by Jill Homer
At that point, my own passion was severely diminished, dragged through the trenches by fatigue, nutrient depletion, and the ever-roaring North Wind. Mike and I continued to weave drunken paths that were vaguely side-by-side, but could only speak to each other when we stopped. Despite the terrifying chills that set in every time, our breaks became more frequent.
“It is beautiful out here,” Mike said.
I nodded. “I keep reminding myself about the incredible vistas, and how much I love wide-open spaces, because otherwise I might just go insane with frustration.”
“Did you ever think you’d find yourself in a place like this?” Mike asked.
“I used to think I wanted to ride a bike across Antarctica,” I said. “But not anymore. I don’t think there’s anything I want less.”
At sunset we caught our first glimpse of the lights of Koyuk, sparkling from the slope of a rounded hill. “We’re almost there!” Mike exclaimed.
“We’re six miles away still,” I said.
“Well, we can see it, so we know we’re going to make it,” Mike retorted.
Evening brought dusky skies that quieted the gales. Even as the wind settled to an almost-calm fifteen miles per hour, we still labored for two more hours to cover this “almost there” distance. As we pedaled into the village, happiness and gratitude were muted by fatigue. I didn’t quite register the momentous occasion of successfully crossing the sea ice. Still, my memory recorded yellow street lights over a cozy row of cabins, so I’d always have an image to recall when I reflected on my greatest accomplishment.
“Koyuk,” I croaked. “We survived!”
I was so tired that I had little concept of where we were or what exactly came next, but Mike deftly located the school and a maintenance man to unlock the door. The building was crowded with volunteers and journalists who flew into Koyuk, as well as a large group of Norwegian tourists who passed us on snowmobiles an hour earlier. The maintenance man took pity on Mike and me because we arrived under our own power, and gave us the empty kindergarten classroom for the night. We hung our rime-coated gear on children’s coat hooks and spread out damp sleeping bags on desks. I washed my face in a tiny sink and finally relieved myself in a tiny toilet. It felt amazing to pee without gasping into the wind, and the skin on my buttocks didn’t even freeze.
My chest and throat warmed, prompting a coughing fit that dislodged a considerable amount of mucous. Later, I could hear a pronounced wheezing in my breaths. Fourteen hours of heavy breathing into the wind, with its minus-thirty windchill, had taken its toll. This congestion was undoubtedly more than just the residue of a hard day. As I coughed and coughed again, I feared the early stages of bronchitis.
The weather forecast indicated strong northwesterly winds would persist for at least two more days. The Iditarod Trail headed southwest for a short distance, and after that the wind would largely be a strong crosswind or headwind for the remainder of the route into Nome. I feared I didn’t have the strength for such a battle. More than that, as I held my hand to my chest and choked up gobs of phlegm, I feared I didn’t have the lungs for such a battle.
Chapter 14
Gratitude
A couple of hours before sunrise, I managed to drag myself up from the Koyuk classroom floor. I collected my thawed clothing — now stiff with dried sweat — and waddled to the teacher’s lounge to sort through my post office box, groaning at the contents. The supplies were exactly the same as they had been since Ruby — two freeze-dried meals, sour gummy bears that scraped the top of my already-raw mouth, disgusting fruit and nut mix, Snickers Bars, chocolate, oatmeal, and peanut butter. I regretted the skepticism that prompted me to pack these boxes with a bunch of throw-away garbage, because now I had to suffer the consequences.
I kept the freeze-dried meals — I never threw these away even though my hoard had grown to seven or eight — and reluctantly included a fresh supply of trail mix and chocolate. The rest I left in the box with a note for students to help themselves. For breakfast I forced down four packets of oatmeal, then waddled down the hall.
The classroom door was locked, and I had to pound on it for almost a minute before Mike woke up.
“What time is it?” he asked, slurring all of the words.
“Not early. Just after eight,” I answered. “I’m about to take off.”
“Oh,” he said, blinking rapidly as though he fell asleep wearing his contacts. “I feel worked. That was a hard day yesterday.”
“It was,” I agreed. Mike and I covered thirty-three miles over the sea ice in fourteen and a half hours with minimal stops. Those fourteen hours comprised the most mentally and physically strenuous day of my life so far. At the time, I was so focused on survival that I didn’t notice the searing burn in my legs, the soreness in my lower back, or the lung congestion. All of that had returned this morning, and my fatigue was magnified by knowledge of all of the harsh miles still ahead. It was gratifying, though, to learn that even Mike felt sore after two days on the sea ice.
“GPS says we averaged two and a half miles per hour yesterday,” I said. I’d checked the statistics earlier that morning, and was excited to share the numbers with Mike. “It’s thirty-three miles with fifty-two feet of elevation gain. That track is going to look so pathetic on Strava!” This was my way of making a joke. Mike didn’t even crack a grimace.
“So what’s the plan for today?” Mike asked.
“Elim, I think,” referring to a village that was about fifty miles away. “Maybe I’ll go for one of the shelter cabins beyond if things are going well. But I really don’t want to push it. I’m worried I might be coming down with bronchitis.”
Mike nodded. “Elim sounds good.” I watched him plop back down on his sleeping bag. Quietly, I closed the classroom door and rolled my bike toward a sunlit foyer. Local school children were on spring break this week, and Koyuk’s school halls remained quiet. Still, they looked like any school halls in Kansas or New York, making it easy to temporarily forget I was in Alaska. Although I’d been on the Iditarod Trail for fifteen days, it was still a shock to step out of a building to a view of a white, frozen sea. Snow-covered streets and metal roofs were saturated in pink light, so vibrant that I had to squint as I pedaled out of town. The air was eerily calm, and the North Wind’s absence intensified the morning silence. My breath was raspy and every body part hurt, but I was alive. This realization sparked a smile. I was still alive.
Beyond Koyuk the trail was heavily drifted, and the soft layer of snow had been stirred up by dog feet and sled runners. A couple of mushers passed, and one spoke to me in a woman’s voice. I assumed it was Aliy Zirkle, the musher who gave Beat a bag of bacon several days earlier. She was farther back in the field than I would have expected, since she was leading the race when she passed Beat in the Interior. Later, I learned that she and her team were attacked by a drunken man on a snowmobile outside the village of Nulato. Several of Aliy’s dogs were injured as he looped back several times, intentionally buzzing her sled. This man also attacked another popular musher, Jeff King. One of his dogs was killed. Despite the tragic setback, both mushers decided to continue toward Nome.
“You must be tired,” she said in a muffled sing-song voice that sounded as though she’d just woken up as well.
“I’m okay,” I replied. “You must be tired yourself.”
Aliy nodded, although I couldn’t see her face beneath her hood and mask. I was similarly bundled up in my balaclava and goggles, as the temperature was still in the negative single digits, and I expected the wind to return. Other mushers seemed taken aback when we exchanged greetings, and I presumed they weren’t expecting to hear a woman’s voice. When Jeff King’s team approached, I moved over early and shot a half dozen photos before belting out a cheerful hello. Jeff’s face was uncovered and I could clearly see a scowl as he passed without saying a word. At the time I didn’t know about the Nulato atta
ck, and assumed he was one of those Iditarod mushers who didn’t support sharing the trail with kooky human-powered folks. The snub left me feeling surprisingly wounded. It was clear my emotions were still on edge.
Several miles later, I stopped to have a longer conversation with a charismatic young musher who was resting his dogs. His encouragement bolstered my self esteem, and provided a boost for a short but steep climb over a low-lying ridge. The views from five hundred feet above the sea were breathtaking, with an expansive white valley and mountains sparkling in the sunlight. The North Wind picked up strength during the descent, blurring the trail with fast-moving ground blizzards.
Crosswind pummeled me across the Kwik River Valley, and I teetered and swayed in a constant battle to stay upright. A shelter cabin stood at the center of this exposed flood plain. The flat, treeless location made for an unappealing campsite, but that wasn’t the purpose of the Kwik River cabin. Along Alaska’s western coast, these weathered plywood structures have been built specifically to protect travelers during storms, which rage incessantly, year-round. Funded and maintained by Native organizations rather than the federal government, the cabins’ amenities are limited to bunk beds and a stove — bring your own wood — and are scrawled with the graffiti of past travelers. A large message on the wall begged users to clean up after themselves. “This cabin may save your life someday.”
I considered what it would be like to arrive at this cabin in a pitch-dark blizzard rather than in this bright — albeit cold and windy — afternoon. Even a palace could not be more luxurious than life-saving shelter when it’s truly needed. I ducked inside and fired up my stove for hot chocolate and freeze-dried noodles: the only foods I looked forward to eating anymore. Hot lunch was another high luxury, and I felt guilty for wasting the time. Still, my breathing became worse the longer I stayed out in the wind, and seemed to improve with rest. I was convinced these breaks were vital if I wanted to avoid sputtering out before Nome.
I was back on the trail after an hour, hot on the heels of the young musher who passed me again, and feeling more revitalized than ever. After skirting an abandoned airport at Moses Point, the trail joined a road — unmaintained, but distinctly improved with guardrails and gentle grading over a succession of hills. As I grunted and wheezed up a steady ascent, a sound similar to jingling bells startled me off my bike. I turned just as a dog team passed within a foot of my left leg. The lead dog, a beautiful white husky, gave a polite “woof” and a nod as it trotted past. I nodded back at my canine superior, sensing that we were just two lead dogs acknowledging each other on this difficult climb. The musher was kneeling on the sled platform with his chin buried in his coat. He didn’t return my hello. As I watched the team continue up the hill, the musher’s body swayed back and forth like an unsecured bag.
“He’s asleep!” I exclaimed, and shook my head. Good thing that lead dog had everything under control and knew where the team needed to go. My respect for sled dogs increased every day.
At the crest of the hill, my throat erupted in a horrible coughing fit that lasted several minutes. Unfazed, I used my left hand to wrap the useless fingers of my right hand around the brake lever — now a necessity for every long descent — and launched down the steep ramp. The road had climbed five hundred feet above the sea, and the forested slope revealed a layered vista of white ice, blue water, and distant mountains. Even with the rear brake locked in place, I barely maintained control. Within seconds I was approaching the sleeping musher’s team at high speed. Not wanting to startle my husky friend, I grabbed the front brake too forcefully, causing the wheel to lock and the bike to spin sideways on glare ice. Over I went, unfortunately landing on my bruised right side with a hard skid. Quickly I bounced back up, hoping only that the huskies hadn’t noticed my crash. I genuinely wanted their approval.
I rolled into Elim just as the sleeping musher’s dog team trotted happily toward the checkpoint tent. My right shoulder was throbbing and my throat was raw. Coughing fits had become more frequent throughout the day, and I was convinced I’d lapsed into an early stage of bronchitis. Even though it was still light outside, I intended to get a full night of sleep indoors before continuing any farther.
A group of children directed me to the school, where the athletic director let me set up my sleeping bag nest in a cozy side room next to the library. A post office box waited for me there as well, though it contained the exact same supplies I’d schlepped from Koyuk. For dinner I mixed instant mashed potatoes with freeze-dried chicken and noodles, which did little to quell a gnawing appetite for protein. I was already asleep when Mike knocked on the door just before ten.
“How was your day?” he asked.
“Pretty uneventful,” I said. “I’ve developed this horrible cough, but at least the wind was better today.”
Mike told me he’d spoken with his wife on the phone, and she asked whether I was trying for the women’s record.
“If you want to get up in a few hours and go for it, I will go with you,” he said. It was a genuine offer.
“Oh no,” I said. “It’s a hundred and thirty more miles. I’m not exactly sure what the record is, but I’m pretty sure I have to get to Nome by tomorrow afternoon to break it. Even if we left right now, it’s unobtainable.”
“Oh okay,” Mike said, sounding both relieved and disappointed.
“But thanks for offering,” I said. “Really.”
*****
During the night, I woke up choking on phlegm. This was unnerving, and evoked memories of struggling to breathe during the Tour Divide, after my illness became so bad that I needed to lie down on the side of the road to catch my breath. Out on the Bering Sea coast, with the frigid North Wind slicing across exposed valleys, where I needed to move to survive, there was no such luxury. Again I fell asleep with cold panic burbling through my veins, soothing myself with a quiet chant: “Breathe, just breathe.”
I woke up feeling strangely refreshed and left Elim in pre-dawn darkness, when the wind was still a whisper but the cold was cavernous. Finding the way out of town proved confusing, and I ventured down a few side streets before locating a streak of dog feces that led to a trail marker. The route dropped onto the sea ice, skirting the base of marble cliffs that the star-lit sky rendered in stunning contrast. Similar to most mornings on the Iditarod Trail, I floated through disorienting sleepiness, one moment laughing at scattered dog booties, and the next fuming at the incomprehensible maze of jumbled ice. To spark alertness I fired up my iPod, and soon found myself standing out of the saddle, sprinting over blue ice, and singing out loud to Imagine Dragons:
“I’ve got this place that I filled with empty space, so I’m trying not to face what I’ve done … I’m in this race and I’m hoping just to place, so I’m trying not to face what’s become of me …”
Singing sputtered into coughing, and I ripped my face mask down as a large glob of mucous dislodged from my throat. This brought a brief taste of unobstructed air, and I took big, greedy gulps as the tip of my nose and lips went numb. The sudden injection of oxygen propelled me up a steep sea wall and onto the slopes of the second longest climb on the Iditarod Trail, a mountain that mushers call Little McKinley. Little McKinley gains a thousand feet in fewer than two miles, which this late in the race feels like climbing the Big McKinley that Alaskans call Denali. A rose-colored sun glistened through the trees behind me, casting striped pink reflections on the snow. When I glanced over my shoulder I could see a dog team approaching, and pedaled as hard as I could to stay in front of them. I managed to hold them off for a few hundred feet of elevation, but hard breathing in the cold air tightened my airways. I started coughing again, and slumped off my bike to let them pass.
It was dumb to push myself so hard, but for those few minutes my lungs were clear and my legs were strong, and everything about that felt incredible. Still, indulging in my temporary strength extracted a high price, because when I sputter
ed out, I wasn’t anywhere near the top of Little McKinley. Suddenly the full weight of gravity threatened to pull me back to the ocean. The bike pressed into my already tight chest as I leaned into the handlebars, feeling as though I were pushing a stone up a sand dune.
By the time I crawled to the high point, the peach light of dawn had given way to a glaringly bright day. The trail contoured a broad ridge above tree line. I imagined these bald, rolling hills as a white sand desert, with wind-sculpted dunes sparkling beneath a hot sun. As I continued to battle for oxygen, a haze settled between perception and reality, and the desert imagery became more intense. Memories flickered of hiking in the Grand Canyon with my dad, of camping beneath sandstone buttes in the San Rafael Swell, of riding a mountain bike across South Africa.
Amid this collision of past and present, I arrived at a saddle. Here the trail dipped into a steep gully, plummeting a thousand feet to Golovin Bay. This side of Little McKinley was much more bare, with a patchwork of sugary snow and brown tussocks. I stopped to take a few photos, manually locked my numb hand around the brake lever, and launched into the abyss.
My heart raced as I screamed down the bumpy trail, holding my breath amid a rush of adrenaline and fear. Time twisted entirely, and I slipped into a memory from two years earlier, when I was descending a steep canyon in South Africa’s Stormberg Mountains. As I dodged lumpy tussocks, I saw only rocks. Snow-swept hillsides became sandstone buttes. Ice-covered Golovin Bay became the Karoo, a vast South African desert. Every piece of my consciousness was back in South Africa, and for long minutes, I believed this unquestioningly. The delusion was so complete that as I approached a lone building, I thought, “There’s a shepherd’s hut.” There was a strong breeze gusting off the bay, which caused me to think, “Maybe the shepherd will let me come inside to get out of the wind.”