The finish

 During Beat's final night on the Iditarod Trail, the temperature dropped into the minus thirties. Beat and Marco left the Topkok cabin at 1 a.m. under a bright moon to make the final push through the wind-sharpened cold. I received my final sat phone dispatch from Beat in the late morning, after he and Marco stopped near a ghost town called Safety. They planned a breakfast break there, and while seeking a lee from the wind near a locked cabin, managed to hunker down in a spot that was both in the shade and still brushed with wind. They attempted to hurry through the breakfast-making motions, but the urgent grip of the cold sank in first, until they had no choice but to pack up with numb fingers and keep moving as core heat painfully returned to their extremities. Beat's voice sounded ragged and rough on the phone. They were twenty miles out; but it still seemed so far.


Back in Nome, Phil's 5-year-old daughter Hannah glanced out the window and announced that it was raining. "I don't think it's raining, honey," Phil replied. But as we opened the curtains, we saw a river of water gushing down the street. The stream was gathering in slushy eddies and freezing to the curbs in tiers of ice. A water pipe had burst in the cold and flooded the street. Children were outside splashing through the flood like they were playing in puddles during a summer rainstorm. The temperature was still well into the minus twenties.

 The liquor store opened at 1 p.m., so I walked into town to buy Beat and Marco some celebratory beers. The sun warmed my cheeks and I was glad the temperature had risen so much, as I was planning to bike out to see them on the trail and was still nervous about my inadequate foot gear. On the way back to the house, I saw it was minus 17, at midday. It probably wouldn't get much warmer.

Self portrait from six miles out, lungs a bit raw from breathing the cold wind, after running for five minutes to warm up my toes. I can't say any of my Alaska activities, except perhaps for my daylong ride in subzero temperatures in the White Mountains, fully prepared me for the rigors of these simple rides I did while visiting Nome. I don't know exactly why they felt so hard. Maybe it was the lack of proper footgear, or a psychological reaction to the overwhelming expansiveness of the frozen landscape. Or maybe it was the knowledge that this "good" weather could turn on me at any minute and kick up a gale of ground blizzards, unmanageable winds, and potential whiteouts. If I got caught out with my minimal supplies I would quickly be in trouble, and this realization made every nibble from the cold feel that much sharper. I'm not sure I had a full understanding or respect for Beat's daily life on the trail beyond McGrath until I came here, and pedaled my own laughably minimal miles away from the safety net of Nome. The edge is no longer an abstract concept out here; it's visibly real.

I was pedaling across the crystal blue ice of a slough when I first saw figures moving on the horizon. As they rounded the wide edge of Cape Nome, I quickened my pedal strokes up the hillside in time to meet them at the crest of the hill. This energy burst accompanied a blast of emotions — relief, pride, awe, happiness, and love.

It was the first time I'd seem him in a month, and Beat looked rough — as Phil worded it, like he had been through something "real." His beard was thick and coarse, his nose was swollen and red, and his face was crusted with frost nip scabs. His shoes were nearly in pieces, and he'd fashioned dog booties to the tips of his trekking poles. His pants seemed to hang loosely off his waist even though he said he'd been eating "a ton," but he had a big smile on his face. I met Marco for the first time, too — tall, rail thin, with long legs and a fantastically big nose. "Ciao," we greeted each other with a kiss on the cold cheeks. It was a great moment.

I intended to say hello and see you soon, and then leave, so as to not interfere with their race. But I decided it couldn't hurt to shadow them for a short while and listen to the dispatches, not unlike listening to Beat on his sat phone. He talked excitedly about his adventures and gear adjustments he was already making in his mind. It was tough for me to break away — both because I was so happy to see him, and because walking was a more enjoyable activity for my chilled feet than pedaling. But Beat gently suggested that I was skirting that uncomfortable edge of support, so I bowed out. 

 
Of course I couldn't help but linger long enough to take a few pictures on the way out.

 Marco and Beat and the expanse.

 I pedaled back as quickly as I could muster so I'd have enough time to take a shower, prepare for their arrival, and set up a vigil at the arch on Front Street. This is what Beat and Marco arrived to as they walked the final miles on the shoreline trail — a tiny cluster of buildings lining a frozen sea.

 Just before 7 p.m., they made their appearance on Front Street. A few scattered bystanders gave passing glances to the two ice-encrusted guys dragging their sleds on the pavement. I also think it says much about the general atmosphere of Nome that the random bystander in this photo is a bearded guy wearing a Santa hat and a red puffy coat, walking what appears to be an Irish Wolfhound type of dog.

 The victorious final approach to the burled arch.



Beat and Marco hoisted their sleds and stepped up there together at 7 p.m. on the dot, Sunday, March 24. A full 28 days, and a round calendar month, had passed since they launched from Knik Lake on the cloudy afternoon of February 24. To a few people who stopped on the street to congratulate them, they were "the guys who walked from Anchorage."

I couldn't resist a posed shot with Beat and the arch.

I pulled a couple of Alaskan Ambers out of the cavernous pockets of my down coat, and the two toasted a grand adventure and partnership. I can only imagine the satisfaction of that moment, drinking in was is truly an incredible accomplishment. But it apparently only lasted for a moment for Beat; he's already talking about next year. 

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.