Weeks 6-8, Dec. 16 to Jan. 5

Mountain biking singletrack in the California sun. Okay, I did miss it.

I'm far behind with my training log, so I'm attempting to catch it up here will the workout-specific notes that I wanted to record. Most likely only interesting to me, but then again what is a blog for?

Monday, Dec. 16: Zero. Somewhat forced rest day after running 66 miles over the weekend. As often happens after big mileage push, I was still buzzing with endorphins and wanted to get back out there. This whole week was intended to be an easier week, to rest up and prepare for Alaska the following week. I'm hitting more of a stride with distance running in general. No physical issues from the weekend.

Tuesday, Dec. 17: Run, 1:07, 7.3 miles, 659 feet climbing. Average pace 9:15 min/mile. I do all of my runs based on feel, so it's interesting to see which random routine trail runs generate a faster pace. I tend to perform better after rest days, who knew? Not that it makes any difference over the haul of a seven-plus-day effort. Strength is something I should have spent more time building; I'm trying to decide what I can or should do about it at this point.

Wednesday, Dec. 18: Run, 0:57, 5.7 miles, 622 feet climbing. Average pace 10:10 min/mile.

Thursday, Dec. 19: Road bike, 2:44, 33.9 miles, 3,281 feet climbing. Highway 9 to Page Mill Loop. As usual for a winter afternoon, the well-shaded Page Mill descent was frigid. More frigid than Alaska? Maybe.

Friday, Dec. 20: Run, 1:02, 6.2 miles, 980 feet climbing. Average pace 10:12 min/mile.

Saturday, Dec. 21: Zero. Travel day to Fairbanks.

Sunday, Dec. 22: Sled-drag, 3:34, 10 miles, 83 feet climbing. Mushing trails in Fairbanks, temperature 11F. About six inches of fresh powder. Average pace 21:53 min/mile. Let the real training begin!

Week 6: 9:24, 29.2 miles run, 33.9 miles ride, 5,625 feet climbing

Oh yeah, I'm attached to this thing.

Monday, Dec. 23: Sled-drag, 1:55, 5.5 miles, 53 feet climbing. Mushing trails in Fairbanks. Temperature -16. Average pace 21:13 min/mile. By the second day I was beginning to feel some strain in my hamstrings. Some shoulder soreness, but if I adjusted the straps on my harness often enough, the variability was enough to reduce strain on any particular spot, and back soreness was minimal. I decided that minute for minute, hiking while towing a loaded sled through soft snow is at least as hard as running steep trails uphill. And it's even slower. Without downhill relief. This is beyond intimidating, but I'm going to try not to dwell on it.

Tuesday, Dec. 24: Sled-drag, 3:11, 9 miles, 259 feet climbing. Goldstream Valley. Temperature -34. 21 min/mile. Some packed trail and some soft snow. When it's this cold, any physical strains definitely take a back seat to survival instincts regarding staying warm. Had no physical issues and felt comfortable. Even still, even the slightest pauses during the effort sparked awareness of the deep cold settling around me, similar I think to the awareness of an ocean diver acknowledging that he's a long way under water.

Wednesday, Dec. 25: Sled-drag, 4:15, 10.8 miles, 1,509 feet climbing. Hike in to Tolovana Hot Springs. Temperature -15 to -20. 24 min/mile. I became quite overheated on the climb up the Tolovana Hot Springs Dome, which was strange given the low temperature, and my efforts to vent resulted in semi-frozen small body parts (ears, eyebrows froze without a hat, and shoulders became cold with only the base layer.) Bundled up again for the wind blast at the summit. Figuring out heat and moisture management is a big challenge.

Thursday, Dec. 26: Sled-drag, 3:12, 7.2 miles, 1,560 feet climbing. Day hike with fully loaded sleds, a climb to the gale. Temperature -25, wind chill likely -55. 27 min/mile, ouch. Once again I felt overheated and vented heavily on the climb, then was reduced to panic dressing into a shell, mittens, and goggles at the wind-blasted top. Valuable lessons were learned.

Friday, Dec. 27: Sled-drag, 4:50, 11 miles, 2,603 feet climbing. Tolovana out. Temperature -25, similar wind chill. Lots of fresh drift over the trail, some knee-deep postholing. Also 27-28 min/mile. Hard work day physically — for me the toughest of the trip, especially the final climb. Steep climbing + wind-drifted snow + loaded sled = Something more strenuous than anything I do at home. Probably no way to effectively train for this.

Saturday, Dec. 28: Sled-drag, 6:15, 19 miles, 1,539 feet climbing. Borealis in. Temperature -3, hot! Without the windchill it really did feel 50 degrees warmer than it had at Tolovana. The Monkey Fleece might be too warm at times, so I plan to take two interchangeable mid-layers. The Patagonia Nano-Puff or NF ThermoBall jacket should work well when it's warmer but not base-layer-only warm. Both seem to be large enough to wear over my Monkey Fleece for deeper cold with no wind, but I'll have to do some more testing. I worked quite hard on this hike, heart rate was likely 140-165 the entire time, which is 50K pace, for six hours, so effectively a 50K effort. 19:45 min/mile. Better.

Sunday, Dec. 29: Sled-drag, 4:10, 11.1 miles, 376 feet climbing. Day hike with fully loaded sleds, temperature -25. Soft snow, felt good, worked hard. 22:40 min/mile.

Week 7: 26:48, 73.6 miles "run," 7,899 feet climbing

Monday, Dec. 30: Sled-drag, 7:10, 19 miles, 2358 feet climbing. Borealis out. Garmin finally died about 1.5 miles before the trailhead but estimated pace at 22:24 min/mile. Similar to Sunday's speed but a much more relaxed effort, even with all of the climbing. Definitely my most comfortable march of the week, as I'd finally hit a stride of strength expectations and moisture management, even with fair fluctuations in temperature (started out near -30, valley temps around -18, as high as 0 to 5 above on Wickersham Dome but with light breeze along the ridge.)

Tuesday, Dec. 31: Snow bike, 2:25, 13.7 miles, 154 feet climbing. Borrowed a Salsa Mukluk and took it out for a New Year's Eve joy ride on the mushing trails. Temps around -10, possibly -15 at the lower areas. I thought this would be an easy spin; I was wrong! Trails were decently packed but for various reasons the resistance was set to 10 — I even let a bit of air out of the tires and this only made the riding slower. I tried to make up for it and ended up expending a huge amount of effort and getting soaked in sweat, which I deemed acceptable because I was close to "home." I met Liehann and Beat out snowshoeing about a mile from Joel's house, and traded tools with Liehann so he could try the snow bike. The short hike back to Joel's house was very uncomfortable; I was surprised how quickly I cooled down and only very slowly got my core temp to climb back up as we tromped through shin-deep powder. Anyway, it was another valuable lesson in "Don't get sweaty, no matter what."

Wednesday, Jan. 1: Zero. Travel day back to California. An overnight work session on Monday followed by a red-eye flight on Tuesday left me feeling completely empty on Wednesday, with something similar to jet lag. It was good to take a rest day after such a big week, and in truth I was pretty much nonfunctional.

Thursday, Jan. 2: Road bike, 1:30, 17.5 miles, 2,739 feet climbing. Mellow ride up Montebello. Legs did feel sluggish and hamstrings still tight. Funny, because I thought my hips and ankles would give me more issues during the sled-dragging sessions, but this time it was my hammies. Need to work on those.

Friday, Jan. 3: Run, 1:03, 6.2 miles, 995 feet climbing. Wildcat loop, 10:14 min/mile. I didn't feel awesome on this run thanks to the heat. It always takes time to re-acclimate after time spent in winter conditions, and even 60 degrees feels mid-summer oppressive right at first. When I set out in the early afternoon, it was 62 degrees — although still fairly cool in the shade, and it had been in the high 40s earlier that morning. As I ran up the hill feeling like I might collapse with overheating, I passed a hiker coming down who was wearing a full winter shell, hood up, and cotton mittens. I am not joking — this really happened. It provided some perspective and comic relief. Ah, California. It's good to be back.

Saturday, Jan. 4: Run, 2:20, 13.2 miles, 2,180 feet climbing. 10:37 min/mile. Ran the main Rancho loop with Beat and Liehann. I did the entire route from my house which just happens to be a half marathon distance. For the first three miles or so I felt overheated, but then we started climbing the shaded PG&E trail, and suddenly I felt like I was floating. Running is effortless with no sled! I felt like I could just go bounding up the steep hill, but restrained myself to my usual shuffle, although for the first time in a while I didn't walk any of the climb. I also descended slower than usual, not wanting to exacerbate any of my still-tight leg muscles and possibly tear something. But, wow. I did hold back, but as it was, this run felt surprisingly easy, which was eye-opening in its own regard. I have to accept that trail running, even hilly trail running, is for the most part inadequate training for the Iditarod. Which is a shame, because I really enjoy hilly trail running. I gave some more thought to dragging a tire, but to be honest I don't think I can go through with it. Not only would I be creating an annoying obstruction on trails, but I'd have to field endless questions about it. I'm considering preparing a 25-pound backpack to run with. But it is a question of how much stronger I can even get in the next six weeks, and the answer is, probably not much. I might just end up risking injury in a workout that's still fairly nonspecific to what I'll actually be doing in Alaska. We'll see.

Steven's Creek Reservoir, now almost entirely dry.

Sunday, Jan. 5: Mountain bike, 3:45, 30.7 miles, 4,040 feet climbing. So, training here is not that effective. Oh well. At least it can be fun! It had been a while, way too long, since I went mountain biking. I rode trails in Steven's Creek Canyon and along Skyline Ridge, which were in surprisingly decent shape considering it still hasn't rained. Personally I am disturbed by the lack of rain and deepening California drought. If it doesn't start raining soon, the hills may not green up at all this year, along with all of the troubling climate and water resource concerns therein. Knowing California, we'll probably just demand to start siphoning more water from the Rockies and Oregon. Sigh. But that's off topic for a training log. I enjoyed this ride and do need to build a base for summer, so I'll continue incorporating mountain biking into my routine.

Week 8: 18:13, 38.4 miles run, 61.9 miles ride, 12,466 feet climbing

The Fairbanks Journals, day 10

December 31. Sunrise 10:55 a.m. Sunset 2:53 p.m. Temperature -10. Still clear. Awesome. 

I couldn't leave Alaska without getting in at least one bike ride. Happily, Joel's roommate let me borrow his Salsa Mukluk while he was out of town. He was gone all week, so I suppose it's a shame that I only managed one ride. As it turned out, even New Year's Eve was a tight squeeze. I had been awake for most of the night before finishing layout on the Alaska newspapers that I contract for, and we were flying home late that evening (we enjoyed salmon and fondue dinner, fireworks, and a raunchy card game with Joel and Erica, but spent the stroke of midnight at the Fairbanks airport, which is as sad as it sounds.) Still, snow bike ride, yay! Finally, I was going to fly!

Except the trails were still soft, and the rolling was strenuous and slow. I did not find 5 mph to be an acceptable pace, so I laid into the pedals, working near maximum capacity just to produce that feeling of actually riding a bike. I had to pull down my mask and take big ragged gulps of 10-below air. And it's amazing how frosty you can get when you really let yourself sweat. After 45 minutes I could no longer see through my icelashes.

Only after making this Fairbanks blog post series did I realize that we spent ten full days in Alaska. It passed in such a blur, like a long weekend, and suddenly it was over. If it hasn't become obvious yet, I am very happy when I am in Alaska. I acknowledge that this is largely because, since I moved away, any time I've spent there has been focused on playing and adventure. Living in the 49th state is a much broader experience, more subdued, and more trying oftentimes. But the dream remains that someday we will return for a longer period of time than a week here, a month there. I'm satisfied where I'm at right now, but "North to the Future, Again, Someday" is the dream I still hold in my heart. If I had an Alaska permanent base and work location was no concern, I think I'd most prefer either Fairbanks, Palmer, or Homer. All have their benefits and drawbacks, and it's oh-so-tough to choose. (Homer is my favorite community, but so far away from everything. Fairbanks people are fun and winters are amazing, but seven months of it probably gets old. Palmer is a pleasant town near big mountains, centrally located, but it is culturally part of the Mat-Su Valley.) And then there's Juneau. Sometimes I think I could return. When it's beautiful in Juneau, few places in the world that I've experienced can match that beauty. But then I remember that at one time I desperately needed to escape the isolation and gray, and there's probably no going back.


The winter gear-testing went well, and Fairbanks gave us a fair range of conditions in which to try out new stuff. I know such things are boring additions to a narrative blog, but I benefit from keeping these records, so I'm posting the gear list I'm working on. There are probably some things missing, and I hope to continue to tweak it and maybe shed a few items over the next few weeks (so hard for me. I do not have unbending confidence in myself or my abilities, quite the opposite, so I feel the need to be prepared for all contingencies.)

It's funny, because one of the reasons I took up running is because I was sick of all the gear-oriented focus of cycling. Running is shoes and a water bottle, right? How I continue to find myself venturing into extremely gear-oriented activities is a mystery to me, because in a different life I would *love* to be the kind of person who owned one bike, one pair of shoes, and a water bottle. But, alas, my complicated passions have rendered me as gear-crazed as the worst of them, and this is what I think I need to run (walk) 350 miles across Alaska:

Clothing: 

Outer layer, for stopping: PHD down pants, PHD down parka, RBH Designs VaprThrm mittens
Wind layer: Skinfit shell pants, Outdoor Research Mentor Jacket
Insulation layers: Mountain Hardwear Airshield Monkey Fleece, North Face ThermoBall jacket, North Face wind pants, Skinfit primaloft shorts
Base layers: 66 North Polartec pullover, Under Armour top, GORE windstopper tights
Head: Mountain Hardwear monkey fleece hat, Mountain Hardwear windstopper hat, fleece balaclava, windstopper buff, goggles with nose piece, Beko face mask
Hands: Mountain Hardwear monkey fleece mittens, windstopper gloves, trekking pole pogies
Underwear: Isis briefs (x3), sports bras (x3)
Feet: Montrail Mountain Masochist Gore-Tex shoes, size 10.5; Acorn fleece socks, medium (x2), extra-large (x2); Integral Designs vapor barrier socks, Drymax socks (x6), Outdoor Research gaiters
Sunglasses

Sleeping: 

Thermarest Ridge Rest SoLite; PHD down sleeping bag; Integral Designs South Col II bivy sack; Bivy bundle; Down booties.

Survival: 

Multitool; Spare knife; Duct tape; Flint firestarter; Lighter; Waterproof matches; Mirror; Handwarmers x4; sled repair kit? (screws, rope, allen key.)

Electronics: 

Garmin eTrex 20; watch; personal locator beacon; Lithium AA batteries (x12-16); Lithium AAA batteries (x4); Fenix headlamp; Spare Black Diamond headlamp; Cold-O-Meter; Camera; iPod shuffle (x4); Spare camera battery.

Foot kit: 

Leukotape; {keep warm — Benzoin Tincture; Hydrolube (2 tubes?)} Blister patches (x6), safety pin; Neosporin.

Med kit: 

Wet wipes (x10); Advil; Aleve; Sudafed; Imodium; Caffeine tabs; Toothbrush/paste; Floss; Small soap; extra hair ties; Chapstick; Tums; Dermatone SPF 23; Sunscreen stick backup?

Cooking: 

MSR Whipserlite stove; Fuel, 11 oz; Pot; Pot holder; Spoon.

Misc: 

Northern Sled Works 4' Racing Pulk; Pole system; Deuter duffle; Bungees (x2-3); Stuff sacks for gear and food (x3-4) Wiggy's waders; Black Diamond Ultra-Distance Z-Pole trekking poles; Backpack/harness; Camelbak Shredbak bladder 2L; Hydro Flask 40 oz; Thermos; Northern Lights snowshoes; Paper maps.

The Fairbanks Journals, days 7-9

December 28 to 30. Sunrise 10:57 a.m. Sunset 2:50 p.m. Temperature -3 to -25. 

 Back in Fairbanks after the Tolovana trip, the temperature was near minus 30. A smog-saturated ice fog hung over the streets like a dirty curtain, empty cars idled in parking lots, and we pulled on our down coats and went out for a burrito because this was quickly becoming our new normal. We had only about twelve hours to shop for new supplies, eat, and sleep before it was time to pack up in the pre-dawn chill and head north again, this time for a three-day trip to the White Mountains Recreation Area. This trip plan had me especially excited, as I love the White Mountains. With all of the beautiful spots in Alaska, it's difficult to explain while this particular space holds my heart so tight — the Whites are a small mountain range, dotted with anemic spruce trees and large swaths of burn, not immediately remarkable in any way. But my time here has always been filled with joy, and awe, and just enough fear and fatigue to strike a memorable chord.

On December 28, it was hot. Those words did come out of my mouth. "It's hot." Wispy clouds moved in and the temperature shot up to a few degrees below zero F. Thanks to the clouds, we actually convinced two friends to join us for the first night — Jay on his fat bike and Tom on skis. Both were not particularly interested in spending a night at the cabin, which sits in a low-lying valley on the banks of Beaver Creek, if the temperature was as low as it had been at Jay's house two nights before — minus 45 (as it turned out, the Tolovana winds prevented us from experiencing the depths of the cold snap, which dropped into the minus 40s in Fairbanks and as low as minus 58 in Chicken, Alaska.) We got a particularly late start so we could convoy with Jay and Tom to Wickersham Dome, and let them speed on ahead and warm up the cabin as we made the twenty-mile march to Borealis-Lefevre.

Beat drops down the Wickersham Wall, a 1,200-foot descent off the Dome. You can see the trail snaking out into the valley for miles ahead.

Dressing for the cold is an art, and in my experience it's not the same in similar temperatures even for individuals, depending on a multitude of other factors. I put on the same layers that felt perfectly comfortable a mere six days earlier at 11 degrees above zero, and felt uncomfortably hot at 3 below. I did the usual — took off my hat, unzipped the insulation layers, pushed down my trekking pole pogies, and made an effort to vent as much as possible without exposing my more sensitive parts or bare skin to the still-subzero cold. Along the Wickersham Creek it dropped to 9 below, which felt nice, but I was still pumping out more heat than I thought was prudent, pretending I was in a universe where a warm cabin didn't lie just a few hours away. Heat means sweat, and sweat eventually means chill. It's great to feel warm, but bad to feel hot. Still, I felt pressed to continue the strenuous output. The boys, especially Liehann, were pumping out a break-neck pace and I was determined to keep up with them. It was such hard work, this sled-dragging at three miles per hour, and again I tried to push future implications of such slowness out of my mind. "Think of Jehu, the little pony," I thought to myself. "Keep up or end up as dog food."

We arrived at Borealis after six and a half hours of marching, feeling great. I'm not sure I could afford that same high level of effort during the long march of the Iditarod, but overall it does feel better to move "fast" rather than "slow." I felt so good toward the end that I even chased after the boys, who had gotten about a quarter mile ahead of me before the descent into Beaver Creek. I looked up my pace for that downhill sprint on Strava. 7:16-minute-mile pace! Who says this stuff has to be a slog all of the time?


Spending the evening at Borealis with Jay and Tom was good times. Thanks to their faster methods of travel, they had a good fire going by the time we arrived, as well as wood gathered for the night. In this BLM area, cabins are as bare-bones as they come. There's a Coleman two-burner stove and propane lantern — you pack in the propane and matches. You also pack in your own dishes and supplies, and gather all of your own wood from the surrounding forest. Cabin etiquette stipulates that you gather and split enough wood for one extra night before you leave, so there's a fair supply when the next party arrives. This is much less work if you arrive with a snowmachine and a chainsaw than it is if you're on foot with a cabin hatchet and a small saw. Drinking water is acquired by either melting snow in a pot on the wood stove, or chopping a hole in the ice on Beaver Creek and boiling the stream water. In the 12' by 16' foot log structure, there's a small table, a counter, two bunk beds, and a heat-trapping loft that Tom calls "the dehydrator." Rather than squeeze onto one of the thin upper bunks, Liehann opted to sleep on the floor where there was a slick of ice that never melted. It's rustic living out there, but the rentals are only $25 a night, and you can't beat the awesome location at any price.

The next morning, defying a weather forecast that called for more warming and some snow, the clouds cleared out and the temperature dropped to 20 below. Tom, who was on skis, was especially annoyed by this, as cold temperatures reduce glide and make for a slower and harder ski out. "It could take seven hours," he lamented. We pointed out it would probably take us seven hours to hike out, which did not make him feel any better. I was honestly glad that it was cold again. Cold meant clear, and clear meant magic light.

Our plan for the layover day was to hike farther out the trail toward Windy Gap, as long as we felt like hiking, before turning around. Only one set of tracks had been laid since the last big storm, and the trail was very soft and — because our sleds don't glide well in cold temperatures either — extremely slow.

But I was so blissed out, comfy cozy in my fleece jacket, tights, and primaloft shorts. And while my hamstrings did ache from the hard march the day before, I quietly hoped this day's march would go on for a long while.

As the day swiftly waxed and waned, the temperature continued to drop, even though we were gaining elevation. At mile four it was down to 25 below. Beat suggested we go one more mile.

Beat and Liehann at our agreed-upon turnaround, mile five, still 25 below. "I'm really enjoying myself," I announced. "If it's all right with you guys, I'll keep going for another mile or so and then turn back."

Beat did not seem to like the idea of me striking out alone. "If you don't come back, we're not going to come looking for you," he said gruffly.

"I'm going to be spending a lot of time in the Iditarod by myself," I argued. "I have everything I need. I'm fine."

I won the argument to go on and Beat decided to accompany me. Liehann opted to turn back. We were marching toward these sun-kissed mountains and the devil on my shoulder prodded me to find a way to keep going, to continue pushing toward those mountains, deeper into the Whites. But Beat was the angel on my other side, reminding me what might be at stake. "With it clearing like this, it might drop to 40 below overnight," he reasoned. And he was right that getting too tired out the day before a twenty-mile march would not be prudent. The game really begins to change at 40 below, and operating at anything but full energy and alertness is a gamble. My worst moments in my first Iditarod Trail Invitational happened because of fatigue in the deep minus 30s. I remember them all too well. 

So Beat won the argument to turn around. The trail on the way back was considerably harder to negotiate, because a bunch of moose had come through and stomped it full of holes. Oh wait, that was us. I took the obligatory daily selfie, this one at minus 25. I'm wearing a fleece balaclava that I've owned since I was a senior in high school. I love using fleece balaclavas in cold temperatures because they can be easily adjusted to warm the skin on my face as needed, and all of that frost buildup can be beaten away to the point that it's almost dry. The front face piece does soak through with breath moisture, and of course freezes solid. But without wind, the resulting ice mask is not uncomfortable. It still catches heat from my breath and redirects it toward my face, which means no goggles are needed unless it's windy, or possibly when it's colder than 40 below. (I hate wearing goggles with a fiery passion. I do like my eyes so I will wear them if necessary.) Beat is considering a fur ruff, and that's definitely a good idea. But for something that cost $20 back in 1997, the fleece balaclava has to have the highest value ratio of any piece of gear I've purchased.

Thanks to clear skies, the Northern Lights again came out to play. We never had a spectacular display during our time in Fairbanks — activity remained moderate to low. But they were consistent, often still out hours later as we made midnight dashes to the outhouse.

I need to point out that Beat took all of the aurora photos. One of the reasons I do not consider myself a photographer is because I have no patience for fussing with camera settings. Luckily Beat took over and captured some decent ones.

Ah, Borealis. So many good memories here. This cabin serves as checkpoint four in the White Mountains 100, at mile 78 of the race. The first time I arrived at this cabin was around midnight during the 2010 race. The trail had been very difficult — lots of wind and overflow — and I was rather undertrained because, well, I had been fairly depressed during the winter of 2009-2010. As night deepened, the temperature dropped to 25 below — somewhat rare for late March — and all of the racers were suffering. The cabin was full of people with varying degrees of fatigue, some sickness, and some frost-nip. I stomped in after also letting my core temperature drop way too low. A volunteer handed me a cup of coffee, and a half minute later I became so wracked with convulsions that I spilled every last drop of it onto the floor. I spent more than an hour there thawing my butt and feet, chatting with the growing crowd, and generally soaking in the awesomeness that is the White Mountains 100 race, and the White Mountains in general. My experience in 2010 was deeply affecting. I made peace with my decision to leave Juneau, and accepted the uncertainties of the future at a time when I felt most frightened and alone and ready to retreat back to the world I knew even though it was making me unhappy. In many ways, the White Mountains changed my life. Maybe that's why I love them so much.

We were relieved when we woke up and discovered the temperature hadn't dropped much lower — 28 below on the creek bed, but the sun was on its way up, promising what minimal warmth it could bring.

Another day, another noon "sunrise."

Beat soaking up some rays as temperatures climbed into the minus teens.

I was again very comfortable and happy on this day. Twenty miles is a decent march but not outrageous. A half day in relatively friendly conditions doesn't quite venture into the territory of adversity, and thus offers its small enjoyments — a long gaze toward the pink hillsides, a frozen peanut butter cup nibbled with bare hands in the cold sunlight, indulging in some iPod listening as the boys marched on ahead. I love listening to music most when I am in a good mood, singing out loud if no one is in earshot. A song that has been one of my favorites since the PTL, "Humiliation" by The National, got put on repeat a few times. "Tunnel vision lights my way. Lead a little life today."

The Wickersham Wall loomed, and the Wickersham Wall has broken me many times. But on this day, I felt only a small hint of sadness — because this march would be over soon, and soon we would be leaving Alaska.

But for the moment, we were still in the Whites.

Maybe marching just a little bit slower, lingering on the fading pink light.

Couples selfie — a little too late for the Christmas card.

With 2,400 feet of climbing, the march out took just over seven hours. Although we'd planned to leave early so we'd get back in the afternoon, fears of 40 below caused us to skew our schedule to leave 90 minutes before the sun came up. We finished about 90 minutes after sunset, and never once had to use our headlamps in seven-plus hours outside. I know that it's dark in mid-winter in the North, but here, in the Whites, sometimes not so much.

I made it onto the roster for the 2014 White Mountains 100, so in theory I get to come back in late March, with my bike! I'm so excited. But first, the Iditarod. A daunting prospect so close and yet so far, all at the same time.