Last days of innocence — day five

March 6, 2020. Puntilla Lake, Alaska. 21 below and overcast. 

Again 4 a.m. arrived. I emerged from my down cocoon to a bunkhouse overflowing with people. There were sleeping bags spread on the floor, sprawled over the couch, and presumably filling all twelve bunk beds. Inches from my own head was the head of a man slumped in a chair, neck bent awkwardly over the back rest. I'd slept the sleep of the dead for close to eight hours again, and felt guilty about my part in crowding out the others. But wow, did I appreciate the rest. 

Rising from such sleep to my waking existence in a battered body was still its own subtle form of torture, but this was gradually becoming my normal. As I sat up from my sleeping bag, I examined my feet and legs. The edema did seem to be subsiding, and I could almost see my ankles. On this morning, however, I found a fist-sized, goose-egg bruise and large scratch across my left knee. Dried blood was smeared down my shin. When did that happen? I scoured my memory but had no recollection of bashing my knee. Had I been sleepwalking? The cause of this injury would remain a mystery. 

4 a.m. was go time for at least half of the reclined bodies, and soon the cabin was bustling with activity. I gathered up my many pieces of clothing that I'd strewn about, panicking when I briefly lost track of my pants. Damn, I thought — I've got to come up with a better system when I hang my stuff to dry in checkpoints. Losing my only pair of pants would be bad. Before dressing, I stepped outside to check the thermometer on my sled and grab packets of instant coffee. It was still 20 below. The cold air felt nice on my mysteriously bruised knee. My fingers stiffened and shoulders quaked as I rifled through my duffle, and I grinned as my heart began to pound.

I'll admit this is one of my favorite sensations — the thrill of a deep subzero chill on bare skin when it poses no danger, because I'm close to safety. It's quite another thing when I'm alone with only meager supplies and my own body heat, many miles from the nearest shelter. For this reason I chose to relish the cold while I could, darting from my sled to the outhouse, squatting over the hole as a frigid breeze stung my backside, and returning to the cabin once solid shivering set in. I'd stayed outside a few minutes too long, and it took several minutes of pacing and convulsing through my dressing routine before I emerged from this mildly hypothermic state. I poured hot water into coffee and instant oatmeal, then sat in the last available folding chair to savor my meager breakfast while the flurry of activity continued around me. 

Once I was outside for good and hooked to my sled, the playfulness faded and reality clamped down. My legs may have been less swollen, but they still felt disconcertingly heavy. And that knee bruise, however it happened, was real. The joint had become painfully stiff. My wrist hurt. My head was foggy, my shoulders pinched with pain. Of course these are the physical realities one must accept during such endeavors — hike 30 to 40 miles each day through soft snow with a fifty-pound sled, and most bodies will begin to break down. You'd think I'd be okay with this by now, but it's always hard to accept.

Pain is one aspect of endurance racing that memory always manages to scrub, at least well enough to convince ourselves to return, again and again. But in the midst of it all, if we let it, the pain can become a cacophony, overwhelming any beauty or wonder that we might otherwise experience. So we choose to mute it, at least as best as we can, with whatever coping mechanisms we've found, because the beauty and wonder is what we're here for. Over weeks and months the pain subsides, yet the beauty and wonder remain. Ultimately what we've learned is that we can overcome pain. It's a beautiful realization in itself, a kind of innate understanding that when pain or difficulty finds us in our real lives back home, we'll recognize our own power over it.


The next 18 miles would bring a long climb into the Ptarmigan Valley, dipping into a few drainages, crossing the headwaters of the Happy River, before veering into a narrow canyon that would carry us over a minor crest in the Alaska Range at Rainy Pass. On this morning the trail was in fantastic shape — hard-packed enough that I didn't need snowshoes, although still punchy at random intervals, and of course like sandpaper against my sled at 20 below. Throughout the day, most of the bikers who spent the night at the Puntilla Lake bunkhouse passed me. This photo is George and Graham, the Kiwi duo. They both looked a little punched when they stopped to ask me if I was all right.

"Just taking photos," I said, holding my camera out to show them that my frequent stops had nothing to do with distress. "It's such a beautiful morning."

With that, George and Graham faded into the distance. Their enviable speeds ignited some mild resentment that smoldered throughout the day. I promised myself that never, ever, would I return for a another attempt of this trail on foot. Never again. Even if I didn't make it to Nome this year. I wanted the bike and the freedom. Even if I had to spend a lot more time honing my mechanical skills so I could adequately take care of it in subzero conditions. And even if I had to push the bike a bunch, I'd still be able to ride it sometimes. This 2 mph continuous slog without end ... this kind of stuff is for the birds. Well, actually that's a terrible analogy because birds can fly. What was I thinking?

Still, it was a beautiful morning. Moments like this also remind me why I do in fact love the 2 mph slog. I felt completely immersed in this place — vigilant, vulnerable, and 100-percent present. I plodded across terrain that I could feel with every muscle in my body and breathed air that was both metallic and sweet in my throat. I watched sunlight emerge through a film of cloud cover, casting the most interesting light over an otherworldly landscape.

Most of the light this morning was blue and gray, but these patches of pink were mesmerizing.

Sunrise over a far peak. I actually stopped and waited a short time for the light to spread, but it just kissed the mountain and then faded.

Once the sun was up, only overcast skies remained. More bikers passed. I was feeling far too much wheel envy on this day, so I tried to remind myself what I had going for me. Lots of time to look around! No dealing with flat tires at 20 below! I can wear snowshoes when the powder is deep! My sled is heavy but not quite as heavy as a loaded bike! But my legs. My shoulders. This depth of fatigue when I'm not even over Rainy Pass yet. I don't remember being this tired before, even in 2018 when I was still hyperthyroid and coping with much worse asthma than I have right now. Of course, the painful memories are always the first to fade.

I did feel indescribably lucky to be back in the Ptarmigan Valley, this incredibly beautiful and remote piece of the world. And it was fun that so many others were climbing up the pass at the same time. All of us lowly humans from all over the world, operating under our own power, more than a hundred miles from the nearest road, ascending the Alaska Range of all things. The Alaska Range!

Five miles before the pass, the trail veered right into the narrow canyon surrounding Pass Creek. Here the trail becomes steeper and walled in by rocky slopes and avalanche gullies. The mountain pass is a volatile place, a watershed divide where warm and moist air from the coast meets the dry, cold climate of the Interior. More often than not, Rainy Pass is inundated with strong winds and brutally cold storms. For the past two days, that's all I'd been hearing about — temperatures of 40 below, winds gusting to 40 mph, racers setting out and then retreating back to Puntilla Lake. I carried my own plan to retreat if the similar windchills remained — I know how long exposure lasts up here at 2 mph, and I wasn't willing to take the risk. But then, somehow, on this fifth morning of the race, the weather shifted in my favor. The breeze was gentle and temperatures were warming rapidly beneath overcast skies, and yet there was still enough sunshine to cast beautiful light on the stark landscape.

It occurred to me that this was now my fifth ascent of Rainy Pass, and I have yet to see a bad day in these mountains. How such a savage place could so gently let me pass not just once, but five times, seemed serendipitous to the point of divine intervention. I know I'm not special, just lucky ... but if I was going to have one good day on the Iditarod Trail this year, I was happy it was here. This post already has a lot of photos, but it was fun to look back on past journeys through these mountains:

2008 — heading to McGrath with a bike. I was such a baby then, so innocent and naive. A harrowing night awaited me on the other side of the pass, but in this moment I was still holding a solid pace, feeling strong, and riding one of the most incredible highs of my life. I was crossing the Alaska Range! Alone! Me! As you can see it was a nice morning, about zero degrees and sunny with no wind. I was working up a good sweat.

2014 — McGrath on foot with Beat. We also shared the crossing with friends Steve Ansell, Tim and Loreen Hewitt, and Rick Freeman. This was my most relaxed trip over the pass, a regular group hike on a sunny summer day. The temperature hit 48 degrees in Rohn that afternoon.

2016 — Nome with a bike. My bike was really heavy. I was lucky to have a warm day with reasonably firm trail to cross Rainy Pass. (The trail was punchy, windblown, and mostly a hike-a-bike uphill, but these were still the best trail conditions I've seen on Rainy.) Temperatures climbed into the 30s during the day, warm enough that I stopped for twenty minutes to take off my boots and socks so I could air out my toes as I picnicked in the sunshine.

2018 — McGrath on foot. I was celebrating with Bernadette and feeling pretty chuffed about hauling our wheezy selves this far. Temperatures were a bit below zero, but skies were clear with no wind.

2020 — Nome attempt on foot. Same spot, same day of the week, probably close to the same time of day as 2018. Temperatures were warming rapidly as a storm moved in from the south, and I believe it was already above zero at this point. Still no wind. I was now five for five on lovely weather over Rainy Pass. I considered this a good omen.

By the time I started down the pass, I was feeling punched. It's true — no matter how great the weather or trail conditions, it's still a long, steep haul to climb Rainy Pass. I stumbled a bit, started to feel cold, stopped to put on my fleece jacket, ate an entire chocolate bar (yes, one of the big ones) and still my mood deteriorated. Race director Kyle and another volunteer, Craig, rode past on their snowmobiles. I commented on the nice day and fantastic trail but added that I was already bracing for the next storm. Not only could I feel it coming with the warming temperatures and moisture in the air, but I'd checked my Garmin InReach and knew about the dire prediction for Saturday: "Heavy snow. 8 to 12 inches. High 29, low 12."

"It's only going to be about an inch of snow," Kyle responded. I just shook my head and said nothing. I believed my InReach. Weather forecasts are usually wrong, unless they're bad. Then they're probably right.

As I continued to wend toward the Dalzell Gorge, I finally connected with Beat on his satellite phone. He told me he was beyond the Post River, so almost solidly a day ahead of me at this point. I expected as much. We chatted for several minutes, mostly about our plans, and I admitted I was struggling with physical depletion.

"It's a hard year; it will get better," Beat assured me. In this, I only heard another version of Kyle's "It's only going to be about an inch of snow." Nice wishful thinking ... almost certainly untrue.

After I got of the phone with Beat, I cried for at least five minutes. Mostly for no specific reason, but my emotions had congealed and it was comforting to indulge in a dam release. I spent the rest of the descent through the Dalzell Gorge laughing out loud while listening to old episodes of the "Ten Junk Miles" podcast. I want those people to be my friends.

By early evening I dropped onto the wind-scoured ice of the Tatina River. A stiff headwind moved through the river corridor, and I started to shiver. I always dread these four miles on the Tatina, a mountain river with volatile ice conditions. Weather and trail conditions notwithstanding, these river traverses near Rohn are probably some of the more dangerous miles of the entire trail. Beat had warned me there was "a little bit of overflow" on the Tatina. Sure enough, about a mile down the river, I came upon patches of blue slush and broken shelf ice.

For about 15 minutes I had watched the silhouette of a person pacing back and forth. By the time I reached their position, I found Amber about a hundred yards off trail, sitting on a gravel bar and pulling on her waders. She told me she'd scouted for a way around the open water, but didn't find anything that looked safe — there was just more open water on either side. Amber paused and looked to me. I think she expected that I'd know what to do. Mostly what I wanted to do was pee my pants and cry, because I really, really, dislike the idea of crossing overflow on the Tatina. Any open water on this river could be masking a deep channel or an eddy, a place where one could plausibly crash through thin ice, plunge into the fast-flowing current and be carried beneath the ice to a watery demise. Of course, I realize this is just one of my fears that I must overcome, because I'm here and I don't have a choice. I appreciate when life gives me no choice but to face a fear. It's empowering, if just a little bit traumatizing.

Since Amber had already donned her waders, she went first. I held back, because if she crashed through the ice I would need to help her ... although, I admit, I was quietly relieved at her willingness to be the guinea pig. In the late afternoon light, the slush had the appearance of a blue raspberry slurpee. She waded through shin-deep sludge and suddenly crashed into a hole. I yelped, but thankfully she only plunged to mid-thigh depth ... although it was nearly to the top of her waders, and no doubt must have scared her at least as much as it scared me. After Amber reached the other side, I yelled that she should continue walking because it was cold and windy. Instead, she waited as I pulled on my waders and made my way across, following her line until the hole, where I veered around and managed to remain in shallower water.

We kept our waders on for another half mile, until we were sure we were past the overflow, and walked together the rest of the way to Rohn. We arrived just as the light finally dimmed enough to require headlamps — close to 8 p.m. Amber pointed out the friendly Christmas lights strung along the public use cabin.

"That's not for us," I said. "That's for us," and pointed to the crooked canvas tent on the other side of the clearing. Four ITI volunteers, including Kyle and Craig, were gathered around a grill out front, drinking beer from plastic cups as though this were a summer barbecue. Greg the skier was standing in the circle with them, knocking back shots of Fireball.

"You did it, you made it to Rohn!" I exclaimed. A big grin spread across his face and he nodded.

Adrien, one of the volunteers, pushed the bottle of Fireball toward me.

"No, no, I don't want any of that right now," I said.

"Beat had two shots," he chided me. I could see by Greg's drunken demeanor that the peer pressure was being laid on thick here. Of course, no doubt all of us looked and felt a little drunk by this point.

"OK, fine, I'll have some in hot chocolate. Just a little."

Amber and I plopped down on the bed of straw laid across the small tent. Two Italian cyclists had already claimed spots for the night, and there wasn't much space left. I'd already decided that I preferred to sleep outside, but it would be nice to stay close to Rohn so I could dry my shoes and collect hot water in the morning. Adrien served two brats on a napkin, along with the hot Tang I requested and the hot chocolate he promised. He'd poured a ton of Fireball into that hot chocolate. It burned like flames in my throat, but after gulping it down, I felt nothing. There wasn't even a hint of a buzz. My body had become its own inferno, metabolizing calories with such rapidity that I didn't even have time to feel the effects of the alcohol.

Amber and I claimed spots about a hundred yards from the tent, and I settled in for a nice night under the stars. Except there were no stars, as the sky had become entirely overcast. Flurries were already wafting through the air. My thermometer said it was 10 degrees. I checked my InReach for good measure, but the forecast was unchanged. I nestled into my sleeping bag, figuring I'd do a short night for real this time — it was a little after 9 p.m., and I set an alarm for 2 a.m. — because tomorrow was going to be a long, long day. 

Last days of innocence — day four

Photo by Amber Bethe

March 5, 2020. Finger Lake, Alaska. 18 below and breezy. 

A seemingly silent awareness of 4 a.m. arrived, and the many inhabitants of the ice-bound Finger Lake tent began to emerge from their down cocoons. I had set an alarm for 2 a.m. but ignored it. In a way, this felt a little like I was already giving up — "Jill, you can’t sleep eight hours a night if you’re going to Nome." Evening Jill, who is alert and ambitious and has spent entirely too much time crunching numbers and making plans — she’s the one who sets the alarm. Morning Jill, who must battle her way bleary consciousness beneath a crush of full-body muscle soreness and unassuaged fatigue — she’s the one who lacks willpower. Even at 4 a.m., I could barely sit up through the sheer gravity of my grogginess. This morning inertia always leaves me wondering why I even bother with the sleep thing. Perhaps if I just stayed awake and kept walking …

The air inside the tent was frosty, but I wasn’t prepared for the icy punch to the face when I opened the canvas flaps and stepped outside. I briefly convinced myself it was 40 or 50 below zero, but my thermometer would reveal an ambient temperature of 18 below. That wind, though. The wall tent had a wood-platform porch where someone had placed a couch. A person was curled up in a sleeping bag there, which I found delightfully odd. Lovely place for a nap, this random couch on a frozen lake that’s fully exposed to the brunt of wind and subzero cold.

I returned to the volunteers’ cabin to heat up a bag of dehydrated scrambled eggs that I’d found in the bin of discarded drop bag food. Many of the same folks with whom I’d shared dinner the previous night were also doing breakfast at the same time. There were at least six more people in the tent who I managed to never even see, but the Kiwis, Beth, Amber and I enjoyed one more respite together before the next leg of our journey.

The section between Finger Lake and Puntilla Lake is often regarded as one of the toughest on the route to McGrath. “The Push,” a veteran cyclist had called it during my first ITI in 2008. The name stuck with me. For thirty miles the trail climbs into the Alaska Range over a series of steep rolling hills. There’s the infamous Happy River Steps that feature 40-percent grades both down and up. And there are equally steep grades higher on the route, as the trail dips in and out of precipitous drainages along a side slope above the Happy River gorge. The final five miles into Rainy Pass Lodge are a relentless and plodding climb with one short descent in the middle, just enough to undo all of the hard-won altitude.

I started out at 5:11 a.m., after spending more than fifteen minutes hunched over in the 18-below darkness: repairing the hole in my backpack with tape, and attempting to secure my wrist brace with leuko tape. I’d started out the race with an overuse injury that inflamed a disc in my left wrist. The injury had unsurprisingly deteriorated, and my left hand had become swollen and often prone to electric shocks of pain — although, truthfully, I'd feared worse.

Still, this day would involve lots of aggressive poling to boost body and sled up 40-percent grades, so I needed to support the wrist as much as possible. My “wrist widget” brace worked best, but it was impossible to keep in place beneath several jacket and coat sleeves. My hard brace was a good for sleeping, but I couldn’t use it when temperatures were below zero. Poling irritated my wrist, but it hurt the most when I had to do anything else — eating, grabbing things out of my backpack, zipping and unzipping, unpacking and packing.

Hand pain is so frustrating, because it seeps into every action and impacts the quieter moments where I can usually find respite. If my tired legs were the lion that roared throughout the day, my wrist was the kitten that whined all night.


The long rest and two protein-rich meals in Finger Lake had done me some good, though, and I descended from the breakfast cabin feeling better than I had the previous two mornings. This was also the first morning that began in the dark. I took the opportunity to stare at the sky as I crossed scoured ice on Red Lake. Biting wind stung the small strip of exposed skin across my eyebrows, but I was determined to catch of a glimpse of Northern Lights. Alas, there was only the black sky, the splatter of stars, and vague blue light on the horizon that was either dawn or the setting moon.

Within minutes I was already across the lake and slumped over on the first climb, gaining 300 feet of altitude in a half mile and wallowing in a mire of loose snow punched with knee-deep postholes. Commence “The Push.” I must not have been the only one disheveled by morning, because I found a particularly large concentration of what Amber called “trail treasures” along this climb. A ski skin. A single glove. A hat. An unopened package of Gu. These were not useful to me and thus unexciting, just more things to carry for thirty miles and then dump on a table at the next checkpoint, likely never to be claimed. Later, eventual 350-ski winner Mathieu would express gratitude for the return of his skin, so that was worth hauling.
 

The sun slowly rose to a cold but stunningly bluebird day. These are the best days, and I was stoked to find myself surrounded by far-reaching views of the snowy mountains. Stoke, along with a fresh supply of trail mix and other snacks from my drop bag, fueled better energy. I felt like I was finally moving relatively well. Daylight eased my moose-a-noia, and I listened to the audio book of “A Stranger in the Woods,” about a man who lived alone and undetected in a makeshift camp close to a community of vacation homes in northern Maine for 27 years.

My takeaway from this book was that his master thievery was much more interesting than his social distancing … which, as someone who flees to Alaska each year in search of solitude, was more relatable than strange. Of course, the author’s research into the psychology of such an extreme hermit existence would return as prescient lessons for the weeks that followed. For now, still ignorant of the future, I became most emotional during the chapter that described how "the North Woods hermit" struggled to survive winters at 20 below, holed up in his camp and unwilling to start a fire for fear the smoke would reveal his location. As his sleeping bags slowly succumbed to ice buildup, he would remain awake, pacing his camp during the long nights. I could feel the pain of this: the creep of cold and the primal understanding that one must not stop walking. This was a prescient lesson for the future in itself … as the cold creeps in, one must not stop walking.

Even in the present moment, taken literally, this lesson was a hard pill to swallow. Although I was feeling better this morning, my crisis of confidence was deepening. Why did I still feel so weak? It’s been four years since I was first beset with health issues that I’d largely overcome. My thyroid levels and asthma are in check. Past struggles with breathing hadn’t once become an issue this year, even when I was pulling as hard as I could and my heart rate was pegged for long hours. Winter training had gone well, possibly about as well as it could without sacrificing too many other facets of my life to be worth it. My race management was also about as conservative as it could be; I was eating well and prioritizing rest. But I still did not feel up to the task. Possibly, this meant I’d never feel up to the task. I tried to push these unhelpful thoughts out of my head, but the image of the North Woods hermit — badly weakened by the hardships of survival, pacing his camp just to stay alive — haunted me.

As I neared the Happy River Steps, the forest closed in, the trail was stomped with deep hoof prints, and moose-a-noia returned. It was enough to turn off my audio book, and I emerged from my shadowy imagination world to the immediacy of the present — sharp beams of sunlight drawing patterns on the snow, pillowy mounds that looked like fantastic spots for a nap. Trail conditions were better in these protected sections, and eventually Beth passed while pedaling. We chatted for a few minutes, mostly about moose, and I was glad I wasn’t the only one feeling so spooked. I also was silently glad that she was now in front of me, scaring off potential attackers.

 The pillowy snow provided a nice cushion for the Happy River Steps, and descending proved to be a non-issue. I didn’t even need to remove my harness — I just walked down 40-percent grades with the sled behind me, barely nudged by gravity … such was the resistance on the trail this year. The crossing where the Happy River pours into the Skwentna River is a stunning spot, and this year was no exception. The two rivers slice through deep gorges rimmed with spruce forest, but the confluence is a wide-open area with expansive views. Overhead is a skyline of jagged peaks, drenched in snow and stretching out in all directions. It’s one of my favorite spots on the route, and all of my other visits here have happened amid overcast skies, snowstorms, or in the middle of the night. It was particularly startling to experience this place in brilliant sunlit clarity.

Photo by Amber Bethe

The climb out of the Happy River gorge is a mere 0.2 miles, but painful. The deep snow this year actually assisted in making it easier to ascend. I was able to kick steps and anchor in for the hard pull up a near-vertical embankment. Amber had been close behind the entire morning, but I didn’t notice her presence until I stopped near the top of the climb to eat a snack. I’ll admit that I was beginning to feel a bit of competitive spark with Amber, because we did so much leapfrogging. She was clearly stronger than me on the move, but I guessed she stopped more often than I did, which allowed me to hold a similar pace.
 

The thousand-mile and the 350 are distinctly two different races these days, and it’s pointless to try to compete with anyone in the others. Faye, the leading woman on foot, was already nearly a day ahead of us, and if even if I got to McGrath before Amber, she’d still be second in the short race. But it is funny, this racing thing. I don’t think of myself as a competitive person, but obviously I am. As we chatted, I felt this strange urge to hold my position. So as she settled in with a bag of homemade cookies — cue jealousy — I hurried to finish my handfuls of trail mix and keep walking.

Of course Amber passed again, less than a mile later. For the rest of the day I was alone, admonishing my heavy legs, running hot and cold beneath a blazing sun and shocking chill, occasionally trying to hold a conversation with my stuffed Siberian husky, Bernadette (I'll admit the imaginary friend magic that carried me through 2018 didn't quite happen this year), and pondering the baffling, or perhaps not-so-baffling, existence of the North Woods hermit. Frequently my strength flagged to the point where I'd stop to sit down on my sled, but I never let myself languish for long. I reminded my temperamental brain how incredibly lucky we were to be experiencing this place on this day, of all places and days.

 “This is the Alaska Range. The Alaska Range! It’s right over there!”

Day faded into a shadowy late afternoon. My cognitive function faded to a simple wave of climbs and descents, punctuated with flashes of determination, winces of sharp pain, sparks of awe, and occasional hopelessness. About three miles before Rainy Pass Lodge, I heard a swishing sound and turned around to see a skier. I was near the top of a punchy rise, and he was gliding toward me as though gravity somehow worked in reverse for him. It was Asbjorn, the practically professional Danish skier who was aiming to become the first person to ski the thousand miles to Nome within the 30-day limit imposed by this particular race. As far as anybody knew, this would be the first official ski of the full Northern or Southern Route of the Iditarod Trail since 2000, when a duo of skiers made the trip in 33 days.

Most other human-powered Iditarod benchmarks have been achieved, but the ski to Nome remains elusive. Why? As best as I can tell — and speaking as a particularly poor skier — skiing is the most demanding discipline. The rough, icy, often snowless terrain takes skill to navigate, and one must achieve a high level of skill before skis become more helpful than hindering. This year of abundantly deep snow was no doubt *the* year to attempt this route on skis. And Asbjorn was clearly the person to do it — even brief observation of his technique was humbling. He was skiing, parallel skiing, without a hint of struggle, up some of the steepest grades. He seemed to have no problem holding 4 or 5 mph indefinitely, moving with what looked like a lot less effort than I was expending at 2 mph. For a few days it was unclear to me why he was positioned back here with the likes of myself, but he was a smart racer who was pacing himself for success on the long haul to Nome — moving fast during the day, and resting long at night.

Asbjorn moved to pass me like I was standing still, but he did pause to mention that he was intentionally hurrying to make it to Rainy Pass Lodge by dinner time.

"I missed it last year. I'm not going to miss it this year!" he proclaimed.

I'd forgotten about dinner, and Asbjorn's mention of it caused me to bristle. Rainy Pass Lodge is one of the more luxurious destinations along the route, catering to fly-in tourists. Each night they serve a home-cooked dinner, and even the smelly racers are invited to partake if they like. The meal is $50 but incredible: Grilled steak, baked potatoes, vegetables, bread, lemonade, and dessert — all you can eat, of course, with bottomless glasses of wine. If you miss or don't want to pay for dinner, you get what the race provides in the separate mushers' cabin: Unopened cans of soup, floating in a vat of water on the wood stove. If you're lucky, there's still some pilot bread left over on the table, and maybe hot water if someone remembered to refill the electric kettle. It was getting late and I had already accepted that I was having a lukewarm can of soup for dinner. Then, here comes Asbjorn, moving as though propelled by a motor, brimming with optimism.

Just when I feel physically shattered and believe I've lost all control of my mental game, there's often a spark of inspiration that surprises me. After Asbjorn passed, I shored up my aching quads, shoved a handful of gummy candy in my mouth, and checked my GPS. "Three miles an hour. Three miles an hour and I can do it." Then I marched, mostly staring at the screen, occasionally looking up to appreciate the intense beauty that still surrounded me. The sun was setting now, and glimmers of pink and lavender light bathed the distant slopes. I could have plopped down on my sled and languished happily as darkness descended and the possibility of Northern Lights returned. But I'll admit, I was more motivated by food. Fixating on my GPS screen to ensure three miles an hour was the only way food would happen.

As sunlight faded the temperature plummeted precipitously — 8 below, then 14 below, then 19 below, in a matter of minutes. I was lightly dressed and shivering, but I couldn't stop to add layers. It would take too much time. Maybe the cold will motivate me to march faster, I thought, but no ... my shoulders were quaking and my core temperature was definitely dropping. But I was close, so close. Steak will make it all better! I lifted my knees and launched into a motion that until that moment I firmly believed I no longer had in me — running.

It was 6:38 when I dropped onto the lake, past a cozy-looking Arctic Oven tent pitched on the ice next to a small plane, and continued shuffling toward the lodge. I briefly entered the mushers' cabin to unpack a few things, then jogged to the main lodge, entering just a few minutes before 7. Dinner was just starting to be served. It took some time to peel off my deeply ice-crusted clothing and stop shivering enough to feel presentable, but eventually I joined the table with the people that had become my group: George and Graham (the Kiwi cyclists), Mathieu and Asbjorn (the European skiers), Beth and Amber.

The steak was abundant and the wine flowed freely. Pain was forgotten and happiness brimmed as we enjoyed the spoils of our small victory: We'd made it to Rainy Pass Lodge, the halfway point on the route to McGrath! Of course, for me, it was less than one sixth of the distance to Nome. But for all of us, Rainy Pass Lodge was the last respite before a critical point of no return. One we crossed over the Alaska Range, retreat would become almost unworkably difficult. And the veterans among us knew ... all of the hardest days were yet to come. 

Last days of innocence — day three

March 4, 2020. Shell Lake, Alaska. 30 below and clear. 

I was determined to sleep as long as possible; it seemed prudent to try and recover my rapidly diminishing energy. The snow out here was only getting deeper, the wind more forceful, the temperatures colder and colder. Time was the only currency I had to leverage against all of these forces that smothered my strength. So I set an alarm for 7:30 a.m. with a plan to “only” travel 25 miles today, as far as the next checkpoint at Finger Lake. I was already falling behind my ambitious race schedule, and this plan would put me back almost a full day. But no one was exactly flying this year. Alaska is nothing if not unpredictable, and Iditarod racers are nothing if they can’t adapt. 

When my alarm went off, I stuck my nose out of my sleeping bag to bitingly cold air inside the cabin. The fire had indeed gone out overnight, and the frigid temperatures found their way into the log building. I jumped up and grabbed the shirt, pants and socks I’d hung over the bed, only to find them frozen stiff. Good thing I left most of my insulating layers and shoes hanging to dry in the main lodge. I packed up and walked outside wearing only my base layer and booties. The sky was a rich shade of lavender, and the air was stunning in its chill. I darted several hundred yards to my sled, which was parked near the lodge, and went about arranging things in my duffle and grabbing stuff I wanted to take inside. As I worked, my bare fingers stiffened until they were immobile. 

 “Damn it’s cold,” I exclaimed. I walked over to my digital thermometer and hit the button with the knuckle of my index finger. “Oof, 30 below!” 

The pink light of sunrise was just beginning to frost the craggy peaks of the Shell Hills, which in any other state would be called mountains. I wanted to linger on the deck or at least take a photo, but I’d been complacent about the cold and my hand rigidity had become urgent. I rammed a shoulder into the door and entered the lodge. 

There was a large group of racers in the dining area, nursing cups of coffee at this late hour. I sat down near the wood stove to dry my icy base layer as Kari’s mom served a small breakfast sandwich and orange juice. As I took a few bites, I overheard a man at the bar recounting something about a moose. Forgetting my manners, I loudly interrupted. “Wait, what happened?” 

He turned to me. “I was stomped by a moose!” 

“Wait, what?” I couldn’t have heard that correctly. 

His eyes were wild, and he had a strange grin on his face. “Last night, on the way in, I got stomped by a moose. But I’m not hurt! The snow was so deep that all it could do was push me deeper into the snow." 

My stomach lurched and my appetite drained as the man, Greg, filled in the details. It was 2 a.m., and he was skiing toward Shell Lake on a different trail from the one I took. This alternate route was a wide path cut by piston bullies and used to transport equipment to a remote mine. It wrapped around the Shell Hills rather than climb over them. Two moose darted across the path directly in front of him. One kept going, but the other turned toward him. Without even hesitating, it charged and pushed him over into the snowbank. Greg kicked until his skis came off and stabbed at the moose’s face with his ski poles, but the hooves kept coming down on his chest, pushing him deeper into the snowbank. Finally there was a pause, and Greg darted behind the nearest tree. The moose continued to stand over his sled, ears back, head lowered, clearly waiting for the next opportunity to attack. Long minutes went by, perhaps hours, and Greg was only wearing a light skiing layer as temperatures dipped to 30 below. Finally he decided he was going to die one way or the other, and dove for his sled. The moose lurched but he was able to grab a big coat and mittens. Then, with more terrifying lunges while the moose seemed distracted, he was able to grab one ski, than the other, then his poles. When the moose turned to chew on some alder branches, he made a run for it. Disheveled and unwilling to look back, he sprinted all the way to the lodge. 

“Holy shit,” I responded. A painful chill ran down my spine. “But you’re not hurt? Are you sure? Did you check? Are you sure you don't have internal injuries? Are you going to stop?” 

Greg insisted he didn’t even have a bruise on his chest. He was rattled, but he had every intention of continuing the ski to McGrath. “I have to make it to Rohn,” he said. 

Greg’s best friend, Rob, was the ITI volunteer in Rohn for nearly a decade, until he died in 2014. Greg and Rob were teammates in that summer’s Alaska Wilderness Classic when Rob’s packraft capsized in the Tana River. Greg had entered this year’s ITI solely so he could visit the Rohn checkpoint, which now bears the name "Rob's Roadhouse." 

“You're brave,” I said. “Much braver than I would be. I’m terrified even of the phantom moose. If I was attacked by a real one, I’d be shivering in that corner right about now.”

Near the corner of the lodge, Missy was pacing, checking her phone and fretting about her friend Tab. Tab was just a few hundred yards behind Greg when the attack happened. Greg heard Tab call out, but there was nothing he could do. Now Tab had been bivied in place, just two miles from the lodge, for almost six hours. Missy was just about to go back looking for him when his tracker started moving again. Meanwhile, another cyclist, Jim, was preparing to ride back to Skwentna, where he could catch a cheaper flight out. His timeline was too tight, the trail too slow, and he hadn't reserved enough time to ride to Nome under these conditions. Shell Lake is a good spot to cut one's losses. Missy was contemplating the same.

“My head’s just not in it,” she admitted. “I don’t want to push my bike all the way to Nome.”

I admired her honesty, and shared her outlook. I’d been closely following trail reports and Alaska weather data since early January. The pattern had become predictable in its relentlessness: Heavy snow, wind, deep cold, heavy snow, wind, deep cold. Tim Hewitt was mired in these conditions during his attempt to follow the Iron Dog route from Fairbanks in February. The Iron Dog, equipped with powerful snowmobiles, was barely able to break trail through the many meters of snow that buried the Interior. Snowpack was deep and dry out there. Every time the wind blew, the trail filled in within hours. The realist in me knew that banking on better trail conditions, at least in the next 400 miles, amounted to foolishness. 

And then there was the cold. A skier named Forest also sat near the door, awaiting a flight. I was surprised he was quitting, as he too had a lot of wilderness experience — he’s a Juneau professor who was badly mauled by a grizzly bear during a mountaineering trip in 2016. I didn’t expect a guy like him to be scared of anything.

“It’s just so cold,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not fun when it’s so cold.”

I went back to my breakfast sandwich, now ice cold, and picked at it miserably. The moose story left me spooked, and I was having a crisis of confidence. Even after a full night of sleep I still felt exhausted, my legs looked like overstuffed sausages, and the trail seemed particularly murderous this year. “I’m too damn old for this,” I thought.

I decided not to think about it now. Instead, I downed one more cup of coffee, wished Missy and Jim well, then headed into the frosty morning. The sun had climbed high into the sky, and Shell Lake glistened like a thousand diamonds. Mountainous hills loomed over the horizon. The cold air was brilliantly clear. A young man who’d been at the counter the previous night, and who I gathered was the caretaker of the lodge, was out on the porch in a flannel jacket and no gloves or hat, smoking a cigarette.

 “Not a bad place to be,” I said to him.

He nodded. “I think I'll go see about that moose today."

"That would be good for everyone," I replied.

I shouldered my harness and began climbing away from the lake. Energy surged and I hit my “sprint” stride, pulling my buff down so I could push frigid air deep into my lungs. The air felt like fire in my throat, unnerving and exhilarating. After a short climb, the trail emerged from the forest into an open swamp. This landscape would persist for the next 25 miles, as the route followed a gradual slope paralleling the Skwentna River. The swamps are lined with sparse and patchy forest that provides little wind protection. The trail was, unsurprisingly, obliterated by spindrift. I followed the deep postholes of the two Kiwi cyclists who left Shell Lake Lodge about an hour before me. The holes would frequently grab a snowshoe edge and cause me to stumble, so I gave up on the punchy “trail” and made my own through deeper snow to the right.

It was slow. It was hard. My world closed in like a tunnel. My mind operated like a ticker tape, conveying only a minimum of information in a monotonous rhythm. Hungry. Eat trail mix. Shoulder hurt. Adjust harness. Face hurt. Pull up buff. Legs hurt. Feel sad about legs. Hot. Unzip shorts. Cold. Zip shorts. Hot. Try unzip pants. Cold. Maybe cold is good, keep brain awake. Lonely. Check phone.

 I turned on my satellite phone to see if there was a message from Beat. Since our devices had minimal battery life, the texting capabilities of a 1990s flip phone, and only worked within sight of the sky, we’d had difficulty connecting. Gusting winds returned with the afternoon hours, and it was far too cold to attempt a text, so I tried calling a couple of times. A text popped up from my little sister in California, expressing pride and cheering me onward. For all of the years I’ve participated in similar events, she’d never before followed these races all that closely. But this year she was hooked — a couple of years ago she started running, participated in a few half marathons, and now she was starting to grasp what it all means. Tears clumped against my frozen eyelashes as I read her text. My fingers went rigid as I punched a stilted reply.

“Very tough year. I am weary but ok.”

I was so very weary. Every step met so much resistance; I still felt like I was wading through a swimming pool, and the water only got deeper as the day wore on. Wind drove the subzero cold into every weakness in my system, but I was working so hard that my internal thermostat remained cranked on high. Even as my cheeks tingled with windburn, I still felt compelled to open the side zips of my pants and expose the pink skin of my thighs to a brutal chill.

This day was gorgeous, though. The air had a clarity that I’ve only experienced in subzero cold. I could see sharp definition in the distant mountains, to the point where I convinced myself I could discern individual grains of snow tearing away from ridges many dozens of miles away. The foothills of the Alaska Range now surrounded me, and I marveled at the crags and couloirs, the corrugated flutes and sculpted cornices.

For blocks of time I was able to turn off the ticker tape of physical complaints and volatile emotions, and simply be in the present — the raw, unfiltered, perfect present. The sun started to set as I neared Finger Lake. By this point the trail was indiscernible from anything else. Footprints fanned out in all directions. I traced the outline of a snowmobile track over punchy crust that the wind had sculpted into petrified waves.

 A man on a snowmobile approached and told me he was a photographer for the race. I found it amusing that this grassroots race — one that still features unopened cans of soup floating in a pot of warm water as one of the checkpoint meals — can afford a race photographer. He shot a few photos as I acknowledged this was a most gorgeous evening. The wind had reached peak velocity, driving gold-tinted snow over a blue ripple of dunes.

The Finger Lake checkpoint is a big wall tent pitched directly on the lake ice. It’s sparse and I’ve made an effort to minimize my time at this checkpoint in the past, but the race directors had ensured it would be livable this year. The interior was warmed with a propane heater and a portable wood stove. I parked my sled against the canvas and went inside to claim a spot on the floor. By the time I emerged, a resident dog had discovered the stash of homemade bacon jerky in my harness side pocket, tearing open the mesh pocket and chomping through several plastic baggies. I yelled and swung my leg toward the dog to shoo him away. After coyotes tore into my harness during the Fat Pursuit and stole all of my snacks, I had to get a new pack. For the ITI, I swore I’d be more careful and secure my food when I wasn’t around. But I’d only been in the tent for a few minutes. For that oversight, I would now have to repair a gaping hole in my new pack. Stupid dog.

 Near the lodge, the race directors had rented a cabin for stowing drop bags and serving food. I went to collect my bag and lukewarm burrito, served with sour cream and salsa that were both too frozen to scoop from the containers. Crowded inside the small space were race director Kyle, the Kiwis, Beth, and Amber, who was trying to puzzle through the magic heating mechanism in an MRE meal. The mood inside was somber — we’d all had hard days — but we became more upbeat as food was consumed. Nobody seemed in a hurry to leave the cozy cabin, but I wanted to maximize sleep … the only real currency I had against my weariness.

Sure enough, the inside of the wall tent was becoming crowded with other racers. Luckily I’d claimed a nice spot near the back, where I was least likely to get stepped on during the night. On the floor the air was cold — it seemed to be below freezing — so I made sure to place my hydration pack and shoes next to the propane heater so they wouldn’t freeze. Then I cuddled into my bag, eye mask and ear plugs in place, promising myself that I would never again this kind of comfort for granted.