Nome

Beat finished his thousand-mile journey across Alaska on Sunday evening, side by side with Marco Berni of Italy as they dragged their sleds up onto Front Street in Nome. They hoisted them under Iditarod's burled arch at 7 p.m. on the dot, for a finish time of 28 days and 4 hours, adjusted for Daylight Savings Time. And just like that, the ongoing battle against extreme cold, wind, ice, blowing snow, overflow, isolation, and desolation that had become Beat's life ... was over. He finished to walk to Nome. I can hardly believe it.

I wanted to write a proper post about that final day, which is why I haven't updated my blog for a couple of days. There's been little time, but I wanted to post a quick update for the friends and family who may have not seen my Facebook posts. Beat is doing well — some frostbite and windburn on his cheeks, a few blisters on his feet, and superficial muscle soreness along with fatigue and hunger. But he's otherwise not worse for the wear. The physical maladies and pains he experienced early in the race seemed to iron themselves out and he fell into a rhythm that didn't break down his body too much — which is necessary if one wants to continue forward motion for four solid weeks.

The Iditarod Trail never made passage easy for Marco and Beat. Their final days along the coast were wracked with deep cold and wind, and the slightest transitions from moving to stopping were a struggle. I'm going to work on a final write-up for my now-neglected Half Past Done blog about it as soon as we get back to California. We leave Wednesday.

This past month of traveling around Alaska, connecting with the wonderful people up here, embarking on cold-weather adventures, and following Beat in spirit has been an incredible experience for me; I can't even imagine how fulfilling Beat's journey must have been. Thanks for following along. More soon. 

The longest miles

On Friday evening, I got on a plane and flew to Nome. Part of me is in disbelief that this Alaska adventure has reached this point. I always had faith that Beat would complete the entire distance to Nome, but even he readily admitted the odds were against him during his rookie year. From those early calls where he expressed doubt that he would make the first hundred miles, to the incredible and yet disconcertingly anticlimactic achievement of McGrath, to the horror slush and rain of the Shageluk hills, to the deep cold of the Yukon River, to the wind-blasted coast, to here. Nome. He's only forty miles away and resting as I type this. I expect he'll finish sometime Sunday afternoon.

 This is my first visit to Western Alaska. I bought a cheap air-mile ticket and had to take a milk run flight into Kotzebue, which was awesome in itself. "Wow, I'm in the Arctic!" The flight over the Seward Peninsula to Nome was surreal — just a tree-less expanse of white hills and frozen sea as far as that high-reaching view could see. From the air, Nome itself looks like a tight cluster of city blocks pressed like a stamp onto a sheet of white paper. My flight landed at 8:30 p.m. and the sun was still well over the horizon. It doesn't get fully dark here until 10:30. The late daylight is deceiving; it's still only a few days after the equinox so there's not that much more total daylight here than in California right now. But it's so far west in Alaska's ridiculously large time zone that the sun rises late and stays out late (my kind of time zone!) And daylight is now gaining at a ridiculously large rate — seven minutes per day. Winter is officially over.


Except winter's not over yet. The temperature dropped below minus twenty with a fierce north wind during my first night in Nome. It was still fifteen below in the late morning, but the wind had calmed down and it was a gorgeously clear day. My friend Phil, a cyclist who was near the front of this year's fiercely competitive race to McGrath, graciously put me up at his house in Nome while I wait for Beat to arrive. He offered to let me borrow his bike so I could pedal out the Iditarod Trail and check out the sights of Beat's final miles into Nome.

The first ten miles were rough. The wind, although light, was mainly out of the northeast and often blowing directly in my face. I didn't bring any of my bike gear to Nome because I didn't expect to ride, so I had to wear my trail-running shoes as foot gear, and rain pants on my legs. Not quite adequate for pedaling at ten to fifteen below with headwind. Every mile or so, I jumped off the bike to run for five minutes, which felt exhausting but necessary to keep numb toes at bay. The cold wind seemed to creep into every tiny crack in my system. Ice froze painfully to my eyebrows until I could feel the sharp pounding of the dreaded "ice cream headache." My Camelbak valve froze despite being positioned near my armpit. I blew a snot rocket and it hit and instantly froze on Phil's rear derailleur (don't worry, Phil, I chipped it off.) It was tough going, and I was just out for an afternoon joy ride. The experience gave me an even deeper appreciation of what Beat has faced every day in the past four weeks. 

But I eventually found a groove in the form of a 500-foot climb onto the bluff above Cape Nome. The hard work warmed my toes, and the elevation offered a stunning vista of rolling hills and the Kigluaik mountains to the north, and the rough ice across the Norton Sound to the south.

 I descended to Cape Nome and stamped out a message to Beat in the snow (which had the selfish ulterior motive of warming my feet, which were frozen again after the descent.) I considered adding "only fifteen more miles" as an encouraging note. Even though my GPS read 16.9 miles, I knew the distance would be shorter on the coastal route, which Beat and Marco would likely take, and fifteen miles just sounded better. But then I remembered — Beat hates when I over-optimistically guestimate distance and gets mad at me every time I do it. That's the last thing he needs fifteen (to seventeen) miles from the finish of a thousand-mile journey.

 Pedaling back toward the Cape, I marveled at the beautiful desolation and thought about how strange, hectic, and green California is going to appear when we return next week.

For the return ride I took the coast route, which was drifted in spots and blown clear of snow in others. The coast had its own intriguing scenery — fishing shacks lined the frozen shoreline and long-abandoned cars and gold-mining equipment were encased in drifted snow. I veered off trail to explore and old graveyard on a hillside.

 Among the wildlife I saw were several flocks of bright-white ptarmigan and two foxes. I never got a good photo, but in this one you can see a small silhouette of a fox behind the grave markers. I do think it's strange that a predator so conspicuously red can eke out a living in a black and white landscape.

Phil borrowed his friend's old-school purple Pugsley and pedaled out to meet me about eight miles from town. It was fun comparing the performance of that bike to his green Fatback, side by side. I seemed to have an easier time cutting clean and fast lines through the snow than Phil did, even with his higher skill and strength. Fat bikes have made some impressive leaps in design during the past eight years.

I hope head out the trail again tomorrow to greet Beat. I'm excited to share that moment when he marches under that burled arch and unhooks his burdon of a sled for the last time.

Active recovery

By Sunday afternoon, my feet were just as swollen as they were after the 2012 Susitna 100 — which is to say, very swollen. I didn't take a photo like I did last year, but you can really only take so many pictures of sausage toes before they all look the same. I'm really not sure why this only seems to happen to me during winter ultras. I ran several long races during the summer — sometimes in very wet (UTMB) or rapidly fluctuating hot and cold (Bear 100) conditions — and did not experience anywhere near this level of edema. It's a puzzling mystery. 

I did try to take precautions to avoid skin maceration and swelling. My shoes were GorTex Montrail Mountain Masochist, sized 1.5 sizes too large to accomodate extra socks. Because of the "warm" forecast, I opted to go with two layers of DryMax socks: a trail sock and a larger winter sock — mostly to fill out the shoes,  but I expected the socks would move the moisture away from my skin like they do in summer runs. I did wear gaiters, which were in hindsight not needed, but you never know when you're going to have to wade through softer snow and I didn't want to get snow down my shoes. On top of all that, I slathered both feet in Hydropel the morning before the race. Hydropel is an anti-blister ointment that repels water from skin. The company discontinued production last year and Beat bought up every last remaining tube at Zombie Runner at the time. He gave three to me, and I treat it like liquid gold these days. Used only in races, and even then, only the most foot-shredding races. But by the end of the Homer Epic, my heel and forefoot on both feet were bright white, deeply creased, and painful. When I took my shoes off on the trail, I convinced myself they were full-scale huge blisters. But no, it was just maceration, or the colloquial version of "trench foot." After the skin dried, my feet swelled significantly. 

Anyway, if anyone has some insight into this condition, I'd appreciate any tips or advice. Winter running is a strange animal. 

 But yes, my feet hurt a lot after the race. Beyond that, however, I didn't feel too beat up from the Homer Epic. I took Sunday off to catch up on chores and communications, and doze off in my car at scenic overlooks for an hour here and there. On Monday, the weather remained clear and gorgeous, and I started feeling antsy again. Since I was in Homer, it made sense to squeeze in a ride on the beach. Luckily it was a "warm" day (about 32 degrees), because I could only put one thin pair of socks on my swollen feet. Even then they barely fit into my boots.

Winter beach riding has to be one of the more meditative activities there is. Waves are lapping on the shore, waterfalls are encased in ice on the bluffs, and wheels glide over smooth sand in organic lines. The sandy stretches of beach were interspersed with tight boulder fields and very loose — as in inches deep — gravelly sections. I was so desperate to not put my feet on the ground that I rode a lot more of the "chunk" than I would normally bother with, and it was a lot of fun. My still tender quads screamed as I powered over the larger rocks, but it still beat touching the ground with my hurty feet.  Bikes rule.

It felt so warm in the sun, and I was still so wrecked, that I opted to lie down for a nap on the sand. I spread out my coat, sprawled out facing the sun, and dozed off. I woke up after what must not have been more than five or ten minutes, shivering and with numb fingers and toes. The beach scenery had lulled me into a sense of summertime comfort, but apparently below-freezing temperatures are not conducive to naps in the sand.

In all I rode for nearly three hours with the nap, but probably only covered twelve or thirteen miles. The tide had come up a lot for the return trip and I had to ride a lot more chunk closer to the bluffs. I cleared all of it — turns out sore feet are a powerful motivator for technical maneuvering. It was sublime.


I intended to get more work done while I was in Homer, but mostly I cruised the different cafes scattered throughout town, drank cup after cup of coffee, listened to K-Wave (best radio station ever) and ate gluten-free organic pumpkin muffins, kale scrambles, and vegan burritos. I'd forgotten how much I enjoy the atmosphere in Homer — it's in Alaska, tiny, but with San Francisco sensibilities. Fun place.

On Tuesday I decided to try Homer's snowbiking opportunities. Since I had already run a hundred kilometers of trail on the east side of town, I decided to head up to Ohlson Mountain to explore some secondary snowmachine trails. It was a fun ride, but brutal. The trail carried me all the way down to the Anchor River — losing nearly a thousand feet in elevation — and then climbed as dramatically up the next ridge on a trail that was soft, steep, and so overgrown that both of my shoulders (and my face) were continuously catching tree branches. I think bicycles sit too high for the likes of that trail. But I didn't give up on it because, well, I'm not really sure why I didn't give up. The legs were so angry with me as I churned back up to Ohlson Mountain. My quads were searing with lactic acid, it still beat pushing on my hurty feet. I guess if you want to ride something flat in Homer, ride on the beach.

 By Wednesday, the swelling in my feet had mostly diminished. I prepared to leave Homer and return to Anchorage to wrap up a couple more things. And it was yet another bluebird day. Blast! Sunny days in coastal Alaska are not to be wasted. Since my legs hurt more than my feet on this day, I decided it would be a good day for some mellow snowshoeing breaks as I drove up the Kenai Peninsula. The first place I tried was the Devil's Pass trailhead, which was a bust. I wandered around in the woods for three miles and never found a "trail" of tracks that didn't loop back on themselves. At one point I discovered some survey tape and busted my own path through the brush, following the ribbons down into a drainage that had no possible link to the Devil's Pass trail. Oh well.

It was still early afternoon, so I decided to stop a bit farther north and check out the Portage Glacier area. The wind had picked up significantly, and Portage Glacier has its own microclimate that instantly dropped the temperature another ten degrees. It was 13F at the parking lot. The wind was gusting to 40 mph or so, and the windchill felt awful. I almost turned around to get back in my car, but then decided the wind might provide a fun setting for a more adventurous short outing. I was not disappointed. I climbed Byron Glacier in a full ground blizzard that devoured my footprints within seconds. Blowing snow gave the stark landscape a kind of urgent intensity.

Finally I climbed into a lee of the mountain, enough that I could look back toward Portage Lake. The wind had been entirely at my back on the climb, so it was going to be a thrilling trek down — wrapped in full-coverage goggles and facemask. I was rendered immobile and breathless whenever a larger gust roared up from the valley below.

 Then I decided I kinda liked playing in the wind. So instead of returning to the trailhead, I veered onto Portage Lake to hop stastrugi and pretend I was trekking across Antarctica. I did not walk all the way to Portage Glacier — it was a lot farther away than it looked. But I did end up with eight miles of wind-playing, and eleven miles on the day, of what turned out to be rather exhausting walking. Oi. Why do I do this to myself? Well, because it's fun.

Still, I think in the end the legs and feet benefited from the shake-out. My toes look normal again, and the soreness in my legs worked itself out. Part of me is convinced this happens naturally whether one "rests" or not. Especially if one is only in Alaska for one more week, and must take advantage of these beautiful opportunities while she can.