2019 in numbers

Early in the afternoon on Dec. 31, during that short but golden window between sunrise and sunset, I wrapped up another year of moving through the world with a 12-mile run in the Goldstream Valley of Fairbanks, Alaska. Temperatures had plummeted to -5F, and my Alaskan friends teased me for insisting this was "cold" after experiencing 50 below during a five-day sled-pull in the White Mountains. Even as I insisted —"People in Boulder freak out when it's five below" — I wasn't sure a mere 2.5-hour run warranted more than a light softshell and a single pair of socks. As it turns out, at 5 below, it does. My elbows ached from the cold. I tried to increase speed to prompt better blood flow, but my leg muscles were sluggish from the fatigue of the camping trip, and my shoulders were too sore to pump my arms effectively. Still, after that hard sled pull through some of the most difficult weather and trail conditions Alaska can churn up, this run was nothing. It felt good to move and breathe in a glistening wonderland frost and snow.  


This final run of the year was an effort to boost my annual mileage to a contrived but fun 2,019 miles. I’d not yet run 2,000 miles in a year, but in mid-December I realized my total was somewhat close — close being about 150 miles away. That was a lot to cram into the shortest, coldest days at the end of the year, but we had planned trips with reasonable mileage for our Christmas training trip in Alaska, and it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to pad the weeks with a few more. As soon as I announced I was going for 2,000 miles, Beat urged me to take on an even more contrived yet popular running goal — mileage to match the year. What's 19 extra miles? And in case you're wondering, I do count all of my cart-dragging and Alps hiking and various other slow foot endeavors as "running." As I see it, my slow miles are often the most strenuous, so if these miles aren't "running," then nothing I do qualifies as running.  


And, indeed, the Alaska sled trips cut me down far more than I even anticipated. We only managed 30 miles on our first trip and about 65 on our second, but if I were allowed to rank myself on a difficulty curve, I'd give myself at least 400 miles for those trips alone. Fortunately I'm not willing to exaggerate real numbers, so I still came up short on my yearly goal and thus had excuses to head out for subzero runs in Fairbanks on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and New Years Eve. It was a fantastic way to end the year.

And with that goal secured — plus two miles to grow on — here's my annual "Year in Numbers:" 

January 

138 miles run, 28,993 feet of climbing
214 miles ride, 30,153 feet of climbing

I started out the year with just two races on my horizon — the White Mountains 100 in March and the Bryce 100 in May. I had a lot riding on achieving a measure success in these races — I thought I was finally in position to run a strong White Mountains 100, and I simply needed to finish the Bryce 100 after six (!) years without a successful long summer ultra. So my training focus turned to more serious running, and I mainly rode my bike for fun and relaxation. I actually managed to start becoming somewhat fast (for me.) My mileage wasn't that high because it was still winter, and training runs frequently blindsided me with harrowing difficulties like waist-deep snow drifts and 50mph wind gusts. Beat and I also embarked on a sled-dragging overnight to Homestake Reservoir near Vail, where we expected temperatures in the 20s and instead had to contend with 11 below. My enduring lesson from January is to expect anything and everything, at all times.

February 

133.6 miles run, 21,546 feet of climbing
205.2 miles ride, 22,219 feet of climbing

Early in the month I raced the Winter Bear, a 50-mile fat bike race near Steamboat Springs. I hadn't done enough bike training to warrant serious competition and rode it purely for fun. Still, I had such a great race that it renewed my desire to race bikes again — something in which I’ve mostly lost interest after my awful experience and longterm illness following the 2015 Tour Divide. (I did, of course, race the 2016 ITI on a bike, but my success there still didn't manage to relight the inner fire.) First, though, I had these 100-mile demons to face, so running continued to be the focus. The second week of February brought a not-great race at the rainy and muddy Golden Gate 50K in California. My confidence diminished further with more poor runs as we headed to Anchorage for Beat's eighth start of the Iditarod Trail Invitational.

March 

183.8 miles run, 12,841 feet of climbing
219.3 miles ride, 8,880 feet of climbing

While Beat raced the ITI, I spent most of the month living in Nome — a unique and enriching life experience. Life in Nome is difficult. This selfie is one I took during my regular two-mile walk to the grocery store. Nome is the kind of place where you need goggles just to buy groceries. Each day brought blasting winds, wet precipitation, whiteout skies and renewed snow drifts. March 2019 actually was far from a normal month in Nome — the temperature was 15 degrees higher than average, and they also received more than five times the typical precipitation. There was still the same amount of wind, so nearly every training run became a harrowing adventure — often stumbling blind through knee-deep drifts as freezing rain coated my body in a thick layer of ice. None of this training was all that optimal for running well in a runnable race, and in the end I felt like I showed up to the White Mountains 100 somewhat undertrained. Temperatures on the first day of the race neared 50 degrees — in Fairbanks in March — yet trails remained hardpacked. Still, I became frustrated early on because my legs felt sluggish, and I wasn't quite making the splits I hoped to achieve. Things really started to fall apart at mile 60, when a warm snowstorm intensified, and more than six inches of wet powder coated the trail by morning. Temperatures were still close to freezing, so I was soaked, slow-slogging and grumpy. I finished in a not-terrible time for this race — 31 hours — but I was still pretty disappointed with my performance. Someday I will achieve that perfect White Mountains 100. Someday.

April 

214.5 miles run, 46,190 feet of climbing
145.7 miles ride, 15,705 feet of climbing

We returned from Alaska and I launched right back to training for the Bryce 100, and things were going well again. Running the rocky and steep trails around Boulder isn't easy, but it's still a breeze compared to the wind-blasted mire of Nome.

May 

192.9 miles run, 34,029 feet of climbing
126.9 miles ride, 9,869 feet of climbing

What I remember about May is that it snowed, a lot, even though it was May. This made me a happy but slow runner. The Bryce 100 started May 17 with temperatures in the low 20s and two inches of fresh snow on the desert dirt. As the sun melted the snow, a slimy mud formed over the trails. Around mile 9 I slipped and twisted my knee sharply as I flailed. This hurt a lot, but I always overreact to my little mishaps, so I kept running. The long day dragged on and became a very cold night, down to 18 degrees. I thought it amusing that my "summer" ultra was considerably colder than my "winter" ultra in Alaska. My knee was stiff and sore, and during the night it got to the point where I could no longer run without considerable pain. But I had so much riding on not DNFing the Bryce 100 that I limped it in, again grumpy and disappointed with my 34-hour finish. I was in such pain that I was frowning and quietly growling at the folks who cheered me into the finish line, and I'm not proud of my attitude at all. I told Beat I needed to do some serious soul-searching about why foot racing makes me so angry, and why I keep pursing it anyway. My knee injury was diagnosed as a torn MCL, requiring physical therapy and what turned out to be about 10 weeks before I felt mostly recovered.

June 

19 miles run, 3,540 feet of climbing
481.3 miles ride, 62,586 feet of climbing

As I remember it, I didn't attempt to run again until August. Apparently I still did do some minimal hiking in June, including this climb to Niwot Ridge in a snowstorm on the summer solstice. Mostly I rode bikes and learned to love cycling all over again. My grandmother died on June 9, and I found solace in the meditative spin to the top Mount Evans. My bike accompanied me to Utah, where I embarked on more cathartic rides and cowered in the midst of particularly violent thunderstorms. But when I was injured and grieving, my bike was there for me, and I was grateful.

July 

97.5 miles run, 18,872 feet of climbing
418.8 miles ride, 48,503 feet of climbing

In July I'd decided I wanted to race the Summer Bear, a 200-mile, self-supported mountain bike race near Steamboat Springs in early August. So I was officially in bike training, although still struggling with a restrictive and chaffing knee brace. My friends and I embarked on a fun overnight bikepack near Eagle, and I managed a few good eight-hour rides in the mountains west of Boulder. By the end of the month my knee had improved and I felt ready to tackle a couple of tougher hikes in the San Juan Mountains as Beat raced the Ouray 100.

August 

179.9 miles run, 67,099 feet of climbing
246 miles ride, 30,256 feet of climbing

The first annual Summer Bear launched on August 2, exactly six months after the Winter Bear. Eighteen riders started the event, which inexplicably launched at 6 p.m., for a long night of grinding gravel and rocks and crumbling jeep tracks along the Colorado-Wyoming border.  The route was a weird mix of fairly easy dirt road riding, overgrown double- and singletrack, and steep unrideable nonsense along four-wheeler “trails.” That and the evening start threw most everyone for a loop, and by the second night there were only four people left in the race. I was proud to be one of the few finishers, but dragging my bike through a long, cold, second night out just to travel twenty miles in eight hours was not my favorite thing. After Summer Bear it seemed clear my knee was better, so I took advantage of the remaining couple of weeks in the short Colorado summer to visit a few mountains. I climbed four fourteeners to celebrate my 40th birthday. Then we headed to France for more fun hiking in the Alps.

September 

219.2 miles run, 68,989 feet of climbing
0 miles ride

By September I fully committed to walking the thousand-mile Iditarod Trail to Nome in 2020, and returned my focus to long days on foot. The best part of this month were the three days Beat and I spent in Valais in Switzerland, climbing immense and beautiful mountains. My dad and I hiked across the Grand Canyon again, and I visited a few more favorite mountains in Colorado and Utah as winter snows began to close in.

October

179.1 miles run, 42,727 feet of climbing
127.9 miles ride, 17,369 feet of climbing

Since October I’ve been entrenched in my weekly winter training plan, which generally involves two days of cart- or sled-dragging, two days of strength training, one tempo run, one to two long runs, and if I can carve out any extra time, a fun bike ride. Sadly, cycling has been neglected. It often feels like I stepped off the bike after the Summer Bear and didn’t get back on it, except for rare occasions when a fun trip presented itself. Early in the month I joined my friends on an overnight bikepack in Leadville that brought more discomfort than expected, demonstrating that I didn’t maintain the necessary fitness for long days in the saddle. I needed to accept that I won’t be able to switch my mode of travel to bike in case I change my mind about the Iditarod. I’m all in on foot now, and if I decide to back out, I’ll have to back all the way out.

November

172.1 miles run, 38,262 feet of climbing
432.9 miles ride, 34,173 feet of climbing

November was more of the same, although more of our “long runs” became snowshoe adventures in the mountains. At home the weather was a fairly warm and dry, and I even managed to enjoy one long bike ride when it was nearly 80 degrees outside. Before Thanksgiving I traveled out to Utah for a 300-mile bikepacking adventure near Moab, and closed out the month with a few impressively tough snowshoe hikes with my dad as several feet of snow fell on the Wasatch Mountains.

December

291.3 miles run, 42,727 feet of climbing
0 miles ride

December showed the ways my training has been going well, with increased strength and speed during my cart-drags, better handling of the weighted sled on tricky trails in the mountains, and increased limits in weight training. I’m also feeling quite comfortable on my feet. Nearly 300 miles is a lot to “run” in a month when not a small number of those “runs” are pushing my limit at 2mph, but I experienced minimal discomfort beyond the DOMS that often grips my shoulders and hamstrings.

I’ll write more about our end-of-year trip in a separate report, but it was humbling, to say the least. I flew to Alaska feeling all the confidence a neurotic person like myself can possibly gain, and returned having lost most of it. I learned a ton from this trip, but I also began to seriously question whether I really have what it takes to walk to Nome — mainly, whether I have the engine it takes to walk to Nome. I’m a realist and can’t help but be practical about this. Unless I get abnormally lucky with a month’s worth of trail conditions in Alaska amid this volatile climate era, the math doesn’t quite get me there. However, this isn’t to say I’m just going to give up. I’m going to keep training and keep re-crunching the numbers. Although I may be a realist, that’s never kept me away from the ridiculous.


Totals for 2019:
Rode 2,644.9 miles with 281,991 feet of climbing
Ran 2,021.0 miles with 425,991 feet of climbing
Cumulative 4,665.9 miles with 707,982 feet of climbing


The training alone is immensely rewarding and generally fun, and I’m excited to step up to the starting line on Knik Lake on March 1, and simply see where the next mile takes me. First I need to get through the Fat Pursuit on January 11 … I’ve decided to take on a 100-mile course rather than the 200K. In what will likely be fresh snow with a sled and snowshoes, 100 miles will be more than enough for me. It’s exciting and daunting, but I think 2020 is going to be a good year.

Life below zero

It's a typical story of two air travelers stuck on the tarmac at Sea-Tac, twenty minutes after their connecting flight was scheduled to take off. It's the Friday before Christmas, the busiest travel day of the year, and weather is causing massive delays throughout the airport. All hope is lost, but after an hour of refreshing a flight status Web page, the connecting flight comes up an hour delayed. The crew finally lets them leave and they sprint through several terminals at top speed, ignoring the grumbles from a lumbering mass of fellow travelers. All of their heavy winter layers are drenched in sweat and endorphins are surging as they reach their gate, where the crew nods and ushers them inside, slamming the door behind them. 

There's a gap in baggage handlers today and no way their luggage will make it on the same plane. But somehow it does, and by 2 a.m. on the winter solstice, their rental car is cutting through thick ice fog in Fairbanks, Alaska. The temperature is 35 below zero, and their luggage contains everything they need to survive for days outside in this ... they hope. 

Eleven hours later, it's 1 p.m. on the shortest day of the year — just after sunrise or dangerously close to sunset, depending on one's outlook. From a solar perspective, it's high noon. They've rearranged and repacked all of their stuff, and they're pulling into the trailhead at a seemingly abandoned state park, bracing for a three-day trip through these frosty hills. It's still 35 below zero.  Just 24 hours earlier, the Colorado air was a chilly 35 degrees and it was 70 degrees warmer — no less jarring than traveling from winter to 100 degrees. The shift in sensation is stark, like running and then slamming into a wall.

At an otherwise empty trailhead in Chena River Recreation Area, Beat and I pulled our sleds out of the car and tried to latch everything together as quickly as possible. At 35 below, fingers only have a few seconds before the cold clamps down and renders them rigid. I pulled my mittens on and off, trading dexterity for warmth in equal parts. My packing technique was rusty and I inevitably fumbled some of the steps. We were both shivering by the time we finally got moving, about twelve minutes after arrival.

Our planned route followed a low-lying winter trail through the valley for the first five miles. The temperature remained frigid down here, and we moved at a strenuous clip, trying to adjust to the heaviness of air and ground. The strain brought to mind an image of a deep-sea diver on the ocean floor, breathing recirculated air and taking short and labored steps through the frigid water.


We weren't aware of a solstice sled dog race happening on the same day, but suddenly we were inundated with 15 teams passing in both directions in short succession. I became more and more stressed about pulling off the narrow trail and wading into knee-deep snow to let them by. If I had to wait for more than two teams, I was shivering by the time I got moving again. In between these unwanted breaks, I pulled hard in an effort to reach our trail junction as quickly as possible, working up unwanted sweat. Meanwhile the dogs loped past, chins and shoulders coated in frost, mouths open and tongues lolling out, with not a care in the world.


Finally we reached Stiles Creek trail and left the race behind, climbing a corrugated snowmachine track that hadn't seen traffic in many days. The trail pitched upward at a fall-line grade, gaining a thousand feet in just over a mile. Dragging a loaded sled over frost-crusted old trail at such grades is true thirsty work. Although we didn't gain much in the way of degrees of temperature, I had to start stripping down — all coats unzipped, pant side zippers opened, hands and face fully exposed to vent heat. Once my coat was open, my interior hydration valve soon froze, causing an even deeper level of thirsty. A seemingly large number of moose or caribou — we couldn't quite tell by the tracks — had stomped deep, ankle-threatening holes into the trail for miles.

After the steep climb, the trail rolled for along a ridge for five more miles of punchy climbs and descents. I began to cool down, managed thaw my hose, and finally started to relax from the stress of the frantic start. The long twilight finally faded, plunging us into much longer darkness. Beat fished his foldable saw out of the bottom of his sled bag. We shined our headlamps into the woods, searching for deadfall and stumps that we could cut for firewood.

When we reached the Stiles Creek Cabin, the temperature had climbed to 22 below. This actually felt warmer. Beat went about chopping our hard-won wood as I fired up cook stoves and started melting snow. We only had enough wood to burn for five or six hours, and wanted to save some for morning. So once cabin chores were complete, dinner consumed and frosted layers mostly dried, we shut the stove for the night and crawled into our winter bags, braced for a cold night.


I slept reasonably well, cocooned in my bag as the indoor temperature settled into something resembling the outdoor temperature. Beat fired up the stove again early and we lingered as long as we could, awaiting a dawn that wouldn't arrive until 10 a.m. For the second day we had about twelve miles to cover. This would take a strenuous five hours, and we wanted to enjoy all of the daylight.


The route continued along the ridge with ongoing steep ups and downs, and temperatures climbed as high as 12 below. I felt toasty and basked in the sunshine, loving all of this heat. But feeling too warm when it's not warm comes at a price. While I know this all too well by now, it's still hard to resist the urge to work up a good sweat. We descended steeply into the valley where it was again 30 below, and I could feel this deeply.

Beat was moving quickly and I wanted to try to keep up with him, but I struggled as my core temperature fell. I knew I should stop to deal with it — add a layer, at the very least — but I figured we were only a couple of miles from the cabin and we'd be there soon (this is always a terrible assumption.) This low trail was swampy and drenched in overflow — luckily mostly frozen, but also coated in frost so thick that we didn't even slip on the ice as we walked. This sticky frost also clung to the trail, creating terrible resistance. In a way it felt like that time I dragged a 70-pound bag of concrete over gravel, back at home in Colorado. It was so warm that day — warm enough to melt the snow on the road, I thought with a wistful sigh. 

The chill settled in — not dangerously so, but enough to slowly drain the energy from my body. These types of chills can be the most insidious, because by the time you think better of your situation and do something about it, you're in a much tougher spot to recover.

It didn't help that it was such a beautiful, wholly distracting afternoon. For several miles I easily ignored my stiffening shoulders and knees as I looked around in awe. Everything was coated in delicate strands of frost that looked exactly like tiny feathers when viewed at close range. From afar, the entire forest was incandescent, radiating the soft pastel light of the lazy sun.

By the time we arrived at Colorado Creek Cabin, it was 27 below and I felt cold. I stood in the musty and frigid cabin feeling dazed as Beat used a small amount of leftover wood to start a fire. He asked why I was so quiet. In my big down coat I felt okay, but certainly not comfortable. It was 2 p.m. and starting to seem like I would never feel comfortable again. Like I'd always straddle the hard edge of this insidious chill.

We headed out to gather wood before the darkness clamped down again. Beat used his saw, but in this cold I found I could walk up to dead trees with trunks thicker than my arm, pull them down and snap them into pieces like they were toothpicks. Although we were able to collect several big bundles, the wood did almost nothing to warm the cabin — the small room was too airy, with too many big windows, and this wood was probably too soft and rotten to put out much heat. It was still well below zero inside as we cooked dinner and gulped down hot chocolates, climbing into bed by 6 p.m. I did a bunch of reading. Beat, who is still recovering from a man cold, was able to sleep for the better part of twelve hours.


Even feeling warm in a good sleeping bag, it's still rough to spend a whole night in such cold. Having arrived at the cabin cold and scarcely finding an outside source of heat, we burned through a lot of energy during the long night. By 7 a.m. Beat was bored enough to rouse me, and we prepared to leave. We planned these short mileage days to get reaccustomed to the hard work of fully loaded sled-dragging, but it had gotten to the point where sitting was more difficult than moving.

Our final day was just six miles back to the trailhead. While we again planned to head out in the daylight, we just couldn't wait that long. At least, we reasoned, an early return would give us an opportunity to rearrange our systems, acquire new supplies, and bolster our defenses. 35 below is pretty chilly, but it may have just been a little taste of what was coming.

"Alaska plunges into deep freeze as the rest of the nation thaws," one headline read.

"You could easily see minus fifties in the Whites. Maybe 60 below in a cold hole," our weatherman friend Ed warned us.

"Interior Alaska hasn't seen a cold snap like this in years."

We have a second trip into the White Mountains planned, starting Thursday morning. The forecast is uncertain and predictions have been all over the place, but we're braced for and feel we're prepared for the worst. I admit for a day or so, I wanted to back out. I've never experienced 60 below, and I have no desire to experience it. But I have dealt with long periods of 40 below, and I've at least refreshed my personal battle plan thanks to this little jaunt in the minus 30s. Honestly, I'm still nervous, but this will be good for me and my goal of truly preparing myself for the Iditarod. Also, I've become so comfortable with the Whites, a place for which I feel an almost reverent affection. It will be good, I think, to become reacquainted with the same sinister side that greeted me on my first visit in 2010. Love isn't love without both light and darkness. Really, this is what keeps me coming back, year after year, whenever the sun reaches its lowest point over the northern horizons. 

The good kind of grind

Making small talk with strangers at trailheads is not my favorite thing, but it's bound to come up when one is hoisting a loaded five-foot sled out of the back of a Subaru. "Just training" is generally not an sufficient answer, so a long spiel about a thousand-mile walk across Alaska and some of the gear involved usually ensues. One question I receive more than I would have expected is, "How many women have done this?"

My quick answer: "Oh, about a dozen or so." 

Sometimes, folks press for more details. I derived "a dozen or so" from the known number of women who have powered themselves the full thousand miles of the traditional Iditarod Trail (north or south route) within a single season. Until recently, I wasn't even certain how many women have walked the route, so I finally did some digging. The answer, as best as I can ascertain, is just three. One of those has finished the route twice. Here's the list:

2019 — Southern Route
Kimberly Riggs, bike; 21 days, 23 hours, 39 minutes
Melissa Schwarz, bike; 21 days, 23 hours, 39 minutes

2016 — Northern Route
Jill Homer, bike; 17 days, 3 hours, 46 minutes
Katie Newbury, bike; ~22 days (not part of ITI)

2014 — Northern Route
Ausilia Vistarini, bike; 17 days, 6 hours, 25 minutes
Loreen Hewitt, foot; 26 days, 6 hours, 59 minutes
Shawn McTaggart, foot; 28 days, 17 hours, 30 minutes

2013 — Southern Route
Ausilia Vistarini, bike; 22 days, 7 hours
Shawn McTaggart, foot; 30 days, 12 hours, 10 minutes

2011 — Southern Route
Tracey Petervary, bike; 18 days, 6 hours, 30 minutes

2010 — Northern Route
Tracey Petervary, bike; 18 days, 6 hours

2008 — Northern Route
Kathi Merchant, bike; 25 days, 12 hours, 58 minutes

2000 — Northern Route
Janine Duplessis, foot; 41 days, 10 hours, 30 minutes

These statistics are interesting to ponder as I head toward three weeks of "peak" training — our annual Christmas trip to Fairbanks, followed shortly by the 200-kilometer Fat Pursuit in Island Park, Idaho (I will most likely walk a 100-mile version of this, although I'm still undecided. What's the bigger risk: A DNF that will batter my confidence, or feeling disappointed that I short-changed myself even if I finish?) Anyway, the stats — in 20 years, just 10 women powered themselves to Nome. This is of course a tiny, self-selecting group of privileged enthusiasts who have not only the desire but also the time and resources to make the trip. It's still a dauntingly low number, and there isn't much data out there in regard to "what it takes."

It reminds me of a conversation a couple of weeks ago at my gym, with an older gentleman who was nice enough, so I won't judge him too harshly. The conversation veered to my training, and rather than lie, which is what I usually do, I went through my spiel about this self-supported, thousand-mile walk across Alaska. He perked up. "Oh, I read about the woman who won the Alaska race a few years back." (I assumed he was referring to the late Susan Butcher, who is still arguably the most well-known woman musher. Or perhaps Aliy Zirkle.) Then he furrowed his brow. "But she was ... you know ... very tough" — inferring that I, a basic-looking white woman who just stepped off an elliptical machine on a sunny day in suburban Colorado, was not so tough. I did a half-shrug and sidled away toward the locker room so I wouldn't have to endure more mansplaining from a guy who read one thing about an endeavor I've been embroiled in for the better part of 12 years. Still, I caught myself doing a guns flex in the mirror and smirking at my reflection. He wasn't wrong.

I may not have Aliy's biceps, but I have been cramming in a healthy share of tough workouts this month, and I'm feeling pretty stoked on the work right now. Dare I say — my training is going well. I'm putting in regular efforts and becoming stronger, which sounds foolishly obvious, but it's been years since I experienced such regular, ongoing progression. It's as though my body is — dare I say — almost normal now. Sure, basic 40-year-old white woman normal, but normal!

Despite my best preventative efforts, I did manage to bring a virus home from Utah, as I've done every Thanksgiving for the past five at least. The congestion clamped down hard, so I took it fairly easy during the first week of December. Happily, the cold never migrated to my lungs, and I think I'm mostly past it now.


Last Monday I loaded up our three-foot "baby sled" with five gallons of water plus food and clothing, for a haul in the range of 50 pounds. I've been training heavy with the cart, but I still haven't had that many sessions on snow. I headed to Peaceful Valley, which is popular with skiers and fat bikers, so I hoped to find packed trail. It was packed for the first 3.5 miles, and I enjoyed chats with several cyclists including my friend Betsy. The broken trail mostly ended at a gorge — I did follow the postholes of one intrepid cyclist who decided to push their bike through virgin powder for another mile. But the going became tough. I spent more than an hour traveling 1.5 miles — maneuvering the sled through a tight corridor of trees and boulders ... stopping to lift the 50-pound weight and hoist it over small but seemingly endless deadfall ... inching across a snow-covered footbridge that was not quite as wide as my sled and spanned a mostly open creek (sphincter-clenching, that one) ... and lifting each knee as high as it would go to clear the deep powder. I had a destination in mind but turned around about a quarter mile early. The cold wind and blowing snow picked up intensity as I neared the Divide, my nose was running like a sieve, and eventually all of these little annoyances hit a boiling point. I was done. It was useful to experience this mental shift, as it will help me strengthen my mental toolkit for similar days of compounding irritations.

By Thursday the gale reached hurricane strength, but I still managed to talk my friend Wendy into an outing at Brainard Lake. She's training for the Arrowhead 135, so dealing with trail-breaking and 65-mph winds will likely not be an issue in her race. Still, self-management in difficult conditions is always good practice. I'd hoped to drag the unplowed road, as singletrack is tricky with big sleds. But wind had scoured the road to pavement, so we moved into the merciful wind protection of the winding forest trails.

For this outing I brought my Nome sled, which is a five-foot-long piece of high-molecular-weight polyethylene molded to a low-profile toboggan shape. Beat designed and built it himself, and added nice features like a rollable rear enclosure and a canopy so I can sleep inside of the sled. I had my waterproof sled bag, which Beat also made himself several years ago, and a new harness, which Beat modified from an off-brand backpack. Because I was bringing real stuff, I also packed most of my soft gear — sleeping bag, pad, bivy, spare clothing, down coat. All of that stuff was far too light to provide adequate training, so at the last minute I hoisted my five-gallon jug of water into the mix. Five gallons of water alone weighs 42 pounds. The full set-up was easily more than 60 pounds, which I needed to drag through fresh snow, into a proper headwind.

It was good fun, though. My head cold had finally subsided, and I was feeling strong. We took turns breaking trail and made it five miles in, all the way to Mitchell Lake. There I had to add a bunch of layers, as my body switched from 90-percent to 50-percent effort while we descended our now-broken trail with the wind at our back. Wendy also stopped several times to grab snacks and add layers, and admitted she felt daunted by the demands of it all — stopping for even a half minute left her hands uncomfortably cold, and the ten miles became disproportionately tiring. "It probably didn't even drop below 20 degrees today," she said.

"Wind is everything," I mused. "Give me 40 below over 50 mph winds at any temperature, any day." Then I admitted I have relatively little experience with deep subzero temperatures. While I strongly dislike it, I'm a little better acquainted with the wind. But I still make mistakes, sometimes big ones, every single time. I launched into several "back when I was in Nome" stories to prove my points.

On Sunday, Beat and I were back in the mountains with the sleds. Those strong winds swept in a large snowstorm, dumping as much as two feet of powder on the higher elevations. The storm moved out and a mass of colder air settled in. It was 14 degrees at the trailhead. The air was almost unbelievably still. When was the last time I ventured up here when there was no wind? I don't even remember.

Beat was feeling the first symptoms of my Utah cold, so we decided to forgo the steep climb up Niwot Ridge for a drag along five miles of Rainbow Lakes Road. The road still climbs a thousand feet, so it's not nothing, and the deep powder was only marginally broken by a few snowshoers and skiers who mostly ventured only a mile out.

I thoroughly enjoyed this open road walk. The views were nice, and the soft light of this latitude in December reminds me of Alaska in February. Amid air as still as water and no obstacles to navigate, I had the mental freedom let my imagination wander. This expanse of time and mental space in which to think about everything and nothing is a large part of why I love the slog. I listened to Amy Petty's new album, "The Darkness of Birds," and imagined I was back in Alaska, walking among the birch and black spruce of the Susitna River Valley. These daydreams brought a satisfying sense of peace, refreshed by the calm, cold air. 

Eventually we were fully breaking trail through deep powder, and my daydreams faded into that murkier mental space I need to dig into when things get tough. This is also an interesting place, and one I look forward to spending more time exploring, as I don't know what I'll find in there. Maybe true self-actualization ... or full insanity. I don't even know. It's exciting!

We stopped at the trailhead to fire up a stove, which Beat also modified so we can use the better Primus pumps with our preferred MSR stoves. How lucky am I to have this guy in my life? We had both become quite sweaty amid the hard effort, so this was a shivery stop, even with the big down coats. I need to give more thought about how I will best manage my stops in the future. My typical style is to just go and go and go and make one longer stop to do everything else — eat, sleep, boil water. But breaking up the day is important for many reasons, and I hope to formulate better strategies for myself.


Monday's forecast was quite cold, for this region — single digits for the towns along the Peak to Peak Highway, and subzero at 12,000 feet. I had morning appointments but thought I could squeeze in an outing to Niwot Ridge, leaving the sled behind so I could move as quickly as possible. I wanted to try out my new wind fleece, which I consider a crucial part of my layering system. Beat and I purchased these Mountain Hardwear air-shield jackets back in 2013, and unfortunately the company stopped making the jacket not long afterward. Over the years my fuzzy blue jacket proved its worth in just about every winter condition imaginable, and also slowly wore to threads. There are open holes in the back of the jacket now. A couple of years ago, Beat found a similar women's jacket on Poshmark, sold by a person who also probably held onto it for years, but never wore it. I've been saving the fuzzy black jacket for a special occasion, and the thousand-mile is definitely that occasion.

I couldn't have asked for better testing conditions. It was 8 degrees and windy at the trailhead, and my thermometer continued to drop digits as I climbed. The woods provided some protection, but nearby weather stations at similar altitudes were recording 45 and even 55 mph gusts. A rough track had been broken on the steep ascent, but it was still punchy and hard work. I took off the jacket to avoid soaking up too much sweat, and completed much of the climb wearing only my base layer. Heat poured from my body as my heart beat steady at 155 bpm — a satisfyingly high number for this altitude, where shallow breathing often restricts my efforts. Every so often a gust blasted through the tree canopy, taking all of my hard-earned warmth away. So I marched faster.


At the last stand of trees, I stopped to put the jacket on, along with a balaclava and mittens. Looking up, all I could see was a roiling white cloud in place of the usual mountain views — as though the ridge just dissolved into a vaguely blue sky. Stupidly I neglected to put on my goggles, reasoning that I could add them later "if it gets bad" ... and stepped into a ferocious gale that was among the worst I've experienced. What made this ground blizzard so bad, I think, was the sheer amount of fresh snow sweeping down from the Divide. It felt as though thousands of tiny bullets were pelting my face. The windchill was amazing; I took one hand out of a mitten to set up this self-timer, and within seconds my hand flash-froze. I couldn't move my fingers anymore. Then the camera died.

See the disappearing snowshoe prints? Those are mine, only seconds old.

I did a few arm windmills to push some blood back into my hand, then continued marching west, directly into the wind. Ground became sky without any delineation. Gusts nearly pushed me over. I learned to kneel into the snow when the roar increased a few decibels. After the invisible fist loosened its grip, I stood and shambled some more, weaving like a sail against a wind I could scarcely face. By this point I badly wanted my goggles, but the gale was too strong to risk opening my pack. I punched knee-deep tracks into the crusty powder and tripped over stastrugi I couldn't see. I didn't plan to spend much time up here, but it needed to be sufficient time to justify the gear test. Also, it was such a unique, exhilarating place to experience — I was both anxious and reluctant to leave the chaos behind. Knowing I could simply turn downhill and run for ten minutes to escape the monster did help me feel like I wasn't dying. Because otherwise, being up there actually did feel like dying. Every snow blast tore away threads of life, and my core temperature started to fall.

What did I learn from this excursion? Goggles. Always put on the damn goggles. Don't expose my hands for any reason. It's not worth it. The windchill up here was somewhere between -25F and -30F, and I definitely need extra socks and overboots for such conditions. A full pant shell would be better as well. But at least the wind fleece works. Even wearing only this and a sweaty base layer, my torso stayed warm — it was the lack of wind protection nearly everywhere else that did me in.

I still don't know whether I have "what it takes" to walk to Nome, and I'll never know until I manage to cross under that burled arch stashed in an alleyway, long after everyone else has gone home. But the process of exploring the "what" has surely been rewarding, and fun.