Segment 3: Lack of sleep leads
to instability, then madness, but ultimate redemption.
My fearless Leader...I would follow him anywhere...
Part VI From Point Desecration
(~Mile 175) to beautiful downtown Rohn (Mile 210), Alaska, and then onto the
last checkpoint, Nikolai (Mile 300).
Most of the human
species is endowed with a coping mechanism that allows the simple man to block
from memory painful and/or shameful remembrances (this can be either a good thing or a bad thing). For what other reason would
nations continue to wage war upon other nations or even on their own citizens. Such
was the situation with my dishonorable act of desecration along the once
pristine trail as we ascended towards Rainy Pass that beautiful morning. The
fact of the matter is that by the time I had caught back up to my mentor, the
whole event was nothing more than a distant memory that would be completely
forgotten as soon as I was able to gain a proper restroom and take care of some
needed paper-work. But alas there are
occasions in a reckless man’s life when his previous deceits, miscalculations
and misappropriations, can come back to haunt him—Such was the case of the
misplaced dung heap.
Mr. Gauld on the move (not far from Desecration Point)
Fast-forward Dear Reader, some
thirty-six or hours. Conjure a vision of
blurry-eyed, yet hardy men sitting around a circle within a cozy home in the
center of the hamlet of McGrath, itz mid-morning on the first Friday of March. Some are reclined on a large horse-shoe
shaped sofa, others are reposed upon the floor, there is a collective sense of
great contentment for these men have just successfully crossed the first 350
miles of the famed Iditarod trail. The
lively conversation is centered upon various antidotes, all based on the universal
agreement that the Iditarod Trail traverses challenging, albeit beautifully
remote wilderness. Then Ken Zylstra, a reflective, sophisticated family man of
fifty years offered a sad commentary on a discovery of which he described as the
result of a reckless rogue’s actions that involved “clearly, undeniably and decidedly
poor form.” He went on to describe his
encounter with a ‘huge pile of fresh sh___” lying in the middle of the trail
about midway up Rainy Pass. All in attendance
shook their heads in disgust, comments included, “Who would do such a thing, it
must have been a rider.” Hoping that my red face would not give me away I, too,
shook my head, feigning repugnance at the thought of such a misdeed. Then the
thought occurred to me that may be I could try something like, “I bet it was a
snowmobiler!” but instead, I offered no comment. Lesson #9: I better start to make amends or
I will have a lot to answer for at the “Pearly Gates.”
We made the top of Rainy Pass
in great time. The descent down into
Dalzell Gorge was a total blast. Down, down, down we went, flying past and
between big blue icefalls and tight canyon walls. Lindsay, it seemed to me,
never touched his brakes. As he quickly pulled away from me, I would catch
glimpses of him taking corners wide-open, leaning hard one way then and
counter-weighting his bike the other way as if he had been an Olympic
road-cyclist at one point in his long life. It was a great morning…I felt
alive, doing simply what I was meant to do…I hope I never lose my love of
adventure, too be honest, I guess I am not worried about that. What I am
worried about is that one-day I’ll be too old…
We made Rohn around noon, thus
completing the route from Puntilla Lake to Rohn in something like eleven
hours. I remember Lindsay telling me
that in 2012, that segment of the trail had taken him twenty-eight hours,
walking in deep snow almost the whole way in 20 below with high head
winds. We were in good spirits, but we
were dog-tired, fatigued at the cellular level, and thus hoping for a good
three-hour nap, but it was not to be as it was Happy Hour when we arrived in
busy, bustling, downtown Rohn.
Rohn is comprised on one cabin.
The cabin is maintained by the BLM in conjunction with the Iditarod Race
organization. Apart for the small, but very cool cabin, there is a nice “fully
equipped” outhouse, and a packed down landing strip for ski-equipped small
airplanes (Note to self: I’d love to somewhat get my family up there to stay
for a week as it truly is a wonderful spot). Yet the place was rockin’ with
airplanes landing and taking off, dropping
off massive supplies for the big upcoming dog race. The cabin was occupied by a number of
Iditarod volunteers, all scurrying around getting the mountain of supplies of
straw, dog, food, fuel, etc., ready for the mushers and dogs to arrive in a few
days. Many of the volunteers were from
northern Minnesota and northern Wisconsin; all presumably eager to speak with
folks different from whom they had been talking with since they had flown in a
couple dayz prior to our arrival.
Downtown Rohn, Alaska...Dog supplies in the forefront...
First and foremost, I was
hell-bent on getting to the outhouse, and then getting some sleep (or at least
to lie down) on the pine boughs that lined the cramped canvas wall-tent that
had been constructed for the Alaskan Ultra racers, but once Craig Medred
entered the tent to interview Lindsay for the Alaskan Dispatch (Read Craig’s
interview with Lindsay, itz a classic, http://www.alaskadispatch.com/article/after-nasty-frostbite-last-year-canadian-cyclist-returns-iditarod-invitational ), I
knew it was not in the cards.
In any event, on sleeping or
even staying in repose, I gave up and thus, with cheerful resignation, went out
into the warm sunshine and engaged in fun, lively conversations with several of
the volunteers.
I doubt we stayed in Rohn for
more than two, maybe three hours. As stated above, we were tired, actually we
were more than just tired, we were getting really really fatigued as we had
been on the go for well over three dayz.
In Lindsay’s much more accurate account of the race, he states, “I would
estimate that we had laid down for about ten hours and I had slept for maybe
five.” Consequently, we knew it would
take a mammoth effort to get to Nikolai which was ninety more miles down the
trail, but there stands a BLM cabin approximately fifty miles from Rohn and so
that would be our goal. The idea was to push it to get to the cabin, get a good
three hours of sleep, and then push it onward to Nikolai (for a quick resupply
of water) and then to the finish line in McGrath. It was looking like, given our pace, the good
weather, and relatively solid track that we would be able to make McGrath in
less than 4.5 dayz. Our weary but encouraged hearts soared as we left Rohn…As
it turned out we did not make the goal of 4 dayz and twelve hours, but we were
not that far off as we ultimately arrived in McGrath just two hours and some
change beyond the goal. The fact that we
did come so close to achieving this goal was due in part to the good trail
conditions, but is also indicative of Lindsay’s ability to bring to fruition a
well conceived plan-of-action.
Immediately upon leaving Rohn,
it became obvious to us that we were entering into a distinct geographical
region that receives drastically less snow than on the other side of the
pass. I suppose the moist air from the Pacific
deposits the all the precipitation on eastern side of the mountain range. On
the eastern side the snow was many meters deep, so deep that we saw little if
any signs of wild life. On this side, the interior, we crossed lakes and rivers
that were completely devoid of snow and then crossed what the locals call,
Farewell Burn, which is a huge swath of charred forest. Here we saw evidence of abundant wildlife,
with lots of moose, wolf, lynx, and an assortment of other critter tracks. We also saw evidence of trapping, right next
to the trail (presumably so the brave trapper would not have to take more than
a step from his snowmachine to check his traps), which made my blood boil, but
I won’t get into that here. As stated
above, there was little snow and on long sections there was no snow at all, only
dirt. I remember thinking, “How in the
hell do the dogs pull musher and sled across this part of the trail?”
We also came upon a section of
thirty-degree ice of which we were prepared to negotiate as we had each brought
step-in ice grippers. But as luck was on our side, a path lay in such a manner
that we did not have to employ the ice-grippers.
....a steep ascent, but luckily no ice to contend with...Picture a dog team heading up this????
Finally, as we followed a
sinking, anemic sun, we moved into a less bumpy and rough section that allowed
us to make some relatively good time. We had a good tailwind, solid tracks, and
yet we were getting increasing sleepy.
By nightfall we had been traveling for something like seventeen hours
since leaving Puntilla Lake. By ten o’clock
we had been riding for 21 hours straight with no real rests, and while we were
making forward progress we were still at least fifteen miles from the
cabin. We were stopping often with each
of us taking turns at leading, so as to allow the follower the luxury of
turning off one’s brain and to just instinctually follow the reflective
clothing of the leader. At one point
probably around midnight, with Lindsay in the lead, I turned around to notice
bright lights heading our way. It was
Bob Ostrom, Ken Zylstra., and Mike Criego.
They had caught us even though we had left an hour or so ahead of them
from Rohn and several hours ahead of them from Rainy Pass Lodge. While it was great to see them, it drove home
the point that we were fading fast.
After exchanging pleasantries, they moved on at a much quicker
pace. As their red rear blinking lights
disappeared from our view, we felt exceedingly inadequate. A pair of old men playing a young man’s game,
so sad. Lindsay was grimly stoic while I
was a mental mess, so sleepy that I was crashing the bike endless times. I told him that when I write about this I am
going to use the line, “their spirit broken, they decided that they had no
choice but to bivy.” I was just sorta joking because I figured that he would
want to stay on schedule and thus push on to the cabin, so I was surprised when
he said that perhaps it would be a wise move to bivy.
Lindsay is a calculating,
analytical, smart guy that sees the big picture when it comes to races like the
Iditarod Invitational. Guyz like me
start fast and flare out, whereas guyz like Lindsay play it smart and finish
strong. He told me to start looking for
a good sport to bed down for a few hours.
He threw me a bone by saying, “Charlie, you are the pro when it comes to
forced bivouacs, let me know when you find a good spot. We’ll sack out for a few
hours and then continue on. I’ll bet those guyz will sleep in at the cabin,”
(He was right on all counts.). I immediately started scoping for a good bivy
site; itz best to find a site that is on higher ground and of course relatively
flat. It was not long before we were
both comfortably ensconced in your warm sleeping bags—just before I turned off
my headlight, I looked at my trusty wristwatch; it read 1:45 a.m. Unfortunately, after the initial warming
period, I always take a short high intensity run before I jump into a cold
sleeping bag, I ended up rather chilled (it read 5 below on Lindsay’s
thermometer but there was no wind) for the three to four hour duration as I had
foolishly passed on putting on my down sweater (it lay packed in my handlebar
set-up), but at least I was able to rest my tired legs a bit and to close my tortured
eyes. Lindsay faired better claiming in
his report that he had the best sleep of the whole race period.
Good bivy site....
We were on the road again by 6
a.m. It was sometime during these early
pre-dawn hours that I first realized that my head was retaining fluids, that I
had become a water-head. As alluded to above, my eyes had been feeling weird
earlier as I had laid in my bivy. I had heard of endurance competitors having
problems with swollen feet and ankles, but my head was swelling! Feigning tranquilly, I nonchalantly asked
Lindsay how my head looked and he confirmed that my face and forehead were quite
swollen! I felt like Elephant Man. The
swelling had progressed to the point that it even started to affect my range of
sight as my eye lids were even affected.
I felt hideous, unloved, and my eyes and cheeks were itchy, but Lindsay
assured me that he had seen such swelling in braver men than me on such long
endeavors. He said in a confronting
voice, “Lotz of guyz swell up like that just before the end.” Of course I was
near my breaking point both physically and mentally so I took “the end” to me
at the end of one’s life. I felt sure
that I was near the end…Yet, he reassured me that he had meant “at the end of a
long race.” Thankfully the swelling abated not long after I made the finish
line. Lesson 10: I’ll never make fun of
Elephant Man again as long as I live!
My head was not unlike that of Elephant Man
After several hours and the
ascent of a full bodied sun, the trail got better and we started to make time.
We had passed the BLM cabin and noted that Lindsay had been correct in his
prediction that Ken, Bob, and Mike would sleep in. It wasn’t like we were racing them, at my age
I am so beyond worrying about where I stack up in these kinds of events,
(everybody in this race is tough and talented) but it did help us
psychologically to know that at least we were keeping pace with them. By and by we came upon a running Dave
Johnston. He was on a mission to break
the foot-category record. He was so
strong and so competent that I do believe his accomplishment ranks right up there
with the top three riders. He told me at the finish that he slept less than
three hours during the whole race! Plus he is an incredibly amicable fellow, always
upbeat and genuinely friendly. Lindsay
and I found him to be most impressive. I do hope that I shall have the
opportunity to meet him again someday. He
expressed interest in trying to come down some winter for the Arrowhead 135.
Together the three of us talked
and joked and felt like “free men” for a few minutes, whilst we took turns
filling our water bottles from a small bridge spanning a fast running stream
known as Sullivan’s Creek. Here the
trail was flat and fast, so we took off and left Dave to his miraculous
footwork. Perhaps an hour or so after meeting Dave, Ken came up on us at a good
pace passing us with the quick message that he would see us in Nikolai. Hot in
pursuit of Ken Zylstra, next came Bob Ostrom, and then Mike Criego. It gave me a sense of state pride to see two
Minnesotans doing such a fine job. Both
Lindsay and I felt pretty good at this point, but neither of us felt the
inclination to up our steady pace, so we watched them as they eventually
disappeared from our view. I must say
that Lindsay sets a remarkably steady and even cadence. The kind of pace that is very efficient for
the long haul. During the last hours of
our battle to finish the route, I was so thankful that he took the leadership
position allowing me to just try and mimic his speed. I have no doubt that had
I been alone, I would have faltered and bivied one more time out somewhere
between Nikolai and McGrath and thus finished six or so hours later than we did
together.
Finally at approximately 4 p.m.
on that Thursday, we arrived at the last checkpoint located at a local
resident’s home in Nikolai and just fifty miles from the finish. At Nikolai we
met the race director briefly as he was en route on a snowmachine, heading back
along the trail with his immediate goal to make Rohn that evening. Sadly we did not get a chance to really speak
with him, but it is clear that Bill Merchant is a Man’s Man; The kind of man
that would have your back and yet expect you to hold your own as well. I plan to return in five or six years to have
a go at Nome, so on that occasion I plan to buy Bill Merchant a beer or seven
and a couple shots of whiskey. Bill and
Kathi Merchant assemble the group and provide the canvas, but it is largely
up to the artists to create their own personal collages…I like that….itz my kind of race!
We left the last checkpoint in
short order staying only an hour, beating Ken and da Boyz out of the house, but
it was not long until they passed us on the river; all of them looked strong,
especially Ken.
I am not gonna pull any
punches—Once the sun went down, our effort from Nikolai to McGrath turned into
a real sufferfest for Lindsay and me, taking nearly twelve hours to go less
than 50 miles on relatively flat terrain. But in our highly disheveled minds we
both had the distinct feeling that the river we were following was angled upward,
against us at a significant incline. It
was so surreal and so frustrating, I clearly remember stopping at one point and
asking, “Lindsay are we riding uphill? Can that be possible?” Nodding his head
in agreement, he replied that it did seem like we were indeed riding up a long,
long, forever long hill. Both of us knew,
logically and rationally, that we were on a flat slow moving river and yet it
seemed as if we were constantly climbing.
I remember agonizing about being able to only push my granny gear on a
flat river. I reasoned, “It must be a climb otherwise I would not
have to stay in my granny gear!” It
seemed undeniably real and yet so harsh that we would have to ride up and up and
up a flat river. I wondered out loud if our headlights were causing some kind
of optical illusion, but the enormous weight of my worn out legs was no
illusion. It finally got to the point
where we had to continually stop, form a solid foundation with both our boots
firmly on the ground, and then put our heads on the handlebars, each time
nodding off for a few seconds (or minutes).
On one occasion, “being lazy,” I failed to plant both feet on the ground
(or ice) and instead left one boot locked into the pedal. As God is my witness, when I put my head down
and then immediately dosed off, I fell over into the snow as a dead man would,
when I went to try and get up I realized that my boot was still attached to the
pedal...
.....we would ride for 30 minutes or so and then one of us would simply fall off the bike....
...I aint gonna lie things got ugly
We were still lucid enough to
find humor in our situation, setting a couple little ground rules that included
two primary stipulations from which one could not deviate from: 1.When dosing
one could only think “happy thoughts,” and 2. Most importantly, under no
circumstances could one dream about either finishing the race or one’s life
after arriving in McGrath. Without getting too Freudian, perhaps the second
provision was instigated to allow us to not consider how much farther we had to
go. But try as I might I just could
conceive of making the distance. I became obsessed with wanting to bivy. As I rode slowly mile after mile, my mind was
fixated in finding a place to bivouac. Then abruptly we came to the end of the
TRAIL! Just like that the trail ended as it ran directly, in a T-bone fashion,
onto a road.
The Iditarod trail heads mostly
in a west by north direction, whereas this road ran basically south to
north. The strangeness or juxtaposition
of the trail ending and the road beginning jump-started me back to
reality. How does this work, where is
the town? Lindsay’s accurate odometer maintained that we were just five
kilometers from the town of McGrath. It
made no sense to us that a road would be here…Do the mushers take the road into
town? Thatz weird…
The problem was we had no clue
which way to go on the road. We carefully
searched for any telltale signs of bike tracks but could find no evidence. It
was pitch black out and yet we could not make out any kind of glow which would
indicate a cluster of houses. We quickly launched a plan…We would ride for
fifteen minutes to the north carefully looking for any indication that a town
lay ahead. We hit the 15 minute mark with
no success, so we turned, and headed back to the start of our troubles. Then we went fifteen minutes to the south and
again found nothing.
The initial excitement of
finding the road had, at this point, worn off and so we were once again
desperately sleepy, almost groggy. We had
spied some kind of a radar tower to the north, so we headed back to the north in
the hope that maybe someone would be manning the tower. We took the short driveway off the main road to
the radar installation and found no one about. I was ready to throw down my bag
and sleep next to the tower, but Lindsay convinced me to try one last time further
up the road. Salvation was ours as we gradually
began to see dwellings. Then we found a sign
indicating that the finish was one mile away. We had made it…all fatigue and cloudy thoughts
fell away as we laughingly relished the last few “clicks” of our time on the famed
Iditarod Trail…
Part VII: McGrath and beyond…Our
stay in McGrath was a highlight!
To be continued…
From my
application for admission into the 2013 Iditarod Invitational: “To earn the respect of my fellow racers,
race directors, and race volunteers as I attempt to complete the 350-mile
Alaskan Iditarod Invitational. Upon returning to my duties as a high school
teacher in northern Minnesota I plan to develop a curriculum based on my
experience including references to the history of the race, interesting
characters, and the physical and psychological preparation needed to complete
the event.”
