Tales From the Frozen Trail: Gear

Whenever someone hear's that I do races in Alaska during the winter, invariably, the assumption is that I must be impervious to freezing. In truth, I certainly do fair better at endurance events in the cold than in the heat, but success in an event like the Iditarod Trail Invitational has very little to do with physical acclimatization. Surviving in the extremes of winter weather has much more to do equipment; having (and properly using) the right gear is much more critical to success than how your body handles the conditions.

Participants all geared up and preparing for the start

First, a word for my sponsor...

Brooks is a running company. Perhaps the only "pure" running company left among major sports shoe and apparel manufacturers. You won't find a pull-down menu for a list of other sports on their website. Running is all they do. I've been proud to be included in their Inspire Daily program for the past 5 years even as my passions have strayed further and further afield of the mainstream running community.

The Iditarod Trail Invitation is not a running race. Towing a 50-pound sled of equipment 350 miles across the frozen Alaskan tundra, there were very few places where my pace even remotely resembled a run. However, just about everyone who attempts the race on foot opts for some form of weatherized running shoe. Beyond that, the brands of clothing and gear comprising most people's kit would be more familiar to those with a mountaineering rather than a running background.

Brooks makes some wonderful clothing for running in most conditions, but they aren't a winter apparel company and certainly they don't design for the possibility of temps down to -40 fahrenheit.  WIth that said, layering is a very important principle to grasp for these types of races and for me that meant my base-layers pretty much all sported the logo of my favorite running company. I actually wore up to 11 pieces of Brooks gear on my body at one time depending on conditions.

The list of Brooks gear either on my body or on my sled consisted of the following (items worn for the entire race are marked with a *)

• Adenaline GTX* shoes (1-1/2 sizes larger than normal to accommodate two pairs of socks)
• Equilibrium Windbrief Boxer*
• Utopia Thermal Tight*
• Essential Run Wind Pant*
• Silver Bullet Pant
• ID Elite Long Sleeve*
• Nightlife Essential Run Vest II*
• HVAC Synergy LS 1/2 Zip*
• Brooks Micro-fleece (this is very old and I wish they would make them again)
• Silver Bullet Jacket
• Utopia 2 in 1 Mitten (liner and shell)
• Wanganui Fleece Hat 
• Brooks Balaclava

For the most part, my Brooks gear faired very well. It was often supplemented or replaced with more "serious" winter clothing when temps dropped down below zero (which wasn't too often this year). My trusty Adrenaline's held up for the full 350 miles and I loved all of my base-layer clothes. The super-light Utopia fleece inner-mitten was a particular favorite during the "warmer" parts of the race (i.e. when it got up into the teens).

However, next time, there will be a few items I'll replace with more winter-specific gear. The Essential Run Wind Pant is simply not durable enough. It also requires me to carry a separate fully-waterproof rain pant in case things get wet. Also, the Silver Bullet pant is a bit heavy for the amount of insulation it provides. I will probably replace these 3 pants with a more durable rain pant and a light-weight down pant. I probably won't use the Silver Bullet Jacket again either as I prefer fleece. Unless Brooks decides to offer a micro-fleece again, I will need to go with another brand as I'm not sure my current one has another winter left in it. Also, I didn't use the light-weight balaclava as I preferred the versatility of the Buff when conditions didn't require my full face mask. Other than that, I will stick with all my running gear for winter "sled-dragging" events.

It's good to have many gear options. This was a case were my face was cold, but my body was not.

I suppose I could go on, iterating the rest of the non-Brooks clothing I used as well as all the other gear and brands. I will try to at least go touch upon most of my essential items and how well they served me, but I prefer telling stories to making lists. So, I'll try to share a few tales related to my gear. There's a tendency to develop a certain relationship with some of your key pieces of equipment out there. Sometimes you love it. Sometimes, not so much. Sometimes, you'd swear the gear feels the same way back and is intent on letting just what it thinks.

I'll start at the bottom. I mentioned in an earlier post that I started the race wearing my Kahtoola microspikes and left them on too long. My toes hurt after this. It didn't become a problem, but it was enough of a concern at such an early point in the event that I think it drove me to make some bad decisions later on. Instead of allowing my evaluation of the trail conditions dictate my footwear choices, I became reluctant to go with anything other than just bare shoes. I spent quite a bit of time in some mushy snow debating with myself whether I should don my snowshoes while moving became more and more difficult.

Much later in the race, heading into the Farewell Burn it was very icy. I made it up one gradual ice slope without spikes and then on the next took a hard fall banging my knee and messing up one of my trekking poles that was already in tenuous working order. Then, again, after taking the spikes off, I hit a small ice patch, slipped and landed with my hand in a puddle of overflow. The only saving grace was that I had just donned my big Outdoor Research Meteor Mitt shells which kept me from getting wet. The spikes really do work great especially in any sort of slippery conditions, but I just can't wear them for long periods of time without feeling some toe pinch.

I would probably ditch the spikes and just use snowshoes if I could. The Atlas Race models are great shoes: super lightweight, good flotation, and easy movement on both flat and moderately graded climbs. However, they are designed for racing which means for leaving on your feet. The bindings are pretty secure, but are not designed for easy on-and-off, at least not for me. I can barely fit the size 12 shoes I use for winter racing into these even with an extender for the heel strap. Going up Rainy pass I became so frustrated trying to get them on that I just strapped them back on my sled and didn't touch them again until hitting a patch of super-soft "sugar snow" in the final stretch. At that point I discovered that part of the binding was actually broken.

Next year I will definitely look for a different system. If I could find a pair of snowshoes that are easy-on/easy-off and reasonably lightweight then I think I would go with that alone. Not everything on my feet faired poorly. As I said, the Gore-Tex on my Adrenalines kept them dry and my sock choices kept them warm. I always tend to carry too many pairs of socks for these types of events, but I'm sure if I ever accidentally get wet feet I won't regret it. I generally go with a 2-pair system using either Injinji or Smartwool base-layer socks and thicker Smartwool socks on top. However, my friend Beat turned me on to using fleece socks and I am absolutely sold. Not only are the Acorn socks I used light and warm, they feel like soft, cushy goodness on your feet.

Not all my gear worked out just right.

Other than my lightweight shell pants that tore around the crotch (and were brilliantly repaired with some Tyvek Tape), most of my clothing worked out well. However, none of it was truly tested in the extreme cold. The second morning in The Burn was, maybe, down to about -12F when I put on my thick pants, but they didn't last long as both I and the day warmed up quickly.  Up top I wore as many as 5 layers with my trusty Outdoor Research Gore-Tex Pro shell on the outside when necessary. The thing is bomb-proof and has pit-zips that go all the way from arms to waist. It's an excellent feature, but one you need to be careful of if you're in the habit of stuffing other gear inside your jacket!

The gear choices up top didn't quite work out as well. My Mountain Hardware Windstopper fleece cap performed great when it was too cold or windy for the lighter Brooks cap (or after it escaped out the back of my jacket pit-zips). If the wind kicked up harder, I needed to protect my face and I'd used the Seirus Ultra Clava in past, but seemed to have endless fitting issues during the ITI. Part of the problem was my own. My face tends to stay relatively warm, but my prodigious nose is fairly susceptible to frost burn so I tend to constantly adjust my face protection, pulling it down, putting it back on, etc.. I had an even bigger issue with my goggles, I simply couldn't keep them from frosting over or staying on straight. I even had a full-on melt-down with them at one point. I've been told by those more experienced that the best solution is a fur ruff sewn into the hood of my jacket. One racer gave me the scoop that if you don't want to buy a new, trapped-animal fur you can often find an old, used fur or jacket with a fur ruff. I may need start hitting up the thrift shops.

My final bit of gear failure were my trekking poles. The Black Diamond Ultra-Distance Z-Poles are a mouthful to say, but are absolutely fabulous for rough trails. Super-lightweight and easy to fold and stow, they've become a mainstay in my kit when fast-packing or trail-running in Europe. They are adequate for use in the snow, but aren't the most sturdy poles. I actually went into the race with one pole in only semi-working order which was a bad idea. My ice-slide on The Burn left me with one working pole for the remainder of the race. There's a rhythm I tend to develop with my poles and losing one was a bit of a mental setback as well as a physical one. I will probably buy another pair of these poles if I can find them on discount. However, I was again given some advice from a race veteran. The added length of cross-country ski poles supposedly gives a bit more "kick" when dragging a sled. I'll be looking into that during my preparation leading up to next year's race.

Finally, no report on gear use would be complete without talking about my sled. There is a sort of love-hate relationship you develop with your sled out there. Since it carries all your emergency equipment, food and extra clothing, your life basically depends on that piece of gear working right. At times, its like an anchor holding you back, at others its literally races you downhill. I used a 4' race pulk from Northern Sled Works made of extremely lightweight and durable UHMW. This is about the best you can buy for this type of event, in my opinion. Some races acquire the material themselves and construct their own. This was attached to my body via a harness acquired from skipulk.com via a custom-made pole system constructed by my buddy Beat. The harness needed some adjustment, but I liked the versatility. There aren't a lot of climbs in the ITI, but a chest-harness makes pulling uphill a breeze.

There was a lot more gear on my sled that I didn't mention above and there's a non-exhaustive list below. The one thing I do hope to do next season is to spend more time training with my full gear setup in conditions closer approximating those of the race. For me, this means deciding if I want to sign up for the Arrowhead 135 again as a "training race". It wasn't my favorite race back when I did it and it is only a month before the ITI. However, it would be the best full test of gear and my own preparation.

Looking back at my sled loaded with gear along the final stretch of the Kuskokwim River 

List of (some) gear not mentioned above

• Marmot  Cwm Membrain -40F sleeping bag
• Therm-a-rest Ridgerest SOlite sleeping pad
• REI Minimalist bivy sack
• MSR Wisperlite stove
• MSR canister of white fuel
• Waterproof matches
• Firestarter
• Wistle
• Red flashing light for sled
• Reflective tape for sled
• Fenix HP20 Headlamp
• Black Diamond Storm headlamp
• Petzl E+Lite emergency backup headlamp
• Medical kit
• Blister kit
• 2 Toms Sportsheild foot powder
• Julbo Sunglasses
• Bungee cords to hold bag on sled
• Eagle Creek No Matter What duffel XL
• Leatherman Juice multi-tool
• Duct Tape

Along with all of this (and whatever I missed), my sled was loaded with plenty of food, but that is a subject for another post. I never weighed it fully loaded, but when I had to fly back to Anchorage from the finish I did have to way my duffel which contained nearly all of my gear minus my food and it was well over 40lbs. I am guessing that the full thing was upwards of 50. I'd like to target a bit lower weight without sacrificing safety or too much comfort the next time I attempt this race.

Summer's not yet officially over, but I need to start planning my winter season soon.

Tales From The Frozen Trail: Sleep

Anyone who's ever done a 100-miler knows that sleep can be a constant combatant. The rule of thumb for most is to just push through it perhaps sneaking a brief catnap. However, when participating in events that continue for multiple days on end, sleep becomes not just a necessity, but a crucial aspect of the plan.

In the races I'd completed in the Alps the previous two years (Tor des Geants and Le Petite Trot du Leon), we basically got by with as little sleep as possible. 2-3 hours a night with an additional 20-30 minute nap trailside during the day allowed us to keep shuffling along and finish in a state of utter exhaustion. While these events occasionally delved into remote mountains, they were far from wilderness adventures. Also, we were generally travelled in teams or were near other participants the entire time.

By its very nature, the Iditarod Trail Invitational includes a significant factor of objective risk. Simply being in that environment in the middle of winter requires maintaining one's wits. Skimping on sleep is not just a bad idea, it can be downright life-threatening, especially for someone new to the trail. With that said, it was pretty unlikely that I would be able to plan and execute my sleep schedule ahead of time.

Looking sleepy early on, but it quickly faded at nightfall

First Night

After meeting my trail savior, Cookie, we travelled together for a little while, crossing Flathorn Lake and the barren Dismal Swamp. Cookie opted to take his night's bivy at the far end of the swamp where there was a small bit of woods offering shelter just before the famous "Wall of Death" descent onto the Susitna River. This was an excellent plan and there were a number of other racers, including my buddy Beat, already nestled warmly in their bags at this spot. I decided to keep going.

I knew even then that this was not the best strategy. I also knew that there was no way I would be able to sleep if I stopped at that time on the first night. It was the middle of the night and I am almost always most tired just before dawn. The weather was still relatively mild and I was feeling good so I continued down onto the river. I figured I'd catch a bit of sleep later on if necessary then hopefully push to the first checkpoint at The Skwentna Roadhouse.

I was enjoying the nice night on the expansive river. I remembered this section well from Susitna. Still, I managed to follow some bike tracks the wrong way back across river before realizing they were actually a shortcut coming from the other direction. It's at this point that I realized I was going to need to stop and rest soon. However, one of the rules of the trail is not to sleep on the river. It's exposed, generally the coldest spot around and, especially in these early miles, is travelled by fast-moving snow-machines. I was approaching the confluence of the Susitna and Yetna rivers where I hoped I might find some bit of snowy protection alongside the river.

Shortly after turning onto the Yetna, I noticed two sleds with bags spread out next to them which I recognized as Tim and Laureen Hewitt, two of the most experienced foot racers in the event. If they had decided this spot was good enough then who was I to argue. I stopped a little ways past and setup my first bivy on the Iditarod trail. I managed maybe an hour's real sleep before sunrise. With the sun came other racers passing by and I even recognized Beat's voice. I made a sleepy, stumbling attempt to get my sled packed and head back out on the river.

Chilly morning after the first night

Night 2

I think the story of my sleeping during the Iditarod is ultimately one of timing. Regardless of my lack of sleepiness that first night, I would've been better off stopping earlier where the other racers were camped. As it was, I got maybe an hour of sleep, took too much time getting going in the morning and really didn't cover much distance through the night. I knew I'd be between checkpoints the second night, but there was a private cabin owner who opened her door to racers about 10 miles or so before the 3rd checkpoint. Leaving Yetna Station in the afternoon, I figured I'd be able to make it to the cabin. The problem was that I had no idea where the cabin was.

In the relatively early miles along the river, there are many cabins along the banks. Relative to the more remote trails in the latter part of the race, the rivers are bustling with activity and life. To put this in perspective this basically means that you'd see a plane fly overhead or some snow-machines drive by once or twice an hour during the day. At night, it was basically empty, just me following snow-machine tracks along the white expanse of the frozen river. By the second night, I'd basically fallen into a gap between a handful of racers behind me and everyone else in front of me so I travelled alone. This would remain mostly unchanged for the duration of the event.

The rivers don't offer much variety in scenery and can become a bit monotonous especially when sleepiness begins to creep in after dark. At one point I came to an offshoot in the tracks that led towards what looked to be a collection of cabins and/or lodges. There was a sign about food and fuel, but nothing indicating that the cabin we could use was in that direction. It was a significant detour so I continued along the river. As I went on, becoming more and more tired, I became convinced that I had passed the cabin. Eventually, staring at the snow-machine tracks beneath my headlamp became almost unbearable. I was having trouble keeping my eyes open so I started scanning the banks for a good place to set up a bivy. Eventually, I gave up looking for a good place and settled for an acceptable one.

Off the main tracks and nestled in soft snow, I actually slept fairly well. I awoke at first light and managed a relatively efficient sled packing before getting underway. I probably could have used a little more sleep, but I wanted to make the Skwentna Roadhouse for breakfast so I could get a full day of travel towards the checkpoint after that. I was on trail for maybe 1/2 mile before encountering the sign directing towards the rest cabin. So, the first night I went to sleep too late, the second just a bit too early.

The Long Night

I was determined to spend the next night in a cabin. Winterlake Lodge would be our first drop bag location so it was set in my mind. Unfortunately, for some reason, I also had a distance of 120 miles set in my mind. The Lodge was around 130. The day went well, the night did not. It dragged on. I kept checking the GPS over and over. It felt as though rather than my destination coming closer, my pace was just continually slowing.

When I left Skwentna, I had imagined making the next checkpoint by midnight. I later re-assessed that estimate to 1am. Both those times came and went before I was anywhere near my destination. The waypoint on the GPS was labeled Finger Lake which is where the lodge is located. It seemed to be just a couple miles ahead, but the trail wasn't going in that direction. Inexperience paid its tolls here as I slowed more and more. Stopping multiple times, but continuing to push towards that dot on my GPS.

Eventually, I went past it as the GPS track is really more an approximation and a tool to keep from getting completely lost than an exact path to follow. I didn't know how much further to the lodge, but I knew it was close. By the time I rolled in it was somewhere between 3 and 4 am in the morning. Other racers were already preparing to head out as I prepared to sleep. I'd wasted a lot of time on the trail moving at a crawl. The only saving grace was that I had my pick of bunks as everyone but Loreen Hewitt had left the cabin by the time I crawled into my sack.

I didn't want to shift my patterns to be much later in the day so I knew I was only going to get a few hours sleep. From that point on, I resolved that if I wasn't within an hour of a cabin by 11pm, I would bivy on trail.

During the long night.

A Good Night ... sortof

As bad as my night drag to Finger Lake was, my day heading to Rainy Pass Lodge more than made up for it. Not only did I have a great time along the Happy River section which is traditionally one of the most challenging bits of trail, I also made excellent time. Late afternoon I passed the Hewitts napping trail-side when the thought of sleep was nowhere in my mind. As an aside, I must mention that being anywhere near "the master" Tim Hewitt on the trail was a privilege offered only because he was not just tackling the full 1000 mile trail (again), but also doing so self-supported, carrying all of his gear and food for the entire trip!

At any rate, by nightfall, I was prepared to put my new rule about not pushing through the unknown miles to a checkpoint into play. I was pleasantly surprised to see the distance on my GPS to the checkpoint marked so close when it was still relatively early. I was even more pleasantly surprised when I could see a light in the distance right where the lodge was supposed to be. It was late enough, but not so late that I wouldn't be able to get a good amount of sleep. I planned an early start for the next morning as the rule was to get started up and over Rainy Pass before sunrise. We were about to head into the true wilderness sections of the course. Having bad timing and losing one's wits in "out there" was not just problematic, it was potentially life-threatening.

Rainy Pass Lodge is a fully-functioning lodge on the edge of the Alaskan Wilderness. However, our cabin was a small, primitive structure reminiscent of an alpine emergency shelter. One consequence of making such good time over the section leading to the cabin was that I caught up to the bulk of people ahead of me. The cabin was overflowing with bike and foot racers. Every bunk was occupied, people were sleeping in chairs and on the floor. I thought about staying outside, but the toasty fire burning in the stove was just far too inviting. I pulled my sleeping bundle into the cabin and slide it underneath one of the beds where someone was sleeping.

Lying on the hard wooden floor of a cabin packed with people beneath a bed with 3 inches of space above one's head is not a formula for a restful night of sleep. I would say that I tossed-and-turned, but there wasn't enough room for that so I just sort of twisted and slide through a couple restless hours. Luckily, I didn't have to wait too long for a bunk to open up. Even though I'd caught up, I was still clearly just "off the back of the peleton."

All in all, it was a good night and allowed me to execute on the pre-dawn start up the pass.

Heading up Rainy Pass in the snow...Tim Hewitt up ahead.

The Rohn Sanctuary

Going up and over Rainy Pass is one of the major highlights of the Iditarod Trail. This is where you truly head "into the wild" as the remote mountain pass is perilous even for travel by plane. There is so much I can (and will) share about this section, but it will have to wait for later posts. This is about sleep. As beautiful and remote as this part of the trail was, the last thing I wanted was to spend the night in it.

Coming out of the canyon at the end of the pass, night was falling and temperatures were dropping fast. I felt as though I was making a narrow escape from an growing ice box. I turned onto the river just as things went dark and my headlamp died out. Not wanting to stop and deal with changing batteries I tried to use my somewhat awkward Knuckle Lights which didn't really work with my big gloves. Luckily, the river section didn't last too long and I turned into the woods leading to Rohn.

Rohn really is just as described "just a spot on the map" with a cabin and an airstrip. I knew that it mainly exists for the dogsled race, but seeing the sign with instructions to "slow down" still gave me quite a laugh. The cabin is also for the dogsledders so our race had a canvas tent setup nearby. As I came in Beat and a couple others were heading out. There's limited space in the tent so people are kicked out as new people show up. These guys were going to bivy further up trail, but I was lucky as I knew there was a nice gap between me and the next batch of racers behind.

There were two other people in the tent with room for four. It was primitive, but with a wood-burning stove and a sleeping area lined with pine boughs it both smelled and felt like absolute heavan. Climbing into my warm bag, I thought about how easy it would be to simply end the race right here. With the longest unsupported section ahead, it wasn't a thought I could afford to dwell upon. I tried to focused on the 200 miles already behind me and the incredible sense of coziness as I drifted off for the night.

Heading out onto scary ice and into The Burn the next morning

Nowhere

I made an early, dark, cold and somewhat scary start out of Rohn, crossing a slick and creaky frozen river in the pre-dawn hours while my mind was barely out of dreamland. This was the beginning of the section leading into the Farewell Burn. "The Burn" is a desolate section of trail traversing land that was ravaged by Alaska's largest wildfire in the late 1970s. It's also the longest stretch we would cover without a checkpoint, 80+ miles of lonely wilderness trail. The only life I would encounter on this entire section consisted of a few planes flying overhead at random intervals.

A shelter cabin was available about 50 miles after leaving Rohn and about 1 mile off trail. Even though I'd left before first light, I doubted I would be able to make it that far given the miles I already had on my legs. I was hours away when night fell so began looking for any sort of protection in which to set my bivy. Despite the decades since the fire, the woods were relatively small and sparse. I settled for a minimal stand of scraggly trees, bedding down just beneath the sign indicating 10 miles to the cabin.

The snow was a bit soft and uncomfortable as some tree-roots made for an uneven bivy-hole. However, I slept quickly and deeply. It was a lucky thing too since I would learn much later from some racers who were up ahead at the time that a pack of wolves was moving down trail in my direction in the middle of the night. As it was, I didn't wake until nearly light and I had to drag myself out of the bag. Not only was I sleeping well, but it was also the coldest morning of the race. Mild by Farewell Burn standards, -12F is still not all that conducive to crawling out of a warm sleeping bag.

Night in The Burn

Morning in The Burn

Last Night

On the far side of The Burn was Nokolai, an Athabaskan village that would be our last stop before the final stretch. In the village racers were welcomed into the home of Nick and Olene Petruska. It's impossible to explain how it felt to be invited into the warmth of someone's house after so many long and lonely hours on the trail. On top of that, this was the first time that I could allow myself to consider that I was actually going to finish. Suffice it to say that even thinking about it now, wells me up a bit inside.

After wandering the village following my GPS in order to find the house at the far side of the airstrip, I snuck in quietly as it was late. The main room was empty upon my entering, but a clothes line near the fire lined with racer garments indicated that others were inside. I didn't know what rooms were available for sleeping racers and I didn't want to disturb anyone so I just setup in the living room. Apparently, the Petruska's had a new puppy who, upon seeing me bounded in my direction to the edge of his leash. He then proceeded to whine while I tried to sleep as I had placed my bag just outside his reach on the floor.Eventually Nick got up to quiet the pup and welcome me before I drifted off to sleep.

A couple hours later the other racers inside, including Beat, got up to head out and I moved into a bunk bed in what must have been a child's room at one time. I slept peacefully for a few more hours before rising. There was a computer in the living room where I logged in and briefly posted a facebook update before Nick was up offering to make me breakfast. I drank coffee while Nick searched around for bacon and I insisted he not go to any trouble. In the end, the simple matter of toast and egg never tasted so good. The hospitality he showed made heading out onto the trail both difficult and encouraging at the same time.

The Petruska's humble home.

No Sleep till...

I headed out onto the trail after a bit more wandering (and retrieving a dropped trekking pole from the night before). It was a 50 mile stretch to McGrath and the finish, but I was going to make it in a single push no matter what. The finish line was ahead and, for once, sleep could wait.

The final stretch on a frosty morning.

Tales From the Frozen Trail: Losing It

The early miles of the race had a nice, familiar feel since it was not too far from the start of the Susitna 100.  My sense of time was a bit off, but it didn't matter much as I was happy strolling along near the back of the race. The first checkpoint wasn't until mile 60. Starting in the afternoon pretty much guaranteed me a night on the trail. There was one option to stop at Flathorn Lake (mile 30), but I knew there was no way I would be able to sleep that first night until I reached exhaustion. Flathorn wasn't an official ITI stop (like it was in Susitna), but the owners were kind enough to put out some water allowing for a mid-point refill before our first checkpoint.

There were a few challenges in those first 30 miles mostly due to somewhat mushy trail conditions. I started in my microspikes and left them on a bit long. Then, later, waited too long to put my snowshoes on when the trail became really bad just after the Nome sign. I kept them on up through Flathorn as there was evidence of overflow around the lake. Overflow is one of the biggest concerns in Alaskan winter travel as getting one's feet wet in sub-freezing temperatures can be quite dire. My feet felt stayed dry, but I had just a slight soreness from the spikes earlier. I was happy for the opportunity to stop and sort a few things out while refilling my hydration bladder.

It was a beautiful night so I didn't have to worry about immediate freeze when removing layers to get at my hydration pack. I took my time filling and grabbing a quick snack from my sled. Then, as I swung the pack back onto my back a few things fell out of the side pocket. Apparently, I had failed to zip it up at the start. I gathered my things from the snow and proceed to put them away when I noticed something was missing. Something critical.

The Iditarod Trail Invitational has checkpoints along the way and you do get drop bags around mile 130 and mile 210. The rest of the checkpoints are at working winter lodges where food and rest are available for purchase. Also, you have to purchase a flight back to Anchorage after the finish or in the event you need to drop at one of the earlier checkpoints. As you might imagine, I am mentioning all of this because what was missing from my pack was the zip-bag containing all of my cash, credit cards and ID. Not good.

I searched all over near the water jugs, hoping that it had dropped out along with the other things as I was putting it on. No such luck. It's hard to explain how I felt upon realizing my mistake. To screw up so badly, so early on was just crushing. I tried to think what to do. I could simply walk up to the cabin at Flathorn, call it in at mile 30 and beg for someone to help me get back to Anchorage. But, was that any worse than just going on? Besides, there was the (slight) possibility that I'd left it at the start and someone could send it forward or the (even less likely) possibility that someone would find it on the trail and return it. The fact that there were only 4 people behind me in the race made this last change a pretty remote one, but desperate times call for desperate hope.

I thought if I could catch up to my friend Beat at the next checkpoint, he might lend me a little cash for food on the trail. At the finish, my situation would really be no different than it was right now. I'd have to find some way to pay for a return trip to Anchorage. The biggest immediate problem was just continuing on my massive undertaking with this black cloud over my head. I strapped on my sled and continued up trail, trying hard not to let my mood spiral too far down into the pit. It was hard. I imagined the responses as I'd have to tell my story over and over to other racers, volunteers and various lodge owners. I was certain they's agree with the sentiment that was filling my own mind which was that I had no business out here being so disorganized.

Not more than a few 100 yards up trail, I saw a light coming from the right out of the woods. There was another, more direct trail option that bypassed the water stop at Flathorn. I figured it was someone else in the race taking this option. It looked like, I'd get to tell my tale sooner than I thought. As the other racer descended onto the lake, I made my greetings. It was Howard "Cookie" Cook, an ITI veteran from the UK. He asked what was available at the stop I'd just left and I told him only water. Then came the inevitable question.

Cookie: "So, how are you doing?"

Me: "Well, I was doing pretty well until I just realized I lost my ID and all my money somewhere out on the trail."

In response, Cookie reached into his bag, pulled out a zip-bag and said: "You mean this?"

After a few moments of stunned pause, I blurted out "Don't take this the wrong way, but I could kiss you right now!"

And, so began my adventure on the Iditarod Trail. Beat often tells the story of his "good trail karma" when a dropped camera was returned to him by a snow-machine rider during last years ITI. However, I was pretty sure I'd topped that quite a bit with this. I only hoped that I hadn't used up all my good karma so early on. I hadn't even covered 10% of this race yet.

In fact, this wouldn't be the last thing I'd drop out on the trail. A fleece hat would slip from my jacket on the Happy Isle Steps (never to be seen again), a glove shell would be blown from my sled heading up Rainy Pass (also returned by another race) and I'd drop one of my trekking poles just outside the village of Nikolai (retrieved by me the next morning). Each time I swore and chastised myself for my clumsiness and lack of focus. However, at one point a very experienced veteran told me he'd dropped so much stuff in his first race that he felt like he was having a yard sale on the Iditarod. That made me feel a little better.

In the end, I guess it's all just part of the learning process of the Iditarod Trail Invitational, but the idea of losing a critical piece of gear on the trail stayed with me for much of the race. So much depends on having the right gear for the conditions that you really can't afford to lose it.

There are worse things to lose on the trail than your money I suppose...

Reset

Here it is, the middle of summer and I've yet to make any progress reporting on my "Great Winter Adventure" beyond the initial outline I threw together right after the race. Such bold plans I had to whip it out and not turn writing the report into as epic an undertaking as finishing the race. Sure I've been through at least one major life event since then, but truthfully it is all settled now. I've no real excuse for my lack of progress. After recently re-visiting my initial draft, I think I know why I've had such trouble filling it in and it's not just because I'm a lazy bastard.

Despite my best effort to approach the report as "just highlights (and lowlights)", once I started the writing, it inevitably slipped into the standard race report format. Instead of diving into the interesting bits, I was mired in a linear telling of many mundane details guided by what photos I'd taken along the way. I find the standard race report format to be rather uninspiring and a completely inadequate structure to describe the most inspiring event I've yet to undertake. Of course, one could easily argue that attempting to provide any sense of what the ITI in writing is likely a doomed attempt from the start. Also, given my history with overly verbose race reports, it would likely take well beyond next year's event for me to complete.

This was precisely the situation I had hoped to avoid. All I want is to share some "tales from the trail," to give at least some hints of what I went through out there. So, here goes, I am going to restart without any constraints or expectations on myself, just a serious of stories from my Iditarod Trail Invitational race.

Totally incomplete, only vaguely linear, wholly inadequate, but hopefully somewhat entertaining:

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Tales From the Frozen Trail

To start things off, and to set the mood, I'm going to dump a few random thoughts and photos that started my draft report.

On the way to the start

There were many things I had to learn when I first started runnin ultra-marathons such as focusing on just going from aid-station to aid-station rather than the full distance of the race.

In the Iditarod Trail Invitational the distances between checkpoints were each as long as an ultra, some close to 100 miles.

In ultras I also had to learn to stop counting miles and begin counting the hours.

In the ITI, I had to stop counting hours and begin counting the days.

Ironically, I discovered, the days were often measured in miles.

It begins:

Starting behind "The Man" Dave Johnson

Familiar woods from my time at Susitna 100

Enjoying the day on a typical frozen Alaskan swamp

Sharing the trail with some fellow athletes:

The Real Iditarod racers

Their race would start a week later

Visits from friends:

Jill out to catch up with Beat

Amy out for a ride

Other Alaskan friends enjoying the trails

Night falls and I make it to the famous Nome Sign:

Cheezin' and looking gruff

. . .

Un-pause

Between the tone of my last two posts and the utter lack of activity since, I can imagine this blog has appeared left for dead. In truth, I've made little progress on my ITI Race report, though intent is still there and I'm hopeful of posting at least a first chapter soon. Since the race, I've been in the midst of one of those major life changing events. As way of explanation, I offer the image above. In a few short weeks this will be pretty much the view I get to enjoy about 1/2 mile into my evening runs from my new home in San Francisco.

That's right. Mountain Man Steve is moving to The City! While I grew up in "the country," I've pretty much spent the entirety of my adult life in the suburbs. It's time for a change. My current residence does put me close to the vast trail options of the SF Peninsula, but I still generally have to drive to the trailhead and at home, it's basically the 'burbs.

I've never lived in a major city and I'm really looking forward to it: exploring the urban landscape on foot, taking public transit to work and--oh yeah--the awesome Marin Headlands just the other side of the bridge as my new playground.

Oddly enough, it was during the final stretch of the ITI, someplace between Nikolai and McGrath, Alaska dragging my sled along the frozen Kuskokwim River, where the decision was made.

---

I have managed to fit in some runs and races in-between the stresses of finding and purchasing a condo in a majorly heating real estate market. Granted, I've been completely under-trained and offered up pretty sub-par performances at both Quicksilver 50m and the Horseshoe Lake 50K, but neither of those are unfamiliar conditions for me. Good thing, too since these were essentially training runs for my next race which I'll enter with similar preparation and expecting similar results. The Bryce 100 Trail Run, starts at 8000ft and rarely drops much lower as it traverses 18,000ft of climb and descent. Since I'll be moving, quite literally, to live at sea level, sucking air at altitude seems like a good way to commemorate the event. It's also my good buddy Beat's birthday so I'll be joined by a group of friends to suffer struggle in camaraderie.

Oh, and there will apparently also be some pretty nice views there too.

Here's looking forward to all the new adventures to come!

Stalled

My motivation for running sits at an all-time low. Usually after a big event I take some down time after which the simple joys of running return to me, trotting along free from plans or expectations. In truth, I've had some good runs on the weekends enjoying familiar trails through the redwoods or along coastal bluffs. However, life has gotten busy for various reasons and squeezing in runs during the week has not just become logistically difficult, it has seemed almost distasteful. Running just to get in the miles or, even worse, the idea of "training" fail to provide the impetus to get me out the door even with the knowledge that I'll probably feel better after. There are a few events already on my docket in the coming months and I know they will be much more enjoyable the better shape I am in so I'll have to get off my butt just to avoid turning them into suffer-fests. Still, I am finding it difficult to contemplate any run that doesn't have something inspiring to offer me.

Perhaps what I need is just to go for a very long walk...

On that note, I have just sent out my application for the 2014 Iditarod Trail Invitational. At least I know, another "real" adventure is less than a year away!

Daylight

Daylight savings time coincided with my return from Alaska making my time adjustment just a wee bit more difficult. However, with the time shift comes later sunset making after-work trail running an option once again. It's been over a week since I finished the 350 miles on foot and my legs seemed to finally shake that "dead" feeling that had settled into them. I figured getting out on the trail for a little shake down would be good and it was about time to assess how my body was recovering. For most of us, long distance sled-dragging is not a running sport. In fact, other than on a few of the downhills and part of the final road, I hadn't run a step. I had images in my head of bounding easily over dirt, unfettered by harness and heavy gear. Still, I would take it easy.

I had planned just a short stint through Huddart Park to Phleger and back. In the first mile my legs felt tired, the bottom of my feet hurt, my left ankle winged, my right knee ached, my hip nagged and, despite being at my lowest weight since PTL, I felt like a lumbering oaf plodding down the trail. It was amazing how unnatural and gimpy I felt. Eventually, I eased into it. The aching dulled and I stopped feeling like I was going to roll my ankle. It was almost 70 degrees out. The trail was soft, the ferns lush and the creek bubbling beneath the tall redwoods. I reminded myself that my slow pace was still probably twice as fast as I ever moved during the race. However, it did mean that the daylight which had driven me out there was waning on my return. Combined with running beneath the canopy, this turned my final couple miles int a shuffle in the dark back to my car.

All in all, it was a good run.

---

I have actually started on my ITI race report. In order to keep it from becoming the epic to end all epics and taking two years to complete, I have decided to distill it down to just the storied highlights (and a few lowlights). I am actually trying something new and I already have an outline in draft format. I just have to conjure up the prose to fill in the details and intersperse pictures here and there.

On that note, I have my pictures uploaded to Picasa and publicly view-able. If you want to look at the raw, and sometimes ugly, unfiltered photos the album is here:

ITI 2013

Also, I have uploaded my full GPX track from the race captured via the Garmin eTrex 30. I edited out some a few failures of backtracking and wandering on the trail (i.e. Nikolai in the morning). I also cleared up all the most gross cases of GPS bounce that occurred while I was stopped. Other than that, it is pretty much the course as I followed it even though I was off the main trail a few times. Given that the Iditarod trail exists only in winter and covers many rivers, lakes and swamps this is pretty much as accurate as anything you will find. You will notice that the full track is almost exactly 300 miles long (i.e. not 350). Take that for what it is. Again, the Iditarod is not a "real" trail, and races that "follow" it take the shortest route feasible to cover the particular distance.

The full thing is quite large with almost 20,000 track points. I also made a simplified version with 10% of the points in it. The waypoints I had for checkpoints and other significant trail locations are in a separate file also linked below. However, I haven't gone in and corrected some of those so some of the places are not quite correct such as the Shell Lake Lodge and the Skwentna Roadhouse. They are however, exactly what I had to work with while doing the race :-).

Enjoy!

• Full GPX track of my ITI 350 from Knick Lake to McGrath, Alaska (2.4MB) 
• Simplified GPX of the above route with 10% of the track points included (250KB)
• GPX of Waypoints I used during the race (30KB)

Enough

Despite the pithy tone of my last post, the true reasons for tackling something like the Iditarod Trail Invitational are a bit more elusive and much more personal. Without diving into some sort of psychological self-analysis, it's difficult to discuss the forces that drive me to take on such things. However, I can try to explain some of the feelings that come out of the undertaking, the lingering effects or "what I get out of it" -- so to speak.

When hearing of these types of races, I think that all most people see is the difficulty. Certainly, the raw physical and mental challenge is an important aspect, but it has to offer more to me than that. I tend to be turned off by events that are mainly just about a specific difficult challenge (i.e. timed events). Also, if a race feels like it has been made hard just for the sake of being hard, I find it detracts from the experience. For me, something intrinsic about the event itself has to capture my imagination in some way, to provide an experience that is both unique and compelling. It has to offer the possibility for a sense of fulfillment. 350 miles on the Iditarod trail seems to have done just that.

I will write more about the race itself. I've stories in my head to sort through and many photos to upload and organize. Right now, though, I am still engulfed in absorbing the experience. Going from running 100-mile trail races to 200-mile treks through The Alps to, now, a 350-mile "sludge" across frozen Alaska, may seem like the unending pursuit of ever longer and harder events, but that's not the perspective I have.  For me, the specific events themselves are self-contained experiences that leave a lasting impression on my psyche. Each one, a place to which I can return again and again as a source of inspiration.

I'm sure even some of my closest friends may find it hard to believe when I say I've always believed that, at some point, one of these experience will turn out to be "enough". That's not to say, I'd be done with trail running or give up long, multi-day treks. It just means that I won't be driven to find something bigger, harder or "more" than what I've already accomplished. It seem to me that the unbounded pursuit of ever more difficult challenges can only end in a breaking point and I'm not really interested in finding where that is. I respect, admire and even, to an extent, understand those who are compelled to such a path. But, personally, I like the feeling of satisfaction that comes at the completion of an event with nothing more on the horizon than rest, recovery and reflection. If I can make that sense of completeness last, I'll embrace it as long as possible.

So, to the inevitable question that's been asked as to whether I'll go on to Nome "next time", I have to say, right now, the answer is "not any time soon." Though I think it unlikely that I won't want to, at least, return and repeat this event some time in the future. For the time being, walking the 350 miles to McGrath, the time spent alone on the trail, the hospitality of the lodges, the sanctuary of the checkpoints and people opening up their homes in the Alaskan bush, have all provided so much fuel for thought and imagination that I don't find myself wanting more. The part of me that needs these things is presently fulfilled.

It is enough.

Why

As many people did along the trail to Glacier Point, a couple women cross-country skiing asked about the sled and what we were doing. After explaining the ITI and our training as best I could, one of them asked the inevitable question.

Woman: "Why are you doing it?"

Me: "It's hard to explain. Why do people climb mountains?"

Woman (with a little chuckle): "Oh, you mean 'because it's there'?"

Me: "No, not really. I mean, the mountain will still be there whether anyone climbs it or not. You climb it to see if you can."

Alaska talk

I was so late completing my PTL race report that I haven't had time to write anything about Alaska and now I am about to hope on a plane for "places north" tomorrow morning. I will try to write a few more things if I get a chance before Sunday, but the vitals for the race can be found below. This is a race across the Alaskan wilderness. While there are checkpoints including some at lodges, they are few and remote. Updates will be sporadic at best.

Iditarod Trail Invitational


As always seems to be the case with these winter events, I feel woefully under-prepared. I'm not quite sure how prepared any first timer could be for an attempt to drag 40+ pounds of gear on a sled across 350 miles of frozen tundra. However, I haven't done any long events beyond a few 50K races in the past couple months. My time on the snow has been limited to one trip to Tahoe and a couple visits to Yosemite high country. I only really got my sled and other gear dialed in last weekend. Yet, as always, I must somehow convince myself that I can finish this thing because belief is as important a component of these events as any other preparation.

My basic thought is that preparation for this event really constitutes more than just the last few weeks or  even couple months of training. I expect to be drawing on experiences covering the span of years including my two long winter races (Susitna 100 and Arrowhead 135), the multi-day, multi-hundred mile events I have done in the Alps (PTL and TDG) and, of course, the 20-some-odd 100 mile runs I've done. I've gravitated more and more towards these sort of self-sufficient events. They seem to me to be less about training and quickness, more about preparation and the will to endure.

For me, the mantra is always strength over speed, toughness over talent, mental perseverance over physical endurance.

OK, this post has officially turned into a a self-pep-talk that was probably best left as an internal conversation. So, here are some photos of our last training trip to Yosemite where we slept on top of Sentinal Dome (8000ft). This was actually our second trip up there. Jill has some even better photos from our first trip on her blog.

Photos with captions

Obligatory "all-geared-up" shot to start the day 

The first 9 miles are along the Glacier Point road which is a groomed XC-ski and snowshoe path in winter

Amazing views abound

Things didn't look good during the final approach to the dome

It was completely sopped in

Then it started to break...

Wow!

...and WOW!

Beat -- all smiles

It was relatively cold dipping into the teens as the day drew to a close

Morning brought a whole new scene

Looking across to Half Dome

Yosemite Falls just starting to thaw as the sun hits it

El Capitan and the central valley in the far distance

Heading off the dome

and into the woods.

See you in Alaska! (mountain man beard in full effect)