Mush in the slush

Quick update for tonight as I need to start going to bed earlier than 2 a.m. But I received a call from Beat at 5 p.m. just as he was arriving in Rohn, near mile 210. He left Puntilla Lake at 3:30 Thursday morning, meaning it took him only 14 hours to travel over Rainy Pass. This narrow pass through the Alaska Range is notorious for bad weather — deep cold, ground blizzards, foggy whiteouts, high winds and windchills lower than 70 below. The trail is usually drifted in above treeline, and the Dalzell Gorge below is full of treacherous creek crossings and other spooky obstacles. I had been anxiously anticipating Beat's report from the pass.

"It was 40 (explicative deleted) degrees up there," he said with a bemused growl. "I was down to my shirt. I had to use chapstick for sunscreen. The trail was kinda soft but mostly it was well-packed."

This year's ITI is exceptional for many reasons, but one of them is that not a single racer has scratched yet, now nearly five days into the race. "It's about half as hard as last year," Beat said of the effort, but then caught himself in his own lie. "Actually, it's just as hard because everything hurts as bad." When I offered that he was still more than a day ahead of his 2012 pace despite his Nome rest schedule, he said, "It's hard. But it would be easier if it weren't so damn hot. I'm sweating like crazy."

He said his feet hurt but there are no issues that aren't manageable. He planned to set out toward Nikolai in the early morning hours. I expect he won't reach that checkpoint until Saturday evening.

In other news, I went on my first-ever dog sled ride today. My friend Andrea has four Alaskan huskies that have been retired from competitive teams. Her lead dog, Cedar, has run to Nome three times. The other dogs are Ash ("they're both from the tree litter"), Chum ("the salmon litter"), and Volcano ("the natural disaster litter.") Andrea is a veterinarian who loves animals, so she mainly just keeps them as outdoor pets, but they do go out for the occasional jaunt on local trails.

Since four dogs can't pull two full-sized people in a sled very far, Andrea set me up to go out alone. She showed me how to set a snow hook (sort of like a dog anchor), demonstrated how to use the brake, and told me how, under no circumstances, was I to let go of the sled if I fell off during the run. The dogs would keep running, and I'd have to chase after them. She showed me the basic commands and sent me off on a loop that I hoped the dogs understood, because I didn't have a clue where we were going.

Riding a sled wasn't entirely like I expected it to be. The frame was quite flexible and the runners moved independently. I felt like I was skiing — which is not a comfortable movement for me — but I held on for dear life and leaned into the turns. I shyly called out commands that I think were largely ignored, but the dogs went the right way anyway. Whenever we ran by another dog yard, the dogs sped up to show off for their barking friends. My humorous moment happened when Volcano got her front leg tangled up in the line. I stomped on the brake but I honestly forgot the command for stop. I kept yelling "Haw! Haw!" as the lead dogs glanced back at me with confused demeanors. ("Haw" means "turn left.") I managed to set the hook and untangle Volcano's leg. When I returned to the dog yard, I dragged the brake to a slow halt. Once we were no longer moving, I asked Andrea, "I can't remember, what was the command for stop?"

"Um, whoa," she said, looking at me like I was drunk.

"Oh, yeah, whoa. That makes sense."

Later in the afternoon I loaded up my Fatback and set out for a test ride. Three friends and I are embarking on a three-day tour of the Denali Highway (in the winter just a snowmachine trail) starting Sunday, and I figured I should make sure all of my gear is in working order. I could barely lift the thing as I hoisted it out of the garage, but once we got rolling it wasn't so bad. This ride was supposed to be an hour tops, but once again I got wrapped up in my explorations, then became a little bit lost, and before I knew it, the sun had long since set and I had three hours and eleven minutes on my watch. 23.4 miles. Ah, I love this stuff. It's difficult for me to explain why churning through soft snow at 5 or 6 mph is such a soothing activity, amid a pleasant chill of evening and the last wisps of orange light creeping through the spruce forest. It's a kind of Zen peace that, for my own reasons, only the quiet winter wilderness can release.

But I'm so tired. It's probably good I opted to postpone my Skwentna tour, as a 180-mile ride just days out of my California softie gate probably would have set me way back for upcoming adventures. The effort that Beat is making right now, I can barely imagine. But I do empathize ... and envy.

Solidarity (sorta)

After three hours and two moose, but not a single other person on the trail, I heard a chorus of low, guttural barks. "Ooo, sled dogs," I thought, and veered to the side of the faint track in anticipation of them running past. I was standing at the far end of a narrow valley surrounded by steep peaks, so there wasn't really anywhere else for them to go. But I waited a minute, and all I heard was the high-pitched moan of the wind. I looked around and thought I detected quiet yips, but saw no dog teams — no one was there. After a brief pause the thought occurred to me, "You're not in California right now." I've become accustomed to running trail systems where the deer are so habituated that they'd let me pet them if I wanted to. Out here, strange sounds can be a number of things — but they're most certainly not docile deer. A shiver trickled down my spine, but there was nothing in sight to fear. "Maybe it was my imagination," I thought. "Or the wind."

This afternoon I decided to load up my sled and take it for a training run up Hatcher Pass. I stocked full overnight gear and an extra liter of water for good measure, because all extra weight is good weight in training. The Willow Fishhook Road ended in a gate, and from there I had no idea how far it was to the pass. I decided to hike on the soft and wide snowmachine trail until I reached the better snowshoeing terrain up high.

There was a lot of overflow across the road. Some sections were so deep that my snowshoes punched several inches below the crust and my feet sank into slush, testing the waterproof capabilities of my Gortex Montrails (verdict: Not too shabby.) I also got out my Garmin to test speed versus effort levels (not my nonfunctional navigation unit. I have a 305 watch for pacing.) I very much want to figure out a way I can run on snow, dragging a sled, and have the effort pay off (versus killing myself for a measly extra 0.5 miles per hour.) The trail conditions didn't help my experiments — soft snow and slush meant I had to wear snowshoes the entire way, and added a lot of resistance. But I have to say that these running experiments were a major failure. I pushed my heart rate all the way to 180 and barely cracked the 12-minute-mile barrier. Most paces were around 14-minute miles. I can walk 16-minute miles with considerably less effort. Ah, running on snow ... such a puzzle for me! I think one has to exceptionally strong, which I'm not, or train very specifically, which I can't. It would be similar to choosing to run all of the uphills in a long ultra. I would flare out so quickly but a part of me still wants to crack that code.

And, as it turns out, Hatcher Pass is not a close jaunt from the Willow side. The approach itself was more than seven miles, and once I was there, I figured I should do the snowshoeing I wanted to do. I marched up a low ridge and then dropped back into the valley to explore until I heard the real-or-imagined coyotes-or-wolves. After that incident, I felt a sharp sting of aloneness that prompted me to move more quickly down the canyon, even running occasionally.

The hike down from the pass started to feel long. I really didn't intend to set out for an 18-mile snowshoe hike with a full sled this afternoon. An overcast pall had moved in, it was getting dark, and I was grumpy. "This is such a slog," I griped to myself. "Why did I hike all the way up there? Why am I doing 100K on foot? I wonder if I should show up to the Homer Epic with my bike instead?" But then my thoughts flashed to Beat, who I knew was marching into the Alaska Range toward Puntilla Lake at that same moment. For a few moments I felt a thread of connection in sore quads, wet socks, cold toes, and the ethereal sort of mind wander spurred by long walks alone in black-and-white worlds. I wondered if Beat felt the same things I was feeling, and then I realized that he did not — because he wasn't returning from a measly 18-mile jaunt with a junior sled. His experiences ran that much deeper and wider. The realization made me feel silly for indulging in grumpiness. I marched harder and sloshed through the overflow with a renewed sense of perspective.

I received my latest call from Beat at 9 p.m. Wednesday, shortly after he arrived at Puntilla Lake Lodge. He sounded tired and slurred his words, so I couldn't decipher everything he told me in the short three-minute call. But he did tell a funny story about traveling through the Happy River Steps with Tim Hewitt. The Happy River Steps are a notorious section of trail that drop steeply into the Skwentna River and climb just as steeply out, on short pitches of 30- and 40-degree slopes. Tim didn't want to section out his hundred-pound sled and make multiple trips, so he let the heavy sled push him wildly down the hills, and then got down on all fours to heave the thing up the steps, like a true beast of burden. "He's just so determined," Beat said, as though he could hardly understand it himself. Beat said he plans to rest a full night at Puntilla and set out in the morning for the harsh climb up Rainy Pass. Temperatures there are still mild, with highs near 20 and lows around 0, with light winds and a small chance of snow. I'm hoping they stay that way for his crossing on Thursday.

A glimpse of the Great Land

On Monday afternoon, a weather window opened wide enough to allow my bush pilot friend Dan Bailey and I to fly over the Iditarod Trail toward Skwentna. We made the exact same flight during the race last year, notably a full day later as everyone was moving considerably slower due to a storm at the start. This year the lead cyclists were already pedaling into the Alaska Range, but Dan and I were able to catch the action in the foot race. I posted more photos on my Half Past Done blog, but here are a few of my favorites:

Dan flying his little yellow Cessna beside Mount Susitna. It's funny, but I used to have a visceral fear of flying. This fear increased over the years until I had to psyche myself up to deal with the most benign of commercial flights. Small planes terrified me. But racing in the 2008 Iditarod Trail Invitational had a deep effect on my sense of what qualifies as scary. I remember sitting on that PennAir flight out of McGrath and thinking, "Wow, this is nothing at all." Flying hasn't bothered me since. Which is good, because it's so fun to fly over frozen swamps and spruce forests in little planes.

We were able to catch most of the runners who were spread out along a 40-mile section of the Yentna River, and also quite a few cyclists. Dan buzzed low and we waved at everyone from the air. Most were still enthused enough to wave back.


To the north, the air was clear enough to reveal an incredible view of Denali, Mount Foraker, and the Alaska Range skyline.

We landed at the Skwentna airstrip for lunch and a brief chat with racers at the Roadhouse, and again caught the lead runner in the race — this time Dave Johnston. Dave arrived just after 3 p.m. — meaning he ran 90 miles in 25 hours, in soft and punchy snow, dragging an expedition sled. Dave is ever the character, sporting a woolly hunter cap, a homemade face mask, camo shirt, elbow warmers,  and a rather minimalist looking pair of running shoes. He indulged in a few cans of Budweiser before his lunch. I'm actually spending a few days with Dave's wife Andrea in Willow, so I asked him if he wanted me to relay a message to her. After the usual miss-you-love-you, along with the expected "this is really hard," he said, "Remind her not to change the cats' litter box." (Andrea is six months pregnant.) I said, "Well who's going to change it while you're gone?" He just shrugged. "I don't know. But she shouldn't." That's the kind of laid-back attitude Dave has — no worries about logic. Something will work out. He's having a strong race this year.

On the way back, we finally caught a glimpse of Beat, who we'd missed on the way out. He looked good and was moving well, although later he told me he's having tendinitis issues in his big toe, a kind of non-serious but nagging pain that is gnawing away at his tenacity. I hope it's one of those pains that works itself out. He sounded downright despondent during a Tuesday morning phone call outside of Skwentna after a long rest. But he perked up several hours later when he called from Shell Lake, even though the trail was so soft he had to wear his snowshoes (which he strongly dislikes wearing.) I appreciate these early days of the race when Beat still calls me often. That tends to change as the days drag on.

 A couple of setbacks have prompted me to defer my Yentna River bike tour. The first is the warm weather, which climbed into the upper 30s in Willow today. Susitna Valley trails are mush right now. Pedaling out to Swentna and back was dependent on decent trail conditions — I don't necessarily want to spend twelve- to fifteen-hour days pushing my bike. Also, my Garmin eTrex 30 suddenly died. I can't even power it up to troubleshoot anything — it turns on and then shuts off within seconds. When I'm traveling alone in big wildernesses, GPS serves as my main security blanket. Even if I know where I am, I like GPS to confirm my position. I could likely navigate this route on my own with my maps and a compass, as it effectively involves two big rivers. But still I lack confidence and I don't like to feel lost. In fact, I'd rather feel cold than lost. I hate when I'm lost. So I'll see if I can hold out for another three-day span with cooler weather and a new GPS.


I sat down today with the intention of getting some work done, but Alaska has proven time and again that I am just not a productive self-motivator in the vicinity of so much adventure possibility and beauty. I reasoned a quick afternoon outing would allow me to determine just how bad snow conditions are right now, so I pedaled away from Andrea's house and onto the Parks Highway. Within a mile, I found my way to the most wonderful trail system I've seen yet. It was well-marked, groomed, and extended for miles across the valley.

 Anchorage has become such a snow-biking mecca that its multi-use trails can feel crowded and contentions with other trail users can run high. Willow is still the realm of dog mushers, who are friendly as long as you give them their needed space. The musher trails are well-maintained, open to everyone, lead to some wonderful views, and see little traffic. I was all alone for much of my ride. I passed three mushers and two snowmachine groups. The second group stopped to ask me if I checked out a nearby Willow Creek trail system that they were building. "It has ramps and berms and would be a great place to ride one of those snow bikes," a guy said. I hadn't checked it out — but a snow bike park? Really? I must have found fat bike heaven.

 With sun baking the open swamps, I felt like I was back in California. At one point I had stripped down to the same layers I use to go for rainy trail runs in the Bay area (tights, a long-sleeve shirt, and a vest) and had my pogies pushed down so I could dry my hands. It was still cooler than 40 degrees, but with the sun reflection off the snow, it felt summertime hot. Even the well-groomed trails turned to mush. I worked a consistent zone-four heart rate just to pedal an average of 5 mph, and swerved wildly with my out-of-practice snow handling, making plenty of snow angels as a result. Even churning through mashed potatoes, I was enjoying myself so much. I veered off the trail system onto the Susitna River and pedaled nine miles up the Big Su, basking in the sun.

My 5.5-hour ride netted me 35 miles of snowbiking bliss, weaving through the spruce forests and climbing small bluffs. This kind of riding is hard work, right up there with dirt trail running, and I'm exhausted. I'll probably go for a run tomorrow to give myself a break. (And because my two foot races would benefit from some specific snow training.) Still, I am enamored with Willow trails and the exploration capabilities of the Fatback. I'm not sure I can stay away.