WM100: Forced consciousness expansion

“No sympathy for the devil; keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride ... and if it occasionally gets a little heavier than what you had in mind, well ... maybe chalk it up to forced consciousness expansion: Tune in, freak out, get beaten.”

~Hunter S. Thompson, "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas"

After a sixth incredible journey around the White Mountains last year, I struggled to find my "Why" for a seventh. When I signed up for the race in November, it was out of abiding love for the region, and also a sense of scarcity — because of changes in organization and climate, it's always a question of whether the race will survive another year. But as March 24 approached, I was filled with uncertainty. These days, racing and I have a complicated relationship. Mentally, I am still all in for the intense experiences and soul-satisfying challenges that endurance races provide in such abundance. Physically, however, I feel like I'm losing ground. My body hasn't kept pace with my desire, and I'm growing weary of beating it into a semblance of submission. So I think maybe I should quit racing, for my physical health. But I don't want to quit, for my mental health. It's complicated.


I weighed biking the course instead of running it, but knew I'd feel disappointed if I showed up at Wickersham Dome with creaky ol' Fatty Fatback to start and finish this loop in the daylight. Why the disappointment? I wasn't sure. But the knee-jerk emotion did prompt some soul-searching about what I did want out of this experience. Beyond the beauty, the camaraderie, the nostalgia, and even the potential for expansive awe, was the voice of my ego with an irritating ultimatum.

Remember those days, before all the thyroid stuff, the asthma, the pneumonia, etc.? You were still a mediocre athlete, but at least progress was linear and successes outnumbered failures. You need to get back there. You need to beat 2015 Jill. 

You need to break 30 hours. 


It's a little pathetic, but as soon as a goal to best my past self became clear, I no longer felt hesitant. All I needed to do was hold a moving average of four miles an hour with the typical stops, and I'd have it. Of course this is a race on snow, in winter, in a remote part of Alaska. The uncertainties far outnumber anything I can control. The few factors I could control played ping-pong in my head all week. Race nutrition — candy or more substantial trail mixes? Go lighter with 2,500 calories and rely on random checkpoint leftovers, or carry 6,000 calories for the peace of mind? Bring the waders or leave them behind? Bring the hard shell or leave it behind? Bring the snowshoes or leave them behind?

The weather was the biggest puzzle of all. This year, Fairbanks skipped March and jumped straight into April. For more than a week, every day was sunny and high 40s. Temperatures barely dropped below freezing overnight. This all but promised punchy snow conditions and an abundance of overflow, but reconnaissance reports assured us the trails were holding up well. Still, it was sure to be warm during the day, and if skies stayed clear at night, temperatures would likely drop into the single digits. The second-day forecast called for rain. Ultimately I packed way more gear than I did in 2015, when I was still blissfully ignorant and subsequently froze at night.

The days leading up to the race were fun. Wendy and Danni had both returned for the foot race, Beat and Jorge were back as spectators, and we were all staying with Corrine and Eric, who were biking the loop this year. We modeled our matching pants and made pizzas, and generally acted like we were throwing an adult slumber party rather than gearing up to hoof a hundred miles of snow.

The adrenaline from my final week in Nome faded, and a deep exhaustion set in. As sleepless as my nights had been, sleep still eluded me. I started to see the world through insomnia's murky lens. What was real? What was a dream? Come race morning, I was so sleepy that the lines between observations and imagination, realities and memories, were already beginning to blur. Streaks of color pulsed in my peripheral vision while we rode to the start of the race. It seemed so dark, because there was so little snow. The dull light of dawn revealed pockmarked piles of rotten slush. "I don't think I've ever visited Fairbanks in the summer," I said, even though I have visited Fairbanks in the summer, and it wasn't summer.

Other than this unsettling brain fog, I felt reasonably well before the race. However, just 15 minutes before the start, I felt that unsettled lurch in my gut and made a rush for the porta-potty. Pre-race tummy is not something I typically suffer from, but that morning I'd eaten yogurt that tasted a little strange. After taking care of that setback, I dashed to the starting line, arriving too late for photos. I was able to start with the pack, but took my usual place at the back as my stomach continued to turn somersaults. I made it another mile and a half before tromping into woods. Gut issues less than two miles into a hundred are never a good sign. But after this and one more stop near mile three, I felt mostly emptied out and cautiously optimistic that this wasn't going to follow me the entire way.

I picked up my pace, grateful to find a solid trail underfoot. I gnawed on a couple of candies, but still recoiled at the notion of putting food into my now-empty stomach. Clouds drifted away and the morning sun turned on the heat. I stripped off all but my base layer, then opened each zipper along the legs of my pants to expose my pasty white thighs to the summer sun. I thought about the contents of my pack and regretted not treating this like a summer race — I wished I had liquid calories to consume rather than relying on bars and candy. I wished I brought real sunscreen to slather on my limbs, rather than pore-clogging Dermatone. I wished I had a light cap to contain my sweaty hair, rather than winter hats that were too warm to wear. I wished I had downgraded the 35-liter pack and I wished it wasn't so heavy — although this was a long race, and a lot was bound to change.

As I jogged I was able to catch some of the other runners. Bonnie Busch, the only runner who chose to drag a sled. Kate Arnold, sporting a pink short-sleeved T-shirt and a down skirt. Craig Stahl, a Utahn who enviably had shorts. Wendy, who had no time to train since starting her new job at Amazon in Seattle, and was running on pure, fierce determination. Then I caught up to Danni, who was keeping that perfect four-mile-an-hour average that I hoped to shadow.

We made decent time to the first checkpoint, but my bad stomach was beginning to catch up to me. I tried to refuel with chips and fruit snacks at the trail-side table, but felt bonky and nauseated. There was also a vague but disconcerting sensation of floating, which was probably as much about sleep deprivation as it was about low glycogen. None of this would be all that concerning if it wasn't so early in the race. I was having second-day problems at mile 17. But it never always gets worse, right? (Wrong. Things are never so bad that they can't get worse.)

Despite the nausea, I managed to maintain a steady state through the next 20 miles, even perking up as the hours passed. The trail had grown more punchy in the afternoon heat, and any stride more forceful than an ultra-shuffle punched ankle-deep holes into the crust. My legs felt good, though — nothing like the legs of last year's White Mountains 100, which were so ripped apart from the ITI 350 that every footfall set off a mild electric shock through my quads. Still, I couldn't help but envy myself in the 2018 race, when I had no expectations, there were more preoccupying challenges (drifted snow! Cold wind! Temperatures down to 25 below!) and I simply wasn't so sleepy and bonky. It was fun to run with Danni, though. My wobbly ankles were holding up great thanks to a last-minute shift to mid-height Hoka Speedgoats. We were making great time to checkpoint two. Life was good.

Checkpoint two is Cache Mountain cabin, a gorgeous setting that's an arduous 38 miles into this roadless wilderness. On any other day this spot feels perplexingly far away, but thanks to race mindset, we were just getting started. Danni and I set to our chores — remove shoes and socks, air out feet, slather on lube, apply fresh socks, and eat a small meal. At this point I'd probably taken in all of 800 calories in nearly 40 miles. I was feeling horribly bonked, but also ravenous, which was a good sign. Still, I didn't want to overdo it and shut my stomach down for good, so I stuck to the usual baked potato with moose chili in a small bowl, and collected a few extra cookies for the road.

I left the checkpoint with Jacob Buller, a man from Fairbanks who had already wracked up a litany of minor injuries, and was walking with a pronounced limp. As we both tried to shake out the checkpoint stiffness, he announced he forgot his "walking stick," then returned with a literal stick. I thought about offering up my trekking poles, but admit I would be lost without them myself. He still walked at a faster clip than I could manage. I was only able to pass him when I recommitted to four miles an hour and worked my creaky legs back into a jog.

The climb to the Cache Mountain Divide was pure fun. After the baked potato, I had more energy than I'd had since the start of the race. Unbelievably, the trail was still in excellent shape, and the hot sun was finally slipping behind the western horizon. By that point I'd effectively removed my pants, unzipping them from the waist down so they draped over my legs like a tattered long skirt. Jacob and I had talked about reaching the Divide before dark, and I was determined to meet this goal.

As I neared treeline, whispers of winter returned. Dark clouds obscured the sunset, and a cold headwind raced down from the pass. I'd call it a moderate breeze, probably 15 miles an hour — enough to zip up my pants, add a jacket, and put on a buff. After a month in Nome, this wind was not much to write home about. But there was a funny reaction from two race medics, who were stationed at a warming tent about four miles away near a tricky section known as the Ice Lakes. They raced up the pass on snowmachines to check on those of us above treeline, urging care in the cold wind and reminding us to stop by their warm tent. I thought it all a little amusing, as this kind of attentive concern seems out of place in a big bad wilderness race. But then I began to wonder if the medics knew something I didn't. "Is there a high-wind warning? What's the forecast?" I asked but received no answer. After their third pass, I felt unsettled. Why were they so concerned? What was coming?


When I finally reached the pass, there were still glimmers of twilight through the dark clouds. It was just after 9 p.m. I was halfway through the race, 50 miles, in just over 13 hours. My mood soared — not only was I on pace to beat 30 hours, I might even make 28! Although I hold no delusions about even-splitting a hundred, I am usually pretty good at holding a steady pace throughout with just a little more rest. I met up with a friend from Juneau, John Nagel, who was attempting the race on skis this year. It became my short-term goal to keep up with John as we blasted down the pass, him skittering along in a precarious snowplow, and me taking big loping steps on legs that still felt ten times better than they had at any point in this race last year. I was disappointed that it was so cloudy, meaning there was no chance to see Northern Lights. So this race wouldn't match the awestruck experience of last year, but if I could continue moving well, that was excitement enough for me.

I arrived at Windy Gap, mile 62, about 15 minutes after John. He announced he was going to take a nap, but I was still resolved to keep my checkpoint time to 20 minutes. I ate a bowl of meatball soup while I switched out my socks, noting that feet still looked perfect. Then I took off down the Fossil Creek Valley, feeling fantastic. The sky had faintly cleared and the air felt almost frosty, enough to see my breath. The trail was better than it had been for miles. My feet weren't even leaving indentations here. I could run, and run well. I was stoked.


About five miles beyond Windy Gap, the first flakes hit my face. "Here's the predicted precip," I thought. It was early — closer to 2 a.m. when the precipitation was supposed to start at 7, and it was falling as wet, quarter-sized flakes of snow rather than rain. For two miles I debated putting on my rain jacket, and by the time I stopped, there was already nearly an inch of wet fluff dusting the trail. The accumulating snow began to feel like sticky mud under my feet, clumping against my shoes and sucking energy from my legs. Soon there were two inches on the ground, and each step had become arduous. I was mostly walking, but felt like I was still running. The energy chews I'd pilfered at the checkpoint weren't doing enough. I popped a caffeine pill and thought about popping another, but resolved to wait at least two hours to avoid revving up my heart rate.

I've forgotten to mention that I lost my GPS early in the race. I dropped my handheld device shortly after I passed Wendy, near mile nine. Ultimately she picked it up and returned it to me, but I went the rest of the race with only an abstract concept of mileage and time, a strange state for me. Luckily I know the White Mountains 100 course by heart, or I probably would have driven myself crazy believing I was lost most of the time. But I certainly missed GPS, my best anchor to reality. Amid the falling snow and darkness, with low visibility and only a vague sense of time and place, the entire world became an abstraction. I began to feel deeply disoriented.

Despite the caffeine pill, I grew enormously sleepy. Missing one night of sleep is normally not a big deal for me, but it had been well over a week since I'd gotten more than a few hours here and there. Fossil Creek Valley, at mile 68-ish of the White Mountains 100, is where the frenetic drive of insomnia finally collapsed. Snow swirled in the headlamp beam and pelted my eyes, causing me to blink rapidly. This incessant blinking possibly tricked my brain into believing it was in REM sleep; whatever the cause, hallucinations started to hit in force. Dark figures flickered in and out of the shadows. Squirrels and rabbits darted across the trail. Vintage motorcycles idled beside the trees.

And then there were the wolves. In my waking nightmares, there are always wolves. Gray, sleek bodies stalked the shadows, turning to face me with a glowing gaze that ignited my most primal terror. The last time I hallucinated wolves this vividly, I was attempting a multiday foot race in France. At the time, I soothed myself with logic. Wolves are exceeding rare in France. But here, in the Fossil Creek Valley of Alaska's White Mountains, live an abundance of flesh-and-blood wolves. What was real? What was a dream?

Despite gnawing fear, I could not muster enough adrenaline to stay alert. I swerved and stumbled all over the trail, nearly plunging off the edge countless times. Finally I decided I had no choice but to sleep, but of course I had no way to sleep — wet snow covered the ground, and I had no pad or sleeping bag. I came up with the brilliant idea to sit on my pack, legs stretched out, shoulders slumped and chin pressed against my sternum like a rag doll. I possibly dozed for a few seconds, only to startle awake to pronounced shivering. I mean, it was snowing and 33 degrees, and my clothing was fairly soaked. The wet snow had worked its way into my shoes, and my toes had gone numb. I reached into my pack to put on a primaloft puffy that Beat let me borrow (why hadn't I thought to put that on before I tried to nap?) I was still hopelessly sleepy, but the cold was a powerful driver.

Darkness persisted. "The sun was up by this point last year," I thought mournfully. My only view, the frenetic swirl of white on black, was too abstract to be a place on Earth. "The sun is never coming back." The trail pitched upward, climbing onto a plateau where the snow was deep and wind-swept. By now there were at least six inches of heavy powder, enough to brush over the tops of my high-top sneakers. My feet were swimming in cold snowmelt. I kept looking over my shoulder for any sign of Danni's headlamp. I badly needed another human to anchor me to reality. Indeed, Danni was never far behind — she followed my weaving footprints through the snow for hours — but we didn't connect. A nice memory came to mind, of the 2012 Susitna 100, when I was also waiting for Danni to catch me. That year, the cold snow squeaked against my trekking poles in a way that sounded just like Danni's voice, and I was sure she was right there. This year, I didn't even have fake Danni talk to soothe me — just the hateful crackling of snowflakes, the yawning darkness, and the stalking shadows of wolves.

Darkness persisted. I was slumped on my backpack again, shivering. When did I decide to sit down again? I pulled out the sheet of caffeine tablets to find four missing. When did I eat all of these? Why did they do nothing for me? How could it still be dark after weeks of wandering through the deep snow? What was real? What was a dream? I'd turned off my iPod hours ago because of the wolves. But I was genuinely losing my mind and needed some anchor to reality. Anything. I flipped through songs until I found one I could sing angrily and out loud — good old Manchester Orchestra.

THE SNOW IS PILING UP!
OUR TEMPORARY GRID!
IT WAS JUST LIKE THIS, 
THIS TIME LAST YEAR!
THERE'S NOTHING IN THE WIND!
JUST WHITE UP TO THE TREES!
AND IT'S BEEN THAT WAY
FOR ETERNITY!

Amid hoarse yelling, temporary purposeful marching that fading back to stumbling, and panicking because I thought I dropped my entire supply of candy (I found the baggie in a different pocket, but was genuinely more upset about this than I was about losing my GPS) — I found my way to checkpoint four, Borealis cabin, mile 80. Darkness had loosened its grip, giving way to a snowy gray dawn. I was surprised when I entered the cabin and learned it was only 7 a.m. In 2015, I didn't leave Borealis until 8:30 a.m. Unbelievably I was still on pace for a 30-hour finish — that is, if I could wrap up the final leg in a similar amount of time. But I knew without a doubt there was no way this was going to happen. Call me a coward for giving up so soon, but at this point I was going to be grateful if I made it to the finish without ending up face-down in the snow. Trail conditions were no longer runnable even if I had energy, which I did not.

My cabin chores somehow ate up 45 minutes. I peeled the wet socks off my feet and saw a disheartening layer of white macerated skin, along with a couple of blisters. I stretched out my legs and ate ramen noodles as slowly as they'd go down. I think the only words I spoke during that time were "tired. So tired." I put painful feet and dry socks back into soaked shoes. I stood up and walked into the hateful crackling snow.

I'd love to say I perked up and became more alert with the daylight, but most of the next ten miles were a "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas"-level consciousness side trip. Don't stop here! This is bat country! I weaved and stumbled all over the trail. I laughed at jokes that nobody made. I talked to my legs. "Find the energy. Find the energy." What was real? What was a dream?

After the long climb out of Borealis, there was a stretch where the snow was really deep — as much as eight inches, I'd guess, and I was still the one breaking my own trail. My legs weren't finding the energy; all they found was a highly resistant strength vacuum. But I wasn't angry about it anymore. I was fairly resigned.

Channeling Hunter S. Thompson: “Life has become immeasurably better since I have been forced to stop taking it seriously.”

I reached the final checkpoint, outside the trail shelter, at mile 90. There was a table of snacks covered with a tarp, but everything was still too soggy to be palatable. My friends Matias and Christy were there, having recently skied in from the trailhead. They congratulated me on finding "real winter" during the White Mountains 100 after all.

"This isn't winter, this is some wet Juneau bullshit," I grumbled, then felt the urge to laugh at my pathetic self. "I better get slogging if I'm going to make the cutoff," I continued. I still had more than twelve hours to travel 10 miles. I genuinely wasn't sure I could do it.

Beyond the trail shelter there had been snowmachine traffic. This wet snow packed well, and the trail became considerably easier for walking. However, this reduced demand on my energy reserves only served to help me feel more alert, and thus angry again. I was still steeped in bone-chilling dampness that wouldn't let me rest for long. My macerated feet were throbbing. My back was bleeding from chaffing. And it was still %#!@ snowing!

"All those wonderful trips around the White Mountains, and you had to go and ruin it," I grumbled to myself.

Of course my previous six trips weren't all sunshine and kittens. Past hardships rose to the surface when I reached the base of a steep ascent, marked with a paper sign that read, simply, "Wickersham Wall." How many times can the Wickersham Wall break me? This ascent is a vital part of race lore, but it's actually not that bad — about 800 feet of climbing and one mile long. Even I know better by now, but still let my fragile spirit shatter all over the trail.

"I can't do it, I just can't do it," I sobbed to the sign. A snot-soaked meltdown wasn't necessary, but I needed it all the same. Emotional outbursts are an important component of my ultra arsenal. Some runners bring foam rollers to relieve tight IT bands or a regimen of ibuprofen and Tylenol. I let myself have a good cry now and again. It's so refreshing.

The outburst felt good but didn't make the Wickersham Wall any easier. The snowmachine track had become a layer of churned-up snowballs over an icy surface, and was so slippery that I almost resorted to crawling on my hands and knees. Just as I crested the climb, another snowmachine pulled up from behind. Riding the machine was Wendy, who had decided to stop at Windy Gap and had no regrets. I briefly but seriously considered asking the driver to let me climb onto the back with Wendy. You read about those runners who quit at mile 94 of a hundred and wonder "what the hell were they thinking?" That is, until you realize just how far six miles can really be. I was angry and had nothing to prove anymore. I wasn't going to break 30 hours. What would another WM100 finish even earn me? Of course, unless you're injured, you really can't quit six miles from the finish. It was too cowardly even for the insolent child throwing a tantrum in my head. And Beat would never let me hear the end of it.

I sighed as the snowmachine pulled away. But it packed down the snow almost perfectly, and I was able to run again. My legs still felt pretty good, and this just stoked the anger. What went wrong? Was the trail ever as bad as I'd imagined? Or was I just a sleepy dawdler who gave up when the going got tough? And why were there still motorcycles parked next to the trail? What actually happened out there? What was just a dream?

Anger followed me for a few relatively swift miles (relative to the one mile per hour I had been moving), and then I saw Beat jogging up the trail about a mile from the finish. My anger dissolved, along with any remaining fumes of energy, and I floated on a flickering daydream down the final hill. The finish line arrived at 3:22 p.m., which is 31 hours and 22 minutes. I was —as I have been in all of my White Mountains 100s save for my fastest and best race in 2014 — the third woman in my category.

The 2019 White Mountains 100 was a strange one for me. I made mistakes in regard to nutrition, and possibly suffered the most from my pre-race sleep deficit, but it didn't go all that badly, in the scheme of things. My breathing was solid the whole time, and if anything it was a good confidence builder for future ultra attempts. As soon as the race was over, my most prominent emotion was shame for all of the anger and negativity, and for mentally giving up when conditions became challenging. But after a couple of days, I was already fondly clinging to the best moments — Jogging in the summer-like warmth. Savoring a baked potato when I was so hungry at Cache Mountain. Running down the Divide with John. Bliss.

What's the takeaway? I genuinely don't know.

Photo by Jorge Latre

“Yesterday's weirdness is tomorrow's reason why.” ― Hunter S. Thompson

No place like Nome

My month in Nome divided neatly into two distinct segments: The first two weeks when the town was dark and quiet and I accomplished a fair amount of writing and run-training. Then the last two weeks, which were loud and sleepless and All Iditarod All Of The Time. I became swept up in the excitement of the sled dog race, and was outside cheering for every musher I could catch. I wandered the town attending talks by race pioneers, museum exhibits, concerts, and anything else that looked interesting on the calendar. Iditarod fever had consumed this sleepy town, and I was not immune.

The 2019 co-winners, Petr Ineman and John Logar

Just as Iditarod fever took over, cyclists began to arrive. When this idea first sparked to spend the month in Nome, I genuinely didn't consider that I'd probably become the de facto finish-line host. An official Nome greeter is something the ITI has never offered. After their thousand-mile journey, racers often arrive to quiet streets, no fanfare, and sometimes don't even have a place to warm up (one of my favorite stories comes from Marco Berni, who arrived in the middle of the night in 2006. With no businesses open, he curled up in the only warm spot he could find — the ATM at the bank — until the police showed up and took him to the homeless shelter.) Personally I appreciate the low-key nature of the ITI, and was a little overwhelmed in 2016 when I arrived in Nome 15 minutes before a popular musher and had to chat with dozens of people while my head was still offline and drifting back toward the trail. Still, it was fun to track the cyclists' movements and greet them at the burled arch — even Troy whose dot kept me up most of the night before he arrived around 7 a.m.

And thankfully, Carole and Jen flew in from Anchorage and Fairbanks to help out. They were there to greet the two women pedaling toward the finish — Kim and Missy — and brought a bounty of exotic foods from Costco to share. My little apartment on Front Street became a scene reminiscent of the much-more established finish line in McGrath, with racers crashed out on the floor, wet gear strewn around, food appearing on tables and disappearing as fast as it could be produced, and an entertaining exchange of adventure stories from the trail. I loved how this all worked out, but I have to say, this introvert was exhausted.

The flurry of activity necessitated a sharp taper in my workouts, which was probably a good thing, although I still needed the outdoor excursions just to wind down and relax. After my final long run two weeks before the White Mountains 100, my mildly sprained right ankle was still bothering me enough that I decided I would do no more running before the race. Instead I went out for rides along the coast, catching glimpses of ringed seals poking their heads out of openings in the re-forming ice.

I also enjoyed one more ride with the Saturday morning fat bike club, again grinding into the hard wind toward Cape Nome. The wind-driven surface snow was like Velcro, pulling against the tires with each hard-earned rotation. Still, at least the trail was packed. We were able to cover more than twice the distance in the same amount of time this week — 18 miles instead of 8. After three weeks in Nome, 18 miles in three hours felt like a blistering fast speed on a bike.

On Sunday, Carole's friend Tom invited us out to his kennel to try our hands at mushing. Tom lives 13 miles outside of town in the beautiful Nome River Valley, and this time of year his house is only accessible by trail. He towed the three of us out there in his snowmachine. What a treat!


I was having so much fun hanging out with Carole and Jen. Carole and I bonded in the ITI 350 last year. Although we didn't travel together in the race until the final two miles, we were in close enough proximity to share similar struggles. We battled the same deep snow, plunged through the same overflow. We shared a bunk with the loud-partying Iditarod trailbreakers at the Bear Creek shelter cabin, and also shared the horrors of wet feet. Her footprints were the only signs of life after the storm, and I followed them gratefully for dozens of miles. Two miles before McGrath, I caught up to her as she hobbled along with trench foot so advanced that her feet would take months to recover. It seemed downright silly to race at that point, so I hobbled along with her, chatting to take her mind off the pain until I was wracked with shivering from moving so slowly. We limped into the finish to tie for second place or something after eight and a half days. I feel like Carole is my sister on the trail, and it was wonderful to spend more time with her in Nome this year.

Tom's kennel is home to 18 huskies, cute and friendly dogs mostly named after cuts of beef. I'd forgotten to mention to my friends that I have mild dog fears, and my phobia crept to the surface with 18 energetic canines and their sharp teeth bouncing all around me. Still, I did my best to coral a few bundles of pure muscle to help harness the team.

Tom ran the Iditarod once, in 2016 — the same year that I rode a bike to Nome. It was fun to share our stories from the trail as though we'd run the same race, which in many ways, it felt like we had. However, as we rushed through a multitude of tasks to prepare the team for the run, I decided that dog mushing is a decidedly different sport from fat biking. It's much more strenuous. Nothing but respect for mushers and sled dogs here.

Tom let us each drive the team along a 1.5-mile loop. Driving 10 dogs is terrifying; even in the soft snow, they can fly. At first I death-gripped the sled and rode the brake constantly, but as I started to feel more secure on the runners, I let them go. This was an exhilarating sensation — quiet, yet swift, with only the flow of wind and agile husky legs to betray a sense of stillness.

That night, amid a lovely 9 p.m. sunset, we watched Kristin Bacon's team come in.

Red Lantern Victoria Hardwick arrived the following afternoon.

At the time we were waiting at the arch for Kim and Missy, who arrived less than ten minutes later, at 2 p.m. Monday. The ITI race organizers touted them as only the eighth and ninth women to complete the race to Nome since 2002. Guess who was the seventh? This was a powerful moment to experience with them — it felt like passing on the mantle. Happy tears flowed from all five of us.

Then, as we were coaxing the women to approach the arch for photos, who rolls up but the "Gypsy by Trade," Nicholas Carmen himself. Before then we weren't aware of Nick's whereabouts; we only knew he'd been independently touring the Iditarod Trail from Anchorage to Nome this year. With a depth of touring and Alaska experience, what appears to be boundless strength, and extra-wide tires, Nick made a three-week solo ride on the Southern Route of the Iditarod Trail look all too easy. Missy and Kim want to assure you that it's not easy. I concur. But it was a happy reunion for all.

On Tuesday evening I stole a little more solo time to ride into the Nome River Valley. This felt like the first truly clear day in the three weeks since I arrived — no clouds, barely a breeze, almost cold enough to create a frosty face (it was about 10 degrees.) I talked up the amazing weather window that most of the Nome cyclists were able to enjoy here. "It's been snowing and/or blowing for three weeks straight," I insisted. I'm not sure anyone believed me.

We had one more ladies slumber party, and after much celebration and libations, I really tried to get some sleep. But I couldn't help but stay awake clicking on Beat's dot as he rested briefly at White Mountain and set out on the "final" (70-mile) leg toward Nome. Based on his pacing and planned rest, I predicted an o-dark-thirty finish on Thursday morning.

Iditarod was officially over and town businesses were slowly shuttering their doors as we enjoyed one last leisurely breakfast at Bering Tea on Wednesday morning. As the ladies piled into their taxi to head to the airport, I pointed at the clear view of Anvil Mountain and "White Alice," the imposing tropospheric antennas installed at the peak during the Cold War. "I've been waiting more than three weeks for a window to climb that mountain," I announced. "Today I'm finally going to do it."

Of course there was laundry to do and ice cream to buy before Beat's arrival, so I didn't set out until 2 p.m. I loaded my snowshoes and poles onto my bike and put a few warm layers in a backpack. The weather was 15 degrees with relatively light winds. I pedaled north toward Anvil Mountain, basking in sunshine. But less than two miles into my ride, the North Wind turned on, like flipping a switch. It was absolutely incredible — a phenomenon I've only experienced on the Bering Sea Coast. A pleasant breeze became a 30mph gale within minutes. Suddenly I could barely pedal into the wind, and a ground blizzard all but obscured the pavement. I began to shiver, so I stopped to pull on my rain pants and buff, which were my only extra layers besides an emergency puffy. Should I bail? But this was my last chance to climb Anvil! It would be crime to spend a month in Nome and not ascend this mountain at least once.

I reached the end of the road and strapped on my snowshoes. My thermometer now read 8 degrees, and it was sure to keep dropping. My core was already cold, but figured the climb would warm me some. And the hike should only be another 1.5 miles with 700 or so feet of climbing. Of course it was a trudge in breaking crust over deep sugar snow, and the wind was howling in a way I had yet to experience this year. I managed to spend nearly a month in Nome without facing the sharpest teeth of the North Wind, even as I expected it all along. This long wait made the gale all the more unsettling.

Amid a battle with both my core temperature and primal sense of fear, I reached the edge of "Nomehenge" — a thrilling apocalyptic scene. The sixty-foot towers were coated in thick rime, looming as industrial ghosts over the barren snowscape. The towers are normally surrounded by a chain-link fence, but the snow is so deep this year that I could snowshoe freely between them, gazing upward and taking a few photos at a time as my fingers flash-froze to disconcerting rigidity. After one too many photos, I finally reached into my pack to grab my mittens, only to remember I'd left them on my bike. All I had to protect my hands were the pogies on my poles, which let in the wind and suddenly felt like nothing at all.

My hands would freeze if I didn't hurry. A panicked urgency took over and I rushed down the mountain as fast as I could "run," holding my arms crossed over my chest with hands, pogies, and trekking poles wedged under my arms. The snowshoes flailed about and I tripped twice, taking a face full of snow because my arms were too sluggish to catch my body. Things get real, fast — and I mean real fast — when the North Wind blows. At my bike I put the mittens on and blasted toward town with the violent wind shoving me faster than I could pedal. The ground blizzard was astonishing; I couldn't see the bumpers of trucks driving toward me. Not weather to be out in, by any stretch.

Of course, I already had plans for an evening ride with Nick and Chris, a Nome dentist I'd met the previous week. The North Wind was not quite as brutal in town, but it was still pretty bad. Chris and I flailed about with the drifts while Nick pedaled steadily forward, because it seems nothing is hard for him. Still, when we all stopped for a break after about 1.5 miles, Nick commented, "If I lived in Nome, I don't think I'd motivate often to ride."

Just after we started north again, I received a call from Beat. I could barely hear him over the wind, which roared in both my ear and the ear-piece of the phone. I knew since the North Wind was blowing 30 in Nome, it had to be bad — real bad — where Beat was. I knew he left Topkok shelter cabin, but I suppose a part of me hoped he turned around. Another part just tried to put it out of my mind. But his voice on the phone left no doubt. He was shaken. He was scared. "Blowhole," he said.

The Solomon Blowhole is an infamous segment of the Iditarod Trail. The blowhole forms when the relatively warm air of the Bering Sea draws cold Arctic air from the North through narrow canyons of the Kigluaik Mountains. The funneling creates convective winds that can reach hurricane force before hitting the water. A weather station near a place called Johnson Camp often records gusts of 60 to 70 mph, reaching 100 mph at times. A trail description for the sled dog race carries this warning: "This can be one of the most dangerous stretches on the race when the wind blows or a storm hits. It can make or break champions, not to mention back-of-the-packers. Mushers have nearly died within what would normally be a few hours’ easy running to Nome. In reasonable weather, this is a pleasant five- to eight-hour run; in the worst conditions, it can be impassable."

Beat was in the blowhole. He'd managed to reach a newer shelter cabin supposedly built at the edge of the worst of it, but he was still surrounded by violent gusts. His pogies and pockets had filled with snow. Gusts flipped his enormous sled onto its side. He kept moving because he had no other choice. Visibility was already zero, and darkness was approaching. He was 30 miles from Nome, utterly pinned down.

Beat told me he didn't plan to leave until morning — at 14 to 15 hours, this would be his longest stop of the entire journey. I commiserated with Chris, who has ridden his snowmachine through many a Nome storm, and pried him for information about when and where Beat might be safe. I started receiving texts from people in the know — a local musher who runs the Nome Nugget newspaper. A teacher who used to help with search and rescue. Phil Hofstetter, a former Nome resident who has finished the thousand-mile ride a number of times. They asked me how Beat was doing, whether I'd heard from him. People who understood were worried. I was scared.

I didn't sleep at all on Wednesday night. Not a wink. I clicked refresh on Trackleaders about a thousand times, even though I'd been trying so hard not to run out the limited bandwith from my gracious Nome landlord. In the morning I started seeing notes from well-meaning friends. It's been 14 hours? Why is Beat still sitting? Did his tracker die? I was grateful he was still safe in the shelter cabin. But I was worried he might be pinned down for days. We had tickets to fly to Fairbanks on Friday afternoon. If I didn't make that flight, I wouldn't be able to race the White Mountains 100. Of course, I wasn't going anywhere until Beat was safely in Nome.

Beat called again. The wind was still raging all around him, but he'd fortified his layers and sled, and he was going to make a run for it. He might turn around, he told me. I was locked to the computer, refresh, refresh. The wind howled through town, and the roads had blown in again. I couldn't have ridden out to see him even if I was capable of battling Nome's relatively mild 30mph North Wind. I didn't feel nearly that strong. I went over to Chris's house for a nice dinner that was literally leftover dog food (prime rib for the huskies on Victoria's team.) I tried not to pace as Beat's dot continued the steady approach — seven miles, then five. Chris and I drove a mile out of town, punching through deep drifts and nearly stalling out the truck, when finally I caught sight of Beat. He looked more than a little bedraggled, like a homeless person who put on all of his warm clothing only to have the wind rip half of it off of his body. His voice was raspy as he turned his head away from the wind to speak to us. "This shit just never ends, does it?"

I felt suddenly shy, like I had honed in on needed moments of introspection. Chris and I stalked him more quietly as he made his way down Front Street to the arch, which had been moved off to the side of the street the previous day.

And with that, Beat completed his fifth journey to Nome, in 25 days and 5 hours. He was the first runner to arrive this year, making him the winner of a fancy headlamp reserved for "first foot." He was in great shape, all things considered. He had no blisters after days of rain across the wet swamp that covered the Yukon River. He had no windburn after the blowhole. He had a strange arm injury from an early fall. His arm looked misshapen to me, but he insisted it wasn't broken. He was tired. He was real tired. We found our way to Milano's pizza place for a well-earned burger and sushi roll. 

Nomeward bound

I'm sitting at the Iditarod headquarters awaiting the first cyclists of the Iditarod Trail Invitational, and going through piles of pictures from the week so far. This is quick photo post before future catch-up posts become too unwieldy.

 My White Mountains 100 "taper" officially began on Monday. Taper pretty much means that I'm going to refrain from exercise unless it involves an interesting adventure in good weather. I fully expect to go overboard, so I can't say this is a great plan. Monday brought hints of sunshine and temperatures below freezing, so I hoped some of the local trails might have set up. I headed out for a little bikesploration, and actually made it about 11 miles out the Nome-Teller "Highway" before my front wheel started punching through the fragile wind crust.

 I also had a standoff with a cow moose and her calf, shown in this photo as tiny dots on that mound to the left. As I decided whether to pass, she and junior walked right onto the trail and started sauntering away from me, punching postholes all over packed surface, of course. Clearly she was taking ownership of the trail. Conditions were becoming too punchy to be rideable, anyway, so I turned around.

There were still plenty of other trails to explore. I don't know where they go. I only know that the Big Lonely surrounds everything here, and I love it.

 On Tuesday morning I set out for a quick ride with Andrew, one of the local bikers. He's a lifelong Nomer. It's difficult to conceptualize spending one's entire life in such a place, but I suppose if this is what you're born into, it's home. Several more inches of snow and wind hit overnight, so any trail that was marginally rideable was already blown in again. We cheerfully took our bikes for a hour of swerve-and-walk in the blowing snow, and it was nice. I guess I could see myself getting used to this.

 On Wednesday I spent the day attending a few events, including a talk by an 87-year-old man who raced the first Iditarod. He was the epitome of an old-guy storyteller, swerving in and out of random subjects, most of which had nothing to do with the first Iditarod. But it was enjoyable all the same. He said in his 52 years in Nome, he'd never seen so much snow. Most of the icicles in town are working their way to hanging horizontally.

 Toward evening, I was able to see some of my favorite mushers come in. I've taken to following the ladies, which is only natural I suppose. Aliy is a fan favorite; she talks to her dogs in a sing-song voice and interacts warmly with everyone she encounters. Like many, I was pulling for her to win this year's Iditarod, but excited to see her come in fourth.

 It was such a beautiful evening that I headed out for a run. The trail was extra soft; at times I punched through to my knees. The unplowed road was even worse, with uneven and crusty drifts. It was one of those efforts that I've come to call a "slog-jog," because I will continue to battle the conditions with running efforts, look at my watch and realize I'm logging 22-minute miles, slow to a walk, and actually improve my pace. Reminding myself that I'm a better walker than runner is good self-knowledge to hold onto ahead of the White Mountains 100. Current forecasts make it look like we may be in for similarly warm trails, and I now know I have nothing to gain from trying to be speedy.

 In looking at the forecast for Fairbanks, I clicked through Nome first and saw something I haven't seen in my nearly three weeks here: A sunshine graphic. It was hidden behind "mostly cloudy" but it was there. Since cloudy days have shown to have a bit of sun, mostly cloudy probably meant a bright blue day. I was excited. My sleep has been terrible this week, so I was up at 5 a.m., just waiting for the sun to come up. Waiting, waiting. Then, by about 10 a.m., I finally ventured out.

 I didn't have a plan for the day when I set out, except to ride the Iditarod Trail east. For each solo adventure I'm prepared to spend all day and possibly a night in much worse weather than I expect to see, so there was an inclination that if trail conditions were good, maybe I'd ride all the way to Safety. Having punched a bunch of knee-deep holes in this trail the previous evening, I wasn't optimistic. Of course, I forget that fat tires have more float than heavy human feet, and I was able to roll along fairly well on the soft and chunky snow.

 Jeff Dieter passed about an hour from Nome. It was shaping up to be the loveliest day. There was no wind — which is to say there was still an 8 mph breeze out of the east, and I had to pull a buff over my face even as I stripped off my hat and jacket amid the sweaty grind.

 Views from the top of Cape Nome. Just more Big Lonely, as far as you can see.

 Waving to twin sisters Kristy and Anna Berington as they passed. I think I've cheered for every woman finishing the Iditarod so far.

 A musher poling toward Cape Nome. The trail was so soft, and the dogs weren't moving much faster than me — which is to say about five miles per hour. This was a tough 5mph too, just consistent hard work. My quads were burning, and my knees were sore from grinding in too high of a gear. Some regret crept in. I hadn't even reached Safety yet, and still had to ride all the way back. But I'd made it this far.

 I think this is possibly Matthew Failer. I'm not entirely sure, as I didn't catch his number. He asked me whether I'd seen another musher. I had, but he was about two miles back, and of course we'd both traveled that distance since I saw him. "He's only about a mile ahead," I replied. I didn't mean to be misleading, I just had fatigue-fog and didn't conceptualize the distance until later. "Maybe I can catch him!" the musher yelled. "Yeah! Go for it!" I garbled the words in reply. If this is Matthew, he did end up finishing 10 minutes in front of the next competitor, having made up more than an hour in the final 22-mile stretch.

 At the 20-miles-to-Nome sign, I stopped and chatted with a Swedish man on a snowmachine. He was baffled that I rode a bike out there, and asked how I'd ever get back. "I'll ride back," I replied, and he looked at me like he was already sad for my imminent demise. He puttered into Safety with me just a few hundred yards behind him, and continued to regard me with these sad eyes as I chatted with the other folks outside. He only had a small snowmachine with no cargo sled, so he couldn't have possibly given me a ride, but I suspect he wanted to help me and was watching for others to offer.

 Of course the folks here know fat bikes now, and no one else was convinced I was going to die ... just a little weird, that's all. It was fun to return to this spot on such a beautiful day ... the weather was so much like the day I rode into Nome in 2016. The bar is only open for a week out of the year, during Iditarod. They only serve sausage on buns (reindeer dogs) for food. Usually I know better than to consume such a thing during a hard effort, but I was hungry. Sure enough, more than riding all the way to Safety, this is the decision of the day that I would come to regret.

 Perhaps it was my unsettled stomach, the breeze that had become a tailwind (with no cooling effects) or the progressively softer trail, but about five miles from Safety, I felt like I was burning up. I stripped off nearly everything I was wearing, even my gaiters — I was down to tights and a shirt with rolled-up sleeves, no hat or buff, no gloves as I placed my hands on top of my pogies. Still I continued to sweat buckets. My thermometer read 23 degrees, which is not hot even for me, so I don't know what was up ... it was uncomfortable though. I would stop just to feel the cooling relief of the breeze, only to become uncontrollably chilled within seconds. Then, with flash-frozen limbs, I commenced pedaling, only to return to sweat fest. These flashes of hot and cold in below-freezing temperatures were a new thing for me. I can only blame the reindeer dog. I expected the more gruesome effects of food poisoning to hit my body soon, but it never happened. I feel fine today.

My legs feel wrecked though. 42 miles in eight hours of moving time, at such a high level of effort that I feel worse today than I did after both the Golden Gate 50K and The Bear fat bike race, which were supposed to be my hard efforts well prior to WM100. So ... rest day today, I guess. It's been a fun day to hang around town, talk to folks, and watch more mushers come in. I was able to catch Lance Mackey finish his self-described "Snooze and Booze Cruise." I'm a big fan of Lance — for all of his comebacks amid setbacks and struggles, and his quirky laid-back personality. If this is to be his last Iditarod, it looks like it was a great one.

I expect the first fat bikers within a couple of hours. It's fun to be a spectator for these events ... but it's definitely nothing like being out there myself.