“”Ok then [group chat], it’s settled. This year, NO ONE is scratching.”
[We all scratched.]
I hugged lots of people over the course of ITI 2026. I first hugged Major, someone I’ve been in a group chat with for months of training and prep, but met for the first time 16 hours before the LittleSu 50K start gun went off for a Valentines Day dinner ‘date’ at Panda Express. I hugged Sunny, a warm and rushed hello when we connected approximately four seconds before Race Director Kyle shut us all up for the pre-race athlete briefing. I got scooped up in a big ole’ bear hug by CP coordinator Tony, as I ploughed through the headwinds up to the Finger Lake checkpoint tent, our shared kingdom as co-volunteers last year. I shared a quick and firm hug with Vinny, the instant relief of recognition as we saw each other for the first time since the starting line in the hazy 3am half-dark of a stuffed dry cabin. I’m sure there are many others that folded into the blur of the week, the stress, the fatigue, the excitement, the relief back in town.
I hugged two strangers at ITI 2026. And in the end, those are the hugs sticking with me.
But let’s start at the start.
Ready Set Freeze
The main chatter amongst racers, both online and in-person in the leadup to the race start, was the forecast. The first few days’ prediction looked fairly chill, but the next several days looked CHILLED. Fairbanks and the interior of Alaska have been facing an unseasonably harsh winter. A cold front was set to settle right on our race course as we arrived over the Alaska Range and into the Interior, the most remote portion of the course.
Welp…great! Nothing to be done but pack the extra layer and more hand warmers and take it in as a datapoint for future Laura. Current Laura just had to take things day by day and race a smart race, setting myself up for any opportunity to get to the finish. Maybe the weather wouldn’t punch us all in the face, or would be polite enough with it to let me sneak through with just a black eye and no black fingers or toes.
Day 1: Knik Bar (2:00pm) – Mile 36 Bivy (11:50pm); 36 mi
It was fun to join the cavalry of races who convened at the official race hotel and road coach busses up to the start at Knik Bar. My rookie attempt in 2024, my sister and I went to the start directly from our rental in Big Lake so I missed the group experience. The FeetPeeps group chat met up for our obligatory start line photo, I got interviewed by a film crew (watch for me on the next season of Ice Airport Alaska, I guess?!), chowed down some lunch…nerves were low, vibes were good. The weather was ‘winter ultra warm’ but not too warm, which was nice for the pre-race milling about.
I have been joking that my race strategy was “Same as 2024, just ski a little bit faster and dont get frostbite again” but that was literally EXACTLY the race strategy. I wanted to maximize efficiency both while moving (ski a little faster), and use time time wisely at checkpoints and stopovers to rest well and also have a bit more buffer against the time cutoff at Rohn on Race day 6. And not get Frostbite again.
So, when the gun went off…I skied a little bit faster. I focused on not getting stuck behind the conga-line of sleds early so that I could set my own pace. Day one to CP1 Butterfly Lake can be a bit chaotic–with no set trail, racers can choose one of about six routes to get to the CP. Generally, the route I take starts with 5 miles gently sloping up through the woods of Knik. It then travels north to Big Lake through a swamp and then along some paved but snow-covered roadways to the Susitna Brewery. A few miles directly across the Lake itself, and then about ten odd miles through swamps and woods on well-established and sometimes questionably maintained snowmachine trails to get to the Checkpoint.
After the initial scrum and filtering out onto the narrow trail, I settled in behind Beat J and Mark H, both seasoned Nomers on foot so great people to be dragged along behind. As we turned onto the road system to approach Big Lake, I joked to Beat that he was my own personal trail groomer because his sled is so big. I followed a pretty similar route to CP as 2024, with a slight shortcut to bypass and cut above Flat Lake.
Guys… I’m, like, REALLY good at this.
As I was heading across Big Lake and doing some math, I realized I was significantly ahead of my 2024 pace and if I could maintain, I’d likely be to CP1, Butterfly Lake, before 9pm. Exactly what I had hoped in my more optimistic race visualizations. Feeling good, moving good, no mistakes…hydrate, calories, watch for sweat, watch the layers… the checklist looped itself in my mind, borne of dumb rookie mistakes last time. I preemptively removed my skis and walked a particular section of connector trail that in 2024 had made me sweaty and a little bit nauseous, overexerting myself on dumb little hills. I had learned my lesson well–watching out for little mistakes early pays big dividends later.
I spent about 30 minutes at Butterfly Lake, hydrating, drying out a bit by the fire, and chowing down on a burrito [burrito sidebar: I took my second burrito to go and it somehow fell out of my coat on my way to my bivy (campout) site, much to my dismay when I went to chow down. However! My friend Jason found a burrito on the trail a few hours later and enjoyed it for breakfast, so I like to think I just planted mine for him]. Again, I wanted to be in and out of Butterfly and on my way to my night one bivy site as efficiently as possible. No use squandering any unneeded time. Even Doug (yes, recurring character, the same Doug from 2024!) was impressed when he walked into the checkpoint cabin and saw me already sitting in front of the woodstove. I got my shit together, packed up, and was proud that I checked out 5 minutes before I’d even arrived in 2024.
I skied on up over the big hill below Cow Lake and caught up with a guy I hadn’t met before named Paul from Oregon. He said he had the sleepies so we went together for a handful of miles, him on foot and me on skis but our pace generally matching across the flat trail. It was nice to chat for a bit instead of always being in my head. He’d competed and finished in 2024 as well so was familiar with the same conditions that I’d faced that year; always fun to reminisce. I got to my bivy spot just before the swamp and Paul decided to press on to the bank of the River about 5 or 6 miles beyond. We’d proceed to leapfrog the next couple of days until Shell Lake, another new friendly face on the trail.
I made camp and had four fitful hours of ‘sleep’, more rest than sleep. I’d felt fine to continue on but knew I do better on a morning schedule, so I forced it. In retrospect, I might have been better off to continue to the river too. Or just should have popped some NyQuil instead, but that’s in violation of my personal rule to only using sleep aids when safely indoors or at CPs ;). In any case, the alarm came quick and, sleep or not, I packed it up to push to Yentna. My DREAM was to make it by a late lunch, so I still had plenty of time to push on to Hooligans.
Day 2: Mile 36 Bivy (4:30am) – Hooligans CP (8:15pm); 35 mi
Once I got moving, my warmup was a couple of hours across a swamp and through some woodlands toward the Susitna River, following its channels and sloughs to its confluence with the Yentna River at an intersection dubbed “Scary Tree”. The landmark tree and its scaryness is long gone but the waypoint nickname has stuck. I saw some mild aurora, my ITI Camp friend Fred, and a handful of others in the dark but mostly had a quiet solo early morning, dumping out onto the waterways about dawn.
Friends, the portion of trail from the mouth of the Yentna river to Yentna Station Roadhouse is a dream crusher. It feels endless, monotonous, relentless. At least this year it wasn’t snowing, so the trail surface itself was in fairly good shape. A bit soft, but I was still even getting some decent glide. Mostly just time to zone out and make progress–stay efficient, stay efficient, stay efficient. I started ‘eating off’ (passing) racers who I could tell had been up all night, marching straight through to Yentna. They have this hollow ‘death march’ about them, having made the choice and now being committed to it no matter how tired they get.
The river is marked with mile markers. We get on the river at mile 14 and Yentna is at mile 29.5. Knowing this as fact this year was helpful–I mostly just vibed and counted down the miles. The final big oxbow “big bend” before Yentna Station feels eternal. Just before Big Bend, I took a short break off my feet. sitting on my sled to gear up for the final 6 mile push.
Also, Friends, my dream of a lunch arrival came true. I could see the airstrip outside Yentna Station as I rolled up about 12:45 pm. I pulled up, took of my skis, and went to open my sled bag to grab some things. Wait…where was my tracker? GONE. Uffda. I went inside and straight to the big TV displaying trackleaders map to find myself. There I sat, idle, six miles back where I’d taken my break. BIG Uffda. I texted, then called, ITI Comms to see if there were backup trackers heading up the river with anyone. Nope. Thankfully a good backup was that they could patch into my InReach to use as a tracker, I would just have to keep it on and tracking and deal with keeping the battery juiced. However, at that moment, a miracle occurred. My tracker jumped forward 4 miles! It had clearly been picked up by someone and was now registering pings, having somehow shifted to face skyward and find its homing beacon satellite. It was pinging in close proximity to a foot athlete, Hillary Kunz , aka my new hero. She arrived in short order while I was finishing my lunch, and the reunion was so sweet.
So at 3pm I was hitting the road, flying high, reunited with my tracker and on my way to this evening’s destination. About a mile up from the Roadhouse, a low plane was approaching buzzing down the river. Before I could register why that might be, Race Director Kyle was overhead, leaning out his pilot window and hooting and hollering my name and whoops of encouragement. He wasn’t getting to snowmachine up the trail; the lead bikers were traveling too fast and he needed to coordinate logistics up trail near McGrath. But at least we got this one run-in this year 🙂
I now had hours of flat river travel to look forward to to get to CP2 Hooligan’s Retreat, with more in the morning. In an ideal world, I would have endless energy to travel 20 hours in a day and would only be treating Hooligans as a dinner stop, a waypoint before I continued on to Skwentna. Unfortunately, this is not that world, and by a handful of miles out from Hooligans I was feeling the length of the day and the poor rest the night before. Doug and I had caught up at Yentna (again, with ME arriving first bwahahaha) and so I knew he planned to continue on. I figured when he passed me now as the light was dimming that that might be the last time I saw him this race. A trail of headlines both in front of me and behind me as we stretched the final mile on a straightaway across the river to the Checkpoint. I didn’t recall this many PEOPLE being around me in 2024…I realized kind of abruptly that I was much more in the thick of the pack this year than I had been then. A nice feeling of reassurance; I was buying the time cushion that I wanted against the incoming cold and windy weather system. I was doing everything right that I could do to manage my race.
After a big dinner cooked in the communal kitchen cabin, I scored a real bed in one of the guest cabins. There were already two people snoozing in the upper bunk and bonus cot, so I tiptoed in to my spot on the lower bunk, popped my nyquil, and conked out. I slept like the dead until a few minutes before my 3:20 alarm, when the other two folks (siblings Matthew and Annie) alarms went off and they crept about, quietly and very politely gathering their things and creeping out. Once the coast was clear, I proceeded accordingly.
Day 3: Hooligans CP (4:40am) – Shell Lake Lodge (4:50pm); 31.1 mi
Back to the main cabin for a big bagel breakfast sandwich and coffee. I felt great! Well rested, minimally sore, hydrated…the system was working. I got out the door and proceeded up the Yentna towards my next waypoint, Skwentna Roadhouse. At the pace I’d been moving, I anticipated it would be a brunch stop. Their food is always stupid overpriced so I carried a bonus breakfast burrito from Hooligan’s to munch on the way and finish of at Skwentna. Again, decent trail, uneventful miles…was I getting the hang of this? I took the alternate approach into Skwentna, from the north this year. Its shorter on paper but rougher on skis due to moguls; I mostly did it because I wanted to see a new way in.
I rolled in about 9:45am, even quicker than I’d anticipated, and the first person I see in the door is Doug. Caught ya! A coffee, top off on water, charge my devices, dry my gloves, consume calories…stay efficient, stay efficient. I was at Skwentna for a little over an hour, chatting, charging and snacking, before I shoved off, making it about a mile before I realized POKEY WAS GRAVELY WOUNDED. The plastic had snapped off around one of her connecting bolts, right near the pull point of the rope connecting us. Thankfully, it was a very straightforward field repair, I latched the two pieces of plastic together with a ski strap, reinforced with a ziptie, and we were good to go. Doug caught me shortly thereafter as we approached the Skwentna Swamp. We each paused right before the final lefthand turn to leave the Access road, about 300 yards apart–we both knew that’s where the shit (wind) was really gonna hit the fan (us). Again, I figured that might be the last time I’d see him in this race.
Hoboy, here we go.
As I broke out from the cover of the trees, the crosswinds bowled me straight over. Recovering my bearings and adjusting my lean angle slightly to the right, I quickly discovered two things:
- T’was VERY WINDY
- The wind was a straight crosswind, and…like…not cold?
Fact one was expected, fact two was a delightful discovery. I checked my thermometer on my sled and it was registering nearly 20f above zero. Last time I skied this swamp, it was -25f below zero. That’s a completely different biome. Sure, the wind was whipping, but you can ski in a cross-wind pretty efficiently, and because it was so warm, there was much lower risk of cold-related injury. There were gusts that knocked me unsteady, and a few segments where the trail was drifted in, but the ski across the swamp was largely uneventful. Pleasant even. Which is rarely said about 50mph wind gusts in a swamp in an Alaskan Winter.
As I reached the end of the swamp, I pulled up into the woods to a calm level stretch right before the climb began up into the Shell Hills and stopped for a meal. Casey, a biker that I’d passed on the swamp as he was forced to hike-a-bike, quickly caught up now that he was back in the saddle. “You JUST missed my cheese party!” I exclaimed as I was packing up while he rolled to a stop. Turns out Casey’s not much for cheese, but he gave me several of delicious homemade marzipan shortbread cookies that his partner had sent along from back home in North Dakota. Thanks Casey!
The Shell Hills that rise up beyond the swamp were, again, a delight. Sunny, good trail…I felt like I flew up to the top of them. Once up, the wind really started to rear its ugly head. More and more the exposure was getting to me and slowing me down. I nearly lost a mitt once or twice, the wind tearing things out of my hands when I stopped to ‘faff’ with my gear (a British term several of us have adopted from reading Mark Hine’s recent ITI book. Thanks for the vocab boost, Mark!)
By the time I was reaching Shell Lake, I had traversed in the wind for a good few hours and I was feeling pretty spent. Again, in an ideal world, I’d be stopping briefly to take a meal and a nap and continuing on to Finger Lake tonight. This was what I had hoped to do, before being faced with so much wind. Unfortunately it just took it out of me. I decided to hunker down at Shell, since I was getting there early and would get a bed, and hit the trail early in the morning. Tomorrow was forecast to be the craziest wind day of the race so I knew it was going to be a fight to get up to Finger either way. I also knew I’d built in buffer by pushing early, so If I only completed the 19 miles to Finger tomorrow (the 15 listed on the tracker site is a LIE) I’d still be in decent shape for the Rohn 6 day cutoff.
While squatted down outside the cabins melting snow on my stove to refill my water bottles and cook a warm meal, I looked over and saw Doug waxing his skis. I knew he was taking a brief break before continuing on to Finger. Again again, I thought this might be the last time I’d see him this race (and third time’s the charm: I was right!). In my cabin, Beat and Herman were gearing up to head on, and Paul and Dave P were discussing napping just a handful of hours before pressing on later tonight. These were the folks I’d been around the whole race so far, and I knew they’d be slipping away from me for good now. I was well rested from the night before but also fearful of the winds in this next stretch, having dealt with the Demon Windstorm(tm) last race. So, I will fully admit here, I let fear of the forecast get the better of me for the first time in the race and opted for a second long night before I would press onwards. That way I’d deal with the most exposed portions of the next section in daylight, and also might catch the couple hours break before dawn when wind typically quiets.
So, another NyQuill and another nice long sleep. I could get used to this. I missed the departures of my compatriots and the arrival of a new wave of racers, those who’d been a handful of hours behind me, who moved in to take their spots in the cabin. My alarm went off at 2:20am to essentially a Hooverville–folks were asleep on every surface and one racer, Jacob, was sleeping on hilariously curled up in a C shape beside and behind the woodstove. Make due with the space you have, I suppose. As I got sorted and packed up, Vinny popped in from the other cabin to see when folks were planning to depart–I hadn’t seen him since the starting line! Always so nice to see a friendly face.
Day 4: Shell Lake Lodge ( 3:15am) – Finger Lake CP (1:55pm); ~24 miles (~4 bonus miles!)
I got moving just as others in the cabin were stirring, so I knew they’d be behind me on the trail and ultimately the Checkpoint. I figured my best bet was to power straight through, sleep when I got there until I got kicked out, and then figure out my next move based on how much rest I’d gotten and the updated forecast. A clear track headed out of the cluster of cabins, so I hit the road and started skiing. A bit later, I realized something felt….off. Pulled out my GPS and why was I heading…south? I followed a couple right forks and found myself veering back toward the trail. Definitely a long-cut out of camp, but seemed fine. And there was no wind, and a hard pack trail…things were…ok? Onwards! I kept checking my GPS about every 15 minutes and realized two things:
- I was going the right direction
- I was CLEARLY not on the trail.
I recalled in 2024 that this section had a cat track, a wide hardpack ‘snow road’ for mining operations in the area, and that the actual trail zigzaged back and forth with the cat track, braiding into and out of it a number of times. At this point, I was at least a couple hours committed, and like I said, going generally the right direction…so I opted to hope for the best that they’d still intersect at some point prior to Finger Lake and I wouldn’t have to strike off on some trailless expedition to the CP. Eventually, I went from seeing a single other bike track to seeing a whole bunch of bike and sled tracks–success! I let my guard down, vis a vis trail spotting. The wind had picked up so my hood was cinched pretty tight so my fur ruff could protect my face; clearly I wasn’t seeing turnoffs. Eventually, I was back to seeing just a few, then a bunch…. just continuously hoping they’d reconnect and I hadn’t missed a key turnoff. But the trail surface of the cat track was great, so honestly I think I came out ahead in the end, even if my Trackleaders replay shows I’m one of about three folks who took this road less traveled.
During my navigational confusion, I’d been making steady progress up and the wind had been steadily increasing to where it was approaching serious levels. My skis had come off long ago and been cinched onto the sled; I was being blown back uphill when I tried to ski down the few downhills which is never a good sign for ski efficiency. I scarfed a handful of calories in whenever I had a brief tree-cover breaks from the wind… but always find it really hard to eat in wind, both logistically to safety expose my hand and face, and also because my appetite disappears. This is definitely a shortcoming I will need to troubleshoot moving forward for long days out in windy winter days.
As I contused to climb into the foothills and the sun rose higher, the now familiar Demon wind cometh. Fucking again.
I swear to God, it was worse than 2024. There were weather reports documented and knowledgeable folks on the ground that put the wind as sustained 50mph, with gusts up to 70mph coming across the lake. It was relentless for the last several hours of the day. There were long exposed portions of the trail where nearly every single gust literally was knocking me over. I actually missed the turnoff AGAIN because my hoods and ruffs were done up so tightly across my face. I discovered my error when some mining heavy machinery came down the cat-track and I had to crawl into a snowbank to let them pass. I fell over from the wind, and figured as long as I was sitting in a snowbank beside a tree, I might as well check why this last 1.5 miles into the CP felt SO LONG. Oh, its because I’d missed the turnoff by well over a mile. Oops. Counterintuitively, I knew I was in good shape because this realization did not produce a single ounce of despair in my soul, I simply shrugged, laughed, turned, and started back, noting that I’d have a TAILWIND for the segment I had to redo and that I was still going to get into the CP in time for late lunch. Which was good, I was in a major calorie deficit for the day.
I hadn’t seen a soul since Shell Lake until I saw the Cat Track machinery crew. Unbeknownst to me, I’d been right behind the two racers I’d shared a bunk with at Hooligans. Because of my ‘bonus miles’ adventure, I ended up coming into the CP about 90 minutes behind them but in similar conditions.
Here’s them coming into the Checkpoint (also titled: I SWEAR I AM NOT EXAGGERATING):
It felt good to walk up to CP3 Finger Lake (again, skis were still on the sled, due to said demon winds). As I approached, I could see Tony’s tall frame waiting for me just in the windbreak of the tent. We both threw our arms up in the air in victory–I’D MADE IT BACK. A big hug and I was immediately ushered into the tent along with the other volunteer Josh (Brown). Just like I remembered it: weird carpets on the floor for sleeping, burritos hot and ready to go…Tony and Josh were running a tight ship. I quickly relayed how things were going (great!) and my plans to stay rest and catch up on some calories, at least for now. I was just finishing getting my wet gear hung and grabbing my first burrito when we all heard a calvary of several snowmachines pulling up outside. Confused who it could be, Josh and Tony poked back outside to see who the new arrivals were. I hardly gave it a thought, as I went through my checklist–stay efficient, stay efficient. What would I grab from my sled once these snowamchiners left? What did I need to do now, in five minutes, in thirty?
The tent flap flapped opened once again, and my entire understanding of this race was about to shift.
When Jokes stop being funny
All around ITI–the 2023 Camp, the prep in 2024, the 2024 race itself–myself and folks throughout my life have joked about fingers and toes. “Make sure you come back with all your fingers!” was a common family response. Hell, we all kept joking even when I literally DID get (albeit minor) frostbite on two of my fingers and had to spent months exercising caution and diligence to let them heal up fully. If anything, the jokes intensified.
I’ve been politely but firmly shutting those jokes down now.
The four snowmachiners turned out to be ‘locals’, such as locals exist in a large uninhabited mountain range. They maintain a camp the the general area (at the southernmost bend of Hells Gate, for those in the know) and just happened to be moving through when they were flagged down by their current charge, an ITI Racer under pretty serious duress. The tent, which previously felt empty with only three sleeping racers, Josh, Tony, and myself, now added one additional Racer and the entire atmosphere shifted. This Racer had proceeded forward up the trail nearly a dozen miles and then realized they were in serious trouble with cold injuries. Thankfully Josh is a medical professional with cold injury training and is also one of the kindest people you’ll meet out there. I can’t imagine a better person to triage the situation. The only way I could help was to run out to my sled to grab my Boyfriend(tm), my comically massive Arctery’x down jacket that serves as my ‘oh shit’ puffy coat emergency layer. He’s Everest-ready. This was to wrap up Racer in the coat, as they were starting the rewarming process in the tent and were shaking pretty violently in their wet puffy. As I re-entered the wall tent, I caught a glimpse of the Racer’s hand being inspected by Josh. Holy fuck.
We got them into my coat so we could set Racer’s coat, and subsequently Racer themself, near the woodstove to start drying out. While Josh and Tony both dealt with the logistics. They had to get a fire going in a dry cabin up at the resort to begin more thorough re-warming, and also coordinate some logistics with the snowmachine hunter crew, so I was left solo sitting by the fire with Racer. Trembling with cold, with relief, with fear, who knows what combination. “This has been my dream. For years, this race. My dream. And now…this?” I offered what banal reassurances I could. “You’re here, you’re alive, you’re safe. You’ll get the medical care you need now.” But what the hell could I really say, what did I know? Would they be ok? A language barrier wasn’t helping. What could I offer this racer?
“Can I give you a hug?”
Tears in both our eyes as we stood and embraced for some time. I had no answers, but I had this.
Josh and Tony came back shortly thereafter, handed me back my coat, and moved Racer up the hill away from the race facilities. I didn’t see them again.
Back in the Swing of Things
It felt surreal, but as the volunteers both (understandably) disappeared, fresh racers started appearing at the CP. Welp, time to temporarily compartmentalize that entire experience *jazz hands* coping mechanism *jazz hands*!
I knew the Finger Lake checkpoint volunteer spiel and where the check-in sheet was hanging, so I simply popped up and started checking arrivals in as an impromptu volunteer. I drew the line at fishing for their drop bags outside and told them they could wait for the real volunteers to get back to get those. I really liked volunteering last year, and I liked the few minutes I spent doing it again this year. Caring for other athletes is so rewarding. But I was aware I am an athlete this year and should really be resting and taking care of myself. The minute Tony reappeared I cheerfully updated him, relinquished my duties, and made him wait on me hand and foot. Just kidding, Tony ;).
As racers kept appearing, the bed slots were filling up. Despite the feeling that the winds might snatch the entire tent away at any moment, I was getting good rest with my earplugs and Nyquil regimen. But I was aware of the waning floor real estate. The tent CPs run on a first-in-first-out system. First a scratched racer got bumped by a new arrival, then the pair next to me (the siblings) were in danger of being bumped at 1am. We opted to spoon in real tight, so I snuggled up to Vinny on my other side to make space for this RUDE new arrival…who…oh, hey, its Sunny :)!
It’s real nice knowing so many of the other racers.
Eventually, with 13 sleeping in the tent, Tony could work no more magic and the siblings Annie and Matthew were bumped. It was about 20 minutes before my alarm anyways, so I slowly started mobilizing myself, with Vinny and Jacob rousing about the same time. The red lantern racers, Klaus and Donald, arrived shortly thereafter to take our sleeping spaces, so the timing worked out great. The timing cutoff for Finger Lake was 12 hours away at 2pm; everybody still in this madness had made it.
NOT stuck with Death Sticks Strapped to My feet
Day 5: Finger Lake CP (3:00am) – Puntilla CP (4:35pm); 28 miles
I geared up heavily, anticipating the same winds as yesterday with even colder temps. By a half mile out off the lake, there was no wind at all and I was starting to sweat. So I had to stop and completely readjust my layers, taking off insulation layers on top and bottom and some face protection. A mile after THAT, I was skiing across Red Lake in a fucking GALE of wind, getting progressively colder and cursing the fact that I’d removed layers. The minute I got to the protection of the lake’s edge, I stopped and completely shifted all my layers again, re-adding warmth and cracking a couple of hand warmers to help myself recover. I warmed up, but this marked a shift: after a completely clean layer setup where I felt great through the winds yesterday, I was fighting with my temperature regulation the rest of the race. Adding frustration, after nine hours of perfect performance yesterday, I managed to fog up my goggles in the first mile today and had to deal with reduced visibility for several hours until the winds finally died down.
About 60-90 minutes into my morning, Vinny and Jacob caught up to me about the same time some headlights became visible coming back towards us. It turned out to be Annie and Matthew. I spoke briefly with Annie who was in front to make sure all was ok; her message was “We’re ok, we just got beyond our agreed-upon safety threshold so we’re calling it. Going back to Finger Lake to scratch.” I told her to travel safe and it had been great racing with them. While she didn’t elaborate what this threshold was, it was well below zero with very strong sustained winds and hours still until daylight; it wasn’t hard to imagine their decision-making!
Those first six or eight miles are also some of the hardest on the trail, with steep hills interspersed with exposed swamps. As the sun rose and I got to the end of the tough stuff, the trail became increasingly enjoyable. Finally, FINALLY, the wind started to die down and I could remove my god-forsaken iced over goggles (Jk goggles, I love you and we both know it was entirely my fault this day). Below is the first documentation I recorded on trail in nearly 36 hours; behold the hot-mess express:
This was an astounding day, for multiple reasons. The primary reason: HOW THE F*CK DID I SKI THIS!?
If you recall, in 2024 I managed to flounder into some overflow, freeze my bindings, and via a series of choices, ski the entire 28 miles between Finger Lake and Puntilla. This is the hilliest and most technical section of the entire trail. Dozens of time on this day, I’d be easily hiking up a hill, skis strapped on my sled, and think “I really SKIED up this? Damn. I’m impressive!” I understand why it took me over 17 hours to complete it. Its tough even on foot! Another skier this year, Scott P, told me as we sipped hot coffee at Puntilla that he kept thinking of my 2024 trail report as he hiked the trail this day too. He had the same question, I suppose. I’m glad my misfortune has a wide audience :). In any case, it was a delight to be able to hike where I was previously forced to ski, and I was repeatedly highly impressed with my fortitude back then to endure it. I literally don’t have an understanding how I pushed through and did it. And quite frankly, it was a dumb and incorrect choice. I should have simply untied my boots, taken them off, strapped the entire monstrosity onto my sled, and hiked it in the trail runners I was carrying that year. But fear of the unknown, I suppose. It cannot be understated how much easier firsthand knowledge of the trail makes strategizing and decision-making.
Another reason that this day was astounding was how beautiful it was. After a day and a half of wind, we had bluebird skies and much of the trail after midmorning was calm or with only moderate breezes. The striking presence of the looming mountains viewed across pristine lakes and rivers and rolling ridgelines makes you want to stop and take your phone about about every mile for pictures. Trying to be diligent and protect both my hands (doubly so, now!) and my efficiency, I stopped for both documentation and sheer enjoyment less than I now wish I had.
I spent a chunk of the day leapfrogging with Mark Hines; him moving faster but opting for seated breaks every few hours, while I opt to eat while moving and only stop to check gps (nearly unnecessary today) or get a quick selfie. He almost photobombed my Shirley Lake photoshoot and apologized unnecessarily for doing so. We also had a little ‘battle of the sexes’ thing going on, trading complaints as we passed one another about the unknown struggles of beards freezing to balaclavas or the unique thrill of removing a tampon in 50 mph headwinds. The less glamourous side of winter ultras (spoiler alert: almost no side is glamorous).
I did end up walking all but a couple of miles this day; there were a number of portions I might have opted to ski but I was struggling with staying a comfortable temperature–first sweating, then getting chilled, on a loop. I was finding that repeatedly stopping to get my skis off my sled, mess around with putting them on, then shortly later getting to a hilly portion and having to stop and mess around with my gear again was contributing to this issue. So, to manage better on-the-fly until I could get to the next CP and dry out all my layers, I opted to simply walk. I found out later that the temperature was generally around zero, but then in select areas would suddenly bottom out to -20f or colder for a few minutes, then go back to 0f. I saw this when checking one thermometer on my backpack, and then the other on my sled a short while later, and assumed one of the thermometers must have broken!
Hills are not my strong point; they really tire me out. Plus I was having a hard time staying warm so was keeping on bonus layers that would then make me sweat more on climbs. And after nearly two days of walking, between yesterday’s winds and today’s hills, my arms were really starting to get tired. My ski poles are significantly longer than hiking trekking poles would be, and were putting some serious strain on my triceps. IF I were to ever race again, I would use adjustable length poles for sure.
A few miles out and I was feeling the fatigue, both mentally and physically. Suddenly approaching me was Brian, from the ITI trail crew, on his snowmachine. He was en route back to Finger Lake to help dismantle the CP, and the shot of Fireball Whiskey he offered was a real boost 6 miles before the CP–I gladly took a swill from the whiskey bottle. I got passed by Gillian, a Yukon Ultra pro keeping a steady pace, and we had a nice short chat and I chased her to keep my pace up for a few minutes. Shortly after I lost her, Mark came along again, and had the presence to realize I was looking glum and ask if I was alright. “Yeah, just ready to be there now and get off my feet. All good! I know were close.”
I kept reminding myself this was the hilliest day, just get through today and tomorrow and we’d be rolling through the burn and flatter country on toward the finish. The FINISH.
[Wind] Tunnel Vision
I immediately chastised myself. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Rushfeldt, you’re barely halfway. Just take it one day at a time, like you’ve been doing.” (Yes, I call myself by my last name when self-chastising.) But the truth was, I had been looking toward the finish this whole race, and the whole leadup as well. I’d been telling everyone from the jump that “I’m going back, and I’m going for a finish.” I had tunnel vision. Even during the early days of the race, had I even been allowing myself to enjoy it fully? My camera roll was empty, born of diligence to stay efficient, stay efficient, stay efficient. There was still a lot of ground between Puntilla and McGrath, and potentially biblical weather forecasts. What would it mean if I’d set my goal as a finish, and I came up short? Oof.
One regret I’d walked away with in 2024 was that I did not get to experience Rainy Pass Lodge–I’d arrived in at midnight and hit the road again at 8am, not even seeing the main lodge building or experiencing one of its legendary communal meals. Welp, that was one experience I was about to rectify–I was dropping onto Puntilla Lake at 4:30pm, well in advance of the big family-style dinners I’d heard all about. Time to get in, get my chores done, and go stuff my face. But first, I’d take a moment to enjoy one of the most beautiful places on earth.
At Rainy Pass, there is a bunkhouse with a woodstove, hot and cold water, microwaves, and piles of ramen noodles, easy mac, and random soups and oatmeals. So naturally I had a large pre-dinner while I hung damp gear, grabbed a bunk, and sorted my belongings. Then trundled up to the lodge to sit for second dinner (an aside: Hell yeah, Drea. Got the dinner 😉). Mounds of all-you-can-eat lasagna, meatballs, garlic bread, and gooey desserts were an elixer of life. I ate until I couldn’t possibly. I ate until it hurt. Conversation turned to the Pass.
Rainy Pass Lodge is named for Rainy Pass, but it isn’t at Rainy Pass. That’s an 18 mile trundle up off the lake, across an open elevated plateau-like flat called Ptarmigan Valley, and then up the narrow Rainy Pass route itself to the summit. It turns out, there was a ground blizzard headwind wind tunnel sitting on the flats that had been tormenting races crossing it for two days, and now an additional cold front for the last 24 hours that wasn’t going anywhere soon. This meant, in effect, an 18 mile traverse and climb in windchills approaching… -70f? -80f? worse? And then 3-4 additional days afterward with lows bottoming out well below -40f base temp (before accounting for windchill). Of course we’d all just traversed some monster winds on Wednesday, but the base temp hovering near zero then. This was next level biblical shit.
Everyone was strategizing the best window to attempt to summit, or if they even wanted to try at all. Sunny, endlessly helpful and also good at this, felt a 10am departure would be the best weather window (and as an aside: It seems as if Sunny is always fucking right.)
I’d done this pass before, also in pretty damn cold temps and pretty damn irksome winds. I remembered my pace and how much it took out of me last time. I decided not to wait and start that late, knowing it would be very hard for me to get to the next CP 36 miles away in one push if I started that late. So I got sorted and set my plan to depart about 5am and give it a go.
When I was getting packed up at 4:30, 4:45am, a couple of others were doing the same. Bryce headed out on his second attempt to summit the pass shortly after I got up; he’d turned back the day before. Mark was also getting sorted and set off shortly before me. I skied out about 5:30am after a fortifying breakfast and a big, deep “here we go” breath. While I was going up the rolling hills toward the flat Ptarmigan Valley, I stopped and turned off my light for a minute to appreciate the cold, dark, calm, the last still air I’d experience for quite a while since the winds would pick up the minute I climbed up onto the flats. Deep breath.
I was nearing the top of the climbs when I saw two headlamps coming back toward me–rarely a great sign. I slowed as we got close; it was Bryce and Mark. Bryce reported he’d gone into ‘the wind tunnel’, the persistent ground blizzard sitting on the flats ahead, and it was simply too damn cold to move through it. My sled thermometer had read -29f as I departed the bunk house and it had definitely cooled since. The air was cooler both from climbing up in elevation and because the coldest time of the day in Alaskan winters is dawn; typically, the temperature continues to drop as the light rises and bottoms out about 45 minutes after sunrise. Bryce reported the wind had sucked his breath away and instantly stolen ever hint of warmth from his body; the decision to turn around was barely conscious, an instant instinct. The light was just high enough that we could see the flats, and mark pointed to the blowing hazy swath ahead, the edge of the wind tunnel. Holy fuck.
I decided I did not need to experience that first-hand, and turned around with them. Mark planned to head back down about a mile and settle in for an hour or two, to let the base temp rise and re-attempt without losing all the elevation we’d already climbed. I momentarily considered doing the same, and began to assess. Oh wait…shit! I’m sweaty again?! How is that even possible when it’s probably -40 or worse out here. I’d have to take off my mid layer and replace it, and everything would flash freeze, including my water. This was an easy choice, I was absolutely not equipped to wait it out, and was 4 miles from a warm lodge CP with a hot breakfast and full of friends who were going to make an attempt with a 10am departure. Plus, skiing back down was going to be both fun and easy. Bye boys! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!
When I got back down to the CP, I pulled my sled up to the bunkhouse and, now blocked from all wind and back at ‘civilization’ (remote outposts count!), opted to pull my phone out and snap a quick selfie to capture the aftermath of my ultra-cold attempt. Proof that the Alaska Range is cold, below.
Overriding Your Head But Trusting Your Body
I arrived back at the lodge about 8:10, plenty of time to get things drying before 8:30 breakfast. My plan was to dry out and then push out about the same time as several folks leaving at 10 or 10:30: recurring characters Sunny, Vinny, Jacob, Hillary, and a few other new friends Brandon, Mitch, and John.
As I again stuffed my face, I was preoccupied: why was I sweating like I was, when I wasn’t overly exerting? My layers had never failed me before, and I wasn’t overdressing. Could I reasonably expect to get through the windtunnel, then up over the summit, then down to Rohn, if I was going to sweat and then flash freeze? Did I have enough backup layers if I needed to change things out? Could I safely change things out? Would I be able to get them dry in Rohn? Could I do the 2, 3 days after that in ultracold temps through unsupported, uninhabited wilderness to get to Nikolai safety? My sleeping bag is rated for -40, could I be safe in -45, -50, worse?
Guiltily, I slithered over to an open seat next to Sunny and quietly shared I was thinking about scratching. This is very annoying behavior–racers have enough to deal with managing their own race and emotions, without me, an idiot, laying my worries on her shoulders. Thankfully, Sunny is both supportive and accommodating and gave me the pep talk/auditory slap across the face I was seeking. “How can you say that, when you’ve literally gone over the pass in these conditions already before and been fine? Remember 2024? You know you can do this…you’ve already done it!”
Yep, that’s it. I’m stupidly talking myself out of the race again. Just like in 2024 when I talked myself into scratching on the approach mile into every single roadhouse and checkpoint. Part of succeeding in winter ultras is learning how to (selectively) override your head. Not to the point of recklessness, but past the point of risk. If you always make the less risky choice, you’d might as well be sitting at the start line Knik Bar having a tepid ginger ale–everything about racing involves some risk. My head will always tell me that dropping out is the smart call. Because objectively, it probably is if the goal is the evolutionary survival of my bloodline and not finishing the fucking ITI350.
Newly-resolved, I headed back to the bougie bunk. The bougie bunk is for-pay accomodations, where athletes get a semi-private bedroom, their own lounge with an open bar, and such perks as actual heat and wifi (but still no indoor plumbing). Worth 400$ to you? No, me either, but some friends had stayed in there and I’d gate-crashed in order to hang my things to dry by their wood stove. I popped back in and went to check my gear.
Damn, my mid-layer was pretty well soaked. It had been much wetter than I’d realized. My softshell too. I stoked the fire somewhat helplessly and collapsed into an armchair a few feet away. I shivered. Wait…what? It is warm in here. What the fuck? Why can’t I control my body temperature?
Checklist: Am I hydrated? Very. Am I rested? To an absurd degree for an ultrarace, after the last three full nights’ sleeps. Calories? I’ve been refueling great. Everything should be all systems go, but I couldn’t even trust myself to get back up to the Flats and not be a sweaty, chilled… and then I’d still have nearly 30 miles to Rohn. This was feeling untenable.
I can override my head, when I can trust my body. But if I’m ignoring both, that’s just being stubborn. Or is my head tricking me, convincing me that my body won’t perform? No, my body literally just didn’t perform how I need it to. I have data, beyond numbers on a NOAA forecast or abstract concocted fears. I simply wasn’t able to see how this day can be completed safely in my current condition, much less adding on the 4 following days. A wind tunnel? Ok. Cold temps? Fine. 80 mile remote stretch of barren fire-charred backcountry, inhabited only by Bison? Cool. All at once? Potentially, but the margin for safety here is razor thin. I would need to perform at my peak. Am I at my peak?
I am not.
Pulling the plug
I was now sitting in a living room surrounded by about 8 racers making final preparations to depart, when I had just decided to end my race. This is not an ideal locale; you don’t want to be a buzzkill or accidentally scare someone else into making a rash decision. Emotions and fears can be contagious. I somewhat discreetly let Vinny know I was thinking about not attempting again, but I don’t think he believed me until he saw me faff on over to the bar and pour myself a small cervesa. “Oh, you’re drinking? You are done, then. C’mere.” Vinny pulled me a big bear hug (our second) this one next to the big bear. Vinny could sympathize, in 2024 he had scratched here, when facing similar conditions over Rainy Pass but with an entire day’s less time before the cutoff. I told him something was just feeling off with my body, and I didn’t trust it and myself to do it safely, but I totally believed it was doable and he should go for it if he felt ready. And he did.
The crew all pushed off, not as a single group but as a loosely affiliated pack, leaving 5 and 10 minutes apart to strike across Puntilla lake and into the woods. Soon everyone had left besides my friend Jason, who was a bit further behind in prep. Sorry to say, I let the emotions come then and had a little cry with Jason (again, not good form when the other person is still competing). I didn’t regret my decision, already texted to ITI Comms and therefore official. But I did regret that I had to do it. I had managed my race so well, I had the time buffer to get to Rohn before the cutoff. I’d done everything right to set myself up for success and get my finish. But now I couldn’t trust my body. A new and frustrating hurdle I didn’t expect. So, I let it out for a minute, then I got my shit back together, thanked Jason for putting up with me (he was as ever a total gentleman about it), and headed up to the lodge to grab a coffee.
There was a parallel event going on at Rainy Pass that morning–three racers were in the process of being rescued off of the Pass. SOS assistance requests had come in from two different sources in the wee hours–two foot athletes who’d simply had enough after a horrible, freezing camp in the windstorm, and another trio of bikers. Two of the bikers, traveling together, found a third racer chilled in and not in great headspace, and they camped together to get through the night. The third racer’s condition deteriorated when he somehow got wet in his camp setup. The others pulled him into their tents and sleeping bags even, to keep him from getting hypothermic through the worst of the night. They were losing the fight as he got progressively colder and needed him recovered before the situation further deteriorated. The Rainy Pass Lodge crew had headed up the pass with a calvary of snowmachines to bring the three and their gear back down to the lodge.
The rescued Biker is a good buddy of Jason’s, so naturally Jason was quite concerned when he’d learned of the situation at breakfast. Back up in the main lodge, I saw the biker–upright, alert with a cup of coffee in his hand and a pile of blankets over his lap. Amazing news. Though I’d just walked in and said hi to the small group gathered there, I immediately excused myself and ran back down the hill to Jason at his sled preparing to depart, to let him know the good news about his friend’s status. I wanted to alleviate his concerns so he could head out on the trail without worrying. Hopefully I undid some of the emotional labor I’d made him perform just moments prior, consoling me :).
The Biker was fairly quickly loaded on a plane headed for Anchorage to get medical attention. He’d come down from the pass on the back of a snowmachine in one of the Rainy Pass Lodge Staff’s bunny boots–specialized military-grade ultra-cold weather boots. They’d taken their warm boots off and put them on the evacuee’s feet to protect him on the ride down, and had to put their own feet in an ice cold spare pair off the sled. Up there on a mountain pass in those insane cold blowing temps. Utterly amazing people.
Shortly after I returned to my abandoned coffee, the other two evacuated athletes were brought in. Their status was less serios first evacuee, but both came in to the lodge chilled through, lacking the dexterity to do simple tasks like get their zippers undone and remove their shoes easily. With some minor help, they were able to get their layers off and self-assess their digits–luckily they got off with mostly minor frostbite. After assisting how I could with the de-shoeing, I grabbed one a hot chocolate and sat with them for a bit while they thawed. One of the two was a multi-time Nome veteran, which shows how extreme these conditions were. These weren’t rookies making silly mistakes out there! The one swore he was done with winter pursuits forever. In fact, he informed us, he intended to never go outdoors ever again in his entire life. The other said he still intended to come back again and compete in future years. Funny how after going through the same scary experience, the takeaways were so different.
Because there were a number of scratched athletes who’d been stuck at the lodge for a day or more, and now the evacuees and medical cases, I was told I’d likely be on tomorrow’s manifest for a flight back to Anchorage. Each flight only fits a handful of people at most. My stuff was dispersed around my sled and throughout the bougie bunkhouse, but I was in no hurry to get packed up, get any photos I wanted of this amazing place, etc since I knew I had the whole day, evening, and tomorrow morning. I sat and sipped coffee and chatted, the last remainders of breakfast disappearing and being replaced with a full spread for lunch (of course, I stuffed myself full like a fois gras goose yet again). I was just picking off the end of my buffalo chicken slider when Steve Perrin, Owner of Rainy Pass Lodge called out “Someone is not ready for this plane so we’re departing one short, unless someone is ready immediately? The plane is landing.”
My hand shot up. “How long do I have? 5 minutes? I can be ready”. SOLD. I’ve learned there’s a risk of getting stuck days in the backcountry if the weather shifts, so take whatever opportunity you can to get out when you’re ready to get out. I ran down the hill, tore through the bunkhouse throwing things in my sled and grabbing a couple key items into a drybag to bring as my ‘carry on’. In the end, my sled and skis didn’t fit onto this flight, but I got the co-pilot’s seat yet again with my favorite Regal Air pilot Devon. Devon flew me out of Rohn in 2024, and then into and out of Finger Lake last year from my volunteer stint (complete with aborted attempt and near-emergency landing!) I figured as such a frequent flier, it was time for me to rep the brand, and I purchased a Regal Air hoodie as I paid for my (much cheaper than Rohn!) flight.
The flight, as always, was beautiful. It was counter-intuitive, and moderately painful, to be dropping out of the race due to weather and see the beautiful blue skies as we took off. I had to repeatedly remind myself that blue skies had nothing to do with my decision. The flight parallels the race course for most of the route, and I could see the trail below as it traversed forests and rivers, rises and valleys; we saw Finger Lake, the Winterlake lodge perched on it’s northern shore. Then the Shell Hills, the great Yentna and Susitna Rivers…it’s both humbling and ego-stoking to see how far I’d come. Finally, the race trail and flightpath diverged as we approached the Inlet and City. The last I’d see of the trail.
At that moment, I wasn’t sure I’d see it again. Part of the reason I’d been emotional about scratching is that I’d approached this year’s attempt as my ‘last shot’. Preparing for and completing in ITI is all-consuming in a lot of ways. It takes all your free time, ALL your money (and then some), and all your bandwidth. I’m not sure how long I want to commit all my resources to it, at the expense of other ambitions, other goals. So, I’d said all off this year that I’d get my finish and that might be it, I’d get the monkey off my back. What did it mean now that I was flying back without a finisher’s patch, again. Was this it?
The Reasons you Stay
Not to brag, but I went from actively racing, literally still skiing, to in town, showered, with all my gear, and eating short rib Poutine in less than 12 hours. My gear had come in on a flight about 5:30pm, and I’d managed to wedge it, two additional racers (the two foot evacuees), and all their gear into a Subaru Outback-adjacent rental car I’d snagged on arrival. Nice to help out fellow competitors.
After a long rest and some fun watching the Fur Rondy sprint sled dog races the next morning, I headed back to Regal Air a third time to pick up Jason. He’d headed up several miles toward the Pass and decided he wasn’t in the right headspace to take on the crossing, so had ultimately returned to Rainy Pass (as had a number of other racers) after I’d already departed. We managed to fit him, two other foot athletes, and all THEIR gear into the rental car, which was pretty comical…the car was like Mary Poppin’s handbag!
Everyone I was shuttling around was very appreciative, and I really was enjoying being around and able to help–it felt similar to me as volunteering at a checkpoint. I originally was going to see about heading north back up to Big Lake and staying at my friend’s cabin there. But I was really glad I’d stayed in town and could help people out with these logistics. Assisting other racers is just really enjoyable to me.
We were about 5 minutes from the hotel when a text from Vinny came in. He’d sent me a satellite message earlier that he was ok, but scratching at Rohn due to the extreme conditions. He was coming in on a flight today and I’d offered to give him a ride too. Looks like I was an airport shuttle today, (unironically) great! I was legitimately looking forward to another car of slap-happy arrivals, I asked Siri to read the text aloud.
“There’s a [racer] on this plane who needs the hospital asap, [the CP coordinator] asked if we can take them there.”
Ope. Good thing I’d stayed in town and gotten the Mary Poppins car.
After dropping Jason, Elsa and Hillary, I headed straight back to the Sea Plane base. They were disembarking from the plane as I pulled in. Tony Regal (of Regal Air fame) asked to take my keys to back the car up next to the plane, which…fair. It’s his plane, and this is a rental car. As the sleds unloaded, Vinny and Mitch positioned themselves outside the door to grab someone as they shifted out the door. This Racer’s bottom half was completely encased in a sleeping bag. The boys got on either side and lifted Racer down and across the few steps to my passenger, settling them gently into the seat. A hasty search for their Identification, somewhere on their sled, was proving fruitless. We opted to depart with Racer to the ER, and for Mitch to bring the sled back to the hotel where we could resume the search.
While they were searching, it was just the two of us in the car. They were experienced racers and also in the medical professions, and were completely at a loss as to how their cold injuries had been sustained, saying they’d never even felt anything was wrong. “I don’t understand how this happened…and now I cannot walk.”
The eighteen minute drive to the hospital felt long, endless. We pulled into the ER portico and Vinny hurried in to get a wheelchair. He and I worked to get the injured racer into the seat with minimal weight being put down on their feet, and wheeled them in to check in with a non-plussed and slow moving administrator. Thankfully, once the employee had input the basic information into the system, the racer was fairly quickly taken back into the triage area. Anchorage area hospitals do not mess around with cold injuries. As they wheeled the racer back, we assured them we’d come back with their documents and wished them the best…all you can really say in a situation like that.
Back at the hotel, we completely tore their sled apart to locate the missing passport. Finally, it was found tucked in an unlikely place on a second sweep. Since I had the car, I agreed to take it back to the ER so the recent arrivals could get a shower and some rest. So, back to the ER again. Back to the same disinterested front desk administrator.
“Hi, um…I was here dropping off someone earlier, we said we’d bring their documents back, I have them here. Can you um…pass these along to [them]?”
“Hold please.” He disappears for a minute.
The double doors back to Triage open.
“You can bring them back to [them] yourself if you like, they’re right here.”
My eyes scan the room, not small but not large, with a half-dozen hospital beds and chairs lining the perimeter. Directly across from the door, I see the small frame of the Racer, settled into a reclined seat and receiving some passive treatment. In the split second that I am identifying them as the correct person, I am taking in their full features and my eyes glance down to their exposed feet. Ho. Lee. Fuck.
I snap my eyes up and forbid that from happening again. The Racer is groggy, relaxing or half-dozing as I walk across the room and up to them, waving the passport and smiling. “I told you we’d find it!” They thank me so many times, and we chat for a couple of minutes. I lamely try to offer encouragement. I try to imagine, being alone, exhausted, in a foreign country, with a language barrier, prognosis unknown…we run out of things to say.
“Before I go, can I give you a hug?”
This time, we don’t both stand…one of us cannot. But I again try to say everything with my embrace that I can’t with my words. After a minute, we separate, I offer a smile and one last hollow encouraging word, and turn to leave. I don’t see them again.
Post Trail Stressors
I drive away the second time from the hospital angry. I think that this race should be illegal. Within about 24 minutes, I have softened my stance. Within 24 hours, I’m considering if I will register next year.
Within 24 hours, I am also sick as a dog.
But before that, I sneak in one last engagement, The Last Supper. I want a steak and Vinny doesn’t want to make any more decisions, so he agreed to join me and we met up from our separate corners of town at Club Paris, an Anchorage classic.
It’s really helpful to sit and talk through everything. Before this dinner I hadn’t talked to anyone about my experience with the Racer at Finger Lake (Vinny had arrived an hour or two after). We experienced the ER together, but Vinny had been at Rohn with the other Racer, experienced their fear when it became clear they would have to wait nearly a full day for a flight. I hear about how his race ended, the scariness of going over the Pass and the extreme cold after, the racers arriving to the checkpoint happy and well, others shattered, chilled to the bone, delirious, at risk. These aren’t happy stories, but they are all datapoints. Datapoints both affirming my decision, and also things that we can learn from. For next time. If there is a next time. Will there be a next time?
We talked through our triumphs, our fears, our support networks, our thoughts about next year. The act of talking through the experiences, the extreme emotions that happen out there, all help to process them. And even though we shared some dark anctecdotes of things we’d seen on the trail, I walked the blocks back to my hotel room feeling better. Feeling like I needed to talk more. Feeling ready to sleep for a week.
I have the immune system of a Victorian Foundling. If someone in my zip code thinks about sneezing, I catch a cold. I was fastidiously masking basically since the New Year, up to and including the bus ride to the race start. At the start, I had to simply let go and let God. I don’t know when I caught it, but I know when it hit me like a Mac Truck, and it was on my red-eye home. Im 95% certain that my temperature regulation issues on the trail were caused by a losing battle to fight off this virus.
The whole morning leading up to my flight, could feel it coming on. Have you every tried to sort and pack up 5 bags worth of gear in a tiny hotel room while rapidly coming down sick AND trying to remotely monitor yet another emergency race evacuation, this one of a friend? I have never cut it closer with a hotel check-out time. I limped to the airport, settling in for a long wait, a long night of flights 4,600miles back east, a long drive to my sister’s place where my pups were at Camp. On arrival, the three of us snuggled into bed and barely moved for 18 hours. We limped home home the next day, but the cold kept me down for nearly a full week and slow for another, further delaying this recap.
But I’ve also been avoiding this recap. It took me nearly a full week to even look back at my photos. One because I was disappointed I hadn’t taken enough (though I had taken more than I remembered!), but also I was numbing out, avoiding thinking about my experience so I didn’t have to face complicated emotions. About my scratch, about my future with racing, about my fellow racers’ health and safety. Slowly, as I’ve been ready to, I’ve unclenched. I’ve opened up.
I’ve had a lot of conversations with race people since I got back into civilization. Other athletes, as we catch up each other’s scratch stories (frozen corneas, metal boot rivets that snapped off like dental floss, and feet that have (permanently?) changed size…oh my!), other volunteers and trail ops, past racers who sat this year out but remain part of the race family… it’s been helpful as I recontextualize this event, in all its risks, dangers, and horrors but also in its challenge, its inspiration, its community.
Community most of all. I thought about it as I answered the concerned texts and DMs, as the FeetPeople group chat had our post-race group debrief zoom call that we dubbed ‘group therapy”. I thought about it last night as I watched the fabulous four ITI1000 bikers cross under the burled arch in Nome on a livestream, viewable to only the race community and shared by a fellow racer (and badass lady herself!) because she knew how much we, all around the world, were celebrating right along with them. These four co-champions who’d bonded into a race team under the mantra ‘stronger together’.
So next year? I’m leaning into that community. And I’m happy to report I found a cheat code, an alternate way to get to the finish line, one that aligns with my current interests. I’m going to volunteer my way there. I only have one more Checkpoint before the finish line in McGrath. So I’ll see y’all in Nikolai next year.
I’ll be available for all the hugs you need.
-L
The TypeTwoFun Club 
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