Iditarod Recap - Part 4: Kaltag to Nome, the finish

The arrival into Kaltag brings a huge sense of accomplishment to every musher who has ever run the Iditarod and mushed the Yukon River. It is a major step in the race, and the finish line suddenly feels within reach. As I cared for my team in Kaltag and prepared for our next leg of the race, I discussed this with my fellow racers (there were about a dozen of us parked together at the checkpoint). A few people in particular were getting excited about how close we were to Nome. There was a pause in conversation, followed by a contemplative silence as everyone calculated how far the finish really was. A somber mood fell with the snow, as I pointed out that we still had over 300 miles left in the race. This was actually the first time that I thought about the finish of the race, and looked at the big picture.

It is very important when running such a long distance, with so many runs and rests, to focus on one leg at a time. “How is the team looking, and what is my plan for the next run (or two or three at most)?” It tends to be quite discouraging to look 300 miles down the trail and try and think about scenarios that are days away, and out of your immediate control. Our conversation in Kaltag did not help any of our spirits, and made the remaining part of the race seem quite daunting. With a team of eight dogs, I had to really fight the feeling of being overwhelmed. For a brief moment, I started to compare the remaining part of this race to the Copper Basin (a 300 mile race that is one of the toughest in the world, and one I have run a few times). I had to quickly change my outlook, and go back to focusing on the immediate: “How are we going to most successfully run the next 80 miles to Unalakleet?”

The goal of “racing” had long since been set aside, and the focus was now on making it to Nome with the remaining eight dogs. Peter Fleck and I had made a plan to run the remaining race together. We had a well matched group of dogs, and each team had different strengths. My dogs were always eager to jump off the straw, and Pete’s group (still having 12 members) had a little more power to break trail. With the trail conditions, the plan for the remaining part of the race was to stop at every available opportunity. Old Woman cabin (located at mile 40 on the way to the Bering Sea coast) conveniently broke this upcoming run in half. We would stop here for a couple hours and give the dogs a meal and a rest. I knew the trail conditions would be slow, and I was not disappointed.

Having a GPS is not always helpful when running dogs, and it was quite discouraging to look down and read that we were moving at just over six miles per hour. This was especially annoying because for the first time in a few hundred miles, we were actually following fresh snowmachine tracks. But, the quality of the snow had recently changed, and this new texture was quite abrasive and grippy (a coastal snow, which is known for having the texture of sand). All in all, the run to Old Woman was uneventful and smooth, but just felt to be passing in slow motion.

In the light of early morning, we arrived at our camp. The dogs ate, and then curled on their straw. We were getting a reprieve from the snow, and I took the opportunity to stretch out and sleep with my team. It was a quality nap, and I awoke feeling rested and ready for the coast, which was now one run away. A few miles out of Old Woman, I came across a team stretched out in the middle of the trail. They were in full on camp mode, and I recognized the musher immediately.

Brad Farquhar had been a beginning musher the year before, and had lived and worked for Ken Anderson, one of our neighbors who has run the Iditarod for the last two decades. Brad had learned to mush and run his Iditarod qualifiers in one year, and was now attempting to finish Iditarod before moving on to his next “bucket list” item. This phenomenon is somewhat popular with Iditarod, and the musher is known as a “rent a teamer” (because they lease a dog team to race with). A lot of mushers who own their own kennels and have put in the time and labor of raising and training their own group of dogs, are a bit prejudice towards “rent a teamers.” The resentment typically stems from the feeling that these people are simply buying their way into an experience that most people have worked and sacrificed for years to achieve. Regardless, there is no doubt that someone who is running a new team, with little experience in mushing, tends to be more at risk for having difficulty while travelling such a long distance.

Brad had left Old Woman an hour or so in front of me. After a couple miles, he had trouble convincing his dogs to keep moving down the trail and had no leaders to take the team forward. As I came upon him spread across the trail, I had to call my dogs around his crashed out team and convince them to pass his piles of food. I had to jump off the sled and guide the team by, acting as the lead dog. This was the only time in the entire race I had to do this. As I returned to my sled, my anger and frustration (about far more than this team being in the trail) was directed at Brad. I unloaded on him, and pointed out that he needed to move his outfit off the trail for other teams that were going to need to pass. I explained this in short order, with a few expletives thrown in for good measure, and then called to my team to leave this show behind. I was mean, and as soon as we got back to moving, I felt bad.

A few miles down the trail, I looked back to see a team quickly approaching. Expecting to see Pete, I was surprised to see Brad (easily recognizable with his bright, orange hat). I put on the brakes as he caught up, and hollered back to apologize for yelling at him. Brad is a very nice guy, and took it in stride with no hard feelings. He responded by saying that “you wouldn’t believe it, but as you went by, my dogs jumped right up to follow you.” I shook my head, knowing how dogs love to chase, and we continued towards Unalakleet, his team following mine for motivation.

The trail from Kaltag to Unalakleet. An overland trade route that has existed for millenia, connecting the Bering Sea to the Interior and the Yukon River.

Pete, Brad and I travelled together around the Bering Sea coast towards Nome. With the continual wind and snow, we each brought our own, unique energy to the group. Our teams were all well matched, although with different strengths. I ended up leaving each checkpoint first, as I was running the smallest group of dogs (less time to get them ready to run). My dog’s attitudes were also exceptional, and they were the most eager of the three teams to get off the straw (as we prepped to leave Unalakleet, my eight dogs were actually jumping and screaming with excitement). Pete’s team was the most powerful, and he would end up passing me to break trail. Brad had an amazing attitude, and was loving every moment of traveling down the trail. He was a very uplifting person to travel with, and his dogs (actually Ken Anderson’s) were strong enough, but just needed a team to follow (he would usually stay on Pete’s heels and pass me as Pete did). Brad also had an amazing supply of goodies in his sled, and loaned me a pair of boots and book of matches in Unalakleet. I was very grateful for both, especially the boots which allowed me to run and pedal up every hill to the finish.

Mushers often forget the amount of hills that surround Norton Sound. They are not to be overlooked! With the exception of the second coastal run from Shaktoolik to Koyuk, which is all on frozen sea ice, the other four runs have monster rolling hills. These add thousands of feet of climbing in the last 250 miles of the race. Although these hills are an incredible workout, for dogs and musher alike, they give way to amazing views at the top, making the reward worth the work.

The weather had started to break as we mushed from Koyuk to Elim, and by the time we left Elim in late afternoon, the skies were clear. The 45 miles from Elim to White Mountain were a culmination of a season’s worth of hard work, and embodied everything that the Iditarod represents to me as a musher.

Resting in Elim. Well, everyone but Knox.

At this point in the race, I knew that one way or another we would reach the finish line. With that realization, I was able to set aside any stress, and with clear skies and only minimal wind, enjoy every moment of this run. We started with a seven mile climb up “Little McKinley,” bringing us about 2000 above the coast. We then followed one ridgeline to the next, chasing the setting sun. The views were incredible in all directions, and the color in the sky was just amazing to watch (especially after over a week of nothing but snow). In the distance, I could watch Pete and Brad slowly gain ground on us. It was fun to feel that comradery of traveling with other mushers, knowing they too were enjoying this amazing piece of trail.

The view as we mush towards White Mountain

At last, the two larger teams caught up to us, and together we ran over the remaining 10 miles of hills into Golovin (a small community about 16 miles from White Mountain). Just as we approached town, the northern lights came out, and we pointed a portion of our attention to the sky. At this point, Pete and Brad had passed me. On the other side of Golovin, I stopped to put on dog jackets and give my team a snack. The wind had picked up, and the temperature had fallen to -15. I was so startled and confused, when suddenly a team came up behind me and went whizzing by! After initial surprise, I started laughing as I realized it was Brad. Apparently, he had devoted a little too much attention to the sky, and missed the trail out of Golovin.

Leaving the town, we run across Golovin Bay. With a nice tail wind, I was able to sit on my sled, shut off my light, and watch the sky. Even though I have grown up in Alaska, and see the lights frequently throughout the winter, the aurora never loses its beauty and intrigue, and I spent the better part of two hours watching it dance, the lights of Golovin slowly fading behind us. The emotional realization that this was our last night on the trail, and that we were going to finish, suddenly hit me. With tears in my eyes I watched the form of my team move in the subtle light from the sky. I thought back across the last 11 days, and the ups and downs of the race. I thanked my team. I thanked them for their loyalty and their strength. I thanked them for their intelligence and their drive. I thanked them for being there as my family. I knew that this had not been an easy race for them, but these eight dogs had tackled the challenges head on, and had never shown a moment of hesitation. In that moment, I felt that I could travel with them, like this, forever.

As we prepped to leave White Mountain, after serving our mandatory eight hours, I almost regretted having to call this our last run. Reality took hold, however, and I thought about the remaining 60 miles. Many a team has had their race come to an end in this stretch, and that thought helped to get me back on track. A breeze had picked up on the river where we were parked, beneath White Mountain, and I knew that this was an ominous sign of the miles to come. If it is windy here, the exposed Topkok Hills would be storm. And past that, the coast of Norton Sound, and the infamous “blowhole,” would be wild!

In 2014, this section of trail completely changed the outcome of the Iditarod front pack. Jeff King had his entire team blown off course in the “blowhole,” and the dogs got tangled in driftwood lining the coast. In the time it took him to get them untangled, they laid down and decided it was time to camp. Aliy Zirkle then passed him, unknowingly, and when she reached the final checkpoint of Safety, stopped to reassess her team. As she was stopped, Dallas Seavey mushed through. He signed in and out of the checkpoint, and went on to win the race, all the while thinking that he was still in third position.

Three miles out of White Mountain, we climbed off Fish River and were confronted with a strong breeze. Looking across the five mile swamp we were currently running, the Topkok hills were locked in cloud cover. Except, it was a blue sky day, and there were no other clouds around. What I was seeing, in fact, was blowing snow, crowning off the hills and forming “snow clouds.” I decided I was now ready for the race to be over. I did not want to face anymore wind.

In a protected spot just before the hills, I stopped and put jackets back on the dogs. I had removed them before leaving the checkpoint, thinking the temperature was going to rise. It was currently five degrees, however, and it looked like we were going to be facing dangerous winds as we got into the hills. As I pulled the hook and climbed the first small rise into the hills, the strong breeze turned into a 40 mile per hour cross wind. Despite the fact that Pete was only minutes in front of us, Qarth and Knox were breaking through belly deep drifts with no sign of any other team. We would see obvious sled tracks and an icy, rock hard trail one moment, and then bottomless drifts and soft powder the next. While I fought to keep the sled behind the dogs, cutting one side slope after another, the dogs fought to keep their footing and a steady pace with the extreme variation in snow conditions. We were about 12 miles into a 60 mile run… By the time two and a half hours had passed, my shoulders and arms were more fatigued then they had been the entire race. The side hills, coupled with the strong winds made for some of the most demanding sled driving of the whole race. And, I knew we had not hit the worst of it.

After about 25 miles, the trail through the Topkok Hills spits you out onto the coast of Norton Sound for the remaining 35 miles to Nome. But, you must immediately pass through an eight mile section known as the “blowhole.” Regardless of the weather, this piece of the coastline is pummeled by a constant wind that funnels out of the mountains and straight out to sea. This constant wind only increases when there is a storm, of course. During the last couple miles of the Topkoks, I could look out to sea and watch the wind rip across patches of open water. The view was amazing! Watching the turbulent salt water while mushing at five degrees in a winter storm, was a very cool experience. Rounding the final hill, I could keep one eye on the open water and then look over the coast to a grey/white expanse. What is usually definable coastline, was nothing but a cloud. One look told me that was the “blowhole,” and I could follow the distant trail markers straight into the middle of a whiteout.

As we dropped out of the hills and approached the edge of what now looked like a living beast, I was met with a single second of hesitation. Just before we hit the coastline, there is a tiny safety cabin. Parked against that cabin, was a team that had left White Mountain four hours in front of us. Knox saw them, and before I could give it thought, I was calling him and Qarth out towards the coastline. The power of the wind that hit us twenty steps later, is hard to describe. I had one more second of mental pause, and then watched the way my two leaders leaned into the wind and hit the storm with more drive than I could have ever asked for. I knew at that moment that there was nothing else in the world except the here and now. It was time to mush!

The wind went from strong to absurd! I had never mushed in anything close to these conditions before. I went from an aggressive crouch, to sitting on my right heel and holding onto the base of the upright stanchions, my hands positioned only about six inches off the runners. I was trying to get as low as possible and hold the sled down to the trail. Any moment that I relaxed, the sled would spin perpendicular to the dog team, pointing into the wind. In order to keep the sled tracking behind the dogs, I pulled out my knife and drug its blade through the ice on the uphill side of the sled, using it as a rudder. This was a first!

Fifteen minutes into the harshest of the wind, I needed to reposition my legs. After sheathing my knife, I straightened my back. As I did so, the wind caught my body and immediately blew us over. This would be the one and only point in the entire race where I tipped my sled and drug behind the dogs. The ground was completely flat.

I estimate the wind was blowing a steady 70 miles per hour for this eight miles of trail. I stopped twice in this section. Once with my tipping and dragging activity, and then again as Mereen got blown into her brother and tangled in his line. Each time I walked to the front of the team, the dogs would have a layer of snow and ice caked to one side of their tail and face (the majority of their bodies being protected by the jackets). I would brush them off, give them a quick pat, and then get back to my sled which was ready to go airborne if not for the snowhook rope keeping it anchored down. Every time they felt me pull the hook, they hit their tugs and were eager to get going. I guess they trusted that I would get them out of this weather eventually.

At last, the wind calmed to a pleasant 30 miles per hour, and I deemed it safe to stop and make a snack break. In the last mile, I had noticed Qarth make a change to his gait, and now as he stood in lead, I could see that he had pulled something in his back. It was time to give my heaviest dog a ride in the sled. He did not protest, and seemed happy to find reprieve from the storm. With Braavos joining Knox in lead, we continued our progress towards the finish line, albeit at a markedly slower pace with now only seven dogs in harness. I pulled out the ski pole and began my familiar motion of pedaling and ski poling with the team. The wind was now calm enough I could stand upright on the runners, and only needed to have a mild lean into the wind.

The final challenge before reaching the burled arch of the finish, is a climb over “Cape Nome.” Just for fun, the race trail goes up and over a thousand foot hill 12 miles from Nome. Although there is a trail around the “mountain,” the markers take teams straight up the long climb. The view of the western Seward Peninsula is admittedly beautiful, but I am not sure it is worth the tradeoff. This hill was a workout for the seven dogs hauling Qarth, but they tackled it honestly, and reached the top with wagging tails and alert eyes. This would be our final stop on the Iditarod Trail, and I took a moment to give every dog another snack, a fresh change of booties, and a quick rub. In this time, Brad gained on us and attempted a pass. Although his team had somehow been able to power through the “blowhole” on their own, the team was not motivated to stay in front of my dogs. After a few attempts, he took my suggestion and stayed a little ways behind me for the remaining miles to Nome.

It is a bizarre experience to go from the complete remoteness of the Topkok Hills (and the majority of the Iditarod Trail, for that matter), to the relative urban development of Nome. As we trotted down the beach towards the city, cars drove up and down the road next to us, snowmachines buzzed by, a jet took flight in the distance. We were still mushing, still leaning into a steady cross wind, but something had changed. I embraced the change. I congratulated the dogs. As we approached Front Street, I made a quick stop. I pulled Qarth out of the sled and put him in team next to his sister. This dog had led through each of the most difficult sections of trail on this race, and I thought he deserved to be a legitimate finisher, in harness. I guess, it was what I wanted to see from him, more than anything. 

The eight dogs that had run with me for the last 450 miles moved as they had for days, light and easy, making their steps seem effortless. As we ran down the paved street to the finish line, and KattiJo and my Mom who were eagerly awaiting, I could see more finishes in their future.

Thank you to my amazing group of dogs!

Finishers:

Knox – Led for over half the race, and has attitude and endurance that is unmatched

Qarth – The most incredible dog I have ever owned!

Mereen – Smooth and fierce, her future is bright

Braavos – The most eager dog in this year’s race, he loved tailing Spears (who was in heat, haha)

Tundra – At 10, this was his final Iditarod. The couch is in his future

Spears – The easiest dog on the team, her four foot leap to run is pretty inspiring

Moe – A surprise finisher! Let’s see if he is ready for next year.

Whiskey – Our youngest team member, at 20 months. Super appetite, light step. Good boy!

Dropped:        

     

Polar – (Anvik) I had the hardest time dropping this guy. He has grown immensely this year, and should make next year’s team

Ambler – (Shageluk) Super strong, but suffering from chronic shoulder issues, Ambler’s racing career is uncertain

Frito – (Iditarod) This guy loved every minute of the race. A swollen wrist knocked him out this year, but he will be back next year

Forty – (Ophir) Outgoing as ever, he should be ready for next year

India – (McGrath) As with her son, Ambler, her shoulders have proven to be a problem on tough trails. Her attitude on new trails, however, is great!

Pogo – (McGrath) The smartest Gee/Haw leader we have! I sure hope I can get this guy through next year’s race (his physical durability is the issue)

Elton – (McGrath) This little nut is living on the couch! He was adopted after the race by a local Fairbanks resident

Yunkai – (Nikolai) A beast! No dog has his appetite, or his semi-psychotic attitude… His racing career comes down to whether or not he wants it. It is all mental with Yunkai

Iditarod 2018 - Part 3: Don's Cabin to Kaltag

Don’s “cabin,” a ten by twelve rundown shack, was a warm a comfortable place to stretch out the sleeping bag, and stay out of the blizzard that had hammered on us during the run from Ophir. It was also small enough that there was no risk of oversleeping as other mushers awoke and prepped to leave. After an hour of sleep, mushers around me started to rise and don their layers (looking and moving a little like zombies). A combination of rest and daylight seemed to calm people’s nerves about the trail conditions, and most seemed eager to get back to running.

The world outside of the cabin was still that of a snow globe, and all the dogs and gear were covered in a fresh layer of powder. My team perked their heads as I walked up to the sled, and they were all eager to have a frozen slice of beef. I started my cooker (melting snow to water), as the first teams in our group pulled the hook and departed the camp. In the hour it took for me to feed and repack the sled, six more teams left Don’s, and three other teams arrived: having made the trek from Ophir and all reporting the same conditions we had experienced.

Qarth is wondering why I woke him up. Don's Cabin in the background

I was ready for more snow and slow travelling, and I kept Qarth in lead, knowing the trail would be difficult. As soon as I pulled the hook and we left the protected area around the cabin, the wind was back and the trail was completely gone (even though, again, that next team was only 15 minutes in front of us). Conditions, however, did improve as we progressed down the trail, and there were only small sections that were completely obscured. This gave me the opportunity to do some sight-seeing as I ski poled along with the dogs (an action that helps to remove my weight from the runners and propel the sled down the trail).

It is hard to say what segment of this race was the prettiest, but this run from Don’s Cabin to Iditarod was certainly one of them. Rolling hills, with sparse tree coverage, gave great vantage points to look out across small alpine lakes. The calming snow and lifting clouds gave a few miles of visibility, and I was able to enjoy the beauty of the large valley we were travelling through. The winds were still steady, so intermittent drifts and windblown hills kept the mushing interesting.

A brief bit of creek running between the hills 

In total, this run took us just under seven hours for 40 miles. It was slow going, and the hills seemed endless. The dogs were in good spirits, but the last few climbs, into what was now a strong head wind, started to take its toll on their energy level. In addition, Frito developed a swollen wrist on the later part of the run, and needed to be loaded for the last hour. All in all, as we parked in Iditarod, I knew the dogs needed a longer rest and a few heavy meals. We ended up spending just over ten hours.

Catching some serious shut eye in the ghost town of Iditarod

This next leg of our race was probably one of the most enjoyable of the whole trip. The 65 miles to Shageluk is mostly hills, and the first half was supposed to be some of the hilliest of the whole race. Although the wind was still ripping over the hills, I had guessed there would be a more discernable trail, and decided to give Qarth a break from leading. Ambler and Tundra would make their debut, and I expected to keep a slower speed with those two up front (Tundra is our oldest racing dog at 10, and Ambler tends to be a bit of a monkey in lead).

In the first half mile out of Iditarod, we passed two teams (I had been the last team in our group to leave the checkpoint, and five of us were separated by only a few minutes). Allen Moore, running a young team of dogs, had been having some leader trouble, and was only a few hundred yards down the trail before he needed to stop and adjust a few dogs. As I went by, he was able to get his dogs rolling, and draft behind my team for the majority of the run. Together, we passed our second team only a quarter mile later.

Dogs tend to need time to warm up as they get off their straw and get back to running. Every group of dogs takes a different amount of time to stretch out and shake off, depending on how fast they have been running, what (and how much) they have had to eat on their rest, and what (if any) minor soreness and muscle injury they are needing to work out before they really settle in to pulling at 100 percent.

My team had been really quick to warm up all race, and this run was no exception. They were all in a smooth rythum by mile two, and Ambler was driving like a crazy man (probably going a little too hard, in hind sight). We hit our first hill at about mile three, and it was a good one: I looked up, and among the stars, was the light of Monica Zappa’s headlamp. With some quick pedaling, and my trusty ski pole in my right hand, we started the ascent. I could tell by the trail conditions, that Monica was breaking through small drifts and windblown patches, and footing was not very good. As we reached the summit of this first climb, I could see the outline of her team and watched her start a second hill. Ambler and Tundra were pumped to see Monica so close, and they drove hard to catch her midway up this ascent. We had a minor tangle on this pass, and we were both off the sleds to separate our dogs. Stepping off the trail, I was immediately waist deep in snow. We both had a good laugh about the ridiculous weather, and then got back to the trail.

By the time we peaked this second hill, the wind was a steady 30 miles per hour, and the gusts felt like they may halt us in our tracks. I was feeling great about the dog’s performance, however, and Ambler and Tundra were clearly having a blast running into the wind. In between strides of pedaling and ski poling, I would spin around and watch the line of headlamps behind us. Another team had joined our group from Iditarod, and there were four lights in a line moving through the blowing snow. It was a very cool image to be a part of.

Originally, sitting at home with a warm cup of coffee and an idealist mindset, I had planned to run straight through from Iditarod to Shageluk, 65 miles. Now, running a group of ten dogs at mile 500, and dealing with constant wind, I knew that a stop at halfway would be smart. Back at Iditarod, we were informed about a nice shelter cabin at mile 30. This would be our place to rest.

Just as the light was returning to the sky, we rounded a sharp bend and dropped onto the front step of the Big Yentna shelter cabin. A few other teams were parked and resting, and I got my team pulled off the trail and onto a large pile of used straw (it was clear that many teams in the race had also stopped here). I got the dogs settled and sleeping in short order (there are some advantages to a smaller team), and made my way into the cabin to catch some shut eye. The Iditarod Insider had a film crew at the cabin, and got me aside for a short interview. It felt a bit comical to be speaking into a camera in such a remote area.

After a few hours of rest, we were back on the trail and now mushing under a bright sun. The wind had abated, and it now felt downright warm. The dogs also felt the sun, and our speed was a bit diminished on our run to Shageluk. About two hours from the checkpoint, Ambler slipped in a hole and pulled his right shoulder. Now, having a 65 pound dog riding in the sled, our speed slowed a little more. One of our best runs of the race, was now followed by one of our worst. And that is the nature of Iditarod and long distance racing: highs and lows, one after another.

Approaching Shageluk

The arrival into Shageluk is pretty neat. As we crested our last hill of the run, we overlooked the Yukon River valley, and saw the mighty river for the first time. It is still quite far in the distance (Shageluk doesn’t actually sit on the river), but the valley makes quite an impression, and signals a significant step on the thousand mile journey to Nome.

The dogs did not eat particularly well in Shageluk, and I was feeling pretty demoralized having to drop Ambler. My spirits were boosted, however, having a good conversation with race judge Justin Savidis. He is a musher who I had not met, but heard really good things about. Having finished the seven previous Iditarods, he was able to give me some good insight into managing a small team for the next 450 miles (and also how to deal with the mental struggle of taking care of a sick dog team). The dogs, although improving since Rohn, had still been a little under the weather, with loose stools and a diminished appetite.

I left Shageluk feeling ready to tackle the next 200 miles. It would be exclusively river running, and we were very likely to be heading into a strong head wind as we worked up the river. Everyone looked good as we started this run, and the plan was to make the quick, 27 mile run to Anvik, and blow through to Grayling (18 more miles) and rest. This planned was quickly scraped, however.

As we snaked through a portage about two hours into our run, a moose jumped into the trail in front of the dogs, and encouraged everyone to hit the harness at 110 percent. Typically, this is not a risk for the dogs on a physical level, but being so far into a race, their bodies are not always ready for a quick change in speed and exertion. Polar, having been both physically and mentally one of the strongest on the team, gave all his energy to try and catch the moose. As soon as the animal was spooked off the trail, and the dogs settled down, Polar had a significant head bob. A clear sign that he had strained his shoulder, he now needed a ride in the sled.

So, Anvik was our next place to rest. Funny enough, this was the one place on the entire trail where I was sure I would not stop. As we were preparing food drops, I had reluctantly sent out enough food to stop for a couple hours, but had skimped on every other provision. Luckily, nine dogs do not need a lot, and temperatures were still pretty warm for me (so, extra gloves and socks were not essential).

As I rested the dogs, I took a serious look at the team and the rest of the race. Without Polar, I would be leaving Anvik with eight dogs, and be looking at the races longest stretch of unsupported trail. Eagle Island checkpoint was experiencing bad weather, and mushers would need to carry everything they needed for the 120 mile leg from Grayling to Kaltag. This would not have been a daunting task with a larger team, or with a smaller group of dogs that were not 550 miles into a challenging race. At this point, however, I felt some hesitation about continuing.

There were a few factors that kept me going, and got us out of Anvik. As I pulled into the checkpoint, I met up with Peter Fleck, a musher who was running a puppy team for Mitch Seavey, and a guy with a very positive outlook on life. He was a good reminder to keep having fun, and always focus on the team members that are strong and doing well (don’t get bummed by the negative). He also helped me analyze the Yukon River run, and determine how to get to Kaltag in the best manner (having made this unplanned stop in Anvik).

I also had a chance to chat with Katti via messenger. Although she was not travelling the trail, she was able to remind me that we had trained the majority of the winter with small teams, and eight dogs can easily cover hundreds of miles. This was a very good boost, and lifted my spirits a bit. I was also motivated by the fact that I did have eight healthy dogs who were eager to keep going. I owed it to those dogs, if no one else, to keep traveling and help them have a good and successful race. As long as I could set them up for success, we could still make it to Nome and have a good time getting there.

After six hours, we pulled the hook and left Anvik. I would resupply in Grayling, and make two breaks (three runs) over the next 140 miles to Kaltag. As long as the weather wasn’t too brutal, I figured our chances of making it were good. As it turned out, the run up the Yukon River was great! The dogs performed well, ate well, and seemed to be kicking their stomach bug with the help of some high powered antibiotics.

A few miles from Grayling

Our first rest on the Yukon

The end of our first leg on the river, had us resting about 25 miles north of Grayling. I found a protected spot out of the wind (rare on this river), and in the sun. The dogs enjoyed a perfect rest during the warmest part of the day. The second leg of our run was easy going with only minimal wind. The only point of interest on this run, was a brief bit of hill climbing around midnight…

Without warning, trail markers appeared hundreds of feet above us, and the trail started up this long climb. The dogs slowed with the ascent, and I started ski poling and pedaling with vigor. After a couple minutes, we reached no clear summit, and suddenly started dropping in elevation. The dogs picked up, and I threw the ski pole on the sled, riding the drag to slow us down. The dogs gave me a serious look back, and I let off the drag a bit. I shut my eyes for a long blink, as we continued our descent. As I re-opened them, I realized we were still traveling the mile wide Yukon River. It has no hills. I was hallucinating.

Our second stop on the Yukon, was about 15 miles north of Eagle Island. I felt very fortunate to find another calm and protected spot on the river, and made a comfortable camp for me and the team. After a quick meal, and a bed of straw for the dogs, I was zipped up in my sleeping bag and sound asleep. I then proceeded to sleep through my two alarms, and the half a dozen teams that passed.

I awoke at exactly the time I had wanted to leave. Snow was falling steady, and a breeze had picked up. I jumped out of my bag, feeling very much in a panic, and got the cooker going (the dogs still needed a soup and snack before hitting the trail). Being hit with a wind in our camping spot, I knew the middle of the river would be in a full-fledged storm as we got moving.

After a total of seven and a half hours, we were off our straw and rolling down the trail. Mereen and Knox were in lead together at this point, but that changed as we hit the first exposed section with no trail. After a couple adjustments, Qarth found his way back to single lead, and took us plodding into blowing snow and drifting/disappearing trail. Although it was getting close to white-out at this point, sun glasses were still essential as the blowing snow had the texture of sand. This also affected the glide of the sled runners, and the progress up river was slow and taxing for the dogs. By the time we reached Kaltag, we had been running for almost nine hours to cover 50 miles, and the dogs were fighting belly deep drifts for much of the last 20 miles. Despite the slow going, however, their attitudes remained perky, and they pulled off the Yukon looking healthy and ready for more trail (as long as it did not involve more river).

Iditarod 2018 - Part 2: Rainy Pass to Don's Cabin

The slow ascent into Rainy Pass is quite an awe inspiring experience. Huge peaks loom overhead, and you are truly mushing in the mountains. I arrived into this area in late afternoon, and the light quality on a clear day was just breathtaking (and, I am not someone to use that phrase lightly). The elevation is not actually that high (the checkpoint at Puntilla Lake is right around 2800 feet), but it feels like you are about to summit Denali. There are quite a few steep climbs to reach the lake, and this year’s trail was rerouted to go over a “wall;” a 300 foot climb at a 50 degree incline. This was probably one of my favorite parts of this run, as our team is so talented at climbing hills.

We train in an area with lots of hills, and we work at motivating our dogs to charge up steep inclines. As we approached this particular ascent, my dogs spotted two teams parked on the hill and got excited to catch up to them. I also got excited to see the teams, and figured this would be a great opportunity for us to show off our hill climbing strength. I unzipped my jacket in preparation, and whistled to the team as we started the hill (a good reminder to really hit the harness and give it your all). The dogs took little encouragement, and were in a full lope for the first half of the ascent. We passed the first team without even a glance, and quickly gained on the second team (which was moving slowly forward). As we got to their heels, the musher stopped and my leaders flawlessly dodged to the left and powered past their first pair of dogs. Just to keep our speed and energy, I hoped off the sled and gave the team the “alright” command to really drive us past. The dogs were incredibly motivated and charged to the top of the hill in one smooth motion. Good dogs!

A few miles from Rainy Pass

After ascending the wall, it was now quite apparent that the checkpoint was only a few minutes away (we could hear the roar of small planes and snowmachines on the lake). In my previous Iditarod, this had been a quiet checkpoint to rest in, and I actually overslept my alarm by a few hours that year. My arrival time in this year’s race was much earlier, and consequently, the checkpoint was a much different experience. There were about 30 teams on the lake, either parking, resting, or getting ready to depart, and they were complimented with 8 planes on the lake and about 10 snowmachines buzzing around (either watching dog teams, or transporting goods to and from the airstrip). The lodge at Puntilla Lake runs a year round business, and one of their busiest times coincides with Iditarod (people pay to stay at the lodge and watch teams come through). The guests also take flight seeing and snowmobile tours over the trail, so on a beautiful afternoon, there was quite a lot of activity. Although the dogs and I got very little rest, it was a fun place to watch other dog teams and see a few friends (one of our fellow mushers was watching her husband in the race, and was able to take a message back to Katti).

Parked at Rainy Pass (on Puntilla Lake). A vet checks over the team as they catch some rest.

I had planned a longer rest at Rainy Pass (about six hours), but after about three hours of commotion, I decided it was time for us to get moving and attack the Dalzell Gorge (hands down the most technical part of this race, and a place where many people have had their race come to an end). I was not particularly worried about this section of trail, having done it before and also having a very well trained and obedient dog team. You can imagine the difference between a group of dogs who barks and screams to go as soon as you stop, and a group that simply wags their tails and eats some snow. The first group of dogs can easily “pull the hook” and send you careening down the wrong trail, or into open water, risking the entire team and the outcome of your race. The second group, which our dogs fall into, I would feel pretty confident stopping almost anywhere. All of that being said, the Gorge was still one hell of a wild ride!

We left Puntilla Lake (Rainy Pass checkpoint) at about nine in the evening. A gentle breeze had picked up, and as we climbed out of the checkpoint, and towards the pass itself, I expected a full on storm. The wind, however, remained only breezy, and the dogs were in perfect movement as we neared the 3,400 foot summit. This was also some of the coldest weather they would experience all race, about 5 degrees, and they were loving the trail. After 18 miles, we peaked the summit and began our descent through the mountains and into the Dalzell Gorge. This section is so infamous because of its steep descents, glare ice creek crossings, and minimal snow coverage (often leaving rocks and tree stumps fully exposed). Oh yeh, did I mention that there are large trees on this section as you drop in elevation? Well, lookout!

The “Gorge” starts out pretty mild, with gentle drops, sweeping turns, and a few creek crossings that are only a foot or so deep. We had only minor hiccups with a couple of the water crossings, getting slightly wet feet as the dogs got confused about the best way to cross. And then, this is where details get a bit foggy. After about two and a half hours of running, we really start to drop, following the edge of a small creek that brings us through the mountains. Following a creek sounds all nice and dandy, but imagine a mountain creek for a minute. It has quick moving rapids, shallow falls, and sharp turns with little to no bank. I have to give an incredible amount of credit to the Iditarod trail breakers, they are able to make a trail where one should not viably exist.  

The climax of this run includes a 200 foot descent that is well over 45 degrees in pitch, and has trees lining the drop, and boulders waiting on either side at the bottom. There is also a 90 degree turn in there, as well (I do remember that clearly). Although a lot of this run will be blissfully forgotten until next year, I do distinctly recall dropping this hill and realizing that if I made a false move, the chances of getting hurt and destroying my sled were quite high. I carried a GPS for this race, and logged every section of this year’s trail. The GPS also notes max speed (something I would rather not know). On this drop, we hit 21 miles per hour. I believe that to be 100 percent accurate (I have never gone so fast and out of control on a dogsled). It was also the most fun and exciting sled driving I have done in recent memory! You just have to block out all the potential disasters, and enjoy the thrill of the moment.

The last couple miles into Rohn give mushers a chance to mentally decompress and regroup (we are running the Tatina River, and it is smooth and easy trail). My original plan, had been to “jump” Rohn and continue another 18 miles. However, with the warmer temps, and a team that was a bit under the weather, I figured it was best to rest in the checkpoint for a few hours.

Parking in Rohn is a nightmare! It is a heavily wooded checkpoint that is managed by the BLM (no chain sawing allowed). The volunteer crew at the checkpoint does an amazing job of walking your team into the woods to park, but it literally takes 6 people holding the gangline to get you to your parking spot. Because teams are still very close together at this point in the race, we end up waiting for quite a few minutes to actually get help to park. The process is pretty funny, and involves a bit of yelling between the volunteers and the musher on the sled. Once teams are parked, it is about a 20 minute round-trip walk to the Kuskokwim River to collect water for your dogs (we often melt snow, but this checkpoint sits in a rain shadow on the north side of the Alaska Range, and has only a couple of inches of snow on the ground).

This was definitely the low point in Iditarod for me, and was the turn where we went from a goal of racing, simply to a goal of mushing; one run at a time. As I got the team bedded down, I offered all of the dogs a snack, of which only three ate (not a great sign). I gave them an hour to rest, hoping that their appetites would perk after a little sleep and a chance to cool down (the temperature had risen dramatically on our run through the mountains, and it was about 32 degrees in Rohn). I tweaked their meal recipe a bit, and made it as appetizing as I knew how. Yunkai and Qarth were my only takers on food. Discouraged, I picked up all the bowls, and offered a different type of snack that most of them hadn’t eaten yet this season. They all ate a portion, and that got me a little irritated with them (thinking they were just being picky). Almost immediately, the entire team expelled what little food they had taken in. I walked through the team picking up their piles of vomit, and then sat to think things through for a minute.

The vets in the race are often a good resource for advice and medication, and I was also carrying a decent amount of Immodium, which helps with diarrhea and vomiting. Following a quick discussion with the vet staff, I gave all the dogs a dose of pills, and then some clear water (which almost all drank). It was clear, though, that they were in no shape to get off their straw and run six hours down the trail, as I had planned. So, I gave all the dogs a pat (about as much as I could do in the moment), and unrolled my sleeping bag to nap for a few hours. I figured I would sleep and reassess the team after they got a few quality hours of rest. Scratching from the race crossed my mind, but flying out of Rohn is almost as crazy as the mush to get there, and I didn’t want to put that logistical challenge on the race. I figured I had better get us the 80 miles to Nikolai, at the very least.

As I walked through the team after our nap, the dogs were all alert and up off their straw (it had been about five and a half hours since we arrived into Rohn). That looked like a good sign, and I decided I really needed to make a plan for how to get calories into the dogs over the next 12 hours. What is going to make them most engaged with food even if their stomachs are under the weather? I figured I would start by giving them some frozen meat snacks before leaving the checkpoint (avoiding bowls, and water, and all of that mess). The dogs would get a little less hydration from frozen meat than they would in a soup, but I figured eating something was better than nothing. Every dog ate two snacks. I then prepped a meal to feed on the way to Nikolai, and we got ready to run.

This section of trail, known as the Farewell Burn, is another notorious piece of the Iditarod that has caused heartbreak to many teams over the years. There is never any snow for the first 25 miles of this run, and the wind tends to rip out of the Alaska Range and through the valley that we are running, blowing away any snow that may be there. Leaving Rohn is a comical experience, because you tend to find a whole array of valuables strewn across the trail. Due to the lack of snow, sleds careen into trees, fall into holes, or tip on sections of glare ice. Although this year had decent snow compared to some, the trail of goodies did not disappoint. I think I counted 13 dog bowls, two ladles, one cooler, multiple pairs of gloves, entire packs of booties, at least one pair of sunglasses, a knife, and one snowshoe… Wow! I, of course, was not able to pick up a single item, because all of my concentration was on keeping my own sled upright, and not losing any of my own gear.

Approaching Egypt Mountain (off to our right)

I was very fortunate to be able to run almost the entire way to Nikolai in the daylight (I had previously run this section at night). As a matter of fact, my “unplanned” schedule put me running this race about 12 hours faster than my previous Iditarod, so I got to run every section of trail in the daylight that I had previously run in the dark (there is an upside to everything!).

Anyway, after banging over tussucks and gravel patches for a few hours (with some wicked downhills in there for fun), the snow improved and our trail became a bit easier. The topography is pretty interesting, and we climb over ancient glacial deposits and frozen lakes (it is a very cool piece of trail, travelling over what feels like very old country). As the clock approached noon, I could see that the sun would soon be out, and I should plan on resting my team before the heat of the day (especially if I wanted them to consume any food). So, I looked for a nice spot to pull off the trail that would serve two purposes: keep us in the sun and also allow us to be exposed to the steady breeze that was coming out of the west. I figured that if I could get the dogs a bit chilled in the wind, they would feel encouraged to eat their meal (reverting to survival mode). After a few miles, I found the perfect spot, and pulled the team off at the end of a long swamp. I got everyone out of their booties, off their tuglines, and checked for muscle and joint injuries. But, I did not immediately lay down straw, or offer any food, and instead got my personal cooker going, laid out my sleeping bag, and took care of my own chores (the opposite of what mushers typically do in their “checkpoint routine"). I then, after an hour, dispersed the bowls, pulled out my soup (that I had made back in Rohn), and grabbed some kibble. The dogs hopped off the snow and appeared pretty interested in what I was doing. As I ladled out the meal and offered it to each pair of dogs, they all greeted the food with eagerness. I patted myself on the back, and considered myself a dog feeding genius (with some amount of humor and self-mockery). Although not all of the dogs ate everything, it was certainly an improvement from the last 24 hours.

The remaining 40 miles to Nikolai is painfully boring. It makes up for the roller coaster ride of the last 100 miles, and has every musher wishing for some kind of hill by the time they reach the checkpoint. There is, however, some decent overflow that should not be overlooked. About 15 miles before town, we mush through a Larch forest. It is all swamp land, and because the swamps and ground are frozen solid, and there is permafrost beneath that, spring water (and any snowmelt that occurs above freezing) has no place to go, but up. So, you will get standing pools of water in the middle of the trail that can sometimes be a foot or more deep. This was the case in this particular section of trail, and we went through about a mile of standing water. Luckily, Nikolai is a wonderfully hospitable checkpoint, and the local school has a clothes dryer.

A few factors led to my decision to take my mandatory 24 hour rest in Nikolai (earlier than I planned, and earlier than I would have liked). The dogs being a little underweight, but yet starting to eat, was certainly one. The warm weather, and additional rest I had taken because of it, was another. Wet feet also helped make the decision easy. Basically, all signs pointed to making a long rest in this village. As it turned out, I was very happy with this decision.

The snow really started to dump on us as we approached Nikolai, and by the time we were parked in town, there was two inches of fresh snow. It was 28 degrees, so everything on me and the dogs was soaked. All of the dog’s harnesses came off, their jackets were put on, and they got a small meal (dry kibble and frozen meat, which they all ate). Once they were bedded down on straw, I threw some fleece blankets over them in an attempt to keep the fresh snow from melting into their fur in the warm temps. The dogs were pretty comfortable with the blankets, and did a surprisingly good job at staying under them. Once all of my chores were complete, I loaded up a small sled full of dog and personal gear to dry, and made my way to the school.

Moe and Yunkai (not cute at all)

As I had remembered from my first Iditarod, the Nikolai School was amazing. They have volunteers in the cafeteria to cook three meals a day (free to all mushers); a quiet, dark place to sleep; and an entire boiler room devoted to drying out gear (complete with a functional dryer). I made myself at home, and before falling asleep, ate two helpings of moose spaghetti.

A 24 break in the middle of a distance race, feels like an eternity. I spent the time feeding the dogs (who, for the most part, ate), stretching and massaging muscles, eating (my food intake as I mush is incredible!), and basically waiting for the clock to tell me it was time to go. I did get an opportunity to chat with Katti, which really helped boost my morale. I also got a few hours to lay in the hot sun with the dogs. Storm clouds gave way in the middle of Wednesday afternoon, about 14 hours into our break, and the sun came out bringing the ambient temperature to almost 40 degrees. The resting dogs loved it, and were all stretched out on their straw, bellies up towards the sun. I laid on my sleeping bag next to them, and soaked up the rays as well.

As night came, I packed my sled, ate one final meal at the school, and readied the team for our 48 mile run to McGrath. The clouds remained patchy, and it looked like we would have a nice run to the next checkpoint. Most of the teams in the race had very slow run times over this portion of trail, and I was confident that with the cooler night temps and no fresh snow, we would be traveling over a mile per hour faster. I perhaps got a little too excited about this idea. It started snowing only a few miles into our run, and snowed most of the way to McGrath. Oh well… Luckily, I enjoy mushing in fresh snow, and the dogs were great at breaking trail through what built to almost six inches by hour four.

McGrath was another place to rest and get a couple meals in the dogs. About ¾ of the team was eating well and looking strong. There were, however, three dogs that were under weight, and two of those guys had developed sore shoulders on our previous run. I decided it would be best to send them home, and continue with the strongest members. Pogo, India and Elton all left the team in the capable hands of the vet staff.

Leaving McGrath was another moment in the race that gave me a lot of pride as a musher. Typically, volunteers will assist to guide your team out of a complicated parking area. This checkpoint was setup around the community hall, with teams parked in a counterclockwise pattern surrounding the building. In order to leave, you needed to hit the loop road, pass every resting team and run a 360 circle around the center to hit the outbound trail. A gentleman offered to help, and I took him up on his offer to run in front of the dogs. I did mention that if he couldn’t keep up, to just jump aside. As I clipped in my group of 12 dogs, they were all hitting their harnesses and screaming to go (more eager than they had been all season). I pulled the hook and we immediately overtook our volunteer leader. Forty and Knox then easily passed four resting teams and took my command to turn left and loop the community center. Without hesitating, they passed eight more resting teams, the giant pile of leftover dog food, a group of school children, and the vets who were conveniently standing in the middle of the trail with the three dogs that had just left our team. The entire group didn’t miss a step, and dropped right out onto the Kuskokwim River and into a 15 mile per hour breeze. The next 40 miles through Takotna and into Ophir were easy and enjoyable.

Working our way to Takotna

As we approached Ophir, situated in a fairly wide, alpine valley, I could see dark storm clouds to the Northeast (the direction of our next run). By the time we were parked in Ophir and were eating a snack, the dogs and I were being covered in a light snow. This gave me a slight bit of hesitation about our next run. The next 90 miles of the race would be through fairly exposed country, that has absolutely no traffic (other than from mushers competing in the race). It would be slow, and potentially difficult going, if the snow really started to come down. But, I didn’t let it bother me much (what are the alternatives, after all?). The dogs ate (again!), and I rested for a few hours. By the time I got the team ready to go, we were in the middle of a full on snow storm, with three fresh inches already on the ground.

Parked with Aaron Peck and Noah Pereira in Ophir (just as the snow started)

We, unfortunately, did not make it far out of this checkpoint before looping around and coming back. Forty had pulled a muscle in his groin (which I did not catch until we started this run), and it was clear he would need to head home. I quickly filled out the necessary paperwork, spun Qarth (who was single leading for this snow storm), and left Ophir for a second time. I had been leading a small group of mushers out of Ophir, but had passed all of them head on as I came back with Forty. We now had an obvious track to follow, and the next team was only minutes in front of us. The dogs found their rhythm in the soft snow, and we settled into a pace of about 7 miles per hour (about what we had been doing for most of this race). 

As time passed and the trees got a little smaller and fewer between, I realized the wind had picked up. It was about two in the morning at this point, and I could not really gauge the topography, but it felt like we were running through a sparsely treed pass. As we started ascending our first rolling hill, my question about the terrain was answered, and it appeared true that we were in a wide and exposed pass. The moment we left the trees, the wind kicked us at full force, and any semblance of a trail was gone. This was some of the coolest mushing of the entire race, and I really got a chance to watch Qarth in his element.

I have always joked with Katti, that Qarth is a dog who only performs when the going gets tough. He barely works on a hard packed trail, seeming disinterested and bored. But man, as you hit a hill or deep snow, he puts his power into that harness and is unafraid of anything. It is really something to watch! He is also very good with his gee/haw commands, and has a natural ability to feel and sense a good trail under a foot of fresh snow (not an easy task).

The next team was still only a handful of minutes in front of us, but the majority of the next 25 miles were run with absolutely no trail, and cross winds that were gusting close to 40 miles per hour. It was wild! At one point, we lost the trail markers and were following this ridge with no clear path in any direction. I kept after Qarth to hold the peak of the ridge, and eventually we crossed a line of markers, moving in a perpendicular direction to the path. I hesitated our direction for a moment, and then called Qarth to the left, being pretty sure that would keep us headed the right way (navigating gets harder at three in the morning). Every now and then, we would descend a hill and drop into a quiet patch of woods. I would then see the tracks of the team in front of us (quickly getting covered by the falling snow), and know we were headed the correct way.

Eventually, we dropped another hill and suddenly bumped into a bustling checkpoint. This took me by surprise, as the ghost town of Iditarod was supposed to be another 40 miles away. In fact, we had hit Don’s Cabin (a very old safety shelter), and met up with about 12 other teams resting and waiting out the worst of the wind. I had planned to stop here, and pulled through to a decent parking area. The place was a little chaotic, with teams facing multiple directions and mushers in all stages of disarray. Apparently, four teams had tried to leave the cabin after a few hours of rest, but had been forced back when they couldn’t find the trail. Those mushers were a bit panicked about the next leg, and a couple were discussing waiting out the entire storm until snowmachines could put in a new path. I was overhearing all of the conversations as I went through my chores, and felt very thankful to have my group of dogs. I knew that with a little food and some rest, we would be ready to tackle the next section, trail or no trail.

Iditarod 2018 - Part 1: The Start to Rainy Pass

The Iditarod is unlike any other race I have ever participated in. The fan base is unreal, and the race has a start that is really set up to showcase the sport of mushing, and show off the participants of the race. The “ceremonial start” takes place on Saturday in downtown Anchorage, and is setup entirely to raise money and support the relationship between the Iditarod and the Anchorage downtown business district. The mushers park their dog trucks in the heart of downtown, and hookup a 12 dog team to mush 4^th Avenue and the streets of Anchorage with an “Iditarider” (a person who bids to ride in your sled for the 12 mile, urban mush). It is an absolute blast for everyone involved (although a bit stressful as you have to guide your team through tunnels, over bridges, and around crowds of thousands of people). We train our team for many different situations that we will potentially experience, but we do not have a lot of opportunities to teach our dogs how to run through crowds. Thankfully, our dogs were on their best behavior for the weekend, and did a perfect job running through town. Knox and Pogo took charge in lead, and were a great combo, as Knox tends to be overly-friendly and run right at people, and Pogo tends to be very serious and determined (Knox would take the team right for a cheering crowd of 300, and at the last minute, Pogo would put his head down and remind Knox to power through the middle and not stop to say hi). Katti was on the second, “tag sled,” and said that I "need to run this every year just for the Anchorage mush!”

Mushing through the BLM during the ceremonial start (notice Katti's beer)

The official, Sunday start takes place on Willow Lake. 67 dog trucks drove out onto the frozen lake between 10 and noon, and began prepping their sleds and dogs. Although you do not have the proximity of large buildings like you do in Anchorage, there are still thousands of people that show up for the start, and hundreds of snowmachines, paragliders and planes. So, it is loud and chaotic, and feels like the beginning of something crazy. A few of our team members were calm and collected, but many of the dogs were a bit stressed by the noise and closeness of other trucks and teams. They had started to suffer a stomach bug a few days prior, and very few of them felt much like their pre-run meal (this would become a theme for the first half of Iditarod, and made for one of the toughest things I have had to deal with in a race).

An important part of prepping for the start of a race like Iditarod, is making sure that you have a very consistent hookup routine, and have as many details as organized as possible. For instance, we arrived to the start with our race sled 100% packed; my personal race gear all organized and in one box for me to put on and put away; and the dog gear all prepped and in its own box. Basically, we don’t want to have to think too hard about any details on start day, and want to act purely on instinct and good organization.

A handful of our close friends and family came out to help us hold the team (the dogs get pretty amped to go), and wish us luck and cheer us on. We had a great crew that helped make our walk to the start line, and our exit onto the trail, a breeze. Knox and Pogo were again in lead, this time in front of a full team of 16 dogs. Although the outbound trail is fairly straight forward, following a series of lakes and swamps to the Susitna River, the addition of thousands of fans and “tailgaters,” make it an interesting challenge for the dogs. People setup camp on these lakes, and have huge bonfires and parties to watch the race go by. Their energy is amazing, and they hand out powerade, beer and hotdogs to every passing musher. However, the noise of music, machines, and screaming voices can be quite distracting for an inexperienced team (like I mentioned earlier, there is no place we can train for this situation other than in the race itself). Knox and Pogo did an amazing job leading the team through 25 miles of partying, and the other young team members were really encouraged by their confidant leadership, and passed the numerous obstacles with little to no hesitation.

After the 25 mile mark, the race trail bends north and starts up the Yentna River. This intersection, known as "Scary Tree," cannot be mistaken, as you pass about 300 energized spectators (aided by more than a little alcohol, no doubt), who are burning about 10 different fires, shooting off fireworks for every approaching team, and also racing snowmachines and “buzzing” the dog teams with powered paragliders (it is absolutely WILD to run past their party!). The trail then quiets dramatically, and it feels like you are returning to Alaska. Because we start the race in two minute intervals, teams tend to be quite close to each other at this point, and I think we passed, and were passed, by well over 15 teams for the next 10 miles.

Approaching "Scary Tree" 

Yentna is the first checkpoint on the race, at mile 34, and is a spot to drop off our race bib (we get it back 20 miles before the finish, in Safety), and grab a half bale of straw if you plan to camp further down the trail (as I did). We then try and leave the chaos of people and other teams as quickly as possible and get back on the trail. I started this race with a very clear plan, and a schedule that put me resting the dogs out of checkpoints for the first 150 miles of the race. This would allow for a much better quality of rest for the dogs, and coincidentally give me a chance to sleep as well, easing into what would be my toughest race ever with a little extra rest (it paid off dramatically down the trail).

Katti and I do a lot of camping with our dogs in training, and our race team is expert at sleeping on straw regardless of how “not tired” they happen to be. After 45 miles of running, I called the dogs off the main trail and onto a smaller track, and setup camp to eat and sleep for about four hours. Although Elton immediately started to bark and scream as other teams went by, they soon settled down and curled into their straw. After a quick snack and light meal (which only about half of them chose to eat), they were peacefully resting. I then methodically went through my routine of eating, prepping my personal water, and getting my gear organized for the next leg. This becomes an important part of every musher’s camp, and saves time and stress as you wake up from a short nap (you want to have to do as little thinking with your tired brain as possible). I managed to actually sleep for about 45 minutes on this first camp, which for me, is a record (I am usually way too excited at the beginning of a race to do any sleeping).

Our next leg of the race took us through Skwentna (where we made a brief stop to grab straw and food), and up towards Finger Lake. After about 45 miles, I started looking for our second camping spot. Although some people tend to stop right at the side of the trail to rest, I prefer to find a track and move far off the main trail, giving more room to passing teams and better rest for my dogs. At about 6 am, I spotted a perfect off shoot, that clearly reconnected to the main race trail after only a hundred yards (this is a pretty important detail you don’t want to overlook: make sure your side trail returns at some point!). This particular detour took us right over a little wooded island in the middle of a swamp, and made for a perfect resting spot in the trees. The dogs were snacked, bedded down and sleeping within about 10 minutes, and I went to work on their meal and my checkpoint routine. As the sun started to rise, I got to watch team after team roll by, and get a good look at other people’s dogs. The beginning of Iditarod is so interesting, because every competitor has a different schedule, and a lot of very good teams run the first 150 miles pretty conservatively (making sure to keep their team well rested as they go over the Alaska Range). On this 5 hour rest, I got about 2 ½ hours of sleep, and all of the dogs got some type of food (what I had at first thought was a slight stomach bug and some amount of food pickiness, appeared to be a bit more serious, and about half of the team were on anti-diarrheal meds at this point). Although the dog’s stomachs were bothering them, their attitude towards running was exceptional, and they were loving every minute of the trail!

    

Pulling off the straw at 11 am, we were setup to run through the heat of the day into the Alaska Range. Although this is something we try and avoid, especially in the southern part of the state, this upcoming section of trail would take us through tight mountain passes and deep river gullies (some heavily wooded), so I knew we would be protected from the direct sun for most of this run. A part of this trail includes the infamous “Happy River Steps,” a series of steep drops that deposit you and your team from an alpine swamp onto a frozen river valley. I figured that if there was any place in the race that I may want to have a slightly warm, and slow moving dog team, this would be it. In the end, it did not matter that the conditions were warm, the dogs seemed to fly down every hill as if it were the first one they had ever seen (no holding back).

Leaving the checkpoint of Finger Lake, after a five minute stop to sign in and out, we immediately drop onto a small creek. This 300 foot drop gives you a quick taste of the upcoming trail; moderately out of control drops where every attempt to use your brake is completely pointless. What happens on these steep descents, is that every team rides their brake trying to slow their own team, and subsequently tears up the trail for the next team. Every passing musher has the same reaction: ride your drag and brake with everything you have. Therefore, the 40^th team traveling through this area has nothing but a sugar luge to follow, and your brake does nothing. Thankfully, the dogs don’t usually have very good footing, and often don’t pull too hard to get down the hill (don’t worry, though, every hill still felt plenty fast).

Mushing towards Finger Lake

The run from Finger Lake to Rainy Pass is perhaps one of the most beautiful in the entire race. In between the white-knuckle drops, we travel over alpine lakes surrounded my amazing peaks that loom thousands of feet above us. The rock formations, and shape of the peaks, is truly stunning, and at points you have to remember to hold on to your sled and watch the dogs (just as I would relax, there would be another windy, wooded section of trail that would hold multiple surprises to bring my attention back to the trail). You are aware that you are approaching the Happy River, as you work through the trees and look off to the north to see the trees drop away and a very obvious valley emerge. It takes a surprisingly long time to actually reach the valley, so the whole time you mush in dread of the upcoming drop. A side note: I last ran this section in 2008, and much preferred doing it in the dark, not being able to see what lay in store (this piece of trail is not something you want to try and prepare for, mentally or physically). So, for about two miles I could see this approaching valley, and with every turn, I was anticipating a drop. When they finally arrived, I was not disappointed. I could look through the trees and see the river bed about 750 feet below, and know that in about 1000 feet of trail, we would be on the river (wahoo!).

I have to give a lot of credit to our dogs for being experts at navigating their lines, and understanding exactly how to place their feet around soft holes and deep trenches. They handled the steep drops with no issues, and I was somehow able to keep the sled upright behind them. Together, we landed onto the Happy River with no incident and only a few tangled tuglines. The dogs got a quick break, a big pet, and I got all of our gear quickly sorted out (there were three more teams close behind me, so we didn’t stay stopped for long). The remaining 16 miles to Rainy Pass felt like a breeze. Although there were more steep climbs and steep drops, nothing felt close to the “Steps.”