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
4th 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!”
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| 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.
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| 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 40th 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).
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| 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.”
