Every day is like Sunday

In one of the better exchanges on my recent social media feeds, someone made a common observation that life in the spring of 2020 is a lot like the film "Groundhog Day." She was trying to remember how exactly it was that Bill Murray extracted himself from the purgatory of reliving the same day for eternity.

"He got out when he decided to stop being a selfish asshole and help others," was one response.

I was tempted to post the photo of that lockdown protester's painted windshield sign — "Your health is not more important than my liberties" — with my own response: "Then we're doomed."

I did not post this. I try to keep a lid on my cynicism about American culture, that our toxic combination of individualism, exceptionalism and division means we're going to weather a long and painful storm, and there's not a lot any of us can do about it. We donate to local causes while lamenting our loss of income amid a simultaneously fractured and flooded freelance economy. We try to "stay productive" while questioning if anything we do has any meaning. We try to connect with people but feel a strangeness about watching life happen behind a screen. We're grateful for safe spaces, but we also feel smothered by limitations. We're anxious about the disruptions, but also hungry for more lasting change.

It's a mess. I am braced for many more months of this storm. Something that drove it home this week was an expectation that most Google employees will keep working from home for the remainder of the year ... at least seven more months of the current routine. This brought a visceral flashback of being 16 years old, grounded to my bedroom for "sluffing" (skipping school), lying on the floor and listening to Morrissey sing about a coastal town so forlorn that only a nuclear bomb could jolt it from its stupor. My teenage mind embraced this as an anthem for the paradox of life: Expansive imagination, limited freedom.

"Every day is like Sunday. Every day is silent and gray."

Memories of this scene sparked a smile about all of the layers of relevance. If we (I) continue to act like a grounded teenager, we're just going to keep spinning our wheels, never getting anywhere. I recognized this attitude in myself this week when I felt overly exuberant every time I let myself out. The outdoors have become my personal shelter from the storm. Now more than ever, I need this break from my wild imagination and runaway ruminations. Seeking respite in anything, whether it's Morrissey or long bike rides, is briefly satisfying. But in the quieter hours, when despondency creeps closer to the surface, I realize I need to work toward a better balance.

All of this is a long way of saying that I enjoyed my physical activities but struggled with most everything else this week, which I suspect is the case with a lot of folks right now. My inner teenager is telling me the answer is "MOAR RUNNING" and I admit to giving in to these urges. It sure beats writing bad poetry, which I'll also admit that 40-year-old me is dangerously close to trying.

My stats for this past week ended up similar to the week before: 20 hours, 40 miles on foot, 90 miles on a bike, boatloads (20,000 feet) of climbing, but with two rest days to break it up nicely enough that I didn't feel physical effects until Monday, with similar complaints (Achilles tendon tightness, stiff calf muscles and some residual allergy symptoms.) Every May, as summer closes in, I go through a sort of seasonal mood slump that resembles what a lot of people experience in early winter. The allergy flare-ups, fierce solar glare and lip sunburns serve as a reminder that outside is becoming a less hospitable place. I know this sounds insane to sun-lovers. We all have our challenges.

May in Colorado usually provides some respite to smooth the transition. After a particularly wintry April, this May has been mostly a bust on the snow front. Disappointing. We did receive a dusting and temperatures in the high-20s on Friday morning, which just happened to the morning I planned an ambitious road bike ride. Unwilling to be deterred by winter weather on the one morning I wouldn't have wished for it, I just stuffed a few more layers in spare pockets and kept an eye out for black ice. It was a lovely misty morning and I felt fantastic, zipping up Lefthand Canyon and enjoying being the only cyclist on the road. Amid the brisk pace I simultaneously sweated and shivered for most of the climb. The sun came out just in time to melt the road ice for a long descent along Peak to Peak Highway and St. Vrain Canyon. The amazing effect of this route is that the 20-mile climb is not all that hard, and yet it affords a nearly uninterrupted 30-mile descent. It's an incredible ride beside sheer rock cliffs and a roiling whitewater creek, as thrilling as any amusement park rollercoaster, in my opinion. The only payment for such fun day out is the 12-mile grind from Lyons to Boulder on Highway 36, which on this day was a particularly hard slog into a rare southeasterly gale.

 My other notable outing this week was a long run with Beat on Sunday. He put together a route to leave from home and link the far-flung peaks of Twin Sisters and South Boulder in a perfect loop, with only two short out-and-back spurs to tag the peaks themselves. It was a rugged route with a lot of rocky trails and some overland 'shwhacking, demanding 8,000 feet of climbing in 28 miles (and 8,000 feet of descent, which on foot demands a whole lot of effort, unlike descending St. Vrain Canyon on a road bike.) I guessed it would take us nine hours to complete, and temperatures weren't supposed to climb much out of the 40s with a potential for afternoon rain. Still, my brain has shifted to summer mode. I packed a small hydration vest with two 16-ounce bottles of frozen-solid electrolyte drink, two liters of ice water, a water filter, a tiny 3-ounce wind jacket, thin gloves, thin beanie, and various electronics. The night before, I pre-packed each side pocket with an assortment of snacks, but then emptied one of the pockets to make room for my phone in the morning. I never re-packed these snacks or my phone. Subsequently, I had to appeal to Beat to let me carry his phone (I'm not sure I could mentally endure a nine-hour run without a camera.) I also realized that I was going to have to ration my food.

 We made our way around the backside of Twin Peaks and summited around mile 10. This photo shows our destination for many hours later, the two peaks in the middle — South Boulder on the right and Bear on the left. To get there, we would descend Eldorado Canyon (notch to the right) nearly all the way to the valley floor, then ascend 3,000 feet to the peak with close to a marathon on our legs already. Good fun!

 While scoping out satellite images, Beat discovered a faint old jeep track through Walker Ranch that might allow us to bypass paved road running altogether. I dislike 'shwhacking, especially during green-up season, but I was open to trying something new. The faint track quickly petered out, but the initial overland hiking through the old burn was easy enough. Then we started to descend into a gully. We crossed a small creek and ended up in a tangle of thorny brush and stacks of deadfall, and I was quick to lose my patience. Beat wanted to hike right of that rocky outcropping in the center of this photo, but having observed the hillside while taking the photo, I thought left looked far easier. He relented, we went left, and it wasn't all that bad. We spent close to 45 minutes hacking out this "shortcut" to avoid 1.5 miles of paved road running. Was it worth it? Yeah, it was probably worth it.

Beat has also recently discovered alternative trails around parts of the Walker Ranch loop, so we were able to get through much of this section while avoiding crowds.

 Descending toward a raging South Boulder Creek. Now about 19 miles into this route, I was beginning to feel bonked and particularly wobble-legged here. My inventory of remaining snacks, which I had rationed well so far, was one package of peanut M&Ms, one small package of fruit snacks, and half of a ham sandwich. I had hoped to save the fruit snacks for last, but faltered enough on the climb out of the canyon that I popped them like energy pills, in two big gulps.

This is the start of the long, rolling and bouldery descent into Eldorado Canyon. I was listening to the audiobook for "Labryinth of Ice," a gripping account of the Greeley Polar Expedition of 1881-1883. I had reached the chapters where the men, with food stores dwindling and a third winter closing in, staged an escape with small boats and sledges. The crumbling shelf ice swallows most of their gear, and they ultimately end up riding an ice floe to the northern coast of Greenland. There they build huts out of stone and moss, and attempt to hunt seal and walrus in anticipation of hunkering down for the entire Arctic winter.

As Beat and I loped easily if wobble-leggedly down the canyon, I contemplated this scenario — wiling away months of darkness and unfathomable cold in a seal-skin sleeping bag, moving as little as possible to conserve energy. I reflected on the last night of my last adventure, with its hours of 40 below and deep snow in the hills outside McGrath. It's difficult to understand the oppression of 40 below until you've experienced it. You're surrounded by a world capable of freezing flesh in a matter of minutes, and your only protection is a bubble of artificial insulation and the energy you burn to generate heat. As energy levels diminish, it feels like this sinister world is closing in on you. You understand fully just how fragile you are, and just how indifferent the world is to your needs. When I awoke to those crushing temperatures outside my sleeping bag in March, I swore I'd never take my warm bed for granted again. Only two months have passed, and that perspective is already fading.

Here in the present, on a cool but cloudless Sunday in Eldorado State Park, we encountered a crush of weekend crowds. We'd expected this. We've done well to avoid these popular spots. But after two months, and with no end in sight, we decided we were tired of staying away from our favorite trails just because they're crowded. I descended carefully with my buff pulled over my face. I thought I was ready to face the crowds, but it was disheartening to see just how little a seeming majority of people appear to care about anything. Maybe 1 in 20 were wearing face coverings, and people who were clearly not related to one another were crowding switchbacks in large groups, blocking passage in a way that required either sketchy off-trail scrambling, or simply busting straight through the crowd.

It's frustrating. Covering our faces in public and limiting social contact with people outside our households seem like simple acts that nearly everyone can accomplish. Common sense plainly shows how such distancing and blocking can reduce the exchange of respiratory droplets. That so few seem willing to do so, and then accuse those who do of blindly following politics, is baffling. I feel like grumbling, "This is the way biology works, people. It doesn't care about our affiliations." But this is the way things are, so we won't be returning to Eldo anytime soon. Shame. It's such a lovely place.

 We climbed out of Eldo through the greenest field I've yet seen. We live at 7,200 feet, and staying at home means I haven't spent much time at lower altitudes. It was lovely to see a place where spring is in full swing. Pasqueflowers were in full bloom, and cute little yellow blooms were popping up across the hillside. Unfortunately, there is something here that ignites my allergies, and my airways tightened as I climbed. Also unfortunately, my multiple switches from cycling to running packs this week resulted in accidentally leaving my inhaler at home. I had to deal with low-level asthma symptoms and breathing difficulties for much of the long climb up Shadow Canyon. Limited oxygen on top of low glycogen made for a hard battle up those final 3,000 feet of ascent.

 I was stoked to finally make it to the top of South Boulder Peak, a place that had looked so far in the distance just a few hours earlier. A day of exploring new trails with Beat, standing at the top of mountains, listening to a fantastic audiobook while reflecting on Alaska experiences, and drawing inspiration for our current challenges, all within the vicinity of home, made for a gratifying day.

Looking back at South Boulder Peak from the summit of Bear, which we hit for good measure before wrapping up the 28-mile loop. This was a great Sunday, and I wish every day could be like this Sunday. But when a tight Achilles tendon and creeping fatigue demanded a rest day on Monday, I all too quickly fell back into dark ruminations and moodiness. Striking a balance seems increasingly difficult right now, but I think I can take a lesson from "Groundhog Day" and the importance of finding ways to be both productive and helpful. It's difficult, because in other ways, our current plight feels similar to that of the forlorn Arctic explorers in the Greeley expedition, piecing together moss and stone huts as meager shelter from a brutal winter. And yet they must have survived, because somebody went on to share their story. I'll have to plan another long run so I can listen to the rest of the book and find out what happened. 

A dozen months go by as you wait for a sign

I knew stay-at-home life was starting to get to me when I planned a grocery run on Friday and anxiously anticipated it all week. Don't get me wrong; I dislike shopping on a good day. The current social distancing mandate nearly doubles the amount of time and discomfort in these tasks — wearing a breath-obstructing mask, standing in long outdoor lines under the hot sun, stacking a cart full of groceries twice so I can bag them in my car, wiping down everything I touch, and seriously why are the toilet paper shelves still empty? 

However, this week was the first I didn't need to get a catch-up allergy shot, which meant I'd have the stamina for some sort of adventure. Since I returned from Alaska, every outdoor activity I've embarked on has started from my front door. This would be the first time in weeks that I ventured a bit farther, so even the prospect of setting out from town was exciting. I pulled the road bike down from its wall mount, pumped up the tires, lubed the chain, and checked the top tube bag for the same light rain layers I was using last spring (so that's where that hat ended up!) Nearly a year has passed since I last rode this bike. Grit from the sudden storms that frequently washed through the canyons in May 2019 still clung to the frame. I brushed off the sand as I wistfully remembered those rides. How simple things were back then. I had such big plans for summer 2020. Training for the Silk Road Mountain Race called for big days in the saddle, and I schemed wide-ranging road rides like double passes over Trail Ridge Road, climbing Mount Evans from Evergreen, maybe even a multiday nostalgia tour (riding up to Wheatland, Wyoming and tracing my 2003 route back to Salt Lake City.) So many possibilities! 

 That was then. Now I live in a world where a grocery run feels like an adventure. It's not necessarily a bad thing. When we adjust expectations to match reality, perspective quickly follows. A three-hour blitz from North Boulder was excitement enough — especially with the potential for an up-close view of the mountains.

After what felt like a prolonged recovery from the Iditarod, I've rapidly rebuilt strength and stamina in the past two weeks. This surge of energy has weakened my resolve to keep things easy for a while, and I'd already logged a reasonably tough week of runs and rides before Friday. My legs were rubbery and the 85-degree heat felt oppressive. I pulled my buff over my face, intending to keep it up the whole ride — mostly for optics —but I'd forgotten how terribly difficult it can be to breathe through hot, saturated polyester. I managed ten miles before I cracked, and then just pulled it up when passing other cyclists. But I was passing other cyclists, an admittedly exhilarating feeling. Soon my rubbery muscles loosened and the heat faded behind a stiff but cool headwind. The road bike became an undetectable feather underneath me, and I felt like I was running on air with turbo engines strapped to my legs.

 The climb from Boulder to Brainard Lake gains a cool vertical mile — 5,400 feet with minimal rolling. Just beyond the gate I encountered far too much snow to continue, although I fantasized about slicing the narrow road tires through slush, "just like a hot knife in butter." I was less than two miles from an incredible mountain vista, and I realized then how much I wanted that — just to sit on that solitary bench near the shoreline and gaze upward.

But on this day, I did not have the tools to gain access to such a paradise. I only had a featherweight bike, so instead I turned around and gobbled up a 20-mile descent, complete with one short climb, in 45 minutes. The bike hit speeds of 44 mph, which is a little recklessly fast for a squirrely rider such as myself, who only hops on a road bike a handful of times each year. It was pure bliss though, as close to flying as any sensation I've felt. Road biking probably is the most risky activity I engage in, and yet I didn't feel unsettled until I pulled back up to my car, changed into street clothes, and switched out my snot-soaked Buff for a cute patterned facemask that I purchased from a Boulder woman who typically makes bike-commuting gear. What was this strange dread?

A recent Tweet from Joe Simpson, who narrowly escaped death during a mountaineering accident in the 80s and wrote a brilliant book about it, "Touching the Void," summed it up well: "It's quite odd driving to a supermarket idly and wondering if this is the moment I pick up a fatal disease and die. Never thought I'd have that thought process again."

I've wondered why I feel so rundown after these trips to town. In earlier weeks I blamed the allergy shots. Perhaps this week I can blame the vigorous road ride. Either way, "town day" is often my most draining part of the week. I'll slump home, feeling vaguely out of sorts. I'll develop a headache, and become convinced my throat is scratchy. I'll pop a bunch of vitamin C and check my temperature and SpO2. Nothing's out of the ordinary. Just hypochondria again. Or is it? 

Consciously, I don't feel like I'm irrationally scared of COVID-19. I take it seriously, both because I want to be a good citizen, and also because I suspect I have a fair chance of serious complications. I contracted a simple case of pneumonia in 2015 that took me down several notches; things haven't been the same since. Now I'm a person with underlying conditions, asthma and Graves Disease. Still, I've spent years teaching myself how to embrace fears. I also believe the science that shows how most of us will likely be exposed to this eventually. I'm capable of acceptance and an "it will be what it will be" sort of attitude. As I move toward accepting that this is going to be with us for a while, however, despondency creeps in. If going to the grocery store feels this weird and arduous, how can travel happen again? Or racing? Riding and running with friends? Visiting my parents? I maintain a great deal of freedom and movement, and I relish these simple joys still. But it's difficult to let go of anticipation and future dreams that so recently were just an ordinary part of life.

Saturday dawned misty and gray. It was nice to see some proper spring weather, something I've missed since we skipped directly from winter to summer. Beat and I had a long run planned for Sunday, and I intended to rest up beforehand. I spent the morning cleaning the basement and chipping away at a writing project that currently feels like hammering a flimsy nail into stone. Malaise was building and I decided to combat it with a bike ride.

"I'll be gone an hour, tops," I told Beat. Heavy thunderstorms were forecast to hit at 4 p.m., and I was leaving at 2 p.m., so the motivation was there to keep it short. But as I pedaled into the cool afternoon, my legs felt amazingly peppy. With limited effort I could fly up the hills, feeling strong enough that I checked my watch near the start of a coveted 2.5-mile Strava segment. In four years I've posted 75 rides through this segment, so PRs are not easy to come by these days ... I haven't cracked the top ten since 2018. But I decided to for it. At mile two I dabbed in a muddy mess of ruts. I thought for sure I'd lost it, but my watch was still showing reasonable progress. I charged all the way to the top of the hill only to encounter a truck inching up the final pitch. The vehicle stalled on a sand-covered slab and stopped, blocking the entire road. There was no way around. After wavering a few seconds I threw my bike over my shoulder and sprinted up a side slope. The driver probably thought I was nuts. I was tempted to yell "STRAVA" as I ran past, but did not.

I missed my PR by two seconds. But I snagged a few other long-standing segments. I felt so pumped that I just had to continue riding. I descended the rutted county road and pedaled toward a usually quiet forest road that winds toward the reservoir. The road was still gated, and there were only a few cars at the trailhead on this cool and gray afternoon. Despite sandy conditions I managed a few more PRs on lesser-traveled segments. In doing so, I turned my relaxing one-hour ride into 20 miles of tempo with 3,000 feet of climbing. Beat said if I crapped out on Sunday, he would have no sympathy. I replied that it was worth it.


Beat and I have missed long runs. Even with potentially nothing to train for this year, we still long for a proper beatdown on rough and interesting terrain. We schemed a run that would allow us to both leave from home and explore new terrain. The route linked a couple of trails that until now had been dead ends to us, tracing remnants of social trails and old roadbeds. We try to avoid trespassing, so Beat cross-checked his track with a property map to ensure we stayed on county and national forest land. Even close to home, we can still find some lovely trails that see little use.

 "Little use" sometimes means lots of slogging. This shaded traverse held onto a lot of snow, and it took us a while to bust through. Shortly after I took this photo, Beat lost a shoe and bloodied his knee.

 Connectors also require some road running. Jogging toward this pasture, I thought, "those people sure have a lot of horses." As we passed by, I realized it was a herd of elk.

 We ran toward the trailhead for the forest road where I rode my bike the previous day. I was amazed at what an out-of-control zoo it had become on this sunnier and slightly warmer Sunday. Vehicles were parked up and down the county road a half-mile away in both directions, blocking driveways and obstructing the traffic lanes so much that it was barely passable one way. Cars passed constantly, and we occasionally had to jump onto steep side slopes to let them through. Thanks to a 4WD-only connector, this spot is essentially located on a dead-end spur off of a secondary dirt road — about as far from the beaten path as you can find in Boulder County. To see it so crowded, after years of appreciating its relative emptiness was ... strange. This scene also had a somewhat dystopian feel, like dodging a zombie mob with off-leash dogs. I'm not afraid they're going to pass around a virus; I'm afraid they're going to run us over in this seemingly blind rush to fill a void of time.  I concede that I can't criticize people recreating if I am also out recreating in the same place. It's just strange, that's all. Where do all of these people go when it's not the end of the world? Theaters and stores, I suppose. It's just as well that they're enjoying the great outdoors, but I wish it could be done in a less noxious way.

Anyway, we were grateful to leave the busy road and veer onto an empty trail, where we hiked and scrambled to the top of Twin Sisters Peak. The altitude of this peak is 8,700 feet, making it one of the highest in the region. It seems to be seldom visited. Access is limited by several miles of road walking on either side (or a decent 4WD vehicle) so even I don't come here often. This was Beat's first visit. He was impressed. The panoramic views here are incredible, stretching from the plains to a vast mountain skyline, from Longs Peak to Mount Evans.

Our original plan had us descending Flagstaff Road and returning via Walker Ranch, but we wanted to stay away from the inevitable crowds. Instead we made our way down a faint jeep road to another social trail, quickly reconnecting to the traverse to Meyers Gulch. Despite having to climb around frequent deadfall, wade deep snow and bash through thorny bushes that ripped my shins to shreds, we agreed this was an ideal sneak and vowed to return.

This detour lengthened our overall route just enough that we started talking about tacking on four more miles to round out the run to a 26.2-mile marathon. We did so in the hardest way possible, marching straight up a long-neglected old road behind our neighborhood. But we got it done, and I felt reasonably energetic and loose the entire time, despite the lack of long runs in recent weeks, and despite riding my bike a little too hard for two days prior. I did become dehydrated, having carried only three liters of water for seven hours in the hot sun (the transition from winter to spring always throws me for a loop, because with a seemingly minimal shift from 35 degrees to 65 degrees, I go from needing a liter of liquid to a gallon.) My payment for indulging in a long run has been a mild headache and a tight Achilles (argh, how I abhor my right Achilles tendon. This "touch of tendonitis" has been an ongoing issue for two years now. I can drag a sled 300 miles over deep snow with no problems, but will it let me climb hills or run a couple dozen miles? No!)

Also, today — Monday — I have been feeling emotionally down ... more so than I have in weeks, when I first began to come around from the shock of March. I could blame the latest headlines about bursts of new cases and deaths as states collectively decide to just get on with it ... that's part of it, sure. But I also need to consider a likely tipping point when I become a little too zealous with physical activity, especially after so recently recovering from such a hard Iditarod.  I took a rest day today, but I still feel down. That's just the way things are right now — such a rollercoaster of emotions, trying to balance wildly undulating uncertainties, even as day-to-day life slows down.

So it's funny, and maybe just a little bit sad, that when I ponder what might cheer me up, I immediately turn my thoughts to my upcoming trip to town, and where I might ride my road bike when that exciting day comes. 

Last days of innocence — day six

March 7, 2020. Rohn, Alaska. 12 degrees and overcast. 

I don't enjoy winter camping. There. I've said it. What I enjoy is moving through wintry landscapes, feeling powerful against the cold, absorbing beauty and wonder while generating my own bubble of comfort and warmth. Sleep is one of the biological necessities of being out for days on end. And of course, after long hours of sled-hauling, it feels incredible to remove the weight from my sore limbs and temporarily fade from consciousness. But once I crawl into a sleeping bag, movement ceases and my personal bubble of protection bursts. Suddenly I'm dependent on these inert materials that I don't quite trust. I smother myself in nylon and down until it's difficult to breathe. Then I open the bag ever so slightly to allow a tight funnel of air. The feel of this frigid air is sinister, but I crave oxygen so I must ignore an innate sense of danger. In order to shut out the anxiety and get some sleep, I need to be fully exhausted. 

In Rohn, exhaustion and mild dehydration let me remain unconscious in my bag for nearly five hours. When the 2 a.m. alarm sounded, I felt disoriented and desperately thirsty. I sat up, let the cold slap of air jostle me into awareness, then jumped up quickly to generate heat. I jogged in place to thrash away the grogginess and then fumbled through packing up my gear. My fingers tingled as I worked. The thermometer informed me that it was 12 degrees, which is pretty warm. I smirked and shook my head at my own ineptitude. 

"If I liked winter camping, I would probably be better at this," I thought. 

After packing I jogged a few hundred yards to the Rohn cook tent to collect the things I'd hung to dry overnight — shoes, socks and waders — and quickly gulp down coffee and instant oatmeal before refilling my thermos with hot Tang. Amber had chosen to wake up at the same time. We shared the groggy minutes with Kyle, who seemed to have taken on the job of 2 a.m. checkpoint watch, but mostly sat on the straw and stared blankly into space. The rest of the tent was crowded with sleepers, as I'd expected, which is one of the reasons I opted for the peace and quiet of an outside camp. 

As I packed up to leave, a few flurries wafted through the air, but there wasn't any new snow on the ground. The InReach weather forecast offered an hourly assessment that predicted the snow wouldn't begin until 2 p.m. I believed this, and hoped to make good mileage before the blizzard began in force. I struggled to start moving. Grogginess remained and I hadn't rehydrated as well as I should have in Rohn. Still, as soon as I hit the glare ice of the South Fork of the Kuskokwim River, I dug in my studded shoes and marched with purpose. The South Fork is another volatile mountain river that I fear, but it did feel incredible to move across a hard surface, hauling a suddenly weightless sled as it glided effortlessly across the ice.

After two miles of river ice, the trail veered onto the shoreline, where it would roll in and out of steep drainages for the next 15 miles before wrapping around Egypt Mountain and descending toward the Farewell Lakes. The trail through the forest was soft and punched with moose tracks. Moose-a-noia kept me in silence for a couple of hours, but my consciousness began to flag, and the sleep monster demanded that I find a distraction. I chose music — specifically Grimes' latest album, "Miss Anthropocene" — and fixated on an upbeat song that spoke to the surreal time of day and place through which I moved, "4ÆM."

"I'm out late at 4 a.m.
He says, 'How's the weather, baby? How've you been?'
You're gonna get sick — you don't know when
I never doubt it at 4 a.m. ..."

As the chorus repeated itself again and again — because I'd put the song on repeat — I became more reflective. It seems prescient now, only because I'd been so distracted by my own adventure, but I had been thinking about this issue earlier. On the day we flew from Denver to Anchorage, which was Feb. 27, I'd come across a long essay published in Smithsonian Magazine in 2017 that I spent much of our layover at the Seattle airport reading. It described in captivating detail the 1918 flu pandemic. From that article I followed links to another long essay which drew parallels to the novel coronavirus. This author speculated that eventually 40 to 70 percent of the global population would contract this virus, and the implications were unknown but almost certainly devastating. I remember shutting my laptop as we boarded our plane and thinking, "Wow. It's coming."

Of course, on Feb. 27, the notion of a global pandemic was still abstract. There had already been an outbreak in Washington state, so we knew the virus had arrived in the United States, but it still seemed plausible that it could be contained. I thought about the article on and off as I went about my pre-race preparations. Still, it was easy to put it out of my mind. I had my own immediate concerns to address. By the time the race started on March 1, I wasn't thinking about the issue at all.

Now, as I traversed a landscape devastated by recent wildfires and surrounded by stark mountains and ominous skies, Grimes' heart-pumping beats and nihilistic lyrics stirred up week-old reflections about a vague, unknowable future that was probably closer than it seemed. I still thought about the issue in abstract ways. My trains of thought were frequently fractured and my intelligence was undermined by fatigue. I remember thinking about my experience with pneumonia in 2015, which I contracted in part because I was headstrong and reckless during the Tour Divide. One takeaway during these abstract reflections was, "We need to be strong. Right now I'm not strong."

Indeed, any illusions of strength and energy were elusive. I was struggling to hoist myself up every hill. As I write this post exactly one month later, memory has already scrubbed some of the specific pains I was experiencing. But I can still recall one particular hill, climbing away from the Post River. At the time I was following closely behind the Italian cyclists. From the top of the previous hill, I watched as they shimmied up a vertical-looking slope, precariously perched almost underneath their bicycles as they pushed. Witnessing this, I resolved to get a running start, and bounded recklessly down the slope as my knees locked with each impact and my sled weaved erratically. Near the bottom, I was distracted by a massive gut pile left behind by bison hunters, and lost momentum before hitting the wall. My quad muscles seemed to give out as my back strained against gravity. The sled yanked me backward and I lost my balance, briefly flailing as though I might tip over backward, before lunging forward and slamming my bruised  knee into a wind-scoured patch of frozen dirt. This pain I remember, along with the cause of it — I was too weak to boost myself up a hill, so I had to use my injured knee as an anchor. When I recount this moment it sounds trivial, but at the time it felt like I was slowly losing control, and it was unnerving.

Endurance racing is a paradox. We pursue these challenges to prove to ourselves that we have strength and resilience, that we can rise above weaknesses and overcome difficulties. But the act of pushing limits requires exactly that — venturing close to physical and mental edges. Tumbling over the precipice is always a risk. My experiences in 2015 and beyond have proven this to me, beyond doubt. And I admit, even as I continue to enthusiastically pursue endurance racing, I have pondered consequences and costs I might no longer be able to afford. I do so while acknowledging that a life scrubbed of risk and uncertainty, a life of bland inertia and unimaginative stability, a life as void of joy as it is of pain, is the last thing I want, for anyone. Life — forever a paradox.

I'm prone to existential crises in the best of times. One reason among many that I pursue endurance efforts is because intense activity forces me into a more focused plane of existence, where I must direct my usual overabundance of mental energy toward immediate concerns. Once my motivating Grimes kick lost its effectiveness, my immediate concern was flagging energy. I switched off the music and returned to an audio book of "The Sun is a Compass," but I wasn't listening. Instead I watched gray skies deepen as snow flurries picked up in intensity and began to accumulate on the trail. For the rest of the day I no longer thought about the abstract future or even walking to Nome; I only thought about my next steps into a snowy wilderness that might as well be eternal.

Along a five-mile-long flat stretch crossing the Farewell Lakes, some 25 miles into the day, I was finally caught by Greg the skier. He was badly hungover from too much whiskey in Rohn, and provided some comic relief with a lighthearted attitude about his sorry physical state. He'd already reached his goal — Rob's Roadhouse in Rohn — and now was just slogging through the mandatory victory march to McGrath. Motivation was low but spirits were high. He said he was going to stop soon for a meal or an eight-hour nap; he hadn't quite decided. My plan was to not stop at all until I reached Bear Creek Cabin. Not even one of my thirty-second sled slumps, because with my own level of fatigue and flagging motivation, I couldn't trust myself to not let one of those short rests turn into minutes or hours. Snow was coming down hard and it was warm, 28 degrees. These are some of the most difficult camping conditions, because it's almost impossible to prevent gear and shoes and stoves and pretty much everything from becoming soaked. I was determined to reach that cabin.


Near the end of the last Farewell lake, I told Greg I expected eight more miles of rolling hills to the former site of Bison Camp, where the trail finally drops from the foothills onto an expansive river plain. It turned out to be closer to ten miles, which became a frustrating miscalculation when each small hill renewed a demoralizing struggle. A persistent wind whipped the accumulating snowflakes into a frenzy, prompting me to don my hated goggles for a few hours. I was grumpy, and that was before I connected with Beat on his satellite phone. He told me no one had broken the mile-long offshoot trail to Bear Creek cabin, and the snowpack was so deep that there was no way to access the shelter. Now I understood that I'd be camping in the wet snow, whether I liked it or not.


Sullenly, I descended into the Farewell Burn, a place that long ago was barren and dry, but now hosts an impossibly thick spruce forest and many feet of snow. For the first ten miles beyond Bison Camp it's difficult to even find an open spot to camp among the practically interlocking tree branches. More swamps begin to open up around the Bear Creek intersection, so that's where I planned to camp. I restarted "The Sun is a Compass" because I hadn't been listening, but I still wasn't listening. Instead my staccato thoughts jumped through past memories of the Farewell Burn, both distant — the barren, frigid wasteland — and recent — the snow-choked leg-trap.

At least five inches of snow had accumulated by the time I heard the whine of a snowmobile for the first time all day. I assumed it was race director Kyle and Craig, but in fact it was the Iditarod Sled Dog Race trailbreakers, a team of six high-powered snowmobiles dragging massive trailers. Where they caught me, the trail was so narrow that I had to stop, unhook from my harness, lift my sled onto a chest-high berm, and them climb up there myself so they could pass.

I was overjoyed to see them. I'd had some suspicion they'd pass, since Iditarod trailbreakers had caught me near the same spot in 2018. That year, I had been banking on a quiet night at the cabin and was annoyed when I realized I'd have to share with six loud-partying men. This year, however, I acknowledged that the trailbreakers were my ticket to shelter. They presumably were heading out tho Bear Creek, so they'd break in the trail and I'd be able to follow. I knew they wouldn't be thrilled to share the small space with freeloaders like me, Greg and likely others, but such is the way of public shelter cabins in Interior Alaska.

After they passed, I also enjoyed the still-soft but much smoother trail that they'd broken. A mile later, Asbjorn skied up from behind as though I was standing still. He glided to a stop beside me and offered a piece of chocolate, which I declined, then proceeded to relax and munch on his chocolate for several minutes before zipping past again. After another mile Greg passed, and then I caught up to a walker, Robert. It was going to be tight in that cabin, but I didn't mind. It was dry in there. The trailbreakers were hauling a sled full of firewood, so presumably it would also be warm. Just unbelievable luxury.

Around 9:30 p.m. I arrived at the intersection, where it was clear the path had been recently plowed — the trench was nearly neck-deep in spots, and the trail surface was choppy. It took me nearly a half hour to make my way down to the cabin. By 10 p.m., snow was coming down so heavily that I could barely see a few meters away. Much of my upper body was caked in this wet snow. The buckle on my sled harness had collected so much ice that I couldn't release it. Eventually I just wriggled out of the shoulder straps and stepped over the harness, forgetting that I was still wearing my snowshoes, which caught on the straps and sent me tumbling headlong into a five-foot-deep drift just off the cabin's porch. I thrashed out of the drift, spitting and swearing. Powder had found its way into my ears and up both nostrils. My clothing was now fully saturated in wet snow. Yikes.

"Thank god I'm not setting up camp right now," I thought.

The interior of the cabin was stiflingly hot. The trailbreakers had gathered around the small table with playing cards, beers, and a giant bag of fun-sized candy bars from Costco — dinner, they told us. The four ITI folks set to a flurry of activity, melting snow for water and spreading out our wet clothing across the cabin. The trailbreakers watched us, bemused.

"You guys sure have to work hard at night," one observed.

Another pointed out that all of their water — 16-ounce plastic bottles also from Costco — had frozen solid. But hey, they had plenty of beer.

Cognizant of the many hazards in the crowded cabin, I slipped outside to fire up my stove so I could heat water for freeze-dried chicken and noodles. My initial instinct had been to just plop down in my sleeping bag and pass out. But my blood sugar had dipped so low that my hands were shaking, and given my struggles with strength, I knew I couldn't afford to skip a meal. It was quiet outside, the kind of saturated silence that accompanies falling snow. My toes tingled. While stumbling around the newly broken trail to collect snow for melting, I managed to break through into some kind of overflow, and now both of my down booties were soaked. I figured I could dry them overnight, and just let my feet remain sopping wet as I dangled my legs over the edge of the porch, softly singing a random Roxette song that had plopped itself in my head.

Lay a whisper on my pillow 
Leave the winter on the ground 
I wake up lonely, this air of silence 
In the bedroom and all around.

 And then, more loudly, knowing the commotion inside shielded me from judgement:

"It must have been love
BUT IT'S OVER NOW
It must have been good
But I lost it somehow ..."

My voice was ragged and hoarse, my singing terrible, and I don't think I remembered these lyrics quite correctly. But the comic relief was worth it. I felt better already, and I hadn't even eaten yet. Since I'd arrived less a half hour earlier, more than an inch of powder had already accumulated on my sled. Based on the forecast I'd checked a few hours earlier, there was a good chance it wouldn't let up until morning.

"There could be a foot of new snow by then," I thought.

Back in the cabin, I joined Asbjorn, Robert, and two of the trailbreakers as we squeezed together into the small loft, which was designated for gear only and probably not designed to support five full-sized humans. Robert asked when I planned to wake up.

"Whenever they get up," I replied, nodding toward the trailbreakers. "The trail is probably going to be buried by morning; seems pointless to leave early and have to break trail, when we know they'll pass by eventually."

The temperature in the loft must have been 90 degrees. I cracked a small window and sprawled on top of my bag. My earworm — more comforting than annoying — lulled me to a sweaty sleep.

"And it's a hard
winter's day. 
I dream away ..."

Last days of innocence — day four

Photo by Amber Bethe

March 5, 2020. Finger Lake, Alaska. 18 below and breezy. 

A seemingly silent awareness of 4 a.m. arrived, and the many inhabitants of the ice-bound Finger Lake tent began to emerge from their down cocoons. I had set an alarm for 2 a.m. but ignored it. In a way, this felt a little like I was already giving up — "Jill, you can’t sleep eight hours a night if you’re going to Nome." Evening Jill, who is alert and ambitious and has spent entirely too much time crunching numbers and making plans — she’s the one who sets the alarm. Morning Jill, who must battle her way bleary consciousness beneath a crush of full-body muscle soreness and unassuaged fatigue — she’s the one who lacks willpower. Even at 4 a.m., I could barely sit up through the sheer gravity of my grogginess. This morning inertia always leaves me wondering why I even bother with the sleep thing. Perhaps if I just stayed awake and kept walking …

The air inside the tent was frosty, but I wasn’t prepared for the icy punch to the face when I opened the canvas flaps and stepped outside. I briefly convinced myself it was 40 or 50 below zero, but my thermometer would reveal an ambient temperature of 18 below. That wind, though. The wall tent had a wood-platform porch where someone had placed a couch. A person was curled up in a sleeping bag there, which I found delightfully odd. Lovely place for a nap, this random couch on a frozen lake that’s fully exposed to the brunt of wind and subzero cold.

I returned to the volunteers’ cabin to heat up a bag of dehydrated scrambled eggs that I’d found in the bin of discarded drop bag food. Many of the same folks with whom I’d shared dinner the previous night were also doing breakfast at the same time. There were at least six more people in the tent who I managed to never even see, but the Kiwis, Beth, Amber and I enjoyed one more respite together before the next leg of our journey.

The section between Finger Lake and Puntilla Lake is often regarded as one of the toughest on the route to McGrath. “The Push,” a veteran cyclist had called it during my first ITI in 2008. The name stuck with me. For thirty miles the trail climbs into the Alaska Range over a series of steep rolling hills. There’s the infamous Happy River Steps that feature 40-percent grades both down and up. And there are equally steep grades higher on the route, as the trail dips in and out of precipitous drainages along a side slope above the Happy River gorge. The final five miles into Rainy Pass Lodge are a relentless and plodding climb with one short descent in the middle, just enough to undo all of the hard-won altitude.

I started out at 5:11 a.m., after spending more than fifteen minutes hunched over in the 18-below darkness: repairing the hole in my backpack with tape, and attempting to secure my wrist brace with leuko tape. I’d started out the race with an overuse injury that inflamed a disc in my left wrist. The injury had unsurprisingly deteriorated, and my left hand had become swollen and often prone to electric shocks of pain — although, truthfully, I'd feared worse.

Still, this day would involve lots of aggressive poling to boost body and sled up 40-percent grades, so I needed to support the wrist as much as possible. My “wrist widget” brace worked best, but it was impossible to keep in place beneath several jacket and coat sleeves. My hard brace was a good for sleeping, but I couldn’t use it when temperatures were below zero. Poling irritated my wrist, but it hurt the most when I had to do anything else — eating, grabbing things out of my backpack, zipping and unzipping, unpacking and packing.

Hand pain is so frustrating, because it seeps into every action and impacts the quieter moments where I can usually find respite. If my tired legs were the lion that roared throughout the day, my wrist was the kitten that whined all night.


The long rest and two protein-rich meals in Finger Lake had done me some good, though, and I descended from the breakfast cabin feeling better than I had the previous two mornings. This was also the first morning that began in the dark. I took the opportunity to stare at the sky as I crossed scoured ice on Red Lake. Biting wind stung the small strip of exposed skin across my eyebrows, but I was determined to catch of a glimpse of Northern Lights. Alas, there was only the black sky, the splatter of stars, and vague blue light on the horizon that was either dawn or the setting moon.

Within minutes I was already across the lake and slumped over on the first climb, gaining 300 feet of altitude in a half mile and wallowing in a mire of loose snow punched with knee-deep postholes. Commence “The Push.” I must not have been the only one disheveled by morning, because I found a particularly large concentration of what Amber called “trail treasures” along this climb. A ski skin. A single glove. A hat. An unopened package of Gu. These were not useful to me and thus unexciting, just more things to carry for thirty miles and then dump on a table at the next checkpoint, likely never to be claimed. Later, eventual 350-ski winner Mathieu would express gratitude for the return of his skin, so that was worth hauling.
 

The sun slowly rose to a cold but stunningly bluebird day. These are the best days, and I was stoked to find myself surrounded by far-reaching views of the snowy mountains. Stoke, along with a fresh supply of trail mix and other snacks from my drop bag, fueled better energy. I felt like I was finally moving relatively well. Daylight eased my moose-a-noia, and I listened to the audio book of “A Stranger in the Woods,” about a man who lived alone and undetected in a makeshift camp close to a community of vacation homes in northern Maine for 27 years.

My takeaway from this book was that his master thievery was much more interesting than his social distancing … which, as someone who flees to Alaska each year in search of solitude, was more relatable than strange. Of course, the author’s research into the psychology of such an extreme hermit existence would return as prescient lessons for the weeks that followed. For now, still ignorant of the future, I became most emotional during the chapter that described how "the North Woods hermit" struggled to survive winters at 20 below, holed up in his camp and unwilling to start a fire for fear the smoke would reveal his location. As his sleeping bags slowly succumbed to ice buildup, he would remain awake, pacing his camp during the long nights. I could feel the pain of this: the creep of cold and the primal understanding that one must not stop walking. This was a prescient lesson for the future in itself … as the cold creeps in, one must not stop walking.

Even in the present moment, taken literally, this lesson was a hard pill to swallow. Although I was feeling better this morning, my crisis of confidence was deepening. Why did I still feel so weak? It’s been four years since I was first beset with health issues that I’d largely overcome. My thyroid levels and asthma are in check. Past struggles with breathing hadn’t once become an issue this year, even when I was pulling as hard as I could and my heart rate was pegged for long hours. Winter training had gone well, possibly about as well as it could without sacrificing too many other facets of my life to be worth it. My race management was also about as conservative as it could be; I was eating well and prioritizing rest. But I still did not feel up to the task. Possibly, this meant I’d never feel up to the task. I tried to push these unhelpful thoughts out of my head, but the image of the North Woods hermit — badly weakened by the hardships of survival, pacing his camp just to stay alive — haunted me.

As I neared the Happy River Steps, the forest closed in, the trail was stomped with deep hoof prints, and moose-a-noia returned. It was enough to turn off my audio book, and I emerged from my shadowy imagination world to the immediacy of the present — sharp beams of sunlight drawing patterns on the snow, pillowy mounds that looked like fantastic spots for a nap. Trail conditions were better in these protected sections, and eventually Beth passed while pedaling. We chatted for a few minutes, mostly about moose, and I was glad I wasn’t the only one feeling so spooked. I also was silently glad that she was now in front of me, scaring off potential attackers.

 The pillowy snow provided a nice cushion for the Happy River Steps, and descending proved to be a non-issue. I didn’t even need to remove my harness — I just walked down 40-percent grades with the sled behind me, barely nudged by gravity … such was the resistance on the trail this year. The crossing where the Happy River pours into the Skwentna River is a stunning spot, and this year was no exception. The two rivers slice through deep gorges rimmed with spruce forest, but the confluence is a wide-open area with expansive views. Overhead is a skyline of jagged peaks, drenched in snow and stretching out in all directions. It’s one of my favorite spots on the route, and all of my other visits here have happened amid overcast skies, snowstorms, or in the middle of the night. It was particularly startling to experience this place in brilliant sunlit clarity.

Photo by Amber Bethe

The climb out of the Happy River gorge is a mere 0.2 miles, but painful. The deep snow this year actually assisted in making it easier to ascend. I was able to kick steps and anchor in for the hard pull up a near-vertical embankment. Amber had been close behind the entire morning, but I didn’t notice her presence until I stopped near the top of the climb to eat a snack. I’ll admit that I was beginning to feel a bit of competitive spark with Amber, because we did so much leapfrogging. She was clearly stronger than me on the move, but I guessed she stopped more often than I did, which allowed me to hold a similar pace.
 

The thousand-mile and the 350 are distinctly two different races these days, and it’s pointless to try to compete with anyone in the others. Faye, the leading woman on foot, was already nearly a day ahead of us, and if even if I got to McGrath before Amber, she’d still be second in the short race. But it is funny, this racing thing. I don’t think of myself as a competitive person, but obviously I am. As we chatted, I felt this strange urge to hold my position. So as she settled in with a bag of homemade cookies — cue jealousy — I hurried to finish my handfuls of trail mix and keep walking.

Of course Amber passed again, less than a mile later. For the rest of the day I was alone, admonishing my heavy legs, running hot and cold beneath a blazing sun and shocking chill, occasionally trying to hold a conversation with my stuffed Siberian husky, Bernadette (I'll admit the imaginary friend magic that carried me through 2018 didn't quite happen this year), and pondering the baffling, or perhaps not-so-baffling, existence of the North Woods hermit. Frequently my strength flagged to the point where I'd stop to sit down on my sled, but I never let myself languish for long. I reminded my temperamental brain how incredibly lucky we were to be experiencing this place on this day, of all places and days.

 “This is the Alaska Range. The Alaska Range! It’s right over there!”

Day faded into a shadowy late afternoon. My cognitive function faded to a simple wave of climbs and descents, punctuated with flashes of determination, winces of sharp pain, sparks of awe, and occasional hopelessness. About three miles before Rainy Pass Lodge, I heard a swishing sound and turned around to see a skier. I was near the top of a punchy rise, and he was gliding toward me as though gravity somehow worked in reverse for him. It was Asbjorn, the practically professional Danish skier who was aiming to become the first person to ski the thousand miles to Nome within the 30-day limit imposed by this particular race. As far as anybody knew, this would be the first official ski of the full Northern or Southern Route of the Iditarod Trail since 2000, when a duo of skiers made the trip in 33 days.

Most other human-powered Iditarod benchmarks have been achieved, but the ski to Nome remains elusive. Why? As best as I can tell — and speaking as a particularly poor skier — skiing is the most demanding discipline. The rough, icy, often snowless terrain takes skill to navigate, and one must achieve a high level of skill before skis become more helpful than hindering. This year of abundantly deep snow was no doubt *the* year to attempt this route on skis. And Asbjorn was clearly the person to do it — even brief observation of his technique was humbling. He was skiing, parallel skiing, without a hint of struggle, up some of the steepest grades. He seemed to have no problem holding 4 or 5 mph indefinitely, moving with what looked like a lot less effort than I was expending at 2 mph. For a few days it was unclear to me why he was positioned back here with the likes of myself, but he was a smart racer who was pacing himself for success on the long haul to Nome — moving fast during the day, and resting long at night.

Asbjorn moved to pass me like I was standing still, but he did pause to mention that he was intentionally hurrying to make it to Rainy Pass Lodge by dinner time.

"I missed it last year. I'm not going to miss it this year!" he proclaimed.

I'd forgotten about dinner, and Asbjorn's mention of it caused me to bristle. Rainy Pass Lodge is one of the more luxurious destinations along the route, catering to fly-in tourists. Each night they serve a home-cooked dinner, and even the smelly racers are invited to partake if they like. The meal is $50 but incredible: Grilled steak, baked potatoes, vegetables, bread, lemonade, and dessert — all you can eat, of course, with bottomless glasses of wine. If you miss or don't want to pay for dinner, you get what the race provides in the separate mushers' cabin: Unopened cans of soup, floating in a vat of water on the wood stove. If you're lucky, there's still some pilot bread left over on the table, and maybe hot water if someone remembered to refill the electric kettle. It was getting late and I had already accepted that I was having a lukewarm can of soup for dinner. Then, here comes Asbjorn, moving as though propelled by a motor, brimming with optimism.

Just when I feel physically shattered and believe I've lost all control of my mental game, there's often a spark of inspiration that surprises me. After Asbjorn passed, I shored up my aching quads, shoved a handful of gummy candy in my mouth, and checked my GPS. "Three miles an hour. Three miles an hour and I can do it." Then I marched, mostly staring at the screen, occasionally looking up to appreciate the intense beauty that still surrounded me. The sun was setting now, and glimmers of pink and lavender light bathed the distant slopes. I could have plopped down on my sled and languished happily as darkness descended and the possibility of Northern Lights returned. But I'll admit, I was more motivated by food. Fixating on my GPS screen to ensure three miles an hour was the only way food would happen.

As sunlight faded the temperature plummeted precipitously — 8 below, then 14 below, then 19 below, in a matter of minutes. I was lightly dressed and shivering, but I couldn't stop to add layers. It would take too much time. Maybe the cold will motivate me to march faster, I thought, but no ... my shoulders were quaking and my core temperature was definitely dropping. But I was close, so close. Steak will make it all better! I lifted my knees and launched into a motion that until that moment I firmly believed I no longer had in me — running.

It was 6:38 when I dropped onto the lake, past a cozy-looking Arctic Oven tent pitched on the ice next to a small plane, and continued shuffling toward the lodge. I briefly entered the mushers' cabin to unpack a few things, then jogged to the main lodge, entering just a few minutes before 7. Dinner was just starting to be served. It took some time to peel off my deeply ice-crusted clothing and stop shivering enough to feel presentable, but eventually I joined the table with the people that had become my group: George and Graham (the Kiwi cyclists), Mathieu and Asbjorn (the European skiers), Beth and Amber.

The steak was abundant and the wine flowed freely. Pain was forgotten and happiness brimmed as we enjoyed the spoils of our small victory: We'd made it to Rainy Pass Lodge, the halfway point on the route to McGrath! Of course, for me, it was less than one sixth of the distance to Nome. But for all of us, Rainy Pass Lodge was the last respite before a critical point of no return. One we crossed over the Alaska Range, retreat would become almost unworkably difficult. And the veterans among us knew ... all of the hardest days were yet to come. 

Last days of innocence — day two

March 3, 2020. Yentna River, Alaska. 12 below zero and clear. 

It was a harsh awakening. A cloud of frosted breath obstructed the dimly lit room as my breath quickened. I tried to sit up, but my back was pressed in a notch between two couch cushions. The muscles had tightened so much that I felt immobilized. In a brief panic I rolled onto the hard floor; my sore knees hit first with a painful thud. My body felt clammy. I unzipped my parka and pulled down the hood, focusing on deep breaths. As my heart rate slowed I pressed my hand under my shirt to confirm a film of cold sweat pooled around my chest.

The temperature in this large, closed-off and unheated room couldn’t have been much above freezing, but the body’s internal thermostat was malfunctioning. I tend to get these night sweats when I’m deep in a recovery hole and my body seems to be desperately expelling whatever toxins build up during damaging efforts. In recent years the night sweats have become increasingly rare thanks to muscle memory and better management of my body’s needs. I’d never experienced them so early in an endurance effort.

Every joint in my body, from the balls of my feet to my lower neck, seemed to creak and groan as I stood. I removed my puffy layers and hung them on a chair to dry. Luckily these hadn’t taken on much moisture, but my base layer was soaked. I probably shouldn’t have slept in the down coat, I thought, but this room was genuinely frigid. Without the puffy layers, I started shivering profusely. Vapors of breath continued to swirl around my face.

 “I need to get a handle on this,” I thought, without any real idea how I would do so.

 I sat on the couch to pull on my pants. My calves were red and swollen, already in that phase where my legs become two uniform bulging tubes from knees to toes. When I scratched my skin it was hot to the touch, unlike my chest and shoulders, which felt like ice. My feet were still in good shape, but I had developed a few heat blisters around the base of my cankles. Heat blisters are also normal for me, a result of the vapor barrier socks I wear to protect my feet. Snowshoeing through powder means my shoes are constantly caked in snow. Even shoes with a water-resistant Gore-Tex outer layer aren’t impermeable, and eventually “breathable” fabric draws the moisture inside. Experience has taught me that a little bit of excess heat and sweat inside a non-breathable sock layer is a small tradeoff to avoid full-blown trenchfoot.

Outside the closed double doors I could hear laughter and the clinking of dishes. It was breakfast time for the many racers who spent the night at McDougall’s Lodge. My phone said it was 5 a.m., which meant I’d slept solidly for six hours. This was my intention. My race plan from the start was to move with purpose during the day and then rest as long as possible at night, while sticking to my daily mileage goals. Overall things were going to plan. So why did I already feel like I was falling apart? 

Of course, I’d dragged my overladen sled through heavy snow for a back-breaking 66 miles in 32 hours with scarcely a 90-minute lunch break at Yentna Station. One six-hour night of sleep wasn’t going to recover all of that, but it was satisfying enough. I felt energized if creaky. As I stood and moved around the room, my joints loosened and the shivering stopped.

Having put myself together as well as I could, I opened the double doors of the rec room and emerged in the brightly-lit, well-heated dining room. Racers crowded around the table, and the two women proprietors were scooping up heaping plates of eggs, biscuits and gravy. On the table they’d placed jugs of orange juice and water, and I poured large glasses of both, feeling desperately thirsty despite my body's obvious water retention and leg edema. The morning conversation was lively, even among the cyclists who had been pushing their bikes for two days. Abundant food, warmth and hospitality are the highest currency on the trail, and we felt rich beyond belief. For all of this luxury — two meals, bottomless coffee and orange juice, a bed, and a warm shower if we wanted — the proprietors of McDougall’s only charged $45 per person.
 

As I packed my sled outside, I noted the temperature had dropped to 12 below. It would be as low as minus 16 on the river before the sun rose, but the wind had calmed, and the air felt surprisingly pleasant. Something about breakfast wasn’t sitting right — or, more likely, my digestive system was adjusting to imbalances — but before I’d even hiked a mile, nausea swept over me. Every hundred steps or so I stopped to gather my bearings. Deep breaths stifled the urge to vomit and I held onto my breakfast, but for a few hours I was in an unhappy place.

After sunrise Janice and her brother, Matt, pedaled up behind me. I moved over to let them pass. They seemed to be in great moods, noting that trail conditions had improved substantially. They’d been able to hold speeds over five miles an hour, Janice told me, smiling wide as she spoke. I simultaneously felt sympathy that a cyclist as strong as Janice was happy with five miles an hour, while feeling a surge of jealousy because I was never going to see a similar twelve-minute-mile … probably ever, for the rest of my life. If my GPS recorded anything above 2.5 mph for even a few steps, I hadn’t seen it yet. This was the fastest speed I could achieve, a veritable sprint. My legs felt leaden, as though I was wading through waist-deep water. I was still wearing snowshoes, and I wasn’t so enamored with them anymore.

The sun rose higher, the clear sky brightened to a brilliant shade of blue, and my body slowly warmed up. The ache in my muscles abated, and my stomach began to settle. The last wisps of clouds faded and I enjoyed the big views that travel on the wide-open river affords. Denali still loomed to the northwest, but now I could see the jagged definition of closer peaks in the Alaska Range, and in front of those, the Shell Hills. The wide slopes looked like pillows of snow glittering in the sunlight.

I love traveling the frozen rivers. I appreciate the simple navigation, the sweeping views, the lack of hills. Most people in this sport think river travel is boring, but I find it pleasantly meditative … albeit still dangerous. Frozen rivers also feature open water and hidden overflow, and I’d encountered patches of slush here and there. But this year, after a winter of consistently low temperatures and heavy snow cover, the river ice seemed about as stable as it could be.

Ten miles and perhaps five hours into the morning, Missy and Beth pedaled past. They’d left McDougall’s before me, so I was surprised to see them. As it turned out Beth had the horrifying setback of two flat tires, and was now riding on her single spare tube and a prayer that the repair on her other tubeless tire would hold. Mechanicals, even simple ones, can be such a big setback out here. I’ll be honest. This is the part I will never miss about cycling the Iditarod Trail — the part where you have to depend on a bicycle.

 The day warmed and wind increased in velocity as I turned toward the Skwentna River confluence. I was still engaged in strenuous effort near the edge of what I could even sustain, and warding off sweat became a tricky proposition. I was constantly stopping to remove my hat, buff, and jacket, then replacing them once again when a chill clamped down after a few minutes. I couldn’t find a balance. My body's internal thermostat was still confused.

Skwentna Roadhouse was bustling as a dozen or so racers mowed through lunch in the big dining hall. I ordered chili but forgot to ask for no onions. Between an explosion of raw onions and the dregs of some burnt beans from the bottom of the pan, I couldn’t force myself to eat much of it, but I did appreciate a banana muffin and lukewarm Dr. Pepper.

I hung out longer than I should have, drinking at least four cups of coffee and laughing with Missy and Beth. Missy let me tether Internet from her phone and I did my only Trackleaders status check of the race, confirming that Beat was already closing in on Shell Lake and the lead bikers had only made it as far as Finger Lake, just forty miles farther up the trail. The lead runners were still with them.

“Everyone’s still held up at Finger Lake,” I said to Missy. “Must be horrible beyond there.”

 Missy grumbled something under her breath and ordered another plate of lasagna.

Outside Skwentna are several trails leading in all directions. I made several loops while looking for the outhouse (relishing a chance to use toilet paper where it was available), then started down a narrow track with chest-high snow berms on both sides. After a mile I was sure something wasn't right, finally consulted my GPS, and swore out loud. I’d ventured onto the alternate trail that leads to Skwentna, and was heading back toward the Yentna River. Turning my sled around in this tunnel of snow proved more difficult than anticipated, and eventually required removing the poles and lifting the 50-pound mass over the snow berm to point it in the right direction. Between this and two bonus miles, I lost an hour of daylight.

Back on route, I enjoyed respite from the wind where Skwentna’s single road cuts through the birch forest. Overhead, gusts howled and barren branches swayed. I knew it was going to be bad once I hit the open swamps before the Shell Hills. It would be a crosswind from the north. It was always a crosswind from the north. At the edge of the swamp, I stopped in the last remaining strip of wind shelter to strap on my snowshoes and adjust my buff. As I stood, I saw my friend Cheryl and her traveling partner Nina pushing their bikes back toward Skwentna.

 “We’re going to rest and try again in the morning,” Nina told me as she passed. “We still have time so no use burning all of our reserves tonight.”

“Good idea, going back,” I said to Cheryl as she passed, and she nodded. Her face was mostly covered but her eyes looked somewhat stricken. “Tough year,” I thought.

The trail was in terrible condition. Thigh-deep drifts swept across the path. There was only a narrow strip left unburied, and it had been punched out by others. It was difficult to hold the line, and I kept tripping over my own snowshoes. My sled jerked and threatened to tip over on the off-camber surface. Blasting gusts of wind threatened to tip me over.

These were perhaps the most annoying trail conditions yet, but I was in an inexplicably fantastic mood. Evening had arrived, my favorite time of day. The sun drifted low on the horizon, illuminating the blowing snow in such a way that it appeared to be fluid — a mesmerizing current in a golden stream. The wind carried a fearsome bite; the ambient temperature had fallen to 6 below, which meant windchills were likely 25 below. I’d layered up well but didn’t put on goggles, so facing directly into the wind incited rapid eyelid blinking, a sharp pain in my eyebrows and ice-cream headache near the bridge of my nose. But Denali was over there, glowing pink in the evening light, and I couldn’t help but glance north, again and again.

As darkness descended I began the climb into the Shell Hills, gaining 600 feet in a scant 1.5 miles. Surrounded by thick forest, the trail was well protected here. Climbing even these steep grades on packed trail felt easier than the powder-choked river and swamp slogging earlier in the day. The trail cut deep into the snowpack, with berms sometimes rising to shoulder level, high enough that I couldn’t see my most immediate surroundings unless I strained my neck. I developed a terrible paranoia, and muted my already low-volume audio book so I could fret about every crack and moan of wind whistling through branches.

This fear of darkness emerged from prior warnings about especially high levels of moose activity along the trail this year. Snowpacks neared record depths, and moose were having difficulty moving around. This left them hungrier than usual and susceptible to predator attacks. In turn, they became agitated and reactive, a threat to anyone who encounters them on these trails that they like to use. People who don’t know better think of moose as dopey forest cows, but they are so much meaner and incredibly dangerous. If a moose is grumpy and you so much as look at it wrong, it will rear up and stomp you into a bloody pulp. We’d been warned this year’s moose were exceptionally grumpy.

All the way through the Shell Hills, my headlamp would catch the gleam of a reflective marker and I’d startle, convinced I was looking an angry moose in the eye. The moose-a-noia was unnerving but effective in warding off the sleep monster. I marched with purpose through the tunnel of snow. I wondered what I’d do if I encountered a moose here. Of course I’d back off, but I’d had such difficulty turning my sled around after Skwentna that I knew I was pretty much a sitting duck as long as I was strapped to it. I’d have to drop my harness, dart behind the sled, and if a moose started coming at me, I would pick up the duffle and hold the whole thing over my body like a shield as I dove into a snowbank. Yes, that was my plan for angry moose. I unhooked the waist-strap of my harness and moved mittens and a balaclava to an outside pocket, in anticipation of frantic retreat.

For all of my vigilance and dozens of false alarms, I didn’t catch even a glimpse of what I could be certain was a real moose. Eventually I dropped onto Shell Lake and battled howling north wind and breathtaking windchill toward a friendly light in the distance. This I knew was Shell Lake Lodge. Although not an official checkpoint, the race directors had rented cabins this year, and I looked forward to another warm spot to dry out my frosty face mask and snow-caked footwear.

It was after midnight when I walked inside, so I was surprised to find two people waiting up in the main lodge. I hadn’t expected there to be volunteers here. One was Kari’s mother, a cheerful midwesterner who served soup and homemade soda bread with butter. I find it terribly difficult to socialize at the end of these long, hard days on the trail, so I remember nothing about our conversation, but the food was transcendently delicious.

 Like McDougall’s, the cabins at Shell Lake Lodge were crowded — probably with the same group of people — and I was one of the last to arrive for the night. But one walker was getting ready to leave, and I was able to score his spot, a double bed in room shared with two others in a bunk bed. I added a log to the wood stove, but suspected none of us would be motivated to wake up and stoke the fire when it burned out in an hour or two. I unrolled my sleeping bag in anticipation of plummeting subzero temperatures that wouldn’t take long to permeate everything.