Steady progress

I received a couple calls from Beat on Saturday afternoon as I was pedaling a borrowed fat bike along the buffed snow singletrack in the hills outside Whitehorse. In the first, his voice sounded so distraught that my knee-jerk reaction was to start panicking, convinced he was hurt. "I'm so sorry," he said in a single slurred word. "I lost my camera. It fell out of my pocket. I went back a mile to look for it but I can't go back any more. It's gone. All of the pictures I wanted to show you. I'm so sorry."

I had to pause for a second just to realize that this emergency simply was just a lost camera. I can understand, however. When I'm out for a long time alone, and my body and mind are incredibly tired, I also experienced these exaggerated emotions. I compare it to reverting to a childlike state, where small setbacks feel like the end of the world until I allow my mind to process them rationally. Similarly, good feelings become euphoria and exhilaration. Beat sounded truly distraught over the loss of his camera, and I admit I felt like a parent trying to soothe a child as I responded, "It's okay. It doesn't matter. There are still several racers behind you. I'm sure someone will find it."

An hour later, I received another call: "I have my camera!" he exclaimed with the kind of exhilaration I'd expect when an exhausted mind experiences triumph. "Some snowmobilers found it and gave it back to me."

After that, there were no calls for many hours even though he said he'd call when he arrived at the Bear Creek cabin, where he planned to spend the night. Even though I don't necessarily expect calls, especially when he arrives at a stopping point because he's so busy attending to his own needs, I couldn't help but worry some. Weather reports for Nikolai predicted temperatures down to 30 below zero overnight, which can easily drop to 40 below in low-lying areas. I knew he was simply resting, but it's still almost unavoidable. I feel anxiety.

Beat called again as he was leaving the Bear Creek cabin just after 1 a.m. Sunday. The temperature was 25 below zero with a light wind out of the east. He was still feeling tired after "a full night's rest" but felt he had slept enough and wanted to start into Nikolai, which is about thirty miles northwest of the cabin. There's little between the two besides open swamps and scraggly stands of human-sized spruce trees. The mountains of the Alaska Range still loom on the horizon, and McGrath feels too far away to comprehend. It's a difficult section of trail and I felt apprehensive about him taking it on in the deep cold of the morning, but I know he has few choices now but to keep trudging away at this until he gets it done. It's an inspiring thing he's doing, but it's still hard for me to hear his voice so tired and distraught, even if it is over a lost camera.

Meanwhile, right now (Sunday morning) I am getting ready to leave for an overnight bike tour on the Dawson Overland Trail. I probably will not be able to post any more blog updates until Monday afternoon, although I might be able to squeeze something in on my Facebook page, depending on cell reception. I expect he'll finish sometime late Monday night.

Meanwhile, I'm having way to much guilty fun in Whitehorse:

Riding miles of buffed snow singletrack.

Laughing with my friends (not at, with.)

Checking out the more quirky features of life in the Canadian North. Is this not the coolest lawn ornament you've ever seen?

Thanks for all of the support. I admit I'll be glad when this race is all over. 

Beat heads into the Burn

After twelve hours of driving across 700 miles of scenic nothingness, we settled in to a barrage of homemade pizza and frenetic conversation with friends. Just before midnight we heard a rumor about Northern Lights, so we loaded up again and headed into the hills above Whitehorse. We danced and struck silly poses beneath shimmering waves of light. Since the colorful flares spread out from a point far beyond the sky, I knew there was a chance Beat could see the same show I was seeing. I found comfort in that realization, even though we're now separated by hundreds of empty miles and the greater divide between my comfortable fun and Beat's difficult journey.

Beat called from Rohn at 6:30 p.m. Friday. He made great time on the trek over the Alaska Range on Rainy Pass, crossing 45 miles of steep climbs and the dramatic Dalzell Gorge in fourteen hours. This same section of trail took me 27 hours to traverse in 2008. The current race leader, Geoff, took twelve. Geoff was the first to leave Rohn, about two hours before lead bikers Pete and Phil. Beat took a nap and was the ninth competitor to leave remote checkpoint, about twelve hours after Geoff. He said the trip down from the pass was unbelievably gorgeous and the weather improved. Since the sky had cleared, he was hoping for a glimpse of the aurora as he hiked into vast expanse of the Farewell Burn.

The latest update came Saturday morning at 7:30. Beat bivied overnight near Egypt Mountain as temperatures plummeted and the wind increased. Cold feet woke him up several times and he estimated it was about 20 below, but he was able to catch some needed sleep. He sounded upbeat in the morning, and said his feet were fine after he warmed them up again. His plan for Saturday was to continue through the remnant foothills of the Alaska Range, into the Burn, and stop for the night at the Bear Creek cabin, which is about 30 miles away from the village of Nikolai, 300 miles into the course. He said it was still cold but the wind had calmed. There have been reports of deep snow drifts on the trail ahead, so progress may be more difficult for him on this section than it was over the mountains.

I'm hoping to hear from Beat tonight from a warmer, comfier spot. He's healthy and moving well, now nearly six days into this journey.

Taking this show on the road

I am falling victim to waiting syndrome. I'm not really doing the work I hoped to do. I toss and turn enough at night that I'm not really resting and recovering from the Susitna 100. That race already seems like it was a year ago, and I forget that my legs are still a little tired and that the bottoms of my feet are still tingling and sore. But this morning I wasn't as productive as I'd hoped to be with an article I started, and I was become tired of refreshing the ITI Web site repeatedly when I already knew the latest information about Beat's whereabouts. The weather was poor and I didn't feel like driving, so I decided, "I'll go blitz Lazy this afternoon."

The Lazy Mountain route is typical of the Chugach Range in that it starts at somewhere near sea level and ascends to 3,720 feet in less than two and a half miles. I imagine it's pleasantly steep in the summer, but in the winter, touring skiers and hikers pack the route into an icy slide with a deceptive skiff of powder. I wore crampons for maximum traction and my plan was to hike it as hard as I could. I endured 2,000 feet of calf-searing, lung-pounding, sweat-drenched marching before I broke near treeline. The temperature was about 16 degrees with a stiff wind, light snow was falling, and I debated heading back down. But after my red-line blitz, I didn't feel like immediately launching into the steep downhill, where I had no choice but to dig in and brake hard with each step or risk riding the ice slide all the way down the mountain (I believe this would be a lot less fun than it sounds.) I always appreciate my time in the mountains, so I piled on all of my dry clothing over my soaked base layer and abandoned the blitz for a pleasant stroll. (You know, among the zero-degree windchill and stinging snow.)

I was glad I climbed to the top, but downhill in the crampons was indeed hard work. I actually had to remove most of my layers again even before I reached the wind protection of the birch forest. I was cooked at the bottom, in good way — a kind of peaceful tired washed over me, and I felt satisfied in a way I haven't since the Susitna 100. I drove to Vagabond Blues for warm-up soup and tea, and received another call from Beat. He sounded so much more energized than his previous calls, and told me he had reached Puntilla Lake — four hours earlier than I had expected. He had an enjoyable hike through the foothills of the Alaska Range with Dave and Andrea. The trail was getting better, he was feeling better, and planned to continue toward Rainy Pass with Anne around midnight.

The fact he's decided to take on the pass is a decisive action. It means he's fully committed to the finish, barring an unworkable injury or bad weather. This was great news — the best of the journey so far. I feel like this means I shouldn't wait around and worry any longer. Beat is going to do his thing and cover his miles, and I'll hear from him when he feels like calling. Sitting around hitting refresh on a computer screen won't do either of us any good.

I've decided to head out to Whitehorse this weekend to join an overnight snowbike trip with friends. I'd been on the fence about going, but the schedule will put me back in Southcentral Alaska before Beat's likely to finish the race. And I do believe, now, that he'll probably finish. If not, there's going to be a delay in our reconnection, but I think he'll understand. I did tell him about this trip before the race started. It's going to be so full of awesome that I'll probably completely forget about the refresh button. It does mean my own Web updates will be more delayed, but I will continue to post about Beat's progress.

Meanwhile, current standing are posted here: http://nellahcir.com/iti/standings

My fault

Photo by Daniel Bailey, www.danbaileyphoto.com

I hoped Dan would understand if my line was a bit erratic on the powdery descents — it was my first snow bike ride in eleven months. We launched onto the delicious trails at Far North Bicentennial Park — soft groomed with about two inches of fresh — and ramped into the climbs through the foothills of the Chugach Mountains. Soon we connected with the hiker-packed singletrack of the Speedway Trail and wended through piles of fluff and snow-covered spruce trees an a thin thread of trail. The light was soft — afternoon gold, filtered by wisps of clouds — and I slipped into a peaceful, Zen-like state. It was exactly what I needed on Wednesday afternoon, as anxiety had been building at a surprising rate.

This race. Oh, this race. What a cluster it's been, so to speak. This kind of effort makes sense with a team of people in the Arctic who were expecting to break trail through daunting obstacles for days on end, and probably planned with enough supplies for a dozen or so miles per day. But when you have fifty people, many of them with wheeled anchors, who are trying to race, expecting to cover fifty to a hundred miles per day — then you have a problem. No one expected a massive storm to obliterate the trail and change everything — but of course, that is the nature of the Iditarod Trail. You can and will see anything, so you have to prepare for it. But here we are, four days into the race, and only three people — a skier and runners Tim and Geoff —have made it to the halfway point. Most of the cyclists, from rookies to the long-time veterans, have scratched. Beat is one of the people still trudging away at it. I have simultaneous mixed but strong feelings about this — pride in his perseverance, and also sadness for his suffering. This was inevitable, I suppose. Because I can imagine the hardships, I can also imagine the spirit-crushing despair.

He sounds so tired on the phone. He makes one call a day now, and keeps it very short. Half of his words are slurred; I can only pick out pieces of information amid the run-on sentences. Beat is now traveling with David Johnston and Andrea Hambach, a fact that makes me happy because those two are experienced Alaskans with a fantastic sense of humor. Humor means all the difference when despair threatens to encompass everything. When trudging across Alaska for 150+ miles at less than two miles an hour, the only advantage anyone can have is the ability to laugh at themselves. It's ridiculous. It's completely ridiculous. At yet, it's so life-changing and enlightening that the rewards are worth the struggle. Usually, I believe — but not always.

During Beat's long preparations for this race, he would joke that his signing up was my fault. "You talked me into it," he'd say with a grin. "You're going to dump me if I don't finish."

"That's I lie!" I proclaimed. "I did nothing of the sort." But I was grinning, too, because I was thrilled he was going to attempt this incredible journey that had such a perspective-shifting effect on my own life. "You're going to have such an amazing experience," I told him.

Now I'm not so sure. Honestly, I'm not. It's inspiring what these men and women are doing out there, but at the same time, I wonder what psychological, physical and spiritual sacrifices they're making to achieve it. I can't help but wonder if these sacrifices will cancel out any rewards ahead on the trail. I only wonder. I'm still so proud of Beat, and also Geoff, Tim, David, Andrea, Anne, Shawn, and all the people I do not know who are still sticking out the ceaseless trudge. A handful of cyclists are holding on in hopes that the trail will firm up over the pass. These cyclists are the craziest of all, and I admire them. I'm cheering Tim, who as a 57-year-old Nome hiker from Pennsylvania, no one dreamed he would lead the race for so long. But I just hope Beat doesn't feel compelled to stay out there for anyone but himself. "Just do what makes you happy," I told him on the phone. "Please."

As for Beat's status, he left Winter Lake Lodge, mile 135, at 3:25 a.m. Thursday. The 30-mile section of steep hills and river gorges between there and Puntilla Lake took leaders Geoff, Tim and Andrea about 18 hours to cover on snowshoes and skis. There have been reports of deep drifts on the trail, as well as a little bit of new snow in the forecast today. I expect — or at least I am hoping — to hear from Beat at Puntilla sometime between 9 p.m. and midnight tonight. From there, who knows? That will be more than a hundred hours into this race, with only half the distance covered on little rest. I can't fathom how he'll still have enough gas to power on to McGrath, but Beat continues to surprise me in many good ways.

And even as I was writing this, I received another text from Beat: "Cross Shirley Lake. More fun. Miss you. Pete just passed us." Definitely positive signs of improving trail conditions. 

I can only hope that when he comes home, and tells me this was my fault, he has a smile on his face.

Iditarod Trail fly-over

Beat about 10 miles south of Skwentna on the Yentna River.

This afternoon, my friend Dan Bailey and I set out from Anchorage to fly over the Yentna River in his Cessna 120. Our goal: A bird's eye view of the Iditarod Trail Invitational. We knew most racers would be bunched up in the 32 miles between Yentna Station and Skwentna Roadhouse, and the wide Yentna River was a great place to spot the racers.

We took off from Anchorage and flew over the Sustina Valley, spotting familiar landmarks such as Point McKenzie, the survey cut that serves as part of the Susitna 100 course, and Flathorn Lake. Even from 500 feet above the ground, the trail told a story of its own. The thin line across the Dismal Swamp was a mess of deep, staggered footprints. It looked like a herd of drunken moose had forged through the drifted snow.

An aerial view of Luce's Lodge. This spot is always a welcome sight in the cold, lonely night.

Yentna Station, the first checkpoint in the race at mile 57. Beat took about a six-hour rest here last night and left around 3:40 a.m. Based on that and his prior progress, I expected to see him some 20 miles farther up the river during our 2 p.m. flyover. I projected this well, as he appeared to be about 10 to 12 miles south of Skwentna (mile 90) when we spotted him.

Two cyclists push their bikes along the river. A thin snowmobile track threaded through the deep snow, but it appeared to be too soft to ride. We could see footprints in the snow from 500 feet up — again, not a good sign. As we flew north, we occasionally spotted cyclists trying to mount and ride their bikes, but this swerving effort usually ceased before we passed. Most of the cyclists were pushing their bikes, still, seventy to eighty miles into the race.

At least trail conditions were "pushable" today. From accounts I've heard, on Sunday and Monday conditions weren't even that good. The frontrunners broke trail through untouched snow, but even those behind them couldn't fare much better in their tracks. From the Susitna Flats to Yentna Station, I gathered, much of the course was a "bike carry" condition, meaning bikes couldn't just roll through the soft snow — they had to be hoisted and nudged. Such an effort is monstrous for anyone, but especially for smaller people (such as women) or racers with heavier bikes. I love a good slog as much as anyone, maybe more than anyone, but I don't blame the racers who dropped at Yentna Station. So far, this year's ITI has favored the mentally strong and also the physically strong (as in larger humans who can handle big loads.) This has not been a year for "fast" athletes, no matter their mode of travel.

This photo gives a good overview of the trail — just a single track through the expansive river. Those who understand what a highway the Yentna River can become can see just how badly the weekend storm obliterated any signs of the old trail.

And then, about a mile north of Fish Creek (where Beat, Anne and I stayed on the second night of our December trek) we spotted Beat! I was so excited. Dan buzzed low and I opened the window so I could stick my bare fingers into the 10-degree air with 90 mph wind chill and wave frantically at his hunched figure. Despite all the difficulties this year, I would so love to be out there right now. This is such an inexplicably intriguing adventure, and I'm so proud of him for persevering this far. I didn't receive any messages from him today. I expected the sat-phone contacts might taper off or even cease once Beat really started to get into trail mindset, a survival mode that blocks outside concerns as a coping mechanism. But that doesn't mean I won't fret about the lack of updates all the same. Ah, well.

Dan and I had been planning to fly over and back, but he caught a glimpse of the Skwentna airstrip and realized it was clear enough to land his plane. We touched down and hiked into Skwentna Roadhouse to say hello and leave a message for Beat, as I already understood that he wouldn't arrive at the checkpoint before we had to leave to beat sunset back to Anchorage.

Unsurprisingly, Geoff had already made it into Skwentna, along with two skiers. The leader of the race, veteran Nome hiker Tim Hewitt, checked out fifteen minutes earlier. Geoff was in a fantastic mood, possibly because of that giant hamburger and fries, and had great trail stories to share about the first day. Apparently a group of sixteen bikers and hikers, led by cyclist Pete Basinger, worked together to essentially plow a trail through the waist-deep snow across the Dismal Swamp. They took turns breaking trail out front, although Pete did the lion's share because he was navigating. It took them four hours to cover less than three miles across the swamp. They split up to bivy on the banks of the Susitna River before continuing in the morning. "I wouldn't stick around if I were you, there's going to be a lot of sadness here tonight," Geoff said, implying that the trail conditions on Tuesday were also quite tough (and confirming what we saw from the air), and others might be dispirited by the time they arrived at Skwentna. But Geoff was in great spirits, and that was fun to see. I was bummed I couldn't see Beat as well; I can only hope he doesn't feel sadness.

Dan and I hiked back to the airport in what I viewed as awful trail but Geoff called this short Skwentna section "awesome — the best of the entire course." It gave me the smallest of tastes of what these incredibly tough sled-draggers and bike-pushers are going through out there. After a half mile of this I was drenched in sweat, and Dan's back hurt. As much as I love slogging, would I be able to slog through ninety miles of this and worse with no end in sight? That's a good question that I'm still asking myself. I'm not sure.

But from trail reports we heard, it should get better. The valleys north of the Shell Hills received much less snow in the weekend storm, and the ITI trailbreakers have been working on the trails since it snowed. Geoff and one skier set out optimistically at about 3 p.m., and Dan and I prepared to leave for Anchorage. I left Beat a quick note telling him how proud I am of him, and to keep faith.

Thank you, Dan, for the fantastic opportunity to view my favorite adventure race from the sky.

The toughest miles

"I can't do this," Beat's voice crackled across the satellite connection. "It's not possible."

"It doesn't matter," I said. "Look what you've done already. You're amazing. All you need to do is get to Luce's Lodge. Get some rest, get some sleep. Sleep for a day if you want. All you have to do is get to Luce's."

I hung up my cell phone and stared hatefully at the snow flurries floating outside my window. The Iditarod Trail was a relative breeze just one week ago when I traveled these same miles in the Susitna 100. Now it was buried in more than a foot of new, unconsolidated snow, and not a single machine had been through to break the trail. The runners were breaking the trail, at a pace of about 1.5 mph, and the bikers were still farther behind. They had covered only forty miles in 24 nearly non-stop hours. At that pace, Beat was right — it wasn't possible. 

Geoff and Beat analyze Geoff's Iditarod sled. 

The race began so optimistically, under an overcast sky and 28 degrees on Knik Lake. Runners and bikers fluttered around and observed everyone else's gear. I spent much of the pre-race hour chatting with Geoff and Beat. One might think such a situation would be awkward, given I haven't seen Geoff since August 2010. But in the preoccupation of the moment, it was all an infectious mixture of anticipation and anxiety. At 2 p.m. Sunday, 47 racers embarked on their respective 350-mile or 1,000-mile journeys. The bikes took off toward the packed road and the runners formed a line across the lake toward the Iditarod Trail. We spectators waved and watched with admiration and, at least some of us, envy.


I felt frustrated about how demoralized Beat was when he called me at 1 p.m. Monday, because there was nothing I could say to boost his spirits. I couldn't promise that snowmachine traffic would come to save him from the wallow, and I couldn't lie away the fact there was more snow in the forecast. These aren't supposed to be the tough miles of the Iditarod; they're supposed to be the warm up. The tough miles of the Iditarod come later, over the mountains, across the deep-frozen Interior, into the unknown. I been holed up at a computer, waiting for news all morning. But I didn't want to dwell on my frustration. I packed up my gear and snowshoes and set out toward Lazy Mountain.

Beat and David Johnston model their individual race fashion.

Beat acquired the satellite phone one day before the race, mainly because he's a gear geek who can't resist a chance to use intriguing technology. I admitted that I'd love to hear from him during the race, but I certainly didn't expect it. I know how it can be out there. The outside world truly becomes another world. The first text came at 4:26 a.m. Monday: "bivy wall of death w/ anne, geoff, david and more. we're lead group breaking trail. overtook pete. Then "miss you, love you. not sure can be finished."

I received the first call just after 9 a.m. "I'm still on the Sustina River," Beat said, meaning he had traveled about thirty miles since 2 p.m. the day before with only about two hours rest. "We're taking turns breaking trail," Beat told me of the group of runners he was traveling with. "When I'm out front, I'm leading the race. All of the bikers are behind us now." I was floored by this news, because I slept through the text and had no idea trail conditions had gotten so bad. There was no trail. They might as well have been cutting a path across a remote wilderness, plodding through bottomless powder like turn-of-the-century polar explorers.


The packed surface of the Lazy Mountain trail was so icy that every step forward in my snowshoes netted two skids back. I should have packed crampons. I stepped over into the deep powder beside the trail and began the slow plod up the steep slope. Every step was an ordeal; I sunk to my knees down to an icy base, so the footing was both slippery and strenuous. The low ceiling of clouds grew closer, and I knew that soon all I'd see were shapeless shades of gray.

Out of the gate at Knik Lake.

Beat sounded so discouraged when he called at 1 p.m. Progress was almost nonexistent; he estimated he had traveled six or seven miles in the four hours since we last spoke. He had been struggling with every ounce of strength for a standstill. The temperature was above freezing and he was wet, and growing cold. He had fallen behind the lead group because his sled wasn't performing well in the deep snow. It kept tipping over and dragging like a flat tire through the wet powder. "Who knew I'd wish I used a toboggan?" he said. I felt guilty because I too pushed for skis over a plastic sled. The sled performed flawlessly in the Sustina 100, but it wasn't designed for unconsolidated snow.

"Just take it easy," I urged. "Go slow, take breaks. You have nothing to gain by pushing hard."

"I have to push hard to to go forward," Beat said. "I don't have a choice."

I couldn't help but sigh. "Yes, I know," I said. "I understand. I do understand."


As the fog grew thicker, visibility decreased to a few bleak twigs among the snow. I was drenched in sweat despite wearing only a single layer, and my poles stabbed uselessly at the powder. I was beginning to resent my Lazy Mountain hike, but for my own reasons of coping with a situation I couldn't help, I felt obligated to keep at it. I was compelled to join the slog and show my solidarity for all 47 racers in the Iditarod Trail Invitational who had yet to even see the first checkpoint.

Those who have never traveled long distances in bad snow conditions can't really understand how incredibly frustrating and difficult it is. It's the definition of futility, fighting a useless war with no end in sight. Climbing a mountain, well, that was easy. At least I had the top to look forward to. Beat only had the knowledge that there was no way he could maintain this level of effort, and no way he could finish the race at his current pace. He had no reason to believe that would change.

I reached a wind-swept saddle and decided this would have to be the place I turned around. The snow was too crusty to register tracks, and I couldn't risk forging my own trail in light that was so disorientingly flat. I was as likely to step off a cornice and plummet down a 70-degree slope as I was to follow the proper ridge. But as I stood at a rock outcropping shooting photos, I noticed the muted glare of the sun breaking through the clouds. When I looked up, I saw streaks of blue amid the gray. "Maybe I can get above this," I thought. As long as I could see rocks to help me gain my bearings, I decided it was worth a try.

Facing the long path ahead.

A 6:10 p.m. text brought a new injection of hope: "big meal at Luce's. now Yentna with Shawn."Beat had not only made it to Luce's Lodge, he was planning to continue up the river. It didn't necessarily mean trailbreakers had put a track in place, or that the going was any easier, but at least he had enough optimism to head out the door. He planned to take a long rest at Yentna Station and set out toward Skwentna in the morning. Who knows what tomorrow will bring. Still, Beat is a master at taking things one step at a time — the bad steps and the good.

Sure enough, a few hundred feet more elevation carried me out of the clouds and into a clearing. At first I could only see hints of Matanuska Peak, and then it appeared in gold-tinted brilliance. Clouds continued to drift across the mountain and I climbed as hard as I could, determined to tag the peak before they closed in again. At the top at 3:45 p.m., I sent a quick text message to Beat's satellite phone: "On top of Lazy Mountain. Climbed above the clouds and found the sun. It is coming your way I can tell. You're amazing and I'm so proud of you."