Writing this blog post is a landmark, because it’s the first mid distance race I’ve run that I actually enjoyed and had fun running.
See, dog mushing is a peculiar sport, and an even more peculiar addiction. Half the time it’s absolutely miserable (if I’m completely honest it’s probably more than half the time), but for whatever reason every year the weather cools down and we forget allllll about how hard it was and miserable and cold and tired we were the year before, and head back out into the wilderness to feed the monster.
The details are a little fuzzy, but the feelings I had during this race are not.
I remember distinctly waking up nervous. Going through the pattern of grabbing my warm race clothes and heading outside to let the dogs out of the trailer, and standing there in the snow looking up at the trees as rays of sunlight shown down. In that moment I felt any worry I had drift away.
Confidence. Confidence is what I had been lacking before. Confidence in myself that I knew what I was doing and could handle my team. Confidence that I had the ability to run with the front of the pack. Confidence in how well I knew my dogs and myself and what we were capable of together.
But that’s not missing anymore.
The race start was better than any other. Sure I was nervous, I’m not sure my pre-race nerves will ever go away completely, but I know now that I can control it.
Which doesn’t mean I didn’t feel like puking the entire start of the race.
It was windy and clouds started to roll in bringing light snow. The team passed the vet check with ease and before long we were hooking up dogs and getting ready to head for the start line.
Both Laura and Rick were there, and had thoroughly talked me through the race. The team was coming off of two other back to back hundred mile races and they were looking strong. They knew this race. Every single dog had run this trail at least once, and most more than that. Five of them had won it several times with Laura and Rick. All I needed to do was trust them, play it right, and the cards would fall where they would.
The start is always an adventure, and in this particular race you rocket out of the chute and immediately skid down a small hill that other sleds have trenched out with their brakes. When I hit the field beyond the start I remember loosening my grip on the sled and safety line, and feeling my hand tingle a bit from hanging on so tight, and my veins felt like they were buzzing from the sudden rush of adrenaline.
We flew across the open field and into the trees on the other side. I was trying to keep the dogs slow; there was a bridge up ahead, and I knew with the twisting narrow trail I wouldn’t have much warning.
Through the trees, around the corner, across the bridge, another corner. Take a breath.
Very quickly it was becoming apparent that my brake was not functioning how it should, or at least not how I was used to. I was using Rick’s sled for this race, and still adjusting to the differences. Pressing my full weight on the brake, it still wasn’t pushing down enough to have enough impact to make the dogs really think about stopping. Annoying, but easy to work around.
Of course in the rush of a race start my brain blanked briefly on the course, and though I knew I had been following markers, I thought I had taken the twenty-mile loop at the beginning of the race backwards, and was heading the wrong way.
I saw a woman riding a fattire bike, and asked if she had ‘seen any other teams and were they heading the same direction’ she shouted yes with a smile and with more relief than I care to admit, we continued on our way.
Not long after, I started to see markers for the direction I was headed again, and they were telling me to make a right and begin the loop. See, I had forgotten that the loop didn’t start immediately, and you had to head down the same trail you would come back on later that evening.
Knowing where I was, I relaxed and settled in to watch the dogs. I pedaled hard on the uphills and rode the sled downhill, soon catching a few teams and passing them. I was keeping count. How many teams ahead and how many teams behind? Who did I want to catch where, and how did the dogs look?
The dogs were taking the trail with ease. I had Sike and Nellie in lead, and Sike knew exactly where he was.
We hit the lake, (at least I’m assuming that’s what it is) an open section of trail that breaks out of the trees for a few minutes before heading back into the woods and heading around what I would guess is the backside of the loop. The snow on the lake was deep and punchy, sucking the dogs feet down, and I slowed them way down so they could pick their way through the mush. Once we made it across I stopped just on the edge of the trees to snack the team, slightly hidden from view, but keeping an eye out behind me for any sign of another team hitting the lake. I could see them traveling behind us, and as soon as I was done, I called the dogs up again.
Passing another team, the dogs were hitting a rhythm and I was content pumping away behind them on the sled.
And then we started to pass head on with all the snowmobiles.
Before the start, they had warned us that the local snowmobile club was doing a poker run the same day as the start. I had seen them jetting through the trees earlier, but now we all happened to be going around the same loop, but in opposite directions, which meant a lot of blind corners and a lot of stop go, stop go. I spent well over ten minutes in the same section of trail stopping repeatedly with the team banging in their harnesses and screaming to go. All the snowmobilers were very polite and courteous of all of us sharing the trail, and finally when the sun began to go down, the traffic was once again just dog teams, and the team was able to hit a rhythm again. We had lost time, but there was nothing to be done about it now, and thinking on it never helped anyone.
I knew we were getting close to the end of the loop when I skittered out onto a plowed road briefly, and then took a right.
And immediately face planted and got a mouth full of snow, and spent about five seconds dragging on my face before my snowhook fell, stopped the team, and I heard Boats scream.
Let me tell you there is nothing that will make your heart drop faster than hearing a dog yell during a run. When we hit the corner, the momentum from skidding on the ice and hitting the edge of the snow sent me and the sled tumbling sideways. Nellie and Sike took the corner wide (as I asked them to) but from what I could tell, the two dogs behind them, also known as the swing dogs, aka Bear and his brother Bo’Sun, had ended up with some slack in the line and Boats had his leg caught up so that he couldn’t pull it back over by himself.
I slammed the other hook down and rushed up there to pull slack back in the line and get his leg over. Straightening everything out I flexed his leg thoroughly and was relieved to find that nothing was wrong.
I patted him on the head and he grinned at me, tail waving and incident completely forgotten.
I sighed and moved back to the sled, and we headed off through the woods in the fading light.
The super moon was rising, and running under it and the mountains was surreal. To think that some go through life and never experience moments like that is mind blowing to me.
We caught another team and ten minutes later hit Mel’s corner. This time I slid around it on my runners instead of on my face like I had my junior year.
And we were full circle from where we had started.
Instead of hanging a left and heading back toward the start, you continue straight and begin the climb to Huckleberry Pass. I stopped the team again, snacked them, and let them chew their salmon and catch a breather. Rick and I had mapped out my race beforehand, and had scheduled a few longer stops to keep energy in the team. A team passed while we were stopped, and to avoid twiddling my thumbs I checked booties and changed a few out.
I checked the time again and we headed out, climbing up to the pass, and passing another team. The climb up took longer than I remembered it being, and I pedaled the entire way.
The darkness had fully set in, and I watched the dogs through the light of my headlamp. The beautiful synchronicity in the quiet as the dogs move steadily down the trail.
We hit the steep part of the climb and I could see two teams ahead that we were gaining on. We passed the first team and I steadily pedaled behind the sled, pumping away to the top of Huckleberry Pass. We passed the second not long before the top, Charmayne and her crew, and she passed us again going down the other side. There were three teams ahead of us, one I could see, and two that were far enough down the pass toward the checkpoint that I couldn’t see any lights.
The view of Whitetail from the pass is one of my favorites. I honestly can’t explain it, but seeing the lights of the house and all the mountains lit up by the super moon is burned into my memory.
When you first see the lights of Whitetail, you still have a little less than an hour until you actually reach the checkpoint. You have to keep your emotions in check and not worry about being ‘almost there’. The dogs pick up on everything, so you have to keep your mind calm and focused.
The three of us were all traveling within sight of each other for most of the way down. Just before Whitetail, the team behind me sped up and passed us when we hit the plowed road leading into the checkpoint. Sike and Nellie, knowing exactly where they were, perked up at the crowd of people and we slid in to a stop, and signed in. My mother, who was waiting for us, ran ahead and lead Sike and Nellie into the team resting area.
Six hours. From the moment you sign in you have a mandatory six hour layover, and when your time is up you can leave.
I remember most of what happened in the checkpoint, but the exact order that it happened I do not know. The dogs were fed and taken care of. Bedded down with their jackets in the straw, and all received a nice massage.
I headed into the ranch house to get some food and water before I crashed in the truck to take a nap. At least, that’s what I wanted to happen. However, the truck was absolutely frozen cold, and the handwarmers in my sleeping bag weren’t doing much good. By the time I fell asleep, it seemed I was being woken up to come tend dogs before leaving again. That always seems to be how it is at races, and frankly, that’s how it actually is. Running on little sleep is becoming a normal by now, and I attempted to ignore my groggy brain as I climbed back out into the cold.
I watered and walked the dogs, letting them stretch out their muscles and pee. They drank, and soon it was time to pull jackets off and hook their harnesses back into the gang line. They barked and jumped to go, spirits high!
We made it out to the start point, and as soon as I signed out, we took off down the trail.
Those that have followed my team in our past Race to the Sky, and those that are familiar with the trail themself, know that you leave Whitetail on a plowed road and proceed to skitter on and off plowed roads for the next seven miles.
If you have never driven a dogsled on a plowed road, let me tell you you aren’t missing out. The grinding of your break shoots up through your leg, grinding through your ears and skull relentlessly, your leg vibrates for so long on the ice it starts to feel numb and tingly, and all you want is for it to end.
Off the plowed road, through the fields, and WOW the mountains behind Whitetail were spectacular, seeming to shoot up out of the ground suddenly, towering above us.
And then whip around a turn and back onto a road. And then off again and into a field. And on it went like so.
We hit a corner that was a sharp left onto a bridge and I remember briefly looking down as I realized there was in fact a large drop to my left, loosing my breath briefly as I realized that’s where a musher had broken his leg before, and then desperately throwing myself around the corner on the back of the sled. By some miracle I managed to stay upright and I breathed again, hard. I remember thinking, ‘wow I’m going to hate doing that corner again next year now that I know that’s there’ which is a step up from ‘I’m never doing this again’.
I squinted ahead, looking for the glint of a trail marker that would tell me where the next turn off the road was. And “Sike, Gee!” a right turn and into the field.
I managed to stay runner side down (right side up), for all but the last intersection, where I hit the edge of the trail coming out into the road, and proceeded to take the turn on my knees with my sled tipped, right in front of the volunteers sitting in their truck, lights flashing to warn us of the turn. If you were in the car watching, I’d like you to know that I meant to do that.
I managed to get myself and my sled upright again, and we continued down the road skittering and trying to avoid hitting the frozen ice chunks that had fallen down after the road was plowed, and had frozen hard as rocks to the ice.
Another truck with its light flashing told me where the turn off to the trail was, and I thanked the volunteer that was standing out in the cold and pointing us in the right direction. I’m not sure if I was thanking them for showing us the turn, or just yelling a general thank you that that part was over.
We hit the hairpin corner I knew was coming, rushed around to the other side, and I sighed audibly.
We were golden. We made it through the fields with no issues. I knew the rest of the trail, and was confident we would have smooth sailing.
I stopped to snack dogs, took a breath, and pushed my head back into the zone.
I’m an overthinker. Anyone who knows me enough to call me a friend knows that. The best way I’ve found to ‘shut myself up’ is to make sure I’ve got my headphones stashed in my pocket. Put on some headphones, turn on some music, and my focus narrows and intensifies. It keeps me awake and it keeps my head in race mode, which is easy to slip out of when you’re tired, likely dehydrated, maybe a bit hungry, and if it’s Race to the Sky, definitely cold.
Forty miles to the finish, and I needed to focus. The dogs looked fantastic. I was pumping away behind the sled and they were taking on the hills with ease. They didn’t look the slightest bit tired.
I started to check the time.
If my calculations were correct, I would be hitting a large U in the trail shortly. The trail dips back between two hills, and comes back out again with a long view of the trail ahead.
If I was correct, I should be seeing a headlamp in front of me.
We broke around the edge of the U and almost immediately I saw a small flash on the opposite end, and then nothing.
I squinted at the trail all along the U, but there was nothing but darkness and trees lit by the moon.
I questioned; had it really been a headlamp, or had I imagined something I simply wanted to see?
I would later learn that it was in fact a headlamp, one that belonged to my friend Charmayne, who was just ahead of us on the trail.
In that moment I let a tiny slip of discouragement slip in. I shut it down as hard as I could immediately. Doubt and fear infect. If I let a little in, more would come, and the dogs would feel it. I had done that to them in the past, as every rookie musher does, and I have no doubt I will do it again. But not this race, not when we were doing so well, with the dogs looking so strong and on a trail I knew at least moderately well.
So we continued down the trail and I marveled at the beauty of the mountains and the dogs and the snow and all of it. All of it so alive and beautiful and despite the cold and the sleep deprivation and the twinge in my stomach that meant I should eat my snacks, I felt that I was where I was supposed to be, and doing what I was supposed to be doing.
I remembered the downhill stretch before the last plowed road going by quickly two years prior, and it was like that again this year. We skittered out onto the road, hanging a right. You’ll be proud to know that though I almost lost my balance, I managed to keep my sled from slamming onto its side on the hard packed ice.
This section of road is maybe a few miles (?) but it takes forever. And the whole while your brain is smashing into your skull because DEAR GOD THE BRAKE ON THE ICE.
And you want to scream or make it stop but there’s no choice but to continue on. But this time I was slightly distracted. I was watching Nellie who was in lead. She was doing the barest of head bobs. I knew it was her wrist, as she has a tendency to get sore wrists, and I was sure the impact of the plowed roads, despite me keeping the team slow, had triggered it.
I knew there was a safer place to stop up ahead, so we continued on for what felt like ages, but I know for a fact it was not that long.
We turned off the road and onto the trail to Seeley Lake.
I stopped and put my hooks down, going up to Nellie in lead. I unhooked her, and she followed me less than willingly back to the sled, where I had cleared a spot for her to sit.
She looked at me in horror and I groaned inwardly. This should be good.
My sweet Nellie girl had realized I was bagging her, and she said HELL NO.
I grabbed her around the middle and stuffed her in the bag.
I would get her in the sled, get her harness and collar snapped down and put her head by me so I could grab her if I needed to. She would squirm and shove up as hard as she could getting herself out of the sled, and I’d have to do it all over again. This lasted several minutes until finally I managed to get her at least mostly settled, and I reached down and pulled the hooks. At which point she thrashed about like a dying fish. We made it ten feet and I had to set the hooks down to calm the monster in my sled bag that was furious.
“Nellie, will you stop it?!”
She looked at me insulted and huffed, continuing to struggle.
How dare I remove her from her team! Especially so close to where she knew the finish line was.
After multiple attempts and a continuous stop go, stop go, I finally pulled her out of the sled and put her in towards the back of the team. Maybe there was some way I could rig it differently…
I warred with myself for a minute. Did I leave her in the team, or bag her? I was tired and aware of it, and trying to think clearly through the sleep deprivation. Wrong decisions are made when you’re tired and physically exhausted.
Did I know what was best, or did she? And then I realized I was questioning how well I knew my own dog. A natural reaction when tired, but this was Nellie. I didn’t just know her, we knew each other.
I looked at my gps and shook my head. I had already spent more that twelve minutes fighting her. She was not going to let me put her in the bag. I also knew from experience that she would let me bag her when she actually needed it.
So I looked at her, shook my head, looked up at the stars, looked at the rest of the team with all their tails wagging and looking at me in confusion of ‘mom why are we stopping??’ And back at her where she stood staring at me.
“You want to stay in the team?”
“Are you sure?”
…but you’re running in the back where I can keep an eye on you.”
The dogs were vocalizing their displeasure at our long stop, and they took off as I pulled the hook.
No more funny business. This was the home stretch. With my eye on Nellie I called them up as we began to coast down the twenty-mile stretch heading for Seeley Lake, and the finish line. No more turns, no more tough sections of trail, we had a straight shot and it was game on.
The team had lots of juice left. They had only become stronger from the last two races, and we were more in sync. I knew how to read them and they knew what I wanted.
I noticed that Rubicon was loping hard in wheel, and on a whim stopped briefly to snack the dogs and moved her up into lead with Sike.
She was thrilled. This was her team, her trail, and it was time to go.
The dogs were yelling and I whistled calling them up. The last twelve miles of the trail flew by and they kept pace well to the finish, where they came in tails waving and grinning at the small crowd waiting there.
That finish is a point of pride for me. That’s the best I’ve ever managed my team during a race, and they came into the finish looking for more trail, and very very happy. We finished fourth overall, and I could not be prouder of not only my dogs, but of myself as well. To have reached a point where I can finish a longer race and not ten minutes later be thinking about how I can do better the next year, and wishing I was running the longer 300 mile race, is a landmark for me. I worked to get there. I pushed my fears and worries out of the way to get there. And boy does it feel good!
The weather is turning, the dogs are becoming restless, and we are signed up for over five hundred miles of racing this winter. Who knows what the next few months hold, but it’s sure to be good!
Arriving at the parking lot of the Little Ski Hill, fog coated the mountain.
All morning my pre race nerves had been hitting me. I didn’t want to eat, I was exhausted from little sleep the night before, and I thought I was going to vomit behind my trailer.
I was desperately trying to remind myself that the panic was all in my head and was managing it terribly when Laura called and reminded me that it was, in fact, all in my head.
So I packed my sled, we got the dogs out, and people started to arrive, the sun started to shine through the clouds, and the yelling of excitement from the dog teams reached a crescendo as they started to take off down the trail.
My dogs and I would be headed out last, giving me plenty of time to make sure my stuff was in order.
The Idaho Challenge 100 mile race is run with two checkpoints along the trail. You leave the start at the Little Ski Hill, and head out on the trail for the first Checkpoint, Wye. Your handler drives around and drops off your drop bag, and can assist in guiding your leaders through the checkpoint, but other than that it’s an entirely unassisted race. The trail then heads back along mostly the same route, except for the last ten miles to Platt Checkpoint where our mandatory 6hr layover is. Your handler is there to the same extent they are at Wye, but still unable to assist.
After you take your mandatory rest, you can hit the trail for Cascade, the final stop and the finish line.
The sled was hooked back to a snowmobile to help us control the dogs getting down to the start line. In order to get there, we had to head out one end of the parking area, make a downhill left, head down the hill through a chute of spectators, make another turn to the right and get into the starting chute all with a team of fresh, ready to go, amped sled dogs that had just come off another hundred mile race and were raring to go, but after we made it into the start chute any nerves I had left melted away.
And off we went.
The sun was hot and the trail soft and slow and it didn’t take long after the start for the dogs to settle into a steady pace as we started climbing the ridge.
The view was gorgeous from what I could see through breaks in the fog. Eventually I started to think we had to be getting close to the top. I was getting hot helping the dogs get the sled up hills and I was stopping the dogs several times an hour to let them grab some snow and roll around to cool off.
The trail just kept going up.
We passed a few other teams and finally broke out of the fog and could see over other ridge lines covered in snow.
The trail rolled along the top of Red Ridge for a ways before dropping down again, only to start the climb up Blue Bunch.
Once we made it back up and were coming along Blue Bunch I found myself, despite the slog that we had done to get up there, having fun exploring this new and beautiful country with my dogs, (though I was trying not to think of what the elevation on the next two legs of the race was going to be like.). You could see forever and the snow capped mountains in the distance were incredible.
We were moving along at a steady pace, still going up, when I saw a section of trail ahead that looked like it started to go down. As we got closer I remember thinking that I wasn’t seeing the trail slope and had the distinct feeling of a roller coaster climbing to the top of a drop, right before my lead dogs drop over the edge of the trail. The rest of the team and the sled, (and me) following after.
We skidded down the slope my brake digging into the trench in the trail that had already been made by previous teams. And then, we started to climb the next section of ridge. Are you sensing a theme here?
Eventually after traveling the top for a few miles we dropped down in elevation a bit where I stopped in a flat section of trail to do our first planned thirty minute stop just over three hours into the race. I hooked down and snacked the dogs, giving everyone a pet and unhooking tugs for the team dogs as well as the leader neckline so Sike and Nellie could roll around in the deep snow at the edge of the trail.
I had packed water in the sled so that I could keep the dogs hydrated on the way to Platt, which would be a seventy-one mile trek.
A few dogs drank a bit, but most were uninterested, whining their displeasure that I had stopped them while they were doing what they loved most.
I tried to Ignore the noise so that it wouldn’t make me antsy and hit the trail too soon, and set to work taking off old booties, putting them in a ziplock that I could toss in my drop bin at Wye where I would pick up new ones.
I grabbed a few new bundles and re booted the dogs that needed them.
After putting extra booties away, I grabbed the massage oil and went down the line, giving a few dogs massages that I wanted to work on before we set back out.
After offering them water once more, their barking had reached a frantic pitch and as soon as I hooked them back up we took off down the trail and started the decent down to the Wye Checkpoint that would mark thirty-four miles into the race.
The light was getting lower and the Sky was turning beautiful pastel colors, outlining the mountains underneath it.
Coming down took longer than I expected, but was probably shorter than it felt.
We pulled into Wye, signing in and planning to head out in twenty minutes.
I grabbed more water for the dogs and myself, replaced some gear and put gear I didn’t need in my drop bin, snacked the dogs, and had the vets check over Farce who I had planned/expected to drop there.
During training shortly before we left home, she tweaked a back leg in deep snow, which is why I sat her off of the Eagle Cap team. She had been running great on the way to Wye, but I could tell that it wasn’t a hundred percent, and though I was glad she had the opportunity to stretch and get out with the team, I wanted to be conservative and I made the decision to drop her.
We were at Wye for longer than I planned, me still getting used to Checkpoint routines and working out the fastest way to do things, especially after two years since my last mid distance race.
Heading out of Wye, the team that left the checkpoint with us passed us within a few miles and shortly after, the light faded and stars started to peak out from the dark.
The climb back up the mountain took ages. The trail was soft, the hills were steep, and most of the thirty-seven miles to Platt was uphill. We climbed and climbed and climbed.
Some of the time I recognized bits of the trail, but going the opposite way from how we had come in, and at night, there were a few times I got confused and started to worry that maybe I had missed the turn. Especially since I hadn’t seen the turn to Platt on the way out to Wye.
We finally made it to the top of Blue Bunch after what I think was a few hours, though I honestly had a very warped sense of time during the race since I went into it on very little sleep and of course only continued to get more tired as the race went on.
I could feel the wind picking up as we started to get close to the top, and when we finally broke out onto the open ridge top the wind was blowing and the fog and snow were obscuring any of the little vision I had with my headlamp. I could barely make out my leaders at times, but trusted them to remain on the trail. We made it through one section of open trail, and I stopped to give the dogs a short break, walking up the team letting them know they were good dogs and crouching down with Nellie and Sike to play with them and give them some scratches. “Okay guys, one more windy section and then we’ll be back in cover. One more! Good dogs!”
They wagged their tails happily, content even in the wind and snow, and we launched ourselves up the same drop that we had come down earlier in the daylight, me walking behind the sled pushing against the soft snow, and the dogs out front leaping in their harnesses with heart and soul to haul the sled up the incline and straight into the sidewind. I was so proud. For four of the dogs it’s their first season running with me, and they trusted me enough to not question me when, having already asked them to climb back up the same mountain, I asked them to pull the gear filled sled up a steep section of trail right into the wind. Right back into the cold, and the fog, and the blowing snow where I could barely see.
These are some of my least, and most favorite moments running dogs. When you’re afraid and have to sit with your fear. There’s nothing more powerful than learning how to face that. Nothing that compares to facing those fears with the most loyal friends one can ask for. And there’s nothing I would rather do more.
Finally we started to come down the other side and it wasn’t long after we got out of the wind that we hit the intersection that would take us to Platt.
And I couldn’t hardly believe it but it was groomed. The last ten or so miles into Platt was GROOMED.
I was ecstatic, and so were the dogs. After several hours of soft trail and climbing we popped out onto a hard packed trail and there was nothing that could have made us happier in that moment.
I had been concerned about knowing when to make the turn to Platt, (of course, I was concerned for nothing, the intersection was clear as day and the only reason I missed it on the way out was because there was fresh snow on the trail.) so I had pushed our planned thirty minute stop at the three hour mark closer to four. I hadn’t wanted to stop the dogs on the windy sections of trail and I knew once we got through there that the turn wouldn’t be far. So I called the dogs up and let them breeze down a little bit of the fresh packed trail, and then stopped them in a nice little section of trail with tree cover and no wind.
They were much better behaved on this stop than they had been on the last since they were a little more tired, and I went through the same routine again, snacking, giving them water, re booting, waxing feet, massaging, water again.
Charmayne came by with her team while we were stopped and it was nice for both me and the dogs to see a brief sign of life on the trail after hours of seeing no one.
I packed the cooler back in the sled, hooked the dogs tuglines back up, and we headed for Platt. The trail was smooth sailing and a little over an hour later we pulled into the checkpoint.
After I signed in, mom grabbed my leaders and lead us up to where the straw and drop bags were staged. I grabbed a bale of straw and set it on top of my sled and we headed into the team parking area.
After getting the team parked I grabbed my drop bin and started my checkpoint routine, getting the dogs fed and bedded down, tending to feet and massaging the dogs that needed it.
After the dogs were taken care of I headed into the Platt warming hut to warm up, get some food, and hydrate. I managed to have a small bowl of soup and some bread, and drank a bottle of water before it was time to get some sleep.
I went back outside pulling my sleeping bag out of my sled and grabbed some extra straw and curled up in a pile of dogs.
I didn’t sleep well, maybe an hour total. The rest of the time I lay there getting damp and cold as the wet snow continued to fall. My allergies also started to act up, which usually doesn’t happen to me with straw, but it made sleeping more uncomfortable and challenging.
Eventually my alarm went off and I crawled out of my bag, packing it up and then heading back to the warming hut to grab some more water and maybe get a little something to eat, (that didn’t happen, I was already itching to get on the trail and had snacks already packed in my sled since I knew I always find it challenging to eat before I leave.).
After I warmed up a bit, I headed back out to double check my leave time before I started to wake dogs up and walk them. It was at that point of course that I discovered that my leave time was not 4:15 as I had thought, but 4:56. My sleep deprived brain had come into the checkpoint and been so sure of what it saw that I had set my alarm for earlier than necessary.
It did end up being a good thing though! I walked everyone to let them stretch out as usual, and noticed Boats walking a bit funny. The vet team helped me checked him over, ruling out different causes, and it was agreed that he had a sore right bicep tendon. Though they approved him to run the final leg of the race just fine, I didn’t want to make it any worse, especially considering that he’s a very important player on the Race to the Sky team, so I decided to drop him and finish the race with six dogs.
The dogs were barking and yelling to go and we got into line to leave the checkpoint with two other teams. After signing out we hit the trail with snow coming down and no sign of morning light.
We quickly passed another team and caught up to my good friend Charmayne Morrison and her team. For awhile we passed back and forth in the dark, one team pulling ahead a bit and then the other team catching up again. The trail was beautiful and groomed for a ways, rolling through the hills.
And then we made a turn off the groomed trail, and everything started to slow very quickly.
There had been over a foot of new snow within the past few days and despite the dedicated race trail breakers, and other teams having run over the trail, it wasn’t packed and the temps had been above ideal for the dogs for the entire race.
For a while both Charmayne and I made an effort to pull away from one another, but as the hills started to get steeper, the trail softer, and as the sun came up and it grew warmer, we quickly realized it wasn’t going to happen.
And thus began our loooooong slog up many many hills that never ended. You simply made it to the top of one and there was another waiting. We started to take turns leading, giving the team behind some spirit off of chasing another team. Instead of a race it became a run for the finish line.
I wouldn’t say our run was fun, there were too many hills and we were too tired for that, but running together made the long haul much more enjoyable, able to chat back and forth, the pressure of racing gone with the temperature high and the trail difficult.
We were crawling. It was demoralizing for both people and dogs and I knew we were both trying to keep it upbeat. We jokingly celebrated every time be hit a new speed ‘record’ climbing the hills. Charmayne, leading, would call out the stats from her gps as we desperately pedaled up the hills growing increasingly sore.
“4.2 miles per hour! 4.5! 5.2!”
And on it went. Up and up for what seemed like forever.
We hit the crest of a hill and the trail started to go down. Of course, that’s the moment that we saw a sign that said,
WARNING: Avalanche Area DO NOT STOP
Which is naturally something you want to see while out running dogs in the middle of nowhere.
But the trail was going DOWN. After what seemed like forever we were finally getting there, and we broke free of the clouds and could see down over the lake where we knew the finish line was. Whooping, we called the dogs up and they sped down the hill, passing back and fourth and having a grand time with the easy sailing. We hit 14mph (we checked) and after our long forty mile run, it felt like we were flying.
Leading our charge down the hill we slowed up as we neared some snow fencing that marked a plowed road. Skittering onto the ice we made a corner to head out onto the lake and I almost fell off my sled.
I think it might be too much to hope that none of the spectators saw.
We made a right and instead of heading across the lake as the trail typically takes you, we headed along the shore where they had rerouted the trail to avoid the overflow on the lake ice.
Coming along the lake a ways, the markers went one way with a narrow snowmobile track, and the trail hard packed trail went another. It was clear teams had taken both trails, (they both went to the same spot) but both Sike and I got confused and my leaders got tangled. Charmayne and Co. passed us, and I spent a minute getting everyone straightened out and we took off after her. I don’t think I’ve ever worked so hard during a race as we both were over the next four and a half miles. We were pedaling hard, and getting down behind our sleds in spots that were windy. We were both calling our dogs up and running the last stretch of the trail into the finish line like it was a 9mph sprint race and everything was riding on it.
Feeding off her team and the knowledge that the finish was getting close, my dogs slowly started to gain on them as we came around the other side of the lake.
We crossed under the finish line one after the other after a long forty miles!
I remember thinking, in the midst of pedaling up multiple hills, my feet throbbing and my legs aching, that anyone who runs these hills twice as the three hundred mile teams do, is out of their mind. I requested that if I expressed the inkling to sing up for the three hundred mile event that I should be slapped and reminded of the horrors of these hills.
And then I woke up the next morning and my first thought was, ‘That was fun! Let’s do the three hundred!’
And so it begins.
We left home this morning headed for the 8-dog Rocky Mountain Triple Crown; A series of three back to back 100 mile races. It starts with the Eagle Cap Extreme in Joseph, Oregon and then heads to McCall, Idaho for the start of the Idaho Sled Dog Challenge. After Idaho we have a week to rest and train in Montana before heading to Lincoln for the Race to the Sky. We plan to be on the road for about three weeks.
Training the dogs this past month has been full of all the ups and downs that are a part of dog mushing! Over the last few weeks we’ve had rain, frozen and icy trails, deep snow, trees down, and injured moose in the trail. Among other setbacks I (of course) came down with a nasty cold late last week and am still fending it off.
Our first stop will be Joseph, OR for the Eagle Cap Extreme 100 mile!
Since our training as of late has been less than ideal, we’ll be going into this race with the mindset of using it as a training run. Run the dogs conservatively and make sure everyone looks happy, healthy, and ready for the next race! I currently have two teams entered in the race so all the dogs will have a chance to run.
The trailer is packed full with dogs and gear, and we have three weeks ahead of us! I’ll be attempting to keep everyone up to date on our trip as best I can with some help from my mom while I’m on the race trail!
You can follow along on our Facebook Page and Instagram at @whiteoutracingkennel and our twitter at @WhiteoutRacing
I’m afraid that I have some very unfortunate news regarding Race to the Sky.
Very late Tuesday night I went out to do a night check in the dog yard. I had been up late sorting gear for the race and was about ready to drop on my feet. I went around to the dogs making sure everything looked normal and was headed back to the house for some rest before an even longer day of packing the next day, when I heard a cough.
I walked over to Brother thinking over and over, please don’t cough again please don’t cough again. But he did.
Upon a visit to the vet the next day, Brother was presenting symptoms of Kennel Cough or something very similar.
Every dog on my team and in my Kennel is vaccinated for a multitude of things, one of them being Kennel cough, but of course, even if a dog is vaccinated it is still possible for them to get a virus.
We travel to many races that have many teams that come from all over. We also train on public use trails with a parking lot that often doubles as a rest stop for travelers, where many people bring their dogs. I don’t know where Brother picked up the virus, it could have been any number of places, but I do know this:
This is highly contagious among dogs and it would be irresponsible to bring a dog that is sick, and dogs that have been exposed, to a race site and put other teams at risk, (not to mention it’s against the rules). There is also a possibility, that despite them all being vaccinated, the rest of the team could pick it up too. So this year, we will not be attending Race to the Sky.
It’s still not quite real, but it is painful. We’ve been working for this race since September. I’ve put in hours and hours of time and training into making it to this race. It meant a lot to me.
So for this weekend I will be avoiding Facebook and updates on the race, and watching Netflix and cuddling my team.
Looking at it in a positive light, it gives me the opportunity to go to some races later in the season that I have not been too. Race to the Sky is fortunately a race that is very close to home and I have years to run it again and again and again.
My dogs health and wellbeing will always come before any race.
Dogs first. Always.
I’ll be the first to admit that going into Stage Stop, I was not confident that I would enjoy it.
I definitely err more on the side of enjoying alone time on the trail. The mid-distance races I’ve started running with my team allow for more space between mushers on the trail, and when you pass or are passed by a team, you see them only briefly, allowing for the solitude I’ve learned to enjoy. At least, that’s what I thought.
Pre Stage Stop me was very nervous. I always have pre race nerves, whether I’ve run the race before, or it’s my rookie run. At Jr. Iditarod I freaked so bad I kept telling my mom I didn’t want to go, (Luckily, Laura knew better and had my mom pack my sled and do everything but physically put me on the sled runners).
The instructions for the vet check were to be there early so that they could get everyone parked. We unloaded dogs, chatted with mushers, and waited for the vets to come around to my team. It took a few hours for the vets to make it to us. They had around thirty-six teams to check and most teams had as many as fourteen dogs in their racing pool that needed to be looked at. Six out of my eight racing dogs would run, and I was borrowing two dogs off of Laura’s race team, Oaken and Cloudjumper.
The team checked out with the vets and were approved as happy and healthy and ready to race!
The first stage would take place in Alpine, so after pre race celebrations and the main stage race teams ceremonial start in Jackson, WY, we loaded up and headed off to Alpine!
Stage Stop is run uniquely.
The main Stage Stop is eight days of racing run with ten dog teams and a fourteen dog pool, meaning that though only ten dogs can run on the line each race day, you have fourteen dogs to pick from each day. The race travels to a different town for each day of racing. Jackson Hole, Alpine, Pinedale, Kemmerer, Big Piney / Marbleton, Lander, Driggs, and Teton County.
The Eukanuba Classic is an eight dog race with a ten dog pool that follows the first few days of the race running the same or similar courses as the main stage teams. I would be running the same eight dogs both days.
I, of course, dreamed about the race the night before and woke up feeling like I was going to be sick. This is not unusual for me, though it’s starting to only effect me as much when I’m running races that feel like a big deal. Before we left home when I was packing the truck, I put tape on every bin I was packing and marked it with what was inside. Just in case I really started to freak out, my mom would be able to find everything she needed to get me on the trail. Once I’m out there, I’m fine. My brain clicks into place, and it’s just me and the dogs.
The morning of the race however, I was able to manage my nerves, get me gear together, ready my dogs, and hook up my team, (I may be getting better at this crazy game after all.).
The team was ready to go at the start line, their enthusiasm building in anticipation of the take off. I managed to keep the sled upright on the first two corners, and settled in for a steady run along the river. The trail was gorgeous and we enjoyed a bit of alone time before all the passing began. I had Brother and Nellie in lead, Rubicon and Olaf in swing, Freckles and Steampunk in team, and Oaken and Cloudjumper at the back in wheel.
Some people wonder how I choose where I put dogs in the team. The truth is, it entirely depends on the race.
During training, I try to make sure no dog runs the same position twice in a row. This keeps it interesting for them, and it also allows me to see where each dog does best and in what situations. Some people’s response would be ‘well what about the lead dogs? You only have a few of those, right?’
Good question. And the answer is no. Think about it this way. Say I have two lead dogs. They run lead all the time, on every training run, and in every race. For one, those dogs better be extremely mentally strong. The position of lead is a lot of mental work. It’s more taxing mentally than simply following another dog, and the role puts pressure on a dog. Some dogs thrive under this pressure and some don’t like it. Now say I’m in the middle of a race, and one of my leaders has a sore wrist, or isn’t feeling well, and I have to leave one or both at a checkpoint. Now what? Scratch from the race because I have no lead dogs? Because of this rotation that I do, every dog on my team has run up front this season.
I have eight racing dogs. Five of them are lead dogs, three can run up front with an experienced partner.
Brother and Nellie have hands down been my best leader team this season, the Uncle and Niece duo have brains and experience and Nellie loves the speed, so together they keep everything moving smoothly. I very intentionally put Rubicon in swing because she’s getting ready to make her first step into the limelight as a race leader, and having her close to those two race experienced lead dogs means that she’s picking up a lot of good habits. Dogs teach dogs.
Olaf ended up next to her because they love each other. Running dogs next to a partner they really like makes the whole team happier.
Steampunk likes to dip snow when it’s above ten degrees, so having him set back from the leaders a little bit prevents him from pulling back on them when he takes a mouthful of snow and generally keeps the team moving steady. Freckles ended up next to him because, though she does wonderful in swing as a backup lead dog, that would have meant putting Olaf next to steamer, and though they’ll run together, they don’t particularly like each other and team mood is important. Everything on that gangline travels up and down, effecting the whole team.
All this said, Oaken and Cloudjumper simply ended up in the back running next to each other. Oaken has run over 300 miles with my team, but Cloudjumper is a yearling that I had never run before, so it was also convenient to keep an eye on her.
We had a great time! The dogs were loving all the passing that was going on, and I was surprised to find that I enjoyed the company on the trail as well.
Our first stage in Alpine was 28 miles and the dogs ran fantastic, and after a beautiful run on day one, I was excited to get back out on the trail the next day.
Pinedale was more open and flat, which means it’s basically the opposite of where we train, and the dogs loved it! The open country made it harder to guage exact distance, that or I’m just not used to seeing a team so far away, considering that where we race for the most part has a good amount of trees. The sun was shining and I desperately wished I had remembered my sunglasses.
The team turned around from day one and ran Pinedale better than any other run this season, turning out a great run time and everyone came in happy, tails wagging, and ready for more!
I fully expected to finish in the back three of the class, but the dogs far exceeded expectations, worked phenomenally together, and turned out the two best runs of the season landing us in 3rd place overall!
So basically, in case the free concession stand with food and candy wasn’t enough, I also don’t have to leave any checkpoints. Does this mean we’ll be going back to Stage Stop? Absolutely. Maybe to run the big event? Anything can happen. Like I was telling my mom on the way home, I can see running Stage Stop AND mid-distance races being my thing. No one said I had to choose.
Only time will tell.
We just may be crazy enough.
Every time I go to type this blog post, I can’t make myself finish it. I realize that may be hard to understand. When you go through an intense experience like I did with my team, you change. I can say with confidence that I was a completely different person when I crossed the 2018 Junior Iditarod finish line than I was When I started the race.
For most, the excitement of my team running the race has faded, not from memory, but from thought.
I still think of it every single day. My heart longs to be back there, and it breaks that I can’t. The Junior Iditarod cutoff age is 17, and I will be 18 by the time the race begins.
Coming back from something like Junior Iditarod is really hard, I’m not going to lie. When you put all of everything towards one thing, and you go out and accomplish that goal, and then its just over. Just under 31 hours. Thats how long it took for a years worth of work to be put to the test and completed.
Most of the drive back was me reflecting, and sleeping. The accumulation of mental exhaustion of the entire season was finally coming to an end, and I no longer had to charge through, ignoring it and continuing on. The first person I told the story of Jr. Iditarod to was my grandmother. What was meant to be a five minute phone call to let her know I was okay and heading home, turned into two and a half hours of reliving the race.
We drove back down through Canada and into Montana, heading for Laura’s house to pick up the dogs that hadn’t made my Jr. Iditarod team and stayed with her, and return the four dogs I had used for the race. We spent a little less than a week there.
It was after we left Laura’s, and returned home that it hit harder. Laura had warned me, while I was still in Alaska, just after finishing the race, what actually finishing would be like.
I called the very next morning after our finish, and after a year of two hour long phone conversations with at least fifteen to twenty questions each, the only one on my mind was, “What now?”.
It was a strange feeling. Like I was so full and happy and proud and ecstatic because oh my god we made it, but I was also empty, and confused, because it was just over.
“Everyone tells you how to run the race, but no one tells you how to finish it.”
That was probably the most helpful thing she could have said in that moment. She told me that it was hard, coming off a race that you’ve put so much into, that I might feel a little depressed, that coming home might be challenging.
You’ve just put your soul into this race, and now you’ll return home, and everyone is still just going about like life hasn’t changed forever.
And so we returned home. And sure enough life was moving, and I was in a whole other world.
It was a struggle, but I took comfort in knowing I was not the only musher that had gone through it, nor would I be the last. I took comfort with the dogs and the solace they gave me.
Sometimes I still feel myself slip back into that other world. When I hear a song that was on my playlist for that race, or look at a certain photo, or when I look at a dog that was on that trail with me.
Summer has come and gone. Fall is fast upon us and Winter is not far behind. Olaf, one of the dogs that ran Jr. Iditarod with me has joined the kennel, and it brings me happiness every single day when i look out the window and he’s there with the others.
I’ve made some decisions about this season after looking at the bigger picture.
I know there was some question on why I decided to run Stage Stop’s 8-dog class this year, since it is not a mid-distance race. That is exactly why I decided to run it. I want to go more seriously into running longer races, but I’ve also wanted to run Stage Stop for awhile now. The opportunity it will give me to watch top teams competing, and to learn from them, will be invaluable in the years to come. So if I’m going to do it, now is my self proclaimed chance. Because after this season, I have my eyes set on much bigger and different races. Though I’m not yet ready to reveal what those races and plans may be, I have confidence in saying that I want a slightly more ‘relaxed’ year before we once again bite the bullet. Its not that Stage Stop will be relaxing. Its a highly competitive event, but its a very different type of event than what I’m pursuing, so I’ll feel less pressure in that regard.
The Race to the Sky 100 will be my first race as an adult, which feels fitting and I look forward to seeing how much better mentally I can handle a mid-distance race.
Hang on, its always a wild ride. After all, Junior Iditarod was just the beginning. We are not done here.
The morning of the race was awful. I didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t want to get in the truck. I didn’t want to eat either, but my mom forced me to choke down some oatmeal on the way to the start. There was nothing in me that wanted to get to that starting line.
My mom, (who was insanely helpful that morning) pretty much packed my sled for me while I walked around like a zombie. I was later told that it was as though I wasn’t even there, there was just nothing behind the shell I call a body. My mother and handler, Trevor, did almost everything except boot my dogs for me.
I kept moving on auto pilot, and I knew if I could just stand on the sled, I would have no choice but to leave the chute with my team. Bailing wouldn’t be an option. So I moved monotonously, going through the motions at a snails pace. And then time started to speed up and we were hooking in the team, handlers were holding my dogs and we were in the chute.
I don’t think my heart could have been pounding any harder and I was concentrating on not puking or fainting.
And then the count down was on and we were off. And I felt fine. I had trained and raced my dogs over 1,000 miles this season, this was just like our other runs.
I knew I was not going to have a competitive team going into the race. That was not the plan. The plan was to finish, and finish with a healthy team.
So I decided to start with my more ‘questionable’ dogs in lead, and to save my more driving race leaders for later in the race, when the going got tough.
One of these dogs was LeLu, a fantastic race dog that I was using from Night Runner Kennel, but a dog that didn’t know me well, and wasn’t a main leader. The other dog I chose, was Steampunk, my soft headed easygoing male. My plan was to run them the first 20-30 miles in lead, and then put a different set of leaders in.
Within the first 5 miles of the race, Steam was starting to look back at me, and trying to stop to take a break.To be clear, he was not actually tired. At all.
But this was part of what I had been having trouble with with him, and had not yet figured out what made him tick and stay focused.
I had a sinking feeling, one of two dogs I had hoped would get my team the first 20 miles, and save my race leaders for the end, was already loosing interest. I cheered him on, calling him up, and assuring him he was doing a ‘great job!’. We continued on, him faltering every once in awhile.
After a time all the Juniors were clumped together on the trail, running at a similar pace.
One would stop to snack, and we’d all stop to snack. Eventually we started to separate a little bit, forming small groups along the trail of teams that were running the same pace.
From that point on, I ran with Lara Renner and Charmayne Morrison at the back of the pack for most of the first leg. We led out, followed by Charmayne, and then Lara bringing up the back of our train.
I honestly can’t tell you what changed, because I have no idea, but what happened next changed the outcome of my team, and our run.
One minute, my soft headed boy went from having a huge lack of confidence and will, to throwing on blinders of determination and whatever genetic perfection makes up a true racing dog.
It took two seconds, and the weakest dog on my team, became my strongest.
We traveled that way for hours, going out of the swamps, into the trees, and then dropping out onto the river, all the while running in a foot of fresh snow. We crossed the river and headed up into this cluster of small hills, about thirty miles into the race.
The trail curved and dipped just enough that I was having a significant problem steering my sled. It was slowing my team down and tiring them more than I was happy with.
He is one quirky little dude, and he’s got to be the most comical dog I’ve ever had the pleasure of running.
Every time we went into a corner, I would lean really hard to the outside, then the inside, dragging my foot, attempting to make it around without crashing.
This slowed us down significantly and made for harder work for the dogs.
Of course, if I didn’t make it around the corner, I would plow through the snowbank, and either make it to the trail on the other side, or smack into a log or bush that was buried. I would then come to a halt, or crash sideways onto the trail.
Every time this would happen, Oaken, who was in wheel with his brother, Olaf, would turn and give me the stink eye like, ‘get it together lady.’.
Eventually we stopped and snacked our team’s in a small meadow, taking a short break, and then hitting the trail again. After a time, my team was wary of leading the charge, and Charmayne took the lead.
After awhile her team pulled ahead of us, and Lara and I ran together for awhile. Eventually we came into Eagle Song Checkpoint, 50 miles in, a quick stop to sign in to, drop a dog if needed, (it wasn’t) and continue on toward Yetna Station Roadhouse, at the 75 mile mark.
I still had LeLu and Steampunk in lead, though I had noticed LeLu faltering slightly in confidence and, like I planned, put her back in swing, while I brought my best and most experienced leader, Freckles, up. What I had not planned on, was leaving Steamer up front, but he was still moving like a freight train, and the world was going to end before he quit. This was not my decision, he had taken that from me. He was going to lead. And that was that.
(Believe it or not, he would go on in the race out running Freckles, and outpacing even her in determination).
The checkers gave us drinks, wished us well, and we were on our way, off into the fading light.
After heading through a small set of hills, we headed out onto what my brain refers to as The Flats.
Wide open tundra with small clumps of spruce.
The sunset was gorgeous, orange and salmon colored, with hues of peach. I decided to stop for our planned 20 minute break, and admire the view.
Lara Renner slid past us and continued down the trail, shortly followed by a snowmobiler headed for Yentna. He stopped and we chatted for awhile, keeping us company while we finished our rest. Fixing a few booties, I headed for the sled and we hit the trail again, the dogs rested and ready to roll. Waving farewell, he followed us for a ways, and then headed off on what I’ll assume was a shorter route to Yetna.
The flats we beautiful, if not daunting. The light was disappearing and the vast expanse didn’t look like it ended.
We slipped off land and onto a lake, passing through a few houses out in the middle of nowhere, their fires lit and smoking out the chimney.
I had the most peculiar sensation of rightness. Now I understand what I was feeling. The connection to something other, something very old, and different. To a time when our world was very new, and you used a dogteam to travel. It’s comforting to know that places like that still exist.
I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to get out of this frozen world and be in front of a fire. But we had other plans for the night. That would have to wait until after the race.
Their dog barking alerted the people inside to a team, and a few came out and cheered, waving. I waved back, and we disappeared around the corner, back on land, and heading away, our goal not yet reached.
I could see Lara up ahead and decided to stop and snack when she did, and then headed past her and her resting team with a sole goal in mind. Yetna.
It’s funny how it happens, the connection between Team and driver. It’s a steady process, both happening all at once, and taking forever. We became one movement, always flowing, with no ending.
“We are a circle, within a circle, with no beginning, and never ending.” – Unknown
On we flew into the night.
The dogs were doing awesome after our break, and they picked up speed. There were teams ahead of us, I could see the headlamps, and so could they, but they knew the checkpoint was coming too, they could feel it.
I flicked on my headlamp and zoned in on the dogs. The past 70 miles my brain had been consumed by nothing else. Even when the draw of the views and the awe of being in Alaska and running the Jr. Iditarod pulled me away, a corner of my brain was always connected, always on, the dogs.
Now I was looking for any stress in the team. A dog that wasn’t running right, someone who might be sore, or have any feet issues, anyone that would need extra special attention at the checkpoint.
Of course, I had been paying close attention to my dogs the entire race, but in the finale miles before the checkpoint, you start to try and wake your sleepy brain up, going through the patterns of your plan so that you know what you’re going to do when you get there. Time is not to be wasted.
Eventually, we wound through some trees, and dropped suddenly out onto the river, following the markers into the fog.
The river felt like it took ages. Each bend looked so close, yet took miles to get to, and when you came around one bend, there was another waiting up ahead. In reality, we weren’t out there very long at all, and the next morning, we would only spend five minutes on the river on the way to Willow. Sleep deprivation does strange things to ones brain.
My eyes were fixed straight ahead, switching between the dogs, and searching for that little red light that would hail us off the river and into the checkpoint.
It went on and on and on, never seeming to end. And then, there it was, around a bend, a red flashing light on a marker, the sound of people, and the lights from the roadhouse.
We took a sharp right and we went up a bank and under a banner that read,
‘Jr. Iditarod Checkpoint’
They welcomed us to the Yetna Station Roadhouse, and I signed us in. My drop bags were placed on top of my sled, and we were lead to our spot. We parked behind Charmayne, and split a bale of straw.
The checkpoint where we would spend a required 10hrs, was set up just off the river, the fog rolling by us and putting a nice chill in the air.
I honestly don’t remember much of that night, while also remembering oddly detailed things, so I’ll do my best to recount it.
I’m going to assume at this point I pulled out my list of Checkpoint ‘steps’ that I had from my mentor, Laura, and started following the list.
I went up and pet everyone, paying special attention to Steampunk. We were 75 miles in, cold, hungry, and had just completed our longest run of the season, and he brought us into Yentna. This dog had just done a zero to one-hundred and I couldn’t believe it.
I went back to my sled, grabbed a bag of dog cookies, and walked up the line giving them all a snack and a ‘good dog’ praise. Walking back towards the sled, I pulled off booties, sticking them in the empty snack bag. I got my cooker going, pulled out food for the dogs, and got the RedPaw and Chicken ready.
In between massaging dogs, I would put more snow in the cooker, and then head back to the team. Eventually, I had moderately enough water for the team, and poured it into the cooler with the chicken, mixing it up, and then ladling it out into the bowls with RedPaw.
I went back to the cooker and started it up again, heating water for a last souping before we would leave.
The dogs were glad for a meal, and once they were finished, I bed them down, put Jackets on, and settled them in for bed. It was cold enough that I moved one of my smaller dogs, Rubicon, who had been running by herself, into another group on the line, so she would have more dogs to cuddle with. I would later find out that it was -17 for our overnight, and into our run the next day.
The dogs looked really good, and content to be resting. LeLu stayed up for awhile, watching over the team and surveying her rookie Musher going about the business of taking care of the team. I think if she could have critiqued me and given me advice, she would have.
Of course, brothers Olaf, and Oaken, hadn’t camped before they had run Race to the Sky with me, and were skeptical about why I was making them sleep in the middle of nowhere. Thankfully, after a seventy-five mile run Olaf was ready to lay down and doze. Oaken was a bit more indignant, and sat the entire night. At least he didn’t stand, like he insisted on doing at Race to the Sky.
I put cream on all the dogs feet, and massaged their wrists and wrapped the entire team to prevent or help any sore wrists. All my dogs looked good, so I went back to the cooker to check the water.
The series of things that happened next involved sleep deprivation, playing with cooker fuel, and… well, what happens at Jr. Iditarod, stays at Jr. Iditarod.
All you need to know is that during the rest of night I managed to choke down half a bag of REI spaghetti and chicken that was cold and kind of crunchy, call it good, grab my personal gear and sleeping bag, and head for the middle of the team.
After I got situated, I stuck four body warmers into my sleeping bag, set my alarm for 4:15 (at least, I think I did, this is all VERY hazy) and put the snooze button on the world.
Something I never expected to happen at a Dog Race happened that night. I woke up.
Because I was too hot.
I know. Thats what I was thinking.
The body warmers, that were supposed to let me sleep, were working a bit too well, even at seventeen below.
That was fine by me, I was a happy camper. As long as I could let a little cool air in every once in awhile, I was all good. On a hunch, I checked on my phone, and noting the ‘iPhone too hot’ signal, moved it too a cooler spot.
It’s safe to say I slept very happily, and woke up an hour before I was supposed to, wide awake and ready to hit the trail.
I made myself stay in my bag and chill out until a few minutes before I was supposed to get up, and then I couldn’t take it anymore. It was time to get the show on the road.
I wanted to leave the dogs alone for as long as possible so they could get as much rest as they could, so I put all my personal gear back in the sled and tried to sort through the rest of my sled gear and get it organized.
Tried would be the key word in that sentence.
I don’t know what happened, I think my organization skills need some work, because it looked like my sled exploded. Still pondering this, considering that I only brought required gear, snacks for the dogs and me, and a few choice other things, like dog jackets.
No matter, it looked like someone set off a bomb in my sled bag. After getting things a little more set up, I gave the dogs some soup, which is warm water with ground up chicken mixed in, so that they’ll drink and stay hydrated.
I then massaged and walked dogs, undoing their wrist wraps, and letting them stretch their legs and go to the bathroom. While I was doing this, the vet checked over my dogs and made sure everyone looked good.
And here you get introduced to a very special dog named Twix.
Twix belongs to my friend and mentor, Laura Daugereau, who very generously allowed me to use four of her racing dogs in the Jr. Iditarod to fill out my team. Olaf, Oaken, LeLu, and… Twix.
On the drive up we had discovered that Twix, absolutely hated have us touch his feet. That’s right, us. Not a problem with anyone else, but if we touched them? The world ended. Meaning he would give an incredibly loud shriek. Quite impressive really, I don’t think even I can shriek like Twix.
Now, I’m walking Twix through the checkpoint, and he goes through a drift of powdery snow. This snow of course, gets in between his toes. The immediate shrieking that came next scared the living bejesus out of me and most certainly woke me up.
Of course, now I’m thinking, ‘Oh gee, thanks Twix, this looks fantastic. Here I am walking my dog in the middle of a checkpoint and he’s acting like he’s dying. Don’t worry everyone, he’s just a spaz.’ Shortly followed by me whispering at him, ‘Twix, calm down, Its not me touching your feet, it’s snow. My goodness.’
After our little show, I went to check in with the vet and see what his report was on the team.
Twix was a little stiff and sore, but the vet was very confident that he would be just fine once he got moving and stretched out a bit.
Olaf had what seemed to be sore hips. After pondering for awhile, we decided it would be okay for him to continue on, and if I needed to, I could drop him at Eagle Song in twenty-five miles.
All in all, I ended up leaving the checkpoint about 6:58.
We weaved out of the camp, dodging this way and that to get out of the twists and curves they had us all camped in. It was like twelve chutes that eventually led into one, that immediately dropped you onto the river. It just, you know, had trees to get around. It was actually great fun! Plus it’s a good way to wake up all the way in the morning, in case Twix wasn’t enough.
And then a women stepped out from the path and yelled ‘take a hard left!’.
Now apparently, different Juniors hears different things, such as, ‘follow the trash bags!’.
We took a left and got maybe ten seconds down the trail when we saw Lara Renner coming back towards us maybe thirty feet to the right.
After a brief yelling conversation, it was clear my team was headed to a dead end. So, we made a hard right where Lara’s team had, and headed back the other way. At which point we saw Lara again, coming back the other way, now thirty feet to our left. Neither of us had any idea, but I was pretty sure she was going the right way, and I was going the wrong way.
We reached the trail just below Yetna, and made a hard left to follow Lara. LeLu was a little confused, so I set my hooks on the ice, praying and trusting my team, but mostly my ability to grab the sled as it flew by.
In the middle of untangling the front of my team, Cim, the race marshal, came down the hill and stood on my hook, preventing me from being left behind. (Thanks Cim).
And then off we went, the sled runners skittering and scrapping on the ice. I slowed the team, letting them warm up their muscles. Five minutes later, we hopped up off the river and headed for The Flats.
The Flats were beautiful. The sun eventually broke the horizon, and we were struck with a beautiful pink sunrise. The air was frozen. At least it felt like it. This was probably the most distinct part of the race for me, remembered very clearly with a feeling of longing. This was indeed the section of trail that froze my fingers, and frosted my dogs so much my black dogs looked like they turned white overnight. But it was were we all were very much alive. I remember trying to come up with words to describe it all.
At this point, you are so connected to the team, that there is no them, it is only Us.
Almost a collective consciousness. Time has no meaning, and you are breathing, eating, and sleeping the race, together.
You are so alive that you almost don’t exist. Which is maybe most definitely my sleep deprived brain talking.
After a time I realized we were getting close to the checkpoint, and remembered the deal I had made with myself, about eating breakfast before we got there, (I had been too nervous to eat at Yetna). I choked down a Chocolate PopTart as fast as I could, heading out along the edge of the Eagle Song field.
We pulled into the checkpoint as the sun was rising fully. They offered drinks, but I refused, knowing that I had water in my sled. I snacked the dogs and chatted with the checkers briefly, and then we were on our way.
Knowing the hills were coming up, I reached into my sled bag for my water bottle, planning on hydrating myself before I had to run up some hills, only to find all four of my drinks frozen solid.
I knew I had been really hydrated the first half of the race, and at Yetna, (I had worked extra hard to make sure I was super hydrated so my brain would function better on lack of sleep) so I knew I would make it to the finish fine, I would just be REALLY thirsty.
And the cycle began again. In we went, the sled smacking into logs, me attempting not to decapitate myself on overhanging trees, and Oaken glaring at me all the way. He got so good at his stink eye, that he would give it before we got to a corner, already anticipating his drivers faults.
He provided a comical source of amusement for me along the trail, having dubbed himself Prince and stink eye giver. His hilarious ‘holier than thou’ attitude never fails to make me smile.
Finally, we broke out of the trees and went out on the river. I decided to give Freckles a break and switched Nellie into lead next to Steam, and we traveled up river for a ways before crossing to the bank on the other side.
Now Robin Hood, one of my two year olds, had been doing good. It’s his first season of doing mid-distance, and he’s been excelling fast. His enthusiasm however, both was, and was not appreciated when we crossed the swamps, heading towards willow.
In case you didn’t know, the swamps are the most boring, slow, never ending, nonstop, endless, bottomless pit of trail. Ever.
five to ten miles of trail that feel like thirty.
They’re gorgeous, don’t get me wrong, but when you go through them in the middle of the day, when the sun is at its peak, you’re sleep deprived, and incredibly thirsty because your water froze, it’s pretty miserable.
The first few miles weren’t so bad.
We broke out of the trees just after coming off the river crossing, and I stopped the team and we rested for about twenty minutes, all of us dozing in the sun about forty miles from the finish line.
After our short nap, we hit the trail again. All was fine until we turned off of the trail from the day before, onto an unpacked, soft trail to head for Willow, and the finish line. We were just far enough behind the other teams, and there were a lot of snowmobiles out, that the tracks from the other teams were nonexistent.
Our speed dropped as the dogs spirits dropped. To them, I had turned them off of the race trail.
Robin Hood did NOT like the speed change. He wanted to go FAST. This was not acceptable. So he proceeded to work on shredding my gangline. He chewed many necklines on that run. Chew, replace, chew, replace, chew, replace…
On and on the cycle went. I won’t get into more details about the swaps, I feel bored even thinking about it. However, I will say that when my dogs saw the small hill that takes you up out of the swamps, they shot for it like it was going to save them from death by boredom. Which, it probably did. Me too.
I had heard lots of things about the trail, but one thing I hadn’t heard about, was the end. For some reason, in my head, when you came out of the swamps you were five miles from the finish. I have no idea where the heck that came from our how it got into my head, because it is most certainly not the case.
I stopped the team after a little ways, and went up and we had a little heart to heart, thanking them for what they’d done, and spending a little time with them before we were surrounded by civilization and people again. I snacked them and we continued on, spirits high.
And then we kept going. And going. And WHERE THE HECK WAS THE FINISH.
We wound through the trees for awhile and it’s dawning on my that I have no clue where I am. We hit some long corridor like stretches and the miles kept stretching, all the while a slightly confused, very sleep deprived, delirious musher is hanging on the the back of the sled apologizing to her team because clearly we are not done here.
After another hour… or two… or forty minutes??? We came around a wide corner heading back out onto some lake looking swamps, and passed a tent next to the trail. As we were coming up on it, I thought ‘Oh! They must have someone out here to radio when teams are coming through so they’re ready at the finish. We must be getting close.’
At which point a woman shot out of the tent and hollered, ‘Your doing great, almost there! Eighteen more miles to go!!’
We continued on, my brain beginning to tell me sleep was necessary to live, and my body fighting it back.
We wove toward the finish, ten minutes feeling like forty, and the beat in my headphones attempting to keep me awake.
I was snacking dogs in a very ‘moose popular’ part of the trail, lots of tracks, scat, and nibbled on bushes, when the trail crew caught up to me, taking down the markers as they followed the team’s in.
I gave the dogs a short break, and then we continued on.
I’m trying to remember what happened in the next sections of trail, but my brain was so dysfunctional at this point I’m not sure if it would make sense even if I did remember it. All I can say is that I can’t tell you how many times I though for sure we had reached the finish line, and that it was just ahead.
I vaguely remember some road crossings within the last ten miles, at which Nellie tried to take us down the pavement rather than across, (thank you to all the volunteers who were watching the roads).
I remember pulling Steamer out of lead once, for ten miles, when he looked like he needed a break, but he went back in for our final march to the finish.
I also remember being three miles from the finish, and stopping to look at some markers before making a right turn. Two minutes later I was thinking back to the turn and wondering if, in my sleepy void, I had made a wrong turn. Thankfully after a few more minutes of hazy wondering, I saw another marker, assuring me I was going the right way.
Then, for the first time during the race, I saw a cow moose standing in the trail as we rounded the corner. Thankfully she trotted off, wanting little to do with us.
I do distinctly remember making another turn and thinking that this was a horrible idea. Who in their right mind runs one-hundred and fifty mile races? This is miserable. Why did I talk myself into this?
At which point we hit a trail that ran next to a road. We crossed an intersection that had a few volunteers cheering for us, and dropped down the hill and onto Willow Lake.
I could see the finish line ahead, the banner reading Jr. Iditarod Finish in big letters, and a few people waiting patiently for us to come in.
I’ll never forget the feeling of crossing that lake. I was desperately trying not to cry about how proud of my dogs I was, and in that moment, all I really wanted was to stop and be alone with my team, to not end this grand adventure that was the absolute misery that is mid-distance Sled Dog racing. To spend more time feeling the incredible connection that goes beyond just a bond between Team and driver. I did not want it to end. But I also really wanted a cheeseburger. And WATER.
So we marched across the lake together. Passing signs that had been put out for each Junior with quotes of encouragement on them.
I have an incredibly touching moving picture in my head of the few people standing by the finish line, and then the crowds of people that streamed out of the banquet hall and down the hill to welcome in the last team to Willow.
Under the banner we went, to words of welcome and congratulations.
I only had eyes for my dogs.
We had made it. The One-hundred and fifty miles from Wassila Alaska, to Willow Alaska, by dogteam.
When you hear stories of dog races and epic mushing tales, you hear of the hardships, grandeur of the trail, and thrill of the race.
My 2018 Junior Iditarod Run was not all rainbows. In fact, when you get passed the thrill of running the race, it was really quite miserable. Our world is such a fine line between heaven and absolute hell. You go from zero to one hundred and then back again more times in a single race than you can count. But the hardest part?
That comes at the end, in leaving the team to be tended by your handlers, to head inside for the end of race banquet.
Photo taken by Julia Redington
Team Whiteout coming into Eagle Song on day one
I think by your second mid-distance race the realization is there that the romance covers up for reality. Not to be negative about it at all, it’s just the truth. When you set out on your first adventure, you have no idea what you’re about to face, or you don’t understand it. But the next time you go, it’s a bit more real.
The start of race to the Sky was an odd mix between a rush, and the undeniable reality of the troubles to come. My friend Charmayne and I were the only two Mushers in the junior’s class this year, and both of us were preparing our teams for the Junior Iditarod. My mentor and friend Laura, would either give me the go ahead for Alaska, or tell me we weren’t ready.
I managed to pack my sled and get everything ready, with significant help from my handlers, and we were headed to the start.
When you rocket out of the chute, you head up and over a small hill. I am very glad that I could not see what was on the other side, for it would have made my nerves significantly worse.
You shoot over the first hill with a fresh team, rocket down the other side in a trench that’s been dug by all the other sled brakes before you, and go skidding across a road with narrow trail heads on either side, while the front of your team takes a corner.
I don’t think I took a breath until we were heading across the meadow.
We took a narrow trail through the trees and eventually came out onto a wider trail.
Within the first few hours, we came to an intersection that, oddly, had two markers. I stopped the team and studied the trail. The fork to the left had an arrow pointing down the trail, and the arrow to the right had the same thing. Both had Sled and dog tracks heading down them. I stopped stumped, but heard a stopped team barking to the right, and headed down that trail. Later I would find out that I was lucky, and chose the correct route.
Shortly after, I went over a small hill, and at the top, saw what I thought was a small dog. Confused, we headed up and over the next hill, at which point, I slammed on my brakes and set my hooks as fast as I could. There was a skunk marching up the trail straight for my team. Of course, my first thought was that I should protect my dogs, and stand at the front of my team. Then I realized how stupid that sounded. So I watched and waited as he strutted his way toward my team, my dogs flipping out about the prey that was so close to them, tugging the sled and my snowhooks forward inch by inch as I desperately stood on my brake. At the last second, he flicked his tail, and turned off the trail, and we passed without issue, my muscles relaxing.
On we traversed across meadows and up mountains. The wind had been picking up at the start, and sections of the trail were windy enough for me to bundle up and hunker over to keep my face from the wind. We ran with a few other teams for awhile, and they picked up the pace and moved on as the light started fading.
The only real landmarks that I knew, were the end of the 20 mile loop, and huckleberry pass. I don’t think I even realized I had hit huckleberry pass, until I was almost to the top. Heading up, I could see light from Mushers behind, and above me.
Around that time I started to notice a difference in the team. Sunny, who was running in wheel, was running slightly off. I spent a little while watching her gait and trying to figure out exactly what I was seeing. It looked like a front leg, and after we started heading down the other side of huckleberry pass, I decided to put her in the sled bag to ride the rest of the way to the checkpoint. She was most definitely not okay with this. Sled dogs love to run, and bagging them during a race, or anytime for that matter, can be challenging. She spent the first twenty minutes teetering inside my sled bag, braced on my handlebar, cooler, cooker, and the outer edge of my sled bag.
By the second half, she got a little more sleepy, and I managed to stuff her down in the bag and zip it up. When I peeked in five minutes later, she was fast asleep, curled up as close to me as she could get on the inside.
When we reached the bottom of the mountain, we hit a plowed road, and the sled when skittering across the sheet of ice and frozen slush. The brake made a horrible grinding noise, and of course, this was the time Sunny decided to be fully awake again. Although I don’t blame her, the sound of that brake was making my tired brain smash itself against the sides of my skull.
Sunny was immediately up and becoming an escape artist again. Despite my efforts to stop her, she shoved her nose out of the sled bag and began trying to claw her way off the sled.
I had to stop for about three minutes just outside the checkpoint to get her wrangled back in.
We pulled into Whitetail Checkpoint, and I signed in, my Handlers grabbed my leaders and took us straight to the spot they had ready with our stuff.
Dog care mode was on, and I was requesting water, things from the truck, (which my Handlers were allowed to have parked a short walking distance from the Team rest area) and going straight into our routine.
I requested my vet check as soon as possible, and got straight to giving dogs praise, a cookie, and taking their booties off. After that I got their food ready with a mix of Redpaw, Chicken, and water.
My mom, Trevor, and I, went over the dogs, messaging them and putting on their coats, giving them straw, and making sure they had everything they needed.
When the team was taken care of, I distinctly remember Laura dragging me away from my team, telling me that the team was fine and to go get something to eat ‘right now’, (for those of you who don’t know, I’m horrible at eating in checkpoints, much to Laura’s dismay).
I managed to choke down a few bites of food, and then headed to the truck to sleep.
With the heat on, I managed to sleep fairly well, and woke up feeling at least moderately awake and ready to take care of the team.
When we left the checkpoint, at the last minute, as we’re about to leave, Laura leaned over and said, ‘Just so you know, the next 7 miles are plowed so just keep the team as slow as you can, and watch for the different turns on and off the roads, most of them will have people and lights at them.” Then she patted my back and said, ‘you’ll be fine’ And then off we went into the night.
Skittering down plowed roads with a fresh team hanging on for dear life was not how I had imagined my morning going. I clung desperately to the handle bar and tried to stay upright the best that I could on the sharp corners.
At long last, we finally pulled off of the roads and up into the hills, (while doing so I was almost flung off my sled, but that’s beside the point.) hoping that dawn would come soon.
It was cold. Very cold, and both the fact that I hadn’t changed my under layers before leaving the hot truck, and that I had sweat even more during our dash through plowed roads, meant that I was starting to feel a bit chilled.
When it’s cold and you’re tired, you really don’t feel like moving. I think at some point I stopped to snack dogs, and took off my parka to put more layers on.
It was a waiting game until morning.
Moving on in the dark, the seconds started to blur and feel like hours as I fought sleep. I could see where other teams had stopped to snack every few hours, and I used it to time my stops as well.
If I remember correctly, this was also the race where I looked all through my sled bag to find my headphones, and couldn’t, (later I would find them in my parka pocket where, ironically, I had put them so they were easy to find).
Music is a life saver in those never ending seconds, and it helps fight sleep and boredom as well.
I remember coming down the open face of a mountain, and looking back to watch the Sky start to lighten just barely. I could see decently enough over the next few miles, but my brain obviously wasn’t keeping up with my eyes when I had to make a sharp right down off of the trail onto a plowed road.
My snowhook hit my knee, (facing backwards thankfully) leaving a good sized bruise, and I smacked into the ice, avoiding hitting my head on the hard surface. I vaguely remember sliding on my knees for a moment behind the tipped over Sled as the dogs continued on, and then I just kind of flopped over, hopping it would be enough for the dogs to stop and go, ‘What the heck is she doing?’.
Sure enough, there came the odd looks, and I’m very thankful for one of my leaders, Nellie, who’s my glue dog, and turned around to stare at me, wagging her tail, unsure.
In those few seconds, I managed to flip the sled up, say ‘ready? Let’s go!’ And take off, me a little more awake than five minutes ago.
We skittered along the road for a little while, me very aware of the pre race warning of the logging trucks that traveled in and out during the day. Luckily, no one was there yet, and we slide down the road with no problems. When we made it back onto the trail, travel was relatively quiet for some time.
I was having trouble finding a motivated enough dog to lead, and I was concerned about having an issue with it at Junior Iditarod. I tried to shove those thoughts from my head, I needed to focus on the here and now, but it’s hard when you’ve worked on something all season, and then a significant concern pops up.
I switched my leaders in and out for awhile, attempting to find that match. I finally settled on Nellie, and Rubicon, one of my young leaders in training.
The pair tend to be competitive with each other, and I hoped maybe that would kick in.
Though their competitive spirits decided not to show themselves on the way to the finish, they did truck the team along and keep everyone moving.
It was then that I started to focus on being happy.
Now I know that sounds odd, but when you’re exhausted, and you’ve been mentally and physically working, it can be challenging to keep your spirits up.
The whole goal of the season was not to be competitive, it was to learn to run mid-distance, and to attempt to have some fun while doing it. The sunrise had been absolutely gorgeous, and with the light came happier feelings, however, my lack of sleep did not go away. When I fell asleep on my sled, I ate a candy bar and felt more awake for the next twenty or thirty minutes, at which point, I started to fall asleep again, and ate another one.
The challenge came not from driving the team, it was when I could look out across the valley and saw a lake. Which I assumed was Seeley lake, where the finish was. When we passed it, I was confused. When you ‘know’ where the finish is, you tend to get excited, and the mental dip that came afterwards was challenging.
The dogs can pick up on your emotions, and it’s a Mushers job to stay in good spirits so that it doesn’t effect their team. The next ten miles that I didn’t think were there, became a mind game. I can’t tell you how many times I pulled out my map to try and figure out where we were.
Needless to say I was elated when we unexpectedly went past a sign that read ‘No Mans Land’ one mile from the finish.
A short ways up the trail, there was a cluster of people standing and watching teams come in. Laura and my mother were among the group, and we pulled up, stopping when we were asked to. Now, please understand that I am very tired at this point, and have little to no awareness about what’s going on. Laura walked over, hopping on the runners with me. I naturally assumed that she wanted a ride into the finish, which of course, I was totally fine with. So I asked the dogs to head out again and they immediatly began straining in their harnesses, trying to inch the sled forward, which I noticed they couldn’t, because Laura had her foot on the brake, which made absolutely no sense. If she wanted a ride into the finish, she should probably take her foot off the brake. At which point she starts laughing, and tells me that this is, in fact, the finish, and that I can go pet my dogs and she’ll hold the sled.
Oh. That makes more sense.
After praising my team, we pulled away from the finish. I was beyond proud of my dogs, and that they had continued on despite having an inexperienced Musher. I was also very ready for a nap.
To put the Eagle Cap Extreme Sled Dog Race into words, seems impossible, but now almost a month after my first 100 mile race, I am, inevitably, on the way to my second 100 mile race, stuck in a parking lot with my truck leaking fluid, and have a chance to write about the incredible mental journey, that is the Eagle Cap Extreme.
• • •
The vet checks were on a Wednesday, January 17th.
The main street of Joseph OR was packed with trucks, people, and, most importantly, dogs.
Each team going into a mid-distance race is required to be checked over by the vet team before they are approved for a race.
Our vet check was smooth, and presented no issues with the team. We were clear to race!
The race start was on Thursday the 18th, and it was probably the muddiest start I have ever seen.
The parking lot was packed with kids from local schools, and Mushers getting there teams ready. I honestly can’t remember how many handmade posters I signed. It’s awesome how the race includes the local community so much.
They ran the team’s up a small rise and into the starting chute, where we waited for our countdown to reach zero. The chute was slush, ice, and water, and ended in a corner that turned you onto the course.
All remember thinking was ‘don’t tip over, don’t tip over, just make the corner.’.
On the first part of the course, the snow was fairly soft. On the way up to Salt Creek Summit, there were some sections of bare ground, and rocks.
The only good thing about that, was that the area a Musher slid off the trail last year due to ice, was bare this year, so not having traction wasn’t an issue!
Once through Salt Creek Summit, which is 10 miles out, we drop down off the other side.
At the bottom of the hill, teams cross a bridge, that leads directly into a steep embankment, and a sharp left turn at the top.
I headed across the bridge, and noticed two Mushers stopped directly after the turn. I put on my brake so not to crowd, as I was sure they were fixing a mishap in a team. Unfortunately, my leaders had already taken the embankment, and had reached the top, while the back of the team, (aka, Yours truly) was still at the bottom.
After the other team’s moved on, my dogs were still fresh and ready to roll, so cutting that corner was not a hard decision for them.
Though it effectively dragged the rest of the team, (and myself) off the trail.
The thing about deep, soft, snow, is that it’s hard to walk in, and maneuver in, and lift heavy things in. And nearly impossible to set a snowhook in properly.
Thus I found myself in the predicament of not being able to leave the back of the sled to lift it back onto the trail. So at this point, I did the only logical thing I could think of.
I tied my snubline, (and effectively, my team) to the most minuscule, smallest, itty bitty baby sapling that was within reach. Not only that, but I tied my snubline to this sapling in the most complicated slip knot I have ever learned. Logically.
It was about this time that another musher drove by with his 200 mile team, and offered a hand.
I waved him by, certain I could figure it out by myself, and not wanting to make a dent in anyone else’s race.
And then the dogs and I began to slowly work the sled back up onto the trail.
And away from my twig.
Those of you who are veteran Mushers, can probably already see where this is going.
Fortunately, I did too.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have the slightest idea what to do about it, so I just kept going. And getting farther from this tiny tree that my very long snubline was tied to. In a very complicated knot, (I’m going to give up calling it a slip knot at this point).
I blame this on my Rookie Musher logic.
After then getting within a few feet of the trail, I climbed up onto the trail, and proceeded to attempt to haul my sled up onto the trail.
Let’s just take a moment to look at this scene.
I weigh about 110lbs. I’m a pretty small human.
Now my sled, which weighs 35lbs without the bag, is packed full of all my emergency trail gear. My cooker and Heet, dogfood, etc.
so this thing is not a walk in the park to carry.
As I’m Scrambling to, (A) Pull the sled onto the trail, and (B) keep my footing at the same time, another team pulled up behind where my team was off the trail.
I asked if he wanted to head by, and, thankfully, he said no.
It took the two of us tugging and hauling to get my sled back onto the trail. The Musher then ran back to my… okay, I’m going to be nice to myself here, and just say, ‘my interestingly tied knot’.
He then began the process of undoing the rope, and released us from the sapling. The dogs, who had been out of there minds with confusion about why I was not letting them go, shot off, tugging their harnesses with the urgency of ‘catch those teams!’.
I big thank you to the other Musher.
The trail was uneventful for the majority of the race, though the views offered wonderful entertainment for the mind!
The intent going into the Eagle Cap, was to enjoy our time, stay positive, happy, have fun, and to come into the finish line with a healthy team. So we took our time, with myself spending most of my time on the brake and the dragmat to keep the team at a slow, sustainable pace throughout the race. We went smoothly along for a ways, at which point I stopped to snack and give pats of praise and encouragement.
Another team cruised past, and we exchange nods and words of hello and encouragement amidst the blowing wind and snow on top of the mountain.
With the dogs snacked and briefly rested, we cruised on into the fading light.
Now the impression is, that when you are nearing the checkpoint, Ollokot, you are approaching downhill. The impression is not, that this downhill, is indeed 20 miles long.
So you being this decent and feel this lightening of your heart as your mind, which is numb from sleepiness, and hardship, exclaims, yippee!!! We’re almost there!!!!’.
Which is indeed, not the case.
The hill JUST KEPT GOING. On and on it went, the snow falling just enough to make seeing more challenging. We passed a few teams and went on into the night.
When we hit bare pavement at the bottom of the hill, I was very confused, wondering if maybe I had taken a wrong turn somewhere, but I decided we should keep running. I knew I had been paying close attention to trail markers, and that if, by chance I had taken a wrong turn we couldn’t be that far from the Checkpoint and eventually they would send someone out to get us if I went to far.
Before long I could see headlights moving across the river where Mushers had their team’s camped. We pulled into Ollokot and signed in, picking up our drop bags, and were lead to our spot.
Thus commenced our first checkpoint.
To Be Continued…
Run. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
I’m fairly sure that if you looked up ‘Training a Dog team for races’, this is what would come up.
Camping trips, or ‘Checkpoint Training’, will prepare us for checkpoints at the Race to the Sky, and the Junior Iditarod, as well as future races. The dogs on my team that have not done mid-distance races before will get a chance to get use to the routine, before it is expected of them in a race. I am also a rookie at camping, so the same goes for preparing myself as well!
During a race, there will be lots of activity going on. Other teams moving in and out of the checkpoint, Mushers feeding their dogs, volunteers and an army of vets moving about, and a dog needs to be able to sleep while all of this is going on, so that they can be as happy and healthy as possible going into the next stage of a race.
We decided to do a mock camping trip last week, to give me a chance to test out equipment and skills with the safety net of still being able to go get something If I needed to, as well as learning what should be on my packing list, that isn’t!
We started the day by completing a 19 mile run with lots of climbing and going a bit faster than we have been. We pulled back in front of the house and I took booties off and checked everyone’s feet to make sure they all looked good, applying healing cream to make sure everyone was happy. ‘If you don’t have feet, you don’t have a dog’ was one of the first things I learned!
All the dogs got a massage and I bed them down for the next 3 1/2 hours. Each dog gets straw in their spot on the line to use as a bed, and insulation from the snow.
They had time for a short nap and to settle down before I brought food out in the form of hot chicken broth and kibble. Everyone chowed down and eventually the dogs settled in and went back to resting.
At just under four hours I went out and woke them up, massaging each dog, and taking them for a short walk to stretch and get their muscles moving again.
By the time I was done and began hooking their harnesses back into the tug line, they were screaming and yelling like they hadn’t just run four hours earlier. Their recovery time is truly incredible! We then began the second leg of the run. The woods were beautiful in the dark and the snow was amazing. The dogs sped through the run and came in looking happy!