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Dr Frazier: There’s No Place Like Nome Photo Gallery

Dr G’s adventure-touring impulse continues in The Last Frontier, as our motorcycle touring and travel expert shares experiences in Nome, Alaska. Read more in the latest Dr Frazier - There’s No Place Like Nome.

Slideshow
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This is Main Street, center of town, mid day, with no stop lights. The street is also part of the Iditarod Race Course.
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This portable gateway was the end of the Iditarod Sled Dog Race, nearly 1,200 miles from Anchorage to Nome.
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This is the location of the former home of the Dexter Saloon owned by Wyatt Earp. The new building houses the City of Nome’s government offices.
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The Dexter Roadhouse is pictured here. Hours of operation are: Thursday Night-Friday Morning: 2:00 AM – 5:00 AM, Friday Night-Saturday Morning: 3:00 AM – 5:00 AM, Saturday Night-Sunday Morning: 3:00AM – 5:00AM, Sunday: 2:00 PM – 10:00 PM.
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Pictured here is The Board of Trade Saloon, the oldest saloon in Nome, “Headquarters For The Sin City of Nome.”
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This was a pet caribou that rode around town in the back of a pick-up truck. These girls were not sure if it would bite, but finally ended up petting it. It did not bite.
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Found hidden in a portable shed was this classic Honda with a Windjammer fairing, “road ready” according to the owner.
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I found this murdered Honda deep in the bush, RIP. Notice the real bullet holes in the gas tank, not the fake paste on ones sometimes seen on motorcycles.
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The owner told me of this motorcycle, “All it needs is a tank, seat and fresh battery and she’s good to go.”
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This was one a 2-3 motorcycles I found in Nome “For Sale,” an older KTM. It had been on the market for several months. Buyers want ATVs.
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The owner of this Honda said he was keeping it for a winter restoration. The only things he needed were the parts. With 24-hours of darkness in winter he would have plenty of time.
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Mike West, owner of the Dexter Roadhouse, was the owner of this 1966 BMW R60, his “daily runner.”
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This DR Suzuki was “resting” according to a neighbor, needing only a battery, current registration and “a rider who could stay on it.”
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This was a proud new owner and his friend who wanted me to take a picture before his new motorcycle got dirty. There was a Yamaha motorcycle dealer in Nome, now possibly a Kawasaki one too.
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This was a Honda daily runner. The open pipes would announce the owner arriving at work across the street from my sleeping room at 8:00 AM each day.
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This monster truck did not move much in the summer, but was ready for the snow and ice of winter.
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I neither saw nor heard any Harley-Davidsons with loud pipes saving lives in Nome. This pictured truck was a “Loud Pipes Saving Lives” special as noted by the sign on the door. I was told there were two Harley-Davidsons in Nome.
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This dead gold dredge close to the city of Nome was in good condition. The dredges “ate” their way across the tundra with rotating and swaying buckets in the front, sifting gold in the middle and spitting the rest out the back.
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At Mile Point 20, this is how the road to Nome looked, part of the Iditarod Race Course.
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This was a roadhouse and last Check Point on the Iditarod Race Course. I was their only customer at this time, mid day.
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These were driftwood teepees located just above the beach of the Norton Sound where one would expect to find Native igloos and not teepees.
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These dogs were making ready for the dog sled days. I saw 20-30 such dog compounds in and around Nome.
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This was another teepee on the edge of the Norton Sound, 1,000’s of miles away from “Indian Country” in the Lower 48, far from home.
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This man was covered up not for the cold but for the hordes of mosquitoes that were present on this day.
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I found these three dead steam engines where they had stopped, the railroad having long since gone out of business.
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The culture so far removed from the big city, like Anchorage nearly 1,000 miles away, seemed to live by a law of “throw nothing away.”
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This Beetle Volkswagon did not run, but did have value as a storage unit in the bush.
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This is the treeless road to Council, with snow alongside in July.
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This was another dead gold dredge deep in the bush, long silenced and rotting. When alive it made a thunderous sound as it ate rocks, brush and muck in search of gold.
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To reach Council I was faced with crossing this thigh deep river. A month later it would have been doable on a motorcycle. At this time it was doable, maybe.
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The Native Tribal Council offices in Council.
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This was the town of Council’s fire truck, resting or dead.
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This pictured track I followed deep into the bush, reportedly a favored home for grizzly bears, none of which I saw.
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Here I was camping in the rain with a crowd of mosquitoes. The time was close to midnight, the days being light nearly 24 hours in early July, a few miles above Council.
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Pictured here my Kawasaki is headed back to Nome from Council with my souvenir moose antler.