I picked up my drop bag, had something to eat and a wash, cleaned my teeth and then decided to get some sleep.
This checkpoint had an area reserved for racers to have a sleep. My fear of over-sleeping was such that I grabbed a chair and dozed. When I woke a couple of hours later it was more food then time to go. I left the checkpoint at 12:30.
CARMACKS TO MCCABE
The next checkpoint at McCabe was 38 miles away and some 211 miles from the start, even then I wouldn’t be halfway to Dawson. I tried to grasp the enormity of the race, but right now I was having trouble finding my way out of Carmacks. It’s funny how, when in the wilds, navigation and route-finding never seems to be a problem. As soon as I try to find my way through a town, I’m hopeless. However, this was not helped by the fact that some local kids had apparently thought it was great fun to nick the route markers. I personally couldn’t see the funny side of it, but that’s just me. Bah humbug and all that!
Eventually, I found my way back on to the trail, which was a well defined old miners’ track. I remembered this part of the trail from when I did the 320 mile race, as it was here that I had been treated to the most spectacular display of the Northern lights. I was remembering that light show when I caught sight of something moving just ahead of me, and low and behold it was a moose - a huge clumsy-looking thing the size of a horse, but ironically it moved very gracefully. Mesmerized, I stopped and just watched it before it disappeared into some trees - how it did it I don’t know, so densely-packed were the trees that I would have had trouble squeezing myself through.
It was now early evening and cold. I guessed it was about -30. I came off the well-defined track and into the woods, before dropping back down onto the river. Following the route markers that took me back into the woods and some serious climbing, then the trail got wider and became what appeared to be fire traps:- wide tree-free swathes cut through the forest to prevent fire spreading. The undulating trail continued as did the on, off sections of river.
Coming out of one section of the woods, I could see a couple of buildings and then the wonderful smell of a log-burning stove and the McCabe checkpoint. The time was 03:20.
Everyone was asleep when I got in, but then a couple of them got up asked if I needed anything and then they took a couple of photos. All I needed was a place to sleep, I was knackered and was fortunate to get a real bed. I slept for three hours. When I got up another racer was there. I faffed about, ate and drank as much as I could then left at 09:40.
MCCABE TO PELLY CROSSING
Leaving McCabe I was to follow the half mile track to the main road, cross over and pick up the trail and follow the overhead power lines. After a while I came across what appeared to be a power substation, the trail then took a right turn and then it was back on the proper trail.
More undulating terrain was made a little more interesting by the fact that sections of overflow were scattered about - the fact that this overflow was not only “run off” from the adjacent hills and consequently on a slant, but had also been covered with a light dusting of powdered snow, now every single step had to be worked out and thought about. I toyed with the idea of putting my crampons (a small spiked device that fits over your shoes to prevent sliding) on, but as usual I couldn’t decide whether to stop and faff about or carry on.
As I plodded along in a world of indecision an athlete came past - he was certainly moving fast. As he passed I realised that it was the athlete that had arrived at McCabe when I was asleep - he continued off down the trail and before long he was out of sight.
A short time after this minor humiliation, the trail led down onto some lakes. The flatness was a blessing after the overflow-laden trail. As I looked at the trail ahead, I spotted something that appeared to be out of place I strained my eyes trying to make out what it was, however, as I got nearer I realised that right slap bang in the middle of the lake, were a circle of chairs. One of the chairs had a china mug on it and two of the others had empty beer bottles on them. I then realised that someone had been ice fishing.
I carried on, before finally coming off the lakes late in the afternoon. Then I spotted some lights in the distance - coming down from the higher ground the lights became more numerous and then to my right was a cabin - a little further on was the road that I recognised from the last time I was here. A short time later I arrived at the Pelly Crossing checkpoint, the time was 18:20.
PELLY CROSSING TO PELLY FARMS
Arriving in the small town of Pelly Crossing, my original plan had been to cut the stop here really short, if only because the next checkpoint at Pelly Farms was for the 430 mile racers: a compulsory 8 hour stop. However, the fact that it was now snowing confirmed that a short break was wise. If the snowing continued as was forecast the trail would not only disappear but would become bloody hard-going.
So the plan was a quick cup of coffee or two, something to eat and then leave. There were a few racers already at the checkpoint, predominately Spanish, all of them attempting the 320 miler, however, some were going no further. Either they had been pulled out (one in particular had a nasty touch of frost bite on each of his fingers, caused by the fact that he had spilt cooker fuel on them which had immediately frozen the skin) or had decided that enough was enough.
One of the guys spoke English and asked how long I was going to stay. I told him that I would be leaving shortly - he explained this to one of the guys, the one who I had seen at McCabe and the one that had passed me so impressively earlier on in the day. He then asked if Jorge could tag along and accompany me to Pelly Farms. I didn’t mind and was glad of the company for what I expected to be a tough, long night and the clincher was that he spoke no English.
So fifty minutes after arriving we left, the fact that it was snowing and the very obvious fact that the trail was disappearing before our eyes, meant that we both understood the need to move quickly while the trail was still visible.
Leaving the checkpoint we immediately dropped down on to the Yukon River. I think we both understood the need for speed: we had to move fast while there was still some visible trail. I led the way and pushed hard, far harder than I would normally have pushed - this was helped by the fact that I was a chicken and did not really want to be stuck out in the wilderness, with no route markings.
Even though we were still on the river the going was far from easy; huge blocks of ice (I say huge, some were the size of small lorries) were scattered here and there and caused us to follow a zig-zaggy route. My headlight beam was reflecting off the falling snow, causing me to squint and concentrate, and, as my wife has pointed out on more than one occasion, I can’t concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes, it was getting to be a little unpleasant. After several hours of straining to follow the now invisible route, Jorge came up beside me with his GPS in hand and showed me that we only had 9 km to go - a little over five miles, 3 hours later we were still plodding along, we had another look at the GPS and we were apparently still 4 km away. It doesn’t take much to confuse my simple mind and even less when I’m tired and desperate, but the readings did not make sense. If it had taken 3 hours to do the last 5 km, we were moving at 1 mile an hour. I smiled, shook my head in a very positive manner, gave him the thumbs up and thought to myself “What the *&^%$?”
We moved off, Jorge then took over the lead, and we plodded on, me eating Rolos which had now become comfort food, whilst trying to work out what the &^%$ was going on, and with Jorge now slowly pulling away from me.
Then, just as I was begining to feel really sorry for myself, we spotted what we thought was a light and as we got nearer, we could see that it was Dale - the owner of Pelly Farms: he had come out to meet us.
He guided us to the checkpoint and explained that they had been watching our progress on the computer. It had taken us 11 hours to get here. Little did we know that we had been extremely lucky - other athletes would experience a real nightmare journey.
Pelly Farms is regarded as one of the best checkpoints because it is actually in someo
ne’s home: a beautiful log cabin, cosy, nice and warm, plenty of food and the owners love having us, helping in anyway they can. This checkpoint was for the 430 mile racers a compulsory 8 hour stop so I ate and drank, had a quick sleep of a couple of hours, picked up my drop bag and sorted out my kit, dried what I could, replenished my food supplies, topped up flasks and then at 14:10 and, with the greatest trepidation, left the comfort of Pelly Farms for the formidable 70 mile (roughly) section to Scroggie creek and the next checkpoint - a checkpoint that had only ever seen 9 previous racers.
PELLY FARMS TO SCROGGIE CREEK
It was still snowing and bloody cold. I had achieved one of my goals and had left the Pelly Farms checkpoint before any other athlete had arrived. I now knew that my position was second place and with at least an 8 hour lead over the runner in third place.
However, this next section was the beginning of the real hard work, with soft snow underfoot, more difficult and challenging terrain and the biggest section of the race without a checkpoint, and the already accumulated 275 miles.
Within half an hour of leaving the checkpoint I had to stop, remove my down jacket and put on my snowshoes. The difference the snowshoes made was instant - I was walking on the snow instead of through the snow.
The trail was difficult to read but was fortunately through an avenue of trees, making navigating a little easier. It was now early evening and I was moving surprisingly well, when I spotted a “20 miles” sign that someone had written in the snow. I couldn’t work out what the 20 miles meant:- 20 miles from where to where? I certainly hadn’t done 20 miles and, therefore, had more than 20 miles to go before scroggie. I plodded on in my own little world of confusion when suddenly I realised that I was climbing. This went on for ages and was bloody hard work. As daylight made a welcome appearance, I could begin to appreciate the harsh beauty of the place, the absolute silence and stillness. I could have been walking in a huge painting: nothing either moved or made a noise, there was literally no sign of life. On and on I plodded, then I noticed on the trail in front of me footprints, footprints belonging to what I didn’t know but whatever had made them was, I reasoned, not that far ahead. It was still snowing and the prints had virtually no snow on them. I followed them, fascinated, and after a couple of hours heard the faint sound of a snowmobile. Then suddenly coming toward me a beautiful yellow snowmobile. It stopped beside me and the driver got off and introduced himself, Pete. He said he was a trapper, he then said “You guys are crazy.” Whitehorse to Dawson on foot, crazy. When he finished stating the obvious he offered me a cup of hot coffee, I was very grateful and the coffee was wonderful. We chatted for a few minutes as I drank his coffee then I asked him what the footprints were. He replied that they were WOLF prints, not one but two - they follow the dogs on the Yukon Quest and scavenge any bits the race leaves behind - he also said that I shouldn’t worry, because I would never see them and they will do everything to avoid seeing me. I thanked him for the coffee and plodded on, hoping and praying that I really didn’t see any wolves.
With Pete gone the monotony returned - plodding along like the proverbial beast of burden: one foot in front of the other, hour after hour of slow, relentless grind. The boredom was only slightly relieved by the fact that I was having to carefully negotiate my way through several sections of overflow. After a while of working my way through the overflow, I noticed that I was either getting weaker or my pulk was getting heavier, it felt like a fat bloke had decided to hitch a lift on my pulk. I was struggling and stopping with alarming regularity, and was getting a little concerned - concerned enough to stop, unharness and check what the hell was going on. On checking the underside of the pulk I could see that for some reason snow was sticking to it. I scraped off what I could, left it in the sun for 10/15 minutes while I had something to eat. It seemed to do the trick and then it was back to plodding.
It was now late afternoon and getting noticeably colder, so it was on with my jacket and headtorch, ready for the evening session.The trail was now closing in, with more trees on either side of the trail. Then, at about 18:30 I heard the wonderful sound of a snowmobile. A few minutes later, not one, but two snowmobiles came up from behind. Greg and Spence stopped and explained that they were part of the race crew and were now going to Scroggie. They also said that I was doing well because there was no one behind me. We had a quick chat, with me in all likelihood jibbering like an idiot, then it happened I tried not to but it just sort of came out, I asked how much further to Scroggie, Greg checked his GPS and, low and behold - there was only 28/29 kms left - ALL THAT WAS LEFT? I really had thought that there was maybe 5/6 miles, not the 17/18 that Greg had told me.
I smiled, put on my very British stiff upper lip and said thank you. I was determined not to cry or moan in front of the Canadians.
When they left, I tried to work out how long it would take me: even at 2 miles an hour it would take me 9 hours. I had been moving constantly for twenty-nine hours - could I hold out for just a bit longer? I reasoned that I could, just push hard for nine more hours and then I could have a bloody good sleep - easy.
It was now getting late, then at just gone 23:00 I was relieved to hear voices - the checkpoint. I was bloody close, if I could just keep going for a bit longer. The voices grew louder, laughing and joking, waiting for me. I pushed forward looking for the checkpoint, the voices got louder and were coming from the left, which surprised me as I thought the Scroggie Creek checkpoint would be on my right. I kept on moving forward, desperate to find the thing. The fresh snow had covered the route, I decided to use my initiative and take a short, more direct route toward the voices. Gingerly I stepped off the trail and down onto a small ice-covered pond, up the other side and through some densly packed trees. I pushed my way forward, breaking branches and making a lot of noise in the process. The trees got more and more densely-packed, leaving me with no choice but to retreat and return to the trail. Trying to reverse through the trees whilst wearing a pulk was not easy, so difficult in fact that I unharnessed myself, walked back to the pulk, grabbed the back of the pulk, and roughly man-handled it back onto to the trail proper. Tired and frustrated, I really was in no mood to treat the thing with caution lest I damage or break it.
Once back on the trail, I decided to have a quick break and gather my thoughts. I sat on my pulk, closed my eyes and only then did I realise that the sneaky bastard ‘sleepmonster’ had finally caught me - there were no people out drinking, laughing and cracking jokes at nearly midnight in temperatures of -40 plus.
I needed sleep - I was close, but not close enough. The fact that I’d had only two hours sleep since the McCabe checkpoint some three days ago had now caught up with me, so reluctantly I admitted defeat, pressed my SPOT tracking device to let them know that I was okay and withdrew to the comfort of my sleeping bag and bivi.
After what felt like a 10 minute catnap, I woke up, looked at my watch and realised I had in fact slept for a little over 6 hours.
Annoyed with myself, I got up - but not before checking the soft snow to see if anyone had passed by in the night. They hadn’t: the snow ahead had no footprints. I don’t know why I do that - there is precious little I can do about it, even if someone had passed by. I’m not racing, just plodding and trying to finish.
It was now a little after 08:30 - I moved off. After about an hour I heard the beautiful sound of snow mobiles. A few moments later, two machines appeared in front of me - Greg and Spence - they dismounted and approached with a flask of hot tea and a hot sandwich. I was grateful, hungry and thirsty and like a half-starved gannet was busy devouring the sandwich so enthusiastically that I was not really paying much attention to the route description Greg was so kindly describing.
Once I’d had my second cup of tea and finished eating, we bade farewell, Greg and Spence explaining that they were off up the trail to see if any other athlete was on the way.
I carried on down the trail towards the elusive Scroggie Creek checkpoint, fed and rested and safe in the
knowledge that I was close.
I rather bizarrely started planning my next adventure. I had got a couple of races lined up in the UK including a half-marathon four weeks from now, but a race called the Namib Desert Challenge had caught my eye. I made the decision to do it. Whilst working things out, not least how, and more importantly, when to broach the subject to my wife. I spotted, nailed to a tree, a hand-painted sign saying “Scroggie Creek” - a few minutes later, and to my right, was the very wonderful sight of the two cabins that I had spent a very tough 46 hours to reach. I arrived at 12:05.
Ever the gentleman, I knocked on the door, Jessica and Mike welcomed me with hot drinks and hot food. Mike explained that I was to be held here until the weather improved - apparently there were horrendous blizzards ahead, with the temperature in the -40s and with two mountains to clamber over it was deemed to dangerous to continue. I had to wait until the weather improved.
I wasn’t too concerned - I had planned to have a really good 6 or 7 hour rest anyway. I would use the time wisely: resting, eating and drinking, cleaning and sorting kit out. I was lucky I had no blisters - chafing, just a bit of frostnip on the tips of my fingers and thumbs, that was it. However, after about nine hours of inactivity I really wanted to get moving but the trail was covered in fresh snow - the blizzards were still raging. I was informed that I could be held for some time yet.
I went to bed feeling a little fed up, stopping for this length of time could only have a detrimental effect, ie: the muscles would start to get sore and stiff, my body would think that the race was over and start to shut down and then start the recovery process. Annoyingly, my feet were already starting to swell up - this only usually happens when I have finished a race.
The reality was that I still had over 100 miles to go and two mountains to climb.
I was lying in my sleeping bag, tossing and turning, and trying to sleep when suddenly the cabin door opened and in stepped an ice-covered athlete. Mark Hines had made it to Scroggie, the time was 03:00 and I now knew my position: 2nd overall and some 15 hours ahead of the third-placed athlete.
Fartleks & Flatulence Page 19