Taiya Trek

I had been hired to work as musher/guide for a dog mushing tour business, in Dyea, Alaska. Cruise ship tourists enjoy the opportunity to mush a dog team during the summer, whether it is on a wheeled cart on a dirt trail, as with the business we were hired for, or with a real sled on glacial snow, as we would be hired to do the following summer. Around May 15, 2006, I loaded up 60 dogs and began the 530 mile journey from Two Rivers to Skagway, traveling many hours down the potholed and narrow Alcan Highway, through Tok and Northway, in Alaska, Kluane Lake and Whitehorse, in Canada, and finally turning south through the White Pass.

The final 20 miles of the drive was the most challenging part of the journey, as the snow started falling heavily by the time I had reached the top of the pass, and multiple inches of slick snow blanketed the roadway. I had never driven through the White Pass, but had heard horror stories of the steep and windy route, bordered on the east by a shear drop of hundreds of feet. With balding tires (already having had a flat trailer tire in Carcross, Yukon Territory) and a very heavy trailer and truck filled with valuable sled dogs, I stopped in a pullout at the apex. Figuring that waiting out the storm would be better than sliding off of a cliff, I decided to feed and water the dogs and wait for a snowplow or the morning light, whichever came first. After melting snow to water the dogs and chasing down my loose lead dog, Arnie, I snuggled down into my sleeping bag in the cab of the truck.

The following morning I was able to travel down to Skagway on a plowed, but still terrifying, road, crossing through American customs and back onto American soil. We were camped in Dyea, approximately 10 miles northwest of Skagway proper, along the shores of the Taiya River. Bunked up in simple 8’x8,’ 2x4 framed cabins, with no insulation and a wood framed bed with no mattress, it was yet another experience that has taught me to be happy with what I am given. With the tiny wood stove installed in June, I was able to finally dry out clothing that had been dampened upon my arrival to the rainforests of the southeast panhandle of Alaska.

The history of Skagway and the surrounding area is terribly interesting, as it was the main thoroughfare for miners hoping to strike it rich during the Klondike Gold Rush of 1898, and the nonexistent town quickly boomed to 10,000 people (less than 4,000 people today). Thousands of men (and some women) came by ship to the shores of Skagway and Dyea, barely prepared for the journey ahead of them. The famous Chilkoot Trail began at the Taiya River, and was a 33 mile trek over the mountains and into the Canadian interior. Many lives, both human and animal, were lost on the arduous journey for fortune, the worst disaster and loss of human life being the avalanche on the Chilkoot Pass in 1898 when dozens of lives were lost. There is a graveyard in Dyea dedicated to the unlucky souls who perished not far from their destination. Alaska’s license plates show a stream of hopeful miners climbing up and over the treacherous Chilkoot pass, thereby being the only license plate in the United States that reveres people LEAVING the state, searching for a better life.



Miners Climbing the Chilkoot Trail

In every nook and cranny, every broken down and abandoned cabin, every foot of the old wooden boardwalks, the history was tangible. The bravery and adventurous spirit of these old sourdoughs was such an inspiration for me that I decided to set out on a trek of my own; not up the established Chilkoot trail, but into a rarely traveled area.

Last Remains of the Boom Town, Dyea

The West Fork of the Taiya River does not seem daunting when viewed on a map. It appears to be a simple and straightforward trek up the shore of a not too long and not too wide glacial river. An established trail would allow me to take my Honda 4WD quad much of the way to the river, setting me up for a seemingly short, 10 mile hike over trailess territory, and the opportunity for some amazing photo opportunities. I left early in the morning with a pack full of snacks, water and other essentials, including my machete, Uberti .45 Long Colt Pistol, my Savage .270 rifle, matches, digital camera, rain gear and my MP3 player with mini speakers. I drove the 15 miles up the trail, finally parking the wheeler where the quad trail became overgrown with alders and Devil’s Club, with mere tree blazes as navigation (blazes, or large scratches in trees, have been used for many years in Alaska to mark old trapline trails, before flagging was widely available).

Now, anyone who has ever hiked through Devil’s Club and alders is surely laughing hysterically at my intentions. Devil’s Club is as horrible a flora as its name implies, growing to enormous heights, and imbedding its barbed thorns into any piece of clothing or skin that it nears. This plant contains a poison that will cause extreme pain and swelling if you are unlucky enough to get pricked. The alders are equally terrible to navigate, as a single root system can cover whole square acres, and climbing through the thick, intertwined branches is the equivalent to crawling through a thick hedge.


Devil's Club


Nonetheless, I was undaunted by the thickening of the “trail” and was actually excited to be traveling where possibly no human had walked before. After 2 or so miles of tromping through the overgrown woods, I broke out onto a narrow gravel bar, the intersection of two tributaries of the West Fork. The beauty of what I saw is nearly indescribable, one stream milky white and ice cold, carrying the silty remains of the melting glacier, the other stream clear and thirst quenching. The union of these two winding snakes created a visible boundary of water, white on the far side and clear water closest to me, mixing together into oblivion, not far downstream. Thousands of feet above, loomed the glacier; our intended destination.


Climbing through Alders (photo courtesy of Ed Plumb)


After a short respite with a snack and a refill of the fresh, clear water, I was on my way, back into the woods and into thicker vegetation. By this time, the trail was nonexistent, and I was literally bushwhacking with the machete, hacking away at the thorny, twisting undergrowth, making progress of a mere hundred feet in an hour of grueling work. Upon stopping to rest, I heard the “crack” of a large alder branch braking, and I realized that I could not see but 10 feet in front of me. My ability to spot Brown Bears at a distance was severely limited, and surely preventing me from a quick get away, even if I did happen to spot one. Brown Bears are a bigger and stronger version of the Grizzly Bear, found within 20 miles of the coastal waterways. These animals often weigh up to 1500 lbs, and are able to kill a human being with one swipe of their huge claws. This was a dangerous situation to be in…

Noise. Scare them away before you surprise them in this prison like vegetation. Maybe I should just fire my pistol off… that would scare them away. As these thoughts raced through my mind, my eyes carefully studied the angles and twists of the woods, trying in vain to see what had broken the silence of the river valley. I took my mp3 player out of my pack and attached the speakers onto the outside; playing music would hopefully soothe the savage beast, or at least scare them away! And hiking to tunes wasn’t all half bad, either.

Thank goodness for the unending Alaskan summer days, as four hours later, I was still navigating my way through the underbrush, fighting the hoards of blood sucking mosquitoes, and the notion of a huge, human eating bear, skulking through the woods. The maze of alders finally thinned out to scrub spruce, marshy ground and milky, silty, crisscrossing creeks, signaling arrival at the upper reaches of the glacial river. The toe of the glacier was not in site, but as the river valley narrowed, narrow mini glaciers striped the walls, and made traversing along the edge of the valley floor impossible. The only option was to wade across the murky, ice cold water.

The powers of these small glacial streams are deceiving until you set food in one, and once waist-deep, there is often no way in a human’s power to stay upright. I hacked a downed scrub spruce trunk into a 5 foot pole and used it to navigate my way across the fast flowing streams. One crossing, two crossings, three crossings; still no real progress. It was time to analyze my position. I was sure, with just a few more hours of the monotonous crossings, that I would reach the toe of the glacier, but it was going on 8 o’clock pm and I was simply not prepared to stay the night either in the frigid wind zone of glacier (although it was June, glacial valleys remain notoriously cold all year round) or in the bear’s den of alders. I made the decision to turn back, never reaching my intended destination.

I arrived back at the dog camp around 2 am, sore, tired and covered in mosquito welts, but feeling very fulfilled and proud of how far I was able to travel. This adventure was just one more lesson in patience, perseverance and wise decision making. Even in failure, this escapade was a success, particularly when considering that I wasn’t eaten by a bear or drowned in a glacial stream.

Quest 300

So cold… why in the world did the dogs decide to stop and rest right here? We were in the middle of Birch Creek, closer to the Arctic Circle than my dog team had ever traveled. We weren’t exactly traveling, though. The long run and terrible snow storm had my 11 dogs and I exhausted both mentally and physically.

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...

A Roadhouse and a Good Man...

I had been living and working at the Forks Roadhouse in Petersville, Alaska, following the difficult breakup with Matt. The Forks Roadhouse is located off of the plowed road, and one must snowmachine 5 miles to reach this historic landmark.

The Forks Roadhouse, Present Day

The situation was interesting, needless to say, as I had the wonderful experience of living in the oldest roadhouse, still in use, in Alaska. Gold was found in 1898, in the Cache Creek Mining area, and serious mining began in 1906. The first miners took boats up the Susitna, Chulitna and Tokositna Rivers, a long and arduous journey that, surely, took it's toll of more than one human life. The Cache Creek Mining District is a gorgeous area, encompassing the southern foothills of Mt. McKinley and the Alaska Range. The Petersville Road was built in 1917 by a miner who was fed up with the excessively long boat ride to the mining district. Originally called the Cache Creek Wagon Road, this trail quickly became the favored route to Talkeetna.

Built in 1931, by Talkeetna merchant, Belle McDonald, the Forks Roadhouse was a stop for tired and hungry miners on the way out to the Cache Creek Mining Area. The miners were offered "grubstakes" by Ms. McDonald, whereby they were given supplies in agreement to pay back the debt once they struck pay dirt.

The Forks Roadhouse was a day's long travel into the journey, a perfect stopping point to rest and feed both the miners and their dog and horse teams. Another 30 miles up the winding trail and along a shear canyon cliff, the miners would reach the Cache Creek Mining District. To this day, one can still take a modern snowmachine up this winding and beautiful road and experience the breathtaking views and the heartpounding, cliff hugging engineering masterpiece.

Petersville Road - The Canyon in Winter, Looking Toward the Cache Creek Mining District

The Forks Roadhouse and its history was mentioned in depth in the book "The Mystery of the Cache Creek Murders" by Roberta Sheldon... this is an excellent read for anyone who relishes the adventure stories and historical accounts of these sourdoughs.

Cache Creek Mining District - Present Day

While living and working at the Forks Roadhouse, I had 16 dogs living in the lot out back, and I would frequently run them on the myriad of snowmachining trails that zig zag amongst the 250 square miles of unmarked wilderness. Although I no longer have the dogs and now ride an "iron dog," I still pine for the days when I toured this amazing area by the quiet and natural method of the sled dog team. I also had my German Shorthaired Pointer, Chuck, living with me. Chuck loved living at the Roadhouse as much as I did, and he would often be found sitting out front on a snowmachine, waiting for someone to give him a ride.

It was a snowy afternoon when Randy walked into the bar to take a break from fixing one of the Roadhouse's notoriously poor running snowmachines. I had met Randy a handful of times before, but knew his cabin partner, Mike, much better. Randy was always a polite and fun guy to have in the bar... never obnoxious or rude and one of the VERY few men who didn't feel the need to hit on the only female in Petersville. I had always assumed he was married. I poured Randy his usual Black Velvet Canadian Whisky and Coke and went back to my bartender / housekeeper / cook / entertainer duties.

After a few more cocktails, Randy was ready to go for a ride and I was getting off shift. We had just had an awesome snowfall and it was a crisp 0 degrees so I told him that I wanted to tag along. As usual, we got a good group together, including my good buddy Otis and Randy's friend, Sean. This was back in the day when I had a dog team, but not a sled, and instead of riding 2-up with Otis on his 2 person sled, I decided to hitch a ride on the back of Randy's sled.

MAN! That sled was screaming! Now, I had a few cocktails in me so I wasn't so worried about Randy's bold riding, never flinching when we took a sharp corner or when he'd punch the throttle and wheelie the sled. We navigated our way down Petersville Road to Jake Lake, where we rode wide open at somewhere nearing 100 mph, then hit the windy woods trail and Bonita loop. We turned left onto a short, narrow access trail leading to his cabin driveway and Randy punched the throttle up the little hill... home free!

BAM!!!!!

Before we knew what had hit us (or should I say, what we hit) we were flying through the air... we did a complete sommersault and landed exactly as we were sitting on the snowmachine, my arms still locked in a death grip around Randy's waist. It took us a second to realize what had just happened... we both started laughing hysterically! We had run smack into a tree stump, doing at least 50 mph. The snowmachine was hurting much more than we were, with a snapped right trailing arm. Now, anyone who has ever ridden a sled knows how much force it takes to break this big hunk of metal... we hit HARD!

We made it up to the Cabin and Randy was in a great deal of pain from smashing his thigh into the handlebar, as we went over them. We all decided to let Randy get to bed and we went on our Saturday night adventure.

That night was quite a doozey, including losing Sean off of the back of his sled multiple times (I was more sober, and still a little nervous about riding on the back of another sled), and also dealing with my friend, Tim, doing the funky chicken at Jim and Rhonda's cabin. Tim literally went blank in front of us... basically what I would call a passive seizure, where he slumped down in his chair, started breathing really odd and totally nonresponsive to our snapping and calling of his name. He snapped out of it after a couple of minutes, but by that point, we were all ready to call it a night, so we headed back to the Roadhouse for some shuteye.

It was not too many days after that night that Randy called the Roadhouse for a snow report and to see if I was ok... I was fine, and was definately ready to hang out with him again :-) Even after he tried to kill me. I was sure to get his phone number... it's still one of the only ones I know by heart.

After I left my residency at the Roadhouse, I was couch surfing and trying to find work. I went up to the Ville to go for a snowmachine ride, and had been given permission to use Jim and Rhonda's old 500. It occured to me when I was going through Wasilla to call Randy and see if he wanted to go on a beautiful spring ride... we ended up getting in touch, and were able to time it perfectly to meet at his cabin.

The ride was phenomenal... a gorgeous, warm sunny April day. We headed up into the Dutch Hills and the guys helped me get unstuck multiple times :-) I asked my friend to take a photo of me with the mountains in the background and as I stood there, I blurted out "Come here, Randy!" He jumped into the picture and I wrapped my leg and arms around him. That was the moment of no return. When we looked at that photo and our smiles, we both knew we had found someone to share life with.

This past year, in April, we went back up to the same spot where the photo was taken and the day was just as gorgeous as the previous year. I hope that this April adventure becomes a yearly outing for us.