Happy at home

How is everyone doing? It's been some couple of weeks, hasn't it? During an endurance race, I often feel like I live years in the span of a few days. This shift into the new reality already feels like a decade. The uncertainties are astounding, the fears are more difficult to quell than others most of us have faced in our lifetimes, and I haven't been handling it all that well. Racing the ITI to the edge of my physical capabilities did not put me in a great position to stand strong amid the shifting reality of the real world. The anxiety monster — the one I can't control with any amount of blizzard-facing determination — first showed up about a week ago, shortly after I transitioned from too-carefree days in Anchorage to a shelter-in-place existence in Fairbanks. I awoke from a seemingly deep sleep drenched in sweat, my heart beating as fast it could possibly beat, blood pressure pounding, in a state of pure terror. I think it was a panic attack. From sleep, so it happened for no discernible reason.

Two more panic attacks would wrestle me from increasingly fitful sleep before the week was out. I did not help myself by using what remained of my foggy mental state during the day to read newspaper articles and scroll Twitter. But that's who I am. I need to make sense of things. I need the truth. It's worse for me to try to tune it out. Meanwhile, Beat was still making his way along the Iditarod Trail. My family endured an ongoing series of earthquakes in Salt Lake City. My friends in Fairbanks were endlessly kind and helpful, even though one is a physician with a lot on her plate right now. All humans have a lot on their plate right now. And I'm in a position of privilege compared to many. I recognize this, but I think it's okay to acknowledge our individual struggles. If I try to shut out my feelings, it only makes things worse.

It was a warm week in Fairbanks, often above freezing with mixed precipitation, and endlessly gray. I took respite in short outdoor excursions from my friends' home. These excursions started out as walks on painfully stiff legs and transitioned to jogs on merely sore legs. Corrine let me borrow her bike one afternoon, and I headed out for a real slog of a two-hour ride through a couple inches of heavy powder on a soft base. But that ride was, by far, my favorite part of the week. The nighttime anxiety and daytime brain fog started to ease up some, but little things would still set me off. After one of the walks, I looked in the mirror at the tape line across my face, and started to cry. The ITI was so recent that I still had its marks on my face, but it felt like years ago, a lifetime ago ... things could never be the same.

As the weekend approached and more restrictions were put in place, I decided it would be prudent to leave Alaska. Beat was determined to stay on the trail as long as he was allowed. And really, as someone who had more or less been almost completely isolated since March 1, he was one of the lower-risk humans out there. But I wanted to go home. I made the decision and purchased a ticket that left town 12 hours later, on Friday morning. I was instantly bumped to first class because there were so few passengers booked on the plane. At the Fairbanks airport I learned that two flights to Denver had been cancelled, and I'd have to spend nine hours at Sea-Tac.

The major hub airport was a ghost town. The few people walking through the corridors darted away from each other. We were all cognizant of the six-foot distance, and there was plenty of space to spare. What was weird was the lack of eye contact. It felt as though all of us viewed the others as our enemy. I found a secluded spot in the lounge and hunkered down, unwilling to move even to find some dinner ... new regulations restricted the lounge from serving food. "Probably good to practice skipping meals," I thought. I don't know why I thought that. Apparently the end-days dreams that may be causing my night terrors are more deeply ingrained than my conscious mind realized.

As I sat more or less in one place for nine hours, Beat's race rapidly unraveled. While he made his way over the Kaltag portage, a fierce southwesterly storm was battering the coast and pushing a surge of tidal water across the sea ice. If you have seen the movie "Togo," you can imagine the destruction and danger.  In a matter of hours the Iditarod Trail across the Norton Sound became unnavigable, to an extent that the Army National Guard opted to contact two bikers who were sleeping at cabins and evacuate them before they attempted to cross. For all of the remaining racers who hadn't yet crossed the sea ice — six bikers, a skier, and Beat — there was no alternative. The race directors wavered for only a few hours, but the cancelation of the race for all but the first three bikers was inevitable.

I had to break the news to Beat while he was still making his way down the trail. I felt devastated. I took the cancelation harder than he did. He'd worked so hard to make it to Nome this year. We both worked so hard to make it to Nome this year. Even though I fell far short, I took some heart in his presence on the trail. Now it was over, and all that remained was the strangeness of the future.

The plane landed at 11:59 p.m. I made my way to the remote parking lot and found it, too, was nearly empty. The temperature was 15 degrees, and at least a foot of fresh snow covered much of the open lot. A three-foot snow drift had wedged itself against my car. I made a half-hearted effort to brush the snow away, feeling angry that this heavy, movement-restricting snow managed to follow me from the Iditarod Trail all the way to Colorado. After sitting for four weeks, the car's engine balked at starting. I almost gave up. I was too tired to deal with this tonight. I'll just crawl into my sleeping bag and deal with it tomorrow, I thought.

The fourth crank finally started the car. It lurched and groaned away the drift. The brakes were jerky and weird, but they seemed to warm up as I pumped them on my way out of the lot. There was no one on the highway into Boulder at this late hour. The first vehicle that passed was a white minivan with a bashed-in sliding door. The next vehicle that passed, many minutes later, was an old Subaru hatchback that looked like it had been rear-ended by a truck. The vibe of abandonment and destruction was so strong that I started to wonder if this really was the zombie apocalypse.

As I crept up the winding mountain road that leads to my neighborhood, the snowpack became deeper and deeper. A neighbor had warned me that it snowed at least two feet on Friday, but this seemed even deeper than that. Along these icy streets I made my way to my home road, where another neighbor had plowed a narrow strip with a three-foot berm. Beyond his driveway, the path abruptly stopped.

I suspected the neighbors wouldn't plow to my house — after all, I was supposed to be out of town — but I was still sad about this new obstacle. I was only wearing a light jacket with no gloves or hat, and temperatures were in the low teens. I acknowledged that I possessed a duffle filled with warm clothing and snowshoes, but all I did was shoulder my carry-on bags and trudge forward. The distance was only a half mile, but that takes an unbelievable amount of time to traverse in two feet of cement snow. I really should know better by now. As I trudged each laborious step, feeling my fingers rapidly freeze and my shoes fill with snow, I was reminded of the quiet weariness of the Iditarod Trail. The starlit sky sparkled in harmony with flecks of snow, and for the first time in the longest day of the longest week, I felt peace.

At home, the front door deadbolt balked when I activated the mechanism to open it. When I finally pushed my way inside, I threw my hands in air in victory. It was late now, 3 a.m., but the slog had rejuvenated some of my spirit. I grabbed a shovel to clear a path around the pumphouse so I could turn on the water to the house. It took twenty minutes just to clear the snow drift blocking the door, and when I went to turn the key that Beat had left in the deadbolt, it was frozen in place. I yelled a few swear words and wriggled and pulled — in hindsight a terrible decision — until the head broke clean off the key. Now the door was still bolted shut, and the key was hopelessly stuck in the lock. Well, shit.

I stormed inside and sent a sad e-mail to my closest neighbors, explaining why I left my car in the middle of the road and the dilemma with my pumphouse door. After all of the slogging and shoveling, I was desperately thirsty. Out of habit and defiance more than anything, I pulled a campstove and fuel from the pantry and melted snow outside ... even though I had soda and fizzy water in the fridge, and a regular electric stove inside the house, and 10 gallons of water in the cart I'd dragged around all winter for training ... although most of that was frozen. But the point is, I was back in civilization and had easier options; I just wasn't thinking all that clearly and forgot how to make decisions like a normal person. My mind just wanted to be back on the trail.

I slept until 10 a.m. and again woke to a pounding heart and pulsing blood pressure. My clothing was damp, although it felt like sweat that had happened earlier in the night. It had been 44 degrees inside the house when I arrived the previous evening, and turning a couple of thermostats to 60 had only bumped the indoor temp to 51. "Oh shit, I have a fever," I thought, and stumbled to the medicine cabinet to find a thermometer. Sunlight blazed on fresh snow outside the windows, impossibly bright, and I felt terribly disoriented. My body started shivering. I was convinced the thermometer would show me something terrible, but it came back with 96.2 degrees. I didn't have a fever. I was mildly chilled ... probably because I'd been sleeping in a 51-degree house without a well-insulated sleeping bag. The rest of my weird physical reactions were probably just my anxiety acting up again.

I threw on dry clothing and walked outside just as my neighbor pulled into my driveway with his plow truck. He had already left two five-gallon jugs of water sitting on my doorstep, and worked his truck around my abandoned car to clear a path to my house. What a selflessly kind gesture. In my e-mail replies, other neighbors offered to cut two wheel-sized paths with their snowblower, and still others offered to let me borrow a sawzall. I could have cried. Our neighbors here are the best.

I spent the rest of the day organizing things and working on different strategies to pull the key out of the lock, taking long breaks between efforts when frustration boiled over. Finally I found a small and narrow flathead screwdriver that looked to be the perfect shape to wedge into a millimeter-sized crack in the door. It actually wasn't that hard to place pressure on the deadbolt and wriggle it until I could push it all the way inside the door. And just like that, I was inside the pumphouse. I could turn on the water. I could take a shower!

It took three more days for Beat to make his way home from Alaska — two of his flights out of Unalakleet were cancelled due to weather. We both started to fret that airports might shut down before he got home. Meanwhile, I distracted myself with cleaning and organizing. It showed up on YouTube for free, so I finally watched "Unbreakable," an ultrarunning race film that features my ex. I subscribed to Disney+ and watched "Togo." (It was an enjoyable film, but it often annoyed me because the setting looked nothing like the landscape surrounding Nome. The Alaska Range-like mountains were just ridiculous.) And I went for a few runs from home, often later in the evening when nobody was around. These runs have been wonderful for burning off some cortisol, but I'm trying to limit any hard efforts because I do have some concerns about my current state of recovery and health. I suspect some of my issues might be related to thyroid levels. Many of these symptoms are similar to what I experienced when I was hyperthyroid. I've known that my autoimmune disease could flare up again at any time. But for now, during this shelter-in-place time when the health care system is so strained, I'm taking a wait-and-see approach. My issues are small in the scheme of things.

Late last night I returned to the empty highways to pick Beat up at the airport. There was much joy upon his return. It is the little things that matter. For now I can be grateful that I have the time to become better acquainted with this small patch of space that I love, but that I often leave for the shiny adventures in the distance. I'll make efforts to connect with my family, also from a distance, and appreciate that Beat and I can spend this time together. The best way to get through these hard times is to slow everything down. Whatever the future holds, it will undoubtedly renew perspective in every way. 

The unbearable lightness of being

It's been surreal — to say the least — to dive into the intensely immersive experience of the Iditarod Trail and then emerge to this rapidly shifting world. I was sitting in a brightly lit kitchen in McGrath, Alaska, struggling with the intellectual confusion of a dinner plate that contained three different items, and eying an outside thermometer that read 38 below. Sitting at the table with me were three Italians — two who were set to continue riding toward Nome, and one who finished in McGrath.

"We do not know when we can go home," one of the men said. "This month, this year, I do not know."

"Why?" I asked him. What he was saying made no sense. I had no idea.


I ended my race in McGrath. It was something I'd been considering since the second day, when I didn't have the strength to meet my minimum daily goals, but kept pursuing them anyway. The challenge was surreal in itself. It was as though all of the most difficult parts of my four previous Iditarod adventures combined were smashed together in a ten-day span that comprised only a third of my ultimate goal. The first day brought two feet of heavy snow, the second and third high winds and rapidly drifting trails, the fourth and fifth deep cold and the terrifying threat of murderous moose, then another foot of snow, then more wind and 40-below cold.


I lost track of the days. I lost track of my thoughts. Everything became a hazy shadow of distant realities. I leaned away from the impossible resistance of my sled and pressed another leg into knee-deep snow. I'd never before felt so physically exhausted, but the mental exhaustion was the truly unnerving state. My decisions started to make less sense to me. At one point, for unknown-to-my-conscious-brain reasons, I stepped off the trail and plunged into a snow drift that swallowed me whole. I was buried in snow to my chest, craning my neck as though I was about to go under water. Then I completely panicked, thrashing wildly until I could pull myself back onto the packed trail, using my arms and kicking as though I was escaping a hole in the ice. Snow had found its way down my shirt, pants, and boots. I could feel its wet sting like a hot iron on cold skin. That was the night it dropped below minus 40.


I stopped my walk to Nome because my brain stopped working. My legs weren't faring that well either. I was uninjured but exhausted, just utterly exhausted. There was no way I could justify pushing this addled mind and depleted body to walk another mile, let alone another 600-plus miles through even more remote and colder parts of the trail. When I arrived in McGrath I said I'd sleep on it, but I already knew. I spent the better part of the next 24 hours asleep. When I emerged from the haze having lost an entire day, I still felt the same. It was crushing, at first, to look my bloodshot eyes in the mirror and acknowledge the insurmountable weakness. Then I talked with the Italians and began to understand what matters and what doesn't matter that much. I wished I wasn't so far from home.


Of course Beat is still out on the trail. As long as he remains out there, I intend to remain in Alaska. He has limited knowledge of the rapidly shifting state of things. He understands that rural village schools are closed and he won't be able to access them for shelter, but he doesn't quite understand that nearly every school in the U.S. is also closed, as are most large public spaces, and many businesses aren't far behind. Meanwhile I sit in limbo, trying to put my still-addled thoughts back together, wondering at the dream I lapsed into that somehow swallowed an unfathomable amount of time between March 1 and March 10.


When I returned to Anchorage, I was lucky to have friends to help guide me into the brave new world. Missy rode to Nome last year and returned this year to experience the Northern Route. She dropped in Shell Lake at mile 100 for the reason of "too much suck," which I assure you was a perfectly legitimate reason to cash in early this year. She was still hanging out in Anchorage while her partner Jen worked a intensive stint of race-volunteer duties in McGrath. They were both in town for a few days before heading home to Fairbanks, so we went for walks, went out for brunch and big pizza dinners (admittedly before I fully understood the social distancing necessities), and purchased all of the CBD and adrenal repair supplements a trashed athlete could want. On Friday they offered to let me borrow a bike and join them for a ride to Knik Glacier. Since I nearly sat down for a trailside nap during our five-mile walk, I was worried about my stamina. But it was too rare an opportunity to pass up.

Early in the ride we had to don our waders to cross Hunter Creek. The temperature was 10 degrees and there was a brisk headwind sweeping down the valley, so wet feet were not an option. 

 Kim, who lives in Anchorage, warned me that the first part of the ride is "boring." I don't think Alaskans fully appreciate the scenery that surrounds them. This glacier-carved valley is ringed by the chiseled peaks of the Chugach, jaw-dropping at every turn of the head.


The foot of the glacier is ten miles from the trailhead, and the snow was soft and resistant. Still, 6 mph pedaling at 50-percent effort was a revelation after days and days and days of 2 mph walking at 90 percent effort. I was tired but surprised when we were already there.

 Calving glaciers and bobbing icebergs make me nervous, so I did not venture too close to any of the features. But it was fun to ride around the ice formations, which remind me of Arches National Park in Utah ... only blue instead of red.

 I ended up turning around early as my friends opted to spend more time exploring. The sleepies were setting in, and I wanted to make it back before my body potentially betrayed me ... I still don't trust it, even for a mellow afternoon bike ride. Back at the trailhead, I donned my puffy gear and took a nap in the 10-degree sunshine, content as I have been since I left the trail.

 Lots of uncertainties lie ahead. It's difficult for everyone, I know. It goes without saying that what we have during these times is each other — even if it's at a social distance, at arm's length, through virtual connections like this blog. I'm grateful for you, the folks who still drop into this space, and for all of the support you've shown me through years of frivolous and dangerous but also intensely-meaningful adventures. Together we'll power on through the challenges and setbacks. We'll overcome the weaknesses. We'll get through this.

Following the 2020 Iditarod Trail Invitational

Well, it's nearly here — the Sunday, March 1 start of the 2020 Iditarod Trail Invitational. This will be the sixth time I've stood at this starting line with an intention to race, my second with a hopeful ambition to reach Nome, and my first with the completely idiotic idea to walk the entire distance. This post includes several links to follow the race while I am gone. With any luck I will be out there for the entire month of March — I believe a best-case scenario is to finish in Nome in the 30-day range. Hopefully I won't post here again sooner than that, because that will mean I've stopped early.

Right now we're facing a rather dire weather forecast right out of the gate, with heavy snowfall — as much as two feet in some forecasts — slamming the Susitna River Valley tonight and Sunday. By midweek the forecasts predict clearing accompanied by a return to chilly temperatures — possibly 20s and 30s below on this side of the Alaska Range, perhaps some -40s in the Interior. It's just ... oooof. All of the fears are being packed for this one. I thrive on my natural inclination toward pessimism, so I'm bracing for the worst but hoping for a little better. I do feel like I can be mentally and hopefully physically prepared for such difficulties. As I told Beat, "Day one and two will be just like the Fat Pursuit, and then it will be our Christmas trips in Fairbanks." For the record, I was very slow during both of these outings, and they were both unbelievably taxing in terms of energy spent per mile. But I understand how to manage them for a few miles at least.

Anyway, there will be tracking again this year, if you want to follow some really, really slow dots:

2020 Iditarod Trail Invitational on Trackleaders
My personal tracking page on Trackleaders

I probably won't make much of an effort to update social media while I am out there. However, there's a chance I will feel lonely and in need of vicarious virtual human connection and send tweets from my InReach, similar to my string-of-consciousness feed in 2018. If you have any interest in seeing these posts, please either follow me on Twitter or my "Up in Alaska" page on Facebook. Per Facebook's policies, the InReach posts will only appear there and not on my personal profile:

@AlaskaJill on Twitter
Up in Alaska on Facebook

Finally, I've written many words about adventures on the Iditarod Trail. If you'd like a more in-depth narrative to accompany the dots, or to support me in my work while I'm away, please consider buying one or more of my books. Here are links to three about my experiences in the ITI specifically:

My 2018 walk to McGrath:
Meanwhile the world goes on

My 2016 ride to Nome:

Into the North Wind: A thousand-mile bicycle adventure across frozen Alaska

My first time on the trail, the 2008 ride to McGrath:

Ghost Trails: Journeys Through a Lifetime

Thanks again for all of your support over the years. I can't believe it's been 12 years since I first set out from Knik Lake. I hope I'll return with as many intense memories and renewed perspectives as I did then.