It's interesting how much of our lives we try to control. We plan and prepare. We dream and worry. We hope and stress. There are things we try to achieve and things we try to avoid. And so often life just take its own course anyway...
George was born in the spring of 2013. We raised him up to five years old, discovering along the way that he wouldn't have what we were looking for to make our Iditarod race team. By the summer of 2018 we were looking for a new home for George. Based on his personality and habits we knew he'd be happiest in a pet home. Pulling a sled was fun for George, but roaming and snuggling were even better.
George and his brother, Ringo, as month-old puppies. Summer 2013
Chyrisse and Tim took a tour with us that summer and we happened to mention that George was up for adoption. We had mentioned that to many visitors at this point, but who goes on vacation and takes a dog home with them? Chyrisse and Tim went home without George, but contacted us months later saying they couldn't stop thinking about him, and would we be willing to send him to North Dakota? Sure! We can do that. Well, it ended up being more expensive that we'd all hoped, and logistically pretty crazy, but we got him there and by Christmas he was making the rounds to midwest holiday parties, eating cookies and being snuggled by kiddos. It was perfect. Chyrisse sent us updates during those first few months with George. We chatted about training techniques and dietary subjects. She shared photos. Everyone was happy.
Chyrisse and Tim during their tour with us. Summer 2018
Then several months passed without hearing from Chyrisse. No surprise there. We've adopted out several dogs throughout the years and we know that eventually a threshold is passed over-which the dog stops being ours, and truly comes to belong to their new owners. That's great! So we assumed all was well with George, and no news was good news. But this week we received an email from Chyrisse, detailing how she and Tim and George have spent the past several months. Excerpts from her email are shared here with her permission:
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"I was diagnosed with a very aggressive breast cancer at the end of February this year. I’d had a 3D mammogram in mid August of 2018 that was totally clear, but in January I found a palpable lump that was somewhat painful in my left breast. By the time the biopsies were done and diagnosis was confirmed, I had two tumors in the breast tissue and at least one lymph node (probably more) with tumor. I went off work in mid March and started four months of chemotherapy on March 19th of this year. I had bilateral mastectomy surgery on August 27th. I will be starting a series of 25 radiation treatments over a period of five weeks on October 7th. As you can imagine, it has been quite a journey. I want to let you know how important George and you both have been to us over the course of the past number of months...
Chyrisse and George during Chyrisse's chemotherapy treatments. Summer 2019
...George has been a faithful, loving, and constant companion to me over the many long days and nights during my treatment. When I was first diagnosed, I asked the oncologist how I could best support myself to get through the treatment as best as possible. He said, “stay active” as this would help manage the inevitable fatigue. George and I already had a routine of two long walks per day, and we kept it up and even lengthened the walks when I was off work. As treatment progressed, I wasn’t always able to walk as far or as quickly. Some days were better than others.
George on a walk in North Dakota
George always seemed to sense when the day was hard and stayed close to me on the walks or waited for me to catch up to him. Sometimes Tim had to take over for some walks, but I always tried to get back to them as soon as possible. George brought me joy, distraction, and purpose on those walks. The walks were often the best part of my days and sometimes were the only activity I could manage. During the parts of the day when I was inside sleeping or resting, George has been always there with me. Choosing to stay close and hang out rather than go outside by himself and explore the property. When it’s time for food or a walk, he’s always ready to go but never demanding. He’s been so very patient with me! He’s also been an important support to Tim who is walking this journey along with me. George is always ready for a wrestle, or to go outside with Tim while he does chores outside, or to cuddle whether daytime or in the middle of the night. George usually sleeps in the garage, but both Tim and I have invited him in during the night when we were afraid or couldn’t sleep and George will lie down, cuddle and keep us company in the most comforting way. We are both deeply attached to him.
Looks like a nice place to be a dog
You may be surprised to know that you both have also been an important support to us particularly through the period of initial diagnosis and treatment. I was diagnosed around the 27th of February. We were driving back and forth to Grand Forks (100 miles each way) for medical appointments and scans during that time and through much of March. Well, you know that is Iditarod time. We followed your posts and Jeff’s progress closely leading up to and throughout the Iditarod. I signed up for updates on Jeff's progress throughout the race using a link KattiJo provided on Facebook. We followed all her posts through the race and anxiously awaited Jeff’s blog posts afterwards. Most often, Tim would be driving me to and from Grand Forks and I would be reading posts aloud and letting him know which checkpoints Jeff had passed and then we’d look up locations on the route map and try and learn as much as we could about the race and what he was going through. We were both intensely interested and engaged and I can’t tell you how unifying and helpfully distracting it was to give us another focus for our thoughts and energies during that time! It’s hard to describe. I literally don’t know how we would have gotten through that period without our connection to you, the dogs of Black Spruce, and the happenstance of the Iditarod happening right at that point. It was tremendously helpful. Even though we were only at the kennel for a couple of hours in July 2018, you made a tremendous impression on both of us, and we feel really connected to you and the dogs through our tour and through George."
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We are sharing this story because we know that Chyrisse is not alone. Millions of women around the world are touched by breast cancer each year. We pray that each of them has a support system like what Chyrisse has. It might be a dog, a partner, or a beloved routine that helps to keep these women strong and fighting. It might even be a blog like this one, or a social media profile that helps to add distraction, humor or inspiration on a long car ride, or before a scary doctors appointment. We often think about what we get out of posting online, but rarely stop to think about what others might be getting out of it.
To Chyrisse & Tim - Thank you so much for including us on your journey. You are not alone. You are in our thoughts and prayers, and now you are in the thoughts and prayers of everyone who is reading this. Keep fighting, and keep walking. George will be right there with you every step.
Meant to be... Chyrisse harnessing George during her tour with us. Summer 2018
Marten showing us his "grass-chomping" fangs.
Meanwhile his brother Moose grabs another mouthful.
Did you know canines are omnivores - not carnivores?
Eating grass is normal - not just for upset tummies.
It's mid-September, and the dogs are up to 9 mile training runs this week. We're right on schedule. Next week the mileage will increase, along with each dog's rate of metabolism and caloric intake. As our summer fun runs turn into real serious race training, mushers start thinking hard about what is going on inside of our dogs' bodies, and what we can do to help keep them as healthy as possible.
Last year we were introduced to Dr. Carson's Pro-Dog Complete by our good friend and fellow-musher, Wade Marrs. We'd heard of Dr. Carson's for years, but had never tried it out since it's mail-order only and seemed CRAZY EXPENSIVE for mushers. Click that link to see pricing info, then multiply that number by five to calculate the price for 20 dogs for 6 months*. Long story short, Wade was able to hook us up with a few buckets of this supplement for free and we were BLOWN AWAY!!! By the end of the race season we were kind of mad that Wade had even gotten us started on Pro-Dog Complete because now that we see how good it is, we'll never train or race our dogs without it. *This supplement also comes in 16 ounce tubs, perfect for pet owners
So what is this stuff? And what exactly does it do?
Dr. Carson's supplements are all bee product based. There is quite a bit of anecdotal evidence and even some scientific research out there to suggest that bee products have loads of health benefits. Antibiotic, antioxidant, antimicrobial, antiviral, antifungal and anti-inflammatory are just a few of the beneficial properties you'll read about. The label on the bucket of the Dog Complete supplement reads like this:
"Ingredients from the honey bee hive promote healthy skin and coat as well as inner cleanliness and immune building properties. Combined with our joint and tendon ingredients, Pro-Dog Complete is the most comprehensive and highest quality animal care supplement ..."
We know what you're thinking: "This seems like some kind of magic cure-all, and cure-all's cure nothing! This stuff sounds too good to be true!" Well, that's what we thought, too...
Jeff with our 2019-2020 season order of Dr. Carson's products --
includes Pro Dog Complete, probiotics, massage ointment, and skin cream
Can you tell we're big fans?
We started adding Complete to our dogs' food at the end of November 2018. Before we knew it the season had flown by with very few injuries, zero illnesses, and the nicest, bounciest, most well-held-together-poop on the trail we had ever seen! **Side note: Anytime a musher writes anything about dog health care, there is probably going to be at least a passing mention of poop. Why? The consistency of your dog's poop is a major indicator of their internal health -- especially when running long distances** By March we had no doubt: Our dogs were the healthiest they had ever been, and Dr. Carson's Pro-Dog Complete was playing a major role in that.
Since summer finances are tighter, and summer dog runs are much, much shorter, we stopped feeding Dr. Carson's in May. Mostly. Two of our best dogs, Qarth and Braavos, suffer from seasonal grass allergies. Each year their symptoms include super stuffy, cracked noses, coughing, and phlegm production. Yuck. Known for it's anti-allergen properties we continued to give the brothers the recommended daily dosage of 2T of Dr. Carson's each day all summer in the form of what I call "Complete Treats." This summer their sinus health was the best it's ever been.
Recipe for KattiJo's Complete Treats
3 cups water
3 cups kibble
3 cups Dr. Carson's Pro-Dog Complete
1. Gently combine all ingredients in a standing mixer or food processor. Do not overmix to the point of crushing the kibble. This will change the dry/wet ratio and make the final product harder to work with
2. Lightly grease a cookie sheet with cooking spray
3. Use an ice cream scooper and dispense dough balls onto cookie sheet. I like the yellow-handled, #20 disher-type scoop. It has a 3.5 T capacity, which means that each scoop should contain about 2 T of Dr. Carson's, since you used an equal ratio of food to powder
4. Freeze your dough balls on the cookie sheet until hard
5. Once hard, the balls can be removed from the sheet and repackaged into gallon ziploc bags
The run from McGrath to Takotna, and then on to Ophir, is
smooth and quick in the cool of early morning. The dogs are all feeling well-rested
and fresh after their day in McGrath, and only Pogo shows any sign that he has
been on the race trail (a few sore muscles that take a couple minutes to warm
up as he starts the run). Unfortunately, about midway through this five hour
run, both Qarth and Knox have some diarrhea and a moment of an upset stomach. I
wonder about the quality of some of the meat in my food drop, after spending
over two weeks in plastic at temps right around 30.
As we pull into Ophir, I decide to shut down for a few hours
and get the dogs some clear, cold water. Most of the team drinks, including
Qarth and Knox, which is important with the loss of fluids from being sick. I
give everyone a period of time to lay on the cold snow, and then shake out some
straw, making a cozy bed to enjoy the warming sun. Competitors roll by as the
dogs rest and I work on chores. Seth and Lev keep moving up the trail to take
advantage of the still relative cool. Kristy and Anna Berington are parked next
to me in Ophir, both finishing up their 24 hour rest. We chat a little, and
then I lay down for a short nap, after giving the team their meal. Knox does
not eat, and this bums me out a little.
This quote, sent out on the trail by my junior musher friend Caleb,
helped shape my mindset for the next 48 hours.
"Keep your face always towards the sunshine,
and shadows will fall behind you." -Walt Witman
Pogo wakes up pretty stiff and sore from his nap, and does
not immediately warm up with a walk around the checkpoint. I decide that it is
probably best for him to fly home, and best for me to not risk having to carry
him for the next 78 miles to Iditarod. This turns out to be a good decision, as
the trail is incredibly rough and slow to Don’s cabin (the halfway point between Ophir and Iditarod).
We leave Ophir in the hottest part of the afternoon (my
second mistake of the race), and the dogs are running through temps of close to
45 degrees, and exposed to brief moments of full sun. It had been breezy and
snowy in the forecast, and I can see we are mushing towards dark clouds, but in
the moment, I am very much regretting our late morning stop in Ophir. We
continue to plod, and Knox comes out of lead to be replaced by Qarth, who until
now, has only been pulling at about 60 percent. However, as soon as he is
promoted to lead and faces a difficult, slow trail, he turns on the gas and
drives forward in a nice trot. The trail, full of soft holes and deep moguls,
is by no means pleasant, but Qarth seems to enjoy himself, and his stomach
appears to be feeling better. Good boy!
Snow starts to thin out some 30 miles from Ophir, and by the
time we get into the exposed hills before Don’s Cabin, we are mushing across
sections of grass and dirt. These conditions are somewhat typical for this
area, but are very different from the year before, where the dogs and I
travelled through a complete blizzard with more snow than a musher could ever want.
Now, in late evening, we have easy travelling (the grass and dirt has been, temporarily, left behind) and are enjoying some beautiful
views as the sun sets.
Don’s Cabin is a dilapidated shack along the trail, and roughly
marks the halfway between Ophir and Iditarod. I have a couple hours of rest
planned here, and we pull onto another musher’s used straw, and next to Lev
(who is just getting ready to depart). In classic fashion, Lev is discussing
the upcoming trail hazards, the prediction of rain, and the general malaise
that is day five of Iditarod. The dogs get comfortable while we chat back and
forth (both working on chores), and the team eats their meal with vigor, Knox
being the exception. I am able to convince him that his beef is good, but meals
do not impress him. Because this is where the bulk of his resting calories are
supposed to come from (along with his important race supplements), I attempt to
trick him into eating it by adding some small chunks of beef. He is on to my
plan, and simply picks out the beef from the kibble (which also includes fat, a
meat blend, and water). Oh well, I figure, he will eat his meals eventually.
The trail from Don’s to Iditarod is pretty hilly, and I pull
out my ski pull only a couple miles after leaving our rest. There are some
flakes of snow and a little breeze, and this makes the run a bit more
interesting for me as a driver. The dogs are dialed into their program, and are
trotting smoothly at 7.5 miles per hour (a near record for us in this race,
given the conditions!). We leap frog Richie, who has camped along the trail,
and start getting into some rough creek crossings as we get closer to Iditarod
(little drops onto the ice, followed by steep embankments on the other side).
And then, suddenly, we have left all snow behind, and are mushing through
fields of frozen tussocks.
A tussock is a clump of earth and grass, usually found in
wet, swampy areas. There is never a single tussock, and they usually form right
next to their friends, and fill an entire valley (as in the case of this
particular valley that we are currently mushing through). The trail gets
incredibly rough, and the cracks between tussocks are almost a foot and a half
deep at times. All of my energy is focused on trying to safely walk the dogs
through this terrain, while also not catching my foot on a chunk of ground and
breaking my leg. I was already a little warm as we approached this area, and
now I am sweating. Qarth has been navigating the trail pretty well, but gets
into weaving as our speed slows, trying to avoid the worst of the tussock
congregations (to no avail). I don’t want the dogs running at any kind of angle
through this rough terrain, and decide to make a quick stop, to move Mereen up with
Qarth (just to stop him from meandering). They work together in a “straight
ahead” direction, and everything is looking good for the moment. We are moving
through rolling hills, and I guess that we are still about 10 miles from
Iditarod. We were told in the pre-race meeting that the trail would be “a
little bare and tussocky” as we got close to Iditarod, so I know that these
conditions will only continue. My legs are getting a work out from riding the
drag and getting jostled around, and I am alternating between left and right
foot. The dogs are pretty enthused about the change in trail conditions, and I am
having to put a fair amount of pressure on the drag to keep them under control.
Whiskey, who has not really worked until this point in the race, is suddenly
giving it 100 percent and barking on the downhills… Asshole!
On one of our slow descents, my drag suddenly feels a little
different, and I glance down to see that it has ripped loose from the belt that
attaches it to the sled (kind of dangling by a thread at this point). We get to
the bottom of the hill, and I make a stop. The dogs get a snack, and I pull out
my repair kit with some rope. It is about 4 A.M., so my knot tying skills
aren’t exactly on point, but I manage to get the piece of snowmachine track
(that is my drag) attached to the brake bar (in a temporary fix). We are back
to moving down the trail (a generous term for what we are now running). The
concern now, is that every time I stand on my drag with full weight, it also
depresses my brake bar, and puts that piece in grave danger of catching on a
tussock and being ripped off the sled entirely. So, I am now gingerly pressing
the drag and also using my foot to slow the team in any place where it looks at
all safe. We continue on.
The banks of the Iditarod River are a welcome sight, and
around the bend I can see a few lights of the checkpoint. We pull in at about
5:30, and I get everyone bedded down and analyzed for potential injury.
Somehow, every dog has survived the run in 100 percent health, and they appear
ready for more once we get a few hours of rest. I get them fully taken care of,
and then head up to the “musher cabin” for a couple hours of sleep. I am surprised
to see my buddy Wade, sleeping on one of the bunks. I learn a little later that
he had a massive sled malfunction on the tussocks, and has spent over 10 hours
resting his team and getting his sled, now with only one runner, ready to go.
As we get catch up after some sleep, he explains that the tussocks caused his
tail-dragger (the portion of sled behind the musher) to catch and just rip
right off. It took a good portion of the one runner with it.
I have opted for a solid six hours in Iditarod, a chance for
two and a half hours of sleep for me, and two large meals for the dogs. Knox
has eaten one of his meals, and a couple of snacks, so I decide he is set to
keep moving with the team. His attitude has been good, so I figure if he is
having fun, his appetite will eventually catch up. As I am packing my sled,
wearing only a hoody and sweatpants (my gear is still in the cabin drying), the
clouds produce a gentle sprinkle of rain. This little drizzle will be the first
of six rain events we endure while mushing the Iditarod… in March… in Alaska. I
get everything in the protection of my sled bag, haul my unused food and trash
to the communal pile, and make my way to the cabin for my outer layers. As I go
for my over boots, I realize they are no longer hanging where I left them. In
fact, they are not here at all. I quickly look out over the parked teams, as if
my boots will somehow jump out at me. I then turn my attention back inside, and
analyze what other boots are still drying. There are another pair of Neos
hanging on the opposite side of the drying rack, with “King” written in big
letters across their side. I look outside again, and sure enough, he is gone.
Figuring he is the culprit of my missing boots, I grab his and put them on. I
am reassured of the mix-up, when I see that his are the same size as mine
(although, much newer and in far better shape).
We depart Iditarod under heavy, overcast skies, and more
drizzle. As we climb off the river and into the hills (which are seemingly
endless at this point) the rain picks up, and soon we are mushing in conditions
that remind me of my summers on the Norris Glacier. It is over 50 degrees, but
amazingly, the dogs are moving nicely and seem to be handling the heat (and
rain) with ease. My plan dictates a run through to Shageluk, about 55 miles.
Although the trail and weather conditions are miserable, we stick to our plan
and complete the run in about seven hours. The final couple hours of this run actually
get quite pretty, and we enjoy some nice trail, and a beautiful sunset, as we
climb our final series of hills before hitting the Yukon River delta.
Shageluk, an Ingalik Indian term meaning “village of the dog
people,” is a welcoming community of about 150. They open up their community
center for musher accommodations, and a lot of the village residents are
spectating as we pull in. Rain has turned their main street into pure ice, and
I encourage the checkers to help me park the team off the road and on a bank of
the school grounds. A local man introduces himself and asks if there is
anything else I need, other than my drop bags and straw. I point him to my sled
drag and ask if he has a drill and some bits. He is delighted to be of service,
and assures me he can help. I get the team cared for and my water heating, and
quickly, my new friend is back with his whole drill set in tow. I get my knots
untied from my temporary setup, and we get my drag reattached in its original
fashion. Very cool! (Outside assistance is allowed in some sled repair cases,
per the race judge).
I have declared my mandatory eight hour rest in Shageluk,
and after a brief phone call to Katti, lay down for a longer nap (almost three
hours!). I have a dream about mushing, of course, and when my alarm goes off,
find it very difficult to sit up. The short sleeps are finally starting to get
to me, and once up, I spend about five minutes just sitting. My alarm goes off
again, and I manage to get to my feet and get dressed to feed the dogs.
Everyone in the team is perky and ready for more food, and Qarth, who has been
in single lead, even surprises me with a few barks!
Our run from Shageluk, through Anvik, and up to Grayling, is
pretty straight forward. It is almost all flat, with the exception of a few
overland portages to reach the Yukon, and the dogs cruise along with ease.
About ten miles from Grayling, we hit the open and exposed part of the “Mighty Yukon”
for the first time. There is almost always wind on this stretch of river, and a
15 mile per hour breeze is what greets us in the early hours of day six.
Typically, our dogs do great in wind, but I sense a little hesitation from the
team. I welcome the wind by calling out and talking to them about how great it
feels, and my positive energy seems to give them a little reassurance. Whiskey,
with his incredibly dense coat, welcomes the cool down, and gives a little more
into the harness.
After getting parked in Grayling, we receive our full vet check
(standard for every checkpoint that we stop in). The vet notices a little fluid
buildup in Fierce’s lungs, and I am able to get her to cough by clapping on
both sides of her ribs. This is a classic early sign of pneumonia, and “vet A”
goes in search of “vet B” for a second opinion. I continue with my chores and
hear a little hack from Fierce as she finishes her meal. At that moment, I know
she has to be dropped, and left in the care of the vets. They return, and then
agree on the diagnosis. Knowing that pneumonia is one of the top reasons for dog
fatality, I don’t want to take any chance of her condition worsening. I am
discouraged, however, as I had planned to drop Knox, and either Kelly, or Jane.
Knox has not regained his full appetite, and Kelly has been giving me some
signs that she is not enjoying the rough, slow trail. Jane, being the youngest
and least experienced member of the team, is having moments of being
overwhelmed by the whole Iditarod experience. If I were to drop these three
concerns, and Fierce, I would be down to six dogs (an unreasonably small number
at this point in the race). I give Katti a call to mope about our predicament.
She suggests sleep, and I lay down for a few hours.
After a nap, things suddenly look a little better, and both
Kelly and Jane are perky and upbeat, and Knox is ready for meal number two. I
chat with a couple of my fellow competitors, realize we are all facing similar
situations, and decide to pack and press on. The dogs show me their willingness
by jumping off their straw, and holding all pee and poop until fully out of
town (all those meals and snacks have to go somewhere!).
We have reached the point in Iditarod where it takes the
team a full ten minutes to warm up and find their rhythm. Each dog must poop (a
few times), and pee. They have to shake off and stretch out. A few must check
in with their partner for encouragement. So on, and so forth. My team is
definitely moving nice, and eager to get going, but they still must go through
their whole warm up procedure. Our departure from Grayling is no exception, but
the team seems to find their stride a little faster than normal, and within
three or four minutes, everyone is rolling nicely and working at 100 percent.
Jane and Kelly seem happy with some flat, smooth trail, and Knox is energetic.
I have made the decision back in Grayling to deviate from my
plan A, and pack to run the Yukon in three segments as opposed to two. A straw
bale sits on my cooler (just behind me), and a full meal and a variety of snacks
are loaded in my sled, along with fuel for my cooker. The dogs are looking
good, and for a moment, I consider throwing my straw bale off, and going back
to plan A (a roughly 60 mile run to Eagle Island). I decide against this,
however, and figure a little more rest will only benefit my team later on, and
I remind myself that we are just over halfway into the race.
Because of warmer than normal temps this winter, the trail
runs a little closer to shore, and we crisscross the river, avoiding open
sections of water. After about five hours of travel, I start looking for a
convenient spot to camp. There are a few considerations that are especially
important when camping on a wide open river. The first of which, is trying to
find a place somewhat out of the wind. Remarkably, the typical “breeze” of the
Yukon is almost non-existent this night, and I quickly find a nice spot that
meets my next two items of importance: a nice snowmachine track that leaves the
main trail, but quickly returns (giving us a comfortable parking spot off the
race trail, but with a clear path back to it); and plenty of soft snow that
will be great for melting into water, but also make a cozy bed for me to sleep
in (throw down my sleeping bag, in a bivy, and voila!).
I call the dogs onto the snowmachine track, and in another
50 feet, we are parked and the dogs are munching a snack. As I go through my
chores, I notice that we have camped right next to an old fishcamp, complete
with a small log cabin (unique for this lonely stretch of river). There is also
a wide open section of flowing water, only about 60 feet out from our camp.
Although a little unnerving, the ice is solid where we are parked, and the
sound of moving water is actually quite peaceful.
A couple teams move by; Robert Redington with a smooth, fast
moving group, and my buddy Aaron Peck, who had been a little discouraged back
in Anvik, but seems to be moving nicely and feeling good at this point (the
“highs” and “lows” of Iditarod emotions). A father and son from Grayling
snowmachine up, and stop for a minute to chat. They are bringing some vet
supplies to Eagle Island (an uninhabited tent camp), and also have an AR-15
rifle in case they see any game out on their midnight run. They get moving
after a few minutes, and will come blasting back by in an hour, once I am done
with the dogs and have settled in my sleeping bag.
Our next leg up the Yukon is best described in two parts:
Pre-Eagle Island; and Post-Eagle Island. The “pre-Eagle Island” portion of this
run flies by effortlessly. The dogs cruise a smooth trail in the earliest hours
of morning, and in no time we see the lights of the island checkpoint, and
climb off the river. We only spend a couple minutes here, grabbing food, fuel
and supplies (well, actually, I start leave without fuel, and hit the brakes
just as we are about to drop back onto the river). As I am fumbling with a few
Heet bottles, Richie comes over to me and asks if I have heard about the
upcoming trail conditions. “No, what’s up?” “They are saying overflow all the
way to Kaltag.” I laugh, because that is about 65 miles, and that amount of
overflow seems a bit ridiculous. The checker interjects, and says she
snowmachined down that night, and it was at least 30 miles of water. I shake my
head and jog back to my team, knowing either way, we have to keep moving. This
then brings us to the second part of this run on the Yukon: “Post-Eagle
Island.”
After dropping back onto the river ice, we mush a groomed
airstrip, and at the end of this, almost immediately hit water. Nothing to
dramatic, just a soggy hole in the trail about the length of a team, and maybe
a few inches deep. The dogs run to either side of this feature, and the sled
flows right through. Another 50 feet down the trail, we hit a similar patch of
water. And then, another. Pretty soon, the trail starts to split into multiple
braids, all full with water (some as deep as 16 inches). I have had the team running
with no necklines, and the dogs are only attached by their harness to the
gangline. This gives them a lot of freedom to move around, and coincidentally, avoid
the deepest sections of water. Qarth is running in single lead, and has a good
grasp on the best trail. He seems to be picking the path with the best footing
and shallowest water. I still keep my attention fully focused on the trail
ahead, and eventually have to pause my audiobook.
The water continues. It is not only wet, completely soaking
my supposedly waterproof boots, but is also very unpredictable. Some sections,
the water has refrozen, and is glare ice. Other spots have a thin layer of ice,
which then gives way if the dogs and sled try to cross. Almost every wet spot
has an incredibly slick edge, and both the dogs and I end up dropping into the
majority of the pools we try to avoid. When, after an hour of this travel, we
stop for a snack break, I find that the edge of the trail is just as wet. So,
in a spot with no trail, you walk a few steps and then look back to see that
every foot print is full of water. Super gross!
Overflow! For miles...
Hours of this travel starts to wear on us (me more than the
dogs), and I decide to start searching for our second camp site, a little
earlier than planned. At mile 40, we see a nice pulloff that climbs a piece of
shelf ice, and gets us out of the water. I figure this is going to be our best
option, given the conditions, and the dogs are eager to take the command and
leave the slop for a bit.
Our rest is quite peaceful (again, no wind!), and the dogs
get the most out of their four hour rest. It does rain for a brief moment as I
am packing the sled. But, only briefly, and the dogs shake it off. Because I
have stopped a little sooner than planned, we are now looking at about a 48
mile run to Kaltag. This is a little longer than the first two legs, but I am
hoping that the checker is correct, and we will soon leave some of this water.
While resting, we are passed by about 6 teams, all running straight through
from Eagle Island to Kaltag (65 miles). Although this had been my original plan
(which I deviated from back in Grayling), I feel affirmed with every passing
team, that I made the correct decision to add in another rest. The water, and
slow nature of the trail, has slowed a lot of teams, and this run will take
most of them almost 10 hours to complete (which, in turn, will affect their
speed later in the race).
Our rest comes to an end, and I finish booting the team
right as Martin Buser rolls by. I call the dogs off their straw, and we give
chase. The dogs go through a brief warmup, but are almost immediately moving at
seven miles per hours. Looking back, I see that we have pulled out only a
hundred yards in front of Robert. Although we are just getting warmed up, we
keep our distance from his team, and tail Martin for the next couple of hours.
We leave the overflow! As a tradeoff, we are met with a decent headwind, and
our speed drops as the trail becomes softer, and more drifted. Martin stops to
snack and we roll by.
The trail becomes far less obvious, and soon disappears all
together. Our speed is now about five miles per hour, and I decide the GPS is
no longer helpful and shut it off. Qarth is undeterred by the conditions, and
continues to drive forward, as happy as ever running by himself. Knox, however,
is not handling the slow trail very well, and has started to lay off his
tugline (completely unheard of for him). This is a clear sign that he is truly
tired, and I know that I am going to have to load him. We make it another
couple miles until I can find a spot out of the strongest wind. We stop. Martin
and Robert both go by as I give everyone a snack. I know that this will be the
last I see of them on this run, having to add a 65 pound dog to the sled. Knox
is content to be loaded, and immediately makes himself comfy on my parka at the
bottom of the sled. We get moving, and I am now pedaling and ski poling in
earnest to keep our speed.
A mile after loading Knox, the trail improves dramatically,
and I can actually pack the ski pole away. The eight dogs on the line are
working nicely, and based on my memory of the trail from last year, I gather we
are about seven miles from Kaltag. I check my watch and estimate that we are
about 26 hours ahead of last year’s race schedule. This helps to further boost
my spirits (along with the trail improvement), and I can actually sit down on
my sled for a minute and scratch Knox’s ears. I know he is out of the race at
this point, and will need to be left in the upcoming checkpoint. I am bummed on
many levels to loose Knox from the team. He is a finisher from last year. He is
a strong and smart leader. He is probably my favorite dog, whom I am most
bonded to. But, all of that being said, for my hardest worker to no longer want
to contribute, leaves no room for second guessing. It is clear that he needs a
break, and a chance to rest up for more trips in the spring. I know that he
will be back for more Iditarods, and this helps me deal with his departure from
this race.
In Kaltag, I have a chance to razz Jeff about our boot
mix-up. He is packing his sled as I pull in. As I work on chores, I yell over
to him, asking about the condition of his feet. At first he is a bit confused,
and when I explain that he swapped our boots, he suddenly puts the pieces
together. He tells me he thought there was something off about the pair he
currently has on his feet. I laugh and tell him, “that yeh, those suckers are
three years old and have about seven thousand miles on them. And, did you
notice they aren’t waterproof?!” He gets a bit more charged up and exclaims, “My
feet were soaked a half mile out of Eagle Island!” We have a laugh, and I offer
to trade. But, his options aren’t great: Either continue on with mine, which
are dry, or, take his pair back, which I have now thoroughly soaked. He opts to
continue on, wearing mine.
The run from Kaltag to Unalakleet is really where my race
starts to come together. I decide to continue on to the coast with “short”
runs, followed by relatively short rests. I am still wanting to bank rest for a
tough run around Norton Sound, but have also seen on the Yukon that my team’s
speed is coming up with our current run/rest schedule. I opt to stop a few
miles short of Old Woman cabin, where all of my fellow mushers will be resting,
and break the 80 mile run to Unalakleet into two equal parts. This also keeps
us away from the “competition” and any potential distractions. The dogs will
sleep better, I will sleep better.
We have a nice break next to the trail, and I am surprised
to not get passed by a single team. I try and remember who was still back in
Kaltag when I left. I feel that there were at least three teams who should have
been with me on this run. Another rain shower has hit while we have been
sleeping, and as I pack my sleeping bag, water streams off of it. The dog’s
jackets are also soaked as I pack them, but at least they have served their
purpose and kept the dogs warm and dry.
Just as we are ready to leave, a biker comes by, pedaling
his way to Nome. Yes, you have read this correctly. There are people every year
that compete in a race called Iditasport, and ski, jog and bike the Iditarod
trail to McGrath. A few crazy individuals have not had enough at that point,
and continue on to Nome. They make surprisingly good time, and we will often
leap frog joggers and bikers for an entire 36 hour period before finally
slipping away from them.
Anyways, this biker pauses for a brief chat, and then
continues up the trail. He makes for a nice chase tool for the dogs, and I
decide to put Forty in lead, with Qarth, for the pursuit. We catch him just
past Old Woman, and we leap frog for the next 25 miles. This adds some
entertainment to an otherwise boring run, and the dogs have a blast all the way
to Unalakleet.
Our arrival into the checkpoint, is met by a small group of
cheering spectators and villagers. The dogs, acting like the pros they are,
take the welcoming group in stride. I am initially thrown off by the fan-fare,
but quickly regain composer and follow a volunteer to our parking spot. There
is one word that comes to mind when I think of parking in Unalakleet, and that
is “kids!” Children abound, and the parking area is their favorite playground during
Iditarod. Our team is suddenly positioned in the middle of a battlefield
between two rivaling factions of 2nd, 3rd, and 4th
graders. Trail markers are their weapons, and the bails of straw and drop bags
are their bunkers. Pretty wild! But, at least I am somewhat prepared, and have
some candy to distract them. I can get a few to convince the others to move
their conflict on down the yard a little ways.
Another thing that comes to mind when I think of Unalakleet,
is food. There are multiple villagers that cook meals to order in the community
center, and mushers can eat as much as they want. I strategically sent only one
of my personal meals here, and plan to load up on bacon (having made it just in
time for a late breakfast). So, after feeding a team that eats like champs, I
take my soaked gear to the center and take advantage of a real clothes dryer, a
half-pound of bacon, and a private room for a good nap.
The Unalakleet communications center is also located right
in the main room of the community center, and for the first time in a few days,
I can get an accurate look at the entire race (using the tracker and all!). I
am still focused first, and foremost, on just making it to Nome. But, I also
know that I have a nice eight dog team that is moving quickly and ready for the
coast. I have, at this point, thrown out my schedule. So, I do a little math
while looking at the tracker, and put into memory how far in front the next
five teams are, and how fast they are traveling.
The dogs eat a second meal with vigor, and I spend a minute
joking back and forth with Seth, who is parked behind me. Reaching the Bering
Sea coast is a monumental feat in the Iditarod experience, and it tends to
lighten the spirits of every musher in the race (if only for a few moments). I
feel confident as I get things packed to leave, and with Seth departing 30
minutes in front of us, we now have someone to chase.
Unalakleet to Shaktoolik is 42 miles, running primarily
through the Blueberry Hills. They are HILLS! We have a chance to get warmed up,
running a slough that borders town, and then we are climbing. The ascents start
off fairly gradual, but after an hour or so, become pretty intense. With an
eight dog team, it is essential that I run, pedal and ski pole up every hill.
Every so often, we catch a glimpse of Seth’s headlight, far off in the
distance, and far above us. The climbs seem to go on forever. I lose a ski pole
as we descend a steep hill, but luckily, I have another. Snow is non-existent
on a few lakes, and we struggle to stay on the trail with a strong side wind
(normal for this coastal region).
We leave the hills after about 30 miles, and run a wide
slough into Shaktoolik. It is also barren of snow, and there is a west wind
that pushes the team towards a snow covered sea wall. Qarth, in single lead,
thinks the sea wall is a good option, and I know the middle of the slough is
the better option. We agree to split the difference, and run a few yards out
from the sea wall, on a slightly less-than-level angle of pure ice. The “trail”
(scratch marks in the ice) splits, and markers go both directions. I let Qarth
choose, and we quickly ascend the wall next to us, and are running a plowed
road. It is snow covered, though, and I am happy with the decision. This takes
us into town, and to the two sleep deprived checkers waiting our arrival.
We park just behind Seth, and get a slight break from the
forceful west wind. There has been a mix-up with my drop bags, and I am missing
my bag number two, which is the bulk of my meat. In food drop prep, I had sent
an extra drop bag of food to Shaktoolik, knowing that weather could keep us
hunkered down here for quite some time. (A few years back, the front runners of
Iditarod spent almost an entire day here, waiting out a storm on the sea ice, separating
the two checkpoints of Shaktoolik and Koyuk). Although I have enough quantity
of food for the dogs, a large portion of the meat has spoiled in the warm
temperatures (a problem we have been facing for the last 250 miles now), and I
am missing almost all of my beef (as it was in bag number two). Seth is
gracious enough to give me a ten pound bag of beef, and the dogs keep up on
their protein rich diet.
My time is this checkpoint is filled with unease. I am
thrown off almost immediately, when the vet who checks my team informs me that
Kelly (who I know to be the fattest member of the team) is “skinny.” He does
not elaborate. Simply informs me that small females have been struggling to
keep weight (which I have never experienced in my years of mushing), and he is
concerned with her. I finish what I am doing and take a minute to asses my
entire group for weight (something I am usually doing inadvertently through
petting, massaging, and basic handling). Although the whole group was just
checked 8 hours ago, and they ate great on the way here, I am now a little
unnerved (maybe I missed something!). Upon a full, hands on inspection of ribs,
spine and hips, I am reassured that everyone looks good (and Kelly remains in
the best shape, second only to Qarth). I scratch my head and try to forget
about it. As I walk inside, however, there is an immediate feeling of tension.
I take off a few layers and look for some food (a village
dog got into one of my other drop bags, and ate all of my personal meals). I
learn that a few front runners of the race have had their teams quit running,
and are now stuck out on the sea ice, or in a nearby shelter cabin. Another
team was just picked up by snowmachine, and brought back to the checkpoint. One
more team has returned to the checkpoint to scratch. People that are
successfully making the run across, are averaging just over six miles per hour (on
what is a completely flat trail across frozen sea ice). So, the checkpoint’s
race judge has ordered the vets to give extra attention to all incoming teams,
and weight is the number one concern at this point in the race. While all of
this makes perfect sense, I still feel that things are getting a little out of
hand. One of the teams just in front of me is pulled from the race, sighting dogs
that are too thin to continue. I look at his team with him, and decide that it
is time for me to get away from this checkpoint.
While I have the utmost respect for the vets that volunteer
their time to the race, and know that they are critical for making sure every
musher’s team is healthy and well cared for, they all have different
backgrounds and different levels of race experience. I feel like this
particular vet, operating in the middle of the night, is not making accurate
determinations on the health of these teams. And furthermore, doesn’t know how
to properly asses body weight and hydration. I avoid the conversation and
debate taking place inside, and quickly put my layers on. I do, however, have
to bum a half dozen sausage links from one of the gracious checkers, who is in
the process of cooking breakfast for the race staff. She even gives me a waffle
for the trail!
In traditional years, with average winter temperatures and
storm patterns, the run from Shaktoolik to Koyuk is a straight shot across the
frozen Norton Sound; town to town. This year, as with last year, the trail
sticks much closer to shore because of unpredictable ice thickness, and storms
that have washed up huge icebergs. So, the run is a few miles longer than noted
on race maps, and involves a couple last minute reroutes.
We depart Shaktoolik just before dawn, and run the remainder
of the slough we came in on. Just before it joins the sea, we turn off, and run
overland for a few miles. It is slow going, and the snow feels like sandpaper.
Everything is white, and there are no trees, rocks, sticks, or grass for
definition. It is just wide open white, and quite dull for the dogs. Sunrise is
pretty, and with the light, we can view the mountains outside of Elim, about
100 miles away. Mushing on, we come across the spot where Nic Petit’s team shut
down, and can clearly see the indents in the snow from sleeping dogs, and food
that was left behind. There is something quite earie about seeing the spot
where a person’s mistakes have come to a head, and their team has decided, on
their own, to bring the whole race to a screeching halt. I keep my dogs
rolling, and remind them how good they are doing.
A mile or so later, we pass a friend, Matt Failor, holed up
in a shelter cabin on the edge of the sea ice. He has been stopped for about 20
hours, and is now out of the cabin and eager to get going. We exchange a few
words as I go by, and he tells me he is waiting for a team to draft behind. I
tell him I can’t afford to stop at the moment, and wave goodbye (my fear being
that his team would not immediately chase, and if I were to make too many
little stops to wait, my team would decide it is a good time to lay down for a
mid-morning nap). My team is not tired, but dogs are very subject to “group
think.” If other teams have been struggling in this exact spot, and there is a
team directly behind them that is struggling, they may feel that energy, and
the slow trail conditions may help make up their minds to sit down. I am also
on edge about this run, starting with our experience back in Shaktoolik, and
the dogs sense that energy as well. So, I just want to get across the ice as
quickly and smoothly as possible. As a musher, I always have to put what is
best for my team, and my race, first. At this moment, unless someone’s life is
in danger, we are going to keep moving.
We mush a few miles of punchy trail, water seeping into our
tracks as I look back. The trail improves slightly, and we pass another spot of
an unplanned “camp” by a team in front of us. Jane grabs a giant piece of meat
as we go by, and I stop to pull it out of her mouth and break it into smaller
pieces to share. I chuckle about their crazy appetites, and toss a piece of
meat to the dogs that missed out on Jane’s plunder.
The breeze encourages Qarth to leave the marked trail, and
we discover that the sides of the trail are windblown, glazed snow, and
therefore much smoother traveling than the trail itself. Our speed picks up by
over a mile per hour, and I let Qarth pick his own path. I keep the trail
markers to my left, and don’t let them get out of sight. The sea ice has holes
and cracks, pressure ridges and jagged icebergs, so leaving the trail is not
always the best idea. But, at the moment, the speed increase seems worth the
risk, and we move along nicely.
The steady breeze continues to push Qarth’s direction gently
towards shore, and every few minutes I have to call him “haw,” back out to sea.
I spend a minute, verbally getting him back on track, and can then be silent
for a few minutes. After an hour of this, I see that the “gee, haw” commands
are starting to demoralize the team, and I call us back to the marked trail,
trading out speed for consistency. Although this trail is slower, it is obvious
to follow, and won’t tax Qarth’s head. At four hours into an eight hour run,
750 miles into a race, this is an important consideration to remember.
We pull into Koyuk in the heat of the afternoon. The dogs
have now taken to screaming and barking as we get into a checkpoint, and they
give a nice little show as we are guided to our parking spot. We have gained a
few minutes on Seth during this run, and Kristy and Anna are still finishing
their first round of chores as my dogs stretch out on the ice. Wade is getting
ready to pull the hook as I light my cooker, and he compliments my small team.
Kelly, who I bought from him, is in wheel, and I tell him she has been quite
the cheerleader on the coast. She has finished three Iditarods with Wade, and
surely knows that Nome is only three runs away now. He laughs, and says she can
come back into his team. I get a chuckle out of that, and I wish him luck in
his remaining race.
Once the team has cooled off and eaten their snack, I lay
out their straw and get them comfortable in the sun. If it is cold, or the weather
is inclement, dogs will sleep in a ball to conserve energy and heat. However,
if it is sunny and warm, they will choose all kinds of positions while sleeping
(often reflecting their personality and level of comfort with their
surroundings). Qarth and Forty, always a little more apprehensive and alert,
are sleeping in loose, protective balls. The rest of the team, however, is in
some state of complete relaxation. Braavos and Mereen are both stretched
completely straight, and laying on their backs, as if sunning their bellies.
Frito, who is laying on his side, makes a nice pillow for Jane, who is
stretched perpendicular to the gangline. Kelly, completely buried in straw (her
favorite thing), is stretched out on her side as well. Whiskey looks something
like a dairy cow, laying on his stomach with his legs tucked underneath him. He
is wide awake, and patiently waiting for his second meal, which is still a
couple of hours away (he just finished his first meal ten minutes ago, but has
forgotten already).
Based on the standings, and run times of teams behind us, we
are secure in the top 20 as long as we keep moving at our current speed. My
original plan, had been to stop for four hours at each of the coastal
checkpoints. However, with trail conditions that are making run times half
again as long as “normal,” the dogs are needing an extra hour or two at every
stop. I figure that six hours here will be adequate, and should set us up for a
strong night run.
Kristy and Anna get a 30 minute head start on Seth and I,
who basically leave together. These guys, have some additional rest on my team,
but at this point, an extra hour does not really affect team speed. I doubt
that I will see “the twins” on this run. Talking with Seth, I know that I will
pass him almost immediately outside of the checkpoint. He is struggling with a
couple females in heat, and his leaders aren’t overly motivated to charge down
the trail. The plan is that he will get moving, and then use my team for his
dogs to chase after I pass him. This works out well, and he follows me almost
the entire way to Elim.
The first third of this run is quite hilly, and we are able
to catch sight headlamps on the first ascent, about five miles out of town. I
am surprised to see lights, and now get excited that we might catch Kristy and
Anna on this run. Doing the math in my head (run speeds vs. trail distance), I
know it will be close. But, I also have to watch my team and not get too caught
up in the “race.” If a pass happens, great! If not, that is fine too.
Descending out of the hills, the trail runs out into a wide
flood plain. As soon as we start out into the open, the wind hits us, and we
are almost immediately in a strong blizzard. The wind is at our back, and the
sticky snow is embedding itself in everything, including the dog’s fur. Soon, a
black Whiskey, is almost completely white. Visibility goes in and out, and at
times I can’t see past the wheel dogs, just in front of the sled. Once in a
while, we catch a break, and I see the lights of the Beringtons in front of us.
Distance is impossible to gauge, so they could be as close as a couple hundred
yards, or as far out as a couple miles. In this time, we pass a shelter cabin
along the trail, and a couple cheering snowmachiners standing out in the
blizzard. It is a bizarre encounter, and I have to check myself a few times to
make sure I am not hallucinating.
Towards the end of this flood plain crossing, we reach a
spit, and mush onto an unmaintained road. It is at this point that we catch
Anna. She pauses to let us roll by, and I shout out a quick thanks. A mile or
so up the trail, we pass Kristy, who is stopped and waiting for her sister. The
dogs are feeling great in the wind, and are having one of their best runs of
the race. The three times that I have run this race, there has always been one
run that sticks with me as the high point of the race (for team performance,
overall ease, exciting terrain, extreme challenge, etc.). As we make this run
to Elim, I know that this is “that run.” Everything seems to have come together
to create that near perfect experience. I know in this moment, that we will not
only make it to Nome, but make it there in good health, and in good form.
Elim is a quiet checkpoint early in the morning. I am the
first in my group to arrive here, and as we park, I see there is only one other
musher here. Matts Peterson is resting, after attempting to leave with Wade in
the middle of the night, and then turning back to the checkpoint. Apparently,
it was storming as severely on the north side of Elim, as it was on the south
(where we were running just a couple hours earlier). Matts describes a trail
that is completely blown in, with winds that were too strong for his leaders. I
realize that he is a musher that I am moving faster than, and will be able to
possibly stay in front of on the run to White Mountain. I decide on a five hour
rest here, knowing that time will be sufficient for my team, but also
competitive for the teams around me. I am reassured of my decision, when I step
out of the fire hall (the building serving as headquarters) to an entire team
that jumps off their straw, and gives me their full attention.
As I feed the team their second meal, Matts and I chat about
the upcoming run. It is incredibly hilly for the first 25 miles, and if the
trail is completely snowed over, and drifted, it can be very difficult for a
single team to run. Often times, mushers will tackle a challenge like this by
leap frogging back and forth (as one group of dogs gets tired of breaking
trail, the other team can step up and take over for a time). We decide to try
and leave together; my peppy team helping guide his out of the checkpoint, then
trading off with trail breaking as we hit the biggest hills.
Knowing that this run will probably be the toughest of the
entire race, I decide to leave Jane in Elim. She has been doing a great job,
but I worry that the long climbs, through deep snow, will be more than she can
handle on her first thousand mile race. At this point, she is the only rookie
on the team, and aside from Frito, the only non-Iditarod finisher in the group.
As she walks off with the vet, I see that Seth, nor the Beringtons, are up and
moving yet. This is a good sign for holding our position on the way to Nome.
Finishing with booties, and getting the last items in my
sled, I am asked by the race judge if I want help guiding my dogs out of the
parking lot. I shake my head and tell her that they are feeling good and ready
to go. She gives me a skeptical look, and informs me that no team has made it
past the first snow bank (where every dog wants to stop and relieve
themselves). I laugh, and inwardly plan to be the first team to make it past
that obstacle without a stop. I have the utmost confidence in the dogs at this
point.
I check in with Matts, and once I get his thumbs up, pull
the hook. Qarth is in forward drive immediately, and I am riding the drag at
mile 820. I smile as we round the 90 degree corner that has stymied the teams
in front of us. Suddenly, the entire team is a single ball. I am dumbstruck for
a brief second, and then see that the swing dogs have gotten tangled in a huge
snowball that has stopped Qarth, and balled the remaining dogs. It is a BIG
snow ball (picture a rounded wheelbarrow), and I have to hop off and pull the
dogs around it. Well, Damn!
In all the fuss with our tangle, I completely forget about
Matts. I have pulled the hook without thinking, and left him back at the
checkpoint. We run right through town, climbing up towards the city airstrip,
and as I look back, I see no sign of him. I feel bad, but recognize we all have
our own race to run, and move forward. As we depart the road grade, and turn
across the end of the airstrip, Qarth is met with a three foot deep snowdrift.
I encourage him forward, and he leaps and bounds through the neck deep snow.
This is a good sign for things to come, I think.
The ascent out of Elim is immediate, and unrelenting. There
is also no room to get off your sled and pedal, run or ski pole. So, I stand
patiently on the runners, and watch the dogs slowly climb. There are tight
turns, a few drops, and a lot of uphill slogging. Any sign of Wade’s team is completely
gone. We are breaking trail through a few inches of fresh snow. But, at least
the skies are clear and the wind is only a gentle breeze (at least in the
trees). Finally, the climb becomes so steep that I have to get off and run,
pushing the sled slightly off the trail so I have enough room for my feet.
We reach the first peak outside of town, and I stop to give
us a breather, and take a video of the surroundings and my wonderful dogs. They
wag their tails and eat some snow, and then we are back to moving. I will not
elaborate on every hill, but will say that I got my work out on this leg. I run
and ski pole for the next four hours, as the team trudges through snow, which
is at times belly deep. I have stripped down to only a hoody, and have no
gloves and no hat. My thermometer says that it is above 40, and at times we are
barely making more than four miles per hour. Nome suddenly feels a very longs
ways away.
We conquer the hills after about five hours (that is an
average of five miles per hour, for those of you paying attention to the
numbers), and drop down towards Golovin Bay, and the town of Golovin. I have
been struggling to keep the team on the trail (everything is a flat white, with
no definition), and have started to play “musical leaders.” Qarth, after
starting to weave back and forth, has been replaced by Braavos, who didn’t want
Forty behind him, but also not next to him. Forty has led by himself for a
short time, but really needs a partner, so Mereen has stepped in for a spell… I
take a snack break.
Every dog gets a moment after their snack to roll in the
snow, and Frito has decided this looks like a good spot to camp (it is 2:30 in
the afternoon, and the sun is blazing). I adjust a dog or two, and also take a
moment to clear my head and assess. I have brought food and provisions to camp
if needed, but do not want to park the dogs without straw, or give up our current
position. I put Qarth back up with Forty, and decide this is going to work.
Our speed towards Golovin is by no means record breaking,
but the team is moving and the houses of town are slowly getting closer. This
is one of the more stressful points of the race for many mushers. The town of
Golovin sits only 15 miles from White Mountain. It is not a checkpoint, and has
no amenities for mushers. Yet, we run right through the middle of their town,
and front runners of the race are often inundated for autographs and pictures.
I realize, with apprehension, that I am now almost a “front runner,” and may be
stopped by a group of people who want to say hello. This would send the signal
to the team that we have reached a checkpoint, and resuming our run may be
quite difficult. I stress all the way to town.
In the end, my worry is unfounded. As we approach the ramp
into Golovin, Qarth and Forty kick into overdrive, and start loping. I gather
that Forty is excited to see if there are loose dogs, and Qarth is hoping to
get through town as quickly as possible. The rest of the dogs vibe off their
energy, and double their efforts to move forward. We lope through town at about
ten miles per hour. There is not a soul to be seen as we go through, and within
45 seconds we are dropping back onto Golovin Bay. I give the dogs an “easy”
command, and slow us back down to a conservative trot. The team seems very
happy to be on the other side of civilization, and everyone keeps their head
pointed forward. The remainder of our run to White Mountain is smooth, and our
speed continues to climb as the evening temperatures cool off.
In White Mountain, teams park on the Fish River for their
mandatory eight hour rest. The town itself populates a steep hillside, and the
walk to the community center is one of the toughest climbs of the whole race.
With the team fed and bedded down, I scale the hill to get some food and rest
(oh, and my mandatory drug test before the finish). Inside, I spend a moment
talking to Wade, who is putting on his boots to leave. The tracker shows that
many of the top ten are still making their way to Nome, and a few have been on route
for almost 14 hours (and are still a couple hours out of the finish!). Wade
seems a little anxious about the next 70 miles, but we both know the only
option at this point is to mush on, and see what you find. I wish him luck, and
lie down for a couple hours of sleep.
After giving the team there second meal and repacking my
sled for the final run, I head back up to the center for another bit of food
and some coffee. I spend some time talking to Matt Failor, discussing the highs
and lows of this year’s race. He spent much of the race in the top 15, but with
his unplanned stop outside of Shaktoolik, has dropped back to 20th
in White Mountain. I don’t get the exact details about his decision to stop for
so long, but make my own inferences.
At last, it is time for us to get moving, and I get the team
booted and ready for their run. With five minutes to spare, I lead the dogs off
their straw and to an official “start line,” that points us out of the
checkpoint. This is unique to White Mountain, and gives the team the opportunity
to poop, pee and shake off. The checker gives us a countdown, and at zero, I
pull the hook. Our takeoff is not as thrilling as the start all the way back in
Willow, but the dogs immediately start rolling down the river, and look smooth
and limber.
We run Fish River for about two miles, and then climb onto a
long swamp, running west towards the Topkok hills. That’s right, there is
another series of climbs that separate us from the finish of this damn race.
There is absolutely no wind, and the temperature is about 18 degrees. It is
nearly perfect for me as a sled driver, and feels relatively cool for the dogs
(when compared to the temps of the majority of the race). We all seem to be
enjoying the trail, although it is still slow and punchy from earlier winds and
limited travel from snowmachines, or other dog teams (we are in 15th
after all!). The aurora is out. This is another
place in which I think about how lucky I am to experience this trail, and this
incredible state of Alaska, all by dog team.
The Topkok Hills are no picnic to run, and some of the
climbs would take an untrained teams breath away. Luckily, every team that
reaches this point in the race, is well traveled, and well versed in climbing
(one way or another). This year, I tried counting the number of significant
climbs until we reach the coast outside of Nome, and I came up with 13. A few
are so long and steep, that on approach, I initially confuse the trail markers
for stars. The seven members of my team are strong, but a few steep climbs
require me to actually push the sled from behind (at least to keep our nice
speed and rhythm).
After about four hours of running, I calculate that we have
been averaging just under eight miles per hour. This is about the fastest we have
traveled in the entire race, and I start thinking about trying to really let
the team open up in the last 22 miles, attempting to win “Fastest time from
Safety to Nome.” This is an actual award that is presented each year to the
team in the top 20 that can run into the finish at the fastest speed. I know
that Wade will be attempting this, as he has a pretty fast team with a decent
amount of rest. But, as for the other teams in front of us, I know that they
have all hit bad weather and slow trail conditions. I am traveling faster than
the teams behind me. I stop to give some clear water to Qarth and Whiskey, who
both have started to dip a little snow from the trail.
At mile 26, we descend out of the hills, and pass a safety
cabin just before the infamous “blow hole.” In preparation, I have sealed my
gloves, donned my neck gator, and pulled up my hoods. Even though the hills
have had no wind, the blow hole can be in a completely different weather
system. As we go by the cabin, and start to parallel the beach, there is not
even a slight breeze. I slowly relax, and then decide to sit down on my sled.
Although I have had my “tail dragger” this entire race, I have sat down for a
total of about 12 miles. Now, I open my snack bag and munch on some dried
fruit. I change my playlist, choosing some of my favorite tunes. The experience
is entirely unnatural for this part of the race, and I feel almost a little
cheated.
I am riding the drag very lightly, but eventually start to
nod off with a lack of stimulus from the trail. Although the trail is obvious,
and the dogs are chasing the glow of Nome (still more than 35 miles away), I
don’t really want to fall completely asleep. I decide to pedal just for
something to do. The dogs are now rolling at what seems to be a comfortable speed,
and we are averaging between 7.5 and 8.5 miles per hour. I am pretty sure at
this point, that we can compete with Wade for the “Safety to Nome Award.”
The trail eventually joins a summer road to Teller, and we
are now passing highway mile markers. Light has just started to creep over the
horizon, and the arrival of dawn, has ptarmigan on the move. Every quarter
mile, the dogs spook up a group of 20 or 30 birds that explode from the side of
the road, and fly across the trail. Forty, always in the hunt, and host of the largest
prey drive of any dog we own, is loving the action. He is attempting to take
the team at 12 miles an hour down the trail, and I am having to fight against
him with the drag. Our speed is basically surging every few minutes, and the
dogs are going to slowly wear themselves down. I make a stop, give another
snack, and move Forty back a position (to be replaced with Braavos, who is far
too serious for birds).
We cruise into Safety and get checked in. Kale is there,
doing some filming of my team. He has snowmachined the whole trail, and I have
seen him, off and on, for the last hundred miles. I alert the checkers that I
am not ready to be “checked out,” and get off my sled to give every dog a snack
and get their booties checked, and replaced if needed. I mess around for a
couple minutes and then get back on my sled. The checkers hand me my bib, which
I store in a pocket. I look at my watch, and tell them I am ready to leave. They
give me my checkout time, and I look up to the dogs to see Kale standing in the
middle of the team. No dogs have necklines, so if I move forward, he is sure to
be tripped. I holler up to him to step away from the dogs. He starts towards
the Safety Roadhouse, which encourages the dogs to follow him towards the
building. They are sure that this is a checkpoint, which means that there is
straw and more food located somewhere. Getting a little more agitated, I yell
to Kale to walk the other direction. He is still filming, of course. I pull the
hook, and now have to firmly command the dogs to “gee” back to the trail, and
give them a couple strong commands to get moving and leave Kale behind. I am
sure my agitation and annoyance have been saved to the archives of the internet
somewhere…
We are back on the trail and moving, but our rhythm has been
broken, and Qarth is now a little distracted by some snowmachines and an
approaching helicopter (people from Nome have now woken up, and are coming out
to watch our final miles into the finish). I figure we will get moving again in
a minute, and pull out my ski pole to keep myself occupied. A few minutes
later, Qarth starts dipping for snow, and his intensity distracts the other
dogs. I know that he shouldn’t be dehydrated, considering he just had a decent
meat snack, but nevertheless, I stop and offer him the last of my personal
water. The snoot refuses it, and eats snow instead. I realize he is just pissed
we didn’t spend more time in Safety, and there is nothing I can do for that.
Resigned, I get back to the sled and take off, knowing that any chance of
beating Wade’s time to Nome is out the window.
I focus my attention to enjoying the morning sunrise, which
is spectacular, and looking out for more little animals, which seem to abound
the trail to Nome. A few miles from Safety, we climb Cape Nome, a monstrous
hill that separates Safety from the finish (as if to throw us one last
challenge before we are done). The dogs climb nicely, but as we reach the top I
can feel we won’t regain our smooth rhythm from earlier, and a couple dogs are
a little on the dehydrated side. I am mad at myself for not packing a more
water dense meat for this run, and make note for next year.
We stop a final time on the backside of the cape, Nome now
in view. The dogs roll around and eat some more snow, and I give them all a pat
on the head. The remaining 12 miles roll by, and as we climb onto Front Street,
I feel overwhelmed with pride for my team. Then, Qarth bulks at the moving
vehicles, sirens and groups of spectators, and I quickly jump off to move him
back in the team. Braavos leads us for the remaining half mile.
I knew I was taking a chance with Qarth in lead, but was
hoping he would handle the pressure and make it under the burled arch in lead.
Although our kennel has many dogs who run lead, no team member comes close to
Qarth for drive and dedication under tough conditions. For two Iditarod’s now,
he has handled every single challenge with ease (usually tackling those
portions alone in that position), and is always ready to leave his straw for
another challenge.
The team comes under the arch in perfect form. I see Katti,
ready to embrace Braavos as I bring the team to a stop. I am greeted by Mark
Nordman, the Race Judge, and then asked for a quick interview from the Nome
Nugget (the local paper). I answer a couple of questions, and then tell them to
pause for me to give every dog a snack. I embrace Katti. My Mom (always
supportive of my crazy adventures) is there for a big hug, and I get a
high-five from her partner Noah. I congratulate the dogs, and pass out a few
booties to people spectating at the finish. And just like that, the race is
over.
Well, actually, that is not entirely true. We run our team
to the Nome dog yard, and get every dog unharnessed and on their drop line. The
dogs are analyzed by the vet team for body condition, flexibility and overall
health (they are putting together notes for the “Vet’s Choice” award), and then
every dog gets to relax in their flight kennel full of straw. It is early
afternoon, and the sun is out. I mix up a meal for the team, and everybody eats
with enthusiasm. Now, with the dogs fed and bedded down, I can get a break, and
have breakfast and mimosas with the family. I know that in a few hours, the
team could be ready to keep moving down the trail.
Iditarod start is something like controlled chaos. 54 teams
park in two semi-circles at the Willow visitor’s center. The typical parking
arrangement, on Willow Lake itself, is not an option for this year because of
warmer than normal temps. This has left the lake with spots of thin ice, and an
abundant amount of overflow (water sitting on top of the lake ice). So, trucks
and trailers are packed into a relatively small area, and mushers do their best
to setup sleds and dogs without entangling their neighbors. With the help of
some wonderful friends and family, the dogs and I get off without a hitch. I
have decided, somewhat last minute, to leave that start line with 13, as
opposed to the maximum number of dogs allowed, 14. Spears and India have come
into heat, and are going to be breedable during the race. Because two of our
best leaders are intact males, Braavos and Forty, I make the decision with
little hesitation, and know that having fewer distractions for those two males
will pay off in the long run. The race trail is a soft mess within the first 100 yards of
takeoff. The Southcentral part of Alaska has received almost three feet of snow
in the two weeks leading up to the race, and with temperatures around 30 degrees,
the snow has not setup. It is essentially like running through a foot of sugar.
The dogs are focused and I keep their speed steady and under control as we pass
crowds of onlookers and fans. The Iditarod start is a giant party for people in
the area, and snowmachine tailgate parties line the trail for the first 25
miles of the race. We are passed by multiple teams in this first run, a few
catching us only a couple miles from the start line. This doesn’t concern or
worry me, and I remember a great quote from a fellow musher: “The race can’t be
won within the first 100 miles, but it can be lost in that time.” With
incredibly soft snow, and deep moguls that tend to jerk the dogs around, throwing
off their rhythm, I tell myself that I can’t possibly go too slow. So, I just
embrace the conditions and we slog our way out onto the Susitna River, and then
plod down to the Yentna River, which we then follow northwest to the first
checkpoint of Yentna.
Leading up to the start of Iditarod, I had been watching the
weather in this area pretty closely. I knew the trail was going to be slow, and
had made some last minute adjustments to my schedule to account for those
conditions. Originally, I had planned to go through Yentna, and rest between
the first and second checkpoints. I would then rest again between the second
and third checkpoints. However, with so much snow, I cut the first few runs
short, and was one of two teams in the race to rest before the first checkpoint
of Yentna. Just as light was completely disappearing from the sky, I found a
nice side track about 100 feet off the main, marked race trail. I got the dogs
snacked and bedded down in about ten minutes, and proceeded to watch everyone
in the race slowly pass by. The dogs got a nice meal, which they all ate with
vigor, and then closed their eyes for an hour. They are not tired, but have
enough training and experience to take full advantage of any opportunity to
sleep on comfortable straw. After a two hour break, we are back to running and blow
through Yentna, with a quick gear check and hand off of my race bib (which we
are required to wear for the first leg of the race, and will get back for the
finish). The trail to Skwentna is probably the best of the whole race, and the
dogs trot effortlessly on the solid, flat river. We pass 15 or 20 teams on this
leg, and will get repassed as we take our next rest (the game of cat and mouse
in these long races is really quite interesting). I stop in Skwentna for three
hours, and pay a visit to the old Skwentna Roadhouse. There are a group of
women that run this checkpoint, called the “Skwentna Sweeties,” and they live
up to their name! The trek up the river bank is rewarded with a hot wash cloth
for your hands and face, and a dinner and drink spread made fresh for the mushers
to enjoy, along with coffee to-go. Their support of the race is really quite
incredible, and I think most mushers would agree that they would love to take
this service and hospitality all the way up the trail (it would feel incredible
to have a warm face wipe at mile 700!). Leaving Skwentna, we quickly climb onto a ten mile swamp.
The trail has some punchy sections and holes that will swallow your team into
bottomless snow, if you are not careful to direct the team around them. The
skies are clear, and the northern lights are out in a strong display
(especially for being so far south in the state). I take moments to look up and
enjoy the show, and just appreciate where I am with my dogs. The joy that I get
from running this race, and travelling so much incredible country, often fills
me with emotion on the trail, and this was one of those points where I felt I
might overflow with gratitude and love for my dogs and their ability. I am
pretty quickly brought back to reality, though, as the trail drops onto the
Skwentna River, and we mush around some open holes in the ice, and then leave
the river to start our slow climb into the Alaska Range. Most of our training season has been spent running fast,
hard packed trails. As much as we tried to find soft snow for quality muscle
training, the majority of the state was pretty dry this year. So, our team is
faster and lighter footed than they have ever been. This is great for a race
with smooth trails, and no fresh snow, but a little less than ideal for slow, soft
conditions. This knowledge is the primary factor for starting the race on a
very conservative run/rest schedule (at least for our team), and making no run
longer than five hours until leaving Rainy Pass. In hindsight, I could have
been a little more conservative for a little longer. Anyways, we make another
stop before reaching Finger Lake, and take a nice siesta in the late morning.
This would actually be the coldest part of the entire race (something like 5
degrees). Departing our camp, we will be running through the heat of
the day on primarily south facing hills. It is going to be hot. I decide it
will be smart to leave booties off most of the team, and allow them to remain
as cool as possible while running in the hot sun. I figure later in the race, I
can manage any small foot problems that may develop from abrasive snow, and the
benefit will out way the potential negative. That turns out to not be the case,
and I spend the remainder of the race nursing small foot injuries.
We have a nice run through Finger Lake, across FinBear Lake,
and down the Happy River Steps. “The Steps,” as they are called, is a series of
steep descents from an alpine forest onto the floor of the Happy River valley.
It is a wild experience to say the least! (If you want to enjoy a portion of
it, see last year’s Iditarod blog for a GoPro video). This year does not
disappoint, although with so much snow, we have no choice but to follow the
trench from all the teams in front of us, and just fumble our way down. We stop
for a brief snack and untangle on the river, and then get ready for the climb
back out of the valley and up to Rainy Pass. Our dogs tackle hills with vigor, and I am always so
impressed with their ability to climb ascents that I would struggle to even
walk. Leaving the Happy River is a good test of a team’s ability; we are met
with a 50 foot wall, which is easily steeper than 50 degrees. The dogs shoot
right up that, with a little running assistance from me, and then continue to
climb an 800 foot hill. From this point, it is 15 miles to the checkpoint,
through rolling hills, surrounded by stunning peaks with jagged rock faces, and
small glaciers. This is one of the most beautiful sections of the entire trail. Our arrival into Rainy Pass is smooth and we check in for a
few hours of rest. I park in line with three past champions, all in different
stages of rest. Martin Buser, a four time winner, has beat me into the
checkpoint by about five minutes. Jeff King, also a four time champ and one of
the oldest people in the race, has been in the checkpoint for about 45 minutes.
Mitch Seavey, the most current champ from these three, is just getting ready to
pull the hook and continue up the trail. I take this as a sign that I am either
racing out of my element, or am on track to have a semi-competitive race if I
can hold everything together. I feed and care for the dogs, checking for muscle
strains and joint issues, and after a thorough check and appraisal of their
attitude, decide we are on track for a good race (easy to say at mile 140,
haha). Picket is left in Rainy Pass for a slight tear to his left gluteal
muscle. He catches a flight back to Anchorage, and actually leaves the
checkpoint before the team does. The 32 mile run to Rohn is always one of the most stressful
of the race. We climb to the summit of Rainy Pass, about 4000 feet, and then
drop off the north side of the Alaska Range, losing about 3500 feet in
elevation in only 15 miles. The descents are wicked, and made worse by multiple
open creek crossings and the close proximity of so many teams. I leave the
checkpoint of Rainy Pass within a few minutes of five other teams, Jeff King
and Martin Buser as a part of that group. It is dusk, and pretty quickly a
string of headlamps appears, all from teams making their way through the pass.
I follow a friend, Aaron Peck, for a few miles, and then pass him as he makes a
brief stop. I know it was going to be a slow, frustrating run, when we all
bottle neck at the first creek crossing. There is only room for one team at a
time, and if the dogs don’t immediately jump into the water, things can go
awry. Both Jeff and Martin run their dogs with no necklines, meaning that the
dogs have only one attachment point and can spin circles if the team is not
moving. This can be an absolute mess when trying to convince them to cross open
water, and sure enough, the first crossing is a complete shit show. While Aaron
helps Jeff get his dogs across, Martin comes up behind me, and hooks down his
team. He walks up to see what is going on, and at that moment, his team pulls
through the hook, and immediately, our two teams become one. His dogs, with
their no neckline, weave over and under my team, and we have a giant ball.
Thankfully, my dogs are super calm, not aggressive, and stand patiently while I
try to untangle the mess and Martin yells out expletives about the incompetency
of other mushers. We finally have ourselves sorted, more or less, right as his
team yanks the sled out of his hands and goes blowing by. At the last minute, I
dive at his handlebars and get the sled stopped for him to run and jump on.
Wahoo! After getting through the first crossing, and getting our
positioning established, it seems like things might flow pretty smoothly. Well,
I shouldn’t be fooled. The entire rest of the run is a cluster of teams at
every water crossing and every steep hill. At this point, Martin and Jeff have
excelled to the front of our group, and Aaron is travelling right behind me.
There is one team separating us from the two champs, however, and he has a hell
of a time at every patch of water, bringing Aaron and I to a complete halt. Although our sled dogs tend to love water in the summer
months, they are smart, and the idea of getting their feet wet in winter is
less than appealing. Some mushers are able to train for this, and teach their
dogs to cross water regardless of the conditions. Others, like myself, just
count on the fact that the dogs will baulk. I simply drive the team until they
are in a slight ball (picture an accordion being pushed from either side), and
then anchor my hooks, jog up to the front of the team, take ahold of my leaders
and guide them into the water, pointing them to the other side. My feet get a
little wet, but this system works great when in a hurry, and the dogs trust
that I am acting with our best interest at heart, and tend to follow me right
into the water. That being said, I strategically place leaders for this type of
run that are small and easy to work with. This year that was Braavos and
Fierce. They are both under 50 pounds and easy for me to handle. So, this team in front of us is really struggling at every
crossing, and is in turn costing us about five minutes at every patch of water.
Time is not my primary concern, really. I am more frustrated about the break in
rhythm that it is causing for my dogs. The team finds their stride after a
couple of hours of running, and unnecessary stops mess with their speed and
attitude. We finally make it through one of the final creek crossings,
and start the final descent into Rohn. This is by no means a straight forward
trail, and is some of the most technical driving I will ever do (avoiding
boulders and large tree stumps, while also skating across patches of pure ice;
all intermixed with drops of 45 degrees and steeper). Well, this team that we
have been following, is still in front of us, and is now having issues on the
downhills. As they start the steepest part of a drop, it seems as if the leaders
stop and let the whole team run them over. The musher is then forced to stop
and run up to untangle everyone. I come upon this ball right as my team and I
are descending the steepest of the hills. In a moment of panic, halfway down
the descent, I yell “whoa” to the dogs and force my anchor into the edge of the
trail. I am praying it grabs something of substance to stop the dogs, before we
literally run over this team in front of us. We do manage to stop, and I immediately
spin around and attempt to yell back to Aaron before he drops into my team. It
is now night and completely dark, in a tight canyon, with thick trees
surrounding us. Communication is nearly impossible, so we have resorted to
flashing our headlamps back and forth, as warning. This happens on three of the
steepest drops, all within about five miles. Because the trail is so technical,
and so narrow, passing is completely impossible and a faster team is simply
forced to follow the slower team. Just before Rohn, the trail drops onto the
Tatina River, and Aaron and I can finally get around the slower musher and trot
easily into Rohn. Despite the slow run out of the mountains, I stick to my
plan of going through Rohn, and spend a quick fifteen minutes packing my sled with
dog food, straw and fuel before leaving the checkpoint. It is well known that
the run out of Rohn can be one of the worst of the whole race. We leave the
thick forest surrounding the Rohn roadhouse, and drop out onto the South Fork
of the Kuskokwim River. This area gets very little snow, and what snow does
fall, gets completely stripped away with strong winter winds. So, the river ice
is completely exposed, and you have almost no stopping or steering ability.
This is where a well-trained, and calm team comes in handy. This year, the
river ice is frozen as smooth as glass, with four foot drops that lead down to
the open river. There are no trail markers at this point (there is nothing for
them to stick into), and mushers are expected to travel two miles downriver and
then look for a blinking red light, which marks the turnoff to leave the river
and get back into the woods. Following a couple scratch marks from teams in
front of us, we blast down the river, attempting to avoid the frozen driftwood,
and also not get blown sideways into the open water. About a half mile out of
Rohn, I catch a glimpse of a team a hundred yards off the “trail,” crashed on
the ice just a few feet from the open river. I pull out my snowhook, and anchor
the team in a small crack in the river ice. I step off the runners, and my feet
immediately go out from under me, landing me flat on my back. I struggle to get
up, and as soon as I am standing, start drifting with the wind towards the team
I have stopped to help. It is so slick that I need only take one step in the
correct direction, and the breeze does the rest. As I approach the dogs, I see
it is my buddy, Lev, with an entire team in fresh booties (covering all four
feet). They have absolutely no traction on the ice, and can’t keep their feet
under them. I chose to strip booties from my team in Rohn, and now try to convince
him to do the same. He is determined to keep them on, however, knowing that we will
have 15 miles of incredibly abrasive snow once we are off this ice. So,
together, we drag his 14 dogs up the ice towards my team. We get them more or
less straightened out, after only a few wipe outs on our end, and I hop on my
sled to guide his team in the correct direction. Looking back on this moment, I
think I gave him some instruction like: “don’t worry, follow me.” As I pull the
hook, we immediately go shooting across a gravel bar full of round river rock
and large pieces of driftwood. With a nice tailwind, the sand that I am
churning up with the drag is curling around my sled and blowing back into my
face. With that impediment, and the rocks which are jostling my body so bad
that my headlamp looks and feels like I am attending a European rave, there is
absolutely no way to see where we were going. Through little moments of relief
from the sandblasting, getting brief squints, I am able to catch sight of the
red light, and our turn (after maybe three or four of those gravel bars, all in
a row). At this point, I look back for Lev, and not seeing him, figure it is
every man for themselves out here, and keep moving. Leaving the Kuskokwim River, we enter an area called the
Farewell Burn (see last year’s blog for some cool video and pictures). I have survived
this section of trail twice before, both times in the daylight. Well, doing it
at night adds a completely different level of thrill to the experience of
dodging stumps, rocks and open holes. This entire section has absolutely no
snow, so the dogs have perfect traction, and our sleds have almost no stopping
or slowing ability. As I careen down hills, run over frozen sections of glaciation,
avoid sharp pieces of granite, and bounce across huge clumps of earth, I try
not to focus on any one obstacle. Instead, I watch my leaders first and
foremost, making sure they are headed in roughly the correct direction. Then, I
skip over all the other dogs, and keep an eye on what next hazard is about to
destroy my sled, and think quickly as to the best way to avoid certain
catastrophe. Sounds fun, right?! Well, it is pretty awesome as long as you only
do it once a season! Somehow, we survive this 13 mile section unscathed, and
slowly get back into decent snow. At this point, we have been running for over
seven hours, and I am now seriously in need of a break, and know the dogs
should have a meal and a rest. My intent had been to run to Tin Creek, but at
2:30 in the morning, I can no longer remember if it is 16, 18 or 22 miles out
of Rohn. I pass the 16 mile mark (according to my GPS), and decide to take
advantage of a stand of living trees for wind protection. I make camp right on
the edge of the trail, and set the dogs up with a heavy straw bed. I had been
thinking of a five hour break originally, but opt for a six, giving me an
additional hour of sleep, and the ability to feed two large meals to the dogs.
One of my childhood idols, Ramey Smyth, is parked a couple team lengths behind
me, and throughout the course of our rest, more than a dozen teams trot by. At dawn, I wake the dogs with a snack and their second meal.
A few dogs have slept with heat packs and shoulder jackets (treating a couple
sore muscles from the rough trail) and I remove these dressings and get them ready
to roll. As everyone gets lined out and clipped back into their tuglines, they
show me they are ready with some tail wags and quick little barks. The remaining
55 miles to Nikolai are straight forward and tame, when compared to the Gorge
and early part of the Burn. We cross the Farewell Lakes, vacant of snow, and get a pass in with Jeff King while he replaces runner plastic. But all in all, an easy run. In fact, the final 25 miles into town are quite
boring, running an old survey line, with nothing but moguls for entertainment.
The town of Nikolai is a welcome sight, and signals the end
of the first stage of Iditarod. Although it is a completely unofficial way to
analyze the race, I break the trail into four parts: The Alaska Range (the
start to Nikolai - 238 miles); The Interior (Nikolai to Shageluk - 220 miles);
The River (Shageluk to Kaltag - 164 miles); and the Coast (Kaltag to Nome - 308
miles). This system allows me to more easily tackle the entirety of the trail,
and gives a tired musher a few more finish lines throughout the race. Nikolai
is a wonderful place, with a welcoming community that provides piping hot water
in the dog yard, and free meals at the school (an eighth of a mile walk through
town). I am especially excited to be arriving in Nikolai this year with a
healthy and hungry dog team. As you may remember from last year, my team had
started the race with a stomach bug, and I was really struggling to get the
calories into them at this point in the race (and actually, took my 24 hour
rest at this checkpoint). Well, that is not an issue this year, and as we pull
into the dog yard for a break, the team is ravenous for their high protein
snack. Nikolai is also a unique stop, because one of our friends and sponsors is
volunteering for the race and supposed to be stationed here for a few days. As
the dogs finish their snack, and get comfy on their straw, Kurt greets me with
a smile and handshake, and he gets a chance to socialize a little with his
sponsor dog, Kelly. We chat for a bit as I do chores, and attended to Kelly’s
sore wrist, and then it is time for me to visit the school, and eat a couple
free meals. Throughout this Iditarod, I would typically eat a large meal, nap
for an hour to hour and a half, then wake up and eat another small meal before
hitting the trail. Nikolai is an exception, and I eat three large meals over
the course of three hours! Departing Nikolai, I had a few different plans for how to
tackle the interior, and when to take my mandatory 24 hour rest. All mushers in
the race typically take this large rest somewhere between Nikolai and Iditarod,
based on trail conditions and team training. My “plan A” had been to mush to
the halfway point of Iditarod before taking this rest. However, with a slow
trail into Nikolai, and very slow and soft trail out of Nikolai, I decide a 24
in McGrath makes the most sense. I also have to think about the time of day
that I depart my mandatory rest. Doing the math, it looks like I will be starting
my rest at 4 A.M., and then departing at about 5 A.M. the following day (you
make up your start time differential on this rest). An early morning run is
perfect for a dog team, because we take advantage of cooler air temperature and
better trail conditions. So, this helps to further support my decision for
stopping in McGrath. McGrath is one of the larger towns along the Iditarod trail,
and is located along the banks of the Kuskokwim River. The trail coming into
town follows the river, and we can see the lights of civilization for about an
hour and a half as you slowly close in on the checkpoint. It takes forever to
get there! However, the slow arrival is offset by a welcoming crew (even at
four in the morning). Once I am parked and the dogs are cared for, we are
welcomed into the local clinic/health center which is transformed into the official
checkpoint. Food is abundant (all provided by local residents), and mushers are
setup with gym mats for sleeping in the attached daycare center. I am fortunate
enough to find a nice, secluded corner in a back room of the center, and settle
in to get some quality rest. Don’t be fooled though, on a 24 hour stop the dogs
will eat five meals and five snacks. They are basically consuming food every 6
hours throughout the period, and in addition to calories, they will need foot care,
massage and stretching. An important part of this health care procedure
involves the chance to get off their straw and move around, which means
multiple leash walks for every dog. So, I am as busy as ever during our time in
McGrath, and sleep in a series of four to five, three hour naps. I do get a chance to catch up with a few friends in the
race, as we have all decided to take our 24 hour rest in McGrath. Wade Marrs is
running a few hours in front of us; Seth Barnes and Lev Schvarts are basically
right with me; Richie Beattie, a friend from Fairbanks, is a couple hours
behind; and another couple friends from around the state are coming in as I am
finishing up with my final round of chores. This is a good time to drink some
coffee together and discuss the trail conditions, and health of our teams.
Often times, a few minutes together can help ground a musher and make them
realize the challenges they are facing are not unique only to them alone. A
broken sled, sick dog, or personal injury is often shared by many others in the
race. Of course, this is also a great time for competitive mushers to play head
games with one another, and try to throw the competition off your personal race
plan (essentially distracting them by talking about the poor trail, warm temps,
and upcoming challenges). All part of the fun of racing, I guess. So, after an
entire day in the same location, the dogs and I are very much ready to get back
on the trail and keep moving towards Nome.
Knox and Pogo, enjoying their straw in McGrath
The team, parked along the edge of the Kuskokwim River (McGrath)
