Iditarod 2021-The Gold Loop Trail: Part I
The snow is coming down steady. Trail markers have been hit and missed, and at times we guess at the best trail. Light left the sky hours ago, and it has been a struggle to keep my eyes open as the dogs plod through the snow. I finally shut off the GPS when it showed our recent speed wasn’t getting above 6.5 miles per hour. We are retracing our steps to the finish line, and have only one rest left to make. Our current run, Rainy Pass to Skwentna, will be our longest at 75 miles, and we are now about nine-and-a-half hours into that leg.
As we cross the Skwentna River, and climb into the trees on the far side, the dogs hit their harnesses and give a burst of power and speed. There is only one thing this can mean: Moose! I am instantly awake, and see that we are on the tail of fresh tracks. Despite the heavy and continual snow, the lines and definition of the hoof are clear and crisp. She must be right around the corner! I jump on the brake and slow the dogs to a walk. They immediately start to scream and bark, still pulling the sled forward. (Perhaps I should have cut a little rest somewhere earlier on in this race, and they wouldn’t be quite so eager now!) I catch a glimpse of shining eyes through the trees, and immediately anchor my hook, holding the team temporarily.
I chose to leave my gun at home this year – a first in my five Iditarod’s. So, I am left to improvise for a weapon. I grab my axe and ski pole, and walk past my leader and down the trail. The cow is standing, broadside to the trail, only about 100 feet past Qarth. I scream and bang my “weapons” together, hoping to intimidate her into moving. She takes notice of my position, and immediately drops her head and pins back her ears (not a good sign!). I am not easily swayed at this late hour, however, and get more assertive with my voice and axe. At 30 feet, she spins my way and gives a couple stomps. I back up, and she follows, now closing the gap to maybe 75 feet from the team.
The dogs are ballistic, and she still isn’t moving. We are now eight miles from the last checkpoint of Iditarod 2021. It has been a near perfect race for this team, and the end has seemed so close at times. I am now quickly reminded that “it’s not over, ’til it’s over.” This beast in front of us is blocking our trail, and there is no alternate route. I am going to have to come up with another plan.
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This year’s Iditarod was unique in many ways. COVID heavily influenced all aspects of the pre-race agenda, as there there was no Ceremonial Start, no pre-race Banquet with Bib Draw, and no Musher Meet and Greet. We did not attend meetings in person, and had no get-togethers with our mushing friends before the start. My entire race depended on being COVID negative, so social interactions were out of the question.
Ten days prior to departing Fairbanks for Anchorage, Katti and I went into strict lockdown and social isolation. Our tour business continued to function thanks to our hardworking and dependable guides, but no one came into our house, and any interface happened outside with at least six feet of distance, and usually with masks on. At times this felt a bit extreme, but I was not taking any chances on missing this year’s race. Oh, and I guess contracting COVID wouldn’t have been great either.
The social and physical distancing was actually a new and refreshing experience for the lead up to Iditarod. Instead of a full schedule of meetings and get-togethers, Katti and I had entire days to spend with the team, focusing on their comfort and mental state leading up to the start. Don’t get me wrong here, I love all of the fanfare and festivities that typically accompany Iditarod. I feel that the Ceremonial Start is key to keeping mushing in the limelight in Alaska, and showcasing our teams and the hard work that goes into these dogs. However, having the three days prior to the Official Start be entirely about our dogs, was really nice. It was almost like a pre-race vacation. Well, except for the COVID tests…
Mushers were required to be in Anchorage the Thursday morning prior to race start on Sunday. The reason: a mandatory COVID test at the Millennium Hotel. Now, we had all taken our first test ten days prior, and received results shortly thereafter. All mushers had cleared that PCR test, and were supposed to go into quarantine. But, as many of you can imagine, it is hard to isolate completely when you are trying to prepare for your longest and toughest event of the season – especially when it is dependent on motor vehicles to get you to the start line. So, Iditarod was requiring rapid tests on Thursday, then again at race start, as well as in McGrath (at about race mile 300).
So, we make our trip to the Anchorage area Wednesday night, and spend the night at Sheep Creek Lodge in Willow. Thursday morning, I am up early and drive the 75 miles to Anchorage to get my pre-race packet and quick COVID test. No big deal, I have literally not been in another building for almost two weeks, and have interacted with no one unless my N95 was in place and they were six feet away (yes, we still have N95’s stashed in our tool shed from our seasonal building projects).
At the Millennium Hotel, I start with a test in the parking lot before proceeding inside the building to get my packet, sign some sponsor swag, and get a quick photo and interview. A swab, then sit in the truck and wait for results. Twenty minutes tick by. My phone rings. As I look down to answer it, an email alert shows with the subject line: “Capstone Test Results: POSITIVE!” My heart stops. How can this be?! I answer the phone, and the “COVID Czar” is on the other end (Iditarod had an epidemiologist in charge of all things COVID). “Jeff, your first test is positive.” But, apparently rapid tests are super sensitive, so the chances of a false positive are high. “Come back to the mobile clinic for a second test.” We had been warned that upon a positive test result, we would be re-tested and double checked. But, the second test was it. If it is positive again, you are deemed to be a COVID patient, and are immediately out of the race, and in strict quarantine for 14 days.
As I walked back to my truck after the second swab, the idea of a false positive was not on my mind. I was, in fact, quite sure that I had COVID. I had felt a little under the weather for the week leading up to our departure from Fairbanks. I had interacted with hundreds of people throughout our tour season. I had been to numerous Fairbanks businesses throughout the winter. I must not have had enough viral load established for my first PCR test back ten days ago. That’s why it was negative. Now my viral load was up, and I was COVID positive. And so, I waited for my second test results (thinking about what a plan B was going to involve: How could we turn this 600 mile round trip road trip with our dogs into something productive?). But at this point, you, the reader, have probably gathered that my initial positive test result was, in fact, a false-positive. I was cleared, and allowed to continue on, one step closer to the Iditarod start line. My recollection of the rest of the morning in Anchorage is a bit fuzzy. I sign some stuff, no idea what. I pose for a photo, looking fairly dazed and confused. I answer a few simple questions with unintelligible answers. I just want out of the city, and away from people!
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Sunday, March 7th Race Start-
It is a blue bird, stunning morning. As the dogs eat breakfast at our rental cabin in Willow, the temps are already getting above freezing and melting snow off the trailer. It is a mini checkpoint where we are staying, with at least six other teams also prepping for the start. Dogs bark, trucks idle, people are moving around with anxious intensity. My sled is packed, the dogs are now fed, and I am ready to get this show on the road!
For my previous four Iditarod’s, I have had some pretty serious pre-race jitters. My nerves have been rattled by weather, injury or illness. Or, by a complete and udder lack of comprehension for what I am about to embark on with my team (as in the case of my rookie race in 2008). But this year, 2021, I feel good. As I have been telling Katti for the last three weeks, “this race can start any day now, we’re ready!” And now, as our truck is parked at the start line, and the dogs are out, I feel calm and confident. But, there is still the challenge of simply getting out of our parking spot and to the start line.
The start is being held at the private establishment of Deshka Landing this year. We are staged in the “overflow lot” of the 100-acre boat landing. And, what a mess! The spots are too small to accommodate trailers, which 80 percent of us our towing, and whomever is in charge of organizing the numbered spots does not understand how dog teams take off. So, as we squeeze ourselves into our designated space, we see that low numbered bibs are positioned furthest from the start line. This means that teams taking off to the start are going to have to pass numerous other teams that are trying to get hooked up and ready. Because there is only about six feet of space between trucks and a large snow berm, this is going to be a TIGHT squeeze. And, although we have multiple COVID restrictions and supposedly limited help, people are everywhere, and mushers are right on top of each other as they are trying to get ready. Gunnar Johnson, who will later be withdrawn from the race in McGrath for testing COVID positive, is literally shoulder to shoulder with me as we try and get our dogs booted and harnessed. But, all a person can do is shrug and go with it. And at this point, my focus is solely on getting to the start line with no collisions and no dog feet getting stepped on.
Katti and I get the help of four generous volunteers to hold our team as we get hooked up. With leashes attached up the gangline, they help to move the team from side to side five mushers with higher bib numbers go past us. As Richie Diehl goes by, I see the sweat pouring off his face. It is hot! My thermometer is reading 45 in the sun! A few of my darkest, most heat sensitive dogs are wearing white jackets to deflect the sun. Katti made these last week, and we are trying them for the first time. A race is always a good time to test new gear, right?!
With the final members of the team attached, it is our time to pull forward and make the jog to the start line. We walk smoothly past the other teams, with no tangles and no issues. As we pull into the start shoot, no usual crowds line the edge, and no typical drone of snowmachines can be heard. My team is focused and eager, leaning into their harnesses but not overdoing it with a bunch of jumping and screaming. “Very good dogs, just like we train.” I give Katti a kiss, give the team a clap, and make it back to my sled by the time the announcer is at “2… 1…” And then, we are off.
The start chute, lined with snow-fencing, leads us through a stand of willows. As we make our way out, and into a large swamp, we are suddenly met with a crowd of well over a thousand fans. The roar of their cheers hits us, and suddenly it feels like a traditional Iditarod start. As a musher, this show of support is a welcome embrace, and I fill with happiness and pride for my team, so pleased to be exactly where I am (embarking on my fifth Iditarod). Kids line the edge of the trail, parents behind, drinking and partying around numerous bonfires. Beyond them, snowmachines rip across the open swamp. The team, having run this trail before, and seen many people in previous races, is unfazed. Knox and Moose lead with focus and energy.
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The run to Skwentna is about as flawless as a musher can ask for. The clear sky and hot temperatures are cooled by a gentle breeze. The bands of snowmachiners and partygoers that line the trail, are polite and attentive to the dogs. A few teams pass us in the first ten miles, but not many, and I pay no attention. Unlike last year, where we battled through two feet of fresh snow and didn’t get over seven miles per hour in the first run, the dogs have been moving effortlessly at 9.5 mph.