The challenge that the trail conditions posed made this race crazy, hard, and scary for a newbie like me. Rookie races demonstrate the importance of double and triple checking your actions, having great checklists, and wearing a bright headlamp. They teach new mushers about dealing with changing trail conditions, knowing the difference between a tired dog and a dog that is no longer having fun, and how our confidence level gets passed on to the dogs, for better and for worse. I laugh to think about the odd things that occur after being deprived of sleep and worn out. These lessons will be important as I prepare to run “the Last Great Race,” the Iditarod.
Leaving
Ely, Minnesota | 2000
Stilling the ripples.
Fish swimming at lake’s bottom.
Lotus greets the fish.
—Journal entry, August 7, 1999
I call Dad. If I see him, I will cave and not be able to ask for help. I won’t be able to leave.
“Dad, I need to buy a van. I am driving to Alaska. Can you help me find something? I have only a little money. There has to be something that can make it up there.” I cross my fingers and hope he understands where I am coming from. I worry he will get protective or stubborn and say, “Heck no!”
“Dad, I need you right now. More than I ever have. I need to get my life on track. You and I both know Alaska is waiting for me. I have to get there somehow.”
“Alaska? When do you need to go?”
Being on the phone, I am free to cry. Despite how much it hurts him to see me go, he will help. His quiet, nonjoking manner signals he is holding back his own feelings.
“Thank you, Dad. As soon as I can.” I picture all the times we have spent over campfires, him dropping me off to ski on northern Minnesota winter trails, him walking me down the aisle on my wedding day. He always knows who I am.
“Dad, I don’t want to go. I am lost without you, but I have to do this.”
Dad finds an upgraded short bus for sale by a vendor who frequents the apartment complex where he works. Painted white, it has stickers along its sides with pictures of Pokémon ice cream bars. The horn still plays cartoon theme music that summons kids from miles away, hungry for frozen treats. Dad negotiates the price on my behalf. I pay $500.
A few days later, instead of ice cream, the bus now contains all my possessions—at least the ones important enough to bring with me. Some include Edward Abbey’s novel about environmentalist sabotage, The Monkey Wrench Gang, and Jonathan Livingston Seagull, Richard Bach’s fable about self-perfection. I have a stack of eighty-cent college-ruled notebooks I burn through as journals at a pace of one every three days. I bring my titanium ice ax from the Pacific Crest Trail, figuring it can offer me protection in a wide variety of situations. I shove all that, along with some clothes, food, a harmonica, and a mattress, into the back. There are curtains over all the windows, which makes it a comfortable, homey, and private abode—even if their multicolored, multipatterned vertical stripes make it look like a ’60s living room frozen in time, complete with orange shag carpet. The bus averages eight miles per gallon, meaning I need more gas money for the full trip north, if it can make it at all. Dad looks over the engine and gives me a thumbs-up, which is the most I can hope for (see fig. 12).
Mom does not know of this plan. I drive the ice cream truck up north on a family trip, with Mom, her new husband John, Cindy, Cassie, and J.T. We stay at a cabin in Ely, a lakeside town in northeastern Minnesota. One evening I spring it on Mom that I won’t be staying for the whole vacation—or coming home.
Mom tries to accept the reality of me leaving as we sit on the deck overlooking the lake, watching shapes form in the clouds drifting across a blue sky preparing for twilight. Highlighted by the setting sun, the western cluster of clouds fade from black to gray to gold to white. Within the Vermilion Iron Range, the deep-blue lake is surrounded by mineral-rich rock outcroppings. The burgundy rock reflection on the lake complements the wide range of red hues in a magnificent display of the setting sun. The terrain is thick with pines and cottonwood and is peppered with cottages where families watch the evening unfurl. I drink in every moment with Mom I can before setting out on my own. A large part of me is still this frightened girl clinging to her mom, daunted by the overwhelming unknown journey ahead of her.
After long, agonizing moments, Mom asks me, “Can you tell me again why you are leaving?”
I wish I had a better answer for her.
“Mom, I can’t say why I am going. I am pulled along on a puppet string by a force much larger than I am.” I select my next words with caution. “You taught me to be my own person. I know where my destiny resides, and every decision that takes me away from it pushes me further away from who I am. I am so disconnected right now, I don’t even know who I am.”
“Are you running away from something or running toward something?”
“I’m sorry. It must seem like I am running away. I only got out of treatment four months ago.”
“That is putting it lightly, Katie. You were in a total dark period and hurting yourself. There are better ways to deal with life’s challenges than leaving everyone you know behind.”
“Mom, I know this is hard, but please trust me. I love you. I am going to Alaska, in part, to leave the darkness behind. More so, I am running toward a dream of who I want to be.”
“You are my butterfly. Because I love you, I will set you free,” she says.
As I tell J.T., he has worry across his face.
“Are you sure of this?” he asks.
I nod my head with more confidence than I feel. “I will not argue with whoever or whatever is guiding me to leave. After all we’ve been through, it is enough to look forward to tomorrow.”
J.T. understands what I am saying. He has always been my confidant. I don’t have to act strong in front of my brother. He knows me better than anyone. We enjoy long talks over green tea, deliberating about the meaning of life, quantum physics, programming, Buddhism, and just about anything. I will miss him.
“We don’t always get the privilege to agree with what life throws in our path,” he says.
I again nod in agreement. “Yeah, this dream of driving to Alaska has grown larger and larger each day until it encompasses my every thought.” My gut clenches in knots as I say this, knowing the sadness I am causing my family by choosing to leave.
It is hardest saying goodbye to my little sisters. Cassie is only ten, and Cindy is eight. They need a hero for a big sister. Only a few months ago, I was sitting on a bus writing them a suicide letter. I am leaving and feel as though I have failed them. I hate myself for this.
I tell them, “Girls, I hope I can be a hero in your eyes again. I will live my life to the fullest and pave the way so I can show you how. Have the courage to follow your dreams.”
Starting a new adventure, I lack any idea of where this path will lead. On July 16, 2000, I hit the road.
Alaska or Bust
Kluane Lake, Yukon Territory | 2000
To find yourself. Think for yourself.
—Socrates
I am on a quest to Alaska to save my life. I want to be that ten-year-old girl again—the one who finds simple joy in the wilderness around her and loves exploring what is around the next bend.
Three days into my journey, the road ahead feels full of promise. With each passing mile-marker, I replace knots of apprehension with exhilaration and a courage born of confidence. My heart longs for crisp air, snow, rushing rivers, and tall pines. The open road leads to the horizon and to my future. No voices to hear and nothing to see but large fields of yellow canola flowers. Road trips have an inherent power to purge mental toxins. There is no way to avoid your mind. Nowhere to hide. The words of Jean Aspen echo in my daydreams and become clearer with every mile.
I overnight in Wal-Mart parking lots or pull into rest stations, where I can stay without trouble. On a whim, I p
ull off to the side of a dusty gravel road that makes up part of the Alaska Highway. I sit cradled in pure unadulterated silence for over thirty minutes before a loaded logging truck interrupts my requiem. The northwestern territories redefine wilderness, stillness, and grandeur. The valley ahead opens to the Canadian Rockies. The setting sun gives a golden hue to snowcapped peaks. The eternal horizon features a story in which a golden knight duels with a crimson fire dragon, each struggling for control over the dawn sky. Blood-red balls of fire fly from the dragon’s mouth only to deflect off the knight’s impregnable gold shield.
My heartbeat quickens and laughter erupts from my belly. A loud, freeing laughter releasing years of stress and pressure. This is where I am meant to be. I scream with utter wild abandon at the top of my lungs then howl like a wolf toward a full moon on a cool night. The small worries and concerns fade away with the falling rain and the cleansing wind that cause the pines to dance before my eyes as one end of a full rainbow touches down twenty-five feet from me. Gazing out at the black-green pines, green grass plains, and deep-turquoise lakes, I am struck by the stillness. I have fallen into nowhere, at the center of everything. The wilderness has made its way back into my heart. Thank you, Dad, for planting the wild in my heart. Thank you, Mom, for nurturing it.
I settle back into the driver’s seat of my Pokémon-speckled, ’60s-living-room bus and keep on driving. Five days after I leave Minnesota, I encounter Teslin Lake, seventy-five miles long with cool-gray snowcapped mountains rising from its shoreline. A mother bear shuffles her two newborn cubs across the narrow, mud-filled dirt road.
As the changing landscape rolls by outside, varying thoughts roll through my head, reflecting the true transitory nature of the mind’s endless chatter. Why do I put so much stake in one thought or feeling when I know it will pass? Recalling Buddhism lectures, I consider how thoughts and emotions enter and then leave, rising and falling upon the prevailing winds with no rhyme or reason. If you base an entire life upon those winds, you will lose your way. I contemplate how sailors use temperamental winds to cross a body of water and how surfers learn to toy with the waves as they roll in and out. I need to learn how to ride the waves of my consciousness while it dips in and out of the pools of thoughts and feelings. Perhaps then I can prevent myself from drowning in the ocean of my emotions or getting lost in the windstorm of my mind. All is impermanence.
A deep healing takes place far away from doctors, therapists, and self-help books. It takes a willingness to let go of your pained past and other defining attachments. Allow yourself to be free and swept up into the womb of all that exists. This is where empowerment exists, and life begins.
As each mile takes me further away from the nightmares invading my life, I feel the relief of change, release from the many unhealthy habits that have been haunting me. The scenery rolling past my window spurs memories of all the places I’ve explored over the past six years. I always imagined myself an adventurer, and my compulsion to roam has taken me to remarkable spots, full of natural beauty and history.
I camp beside Kluane Lake, in southwestern Yukon. Its thirty degrees Fahrenheit, and the sun sets at one-thirty in the morning only to rise again two hours later. I have entered a hall of kings. Maybe I read The Lord of the Rings too many times as a kid, but the immense landscape in Kluane National Park feels like a true last frontier with unmapped areas to explore.
Snow covers the dull, creamy gray of the mountain slopes, which run into chopped-up light-silver glaciers ending in a glossy snow-covered moraine, reminding me of the hundred-some-odd words the Inuit people use to describe snow. The land is an endless wonder, providing inspiration. Every nook and cranny showcase Mother Earth’s attention to detail, from the smallest piece of grass to the largest mountain. The wildlife is more bountiful than the human population.
Log cabins along the road offer a convenient and economical way to live. The tree line reaches one eighth of the mountain height. The mint-green water of Kluane Lake bespeaks complete purity. Magenta and white flowers speckle the shoreline’s rock beach. I have not seen color equal to these lakes since the Mediterranean.
Three thousand miles later, I cross the Alaska border, my quest a success. My body, mind, and spirit are more connected and alive than anytime since the PCT. I want to live to see tomorrow. A big old grizzly bear crosses the road, sauntering to the other side as if nothing else exists. Perhaps he is correct.
Wealth
Matanuska Glacier, Alaska | 2000
A prayer flag which reads “Om Mani Padme Hum”
Dances in the autumn wind.
Is it the flag that moves? Or is it the wind?
Neither… it is your mind.
—Journal entry, December 20, 2000
The Al-Can Highway crosses the border to Tok. From Tok, the road splits northwest to Fairbanks or southwest to Anchorage. I head toward Anchorage knowing I am short on money for gas and food. I pull over at the quaint Sheep Mountain Roadhouse and visit with other travelers while deciding where to go next.
Sitting outside the roadhouse, I pick up a paper to look at the want ads and end up reading my horoscope. It tells me “Last week’s trip tapped into both heaven and hell. They are two sides of the same coin. Is it all perception? Must you realize hell before appreciating heaven?” I laugh out loud and earn strange looks from tourists.
This trip has been quite an emotional roller coaster. One minute my soul is flying higher than the distant peak touching the stars; the next, I am lower than the deepest crevasse, begging for mercy. The only consistency lies within change and turmoil. Grief holds tragic beauty. Stunned moments of sadness are healthy for the soul, reminding us to be real. Freedom and authenticity courses through my heart.
I overhear a few nearby travelers conversing about wealth.
A guy with dreads says, “This land brings me to question society’s definition of wealth.”
“What do you mean? a girl with a long hippie skirt asks, “Wealth is wealth, and we sure don’t have it!”
The group laughs.
He persists: “Think about it. The suburbs of Chicago or Beverly Hills, where money is everywhere, is in stark contrast to this land of so-called poverty. How do people even earn a living here? There isn’t much financial opportunity.”
A third man jumps in. “That’s true. In fact, the money earned per square inch is too infinitesimal to account for.”
“Yes! But here is my point,” Mr. Dreads says. “This land has far more wealth than Beverly Hills can imagine! Wealth is in these gorgeous mountains, the trees, freedom, fresh air, and contentment. In Beverly Hills, this wealth is rare. In Alaska, it is all they know.” His point made, he sits back down on the curb to bask in the sun’s warmth.
Intrigued, I walk over and ask Mr. Dreads, “Do you think it’s possible to keep this feeling of freedom with you even if you live in a city?”
The girl replies, “No way, dude! That’s why we have to move here!”
Everyone laughs and nods in agreement.
I try again. “What about with meditation? Can’t you find that freedom and wealth by searching for deep inner silence and connection? So that whether you are in Beverly Hills or on a glacier, you have that same freedom and wealth?” I didn’t know the answer but was hoping one of them might.
I try to do Buddha justice. “During meditation, you connect to what is going on inside. It gives you a deep inner silence. You can tap into the core of all that’s floating around in your consciousness. Catch it, pin it down, and let it go. We can have true freedom if we break the cycle of suffering and delusion.”
The group looks puzzled at my explanation.
“How does that give you wealth?” Dreads asks.
I raise my shoulders. “I don’t know!”
We all laugh and enjoy the freedom that comes with having no place to be and no agenda.
“Have you heard about the Wheel of
Life?” I say.
The group jester says, “Wheel of Fortune? That’s my Grandma’s favorite show!”
Undistracted, my brain still tracks this line of thought. “If we get off the Wheel of Life that is where we find wealth.”
Mr. Dreads tilts his chin. “What is on the Wheel? How do you get off?”
“Well, on the outside of the Wheel is the twelve-link chain of causation,” I say. Inside the Wheel are six realms: heaven, jealousy, animal, hell, hungry ghosts, and human. I guess we spend time in these realms, fading in and out of them based on our mental state. You get off the wheel by not playing the Wheel of Life—like not clinging to our idea of self as if we are a fact.”
“Huh, sounds promising,” he says.
The girl jumps up. “Hey, come on a Matanuska Glacier tour with us! Our friend is taking us out, so it’s free!”
“Yes, score!” I jump up at my great fortune. Counting my remaining dollars, I hope for enough to enjoy ice cream while we wait. Wealth and I don’t coexist. No ice cream for me if I plan on being in Anchorage.
Glaciers are so foreign. You walk on crampons as if in moon boots. Looking deep into crevasses and holes leading into the center of the earth with water rushing through them to the underworld land of no return. I want more. I intend to use my time here well, however long that may be. The snow and ice are exhilarating. Adrenaline rushes to my head as I toe-pick over a large waterfall and steep slope. How much fun it would be to play forever in these cracks and holes of the crevasses. Sun glares off the surface of the ice. Ten thousand years ago, the glacier crept its way up the Mat-Su Valley. Two hundred and fifty thousand years ago, the glacier was in Anchorage. Such a length of time is incomprehensible.
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