Iditarod 2021- The Gold Loop Trail: Part II
Nikolai, population 125, is a welcome sight after hours of slogging through soft snow. The veteran team members recognize the approaching village a few miles out, and are attempting to push the speed into a lope. We cruise up the riverbank at a good clip, and are checked in by a couple of welcoming volunteers. I see, based on the clipboard, that the entire front field of mushers are still here and resting. Teams are parked on a wide-open section of the river bank, and we pull up to a volunteer, motioning us into our designated parking area.
As I strip booties from the team and get them bedded down, other teams continue pulling in, and soon we are surrounded by a group of mushers that I have shared the trail with for the last few years. Matt Failor, Lev Schvarts, Aaron Peck, and Jessie Holmes are some of the nearest teams. Riley Dyche, Fairbanks neighbor and a past guide at our tour business, is parked just a few feet away as well. His spirits are high, despite the tough run and hauling one of his biggest dogs, and as the sun comes out, we carry on a conversation. We discuss the trail conditions and return trip through “the burn.” We marvel at the fast pace of some of the frontrunners, and shake our heads about the heat, that is now baking us in full furry. As I continue chores with no hat or gloves, Riley goes on to talk about how there is no way some of the teams around us can keep this pace. “The carnage,” he continues, “is going to be intense.” I wonder who specifically he has in mind, but don’t voice my quandary. Instead, I focus on my team, checking wrists, shoulders and hindends, confirming that everyone is in 100 percent health before we depart for McGrath.
Heat is always a discussion among mushers in Iditarod. March is truly the start of spring, and direct sun can be overwhelmingly hot (especially for a group of dogs that is acclimated to -30 temperatures). Looking at Iditarod and creating a “plan,” I attempt to set us up to avoid the heat of the day. Arriving into Nikolai at 10:30 am has us about two hours ahead of our anticipated schedule. So, sitting on my cooler, eating a meal of roast chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy with green beans (have I mentioned how awesome it is to have my dear Mother’s cooking on the trail?!), I decide my next, best move.
My team is at a point in the race where a rest of more than four hours is simply not necessary. They have arrived to Nikolai strong and healthy, and just got a bonus hour and a half as I overslept at Tin Creek. However, leaving Nikolai after only four hours will set us up for marching directly into the afternoon sun. My thermometer is currently reading 55 degrees in the sun, and although there are ways that I can compensate for the heat, I know that our next run will be painfully slow. I better nap for an hour, and wake up with a fresh perspective.
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As my alarm jars me awake, I pull up my hat and see that Moose is standing, wide awake, willing me to get up. As I roll towards him, he bats the air and gives me a wag. “I guess we better get going, huh bud?” After stashing my sleeping bag in the sled, I throw the team a healthy portion of high fat snacks. The fat will not only supply sustained energy for this next run, but will help with hydration in the heat. I also pack two gallons of clear river water in my cooler, and plan to stop every hour for a water break (not giving my first trail snack to the team until the sun starts to set). In addition, I leave booties off all of the front feet, and give no booties to my “hot dogs” (namely Whiskey, Qarth, Braavos, Knox, Forty and Frito). The lack of booties will give their feet better contact with the snow, and help keep their body temperature down (as dogs sweat through their feet). The risk of splits and cuts to their feet from the sharp snow is certainly a concern, but I figure the benefit of free air flow currently outweighs that risk. “We will cross that bridge if/when we come to it.”
We pull the hook at 2:30 in the afternoon, and are one of only six teams to leave Nikolai between the hours of 1 pm and 4 pm. It proves to be as hot and slow as expected for the first three hours of our run. The dogs are appreciative of the clear water, and cool off breaks that we take every hour. By about 6 pm, the air temperature is back down in the 20’s, and we have hit a nice breeze as we cross the numerous swamps and stretches of the Kuskokwim River. Our speed picks up on the second half of our run to McGrath, and the trail conditions change from soft, mashed potatoes, to a solid base of frozen overflow along the river. We start to encounter sections of frozen ice, where clearly the trail breakers (maybe a half day in front of us) found water. 25 miles from McGrath, we pass our first big mess.
Trotting down the Kuskokwim on a nice, solid, single track trail, we see a jumble of ice and random tracks coming into view. At 100 yards, I see tracks split in all directions and a trail groomer lodged in the trail in front of us. This doesn’t look good, and I slow the dogs to a walk to determine the best way around the obstacle. I let the leaders decide, and we shoot out to the left, away from the river bank and the now frozen overflow. We bang across frozen tracks and skirt the doomed trail groomer. I think to myself, “that looks like a project to get out.”
About seven miles later, we approach our second stuck groomer. This one has gotten lodged into the overflow trying to cross the river, and has a sentry of trail markers announcing its doomed presence. It is fully dusk at this point, and I have been toggling my headlamp on and off to examine different parts of the trail. At this point, I decide in is better off, as the reflective tops of the two dozen markers are intensely distracting.
All overflow at this point has been frozen, so we charge ahead at full speed planning to make a smooth pass of our metal counterpart sharing the trail. I even pull out my phone to snap a quick video as we approach. And then, just as we drop onto the main body of the river and I am about to press “record,” my leaders disappear from site. I immediately jamb the phone in my pocket, just in time to see my swing dogs drop from the trail. I hit my drag, thinking surely my team has just encountered an open hole on the river, and are now being swept under with the current. Instinctively, I yell “gee” and indicate to my remaining dogs that we need to turn away from the hole, and do it NOW! Either listening to my voice, or more than likely, trying to avoid joining their friends, the team all jumps to the right and surges away from the water. In their determination to avoid the plight of their front-end team members, the body of the team drags the leaders and swing dogs back into sight.
We are now floundering our way to more secure footing. I quickly see that we have just hit some deep overflow and, in fact, are not going to drown just yet. We are now stopped in almost two feet of water, and I need to get the sled out of this quagmire before it joins the groomer as a relic of the 2021 Iditarod. The dogs, realizing they are surrounded by water, are now a bit unsure of their next move. I jump off the runners and holler “alright” as I push the sled forward. The weight of ice and water has turned the sled into a 300-pound beast, and the footing is making it nearly impossible for the team to dig in. I give them the go command again, and push the sled in more earnest. I drop through another layer of ice, and am now almost hip deep in slushy water. Thankfully, the team gets the sled moving, and seeing a strip of solid footing, drag me free of the water.
We get a couple yards down the trail, and I stop for a breath and a chance to take stock of the team. “Is everyone alright?! That was some wild shit, huh?!” I strip booties (I had stopped about an hour earlier to cover everyone who hadn’t been booted), and make sure no one breathed in too much water. Surprisingly, the team seems to have taken the event in stride, and only Myra, our one rookie, seems a bit shocked. I give her an extra moment of encouragement and attention, and then we head on. I don’t bother rebooting dogs, or changing my layers just yet, as it is very likely there will be more water. And sure enough, intermittent sections of slush make their appearance for the remaining 15 miles to McGrath. While closing in on the town, I analyze our situation, and remember the upcoming forecast (-30 predicted for the following night). Any hesitation I had about taking my 24-hour rest in McGrath is now gone. We will rest up, recharge, and dry out for a day at the next checkpoint.
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Due to Covid, the health clinic/community center in McGrath will no longer serve as the designated checkpoint. Instead, mushers will lodge in a freshly renovated airplane hangar, donated to the race by McGrath resident, Robert Magnuson. Teams are parked along the airstrip in organized, diagonal lines. We pull in holding 14th. The dogs are thrilled to be at another checkpoint, and scream and bark with enthusiasm, hitting their lines and trying to pull through my brake. As we are guided to our parking spot, we pass Richie, Pete and Joar. I hear Pete comment, “They’re looking good.” I smile at this comment and know this type of praise doesn’t come lightly from the 2019 champ, and lifelong dog musher.
Our stay in McGrath is smooth and pleasant. Sleeping arrangements are tight, for both humans and dogs, so we probably don’t get quite the sleep we should. Teams are only a few feet apart, so my dogs end up waking every time neighboring teams eat or get up to shake off. That being said, they chow through their food like pros (the most important part of the 24-hour rest), eating almost 80 pounds of a combination of kibble, beef, salmon, lamb, turkey and beaver. I am not quite able to keep up with their appetite, but do my best.
In between naps and time taking care of the team, I chat with fellow mushers. Some of our conversations are focused on the race, but then others revolve around life at home, being married, having kids, and managing businesses, all while trying to build a winning race team. I find that we all share in similar struggles, regardless of where we live, and how successful we have been. I am comforted in learning some of the struggles I have had are not unique only to me.
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As our 24 comes to a close, the mercury starts to drop. Dogs get bundled in preparation for the next run, and I get word that it is supposed to be 50 below in Ophir. “Great,” I think, “Got to love March in interior Alaska.” Kelly, my oldest team member, is pissed about the temperature drop. She stays behind and will meet us at the finish. And then, at the last minute, I make a change to my footwear. A few hours earlier, I had witnessed Joar putting trash bags over his socks, and discussed this with Wade. Apparently, the plastic acts as a vapor barrier and does an excellent job at holding in the heat. Figuring I have nothing to lose, knowing my feet will be freezing without the assistance of chemical toe warmers, I give the plastic a go. Instantly, I can feel the heat retention.
As we get on the move to Ophir, the team is obviously thrilled by the cooling temps. Their power is serious, and we rocket up and over Porcupine Ridge on the way to Takotna. As we move past the town (not a checkpoint this year because of Covid), I think “Wow! This is what it is like to have a team peaked for this race!” Every member is in perfect step. Moose and Forty are focused, but eager to increase the pace if they feel the opportunity. They have all eaten their first snack on the run, and I now have the tough decision of trying to figure out my next move.
Our arrival into Ophir is followed by a series of small calamities that cause us to falter. First, the checker is without clipboard and any information on surrounding teams. Knowing that I need to physically sign in, and still trying to make up my mind about whether or not to go through the checkpoint, I send her in search of the paper. While she is gone, Maple and Braavos both puke (the second calamity). As the checker returns and hands me the clipboard to sign, I see that the only musher to have left the checkpoint is Dallas. “Is this right?!” (Third mistake). Deciding we have wiggle room for a short rest with the whole field still in the checkpoint, I pull over for a few hours to try and get ahead of what seems to be an impending virus (Knox has had some diarrhea in the last 15 miles to the checkpoint).
As soon as I have the dogs on straw and booties off, the checker returns to tell me that she was mistaken on the clipboard, and in fact, all the other mushers are gone with the exception of two teams just getting ready to depart from their 24. “Well, that’s perfect!” I try and bite back any further comments, knowing that it was solely my decision to take a rest (and besides, I should not be running my race based on other teams). A few more volunteers gather at my sled, and soon there is a mini convention among checkpoint staff. As I go about my chores, I overhear that they are without firewood and fuel, and have no way to cook food in Ophir. The discussion continues, and I hear that it is now 55 below. “Christ, what am I doing stopping at this checkpoint?!” I know that if I would have stuck with my original goal of pushing 20 miles up the trail, it would probably be 20 degrees warmer. Yes, a few team members are suffering a bit of an upset stomach, but their spirits are great and would have probably appreciated resting some place a bit warmer. “Stupid me!”
The checkpoint staff continue their 4 am discussion around my sled. Finally, as the conversation degrades to the fact that there is no toilet paper (or at least that is what I think I heard), I snap. “I am sorry guys, it sounds like you are in a rough spot out here, but do you mind taking this conversation elsewhere? You are really starting to stress me out.” Poor folks, mushers are not always an understanding bunch in the middle of the night.
After getting everyone fed and settled in under their straw (anti-diarrheal for Maple, Braavos and Knox), I take stock of the checkpoint. Sure enough, there are not a lot of teams left here. Jessie Holmes comes out of an Arctic Oven tent as I pass on my way to the main cabin. Together we head up to see if we can get warm. Nope! Literally nowhere in the Ophir checkpoint has heat, and he tells me that the tents are the same temperature as the outside. Brrr! I confirm that the outhouse does not, in fact, have toilet paper. I walk back to the team and proclaim that it is time for us to hit the trail. I am encouraged to see that my three “sicklies” are most eager to get off their straw.
Knowing that I screwed up and stopped too early in Ophir, I now need to “make a move” to try and regain our position in the race (and attempt to climb up in the standings, if possible). It is 80 miles from this checkpoint to Iditarod. That is going to be too far to do in one run and hold any speed for the last 300 miles. Don’s Cabin is only 40 miles up the trail, and that is going to be too short of a run (at least for a team attempting to be competitive). So, the obvious choice is to go Iditarod and back in three runs, roughly 55 miles each. This seems reasonable, especially under the conditions, and I set forth with that plan in mind. It is really in this next 160 miles that I learn to understand what it means to truly “make a move.”
My instinct is to always act with caution when it comes to my dog team and the runs that I ask of them. I never attempt to “push the envelope” of their ability. This doesn’t mean that I don’t challenge them (and myself), but I don’t take risks. As I watch the schedule of the teams around me, working their way to Iditarod and back, I understand that in order to really gain ground (and “make a move”) we are going to have to take a risk. And what is a risk? In short, asking my dogs to do something that may be outside of their ability level. I grapple with this idea, debating the merits of such an act, and whether or not I would be able to make the appropriate decision when the time is right. “Is this the moment in which we can do that back-to-back 90-mile run? Will I be able to see that it is not working and abort the plan before the team aborts it for me?” I find myself feeling removed from the present environment, looking at our race from afar, and decide I don’t like that feeling. Time to focus on the here and now, and do what I know is right for the team in front of me. In the end, what the dogs get out of this event is the quality of the race, and not the placement. That is merely a human concern.
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The stretch of country from Ophir to Iditarod is one of my favorite places on this Earth. Time stands still as we cross rolling hills and barren landscapes, and a musher can forget what century they live in, and what generation they are a part of. A person can focus fully on the animals in front of them, and the beauty that surrounds them. The weather can be harsh and unrelenting in this part of Alaska, but for this year, it is simply cold.
Our run towards Iditarod is uneventful. I pass a few resting teams on the way to our first camp, and at roughly 2 pm, find a nice, sparsely wooded hilltop to rest on. The sun is out, and the dogs get a quality nap in 10 degree “heat.” Forty and Moose have continued to show great energy and focus, and will remain in lead for the next run.
