Into the North Wind: A thousand-mile bicycle adventure across frozen Alaska

by Jill Homer

  The questioning of life choices usually begins when some random childhood memory crosses my mind, such as building snow pumpkins in the backyard, when I was nine years old and it snowed a foot before Halloween. That memory cycled back to nights when I couldn’t sleep as an anxiety-ridden pre-teen, staring at the dim light reflected in a neighbor’s basement window and hoping that somebody — anybody — was also awake, so I didn’t have to feel like the only person in the world.

  I was a timid and fearful child, and not much more confident as a young adult. So how did I grow into this? How was I the kind of person who purposefully seeks out situations where I’m forced to be utterly self-reliant, in places so cold and remote that if I stopped moving for too long, I’d simply die, and there’s a chance no one would ever find my body? Was this rebellion against all those aspects of my personality of which I’d always been ashamed? Was I confronting real danger as a way of battling a growing number of irrational fears? Endurance adventures seemed to be not just an instigator, but also a healer of physical and psychological decay.

  As an example, there was the day I lost my fear of flying. Before this day, I was one of those reluctant air travelers who winced at every jolt of the aircraft, clutching the armrests in quiet terror as the plane went in for a landing. Then in 2008, I completed my first Iditarod Trail Invitational on a bike. As the plane lifted off the ice-coated tarmac in McGrath, I felt a startling lack of anxiety. I was as calm as I’d ever been, watching the shadow of this metal tube float thousands of feet over the Kuskokwim River Valley — the place where I’d been locked in a real battle for survival the previous day.

  “That didn’t kill me. This isn’t going to kill me,” I thought. I’ve felt comfortable on planes ever since.

  Surviving my first Iditarod certainly did not cure all of my fears. After years of similar confrontations, I was still afraid of death, of solitude, of pain, of failure. Failure was a particularly insidious fear, because it was the only one over which I had control. I’d chosen this dangerous and difficult pursuit, and I alone was responsible if I failed. Despite all the stories I told myself — about the victory of overcoming all the obstacles it took just to reach this point, or the unavoidable mishaps that made previous failures not my fault, or insisting that the beauty of these experiences mattered more than the outcome —deep down, I knew the onus was on me. So fear persisted. It was a heavy burden to bear.

  The Happy River Steps arrived abruptly at a point where the rolling forest drops into a gorge hundreds of feet deep. Nearly all of the elevation that we’d been valiantly gaining since Skwentna is lost here, as the cliffs end at the confluence of the Happy and Skwentna rivers. The trail descends in a series of steep drop-offs. In 2014, I opted to slide down these “steps” on my butt, holding my sled in front of me and digging heels into the snow to steer and brake. This year the steps were coated with a smooth crust of glare ice. With limited traction on foot, the safest way down was to ride. It was an exhilarating and terrifying exercise in releasing all control, because there was no slowing down until the bottom.

  The final step was almost vertical, with an overhanging lip where the fearless Iron Dog drivers launched off a twenty-foot riverbank. As their snowmobiles plunged from the cliff, the spinning tracks dug a deep trench down the center of the trail. I hit the brakes and scanned the hillside for the footprints of other riders who perhaps found a way around. But no, everyone had ridden it. I paused only a few seconds and lied to myself — “there’s no other choice” — then slid as far back as I could against my rear rack, let go of the brakes, and launched into the void. The front wheel didn’t touch the snow until the bike had plummeted twenty feet, but I managed to put the rear wheel down and steer to a stop. It is amazing what one can do even when every strand of logic tells us we can’t.

  The trail continued across the Happy River and along the Skwentna, skirting open leads into the river before veering up an equally vertical, twenty-foot embankment. This was the Happy River Steps in reverse, climbing back out of the gorge just as steeply as it descended. Some riders would be less intimidated by the downhill steps than me. But no matter what, in this direction, gravity is not on your side.

  I pedaled my seventy-five-pound bike to the base, where I found two others, Leah Gruhn and Lars Danner, who teamed up to drag their bikes up the wall. Lars scrambled up first, anchored both feet in the deeper snow off the side of the trail, and reached down as Leah shoved her overturned bike from below. As he clasped the handlebars to prevent it from sliding back down the hill, she scrambled above him to grab it. They repeated the process until they’d leveraged her bike to the top of the wall, then returned for his.

  As I watched them struggle from several hundred meters away, I understood that I was never going to lift my bike up this embankment on my own. I’d have to break it down first, removing the bags and carrying it up in shifts. Clearly that was going to require at least a half hour if not more, for twenty feet of progress.

  Leah and Lars were just completing their task when I arrived, and I expected them to continue up the hill. Instead, without asking whether I needed help, Lars boot-skied back down to the river. Leah positioned herself from above as Lars and I worked together to shove my obese bicycle toward her. I grunted a breathless “thank you” as Leah clasped the bike and lunged backward. She was a much stronger woman than I, and managed to dead-lift the bike several feet before laying it down on top of the cliff. My contribution was relatively little, and I felt embarrassed. This was still a competition, and Leah and Lars were under no obligation to help me.

  “I thought I was going to have to break down my bike. You just saved me at least a half hour,” I said.

  “No problem,” Leah shrugged, and hoisted her own bike. I followed behind her but soon lost ground, and then I began to lose my breath. Although no longer vertical, the remaining climb out of the gorge was still incredibly steep. It took all of my strength just to take a few steps before pausing to get my breathing under control. Leah and Lars were climbing out of sight. I grasped at the pocket beneath my coat to find my inhaler, but I couldn’t clasp the zipper with my still-numb right hand, and couldn’t let go of the bike without losing it down the gorge. I continued in halting steps, desperately gasping against a sensation that my airways were closing.

  Near the top of the climb, I finally hit a grade shallow enough to lean my bike against a tree, and took several hits of the inhaler. Having failed to warm it in my hands first, it continued to spit half-frozen squirts of liquid rather than airway-opening spray. Still, the idea of medicine was psychologically calming. I was just getting my breathing under control when Jim Ishman passed me again. He looked strong, with his shoulders lowered and face fixed in a steely gaze as he nodded at me. Even though I understood that all of us were positioned together in the mid-pack, I felt awe for my competitors’ strength through this daunting gorge, and their unwavering approach toward the mountains still in front of us.

  From what little I knew of Jim, he was a family man from Colorado with a stout build and a beard — not really the type most would envision when picturing endurance cyclists. Leah was a geologist from Minnesota, tall and blond and exactly my age — the kind of sporty woman I looked up to in high school. Lars was a lawyer in Anchorage, the kind of suited professional who was probably far more successful than his hobbies would let on. We were, on the outside, fairly typical, middle-aged suburban white people. How did this become our life?

  As short as the first day had seemed, the second day of the Iditarod was interminably long, with gray skies casting dull light over the slow-moving miles. The trail rumbled over moose-stomped holes in a series of long, narrow lakes. Each lake ended in another impossibly steep climb. The route continued to parallel the Happy River across forested slopes high above the gorge, and the constant rolling in and out of creek drainages meant that for every ten feet of elevation gained, at least eight would be lost again. It’s a hard way to
climb to a modest elevation of 1,800 feet — the altitude of Puntilla Lake — but the effort and the sharp rise of pyramid-shaped mountains on both sides makes the place feel much higher.

  For most of the next eighteen miles I walked with my bike, coasting descents but quickly forced off of the saddle after a few hard cranks at every steep rise. As we neared Puntilla, trail conditions continued to deteriorate, with a stiff wind dusting the already soft trail with fresh powder. We crossed an open swamp, where I could see Lars a half mile ahead, but his shin-deep footprints were already half-buried in drifted snow. At one point I caught up to Lars, and he mentioned looking forward to riding his bike again once we traversed the swamp. I didn’t have the heart to speculate that these soft, wind-drifted trail conditions weren’t likely to improve before Rainy Pass, some thirty miles beyond.

  Daylight faded the way it does on an overcast evening, almost imperceptibly through shades of gray. I arrived at Puntilla Lake Lodge just before ten, which meant it took me nine hours to cover the preceding thirty miles. Still, I wasn’t unhappy with the progress so far, given I was still fewer than thirty-six hours into the race.

  Puntilla is another luxury wilderness lodge accessible only by plane, snowmobile, dog team, and the occasional human-powered nut. I’ve read enviable reviews about gourmet meals and soft bedding, but I’ve only experienced the log shack where the lodge offers an unmanned Iditarod checkpoint. The shack holds a few bunks, several cots, a generator for light bulbs, a plug-in hot water thermos, and a wood stove. Drinking water is collected from a nearby spring and stored in large buckets, smelling strongly of sulphur. The tarpaper-covered window seals leak profusely with melted ice, the mattresses are pocked with mold, and the few scratchy wool blankets appear to have not been washed in at least a decade. The accommodations are Spartan, but not unappreciated. We realize how difficult it is to provide amenities out here.

  Arriving at the far end of the mid-pack, I entered the building to find it stuffed to the brim with reclining bodies. All of the bunks and cots were full. Two people were curled up on a couch, and the floors were covered with yet more bodies and dozens of boots. I tiptoed around to find a place large enough to fit me, but was bewildered to find none. The wind was howling outside, and the temperature had dropped to four degrees. While I considered continuing up the trail to camp, any indoor space on the Iditarod Trail — even the most uncomfortable ones — remain far too enticing. When I decided to hunker down next to the table, Lars pointed out that I was blocking access to the drinking water. He wasn’t wrong, but I felt annoyed because he’d used the fifteen minutes before I arrived to set up a relatively spacious nest on the remaining floor space.

  “People can step on me,” I grumbled. “I’m tired and there’s nowhere else to sleep.”

  With that, I stuffed in earplugs, curled up in my billowing down sleeping bag, and passed out entirely. This was surprising, as I’d slept so poorly in a nice bed in Skwentna, but eventually fatigue overcomes discomfort. Lars would later tell me that the wood stove went out and the temperature on the floor dropped to thirty-eight degrees, but this was still balmy compared to the outdoors. People tromped in and out, grazing from the ramen noodles and hot chocolate on the table and collecting water from the thermos that was directly above my face. None of this woke me up until somebody grabbed one of my shoulders and shook me heartily.

  “We’re leaving now,” he yelled. “Do you want one of the beds?”

  I jolted up and blinked in confusion. A half dozen bikers were milling about, putting on boots and packing up small bags. Where was I? Who were these people? Before I could even nod in agreement, the man yelled, “Good luck to Nome!”

  The group was already out the door before I gained enough coherence to hoist my sleeping bag to one of the now-empty beds. Half of the mattress was soaked with melted ice from the ceiling. Rather than reject the bed, I simply spun my sleeping bag around so the wet part was at my feet. Squinting at the clock, I noted it was two in the morning, which I thought was far too early to leave. Not only because I wanted more sleep (I badly wanted more sleep), but because the thirty-five miles over Rainy Pass were known to be the most beautiful miles on the Iditarod Trail. Leaving now meant seven hours of darkness before the sun rose again.

  Rainy Pass is one of the most scenic sections, but it is also one of the most volatile. Violent storms move in with little warning, and it’s not uncommon to see fifty-mile-an-hour winds and temperatures dipping to forty below. Reaching the pass before noon was my goal, so I set an alarm for 4:30. I woke up promptly, but by the time I mowed through two ramen squares and a bowl of instant oatmeal, it was close to 5:30. Oh, well. The temperature outside was a relatively comfortable eight degrees, the wind had abated slightly, and skies had cleared to reveal the stunning contrast of snow-covered peaks bathed in moonlight.

  The trail rose sharply out of Puntilla Lake, where the black spruce forest thinned to a few hearty stragglers, and the and the glacier-carved Ptarmigan Valley opened up beneath a violet dawn. With my headlamp beam fixed on bike tracks and footprints over the otherwise untrammeled trail, I could see where the leaders of the race had walked through several inches of new snow, but several who followed were able to ride on top of their tire tracks. I tried riding and was surprised to find good traction, but it was difficult to steer the bike straight enough to stay inside a trail that was only as wide as my own tires. As soon as the front wheel jumped out of the track, it was buried to the hub in crusted snow.

  “Better to walk.”

  Pushing my bike, I had the freedom to gaze at my surroundings rather than endlessly scanning for rideable lines. Frequently I stopped to look back as strips of pink light pushed through low clouds still hovering over the peaks. Daylight revealed a glistening white valley broken only by sharp bands of rock and the occasional alder branch, wooden tripod, or lone tree. The rising mountains were bald under a thick layer of snow, and the monotone appearance of the landscape gave it a singular power. I was awestruck, pulled into a reverie that had no concept of time or miles.

  Twelve miles past Puntilla Lake, the Iditarod Trail turns away from the Ptarmigan Valley and enters a narrow gully toward Rainy Pass. Traversing the valley requires a final crossing of the Happy River. At this altitude, the river is more of a robust creek, and is usually frozen and covered in snow. This year, for the first time in anyone’s recent memory, the river was fully open with knee-deep water gushing through its widest channels. Hiking up and down the bank where others had already scouted, I found no ice bridges or channels narrow enough to jump.

  Thanks to my inherent fear of open water and frozen feet, I was well prepared to wade difficult water crossings. I pulled on a pair of nylon hip waders, cinched them up tight, and attached the drawstring to cords in my pack that I’d added to ensure the waders wouldn’t slip down. With that, I was able to hoist the saddle of my bike onto my shoulder, and spent several minutes taking careful steps to maintain my balance.

  Pleased with the problem-free crossing, I observed another rider preparing to cross as I packed up my waders. He pulled on trash bags and secured them only with rubber ice cleats over his boots. His system was much more precarious, but he crossed without issue as well. Later I heard stories from riders who shared waders by throwing them across the river. Others removed all of their footwear and crossed the frigid stream barefoot. Mike had the best story of all. He carried waders, but encountered another Nome racer, Robert Ostrom, who had nothing waterproof to pull over his boots. Mike carried his own bike across, then ferried Robert’s bike, then returned a third time to collect Robert. The smaller but still full-sized man climbed onto Mike’s shoulders, and held on tight as Mike waded across. Any slip would have sent both of them plunging into the river, where the water temperature was barely above freezing and the current was strong enough to potentially push them downstream along rough gravel. I viewed this as an astonishing display of confidence on Mike’s part and trust
on Robert’s, but for Mike it was all in good fun.

  The day grew warm as I neared the pass. The last wispy clouds had retreated to the south, and bright sunlight reflected off the snow. I’d removed my hat, gloves, and jacket, and could feel the still-cool breeze between wet strands of hair. I’d hiked for more than seven hours that morning, and could feel the skin on my feet stewing in hot juices beneath a pair of vapor barrier socks. A half mile below the pass, I laid out my coat in the snow and plopped down to remove my boots and socks so my feet could dry out in the sun. Exposing wet skin to the breeze revealed that the ambient temperature was indeed still freezing, but it felt wonderful to sit with my legs extended, wiggling my naked toes at foreboding peaks in the Alaska Range. Handfuls of cheese crackers and jerky completed the pleasant mountain picnic.

  I reached the pass around two in the afternoon, meaning it took me nine hours to travel eighteen miles. On the Iditarod Trail, on Rainy Pass, I considered this fantastic progress. I celebrated by remounting the bike and attempting to surf the soft-powder descent by locking out the brakes and steering with my hips. It was difficult to avoid the thigh-deep holes punched by other riders who’d attempted the same and crashed, and I soon found myself tumbling end over end, laughing through a mouth full of snow when I finally came to a stop.

  The trail dipped below timber line and continued to contour Pass Creek, descending steeply into a narrowing canyon choked with alder branches. At times the route wound through the bed of the creek itself, which was deceptively slick with patches of white ice. Rounding a rock outcropping at full speed, I hit one of these ice patches and slipped sideways, crashing hard on my right side. My hand, which was already numb from the first day’s crash, and my forearm, which was still cut and bruised from the California crash a week earlier, throbbed with intense pain. I laid on the ice, clutching my arm and fretting that I’d broken a bone. That would be a difficult problem to have in a narrow canyon where planes couldn’t land, still two dozen bumpy trail miles from the nearest building. For all of the hazards I expected to encounter in Alaska, I never gave bicycle crashes their proper consideration.