarity and happiness below, misty cloaked mountains and the solitude of rain above.

I sit in a mountain town coffee shop reading while the rain pours outside. I love this, timeless feeling of drinking a silent cup of coffee reading visionary wisdom punctuated by hardcore mountain logging talk, a waitress refills my cup, everyone bound by the rain.

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Of all my undertakings, I have never had less confidence than I have in reaching Alaska. But that is in recognition of all the factors outside my control, not to self-doubt. I will make it, if the land will let me pass.

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I enjoy the lingering twilight here. It is about 10:30, and still not yet dark. With the extra light I forget about sleep, but when I lie down I find myself suddenly tired.

I had to set up my tent in long pants, shirt, gloves, and a headnet again. It’s becoming a routine. I am swimming in sweat by the time I get in the tent, after spending half an hour setting up and hanging my food in all these clothes. It’s a good life, though.

Strange bird noises, lying in my tent, such a raw way to reach Alaska, so different from a car, even a motorcycle, sleeping in the unknown real woods.