I Drove Our 2025 Toyota Land Cruiser 8,000 Miles to the End of the Road

After years of dreaming about this adventure, I have never felt less accomplished than I did standing in front of the rusted “Welcome to Deadhorse, Alaska” sign. It was well after 9 p.m., and the warm, still air smelled heavily of diesel exhaust fumes. The sun was still well above the horizon in the northern sky, casting long shadows from the surrounding buildings. It had taken me nine long days to accomplish something I’ve long dreamed about, driving MotorTrend’s long-term 2025 Toyota Land Cruiser the 4,231 miles from Los Angeles to the end of the road—and the most northernly point you can drive to in North America—Prudhoe Bay, Alaska.

As I stood, my eyes dancing between the hundreds of stickers that act as evidence of the travelers that had preceded me, two road-worn camper vans pulled into the muddy lot behind me. From inside, two couples emerged. They appeared to be in their mid- to late 60s, and they started to take selfies in front of the sign. A gentleman from the group approached and, after establishing that I didn’t speak Spanish, proceeded in broken English to ask if I could take a photo of the full group? He said they had left their home in Argentina nine months prior, driving through South, Central, and North America following the Pan-American Highway.

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Photos by William Walker

The longer I stayed at the sign, the more travelers arrived. With foreign license plates and smiles slowly erasing the fatigue on their faces, each group took their turn parking in front of this small sign and taking photos.

Viewed through the eyes of the average person, my adventure north from Los Angeles seemed ambitious, maybe even impressive. After my short conversation with the Argentinians, I realized they intended to return home along the same route. This ragged sign, bolted to the side of a building at the northern tip of North America, only marked their halfway point. I realized then that when it comes to long road trips, I am an amateur.

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Why Prudhoe Bay?

If you have never heard of Prudhoe Bay, don’t worry. You’re not alone. Prudhoe Bay sits at the northern terminus of the Pan-American Highway, a nearly 19,000-mile network of roads that stretches almost continuously though North and South America, connecting Prudhoe Bay in the north with Ushuaia, Argentina, at the southern end, with just a 60-mile gap spanning the jungle of Panama.

Located 500 miles north of Fairbanks, Alaska, and connected by the infamously rough and remote James Dalton Highway, Prudhoe Bay is built just inland from the shores of the Arctic Ocean and acts as home base for the workers that service the Prudhoe Bay Oil Field, the largest in North America.

Prudhoe Bay is more of an oil refinery with hotels than a town; driving down the gravel streets, it’s hard to tell which buildings are oil infrastructure and which are the megahotels that serve as worker housing, cafeterias, and congregating spaces.

Unless you are one of the men or women working in support of the oil industry, most of the people who make the trek to this community at the top of the world are doing exactly what I was here to do: turn around and head south. Whether it’s the beginning of the journey or the end, like many of the places that I visited over the years, it's the journey to get here, not the destination, that’s the point.

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Illustration by Ryan Lugo

My Journey

This is my least favorite part of any adventure. I’ve been dreaming about this trip for nearly a decade. Yet somehow with my departure date only a few days away, I found myself stressed, frantically trying to finish preparing to leave. I’d accomplished major tasks like installing the roof rack and tent the previous week. A little later than I’d planned on, but a busy work schedule made it difficult to find the time. I spent my final few days at home test-fitting my gear in the Land Cruiser and shopping for supplies, all while trying to wrap my head around the task ahead of me. If I can just get on the road, I know the stress, anticipation, the nervousness will all melt away.

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Los Angeles to the Canadian Border

After a grueling 13-hour drive from Los Angeles, I stopped for my first night at Hope Campground, in the mountains outside of Provo, Utah. The campsite sits at an elevation of 6,500 feet in a densely vegetated ravine surrounded by a crown of Wasatch Range peaks that rise dramatically out of the arid mountain Utah desert.

The road up the mountain to the campsite the previous night was narrow, dark, and twisty, with steep drop-offs on one side. I didn’t realize it at the time, but had I arrived on Pioneer Day, a Utah state holiday, and the road was busy with oncoming downhill traffic from people who’d driven up the mountain to watch fireworks. It was after 11 p.m. when I rolled into my campsite, and those last 20 minutes depleted whatever energy I had to stay alert at the end of a long day.

The combination of my exhaustion, the darkness, and this being my first night conspired to make setting up the tent take longer than it should have. By the time I slipped into my sleeping bag, I was drained.

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I awoke to the sight of the mountains bathed in morning light through the canopy of trees. After a quick breakfast, I stowed the tent and hit the road headed north.

By noon I had made my way through the Salt Lake City area and out of Utah. The highway through Southeastern Idaho was lightly trafficked as it cut through the rolling prairies. My original goal for the day was to make the 728-mile journey to Saint Mary, Montana, but as the hours ticked away faster than the miles, it was becoming clear I’d need to stop short.

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Nearing the border between Idaho and Montana, the grasslands gave way to an arm of the Caribou-Targhee National Forest, a low mountain range that stretches west from Yellowstone National Park. The farther I drove, the darker the storm clouds that had been growing ahead turned. As the mountains transitioned once again into grassland on the northern side of the range, the clouds let loose with a brief but intense rain shower that nearly overwhelmed the Land Cruiser’s windshield wipers. Traffic slowed to a crawl as the deluge mixed with the spray from cars and semi-trucks and made it nearly impossible to see. Luckily the storm was short-lived and cleared almost as suddenly as it started.

Just south of Helena Mountana, I passed the western edge of the Elkhorn Mountain range. At the beginning of the 20th century my great-great-grandfather Charles Bonathan ran a boarding house along the eastern side of the range, in Winston, Montana. My great-grandfather Merlin (yes, his name was Merlin) would tell my dad stories of helping his father build new furniture as the boarding house filled up with tenants. This wouldn’t be the last trip around the family tree during this journey, but more on that later.

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Interstate 15 splits off just north of the small community of Wolf Creek, Montana, onto Highway 287, which heads northwest parallelling the eastern slopes of the mountains. The rolling pastureland bathed in golden sunset light was radiating vibrant green and yellow hues. Dictating notes into my phone, I realized I’d used the word “epic” three or four times in a row, and while I admit I might need to learn a new adjective, in this case it was warranted.

With the sun dropping behind the mountains and darkness fast approaching, my drive north continued through the small towns of Augusta and Choteau, Montana, eventually turning off onto Teton Canyon Road for the final 20 miles to my night’s stop at Cave Mountain Campground.

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The Canadian Border to Dawson Creek, British Columbia

Having arrived at camp late, the dark green pine trees, warm stony mountains, and the shallow river were cloaked in darkness. The drive from the campground to the border was equally beautiful as the previous evening’s drive, and I arrived at the U.S.-Canadian border crossing north of Babb, Montana, just after 1 p.m.

The Canadian Rockies only take up a small slice of Alberta, but I am always surprised by the flatness of the agricultural prairieland south of Calgary. The drive from the border north could have been anywhere in the Great Plains.

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Skirting along the perimeter of Calgary, I was reminded of the last time I was here, which is tied directly to this trip. In 2015 I was the assigned photographer during one of MotorTrend’s Epic Drives series, in which we drove a 2015 Nissan GT-R on a tour of the Canadian Rockies. Starting in Calgary, we explored the mountains, glaciers, caves, and prairielands over the course of a week. At the conclusion of that story, the host and video crew flew to Alaska and met up with my wife, who photographed a trip up the Dalton Highway to Prudhoe Bay in a 2014 Toyota 4Runner. It was my wife’s stories of rugged mountains, vast stretches of fall-colored tundra, bears, wolves, and the aurora borealis that made me want to embark on this adventure in the first place.

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Heading west along the Trans-Canada highway toward Banff, Alberta, low storm clouds broke across the surrounding peaks, leaving patches of fog that clung to the recesses of the rocky precipices. A light but constant drizzle showed no signs of letting up, and I had a feeling this would be my first night camping in the rain.

Connecting Lake Louise to Jasper, Alberta, the Icefields Parkway passes through Banff and Jasper National Parks. Between heavy rain showers that stretched toward the earth in thick tendrils of water, I passed through dark forests capped with fog and low-hanging clouds. The rivers and lakes, fed by the glaciers that sit above, practically glow an electric turquoise that holds the dying light longer than you’d think possible. It looks almost unnatural when set against the soaring mountains and damp ink-black forest.

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I love traveling without a set plan, but sometimes it bites you in the ass. In this case, not having a reserved campground along the route meant I had to stop at more than one campground and look for a spot. For the third night in a row, I didn't find a campsite until 11 p.m. With the temperature quickly dropping into the mid-30s and a light rain falling, I set up the Land Cruiser’s rooftop tent as quickly as possible. My sleeping bag is rated for low temperatures, yet the damp coldness seeped through the tent walls, and I ended up sleeping in my down jacket to stay warm.

My campground sat just south of the Athabasca Glacier, and after breaking camp, I made the short drive to the trailhead at the bottom of the glacier. A 15-minute walk up the first hill rewarded me with a dramatic view of the dirty white ice that flows down from the cloud-capped peaks that frame this quickly disappearing wonder. When I was here for the previous MotorTrend story, we were working in conjunction with Travel Alberta, and we were given our own glacier tour bus to visit the face of the ice floe. The balloon-tired monstrosities made for an amusing companion to the sleek Nissan GTR we were featuring in the story.

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The town of Jasper and the surrounding areas are still recovering from a catastrophic wildfire that broke out in the summer of 2024, and it was heartbreaking to see the scorched forest and rows of temporary housing for those displaced by the fire. As I continued north toward my next major milestone, Dawson Creek, British Colombia, I continued to pass through sections of burned forest. With summers being warmer and drier, and active fires burning in Canada and Alaska, wildfires were a major concern.
Bear, that’s a bear!

I had seen a couple of deer along my route, but this was my first “real” wildlife spotting. As I passed through a narrow, forested section of the road, I caught movement in my peripheral vision and spotted a grizzly bear cub splashing around in the small creek along the side of the road. Luckily, I was the only person on the road, so I pulled a U-turn to get a better look. I didn’t want to get too close and scare it, and as I rolled to a stop down the road, mama bear emerged from the trees to spoil the little one’s fun. Both quickly turned tail and disappeared into the dense underbrush.

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Dawson Creek to Yukon

It’s 6 p.m. on the fourth day, and I’ve finally started the Alaska Highway. I stopped briefly in Dawson Creek, at the sign marking the beginning of the route, and spent a few minutes talking with a group of older Harley-Davidson riders who had been making trips to Alaska together for years. I offered to arrange their bikes in an aesthetically pleasing group for a photo and after some quick positioning, shot a nice photo of the six bikers and their rides. They returned the favor with a quick snapshot of me in front of the sign.

My campsite at Buckinghorse River Wayside Provincial Park was not glamorous, but it was close to the highway and, most important, was across the street from a much-needed gas station to stop.

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The Land Cruiser has a lot of great qualities, but fuel efficiency is not one of them. In four days, I’d already filled the tank 13 times and had never got above 250 miles on a single tank. Due to the remoteness of some of the areas along my route, caution was the name of the game. Gas stations that appeared on the map weren’t always open, so I took advantage of any opportunity to fill the tank once I got below half a tank. Let’s just say stopping for gas would be a common occurrence on this trip.

One benefit of stopping so often for fuel was being able to clean my windshield properly. I kept dealing with an amusing issue of the windshield getting so completely covered in exploded bugs that it disabled the Toyota Safety Sense features like lane departure and range-sensing cruise control because the sensor suite was blocked.

My first task after fueling was an important one. The previous night’s campground was near a river, and the air was thick with mosquitos the size of small hummingbirds. While loading up to leave, the Land Cruiser’s interior had become infested. With the windows opened and crisp air rushing through the cabin, I must have looked possessed driving down the highway trying to fan the bloodsuckers out of the windows.

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Just south of Toad River, British Columbia, I spotted a herd of bison doing their civic duty by clearing away the brush on the side of the highway. Well, some of them, at least—most of the herd was soaking up the early-afternoon sun.

I spotted another bear the previous evening, a bald eagle, a large owl, and an adolescent elk. Adding in the bison, my list of wildlife was growing quickly.

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Whitehorse, Yukon, to Fairbanks, Alaska

Whitehorse is both the capital of Yukon and its largest city. It was also the largest city I’d visited since leaving Calgary, and most important, it was the only one with a Toyota dealership that was both on my route and open the day I was there. With as many miles as I was piling on, a service stop was in the cards. The further north I drove, the fewer opportunities presented themselves, and the Land Cruiser was now overdue for an oil change. Attempting to ensure a hiccup free morning, I drove long into the previous night to get close enough to comfortably make my 10 a.m. service appointment.

What I hoped would be an easy drive in the morning started off a little stressful when the gas station I looked up the night before turned out to be closed. The Land Cruiser’s onboard computer gave me an expected range of 63 miles, and I was still a little over 100 miles outside of Whitehorse. I didn’t have enough cell service to find another gas station, so I lowered my speed, switched the Land Cruiser drive mode into Eco, and proceeded with the hope that one of the upcoming small communities would have an open gas station.

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With 13 miles of expected range remaining, I found a station in Jakes Corner, Yukon, giving me plenty of fuel to make the final push into Whitehorse for an oil change and basic service.

That out of the way, I drove down the hill from the dealership to explore Whitehorse and grab a quick lunch. Since leaving Los Angeles, my supply of food had kept me fed and happy, but it was starting to dwindle, so I headed to the local grocery store to resupply.

I also used this opportunity around civilization to use the coin-operated showers at a local campground. After six days on the road, I was starting to attract flies!

Showered, shaved, and with my trusty fridge once again full, I rolled out of Whitehorse around 4 p.m. A fellow traveler at a gas station said the road north of Kluane Lake got “really bad” and that I should expect the 265-mile trip to take longer than the five or six hours I expected.

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The farther north I got, the rougher the roads became. I passed a sign noting this was a “permafrost-affected area,” which I quickly learned meant the paved road was about to get really bumpy. I also quickly learned the short sections of gravel and dirt were almost always smoother than the wavy, uneven, and potholed sections of pavement.

The Land Cruiser’s ability to soak up rough roads meant I made good time, and it was warm and humid when I finally made it to the campground at 9:30 p.m. The daytime highs had reached into the mid-80s, and I was far enough north now that even at this late hour it was still very light.

It was also one of the earlier times on the trip that I’d called it quits. With the warm temperatures, this was the perfect opportunity to break out a piece of gear I was excited about.

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The Zero Breeze Mark 3 is a portable air-conditioning unit that runs off a modular lithium-ion battery. Luck and the fact that many of my campsites had been at significant elevation allowed me to go six days into my trip without needing to break out this piece of luxurious kit.

With its induction and exhaust hoses that need to be routed outside of the tent, I’ll admit it’s a little complicated to set up, but man does it do the job. Between the balmy night air, and the added effort to set up the A/C unit, I worked up a sweat. Cranking the unit to full blast quickly cooled the tent, and I had a glorious night's sleep in total comfort.

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Alaska, Finally!

Today was the day. After seven long days on the road, I crossed the border into Alaska just after 10 a.m.

The drive to Fairbanks should have taken a little less than six hours. It ended up taking me closer to nine. Not only was my progress hampered by rough sections of road that were being repaved, but there were two very long sections shut down to a single lane. This meant waiting for a pilot truck that would make the roundtrip every 30 to 40 minutes to shepherd the serpentine line of built-up traffic through the construction zone.

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The paved sections of road were rough and congested with slow RVs and semi-trucks, which had backed up during the closures. When passing opportunities did present themselves, the Land Cruiser’s supple suspension and its 326 hp and 465 lb-ft of torque allowed me to zip past slow-moving traffic, but unfortunately those opportunities were scarce.

Driving into the outskirts of Fairbanks, I was tired and frustrated, and the skies were dark with a constant rain. After a week in the tent, I needed a break and booked a room for the night. The next day my wife was flying in to join for the remainder of the trip, and I wanted to tackle the road ahead rested.

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It’s Game Time: The Dalton Highway

Completed in the 1970s and only fully opened to the public in 1994, the 414-mile-long James Dalton Highway owes its existence to the Trans-Alaskan oil pipeline, which closely parallels the majority of the route.

Now with my co-driver (wife) in the passenger seat, we headed north from Fairbanks, picking up the beginning of the Dalton Highway near Livengood, Alaska. As the road transitions from the Elliot Highway into the Dalton, the pavement ends and turns to compacted dirt with a layer of gravel strewn over the top. Our first stop was the large wooden welcome sign set into a large pullout just north of the beginning of the route.

After a few photos of the Land Cruiser and obligatory selfies, we continued north into the late-afternoon sun. It was a little after 5 p.m., and we still had another three hours before we’d reach camp at the Arctic Circle Campground. As we made our way north, the road surface alternated between pavement and compacted gravel and dirt. Similar to my experience in Yukon, the dirt sections of road tended to be the smoother of the two surfaces. The Land Cruiser proved to be very comfortable over rough surfaces, and we maintained good speed regardless of the road.

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SMACK!

Dammit! I instinctively turned my head away from oncoming projectiles.

As we curved gently right on one of the gravel sections of road, an oncoming semi-truck—they make up the majority of traffic on the Dalton Highway—cast a tidal wave of gravel off its rear wheels, peppering the Land Cruiser’s grille and windshield. I was unfortunate enough to pick up my first rock strike just south of Fairbanks, and this single truck had added two more large impacts on the driver’s side of the windshield.

This story would continue to replay itself the farther we went. When I had the option, I’d slow and position myself as close to the edge of the road as possible as the trucks passed, but it didn’t always work out. Likewise, some of the truck drivers slowed and moved over to their respective side of the road. Other drivers maintained their speed in the center of their side of the road, passing us like a rolling blunderbuss and spraying the Land Cruiser with a mixture of dust, small gravel, and larger stones.

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We pulled into camp around 8:30 p.m. and set up. Teamwork is an amazing thing, and now that my wife had joined me for the remainder of the trip, I really appreciated having a second person to help with setup. It meant one of us could deal with setting up the tent while the other one got a fire going and started on a small dinner. This was one of the first nights I felt like I got a chance to relax a little bit at the end of the day.

Day 2 on the Dalton Highway

There are only two gas stations between the beginning of the Dalton Highway and Prudhoe Bay. The first is closer to the start of the highway where it crosses the Yukon River, and the second is in the small community of Coldfoot, Alaska. From Coldfoot to Prudhoe Bay, the next available place to get fuel is 242 miles and crosses Atigun Pass through the Brooks Range, which meant a significant gain in elevation. The Land Cruiser with its limited range would be very low on fuel when we arrived.

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With our tank full of $7.50 per gallon gas, we headed off toward Prudhoe Bay. The scenery along the Dalton Highway up until this point had been pretty, but as we headed north toward the foot of the Brooks Range, everything became grander—the mountains taller, rockier, the trees shorter and thinning out as we got our first look at the Arctic landscape.

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Massive, jagged stone peaks jutted skyward out of low forests as the road wound its way farther north. We stopped at a pullout near the Middle Fork of the Koyukuk River to take photos with the most dramatic of the peaks in the background. Another group of travelers was already there, and an older gentleman impressed on us that the road got much worse the farther you go.

One constant feature on this leg of the journey is the elevated pipeline, which seems to never be more than about a quarter mile away from the roadside and stretches as far as the eye can see. Connecting the oil fields around Prudhoe Bay to Port Valdez some 800 miles away near the Gulf of Alaska, the raised pipeline glistens in the sunlight and sits in stark contrast to the dark mountains and spectrum of green. From deep spruce to the neon grass and moss that clings to the rocks, the colors of nature are on full display.

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With small rivers, lakes, and swamps lining the road, what started as a gentle grade became progressively steeper as we neared the top of Atigun Pass. The dark gray mountains were coated in bright green grasses, moss, and low shrubs that glowed in the late-afternoon light. The road surface alternated between gravel and wet, slippery mud that caked the sides of the Land Cruiser. We pulled off the road to take some photos, and a passing truck driver slowed to warn us of some large chunks of metal debris, most likely brake parts, on one of the steeper sections of the road ahead. He asked, and we agreed to clear the pieces if it was safe. I wasn’t sure exactly what the shattered pieces of metal were from originally, but we removed them before they caused anyone a problem.

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As we descended the northern slope, the ground quickly leveled out into endless rolling hills of grass that stretched to the horizon. Toward the bottom of the mountains, a red fox zipped across the road ahead of us, a sight neither us nor the fox was expecting. To our surprise, the road eventually turned back into pavement for the final stretch into town. The road follows the Sagavanirktok River, and as you look across the water, you can see the icy permafrost that makes up the far banks. Like a 50-mile set of teeth, the scalloped indentations shined brightly in the sun.

As much as we wanted to stop, we were on the clock. Our hotel in Prudhoe Bay included dinner service, which ended at 8 p.m., and there are no other restaurants in town. We could obviously cook dinner in the parking lot, but it had already been a long day, and we were both ready to be there.

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With 15 miles of expected range to spare, we crept into the industrial city of Prudhoe Bay, the end of the road. We'd read that the north slopes of the Brooks Range are home to large herds of caribou, yet we had seen none. My wife joked we’d probably see one in town, and sure enough, a single skinny caribou acted as our welcoming party, trotting ahead of us in the middle of the road.

After checking into our hotel and taking advantage of the included buffet dinner, we drove over to the “Welcome to Deadhorse” sign, the unofficial end of the line.

The Way Home

The end is obviously not the end, though. Sure, we had made it to Prudhoe Bay, but that meant we were 4,231 miles away from home. A big chunk of our journey south covered the same ground we’d already driven, so I’ll spare you from watching the tape rewind and give you just the highlights.

Wildlife

We saw a ton more wildlife, including multiple moose, a lynx (we are, like, 87 percent sure; it was fairly dark), and multiple bears (a mama bear with four incredibly playful and fuzzy cubs) sitting just off the highway in a patch of berry bushes, eating to their hearts’ content. That brings the final tally to eight bears, four moose, a fox, a lynx, two caribou, 20 bison, an eagle, an owl, and too many deer to count. Not a bad list for a single trip.

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Suntrana, Alaska

As I mentioned earlier, I’d visit another area connected to my family on this trip.

In 1957 my great-grandparents and my grandma and grandpa on my mother’s side lived and worked in the now-erased coal mining town of Suntrana, in what was then the Territory of Alaska. There were no roads connected to the outside world, and my mother was born in a broken-down medical rail vehicle called a “doodlebug” as my grandparents tried to make the trip into Fairbanks for the birth.

Although the town no longer exists, we made a detour down a dirt road to the area where it once sat. The persistent rainclouds briefly parted, and we could still see veins of coal striping the hillsides above the forest, which has regrown in the town’s absence.

My grandma was young and had two small daughters at the time. Growing up, I could only imagine how isolated it must have felt living in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness. Now I had an idea.

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Denali Highway

The final highlight of the trip was our incredibly worthy diversion across the Denali Highway, a lightly traveled 135-mile gravel road that connects the eastern edge of Denali National Park to Paxson, Alaska.

If you didn’t have time to tackle the Dalton Highway, this would be an amazing adventure all on its own. People might be upset I’m letting you in on the secret of Denali Highway’s massive mountains, grand vistas, and pristine rivers and lakes, but if you’re going to visit Alaska, a trip across the Denali Highway should absolutely be on the top of your list of things to see.

How this stretch of road is not the most popular thing to do in Alaska is beyond me.

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Coming Home

After 18 days on the road, I rolled to a stop in front of the MotorTrend office in El Segundo. The Land Cruiser’s odometer had ticked off 8,412 miles since I had left. I’d stopped 47 times and spent $2,438 on 472 gallons of fuel. The Land Cruiser’s windshield had taken almost a dozen rock strikes, and the cracks had spiderwebbed to connect across the entire width of the vehicle. I was tired. I was sore. I was emotionally drained from almost constant 12–14-hour days of driving. And if you asked me to do it again tomorrow, I would start packing my bag.

More on Our Long-Term 2025 Toyota Land Cruiser:

• Our New Land Cruiser Has A Lot To Live Up To
• The New Toyota Land Cruiser’s Screens Make Us Scream
• Our 2025 Toyota Land Cruiser Long-Termer Makes a Great Camping Rig
• How We Decked Out Our Toyota Land Cruiser for a Trip to the Top of the World