The 300 mile race started in Fairbanks, Alaska, under the downtown bridge that crosses the Chena River. The feeling of excitement was palpable, and the dogs were jumping into their harnesses, ready to sprint out of the gate. We had drawn starting bib 10 and before no time, the team in front of mine was taking off. As my team was led up to the starting line, being held back by 10 people to ensure that the excited canines didn’t take off before the start gun, I was overwhelmed by the idea of traveling across some of the toughest landscapes in Alaska. We would be heading north on the Chena River, out Chena Hot Springs Way to Angel Creek Lodge, North to mile 101 of the Steese Highway, up Rosebud and Eagle Summit (and down!), into the old town of Central, out to Circle Hot Springs, across Medicine Lake, up Birch Creek, into Circle, and then out for a loop on the Yukon River, finishing back in Circle. This would be quite an adventure…
3…. 2….. 1…. GO!
As we shot out of the starting gate, I naively thought that this race would be just another training run. I felt prepared, having run dogs for 5 years already, but I had never run a race. We sped up the Chena River, passing teams in the crisp, night air. Most of us had our headlamps turned off, enjoying the beautiful silhouettes of dog feet gliding back and forth and playing early race games of hide and go seek with rival teams. The night was cold, but not frigid, as is common in Fairbanks in February, where temperatures often dip to -60 below for extended periods. Ideal conditions for dog running is a moon lit night at -20 degrees F and tonight presented optimum conditions for my well trained team of athletes.
I had the tunes blaring and was kicking and ski-poling right along with my dogs, expending energy that I wouldn’t have later in the race. Before I knew it, we were off the Chena River and heading into the northern Boreal forest. The dogs were traveling in perfect unison, speeding along at an pace averaging 15 mph! As we wove through the woods on our home training trails, I was able to steer and maneuver the sled with my eyes closed. We had put in approximately 2,000 miles this past winter on these trails, making the sharp turns and confusing intersections second nature, but we still had to pass right next to our yard on the way to our first resting point at the store in Two Rivers. Now, sled dogs don’t like to pass their yard, as they are well aware that food waits in the freezers at home. I had been training for this moment for months, passing back and forth in front of our house, on training runs, hoping to convince the dogs that they didn’t, in fact, want to go home yet. I could see the trail… Closer, closer, closer…. Before I knew it, we had passed the turnoff without any of the dogs even looking! We had overcome what I had believed to be the biggest obstacle in our race, and I relaxed a bit, turned on my music and sang Jimmy Buffett to the dogs.
I ended up being the second musher into the rest area at the store in Two Rivers; the other musher had continued on, to rest further down the trail. We had 60 miles under our belt, and it was time for a meal and a nap for my speedy dogs. I unclipped the tuglines and spread out a bale of straw, watching the happy pups dance around and make their beds. Most of them curled up, aware that a hot meal was being made for them as they rested. I took out my dog food cooker, a metal 5 gallon bucket with air vents cut around the bottom, and filled it up with 5 jugs flammable HEET. After placing my 12 quart pot inside, filled with snow, I lit a match and made water for the dogs. They slurped down the warm mixture of pork fat, raw turkey, tripe, beef and high octane kibble, consuming a portion of the nearly 13,000 calories that they require every day.
I rested the dogs for 4 hours, but didn’t get any sleep, myself, before prepping them for another run. I dressed each of the dogs up in booties and jackets, as the temperature had dropped, and gave them all a muscle warming massage. Soon after packing, we headed out on the trail, towards Chena Hot Springs, aiming to pass teams camped on the trail and at the Angel Creek Lodge Checkpoint. In a dog sled race, it is typically impossible to tell who is winning the race until someone crosses the finish line, as each musher and team have their own schedule to follow. Some teams are trained to run anywhere from 4 to 8 hours at a time, often resting for an equal amount of time as they spent traveling over the trail. Each musher has their own strategy, some resting at each checkpoint and some only staying where required, relaxing away from the hubbub of a bustling checkpoint.
As I pulled into Angel Creek Lodge, we were met by a congregation of volunteers, hoping to help us park, although I had another plan in mind. After signing in, I immediately signed out and kept traveling out towards the unknown. I had heard stories mushers passing through a checkpoint to confuse their competitors, and I was feeling frisky enough to try it. I would only continue to travel for a short distance, after the checkpoint, and would then stop and camp for about 4 hours. The mushers resting at Angel Creek definitely saw me, and some of them may be compelled to leave their rest early to chase me down. I hoped that I could make this game of cat and mouse work to my advantage.
There are disadvantages to camping outside of the checkpoint; for one, I would not have instant warm water. It was not until later that I would realize that I didn’t pick up any fuel to melt snow, what any veteran musher would call a ‘stupid rookie move.’ I traveled on for about 3 miles, oblivious to my very dangerous mistake.
I found a spot to park the team, right off the trail, in a small opening; tall trees all around block any wind. It was mid morning and the day was warm, almost 0 degrees, and the dogs needed water, so I set about to melt snow. As I opened my over-packed sled bag, what veteran racers call rookie bulge, I realized that I did not have nearly enough fuel. I had planned to pick up an armload of HEET at Angel Creek, but the pride of being in first place after a hundred miles, and over 24 hours without sleep, had drunkened me to reality.
This mistake could be deadly. I had 5 quarts, more than enough to melt snow now, but I wouldn’t have any saved for the long run ahead, when we would be traveling above treeline. In the area we were approaching, good fuel is hard to find, and with the warning of a snowstorm coming, it would be deadly to be stuck on the mountain top without any ability to melt snow for water. Sled dogs require large amounts of water to regulate their body temperature, and a dehydrated dog in a blizzard would stand very little chance against the elements, even if wearing dog jackets and booties.
I would never imagine using my emergency fuel so it meant that I would have to trudge around through the deep snow of the woods to find enough dry wood to get a good, hot fire going. An hour and a half later I had a small blaze, with the snow pot nested in the side, and had spread out the fresh straw, for the dogs to curl upon. We were all pretty proud with our making it more than 100 miles into our first dog race and were about to have a good meal and a great nap. I snapped a couple of photos for posterity and organized my equipment.
Four hours later we were back on the go, heading out the valley of the North Fork of the Chena River, towards Rosebud Summit, a 3,480 foot climb. The start of the trail was woodsy and beautiful, a relatively easy stretch with little to be concerned about, and I stood confidently on the runners, admiring the gorgeous day. I was beginning to wonder what was so challenging, and moments later my questions were answered.
The trail began to turn into large patches of frozen overflow and I watched the dogs try to maintain traction on the glare ice. Legs slipping every which way, and me unable to stop, even while standing on my carbide tip digger brake (a claw like device that allows one to attempt to stop a race ready dog team). KKRRKRKRKKRKRKKRK!!!! The grinding and scraping noise was horrendous and my effort was no use… the dogs actually seemed to speed up! I tried the drag brake, a piece of snowmachine track laying on the snow between the runners, and the sled started skidding out of control, like a semi truck about to jackknife.
I still had not gained control of the team when I looked up and saw a series of glaciated hairpin turns leading down 20 steep feet, to a creek bed. The only way to steer a dog sled is by shifting your weight, and glaciated ice does not allow one to properly control a 100 lb, bulging sled. I stood on the drag with both feet, white-knuckled, gripping the handlebar, and praying to God.
Before I knew it, we were crossing the creek. The team and I had miraculously manipulated the sled around the downhill turns, and were all safe and unscathed, back on snow. I hoped that was the last of the overflow. The trail continued through the woods and made a sweeping turn, only to open into a valley trail… covered with mini glaciers, for miles! I stopped the team before we set foot on the ice and set the hook (a claw like piece of steel attached to the dog line by a sturdy rope, often called the ‘parking brake’). The dogs were hyped up, harness banging and yipping, clearly letting me know that they disapproved of my choice to stop them, but I was shaking. What kind of person runs a dog trail right over miles of glare ice!!!
I wasn’t going to turn back to Angel Creek and risk that blow to my ego, so I sucked it up and pulled the hook. When well conditioned dog teams have been given a break, even one of just a few moments, they take off with a burst that is nearly impossible to control. We careened onto the first patch of glare ice, and I jumped on the drag for all it was worth, hoping to at least prevent any dogs from being run over, if they slipped. We continued on for miles, slipping and sliding, sometimes coming to patches of ice that slanted away, downhill, for anywhere from 5 to 25 feet. There was no preventing the sled from sliding down, and getting lodged into trees and rocks at the bottom. At one particular section, we started across at the top of the angled glacier and ended up at the bottom of a sloped, 15 foot ice skating rink, me under the sled, and a bleeding cut across the bridge of my nose. The next 10 miles was twice as challenging, maneuvering across ridiculous terrain while trying to stop the coursing of blood down my face.
It seemed like forever, but we finally made it across the treacherous terrain, and I looked up to see Rosebud Summit, rising out of the valley, a reminder that a long, slow climb was ahead of us. Just as I relaxed… POP! My feet flew out from under me, and I was holding onto the handlebar in a superman position, feet dragging behind me in the snow. It took an inordinate amount of strength to pull my fatigued body up. I dug in the digger brake, and set the snowhook. I looked back and saw my drag pad 25 feet behind me. Losing that braking system would be disastrous! You are not allowed to add things to your sled that haven’t been pre shipped and I had not shipped a spare drag pad.
I had two choices, leave it and continue without a drag pad, or run back and grab it, both being very risky ventures. Not having that piece of equipment would be a major blow and would be a huge detriment to my descending the mountains that we were approaching. On the other hand, as a novice musher you learn that you NEVER go behind your sled. A snowhook is easily pulled by a strong dog team, and they won’t typically wait for their driver. It would be a long walk for me and a dangerous run for my 12 dogs if they pulled that hook, but I really had no choice; I would never make it safely down the mountains if I didn’t have that drag pad. I jammed the snowhook in and jumped on it to set it well, calmly and quietly saying “whoa, whoa, whoa…” I made a run for it, diving backwards and running for all I was worth, grabbed the piece of rubber and thankfully made it back to the sled just as the team blew the hook. That was lucky. Very lucky.
After some minor repairs to reattach the drag, we slowly began to ascend, eventually rising above tree level, and I took a break to snap a photo of the view. We only had a few hundred feet to go, but the trail appeared to rise straight up Rosebud’s face, with a sharp left hand turn and extremely steep climb near the summit. As my dog team trekked up the mountain, I thought about teams coming down this hill and how fast and out of control that must be. You see, every other year, the Yukon Quest travels in the opposite direction of the year before; one year the start being in Fairbanks and the next year the start being held in Whitehorse, Yukon Territories, Canada. I was glad that I had left from Fairbanks.
My dog team showed their grit and was passing teams on the ascent! I was elated, but ready to be off what, to me, was equivalent to a cliff side. As we crested the summit, it began to snow and I saw nothing but thick clouds surrounding us at 3,480 feet. I had heard weather reports at Angel Creek of an incoming storm, but hadn’t thought about it for hours. Another musher and I started to head down the mountain through feet of fresh snow, which allowed us to descend at a relatively slow, controlled pace. As the grade leveled out, it became harder and harder for the dog team to break the trail and we stopped for a well deserved rest. The light was starting to fade so I dug out my headlamp and a bag of frozen chunks of meat for the dogs.
We didn’t rest long. The wind started to blow and the snow was coming down harder than I have ever seen, in the interior. We only had about 12 miles to travel before arriving at the mile 101 dog drop, and my running partner suggested we get a move on. I was exhausted, mentally and physically, and my dog team was struggling through the fresh, deep snow. I was blessed to have a veteran musher with me, as the trail was blown and indistinguishable. If I had been alone, there is no question that I would have camped and waited for daylight and possibly some visibility.
The wind was howling, blowing stronger than I had ever experienced, and I would guess that is was nearing 60 mph. Most of my team had never experienced extremely severe conditions like this, and I was getting nervous myself. We wove across alpine tundra for nearly 2 hours, a slow trudge, and I was constantly cleaning out the snow that would buildup over my headlamp. As I once more reached up and wiped at my head torch, the lights of the mile 101 cabin came into view. My team had brought me nearly 150 miles, across the most treacherous and exhausting terrain I had ever experienced.
I bedded down the dogs with a whole bale of straw, served them a warm meal and wrapped each dog in a warm dog jacket to block out the brutal wind. I headed inside for some grub and a nap. I had only planned to stay for a short time, so quickly ate and headed out to the cabin for some shuteye. I had an hour and a half before I had to go prepare for the next run, so I just flopped down on the bunk, bunny boots and all.
It seemed like seconds later when I was roused awake by a volunteer. I could hear the wind howling, and the cabin was quaking from the high speed gusts. As I sat up, my stomach rebelled, and I felt as if I were going to vomit. My muscles screamed for mercy, wanting for many more hours of horizontal rest, but I had to care for my dog team. In this weather, they would need each and every calorie that I could provide to prevent dehydration and weight loss.
I pushed open the door and was immediately thrown backwards from the force of the wind slamming the door shut. It had to be blowing at least 70 mph, and I was honestly scared. I braced myself against the door and shuffled out, parka hood pulled tight against my face, thankful for the warm wolf ruff I had recently acquired. As I scurried about to attend to my dog chores, I managed to swig down a couple cups of coffee to prepare my weary mind for a challenging run over Eagle Summit. There were a handful of mushers who were heading out in front of me, which settled my mind to the extreme dangers of summiting a nearly 4,000 foot peak during a blizzard. The presence of other teams out there, in these extreme conditions, helped to settle my nerves.
After caring for the dogs, who were parked in a relatively sheltered area between two hills, I packed my sled and dressed myself. I pulled the hook and headed out around 2 am, goggled and furred to the hilt, dogs caped in jackets and feet bootied. I had rubbed some Vaseline around the dogs’ eyes, to prevent them from going snow and ice blind. With this wind and cold, snow particles could easily be embedded around their eyes, freezing them shut. For all of the blowing snow, I was unable to even see my lead dogs, 80 feet ahead of me, and their eyes would be invaluable to our traveling safely. (It would be only a year later that mushers would start carrying “doggles”)
It was very early in the morning, around 2 am, as I remember it, and the snow was blowing sideways. I once again traveled with the musher who I was with when arriving at the checkpoint, which was an advantage, as he had traveled this trail before. A trail breaker, on a snowmachine, had headed out about an hour before us, just ahead of the main pack of teams, but the trail was already blown in and almost invisible. Not allowed to carry GPS’, all we had to depend, on to find our way, were the noses of our seasoned dogs.
As we climbed the ridge, the wind became stronger and stronger, but the dogs quartered into the wind and marched up the trail. Suddenly, a huge gust hit me from the side and I was nearly knocked off of my sled. After that experience, I squatted down on my runners, shielding myself from the wind, and peeked out around the side of the side of the sled bag to observe the dogs.
The conditions became so inclement, that we stopped and discussed our options. We could continue on or head back to the shelter of the checkpoint and wait for a break in the storm. If we continued on, we would be with the front of the pack and could have a very good shot at winning the race, but we would risk getting stuck in a serious storm, at 4,000 feet. This environment is very unforgiving and traveling into it during a blizzard is definitely not something to be taken lightly. People have died in these conditions with more equipment than we were carrying, and, of course, the dogs well being had to be taken into consideration. As we were talking, the trailbreaker came back down the trail and seemed to appear out of nowhere. The storm was so loud and thick, that we didn’t see or hear him until he was 30 feet in front of us. He informed us that he had to turn around on the summit because of the wind, and that visibility was nearing zero. The other teams had pushed on, hoping to find the temporary tripods that are set up to mark the “trail” over the open alpine tundra. It seemed to risky of a venture, so we turned our teams around and traveled the 10 miles back to the Mile 101 cabin.
As we sat in the cabin, waiting for any sign of letup, we had coffee and chatted with the other mushers holed up there. Although most of us were running on a couple of hours of sleep for 48 hours, we were wide awake with the gossip of the trail. We found out that after we had left the checkpoint that morning, the ham radio operators at Mile 101 had gotten word that there mushers stranded on Rosebud Summit. Not only that, but mushers who had left 6 or more hours ago, heading the other way, over Eagle Summit, had not been seen yet in Central. We had no idea just how serious the storm was, but as we were sitting around the wood stove, Hans Gatt, a Quest champion, pulled into Central and said, “Someone’s going to die up there tonight.”
Hours went by, and there was still no let up in the storm. It roared on all morning long, and news kept trickling in about mushers stuck all around us, parked on the 3,600 foot summits around us, unable to move from the power of the wind. A few teams made it into Central and reported horrendous conditions, loose dog teams, a snowless summit and mushers parked along the mountain side, separated and lost. Those of us camped out at Mile 101 were hoping and praying that the teams would make it off of the mountains alive, and that we would be able to travel on soon. Our supplies were dwindling and we were forced to use our emergency supplies. Our next food stuffs were waiting for us in Central, nearly 35 miles away.
The storm began to break up in the early afternoon, and word came in that there was a group of mushers who had never arrived in Central, as well as reports of a musher arriving without her team. The decision was made to hold us at Mile 101 and call in the military for a reconnaissance and possible rescue. No one knew what to expect, and were hoping that everyone survived the brutal storm. Not much later, a chopper flew low overhead and circled around to land and pick up the race marshall. They quickly buzzed away to evaluate the situation.
The excitement and drama of the situation made it impossible to sleep, and although I cared carefully for my team, I forgot to care for myself. I was wearing a pair of bunny boots, a military issue, heavy rubber boot. They are amazing and will keep your feet warm, even when soaked in water, down to nearly -70 F, but do not breath, which requires frequent sock changes. I had been in the same socks for nearly 48 hours, and at this point my feet were destroyed. As my ripe socks hung to dry on the line over the wood stove, I attempted to dry out the swampy soles of my feet. This mistake would cost me, and I would end up bedridden for nearly two weeks, after the race, due to the damage.
The chopper radioed back that they had found all of the teams and that they were going to start airlifting them off of the mountain. They did not know the condition of the dogs or the mushers, yet. Soon after, the Blackhawk helicopter arrived back at Mile 101 with a slew of dog and couple of mushers. Several trips later, and all of the dogs and mushers were safely back at the checkpoint, enjoying hot meals and warm beds. We later found out that the musher on Rosebud were able to survive the night and made it back to Angel Creek later in the evening. All of the teams were severely dehydrated, but were none the worse for the terrible wear they experienced. Because they were rescued, these teams were pulled from the race and were not permitted to continue on.
Those of us who were waiting were given the go ahead to continue, but after the tension of the day, a few of us decided to wait until morning. When we finally pulled the hook, early the next morning, we were welcomed by a glorious sunrise and lightened skies. The grade up this side of Eagle Summit is shallow and pleasant, allowing for enjoying the scenery, but I was not paying attention to anything but my technique for getting down the face of this mountain. Eagle Summit is know in the dog mushing community, not only for its inclement weather, but for the steepness of the north face. I weighed no more than 100 lbs, at the time, and had a hard time controlling a barreling 12 dog team. I tried to decide between dumping my sled on its side and riding it down, or leaving the sled upright and jumping on the brakes.
When we hit the summit, I still hadn’t decided. Suddenly, the trail was gone, as was the snow! We were scraping over large rocks and tundra moss, unable to slow the acceleration of my team, and the drop-off appeared. I dumped my sled on its side, hoping for more traction and control, and, unable to jump on my sled, I looped my arm through the handlebar and dragged for dear life! It wasn’t long before the sled was ripped out of my grip and my team went barreling away from me, surely never to be seen again!
I jumped up and started stumble running down the mountain hollering “WHOA!!!! WHOA!!!! WHOA!!!”
TO BE CONTINUED...
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