The TypeTwoFun Club

“Climbing a mountain in a very cold windstorm is pretty badass. Also pretty crazy, but we’ll go with badass.”

DAY 5

• Start: 7:25am (Finger Lake)
• End: 11:55pm (Puntilla)
• Miles: 29.2

DAY 6

• Start: 8:40am (Puntilla)
• End: 9:17pm (Bivy)
• Miles: 22.3

DAY 7

• Start: 8:25am (bivy)
• End: 1:17pm[!!!] (Rohn)
• Miles: 12.0

The Tent Holds!

It turns out, Jason and Vinny didn’t make it to Finger Lake that night. They were just far enough behind me, and the windstorm escalated at just such a rate, that they were forced to emergency Bivy only a handful of miles away. I learned later they were concerned the tent would blow away overnight and were overjoyed to see it standing when they got to the lake. I also learned the tent almost DID blow away overnight. It do be windy.

In fact, That morning I woke up at about 6:30 and the wind was still positively howling outside. I ended up sitting and eating some catch-up calories with the checkpoint volunteer. We had a nice quiet conversation and talked about the difficulties of the course. It was refreshing to have a quiet, unhurried moment. He checked the weather for me at Rainy Pass–a cold air system was moving in on the back side of the Alaska Range. This was causing some major wind, but it was supposed to die down tomorrow. So, potentially no demon wind, but bone-chilling cold for my alpine summit? Great. Truly, honestly–I’d prefer extreme cold over more winds at this point!

Setting out. Solo.

I decided I didn’t have to deal with howling winds AND darkness, so I got set to depart just as the light rose. While I was out packing my last things in my sled, I saw two walkers approaching the tent. I flashed my headlamp so they’d know where to go, and they turned toward me. It was Melanie and Stacy, the other two had been caught out in the wind overnight. I asked Stacy how she was feeling, she looked tired but upbeat. Happy to be at the checkpoint. I was, at that moment, more aware than I had been that I was traveling solo. I’m so used to being in backcountry solo, but if caught in a windstorm I can see how having someone to whether it out with would make things slightly more bearable.

Death Sticks Glued to My Feet

The first mile, there was an alternate route slapped in because some early racers had broken through thin ice on the normal route across the lake. This re-route took me down a steep hill to Red Lake, the next lake over from Finger Lake. I didn’t know it yet, but Red Lake is my trail nemesis.

Descending to Red Lake, I somehow ended up bumbling off the side of the trail into some deep overflow (slush). Thankfully, my overboots did their job and my feet stayed dry. A win! I carried on and began skiing forward. I knew today was the hilliest section of the entire course–multiple veterans had told me that this portion was highly technical, sucked to ski, and to expect to be walking up hills a lot. I walked up one or two in the first mile or two, which is a hassle to remove your skis and then get back in them but way easier than trying to SKI up a steep hill. That would be nonsense.

I got to the next hill and went to release my bindings. Nothing. The overflow slush had frozen into the mechanism. Essentially, my ski boots were frozen INTO my ski bindings. On the hilliest dang day of the entire 1000 mile course, I was going to have to SKI up EVERY. DANG. HILL.

If you’d asked me before this day if I had it in me to entirely ski this segment I would have told you absolutely no way.  But my only other option was to remove my boots entirely and walk in my trail runners. I didn’t have a good waterproofing/winterizing solution for them: I’d brought the trail runners for the dirt of the Farewell Burn, dozens of miles in my future. I’d never even used them in snow. I could rig something up with my ski overboots, but would that work now that my overboots had gone in overflow and were slushy and wet? And if I took my frozen boots off and let the insides freeze, I wouldn’t be able to  get them back on, they would cease to be a viable option until I could thaw them out at the next checkpoint. So…we skied. Up. All. The. Hills. i  wasn’t sure I wouldn’t need to be in my skis. In retrospect, changing to the shoes probably would have been better. But only in hindsight do I know what I was tackling.

My friends who know the Iditarod trail LOVE the Happy River Steps. They’re a series of steep drops from the top of a ridgeline down onto the Happy River. The dog race trail description illustrates it thusly: “the trail will vanish over the edge of what looks like a cliff. It is a cliff. This is the entrance to the Happy River Steps. Stop the dogs at the top, say your prayers, revise your will, and then see how gently you can get the dogs to creep down the hill. Of course, you will be standing on your brake for all you’re worth.”

Back in civilization, the big joke was how much easier the Happy River Steps would be for me, because I could just walk down. Hahhahahah. ha. I hadn’t planned to have death sticks glued to my feet for them. Suddenly my 50lb Pokey seemed like a heat-seeking missile, ready to take me out. How the heck was I gonna SKI down these?

Answer: I wasn’t. I was going to sled down these, with my ass fully planted in the snow as a ballast. The video here was the first of 4 drops to the happy river, and the SHORTEST one. By the end I was in full on “wheeeeeee” mode and going like 20 mph. I’m surprised I didn’t tear a hole in the seat of my pants. All’s well that ends unscathed!

The hills, my god. The hills.

It took me like 40 minutes to ski the hill back up off the happy river, up the steep climb on the far bank. It felt like 90. Mark Hines, a 1000mi runner, walked past me and did it in 5 or 7.  Everyone who passed me for the rest of the day (and there were several!) was like “what the hell are you doing? why are you skiing up every hill!?” and when I explained it I got major sympathy. Kyle passed me in his snowmachine and gave me a shot of Fireball whisky. I asked him “so theoretically, the rest of the miles in to Puntilla, are they like…as hilly as the first section from Finger Lake?” and his response was “I mean…its hilly!” I laughed thinking about folks back home watching the tracker, thinking “wow those hills must be really affecting her”. I know how to walk up a hill after all–I’m a hiker. It was…way less than ideal. But I was doing it! The miles were ticking away.

Oh Good!…More hills.

It wasn’t all hills. There were a couple of beautiful lakes we got to cross–Shirley Lake, Finnbear Lake, and there was a nice long level ridge a few miles out from the Checkpoint. It was definitely cooling off, and also blustery, so I opted to re-frame the hills. Every time it got flat, I said to myself “Oh good! A break from climbing the hills” and when there was a hill I’d say “Oh good, a hill! I needed to warm up”. Say anything enough and it starts to feel true–I began to resent the hills a bit less. I DID need to warm up. Keeping your attitude up to keep your energy and pace can be everything sometimes out there.

I have to say though, the re-frame ceased to be effective when the hills returned in the dark. I felt like I’d been skiing forever, and the checkpoint was still miles away. Could I recover from the huge additional effort they day had taken, stuck in my skis? I probaboy couldn’t. I definitely couldn’t. I needed to scratch.

I should say here, I came into every checkpoint or road-house except Bentalit and Skwentna convinced I probably needed to scratch. [And I did come in to Skwentna crying. I actually felt fine coming into Skwentna but I got confused on a final turn and had it in the wrong spot on my gps so I started crying at the thought of accidentally doing even one extra mile. Then I reminded myself that I was close, I felt FINE, and it was early and instantly got my shit together. Those were the only non-happy tears I shed the whole race!]. But this time, I meant it. How could I recover from so much extra effort getting to Puntilla? Such a long day? And it was so windy, could I even get over Rainy Pass in this kind of wind? It was dark and I wasn’t even close to the checkpoint, how could I rest and get over?

I was in a spiral. I told Kyle later “I was composing my scratch essay in my head”. I convinced myself all the reasons it was prudent. I’d done enough. I’d proven something, hadn’t I? I’d skied all the way up to the Alaska Range! I didn’t want to over push myself. I… I don’t even remember the reasons now, but they were incredibly convincing in the moment.

Since my race was now ending at the next checkpoint, I decided to stop for a minute and take it in. I turned off my headlamp and realized the mountains weren’t glowing from final sunset light, it was a soft aurora glowing across the sky. Behold my terrible, terrible picture (fingers over pictures, it was cold and windy!!). I looked up at the billions of stars and thought about my race. Yep, great experience, can’t help what my bindings did, but I’m proud of myself. Then I heard someone coming up behind me. I turned my headlamp back on so I wouldn’t scare him, this unknown racer about to pass me. There had been so many ‘him’s this day.

Oh, her! It was Sunny, the only other woman skier, who was in the 1,000 mile race. I’d seen her briefly at Knik Lake, before the start, and we’d chatted a bit on Instagram before the race, but I hadn’t seen her on the trail once. If you watch the trackers, you wont believe this, but I honestly hadn’t. I didn’t even know she was in the Finger Lake CP with me, as I arrived after and departed before without her surfacing from her sleeping bag :).

I got to explain one more time why I’d skied up every hill (“oh those were YOUR tracks! I was wondering…”) and told her I’d decided I was gonna scratch at Puntilla. She gave me a quick quizzical look and said something to the effect of “well today’s the hardest day, by far, so if you skied this, you’re golden. You have tons of time. Sleep on it and decide in the morning.” She walked on down the trail, moving what appeared to be about twice as fast as my uphill ski crawl. Blink Blink. I’m golden? I have…tons of time?

Would have been nice to walk that part too.

Puntilla

I limped into Puntilla; I would describe my arrival as bedraggled. I moved past the bikes toward the row of sleds to park my sled, grab my shit and fall into bed. I hardly noticed one cyclist’s tentative “Laura?” until I did. It was my friend Jenny, from ITI Camp! It hadn’t occurred to me I’d ever catch or see a cyclist that I knew. But there were a LOT of bikes here, now that I looked around. She was just gearing up to leave with a whole crew of bikes, to head toward the pass. “We heard its taking people 12 hours just to get to the top”, she relayed. My response “Oh gosh, well good luck with that! I’m 95% sure I’m scratching here anyway” and complained one more time about my feet. I didn’t like how it sounded. I sounded like a complainer. I pivoted back to her and wished her good luck on her pass crossing.

“These damned feet”. I was ready to be done with ski drama. I asked another racer if there was ITI volunteers around, so I could request permission to bring my skis indoors. It turns out this checkpoint was “unmanned”: staff from the lodge continuously refilled our hot and cold water coolers inside the bunkhouse, and we could go to the lodge to purchase a meal at set mealtimes, but that was it. Good, no one to witness my minor rules infraction. I took my boots off my feet, switched into my camp slippers, and carried both “ski and boot” monstrous hybrids into the bunkhouse. Skis aren’t strictly allowed in checkpoints, but desperate times….plus that rule is largely due to space constraints, and the whole crew of cyclists had just moved out. There was plenty of space near the woodstove to situate them to thaw overnight.

Inside, another racer was packing up the last of his gear on the bunk right next to the stove. Another “Laura?” Dazed by this point, I turned to see ITI Camp friend and cyclist Benjy pulling me into a hug. He was about to head over with Jenny. In that moment, I think that’s what I needed. Thanks Benjy. We quickly exchanged a whispered update as other racers snored around us. Sunny caught my eye heading to a bunk and smiled. I was here, I was out of my skis, I was ok. Technically, I was sleeping on it, but by that point I knew I was going to go for it tomorrow.

Have you tried this new thing called Top Ramen?! Its INCREDIBLE. I really think it has a future in the US market. I ate three of them, refilled my water reservoir to rehydrate over night, and crashed out, dead asleep in my bunk.

I’m not scratched yet!

Pushing up Ptarmigan Pass

I took my time the next morning, getting all my gear sorted in a heated space so I was ready for the day. I decided if Sunny made me not scratch, then I sure as heck didn’t have to leave before her. She drifted out of the bunkhouse about 8, and I was heading out about 30 minutes after once I’d finished getting organized and having one more ramen along with my oatmeal. I figured a carbo-load was in order to climb a mountain. Oh lord, am I glad I had double breakfast.

I started out across the lake and heard someone yell my name. I turned to look back toward Rainy Pass Lodge–it was Kyle! He hooted and yelled “go get it!” or something to that effect. In retrospect, I wonder if he’d heard I was on scratching’s doorstep and found another gear. In any case, it gave me a small triumphant feeling that I’d found the mental fortitude to continue, when it was really my mind looking to scratch the night before and not my body, my gear, or conditions. I’d pushed through a difficult situation and with some small outside assists, managed to handle it. That felt good.

My ski legs, however. did not feel good. A couple hundred yards after passing the lake, I realized I was being really inefficient on my skis. I added my kicker skins, and that helped…a little, but the trail was slick. Wait…the trail was slick? It was hard packed and firm. And I was about to go uphill for 18 straight miles. Why on EARTH would I ski this on exhausted ski legs? I’m freed of the death sticks! Time for a hike.

With my skis loaded onto the sled, I started to power through the valley floor up to the first low climb. Just before beginning the ascent, I ran into Amber, a biker, coming back the other way. Her tire wasn’t holding air so she was going back to Puntilla to repair it and regroup. She warned me “the weather reports say the wind has died down, but its still strong up there. And it starts really soon”. How soon, at the river? “No, as soon as you get on the ridge”, and she pointed just ahead about a half mile.

As soon as we parted ways, I put on my extra wind layers on bottom and on my face and hands and continued. I was grateful for the warning. Indeed, the minute I took the ridge into Ptarmigan pass, the a steady headwind became my new reality. This constant wind would continue with less than a few minutes of respite for the next 14 hours.

Ptarmigan pass is STUNNING. Its a wide open ridge, with mountains creating a wide pass in two parallel spines. It feels almost like a Eurasian steppe. As had become our accidental tradition, a couple of hours into my day, Kyle came past, heading for the next CP. He stopped and took some pictures of me in the pass (gonna need those pics, Kyle!!) and we had a quick chat. I told him about composing my scratch essay, and Sunny’s good advice to not make snap decisions. We spoke about how perfectly perfect the day and the scenery was, how epic-ly “Alaskan”. Me: “It’s a pretty stiff wind, though. I hear its only going to get worse higher up.” Kyle: *shrugs* “It is what it is.”

Indeed.

A few minutes (or hours, what is time?) after Kyle moved on, my sled flipped. Great, wind already causing problems. I looked back and saw one ski loose and dragging that had caused the flip. And the other ski…gone. PANIC. wait…don’t panic. You were JUST stopped with Kyle and had both skis, it can’t be too far back. right? How long ago was that? I was right by a trail stake so after checking it was VERY FIRMLY stuck in the ground, I took my sled off my backpack and looped it over the stake. “Don’t need a runaway Pokey compounding my problems.” I started walking back down the way I’d come, searching for my ski. My ski’s names are Thing 1 and Thing 2 (Dr. Seuss reference). For some reason I find it funny that I have no way of telling them apart, so thing 2 is just whichever one is on my right foot. The ski on the right side of the sled was the runaway, so I walked back calling out for Thing 2. I wasn’t sure if the wind was strong enough to blow a loose ski off the side of the trail, so I was scanning a bit off to the side as well. Thankfully, Thing 2 was right on the trail, and only a few hundred yards back. Potential disaster averted. As I walked up to her, I told Thing 2 “just because I want to walk today does not mean I want to walk the rest of the way to McGrath!”

I secured the skis more solidly after that.

Happy River, Sad lunch

I have no way of measuring wind while I’m moving. Every hour, the wind was rising as I got higher, and every hour, I was moving closer to the cold pressure system on the other side of the mountain where it had super chilled. It was like the entire climate was trying to warn me not to go, literally trying to blast me back down the mountain to the previous CP. But it was a now or never…the race clock needed me into Rohn by 2pm tomorrow.

With such a strong wind it is hard to consume enough while moving on the trail. I try to have at least 100 calories every hour, plus bigger “load up” times at roadhouses, longer breaks, and at Checkpoints. In this wind, there was no breaks. Any stop was 30 seconds or less to complete some critical task, and even those must be timed well and watched carefully. No single part of your body can be exposed for too long–taking off a top layer to add another insulating mid layer, removing a glove to operate a tricky zipper…these all constitute risk. Especially for me, with one coat zipper completely busted and the other on top of it (of the same brand) being glitchy and giving me issues operating. I needed that second zipper to hold.

I opted to try for a quick break at the crossing of the Happy River (yes, the same river with the steps, we met it much farther up hill again here). I figured the river might have some low trees or bushes that would afford some cover. It was a pretty pathetic option, with some low scraggly bushes and not much less wind at all, but desperate times. I hadn’t had more than a couple hundred calories since leaving Puntilla and it had been hours. Along with my sad little lunch, I slammed some water and added another top layer to my jacket pile on my body, in preparation for turning up into Rainy Pass. There was a chance that turning up into the final part of the pass would give a brief respite from the wind.,.but I wasn’t kidding myself about the summit.

The Hardest Thing I ever Did.

I turned up into Rainy Pass and OH GOOD, even more wind! Just what I had layered up for. There were a couple of rolling hill spots with some willow and other low level of protection, but pretty soon I was traversing up the pass on a mostly blown in and drifted trail. With the light lowering, it became hard to differentiate where the trail was and I floundered off the side into deep snow a number of times. If you’ve ever had snow blindness out walking or skiing when the light is low and you suddenly can’t see depth—like that.

I rounded a bend and there was a foot athlete coming down toward me! It sort of shocked me, I hadn’t seen anyone for hours and had basically forgotten there would be other racers attempting to summit. This racer had been out for 12 hours moving through the winds, and was still a couple of miles from the summit. She had decided she’d simply had it–the winds were too much and she didn’t have enough in the tank to get over and on to the next checkpoint. She was heading back to Puntilla. We talked through it briefly to be sure she was confident in her decision. I’ll never forget what she told me: “The wind just broke me.”

The unrelenting wind. It was grinding everything down–the rock, the trail, the racers. Time, distance, effort, and temperature all cease to have meaning as you summit that pass. Was I insane to keep pushing forward in this? Should I go back with Carol? PANIC. Rational brain: “DON’T panic. It’s time to check in”.

The training I didn’t know I’d done.

Checking in is what I do when I solo hike, always. I run through all my body, checking for any pain, discomfort, tightness. I evaluate my calorie intake. I check my vision and my headspace (light headed? woozy?), all importantly my breathing (hello, asthmatic!), and then run through a full check in for the dogs as well. Its my way to keep things steady state forward, and ideally find problems early before they’re big problems. I’ve been hiking along thinking things were fine and dandy, instituted a check in, and immediately turned around. What good are warning signs if you override them in a quest for summits or miles? The mountain is always there another day. I think of my normal check in as a “how we doin’?” checklist; in the outdoors it is as second nature to me now as setting up camp. For this situation, I decided I needed a slightly more existential check in.

My “Am I going to die right here?” Checklist:

• Do I have adequate gear to do this? Yes, I’m not wearing all my layers, my skin is fully protected, I have toe warmers in, and nothing feels cold.
• Do I have the physical stamina to do this? Yes, my legs actually feel surprisingly good and I feel pretty good pulling the sled.
• Is the trail too technical for my abilities? Absolutely not, its tiring and a hard climb in this wind but I’ve done worse. I just need to not loose the trail.
• What is my backup if something goes really fucking wrong? I have my puffy, my bivy, and my -40 bag. I remember a space back down a bit with less wind that I COULD get to, or I could move off trail near one of these snow formations, and make a camp. It’d be less than ideal but I could do it.
• Do I have the headspace to do this and do I trust my decision making? Now that I’ve made this list, yes. I feel confident that moving forward isn’t hubris, but I am aware of the risks and do have the ability to manage them.

Wow. I do. I can actually do this.  But it was really the definition of pushing things to my limit–the scenario I was facing was taking my skills and comfort level past where I’d ever been. But I could do it, if I stayed aware. So I kept ascending. I knew I had a couple of miles to go. I couldn’t tell how fast I was going, but I could tell I was still advancing. Probably close to a mile an hour, which was enough. That would do it. I would do it.

At some point, my ski goggles fogged completely over, from the heavy breathing effort of the ascent. I pulled them off and put my wraparound sunglasses back on, cinching my ruff tighter around my face. This worked for about 40 steps…until the lenses literally just blew out of the frames. Okay, the frames were cracked, but still, the wind was continuously proving it’s point. Goggles are iced over and its unsafe to futz with them to get them cleared, shades are gone, and I’m under a mile from the summit. “Well…the native populations and the old timey gold prospectors did it!” I yelled in my own head to hear my thoughts over the din. I cinched my ruff around my eyes even tighter, making a small tunnel to view out from, and aimed my head straight down toward the trail to cut any direct wind force on any exposed skin. “I’d better get over this fucking mountain, quick.”

Chasing the Light, Screaming at Birds

“This last mile up the mountain is killing me, I can’t image what it’s doing to Laura.“

My brain was fixated on getting to the summit before I lost the last of the light. Somehow, the idea of being in this wind crucible, at the top and end of the earth, in the dark just felt 3 times worse. I was trying to powerwalk up the blown in trail as best I could. I momentary ‘lull’ in the wind (lull from roaring gale is still heckin windy!) allowed me to look up and take in the upcoming trail…and I saw a bird soaring overhead. I was instantly pissed off at it, for it. I screamed out to the bird “WHY DO YOU LIVE HERE! THERE ARE SO MANY NICER PLACES. THERE IS NOTHING FOR YOU HERE, This is NOT a PLACE that SUPPORTS LIFE!” I do not believe the bird took my advice, but that’s on it. [I learned later that James, the last racer to summit the pass, also screamed at, presumably, the same bird. But he saw it circling him and yelled out in his perfect British accent for it to fuck off, for he wasn’t dead just yet!]

Shortly after I finished berating the bird, I heard a whoop from behind me. I assume I am either hearing things, or hallucinating, because how is someone whooping out here? I turn and see male skier Doug SKI (not walk) up, flying up the trail at about 4mph. “oh my fucking god, this guy is a wild man” I nearly laughed as he skied up.

“DOUG, I roared in his ear, HOW ARE YOU SKING UP THIS LIKE ITS NOTHING!” He smiles and just roars back “We’re almost up! Think of the nice hot checkpoint waiting for you!” Me: “There’s no way I’m making it to Rohn tonight! I’m just trying to summit and get out of the wind on the back side.” Doug: “Of course you’ll make it to Rohn!” Me: “No I wont, I’ve been going for almost twelve hours.” Doug: “YOUVE BEEN GOING FOR TWELVE HOURS???“

Before anyone gets mad at Doug, this was not a judgey statement. Doug is simply unable to comprehend how slowly I ski. Doug completed the ITI 350 by taking 14-18 hour rests at checkpoints, then skiing like 5 mph between them. This is…not within my power to do. Though that amount of rest did seem pretty nice. So, Doug processes the slowness of my pace with essentially child-like wonder, not with any judgement or condescension at all. He’s a homesteader in rural northern Alaska and skis in 150lb loads of grain for his livestock and supplies for his family to his off-road, off grid farm. I didn’t know people like him existed on this earth and the earth is better for it. We like Doug.

Me: “Its fine, I’m just going to get out of the wind and bivy in the Gorge.” Doug: “That’ll actually be really nice, you’ll get over, the wind will die down, the northern lights will come out, and you can just enjoy it.” The last statement he said so serenely, almost like a prayer. I think he manifested it for me. Thanks, Doug! So Doug skis on and I follow behind. Within a couple minutes he’s dozens of yards ahead of me, still visible but well outside of shouting distance. Unbelievably, I hear something else from behind…a roaring sound. Hallucination, for sure at this point, right? “Ok, am I SURE I’m not dying, because what else could possibly be coming up this mountain pass in a gale at nightfall?” I turn around. My worst fears are confirmed: I am hallucinating, and also potentially dying [I didn’t really think I was dying. I was just completely baffled]. A parade of bright lights is approaching me. Wait…is that….

A cavalcade of SNOWMACHINES are buzzing up toward me. It is the Iditarod Trail Breakers. Why on EARTH they decided to leave the comforts of Rainy Pass Lodge and buzz over the summit in gale force winds, in sub zero temps, after dark, is beyond me. But I wasn’t complaining as they groomed a smooth and marked trail the last 300 yards up the summit. Of ALL the times and places and circumstances to be passed by ten snowmachines on a 300 mile trail…this was the most unlikely, the weirdest I could possibly conjure. But also, I wasn’t dying, so I accepted it all as good news.

The Hardest Riskiest Thing I Ever Did.

And I DID it. 11.5 hours to the summit.

Most would classify the rainy pass summit as type 3, I believe. [Doug told me later it was his only ‘Type 1’ fun on the trail. To each their own…most of the time. But in this instance, Doug, you are just clearly wrong. Sorry :).] While not the physically hardest thing I’ve done–it is a winter trail that accommodates snowmachines, bikes, and dogsleds, after all, and not a cliff face or sustained rock scramble–in certain ways, it pushed me beyond anything I had attempted before. It challenged me mentally. It challenged my preparation and gear setup. It was the coldest I’ve ever experienced. In short, continuing solo and successfully summiting was likely the riskiest thing I’ve ever done. Some veteran racers turned back from the Pass that day. Some didn’t attempt due to the weather or the time constraint. There’ is no right answer to what the right decision is; everyone has their own unique circumstances, risk tolerance, and decision making process. That’s why they say you need to run your own race. For me, using my training and my process for tough situations, I was able to continue. I had set myself up to send it, and send it I did. For me, getting over Rainy Pass is something I can look back on with pride for the rest of my life.

And I high-fived the sign and said FUCK YEAH.

I did NOT worry about the quality of the picture, clearly. Even taking one was actually a pretty big added risk. Then I was over, there was a clearly marked and packed trail, and it was time for whatever came next.

Self care at -28f

A sidebar about the weather: I was not checking the temperatures while I was moving through the pass, and have no way of measuring windchill, so the best guess from meteorologists and weather reports is all I have. I’ve heard reports the summit itself was anywhere from -10f to -25f base temp, and winds anywhere from 25 to 40mph. Best-guess calculated winds chills are estimated to have been between -50f and -60f while I summited. The technical term for that is “really really freaking cold”. Everyone I’ve spoken with who summited around my window retained some cold weather injury or damage (most minor). More on this later.

Getting out of the wind made a huge difference. The wind got better almost immediately, but completely died down within 3 miles. I was trying to get to the mouth of Dalzell Gorge to be sure I was out of the wind, but when I had to crawl up a 20 foot hill I knew I was done. I made a bivy site, pulled every hot hands I had into my sleeping bag, and passed out, waking up every 2 hours to put new hot hand down my down booties to defend my toes. It was about -30f.

I didn’t even care if I made it to Rohn in time. I didn’t care about the Race finish. I DID that..

I woke up positively convinced I would scratch in Rohn. Here was my latest essay draft:

• I did that mountain pass, I am a warrior and a champion so who needs the finish?
• Two very hard days in a row. If I could just take a rest day….
• I wont make the cutoff time anyways, so its a moot point.

As I polished my latest scratch essay draft, my inflatable R8 air mattress failed spectacularly. It’s valve was frozen shut and I tore the whole valve mechanism out with my teeth in my attempt to deflate it. I laughed out loud, thinking how this was just icing on my scratch cake.

I was packing up in the morning (it had warmed to -21!) when Sunny skied up the trail! I didn’t even know Sunny was behind me, or near me at all. I thought she’d gone over the pass ahead of me, actually. We didn’t know we’d bivyd a half mile apart until she skied up to me. We had a quick chat about how intense the pass had been. “How’r your digits? Any frost damage? I think I have to have mine checked in Rohn…” As she said it, I responded that I thought mine were fine, while simultaneously touching my fingertips together. When did my liner gloves get crusty on the tip like that?

We chatted for a few minutes and she skied on. It was still -21f and we were acting like it was springtime.

The Victory Ski

I started that morning not thinking I’d make the 2pm cutoff and not caring one bit. I finished packing up and started down the trail in what I now call “The weepy ski”. I This was the first mile of my ski to Rohn where I cried about how proud I was of myself, then I recorded a video crying telling the camera how proud I was of myself, then I realized I really needed to eat something and stuffed my face with Reese’s Pieces and Beef Jerky and got my act together. Don’t get me wrong, I was and am still proud of myself, but I was able to stop crying about it for a little bit and focus on the task at hand, which was not crying, and was, in fact, navigating the Dalzell Gorge.

Dalzell Gorge is magic.

Some years, Dalzell Gorge is the toughest stretch of the trail. Vertical cliff faces hold a narrow trail and rushing, unfrozen river, and the two weave back and forth down the gorge floor with over a dozen crossings. These crossings can require hip waders and lugging your gear over open water crossings, again and again and again. It was also delight this year. Every single ice bridge was completely solid and easily crossed. I SKIED it. With skins on my skis, but still. I felt easy, like I was floating down the cravasse. I did have to hold Pokey on a tight reign so she wouldn’t try to pull us into the roaring open river, but she was on pretty good behavior. I get why trackers don’t work in it. Especially the upper half is nearly a slot canyon. Completely vertical cliff faces. It was very pretty. But at this point I’d realized: hey…a number of my finger tips are pretty dull feeling right now. I think something’s going on. Let’s not take our hands out of these gloves much for pictures.

The last 5 miles in to Rohn are along the Tatina river which is essentially glare ice, or glare ice with a bizarre snow track along the trail. It was really beautiful. Those last miles were a delight because I knew I was scratching but I also had realized I’d make the cut off so it was my choice. As I skied in, it had started to matter to me if I made the cutoff. I “knew” I was scratching, but I preferred to do it on my own terms. When I rounded a bend and saw a bush plane taking off from the woods in front of me, I started hooting and hollering at the top of my lungs. I could see Rohn, my finish! Planes in Narnia, who knew?

Schrödinger’s Racer in Rohn

I skied onto the Airstrip at about 1:10pm. Adrian is walking down the airstrip toward a plane that just landed. Adrian is …well I don’t know his exact title, but he’s the head of the Logistics and volunteers for ITI. I’ll call him the Trail Boss. He was also an instructor at ITI camp so no stranger. And at camp….we were promised brauts in Rohn. The best Brauts you’ve ever tasted. As I’m skiing up to him I yell “ADRIAN GET BACK TO THE TENT AND MAKE ME MY BRAUT BECAUSE IM SCRATCHING.” And he replies “if you’re scratching, this is your plane. Hop on this minute.” I consider for half a second before deciding no way can I immediately hop on this plane, I haven’t even been to the checkpoint. So I go…”ok well I cannot do that so I guess I’ll think about it for a bit.” Exactly the same as I’d done the previous two, three…four? days.

I’m not very good at scratching, it never sticks.

I skied in and Sunny was standing there to meet me. She said “I know you think you’re scratching but I have a plan. We stay here all day and rest, a whole rest day and night. We leave tomorrow morning and finish this. You don’t have to leave by a certain time. Eat, rest, sleep on it. Don’t say anything now, just don’t scratch yet.” So I agreed to think on it.

So at this point, Adrian thinks I’ve scratched and he’s telling Kyle, Sunny has told me not to scratch, and everyone is confused. The CP head Jay (Cable) asks me if I’m scratched or not and I decide not yet. So he corrects the record. I’m not scratched…yet.

I dry my gear as if I’m going to go on as I consider. I was dealing with some gear malfunctions, which weighed heavily on my choice. I wanted a weather report, and Sunny and I both wanted an assessment of our fingers. The weather report was actually quite good–it was supposed to warm up considerably for the next few days. I didn’t have my airpad anymore, but would be able to get by with just my ccf pad. I start to think this might actually happen. After all…I can have the entire balance of the day to rest… Sunny was going to pull me out of a scratch, yet again! We said goodbye to Doug as he headed out to tackle the next leg of trail, and rested and recharged in the cozy tent.

The dog race vet (and former checkpoint lead and total badass old-timer Alaskan/ probably a witch?) checked Sunny first and said “just nip, keep them warm and you’ll be fine”. My assessment was less chipper. She said I was “borderline”, essentially right on the edge: if I could keep them 100% warm, they’d likely recover on their own over some time, but if mine got cold again, I’d nearly guarantee both significantly worse symptoms (the pussy blister party) and permanent nerve damage. From Rohn, it’s roughly 80 miles to the next heated checkpoint. Even with the warmer forecast, I knew I couldn’t do that. I said from the start: life and safety first, fingers and toes second, mileage third.

Fingers won.

Schrödinger’s Cat is a thought experiment devised by the Austrian physicist Erwin Schrödinger, which he designed to illustrate a paradox of quantum superposition wherein a hypothetical cat may be considered both alive and dead simultaneously because its fate is linked to a random event that may (or may not) occur.

For the next several hours I start calling myself “Shrödinger’s racer”, inside the tent, both scratched and not scratched. We sat around with Kyle and Adrian, the awesome checkpoint volunteers Jay and Tony, Sunny, and James (the British runner who missed the 2pm checkpoint cutoff but wasn’t eaten by the birds), eating way too many brauts and drinking beer and whiskey by the fire.

I finally officially scratched later that evening by taking some non racer food offered to me, which Kyle, Adrian, Jay, Tony, and Sunny called “the forbidden cheeseburger”. As all watched in (fake) great suspense, I took a bite of the forbidden cheeseburger and officially ended my race on my terms. I did it having hot food and cold beer and laughing with a group of awesome/crazy people, all strung out and having a much needed break, around a roaring woodstove in a wall tent, in the middle of the most beautiful, remote mountains you can possibly imagine.

It was perfect.