Frozen in place

 After months of abnormally warm winter, a deep cold snap descended on the entire state of Alaska, just in time to catch Beat and company out in the most remote segment of the Iditarod Trail — the vast and uninhabited Interior. Beat left McGrath six days ago, and in that time has only managed to cover about 150 miles of distance, breaking trail through a foot of new snow and deeper wind drifts. This difficult travel coincided with this cold snap — if he's lucky the daytime temperature climbs into the -10s, only to drop below -40 overnight. Along this route there are only two shelter cabins, and at each one he wasn't able to gather enough wood to heat up the inside above freezing. The other nights, he slept in his bivy sack as the liquid cold seeped through clumps of frozen insulation in his sleeping bag. Every task is a small trauma, from cooking dinner to packing up his gear in the morning, racing to finish before his fingers go rigid, then exerting himself as hard as he possibly can until the feeling in his feet comes back.

It sounds *so brutal.* Each sat phone call from him crushes my spirit just a little bit more, and I find myself battling a growing mound of anxiety, chilling empathy, and unspoken wishes that he'd just call it quits, pay a trapper in Ruby to drive toward him on a snowmachine, and get the hell out of there. Yet Beat is, in his own endearing way, having the time of his life. He's out there having a full-on Hudson Stuck adventure, hearkening back to days when Arctic travelers traipsed in snowshoes in front of their dog teams, breaking trail for weeks, struggling to make ten miles a day. Yesterday Beat crossed paths with Tim Hewitt, who was moving backward on the trail with his bike. After 150 miles of breaking trail north, Tim encountered a seemingly impassable section of drifted snow, just when he was almost entirely out of food. With less than a day's supply remaining, he backtracked toward Cripple, where there were air-dropped bags of food that he hoped to scavenge. Beat was carrying enough food to feed two people comfortably for three days. His supply could be stretched on hungry rations to four or five, so they agreed to team up to turn back north and re-attack Tim's wall, near the uninhabited mining camp of Poorman. That's where they are, right now on Saturday afternoon, as I make my final preparations to fly to Unalakleet.

 I have been hedging on my own planned bike trip for a week. I didn't want to head to the west coast if Beat was going to scratch and return to Anchorage. Also, the difficulties he's been having have rattled my already shaky resolve. Still, I continued with preparations as though it was going to happen. And as of today, I checked into my flight, sent bounce boxes to Nome, have purchased three days of food, and am on my way to pack up a bike box. I guess I'm at least going to fly to Unalakleet. From there, who knows? At this point, I only want to make decisions that might help Beat, however small they might be.

 The cold-snap was well-timed with my stay in Fairbanks, where overnight lows dropped into the -30s. On Wednesday I headed out for a shakedown ride in the White Mountains, hauling all the gear I plan to take to Unalakleet, fuel, and two days of food. Predictably, the bike was a tank, but it's manageable and I'm so rattled and frightened of the cold at this point that I'm taking it all and don't care how sluggish I am. A few more increments of speed won't get me out of a blowhole, so I aim to be prepared. BLM had groomed the trail from the Wickersham Dome to Moose Creek Cabin, about 16 miles one way, so I headed in that direction.

 The trail looked pretty atop more than a foot of fresh snow, but the base was soft and the pedaling was tough. The trail is laid like a ribbon atop a series of small but steep domes, so the pedaling is either steep climbing or descending. When descending, I could go 6-8 mph while pedaling; when climbing with my low tire pressure, I was lucky to break 3 mph. Whenever I "ride" this slow, I find myself daydreaming about my sled, forgetting that there are many ways in which walking with a sled is still harder on my body than riding a bike. Still, it was effort to power this tank down the soft trail. My heart rate was high, and even though temperatures didn't climb above -5 all day, I was down to my base layer at times to vent a steady stream of sweat.

 I do love the White Mountains. The soft light, the crunch of distant animal footsteps, the tingle of ice crystals in the air, the squeak of cold snow — elements that lull me into a bliss-filled serenity even as I confront my anxieties and fears. For me, this is the strong appeal of venturing into the cold. I am frightened of the cold, and always will be. But cold has an immediacy that demands alertness and forces me to strip away the excess and focus only on the present. There is so much to learn and see when egos are quieted and eyes are open.

 Temperatures plummeted after the sun set, closing in on 20 below. As I neared the spot where I planned to set up a bivy, I encountered a trail still unbroken after the new snowfall. Earlier in the week Beat challenged me to try pushing my bike through a foot of fresh snow, to see how I'd fare. This was a great challenge, and I wanted to prove my mettle, so I marched toward the unbroken horizon with a goal to push a half mile out and then back — just a mile of something Beat chose to face for 200 unknown miles. The tank of a bike balked and wallowed, burrowing deeper into the powder. I got my hand under the seat and boosted up the rear end, wrestled and gasped, and finally felt that all-too-familiar feeling of my arm muscles about to fail — like lifting a heavy barbell to the point of complete muscle fatigue. I had only traveled about 50 yards. Taking the time I'd need to rest my arms and shoulders and keep pushing for a half mile was undoubtedly going to take up most of the rest of the night. I didn't have the strength, and I didn't have the resolve. The cold bit through my thin gloves and wrists, and I felt a sudden, urgent fear that I might not even make it back to the trail. Of course I did, and it wasn't that hard, but for a few seconds I was near panic. That's the cold — everything on an edge that might just tip at any moment. Two hundred miles of this? Either I'd adapt, or I'd drive myself into hysterics. Probably I'd just adapt — because that's what people do, and it's what we're wired for, and it's how we survive.

 Still, resolve isn't worth much if physical requirements aren't met, and I continue to worry about Beat and Tim running out of food. About a mile later, I stopped at an alcove next to the trail, where I stomped down a bivy spot, unrolled my bag, and took out my stove. Although I had plenty of water, my plan was to heat up a Cup-O-Noodle for dinner and practice melting snow at 20 below. With thin gloves on, I fiddled with the stove for five minutes but couldn't get any pressure in the pump. I removed the pump, ran a finger around the thread, twisted it tighter, and nothing. My fingers went numb so I put on my mittens, and continued to pump with no results. Broken pump? User error? I didn't know. I was so frustrated. I jumped up and sprinted up and down the trail at full effort, heart thumping, tears freezing to the edges of my eyes, raging against the cold and this growing feeling of helplessness, both for Beat and for myself.

(The next day, I received great advice from friends about MSR pumps and O-rings that contract at 20 below, preventing pressurization. The trick is to warm up the pump first. Now I know, and what an important thing to learn.)

I had a good but short rest in my sleeping bag, already deciding that I didn't really want to spend an entire night out here when the temperature was supposed to drop to 40 below. I packed up in the sinister darkness, without any issues, then pedaled back toward the trailhead while wiggling my toes to ignite circulation lost during the short transition. All in all, it was a good shakedown trip for Unalakleet. Weather permitting (meaning I don't plan to head out into any whiteouts that I can avoid), I'm very excited for my trip and wish Beat was going to be somewhere close by. But more than anything else, I just want him to make it safely to Ruby. 

The dog race

As could have been (and effectively was) predicted when the Iditarod Dog Sled Race announced it would reroute the 2015 race away from 500 miles of the original course, the abandoned remnants of broken trail were obliterated by a major snow and wind storm. Between Takotna and Ruby are nearly 200 miles of trail rarely used, by anyone, and the dog race trailbreakers aren't coming. 

This is effectively what Beat and several others who are my friends — Tim and Loreen Hewitt, and Steve Ansell — are facing right now as they all chose to leave McGrath and press forward. I'll go on record now and admit I do not have a "Go Beat Go" attitude about Beat taking on 200 miles of breaking trail. This is not as simple as one foot in front of the other. A cold snap descended on the Interior, and where he's spending the night, in the ghost town of Ophir, it's currently 30 below. The going has been okay so far, but if drifts become deeper it could deteriorate into a 1 mph slog — 15- to 20-mile days at that rate. Tim Hewitt is currently about 50 miles ahead of Beat, with a bike, moving at about this pace. Beat purchased extra food and fuel in McGrath, and claims he has 10 days worth, plus an air-dropped food bag at a midway point in Cripple, if that's what it comes to. The thought of Beat spending the next ten days battling through this bleak place fills me with bleak emotions, but this is what he goes seeking, for his own reasons. 

Ah. Well. Nothing like a hard effort to clear the head. After nearly a foot of new snow fell on Fairbanks, I headed out Sunday afternoon for a run. All of my training runs for the White Mountains 100 haven't included the actual terrain I'll be running on, so a long snow run seemed like a crucial gauge of conditioning. I should have taken into account that crushed confidence would be the most likely outcome. 

 Footy toe-prints in the snow ... if ever I needed documentation that I'm a toe-striker. The trails had been broken but there was no base. Every step sunk in at least an inch, and with no solid surface to lift off, I had to shorten my stride. "Running" at my usual 160-165 bpm pace netted a 15-16 minute mile. Walking lapsed into the 23-30 minute mile range, especially once I hit the hills. Oi. Normally I would snowshoe trails this soft, but I wanted to test my running strategy for the White Mountains 100. What I got was 5 hours, 15 miles, sore Achilles tendons, and throbbing quads. Ah well. I probably won't even get a spot in this silly race.


Today I biked out the Tanana River to spectate the start of the Iditarod Dog Sled Race. For as much Iditarod Trail enthusiasm as I've perpetuated over the years, I've never actually seen the dogs. I had a bad night of sleep and was sore from my "run," and almost didn't go. But I'm glad I rallied. It was fun to see these mushers and their dogs in their element. I have lots of respect for mushers (seriously. I have a hard enough time taking care of my own feet and cannot fathom dealing with 64), and lots of envy for the dogs. They possess so many endurance abilities I would like to have. Plus, they have one job to do, and they seem to love it.

 Here are a few photos I took along the Tanana. This is Aliy Zirkle. Like many fans, I want this to be her year.

 Number 47, Becca Moore. I noticed a surprising number of women driving Iditarod teams. Perhaps it's not surprising. I still participate in sports where women comprise, at most, 20 percent of the field.

 Number 37 Benjamin Harper. Dude was chillin.

Like the neon yellow.

The temperature on the river was around 5 below zero, and once I rounded the Chena Ridge bluff, there was a brisk headwind. Obviously I pulled off the trail for every single musher who went by, often stopping for five minutes at a time. It was hard to find a rhythm and I was cold.

 I didn't get a photo of him, but Lance Mackey was one of the first mushers I watched go by. "You should hook a couple of dogs to that thing," he commented about my bike.

 Dee Dee Jonrowe, the only musher I've actually met. She's in her 60s, runs marathons, probably weighs 90 pounds soaking wet, and is this fireball of energy. Also, she likes pink.

 Beat would get a kick out of this — a musher towing a guy with a Google Street View camera. I will be annoyed if Google represents the Tanana River as "the Iditarod Trail," but think it's a fun project nonetheless.

 The one and only Jeff King.

 Despite the windchill and blowing snow flurries, it was a beautiful day. I biked 10 miles out the river before I turned around.

 Bye mushers! Have a great trip to Nome.

Finding winter

After temperatures climbed into the 40s again and my creative energy continued to decline, I decided it was time to escape Anchorage. Originally I hoped to travel to Whitehorse for an overnight bike trip with friends, but discovered too late that my car rental policy didn't allow me to leave the country. There's also the matter that Whitehorse is 700 miles from Anchorage, and although I enjoy the drive, it's risky in the winter and difficult to justify amid the limited time I have in Alaska. Fairbanks is half that distance, and there's an incredible mountain range in the middle with extensive adventure opportunities. 

On Thursday I planned to ride my bike on snowmobile trails near Petersville, in the southern foothills of the Alaska Range. It was still warm, and misty rain and fog became driving rain after I passed the Talkeetna junction. I coaxed the rental car through gray mush to a trailhead, where I'd already decided I was going to run instead of ride. I suited up, stepped out into the downpour, and sank my foot into shin-deep slush. The trail wasn't packed ice as I expected, and any attempt to "run" through this muck was going to be a cold, soggy slog. I experienced a low point there, while slogging back to my car to remove my microspikes and grab snowshoes instead. Rain pelted down and I realized that much of my malaise over the past week was linked to constant worrying about Beat. It's strange, because concerns about his well-being and emotional state on the Iditarod Trail didn't bother me nearly as much last year. I think going to McGrath with him helped put me in the right mindset about the endeavor, and also helped me feel more connected to him after he continued onto Nome. This year, it's more difficult to see big picture when I talk with him on the phone, hear his tired voice, and imagine him stumbling over tussocks and taping his feet amid endless sloggy wetness. Sloggy wetness is not something I want for him or myself, and running the slush marshes in Petersville was close to the last thing I wanted to be doing. "I don't have to do this," I thought. The sun had been shining through a small suckerhole over Willow, and even though it was becoming late in the afternoon and Willow was an hour in the wrong direction, I turned around and drove south.

Loaded up Snoots at the gate on Willow Fishhook Road and pedaled through the icy slush until it turned to ice, and then packed snow. As I gained elevation toward Hatcher Pass, soft powder filled in the gaps and the quiet hum of the wheels lightened my mood. I let a bunch of air out of the tires and climbed higher until turning pedals through soft snow was beyond my power capacity, and the remnant hints of the sucker hole sun were sinking low on the horizon, and the night drive beckoned. This ride was a welcome respite and shifted my mindset in the right direction.

Driving north, I crossed back into the storm shadow of driving rain, which shifted to sleet, and then snow. Inches piled up on the freezing-rain-slicked highway, which was almost empty of traffic save for an occasional southbound truck. A few miles north of Cantwell, I moved slightly into the shoulder as a truck went by, hit an ice slick and slammed into a snow bank. I was alone with a rental Jeep Cherokee, no shovel, and it was just before midnight. I wondered if I might have to spend the night in the woods just off the road. After twenty minutes of kicking snow and driving the car backward and forward, backward and forward, I managed to free it from the bank. By that time, it was angled just right to flip a U-turn and drive back to Cantwell. Snow was still coming down hard, and I didn't want to get stuck anywhere where I really might have to spend a night in a ditch. I returned to the closed Chevron, parked in the corner of the lot, and set up my bivy inside the car. I awoke to a snowplow scraping nearly a foot of new snow that had fallen overnight.

I did go looking for winter. I found it.


The sun came out for the remainder of the drive to Denali National Park, which is only thirty miles north of Cantwell but only had two or three inches of new snow. There was another winter storm warning in the forecast for that evening. I had been sufficiently intimidated by snowy road conditions to want to escape the mountains before the storm came in, but had enough time for a half-day hike in the park. A park ranger recommended this loop starting at mile 12 of the park road, looping up around a ridge and then dropping into the Savage River Canyon before returning on a closed, unmaintained section of the road. In hindsight, it's crazy that the park ranger recommended this hike to me. I mean, I know this is Alaska, but this is a national park, and I didn't represent myself as a mountaineer. For all she knew, I could have been a random tourist from California who was just passing through on her way to Fairbanks. Oh right, that's exactly what I was. It was a scenic hike, but parts of the route were sketch-city. I'm guessing this is a popular summer trail, and the ranger had never been up here in the winter conditions.

It was 14 degrees where I parked my car, and once I climbed above tree line, I encountered strong winds — guessing 25 mph sustained winds with 40 mph gusts. Cold wind is a condition that frightens me, and my heart was racing as I made my way along the ridge. All in all, 14 degrees with a 25 mph wind would be a typical if not pleasant condition on the Bering Sea Coast, and I had to continually remind myself of this, since I'm still planning to head that way in a week. "If you can't take this wind, then you really can't take the coast." I ducked behind a boulder to pull on a windbreaker and neck warmer, and squinted against the gusts as I pieced together wind-scoured segments of the trail down the slope.

There were steep, boulder-strewn drop-offs to both sides, and the trail climbed onto this narrow knife ridge that only sharpened as the route descended. There was a reasonably defined trail, but it was coated in glare ice with anywhere from an inch to a foot of feather-light spindrift on top, with crusty, thigh-deep drifts in spots. I was wearing microspikes, but the points were still slipping on the hard ice layer and rocks. Safe foot placements were difficult to discern, the drop-offs were quite exposed, wind was knocking me off balance, and the odds of hurting myself were high. I should have retreated sooner, but kept thinking the ridge would widen or I'd find a safe route off of it. When these things did not happen, it was too late because I was more frightened of returning the way I came than going forward. By that time, you're pretty much committed.

Finally, after about thirty minutes of intense scrambling where I put my poles away and took my mittens off occasionally so I could use my bare fingers to grip rocks, I saw moose tracks above a creek bed, in a spot where I could climb down and reach them. Before, from my vantage point, it wasn't apparent whether the creek below would drop safely to the river or drop off cliffs. But I figured if a moose could climb to this spot, I could crawl out. Getting off that sketch human trail and following the moose was the best decision I made all day. From there it was a fairly simple powder-bound down to the Savage River, where I located the canyon trail and walked to the road. The fear that encompassed that seven-mile hike left me exhausted. It was all I could do to trudge 2.5 miles of road back to the car and finish the drive to Fairbanks.

It snowed for most of today in Fairbanks, so my friend Corrine and I went snowshoeing through the powder on the hills near her house. Lots of fun, this hike, and not scary at all. What's funny is there's now probably too much snow here for me to ride my bike. But that's all right. Running and hiking is arguably better for my physical training right now, as it might still help my fitness for a hopeful White Mountains 100 run at the end of the month. There's a cold snap forecasted next week, and practicing setting up my bivy, working on my bike, and melting snow at 20 below will really help my emotional and mental fitness going into the coast trip. Right now, after my experience with the wind on the mountain in Denali, I'd put my confidence level at about 10 percent. Today, Beat confided in me that his own confidence is flagging severely right now, with all the new snow and wind and likely slow conditions for the next couple hundred miles. He, more than me, could use a hit of positivity, and I hope he finds it in McGrath.