The TypeTwoFun Club

“Take your time, then come back and see that all of us are freaking out because YOU HAVE SKIED 200 MILES THROUGH A MOUNTAIN RANGE!”

The Race Moves On

I took the next morning nice and easy, curled up in my sleeping bag in the corner of the tent with a coffee as first Kyle and Adrian, then Sunny, headed out to continue down the Iditarod trail. It was Sunday, nearly 7 full days since I’d started out on Knik Lake. A part of me wondered how I’d feel if I was skiing out to head toward Post Glacier, Egypt Mountain, and on to the dreaded snowless Farwell Burn…but it wasn’t worth worrying about. I’d made my choice, and I had no internal second guessing. I knew I’d needed to stop for the safety of my fingers. I felt my body slipping into recovery-mode, allowing the stiffness and tiredness to settle in as muscles started to repair. I needed another braut.

After essentially a whole race of being within 3 miles of Sunny and never knowing it, we actually got to hang out for a bit in Rohn. It will surprise no one that she’s as awesome as you’d expect. Sunny really helped me through some low points on the trail and taught me the most important lesson–NEVER scratch on an empty stomach. A real racer takes her calorie load seriously: when Rohn CP volunteer Tony took our initial braut order by asking “how many do you want to start with?”, without any hesitation Sunny responded “FOUR”. I ultimately had seven but in my defense, I was in Rohn longer. Sunny skied on with my overmitts, in order to protect the minor frostnip on her fingers for the rest of the trail. It’ll be cool if she gets to Nome and I’ll have mittens that went the whole trail, partway with me and partway with the first woman to ever successfully ski the full ITI. Like a gear relay with a really strong anchor leg. I’m checking her tracker multiple times a day right now and rooting for her as she approaches Ruby, near to catching a couple of the male skiiers to have some company on the trail. Not that she needs any help!

The plan was for James and I to share (and split the cost of) a chartered beaver seaplane back to Anchorage. Departing Rohn depended on both availability of a bush pilot and a good weather window, so was not guaranteed to happen that day or any specific day thereafter. So after the race had moved on, Jay hooked me up as an impromptu volunteer for the Iditarod Sled Dog Race. If I was going to be ‘in town’ for the race, I might as well help out. And if not, at least I could help with the setup!

The Rohn BLM cabin that serves as the checkpoint building; View of the Rohn checkpoint from the ITI wall tent; sorting the mushers’ drop bags; fetching water from the West Fork Kuskokwim River; Rohn being magical.

Gettin’ Out’ the Bush

Our luck held and the plane was able to get to us at the Rohn airstrip. After hugs from Tony and Jay, James and I boarded the tiny plane for our flight. I was a bit of a brat and called shotgun, but he said he wouldn’t be able to resist touching the buttons and dials in the co-pilot seat anyway. Thanks for being gracious, James!

This was the most stunning flight. We got to fly through the pass known as “Hells Gate”, which is the alternate route the race has to take if Rainy Pass is not navigable. We then followed the race route and were able to spot both Puntilla/Rainy Pass and Finger Lake checkpoints!

We got back to Anchorage at the Lake Hood Seaplane base, picked up a car, and headed into town to go to our “fuck it, whatever, wherever, just get me a shower” hotels we booked in the terminal. While driving on the gridded downtown streets of Anchorage, we came across a Moose–James’ first of the trip. How funny to be 200 miles into the Alaskan backcountry and see our first moose of the race right by Walgreens. Much preferred, though. I like them better from the car than chasing me down the trail.

Time after getting to Anchorage but before heading home is liminal time. I had only what was with me on the race for the first night, which involved some improvisation to venture into the world for hot food without getting the authorities called on me due to my pungent smell. Tube tops are making a comeback, right?

I met up a couple of times with other ITI racers–I extended one invite by suggesting “lets get drinks and talk shit about that wind!”. While still processing the intense experience, it felt comfortable to be around other people who’d just been through the same thing. Getting dinner with a group of cyclists and foot athletes that had finished, even though most of them I never met on the trail, was just…comfortable. They got it too. Maybe they got it even more than me…I was the only scratch at the table. What had I missed? I could feel my opinions about a repeat performance slowly softening, from “why would I ever need to come back, that was amazing and I did it!” to… “Could I have done it?”

It was 11pm in bed in my hotel room, as I watched Sunny’s dot ski into McGrath, that the feelings caught me. Don’t get me wrong, my eyes had been swelling with tears every time I remembered Rainy Pass and how freaking awesome I was (I know, totally insufferable), but these tears, this feeling was more complex. When I skied into Rohn, Sunny said we’d do it together. She said we could do it. She had. Could we? Could I have done it?

I could have done it.

Answers to the Big (but not biggest) Questions

Feelings on completion of the event

The ITI is pretty unrelenting: the weather, the trail, the pressure of the time clock (bikers generally have it easy in comparison to skiers and runners here–we all have the same cutoff times and bikes have the advantage of speed in good conditions). Each day on the trail seemed to get harder–weather conditions worsening, gear busting, fatigue setting in, elevation climbing. It’s a brutal race. But the brutality of it was somehow the opposite of destroying. I think it can absolutely break people, but for me, each day just made me level up, and I watched myself rise to the occasion. I just kept impressing myself. You’ve seen the weepy videos on my phone about how proud of myself I am. I’m truly insufferable. I’m fine with it.

One of the folks affiliated with the race said it was some of the most prolonged difficult conditions he’s seen for the back of the pack racers. No woman runners finished the 350, and there were five. No woman skiers finished either, but that was just me dragging down the statistical average. All of the cyclists that got caught behind demon windstorm one had to scratch – at least six. The weather and wind was like a ravenous pack of wolves, picking off folks from the back of the herd. You can’t help the weather you get, though, and just have to do the best you can with what you face. Like Kyle said, “it is what it is.” I wished I’d been farther along since the second day of the race, but I’m proud I made it work and was able to make the cutoffs.

What a wild, wonderful experience. I’ve never been more challenged in all the ways I didn’t know I needed. The singularity of focus out there is a gift. Every day, just waking up to focus on what needs to happen on the trail–the mileage, the nutrition, navigating the weather and shifting conditions. Everything else falls away. Multiple times a day, even the hardest days, I’d look around and think “how lucky am I?!”. The intensity of each day required to beat the clock only amplified this–there wasn’t space in my head for ruminating on things ‘back in the real world’. I came back and was surprised what had fallen away as no longer a worry, or even of interest. It was the kind of effort that clarifies your priorities. I healed from things I hadn’t even realized I hadn’t healed from before.

I’m also so glad I made it to Rohn. Skiing up to the edge of the summit of the Alaska range would have been cool, but making it over was something else. Getting to see Rohn and have such a great race finish really did make the experience feel complete.

Why I Chose to Race (Mostly) Alone

I never really picked to, as a conscious choice. I’m just so used to being alone, backpacking alone, training alone, its my default setting. It’s also nice to be able to go at exactly your pace and rest cadence, without having to navigate another person’s energy levels, schedules, and emotions. It did lead to “lack of documentation” syndrome, where all I have are crummy selfies and up-the-nose video narrations… but I was out there to enjoy the trail anyways.

What would I change?

Race plans are so subjective; there’s no right way to plan your schedule. I am glad I got myself onto a morning schedule–that is more natural for me and I think it helped my body acclimatize to the trail more quickly. It worked out that I stayed mostly at checkpoints or roadhouses. This was largely because it reduced my own effort–by purchasing meals and staying in ready-made beds, I saved time firing up the stove, melting water for the next day’s travel, and making and breaking camp. 18/10, would not change a thing about this strategy, except for trying to push a bit farther to get to stay at Bentalit, and to be a bit more in control of my schedule.

I wish I could have made it to Puntilla in time for the all you can eat dinner at Rainy Pass Lodge.

I wish I’d put on another layer of mittens for Rainy Pass.

One key takeaway I wish I could share?

Documenting the trail is impossible. I’m sorry, it just is. I tried, we try, the dog sled race tries, mushers try…there’s too much, its too long, the views are too wide open for our little handheld computers to fathom. The stories, the experience, the beauty of the trail…

But especially the shitty parts. It’s impossible to share the worst moments of ITI. I couldn’t pull out my camera and take a video of the conditions in the Pass–I knew the risk was there already just being there at all. To stop, remove layers, futz around… all my photos and videos were taken at the good moments, the calm moments, between the challenges and obstacles. I really wanted to share the full experience somehow, which is why I’ve taken the time I have to write this story as vividly as I have the power to do (I’m no trained writer!). Parts of it probably (ok, definitely) feel a tad melodramatic, but its an attempt to capture my actual emotional states at the pivotal moments in my race, to really convey what it was like for me out there…day 7… -21f. I want to share the full story.

The Fingers

They’re ok. Want to see pics?

They weren’t not gross, just a little bit of mild blistering that looks like normal callouses. The two bit fingers are digits 3 and 4. You can see the blistering on the tip, and then they were puffy and firm all the way down to where they meet the hand, along the bottom of the finger. The tips were really sensitive and painful 36-48 hours after damage, which was apparently a good sign. From day 3 onward, they felt a bit blunt and dull/numb to pressure and touch.  If you compared my two ring finger tips, the bit one was about 25% bigger. A week plus later, as I type this, the situation has stabilized with no blistering or major peeling, and no discoloration. Just weirdly dulled and firm and slightly swollen fingertips.

Every single Alaskan when you say “I think my hands are frostbit” says which fingers? And grabs them and feels them. They don’t even look at them for a few seconds. They can tell more from how they feel I guess. Then they poke them and see how quickly the color returns (blood capillary refill action). My fingers had enough capillary refill that the tissue wasn’t at risk of dying, and could basically self-heal. Apparently. Time will tell–it could take up to 6 months, and I’m likely to carry some impacts permanently. My fingers will likely always chill a bit faster than prior to the damage, but it should be manageable.

How did I get the damage? I think I know but you can’t ever be sure. The nip was very evenly sustained, across fingers on both hands. I think I simply got too much exposure right through my overmitts. Being out for that long, in sustained wind, in those temps, just allowed the tissue on the surface of my fingers to get overly chilled slowly over time, without my hands ever feeling cold. My hands never were cold, all the way through, that I noticed. With that nip damage across both hands, it wouldn’t have taken much with my had out of my mitt to do a quick task for my two fingers to sustain more serious damage. Could it have been when I switched my goggles out? Or my lunch at Happy River? The 1.5 seconds I used to take my camera out for the summit pic (no regrets if so!)? I’ll never know. What I do know is in that wind, I could have prevented hand damage by adding another layer of mittens inside my mitts, despite the fact that my hands never felt cold. Just like I added coat layers and face layers before I felt like I needed them.

Oh well, next time. Wait…next time? Keep reading.

The Gear-y Awards

MVP: Fur Ruff

Nobody call PETA, I paid way more than I should have to source this thing from a subsistence fur trapper. Worth every penny. Real fur has unbelievable performance–it creates a microclimate around your face, protecting from both wind and temperature. This thing got me over that pass. It also made me wildly comfortable on every other day of the race, through myriad weather conditions. Irreplaceable out there as a team member. Fur Ruff, the real MVP.

Surprise pinch hitter: overmitts

I did not train a single day with these things. I spent a lot of money on them before camp, and figured “Well, if it gets really stinking cold out there maybe I’ll use them.” I used them every single day of the race, and their performance was exceptional. Its my own fault for not adding another layer over the pass, not theirs. I hope they’re having the adventure of a lifetime right now on their way to Nome.

Trustiest Side-kick: Pokey (sled)

What a champ. Can highly recommend this model–the integrated runners were a huge help. Thanks for not jumping off that cliff along the Happy River Steps when you accidentally got free, Pokey! I appreciate you and your good decision-making.

Bane of my Race: zippers, [nearly] all the zippers

Honestly, zippers can get bent. As in…get fucked. But also they do get bent, frequently. And jammed. And just spontaneously bust off your coat. The only zipper who didn’t give me a hassle was the zipper on my pulk bag, which performed exceptionally even when placed under extreme stress due to my poor packing. Every other zipper? I’m over you.

Most Dramatic Gear Failure: 4-way tie

• coat zipper day 3
• ski bindings day 4
• sunglasses day 5
• air pad day 6

New favorite food: Chocolate flavored Gu

Enough said, that shit is delicious. I was getting more and more keen on it through my training as the go-to for when I need a calorie hit, but didn’t feel hungry. And this jumped to next-level on the trail. The hit of caffeine included sure didn’t hurt either!

Most overpacked: food

I carried WAY too much food at the start. Not knowing how the sequence of roadhouses and checkpoints worked, I ended up getting a lot of pre-prepped meals from them. I joked I was an a foodie tour up the Yentna. Even at checkpoints there was a lot more options for food than expected–hot meal at Butterfly, extras at Finger Lake and seven (7!) brauts at Rohn. I could cut several pounds off my sled in calorie weight, alone.

Full Gear List

I’m going to be adding a full gear list here, along with my commentary on what worked and what I would change. It will take awhile and I didn’t want to delay sharing the story.

Full Gear list here!

Wy&Wo

You could say they were happy to see me.

What’s Next?

Well, my hands aren’t allowed to get cold for a little while, which is going to change some spring plans for me. I’d hoped to tackle a couple of sections of the PA AT with Wy&Wo before the snakes wake up, meaning March and possibly early April. But the same cold weather I need for Serpentes hibernation is now finger poison. So we’ll look for some fun hikes we’ve already completed to redo as day hikes, as the weather permits, and I’ll tackle more chunks of PA solo once things warm up.

Also, Maine and I may not be done just yet…stay tuned on this front ;). Potential fun things cooking.

The Biggest Question: Again?

When I knew I had to scratch due to my fingers, I was not particularly sad about it. Sure, I was ready to go on, but I felt like I got such a full experience. I wanted for nothing more. I told a friend “Not being ‘official finisher’ is not something that will gnaw at me in the slightest.”

Then I watched Sunny’s dot ski into McGrath. And I wondered…with that rest day in Rohn, could I have done it? I think I could have done it. I feel like, down the road, I might want to test that theory. I’m not committed but absolutely not saying never. But Nome? Yeah, fuck that. I’ll say never to that. Those people are absolutely cracked. [Feel free to reference this if I ever go for Nome].

It would definitely be easier a second time, knowing what to expect. I could optimize my gear setup right now in 30 minutes and cut about 11 pounds from my sled. I would have a better sense of how to get in my rhythm, how to make decisions to move or rest based on upcoming conditions and weather, how to optimize resources on the trail like road houses. I could document much more effectively. And, most importantly to me, I think I could enjoy the trail more, without having to stress about so many unknowns.

I’m not registering to race in 2025. I have already committed as a volunteer. Due to happenstance of my pace and my scratch in Rohn, I ended up spending a nice chunk of time with both Race Director Kyle and Trail Boss Adrian. And I think they took me as seriously as one can when I told them to give me a checkpoint and I’ll run it with a friendly but iron fist (or assist, y’know, whatever). Some friends, both ITI Camp friends and those I made during the race, plan to return and I hope to force-feed them checkpoint ramen and hot tang…lovingly.

I hear Rohn is nice.