Iditarod Trail fly-over

Beat about 10 miles south of Skwentna on the Yentna River.

This afternoon, my friend Dan Bailey and I set out from Anchorage to fly over the Yentna River in his Cessna 120. Our goal: A bird's eye view of the Iditarod Trail Invitational. We knew most racers would be bunched up in the 32 miles between Yentna Station and Skwentna Roadhouse, and the wide Yentna River was a great place to spot the racers.

We took off from Anchorage and flew over the Sustina Valley, spotting familiar landmarks such as Point McKenzie, the survey cut that serves as part of the Susitna 100 course, and Flathorn Lake. Even from 500 feet above the ground, the trail told a story of its own. The thin line across the Dismal Swamp was a mess of deep, staggered footprints. It looked like a herd of drunken moose had forged through the drifted snow.

An aerial view of Luce's Lodge. This spot is always a welcome sight in the cold, lonely night.

Yentna Station, the first checkpoint in the race at mile 57. Beat took about a six-hour rest here last night and left around 3:40 a.m. Based on that and his prior progress, I expected to see him some 20 miles farther up the river during our 2 p.m. flyover. I projected this well, as he appeared to be about 10 to 12 miles south of Skwentna (mile 90) when we spotted him.

Two cyclists push their bikes along the river. A thin snowmobile track threaded through the deep snow, but it appeared to be too soft to ride. We could see footprints in the snow from 500 feet up — again, not a good sign. As we flew north, we occasionally spotted cyclists trying to mount and ride their bikes, but this swerving effort usually ceased before we passed. Most of the cyclists were pushing their bikes, still, seventy to eighty miles into the race.

At least trail conditions were "pushable" today. From accounts I've heard, on Sunday and Monday conditions weren't even that good. The frontrunners broke trail through untouched snow, but even those behind them couldn't fare much better in their tracks. From the Susitna Flats to Yentna Station, I gathered, much of the course was a "bike carry" condition, meaning bikes couldn't just roll through the soft snow — they had to be hoisted and nudged. Such an effort is monstrous for anyone, but especially for smaller people (such as women) or racers with heavier bikes. I love a good slog as much as anyone, maybe more than anyone, but I don't blame the racers who dropped at Yentna Station. So far, this year's ITI has favored the mentally strong and also the physically strong (as in larger humans who can handle big loads.) This has not been a year for "fast" athletes, no matter their mode of travel.

This photo gives a good overview of the trail — just a single track through the expansive river. Those who understand what a highway the Yentna River can become can see just how badly the weekend storm obliterated any signs of the old trail.

And then, about a mile north of Fish Creek (where Beat, Anne and I stayed on the second night of our December trek) we spotted Beat! I was so excited. Dan buzzed low and I opened the window so I could stick my bare fingers into the 10-degree air with 90 mph wind chill and wave frantically at his hunched figure. Despite all the difficulties this year, I would so love to be out there right now. This is such an inexplicably intriguing adventure, and I'm so proud of him for persevering this far. I didn't receive any messages from him today. I expected the sat-phone contacts might taper off or even cease once Beat really started to get into trail mindset, a survival mode that blocks outside concerns as a coping mechanism. But that doesn't mean I won't fret about the lack of updates all the same. Ah, well.

Dan and I had been planning to fly over and back, but he caught a glimpse of the Skwentna airstrip and realized it was clear enough to land his plane. We touched down and hiked into Skwentna Roadhouse to say hello and leave a message for Beat, as I already understood that he wouldn't arrive at the checkpoint before we had to leave to beat sunset back to Anchorage.

Unsurprisingly, Geoff had already made it into Skwentna, along with two skiers. The leader of the race, veteran Nome hiker Tim Hewitt, checked out fifteen minutes earlier. Geoff was in a fantastic mood, possibly because of that giant hamburger and fries, and had great trail stories to share about the first day. Apparently a group of sixteen bikers and hikers, led by cyclist Pete Basinger, worked together to essentially plow a trail through the waist-deep snow across the Dismal Swamp. They took turns breaking trail out front, although Pete did the lion's share because he was navigating. It took them four hours to cover less than three miles across the swamp. They split up to bivy on the banks of the Susitna River before continuing in the morning. "I wouldn't stick around if I were you, there's going to be a lot of sadness here tonight," Geoff said, implying that the trail conditions on Tuesday were also quite tough (and confirming what we saw from the air), and others might be dispirited by the time they arrived at Skwentna. But Geoff was in great spirits, and that was fun to see. I was bummed I couldn't see Beat as well; I can only hope he doesn't feel sadness.

Dan and I hiked back to the airport in what I viewed as awful trail but Geoff called this short Skwentna section "awesome — the best of the entire course." It gave me the smallest of tastes of what these incredibly tough sled-draggers and bike-pushers are going through out there. After a half mile of this I was drenched in sweat, and Dan's back hurt. As much as I love slogging, would I be able to slog through ninety miles of this and worse with no end in sight? That's a good question that I'm still asking myself. I'm not sure.

But from trail reports we heard, it should get better. The valleys north of the Shell Hills received much less snow in the weekend storm, and the ITI trailbreakers have been working on the trails since it snowed. Geoff and one skier set out optimistically at about 3 p.m., and Dan and I prepared to leave for Anchorage. I left Beat a quick note telling him how proud I am of him, and to keep faith.

Thank you, Dan, for the fantastic opportunity to view my favorite adventure race from the sky.

The toughest miles

"I can't do this," Beat's voice crackled across the satellite connection. "It's not possible."

"It doesn't matter," I said. "Look what you've done already. You're amazing. All you need to do is get to Luce's Lodge. Get some rest, get some sleep. Sleep for a day if you want. All you have to do is get to Luce's."

I hung up my cell phone and stared hatefully at the snow flurries floating outside my window. The Iditarod Trail was a relative breeze just one week ago when I traveled these same miles in the Susitna 100. Now it was buried in more than a foot of new, unconsolidated snow, and not a single machine had been through to break the trail. The runners were breaking the trail, at a pace of about 1.5 mph, and the bikers were still farther behind. They had covered only forty miles in 24 nearly non-stop hours. At that pace, Beat was right — it wasn't possible. 

Geoff and Beat analyze Geoff's Iditarod sled. 

The race began so optimistically, under an overcast sky and 28 degrees on Knik Lake. Runners and bikers fluttered around and observed everyone else's gear. I spent much of the pre-race hour chatting with Geoff and Beat. One might think such a situation would be awkward, given I haven't seen Geoff since August 2010. But in the preoccupation of the moment, it was all an infectious mixture of anticipation and anxiety. At 2 p.m. Sunday, 47 racers embarked on their respective 350-mile or 1,000-mile journeys. The bikes took off toward the packed road and the runners formed a line across the lake toward the Iditarod Trail. We spectators waved and watched with admiration and, at least some of us, envy.


I felt frustrated about how demoralized Beat was when he called me at 1 p.m. Monday, because there was nothing I could say to boost his spirits. I couldn't promise that snowmachine traffic would come to save him from the wallow, and I couldn't lie away the fact there was more snow in the forecast. These aren't supposed to be the tough miles of the Iditarod; they're supposed to be the warm up. The tough miles of the Iditarod come later, over the mountains, across the deep-frozen Interior, into the unknown. I been holed up at a computer, waiting for news all morning. But I didn't want to dwell on my frustration. I packed up my gear and snowshoes and set out toward Lazy Mountain.

Beat and David Johnston model their individual race fashion.

Beat acquired the satellite phone one day before the race, mainly because he's a gear geek who can't resist a chance to use intriguing technology. I admitted that I'd love to hear from him during the race, but I certainly didn't expect it. I know how it can be out there. The outside world truly becomes another world. The first text came at 4:26 a.m. Monday: "bivy wall of death w/ anne, geoff, david and more. we're lead group breaking trail. overtook pete. Then "miss you, love you. not sure can be finished."

I received the first call just after 9 a.m. "I'm still on the Sustina River," Beat said, meaning he had traveled about thirty miles since 2 p.m. the day before with only about two hours rest. "We're taking turns breaking trail," Beat told me of the group of runners he was traveling with. "When I'm out front, I'm leading the race. All of the bikers are behind us now." I was floored by this news, because I slept through the text and had no idea trail conditions had gotten so bad. There was no trail. They might as well have been cutting a path across a remote wilderness, plodding through bottomless powder like turn-of-the-century polar explorers.


The packed surface of the Lazy Mountain trail was so icy that every step forward in my snowshoes netted two skids back. I should have packed crampons. I stepped over into the deep powder beside the trail and began the slow plod up the steep slope. Every step was an ordeal; I sunk to my knees down to an icy base, so the footing was both slippery and strenuous. The low ceiling of clouds grew closer, and I knew that soon all I'd see were shapeless shades of gray.

Out of the gate at Knik Lake.

Beat sounded so discouraged when he called at 1 p.m. Progress was almost nonexistent; he estimated he had traveled six or seven miles in the four hours since we last spoke. He had been struggling with every ounce of strength for a standstill. The temperature was above freezing and he was wet, and growing cold. He had fallen behind the lead group because his sled wasn't performing well in the deep snow. It kept tipping over and dragging like a flat tire through the wet powder. "Who knew I'd wish I used a toboggan?" he said. I felt guilty because I too pushed for skis over a plastic sled. The sled performed flawlessly in the Sustina 100, but it wasn't designed for unconsolidated snow.

"Just take it easy," I urged. "Go slow, take breaks. You have nothing to gain by pushing hard."

"I have to push hard to to go forward," Beat said. "I don't have a choice."

I couldn't help but sigh. "Yes, I know," I said. "I understand. I do understand."


As the fog grew thicker, visibility decreased to a few bleak twigs among the snow. I was drenched in sweat despite wearing only a single layer, and my poles stabbed uselessly at the powder. I was beginning to resent my Lazy Mountain hike, but for my own reasons of coping with a situation I couldn't help, I felt obligated to keep at it. I was compelled to join the slog and show my solidarity for all 47 racers in the Iditarod Trail Invitational who had yet to even see the first checkpoint.

Those who have never traveled long distances in bad snow conditions can't really understand how incredibly frustrating and difficult it is. It's the definition of futility, fighting a useless war with no end in sight. Climbing a mountain, well, that was easy. At least I had the top to look forward to. Beat only had the knowledge that there was no way he could maintain this level of effort, and no way he could finish the race at his current pace. He had no reason to believe that would change.

I reached a wind-swept saddle and decided this would have to be the place I turned around. The snow was too crusty to register tracks, and I couldn't risk forging my own trail in light that was so disorientingly flat. I was as likely to step off a cornice and plummet down a 70-degree slope as I was to follow the proper ridge. But as I stood at a rock outcropping shooting photos, I noticed the muted glare of the sun breaking through the clouds. When I looked up, I saw streaks of blue amid the gray. "Maybe I can get above this," I thought. As long as I could see rocks to help me gain my bearings, I decided it was worth a try.

Facing the long path ahead.

A 6:10 p.m. text brought a new injection of hope: "big meal at Luce's. now Yentna with Shawn."Beat had not only made it to Luce's Lodge, he was planning to continue up the river. It didn't necessarily mean trailbreakers had put a track in place, or that the going was any easier, but at least he had enough optimism to head out the door. He planned to take a long rest at Yentna Station and set out toward Skwentna in the morning. Who knows what tomorrow will bring. Still, Beat is a master at taking things one step at a time — the bad steps and the good.

Sure enough, a few hundred feet more elevation carried me out of the clouds and into a clearing. At first I could only see hints of Matanuska Peak, and then it appeared in gold-tinted brilliance. Clouds continued to drift across the mountain and I climbed as hard as I could, determined to tag the peak before they closed in again. At the top at 3:45 p.m., I sent a quick text message to Beat's satellite phone: "On top of Lazy Mountain. Climbed above the clouds and found the sun. It is coming your way I can tell. You're amazing and I'm so proud of you."

Susitna 4, chapter 4

My first steps out of Luce's Lodge were excruciating. I had taken another 45-minute break, applied more Hydropel and dry pairs of liner and insulation socks, and allowed the vapor barrier to dry as I ate another grilled cheese sandwich. But the damage had been done. My soles were on fire, tingling and aching in a way that made each step feel like I was walking on hot coals. I gulped short, shallow breaths of the subzero air as I hobbled down the hill to my sled. Beat's one piece of advice for my consistently troubled feet cycled through my head: "Just remember, it always goes numb." But in those initial seconds out of the checkpoint, even walking required solemn concentration, the kind I imagine yogis employ when walking across hot coals.

After packing up my sled, I managed to work through the hobble and resume a somewhat reluctant but consistent rhythm. I caught and passed Jane, which surprised me because I thought I was really starting to slow down at that point in the race. The first hints of dawn crept across the sky, casting violet light on the steep river bluffs. My peripheral vision caught the profile of a downhill skier in full tuck on a nearby slope. I turned and watched as the skier rocked back and forth as though awaiting a signal at a starting gate. This rocking continued until it occurred to me that there was no way the skier could possibly be real, but when I squinted, I still only saw a skier. It took at least five more minutes of forward motion before the shape of a tree began to replace to colorful skin suit and helmet I could have sworn I witnessed.

As dawn grew brighter, I doubted Beat's assertions; my feet were not going numb. Out of sheer frustration, I quickened my stride and began running. And electric surge burst from my feet and injected a new kind of power into my legs. Running actually felt really good; all my tired walking muscles could finally rest as my running muscles kicked into gear. Again, I doubted I was actually moving any faster. My sled held me back and while my steps were more frequent, my stride was much shorter — a frantic sort of shuffle. But I convinced myself my speed had increased significantly. "If I can just run for a while, I'll make better time and I'll be off my feet sooner," I reasoned. I knew I'd need energy for running, so I reached into my pocket and cracked open the Sour Gummy Lifesavers, of which I only brought one bag specifically to serve as a treat. I plowed into the gummy candies with the same enthusiasm I'd felt for my food all day. In fact, I'd actually been rationing my supply since Luce's 1, just to ensure I showed up at Flathorn Lake 2 with at least 3,000 calories (and I started with over 8,000.) Plus, I ate two grilled cheese sandwiches and a cup of soup and a roll at the checkpoints. I was pretty proud about how well I'd been doing with my calorie intake.

Sour gummies. I love them, love them, but when I am running, I can not handle them. My stomach withers under the bombardment of citric acid and quickly shuts down. I can no longer even count how many times sour gummies have turned on me during an endurance effort, and yet like an abused but loyal pet, I keep going back. I had downed about half of the five-ounce bag when I began to feel nauseated. Dizziness set in and I took a five minute break to await expected vomiting that never actually came. No choice but to resume walking as my stomach struggled to recover, during the first miles of the race in which I failed to take in any calories. Nearly twelve miles, actually, or four full hours. For other runners in this race, four hours without calories was nothing. But I already felt like I was skirting the edge of energy drain even while I was snarfing deep-space rocket fuel. My sugar levels crashed and I sputtered. Dizziness resumed but my stomach still warned me that any effort to take in anything would be severely punished.

I crawled up the Wall of Death and stumbled into the Dismal Swamp with desperation gathering in beads of sweat on my bare forehead. It was not warm outside — still in the teens — but I felt like the air was hotter than California. I took off my jacket only to immediately catch the chill of the cold breeze wafting across the open swamp. It was so quickly frigid that I put my jacket back on, and soon felt too warm again. The Dismal Swamp appeared as a desert, barren and hot, and I felt like a lost hiker picking my way across an eternity of sand. It might as well have been an eternity; the oasis of boreal forest across the horizon never got any closer. My body no longer seemed capable of regulating temperature in anything but extremes, my blood was desperate for sugar and my stomach was nothing more than a cruel master, withholding relief.

As blissed out as I had been on the overnight trek from Alexander Lake, by late Sunday morning I turned a complete 180 into a spiral of grump. I tried to hide my mood from the wonderful volunteers at Flathorn Lake, and made a struggling effort to stuff down the usually delicious jambalaya that they served me. I resumed my checkpoint sock routine and winced at the condition of my feet. The doughy skin looked so fragile that any rubbing movement threatened to remove multiple layers. (I remain convinced that were it not for the magic of Hydropel, I would probably not have any skin on the bottoms of my feet right now.) I used the excuse of "drying my feet" to burn up nearly an hour at Flathorn even though I had resolved to stick to twenty minutes. It didn't matter much at this point. "Fifteen more miles, just fifteen more miles," I consoled myself. When it comes to mileage, I still think in bike terms, where fifteen miles doesn't sound so bad. I couldn't conceptualize the reality of five hours of agony, so I didn't. "Just fifteen more miles."

I'm not sure what exactly motivated those first steps along Flathorn Lake and back into the forest toward Point McKenzie. I was really reluctant to make them. I grumbled that the popular ultrarunner mentality of finishing all races at all costs is really sort of dumb, and what's so great about a hundred miles anyway? I wasn't injured, so I wasn't about to ask for a ride on a snowmachine, but if there had been an exit road at any point, I was completely certain I was willing to bail, right there, less than fifteen miles from the finish. Would I actually have bailed? Probably not, but these are the things I grumble to myself when grumbling is all I have.

I didn't realize that my foot pain was actually a bit of a blessing in disguise. As Beat promised, after a while it did go numb, only to be replaced by extreme sleepiness. The final leg of the course traversed a gas line that cut into the forest at a slight uphill slope in a perfectly straight line. The only reason I couldn't see the finish from twelve miles away was because the Earth is a sphere. What I could see were the Talkeetna Mountains, rendered flat beneath an overcast sky. The clouds ensured there was no change in the light all day long, so 10 a.m. looked like 1 p.m. looked like 4 p.m. There was no indication that time was passing, or that I was actually moving. Sleep took over as I walked.

I did everything I could to keep myself awake. I turned off my iPod and sang, out loud, the lamest and most annoying songs I could think of. I slapped myself on the face and pinched my arm the way I do when I'm driving sleepy. I became terribly excited when I had to pee. I held it in as long as possible because that kept me awake, and relished in pulling to the side of the trail and doing my business because it was a chore, something different. I stopped a few times to purposelessly organize my sled. I weaved back and forth across the hundred-foot-wide gasline trail. I resumed eating Sour Gummy Lifesavers. Oh yes, I did do that.

I put my head down and let time go by. Sometimes in racing, like in life, that's all you can do. It's not all Northern Lights and bliss, but somehow it's the tough challenges that make it all worth it. This is not about suffering so much as it is about overcoming suffering, which everyone must do in life, and it's empowering to understand the ways in which we can overcome it. Still, I felt fully defeated when, just two miles from the finish, I noticed a yellow light approach from behind and watched Jane run past. She was running. I mean, she was really running. Whether she was running to beat me or simply end her own agony faster I did not know, but I did not really care. Every time I had attempted to run in the past ten miles (because that, too, broke up the boredom) I nearly vomited. I was not ready or willing to participate in a two-mile sprint. Not only that, but the whole idea seemed so preposterous and egotistical after 35 hours of slogging that I couldn' t even entertain it. A man passed shortly after and implied a question as to whether or not I was going to chase Jane for second place. "She deserves it," I said. I felt so miserable. It's petty, but I resented being passed. This no longer bothers me at all, but my fragile mood at the time took it hard, and that did cast a sour pall over my finish.

Jane did put in an awesome final sprint, finishing a full twelve minutes in front of me. Actually, two more guys passed me in those final minutes, the last of whom jogged by less than fifty meters from the finish. I joked that we should finish together for a tie, and he still blasted ahead. I walked (didn't even attempt the finish line shuffle) across the line at 8:42, for a finishing time of 35 hours and 42 minutes. I had actually achieved my best-case scenario goal of a sub-36-hour run. I collapsed into a bed at the rented cabin and fitfully but gratefully snoozed for several hours as I awaited Danni's finish. She came in after 41 hours (40:59 according to her watch.) We were both so overtired that Danni passed out mid-sentence and I nearly broke into tears when I became lost and drove in a few circles while trying to find our hotel in Wasilla. The satisfaction of finishing (and acknowledgement of my grotesquely swollen feet and heat blisters) wouldn't come until later.

But the satisfaction was there, growing ever deeper as the pain subsided. That's what lingers in hundreds of happy memories, the meaning behind the madness.