Texas to the Tundra: johntesi drives his FJ62 to the Arctic

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johntesi

johntesi

Joined
Feb 17, 2017
Threads
5
Messages
54
Location
Colorado
Website
johntesi.com
I have a gnawing obsession that draws me towards quiet, distant places with strange significance. And I have a brain that struggles to stay quiet, even when it’s seemingly occupied. I find respite and some sense of meaning spending hours pointing a truck nose between a yellow and a white line, or down narrow, overgrown double track that leads to even more overgrown dead ends. After a turbulent year, I decided it was time to cut ties and jump tracks in search of a fresh start. So, I quit my job, moved out of my house, and sold most of my non-essential/sentimental belongings. And then I embarked on a 4(ish) month road trip from Austin to the Arctic and back again, in my 1989 FJ62 Land Crusier with my dog, Hank, 3 fly rods, 2 cameras, 2 bikes, and 1 pair of jeans.

The first few days involved trying to cover familiar ground relatively quickly. I cruised up to my hometown of Fort Worth for an overnight, to drop off a few more odds and ends I couldn’t carry but didn’t want to sell, and to be within good striking distance of Amarillo the following day (cue George Strait). The subtle, flat beauty of the Texas panhandle appeared more enticing than ever before from behind the wheel of my first truck. Every random farm road and gravel path was something to explore, the stiff and warm cross breeze made me laugh as it tried to blow my truck clean off the road and utterly prevented me from reaching the 75 mph speed limit. I pulled into Amarillo in time to have homemade pizza and beers with a dear friend while our dogs ran off some P&V in the backyard. A preview of things to come on my journey, we sat at the dining table and talked and drank until I realized my alarm clock would chime less than six hours later. I was trying to cover more ground than normal, because I had family hanging out in Western Colorado and I wanted to spend a few days in the Rockies before kicking off the truly rugged and unknown trek that laid beyond the Colorado-Utah border.
_DSF0214 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF0248 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF0217 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF0131 by John Montesi, on Flickr
 
The next morning we woke up early and hit the road straight away. I stopped for coffee and a quick knockabout in Clayton, where I studied the map and noted lots of promising faint, dotted lines throughout the plains an hour or so down the road. I had no idea just how spectacular it would be to follow gravel ranch roads a dozen miles into the grasslands, and I was completely floored by the pronghorn antelope, prairie dogs, bald eagle(!), and coyote that I encountered while romping around the open range.
_DSF0462 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF0425 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF0360 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF0459 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF0331 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF0280 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF0276 by John Montesi, on Flickr
I got a bit carried away observing the pronghorn, mingling with the cattle, and following every gravel road spur to its fizzled ending in some ranch’s back field. Eventually we made our way back to the lonesome highway and continued onward toward Raton, New Mexico, over the pass, and into Colorful Colorado.
_DSF0468 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF0519 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF0478 by John Montesi, on Flickr
 
Colorado was four blurry days of mountain biking and trout fishing, a bit of off-roading and a few fun dinners with family and friends. Then, it was time to bid them goodbye and whirr down the west side of the Rockies towards Moab, Utah. Moab has long been one of my favorite places on the planet, even before I had a 4 wheel drive or as fervent a love for mountain biking as I do now. The geology and light and atmosphere there are one-of-a-kind on this planet, and my love only intensified as I got to explore it on two and four knobby tires in the fleeting cool-ish moments at sunrise and sunset. Even in mid-June, the thermometer was pushing 105 degrees every day we were there.
_DSF0552 by John Montesi, on Flickr
I found desert bighorn sheep, tons of unmarked and buck wild trails, some world-class mountain biking along the slickrock and sand, and got to drive the legendary Potash Road and Shaffer Trail. The days were full of mind-blowing and unstructured adventure, and I finally felt the unease melting away and being replaced by the sense that I was truly doing it, out in the heart of the desert with Hank and the Land Cruiser and nothing else. For the next while, I would spend my days earnestly engaged with the tasks and sights before me and no hints of the previous year’s tumult would creep into my mind.
_DSF0572 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF0606 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF0784 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF0752 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF0751 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF0770 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF0744 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF0653-2 by John Montesi, on Flickr
We cruised across Utah with a quick overnight in Salt Lake City that included a bike ride and dinner/beers with a friend I hadn’t seen in nearly ten years, then on into California to meet one of my best friends at Lake Tahoe for 4th of July. I made sure to pause and fuel up in Lovelock, Nevada so I could gawk at the penitentiary where The Juice is locked up. What a place. A mishap (read about it on my website if you’re curious) set me back a few days between Moab and California, which meant less time for photos and stops and a bit of backtracking after Tahoe back down to LA before following the coast northward once more. What I will say is that Jeremiah and his team at Resurrection Land Cruisers are some profoundly special people, and in hindsight I’m almost grateful that I was forced to rely on their talent and abundant kindness for a few days so our paths could cross, our dogs could hang out, and we could break bread in Montrose, Colorado before I rolled westward once again.
_DSF2176 by John Montesi, on Flickr
 
_DSF0871 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF1108 by John Montesi, on Flickr
I spent a few days knocking around Los Angeles, since I used to live there and had at least a handful of people and places I missed. Still, I was quite anxious to head onward and back into the quieter places. I did have one good adventure in LA, a night of renegade cowboy camping on a beach in Malibu with friends new and old. My buddy Matt organized the whole thing, and it quickly evolved from a bonsai midnight bike ride to a drive up the coast, a stealth trek down to the beach, a sunrise wakeup call, and a long, meandering ride along PCH as the sun came up and the sleepy beachgoers vied for prime real estate. Matt and his girlfriend rode together while I rode with the other two gals who ended up on our harebrained endeavor and took turns falling in love with each of them a little at a time. Anybody who could meet at 10 PM, grab ice cream at 11, and sleep from midnight to 5 with nothing but sleeping bags and messy buns, only to hop on bikes and cruise until our eyes were watering from salty breeze and lack of sleep and coffee could steal a piece of my increasingly-lonely heart. It was a poignant and reinvigorating overnighter, which would serve to remind me how much possibility there is in this world. Still, there’s a gnawing sensation when I think about the fact that people like that exist but are so rarely in the same place at the same time as me. I guess that’s what travel is all about.
_DSF1023 by John Montesi, on Flickr
L1080643 by John Montesi, on Flickr
Leaving LA, we followed the coast through Santa Barbara and on to SLO, Santa Cruz, San Francisco, and, finally, my favorite part of the state—the Lost Coast. I had great beers with some interesting people in Eureka, explored Redwoods National Park where I caught my first (but not even close to last) sign of bears on the trip, and drove some of the Lost Coast Trail. This region is wild in its contrasts and its geographic isolation. The way thousand-year-old trees meet the Pacific Ocean while elk roam in their shadows truly boggles the mind.
 
_DSF1476 by John Montesi, on Flickr
L1080535 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF1298 by John Montesi, on Flickr
L1080667 by John Montesi, on Flickr
L1080682 by John Montesi, on Flickr
L1080672 by John Montesi, on Flickr
L1080584 by John Montesi, on Flickr
L1080643 by John Montesi, on Flickr
From Humboldt County, we did a bit more nonsensical backtracking towards Sacramento and on to Grass Valley to pick up the rear bumper I ordered from 4x4 Labs a couple months prior. Once I had it installed, my ‘build’ would be just about complete and I would have no more strange time/place constraints from there onward. We wound down a circuitous mountain road and eventually a 100 Series with a mean looking front bumper appeared in my rearview. I knew I was headed to the right place, and sure enough it pulled in right behind me at the cozy warehouse tucked in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. Luke hopped out and soon enough Hank and his dog, Enzo, were running all over the place while they wheeled my truck around back and prepped it for the install. I hung out and chatted with everyone and a few hours later, I was on my way toward Redding and then the sleepy interstate pit stop of Dunsmuir to overnight in a river side cabin and try my hand at California trout fishing. After a few hours of roll casting in shockingly hot morning sun, we packed up and headed toward Oregon, to meet up with a fellow IH8MUD member in Medford before making the real-time decision to head to Crater Lake before I entered Portland to stay with another old friend for a long weekend.
And boy, was I glad I did. Somehow, in all 5 years I spent on the west coast, I’d never seen Crater Lake. It managed to surpass every expectation I ever had and then some. Oftentimes, National Parks have this weird letdown feeling because of the tourists and hype and compartmentalized sections of ‘nature,’ but no such thing here. Hank and I hiked a ways up along the precipice and were just blown away by the scale and color and general surroundings that created the lake. Everyone there was quiet and reverential. It was one of those moments where you feel profoundly still and quiet, where cell service doesn’t quite reach you and everyone you pass nods in unspoken understanding.
L1080828 by John Montesi, on Flickr
 
We picked up an inter-park hitchhiker and headed around to the other side of the rim before getting stuck in a flagger/pilot car construction zone. Missed the green by about ten seconds and ended up waiting nearly forty minutes to go again. The flag guy was great company and even better at telling stories. He loved Hank and made many wry jokes from beneath his moustache and leathery face, alternating reverence for canines and scorn for women. He spoke of putting his last dog down with a handgun and a handful of hot dogs, and of being spurned in love at least once in his seventy-plus very tough years. The hitchhiker, who introduced himself as “Gringo” and spoke in an implacable accent, was visibly uncomfortable from the man’s candor, which I thought passed the time wonderfully. We headed around the way once the pilot car arrived and he said, “Man, that guy really has some women issues huh?”
“Where are you from, Gringo?”
“I am from Washington, D.C. I just use my road name and my international English when I am out traveling.”
“I see.”
“And you’re hitchhiking around?”
“Well, no, but I was only coming into the park for the day so the entrance fee didn’t seem worth it. I just hitchhiked in and now I am trying to explore before I leave.”
I dropped him off at the trailhead he requested then headed onward towards Portland. I was going to be arriving rather late, and my friend had graciously offered her house only the night prior, so I huffed it down backroads and wound the Cruiser out as we pointed westward. I arrived just in time to go grab a wonderful, late dinner in the type of place that could only exist in Portland—a basement bar that served James Beard-level Japanese food while a DJ spun vinyl live. We fell into conversation as if it hadn’t been seven years since we lived in the same place; nowadays, our paths cross once every two or three years at most. I swilled a mezcal cocktail and let her fill me on how she fills her time, where the world is taking her and what parts of life are working and are lacking. “I’d like to do what you’re doing soon. Press the reset button. I really need that,” she sighed through a glass of wine. She looked pensively off to the corner of the Portlandia-quirky bar. I thought about how many people need it and how few do it, and I hurt a little bit for her. The rest of the weekend flew by, and by the end, I was eager to get out of the city and head towards Bend to do some fly fishing and mountain biking.

L1080828 by John Montesi, on Flickr
L1080766 by John Montesi, on Flickr
L1080810 by John Montesi, on Flickr
L1080865 by John Montesi, on Flickr

In Bend, I met an old friend from Austin who had done what I am now working on doing and escaped the rapidly-growing, overly-hipsterfied urban life for a cabin in the woods in Oregon. He showed me his favorite mountain bike trails and demonstrated how wildly he’s improved since moving from Texas to Oregon. We visited Crux Fermentation Project, an Edenic brewery that was playing a Pandora station that sounded like my personal CD collection of good-timin’, boat ridin’, Land Cruisin’ country music and talked about the twists and turns that got us to the spot we were sitting. He left to have dinner with his girlfriend and Hank and I sat in the grass and made conversation with the folks beside us. The next day I went up into the mountains for what was by far my favorite fishing day of the whole trip—dozens of small and fiercely wild brook, cutthroat, and Oregon rainbow trout in the scenic and unspoiled Upper Deschutes River. While most folks chase the chance at a trophy down low, I had partly cloudy skies and a touch of drizzle and the entire river to myself up high. Netting so many deeply colored fish was a real treat, and letting Hank wander with little concern makes my heart feel full. A hummingbird landed on the brim of my hat, and I was just utterly smitten by my little slice of space and time. There’s little that one can ask for in moments like these.


That evening, we met a reader who had followed my journey from Petrolicious to Instagram and saw that I was in his neck of the woods. We hit the mountain bike trails then visited Deschutes Brewery for the type of conversation typically reserved for old friends. He’d moved from Jersey to Portland to Bend; a similar theme of the difference between haves, wants, and needs, and a search for contentment in a crazy world. It felt as if we couldn’t get the words out fast enough. It was a terrific meeting at a great spot, and it reminded me that there are important things left to write and people who still care to read them. One conversation like that is worth a dozen days without a paycheck and five revisions of a short article, and so much more.

_DSF1631 by John Montesi, on Flickr

From Bend, we rolled northward through the enchanting high plains of Eastern Oregon and Washington, tracing old geological formations along the edge of volcanic mountains. I had an internet-friend in Spokane who was eager to host us for a day or two of mountain biking and Land Cruisers. What I didn’t expect was how naturally one night would turn to two, one friend would blossom into half a dozen, and how deeply enjoyable my time in Spokane would be. On the third day, I was sad to be leaving, but I had to head on toward Seattle and then the international border beyond it. But not before doing a bit of gratuitous wheelin’ in the Cruiser.

fj62-21 by John Montesi, on Flickr
fj62-16 by John Montesi, on Flickr
iller-8 by John Montesi, on Flickr
 
Seattle marked another visit with one of my dearest friends, another gal I’d mostly lost touch with over the ensuing four years since we’d last lived east of LA together. It almost hurt how quickly things picked up where they left off. There were constantly fleeting acknowledgments of that fact, and of the fact that she’s way too far gone to hit the reset button. I met up with some MUD forum members who were absurdly generous with their time and resources to help get the truck back up to snuff after the beating I’d doled out on it thus far. I got beers with an old cycling buddy and his daughter and dwelled a little too much on the way so much time passes between when we speak to and see the people we care about, or how a decade can go by before you visit a city you remember enjoying. That gnawing pain also reaffirmed the value of prioritizing the latent dreams that swirl around inside of you, like driving an old truck to Alaska with a trusty dog by your side. It was fun to drink great coffee and laugh and have rosé at 4 PM on a Sunday with one of my favorite humans on planet earth, to play ping pong and watch the sun set at nearly 10 PM in Golden Gardens, but it was also time for us to move on, to return to the solitary and uninterrupted trajectory we were tracing northward.

L1080905 by John Montesi, on Flickr
L1080898 by John Montesi, on Flickr

I stopped by Adventure Outfitters and very nearly bought a rooftop tent for the truck. It would make setting up camp so much easier and camping so much more appealing, and they had some gorgeous and matchy James Baroud models in-stock. I’d thoroughly researched them and was quite close to pulling the trigger, before self-doubt and self-backlash against the Instagram weekend warrior set and sticker shock all set in and convinced me it is better to truly rough it or just get a motel room. So, after sitting around and chatting with the wonderful folk and gawking at overland lifestyle porn IRL, I took a sticker and moved on with my day, and decided to head to Bellingham instead of going international just yet. There was lovely mountain biking and thick smoke from the fires and I had a looming work deadline that would be easier to knock out while still on AT&T, so I hung around for a couple of nights and hit the trails hard and the coffee shops harder.
_DSF1785 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF1880-2 by John Montesi, on Flickr

Finally, with no more excuses for work or play, we set out for the border, which was almost shockingly easy to cross. We were bound for Vancouver Island right away, to meet a long time reader and correspondent who lives in East Sooke. I arrived at the Tssawassen ferry terminal to be met with a three sailing (read: three hour) wait because it was, as I would learn, B.C. Day. A long weekend with warm weather. We settled in and enjoyed the strange, slightly foreign sensation of being in a new country a mere fifty-ish miles from where we woke up that morning.

It was a treat to meet him and his wife and for Hank to have a raucous and agreeable pup to play with for the long weekend. The island was buried under the same wildfire smoke as Bellingham, but it did little to stifle our convivial time catching up and touring the Island. The friend I stayed with had reached out after reading some of my writing because it struck a chord with him. He wanted to relay his own similar story: some thirty years ago, he was working hard, owned a house and a few cars, lived in the suburbs and commuted to downtown Toronto, when he woke up one day and realized he couldn’t carry on that way until the grave. He promptly sold everything but one car, quit his job, and drove out to Vancouver Island to start life anew with space and a new lease on life. And there we were, at the table on his patio, when he made one of my favorite remarks of my travels thus far. “You know, it just keeps flying by. Every day you life, a year becomes a smaller fraction of your life. It’s good to fill them to the brim.”
_DSF1900 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF1918 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF1945 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF2084 by John Montesi, on Flickr

We returned to the mainland with much less fanfare, spent a lonely and urban couple of nights outside of Vancouver buying groceries and studying maps, and then embarked northward, through wildfire detours and along untold hundreds of miles of solitary pavement, until we finally reached the start of the Cassiar Highway.
 
It is absolutely impossible to convey the magnitude of British Columbia, of the few days’ driving required to simply reach the southern edge of the 543 mile Cassiar Highway, which then links up with the AlCan for the final few hundred miles towards the border crossing. We drove all day, every day, for over a week between Vancouver and Tok, Alaska. I topped off the gas tank at every crazy-infrequent stop, often paying the equivalent of 6 or 7 American dollars per gallon. Never has the old 3FE engine’s gas mileage hurt so badly. I fished and caught my first truly wild arctic grayling, hiked and off-roaded and started getting properly spooked by bears, and picked up First Nations hitchhikers with wild stories and wilder appetites for booze.
It’s so hard to know where to start with words about those miles, the way the smoke from the wildfires felt like a lid on a depressing boiling pot, the magic of a road bike ride in Whitehorse, or the utter terror of mountain biking alone in the Yukon. The road surface and frost heaves so large I actually caught air, the way I followed the same Ford Explorer for seven rainy hours and watched the couple in it befriend every lonesome, soggy person working the flag crew at a construction section. These are the small moments that could fill chapters of the book I hope/plan to write about life and this trip and the people that make the world go round. But I digress.

We had a wild few days in Whitehorse, which felt positively cosmopolitan after so many days slogging through the largest unchanging geological/climate zone that I’ve ever trekked through. Over a distance that could get me from Austin to San Francisco, we were surrounded by relentless, unending trees, lakes, mountains, and smoke. It is beautiful, but it is also humbling and exhausting. There are few variances large enough to snap the lonely and delirious from a trance. There is a daunting reality surrounding the few full-time citizens you do encounter, and a nervous exhilaration to studying the map from your campsite or café table anywhere north of Smithers, B.C.

And what to say of finally reaching Alaska? It is a silent and frigid border crossing, which is met with minimal fanfare. And once you cross the border, it is still many hours to Anchorage. We spent a wet and chilly night in Tok after an all-day drive from Whitehorse, then finished off the remaining six hours to Anchorage the next morning. Along the way, we finally sighted our first truly ‘Alaskan’ vistas—snow-capped peaks and a giant glacier, which it turned out we were able to hike out onto.

L1090129-2 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF2212 by John Montesi, on Flickr
L1090270 by John Montesi, on Flickr

I spent a few days resupplying and catching my breath in Anchorage, making friends and even riding mountain bikes with another Austin friend who decided to leave the increasingly-bummer city life behind on a global sojourn of her own. From there, it was south onto the Kenai Peninsula for fishing and wild exploration by foot, truck, and boat, and then back north to Denali and now Fairbanks where I sit as I write this. If I enter my old home address in Austin, Google Maps says the most direct route is a tick under 4,000 miles and 65 hours of driving. And I rarely take the most direct route…

I will try to do Alaska more justice in writing later, so here are a ton of photos of our time here so far. Tomorrow, we head north on the Dalton Highway, to reach Prudhoe Bay and the Arctic Ocean on Sunday. That will officially mark the halfway point on our trip. Then it’s time to head back to Texas.
The most emblematic photo of the entire trip:

_DSF3936 by John Montesi, on Flickr
 
Some shots from a truly wild bike ride through the heart of Denali National Park:
_DSF4088 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF4094 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF4105 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF4166-2 by John Montesi, on Flickr
_DSF4183-2 by John Montesi, on Flickr

The spot where Chris McCandless went “into the wild:”
L1090911 by John Montesi, on Flickr
L1090981-3 by John Montesi, on Flickr
L1090929 by John Montesi, on Flickr

If you’re curious about some of my previous shenanigans, check out the Petrolicious stories below:

Here’s Why You Buy a Porsche 911 Sight Unseen and Leave on an Epic Road Trip

Charting Life’s Ups and Downs with an FJ62 Land Cruiser and a Dog Named Hank


Here is the Flickr gallery which contains at least a handful of images I didn’t embed in-line here.

Most importantly, I’d be honored if you check out my website. It features lots more photos, more frequent and more varied writing, and is where I share in-depth stories and will eventually be sharing updates about my book and any articles published externally.

www.johntesi.com

You can follow along in real-time on Instagram: @john_tesi and @hank_tesi

And send me an email or text any time: johntesiwrites@gmail.com & (817) 201-0088
 
Neil Peart, drummer extraordinaire (Rush) wrote a book chronicling his odyssey from Canada to South America. His trip was one of self healing from tragic circumstances way beyond his control. He made his journey on a BMW motorcycle; Ghost Rider is a great read. I look forward to following you on social media and reading your writings. If you ever make it back to the Ft. Worth area, beer and food are on me. Just drop me a line. Safe travels.
 
Thank you for sharing this here!

Beautiful images and your dog, Hank, is awesome! You're a very talented writer and I'm looking forward to the next chapter in your journey.

Inspirational stuff!!! Keep it coming!

-Ed
 
Wow! Reminds me of my trip to Proudhoe on my vstrom back in 08. What a great write up!keep it up, loving the pics! Good luck!
 
Inspiring. You are a good photog also!

in the early pics you seem to have a diff bumper on the rear? Which did you end up with?

And what breed dog? I can't believe you got that shot of the bald eagle flying over her.

Safe travels....
 
White Stripe said:
You're brave to take a fj62 on such a trip. I'm mechanically versed, yet whenever I take a road trip with my mighty 2f I always end up fixing something. Taking a huge road trip up to Alaska I would be a bit hesitant to do.
Click to expand...

If I had to choose one vehicle to get me across the continent to save humanity from certain doom, it would be a Toyota Land Cruiser. A cruiser has never let me down. Take care of it as it takes care of you and that should always be the case.
 
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