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!
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| 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).
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
