Jay Cable and a friend recently
rode a chunk of the Yukon Quest route, and reading his writeup brought me back to my traverse of that route chasing Pat Irwin 15 years ago.
I want to share
that story, but it seemed important somehow to tell the story of the previous year first, as a means for adding context to what came before, and why we did what we did in '03.
Thus, here's what I wrote about that '02 trip to Nome back in '02, complete with my scanned-to-digital (and it shows!) slides from the trip.
A version of this was published
somewhere -- maybe Dirt Rag? -- way back then. I've included piles more pics on this go-round, largely so that people can understand how little of this we had "figured out" at that point, but also for some context as to how the route and conditions have -- and have not -- changed.
* * * * *
Out thereWhen I started to recap the Iditarod Trail Invitational, I planned to present a view that would allow the reader to appreciate the remoteness and indifference of the land. I hoped to make clear the degree to which racers are affected by the routinely harsh weather, and explain the total exhaustion that we feel as we collapse, trailside and alone, into our sleeping bags each night. I also sought to give some clue of how dependent racers are on the native Athabaskan and Inuit villages that we pass through along the way, and how inconceivable the race would be without the companion Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race and Iron Dog Snowmobile Race.
I began the outline, quickly realizing the futility of the task. How can you explain a human-powered race with an arena the size of Alaska? I’m a marginal writer, but even if I were levels better I’d still balk at that task. Can you make people understand that years go by with no one completing the full eleven-hundred mile distance, and that only 30 people,
ever, have finished? When a society hangs on every instant-replayed move of billionaire marquee athletes and ‘reality’ TV show contestants, how can you expect it to care about a race with no television coverage and no prize money?
You can’t.
So I decided to simply share a few of the more poignant moments. I chose a handful of slides and included a few paragraphs to capture a bit of their significance.
Price of admissionThe first hundred miles of the Iditarod Trail are, to a cyclist, tedious and uninspiring. More riding on a mile-wide river than I care to quantify, followed by a nearly endless string of seemingly identical swamps. The lack of visual stimulation, especially at night, makes it difficult to stay interested. Race veterans know this is one of many ways that you pay your dues before getting into the Alaska Range or the Interior, yet still they wish to be somewhere else.
The second day of any race is usually the physical low-point; in this event I depend on the surrounding views to keep my motivation up. Past Finger Lake the trail and scenery become more interesting, beginning with a long climb into the Alaska Range. Enormous peaks project vertically out of glacial valleys populated by moose, wolves, and lynx. Alpine scenery satisfies my desire for visual stimulation while the presence of the animals, visible or anticipated, occupies my subconscious thoughts.
Fat flakes of snow begin falling as I work up into the mountains, followed closely by a driving gale that blows in the trail almost as fast as it blocks out the scenery. Above timberline and with flat light visibility is nil; I locate the trail only with my feet, and know instantly when I’ve strayed because I’m in up to my thighs.
Traveling in these conditions isn’t exceptionally grueling in a physical sense, but the monotony of the task soon becomes overwhelming. Frustrated by slow travel and compounded by a lack of scenery, even the most hardened athletes wonder what the hell they’re doing here. They have plenty of time to contemplate their answer. The upshot? It isn’t very cold. Yet.
Avoidance and admirationTraversing the Dalzell Gorge is all about anxiety management. All you really have to do is stay on the radically sloping ice bridges and out of the rushing water. It gets tricky because at the same time you’re avoiding avalanche debris and holes in the ice bridges, admiring icefalls, rockslides, animal tracks, and being buffeted by high winds sweeping through all of it. The Gorge initiates the most visually stunning segment of this entire race, one that I always curse myself for rushing through.
Some sections of ice are so slippery, and so tilted, that even using the bike as an outrigger it takes everything I have to remain upright. Sometimes I fall and slide anyway, but I’ve never hurt myself. Convinced that fact was more luck than skill, before this year’s race I outfitted my shoes with sheet metal screws to help gain purchase. I tested them by sprinting and successfully cutting sharp corners on mirror-smooth ice in parking lots. Even still, beyond Rohn there are times when I can only death-grip the bike and brace myself as we’re blown down rivers and across lakes, shaved ice erupting from beneath my feet.
SimplemindedThe days become a blur of deep snow, sharp gusts, wind-polished ice, captivating sunsets and wolves both real and imagined. Arriving in Nikolai after four days on the trail, I expect that the sweetest satisfaction will come from a hot meal or even a shower, but I find it instead by simply removing my shoes, one at a time, and letting my feet breathe again. Sweaty feet plus long periods of time in shoes equals trench foot.
Staring at my bare left foot, wiggling each toe independently to make sure that everyone is still on board and with the program, I calculate 40 hours since my feet last breathed freely. That’s hardly newsworthy, but the sweet relief is worth writing home about.
This race demands self-sufficiency, which means we carry only the absolute essentials. Spare clothing is left behind to save on weight and space. When all the comforts of daily life (like clean, dry socks) are removed, what’s left becomes ultimately precious. The simplest things become highlights of the trip.
Saddle sore and other painsThe trail to McGrath is marginally rideable, forcing me to work way too hard to ride very little. I dismount and walk, hoping I have enough of a lead to hang onto second place. Lightly falling snow tapers off into crystalline air. Broken clouds expose a waning moon, revealing ominous shadows that torment my subliminal while the rest of me fights sleep. At some point the trail firms up enough to ride with a reasonable amount of effort. Just before moonset I estimate three hours to go, and somehow sense that I’m being watched. Or caught.
Inching along in the darkness, I sing, chant, and tell jokes to myself, belly laughing at each punch line as though it were a surprise. I’d do anything to keep my motivation up; I’m too sore to perch on the seat anymore and my legs can’t hack it standing for another stroke. That’s all I’ve done for the last 30 miles.
Eric Warkentin appears behind as I cross a bend of the Kuskokwim River. When we come face to face he sees that I’m cooked. We ride together briefly, offering any food that we have left.
Our conversation quickly runs thin, more from a lack of energy than a lack of things to say, and he slowly begins pulling away.
As Eric rides ahead I feel my anxiety grow. I know beyond a doubt that I haven’t the energy to keep up with him for two more hours, but my ego won’t buy that. I catch myself laboring in too big of a gear, trying to salvage the race that I’ve worked so hard for. I force myself to stop. Placing my feet on the ground, I close my eyes and let my breathing return to normal. Eric’s gap is almost a hundred meters, but I want it much bigger so that I’m less inclined to chase him. My goal is Nome, over 800 miles further on. I need to maintain integrity and keep that goal foremost. I snap off a few pictures, have a few bites of jerky, and by the time I’m riding again he’s out of sight. Good.
5 days after starting I arrive in McGrath and am greeted by a gracious Pat Irwin, who won the 350-mile race over a day ago. Second-placed Eric smiles through a mouthful of food, motioning with his fork to a table laden with omelettes and larger-than-life “mancakes”. Nothing sounds better than to be unshod and unchamoised; I quickly peel off riding clothes before bellying up to breakfast.
Furrowed and fleetingThe 200 miles of trail between Takotna and Ruby exist momentarily each winter. Days ago the snowmobile race roared through, scratched the surface, and left behind a delicate crust. Days from now, using the same route, northbound sled dogs will trot on by. The fleeting moments between allow us human-powered types priceless passage through an immeasurable expanse of raw wilderness. A state-sized region of furrowed knolls bisected by meandering streams, this area sees only slightly more humans per year than the moons of Jupiter. Discounting the gummy worms frozen in my pocket, I’m unaccompanied and the miles are gloriously empty and unmarked.
The abrupt arrival of a sharp north wind softens the trail and slows my progress. Minutes later the leeward aspect of each hill becomes too soft to ride, so I walk, hoping to see something other than more hills from each crest. Arresting mountains ring the valley, yet somehow they remain conspicuously beyond the next rise, and each one after. Remounting, I savor the moments of semi-controlled descent, using them to renew my optimism about what lies ahead. Broken only by a pair of naps, the routine is endlessly repeated.
Nighttime brings clear skies, a lull in the incessant wind, and strong cold. I bivouac in a stomped-out trench just off the trail, waking fitful hours later to a kaleidoscope of stars, the sound of my heartbeat, and an oppressive 45 below. Words cannot convey the mental strength required to exit a sleeping bag at that temperature, in the dark, to push a bicycle through a strange, stark, and forbidding place. Hopeful that I’m not losing ground while procrastinating, I tell myself that everyone else
must be doing the same thing.
Only once in the three days since McGrath do I see something other than more hills. Topping a climb that seems identical to the hundreds before it, with a setting sun behind and a plunging thermometer on the handlebars, I peek out and spy the lights of Ruby. Still miles away, the shelter and smiles I hope to find there seem close enough to reach out and touch.
The psychological riverThe Yukon is moody and it has it’s own set of rules. On a calm, blue-sky day 5 below zero is unbelievably hot; the direct and reflected sunlight broils relentlessly. The same temperature in the shade or at night can be unbearably cold, dominated by prevailing winds pouring downstream. It’s difficult to maintain a consistent temperature while pedaling in and out of shadows along the south bank, or through williwaws behind islands or near sloughs. I fluctuate from too hot to too cold and am unable to find the perfect clothing configuration. I open and close pit zips, put the hood on and take it off, remove my hat, put it back on, gloves off, gloves on--over and over and over. A dog mushing trapper sums it up best,
"On the river you get used to being not quite comfortable."
At night the Yukon becomes a virtually boundless expanse. Visibility with my tiny headlamp is 30 feet or less and the wind's blowing at least a little bit so it's hard to see that far. Besides, there’s not much to see. The only sounds are those of my tires squeaking in the snow when I’m riding or my hub clicking as I’m walking. Those are comforting in many ways because they keep me from hearing the
other things; moose, wolves, shifting ice, the boogeyman. A winter night alone on this river, even an uneventful one, is filled with an indescribable anxiety alleviated only by the coming of the sun.
Psychologically the Yukon messes with my head because it’s so huge; there's a place west of Ruby that’s over 5 miles wide. It's not like that very often; it probably averages two miles. But even at that width it’s like being on an arctic treadmill—I pedal and push but nothing ever seems to move. I focus on the same spot for an hour and it doesn't get any closer.
Looking straight down at the snow movement is obvious, but gaze toward the horizon and nothing changes. I constantly remind myself to keep it in perspective; each pedal stroke is just one little step toward getting down the trail. Wishing myself past this spot only makes me crazy. The answer? Get into a groove, spin the pedals and think about anything but covering ground. Always easier said than done. Alternately enjoying and cursing things, thinking about surfing, Dr. Seuss, or sundown, much later I’ve gotten a little further. I spend two unforgettable days and one memorable night traversing 150 miles from Ruby to Kaltag.
