The mystery of the stars weaves a tapestry with the simple rules of Buddhism. Together they form a strong cord, which I consider my lifeline. I have been that archeologist who lifts a potsherd out of soil where it lay hidden for centuries. What is the story behind that potsherd? How old is it? Where does it originate from? Who made it? How did they create it? What were they thinking? Who did they worship when their lives were dark as night with no hope? Did they follow rules similar to that of a Buddhist? Did they look up and ask the moon to help guide them? I can hold that potsherd and lose myself for hours in the imaginative pathways of my mind.
The rules of cosmic order sync with the Eightfold Path, the Four Noble Truths, and the Six Perfections. If I follow the laws of nature, follow the cosmic order of things, I shall be back on the path of the bodhisattva. If my actions are in alignment with nature, how can I go astray? Maybe I am oversimplifying things.
There is a cosmic order to things. Dr. E. C. Krupp, author of Echoes of the Ancient Skies, states that, “What we see in the lights overhead is the itinerary of cosmic order. Because it governs everything, it is reflected in the entire world. It is the core of our consciousness. It defines what is sacred and makes the sky the domain of gods.”
May the inner stillness and serenity found among the stars grow within your soul. I fall asleep, wake up to a new day, and begin again. Rinse. Repeat.
Shaman
Kotzebue, Alaska | 2015
The snow goose need not bathe to make itself white.
Neither need you do anything but be yourself.
—Lao Tzu
After the close call with Loki and scratching in the 2015 Iditarod, I have deep soul-searching to do. It has been ten years since I lost Dave and Madi; twenty since the fateful sun dance and remembrance of abuse. I have moved on with building a new dream for myself and my family. How does their loss still cripple me? I need to face it more head on. Time to declare war on mourning. I have tried therapy, Ironman races, dog races—all methods to let go of the toxic buildup. Still it bubbles up in my weakest moments. Being bitter about life’s randomness, I turned my back on spiritual practices. Perhaps now is the time to return.
What way is the right way? The Eightfold Path, the Ten Commandments, or do I make my own path? My diverse spiritual wanderings have led me from one end of the spectrum to the other. I alone am responsible for my spiritual growth and destiny. I can be a victim or an advocate for my life and the lives of those I love. Not a hard decision to make.
Since I was a child, shamanic traditions have long called out as a path of evidence-based inquiry into the spiritual foundations of our present lives and the lives of our ancestors. Shamanism is not a religion or faith, but a knowing. Without a mechanism for proper training, I explored Celtic shamanism as a teenager then later pursued understanding of Native American practices with tribes in New Mexico and Arizona. While none of these cultural practices seemed to be a good fit, it formed the basis of my spiritual practice. In searching for meaning, I traveled all over the United States finding the wild and free in our great country. I took myself to remote locations, hungry for something. After losing Dave and Madi, my spiritual search went on the back burner while I struggled with grief in a more mundane way.
Research indicates that shamans are wounded healers, or they may inherit the healing gift from their shaman ancestors. Tibetan shamans are hereditary but skip a generation. The Inuit of Greenland get left on the ice for days with no clothes or food to see if they survive. Sometimes dreams call to shamans who follow their dream through initiatory practices. Some places let you pay a master shaman to provide initiation experiences to see what happens.
There is a loss of knowledge worldwide. Elders are not available to youth as they once were. In generations past, the Inuit elders in Hudson Bay knew people who had starved because they couldn’t find caribou. The shamans would use divination to find answers to such pragmatic questions. They would take a caribou shoulder blade and read it, like a map, to determine location of game. I don’t plan on reading the shoulder blades of dead animals, but there is something in the method that has lasted thousands of years and spanned the globe.
Shamans in northwest Alaska have historically created both real benefit and real harm. Not all shamans want to help others. Sorcerers of the past longed for power, cursed their neighbors, and warred with nearby villages. When missionaries came in the mid-1900s, indigenous practices such as drumming and dancing were considered devil worship and banned. They took away all drums—the heartbeat of a culture, stolen in a decade.
Core Shamanism, founded by the late Michael Harner, brings together universal, near universal, and common practices making it well-suited to contemporary practitioners.
Practicing the path of a shaman, I listen to the beat of the drum traveling around non-ordinary reality, questing to find answers to this puzzling life. With every initiation, deep revelations pour forth. Carlos Castaneda was onto something. Profound awareness enters my being. The traumas embedded in my soul release their grip. I forgive others and forgive myself. The core of my being understands that enlightenment is no longer my goal. This life is not about helping me for my benefit. It is about easing the pain and suffering of others. The shamanic path has the same endgame as a bodhisattva, where enlightenment is a mere side effect. I do not want to use any mind-altering substances. I want the authentic experience—hard-earned through training.
Core shamanism methods use only a drum or rattle to induce theta brain waves (four to seven beats per second), the most effective for altering consciousness. The theta ranges cause the brain waves to entrain and to fall in sync with the beat of the drum. Shamans need to develop the discipline to have one foot in each reality and be in either when needed.
I find an inner knowing about life and our purpose here. A shaman treats everything with great respect, sees and knows with the heart, and makes the impossible possible. I won’t allow myself to be inauthentic again. I will be true, damn the consequences.
Yukon Quest
Whitehorse, Canada | 2017
The vast and empty swath of land comprising Alaska’s
Interior and Canada’s Yukon Territory is reserved for the
rugged and the romantic, the bold, the independent and
the centered self, not the self-centered. It is the land of
dreamers and of rich traditions. This is a place the intrepid
choose in winter. They do not fear temperatures dropping
to -50 Fahrenheit. For the strong minded the Far North’s
extremes offer an affirmation that they are alive. For the
weak-minded, it is the wrong place to be.
—Lew Freedman, Yukon Quest
The 2017 Yukon Quest race begins in Whitehorse, Yukon. This race trail runs one thousand miles across northern Alaska and the Yukon Territory. Most mushers consider it the toughest sled dog race in the world. Compared to the Iditarod, the Yukon Quest has many more summits to climb, half the checkpoints, and far colder temperatures. The motto of the Quest is, Survive First, Race Second.
My preparation began ten years ago in Fairbanks, when I first heard of its existence while working at Chena Hot Springs on geothermal energy projects. The Yukon Quest trail passes right alongside the property at Chena, so the race brings a sense of wonder of what unexplored mysteries lie beyond the boundaries of what is already a remote location. Chena Hot Springs is the end of the road for cars. A paved road extends sixty miles from Fairbanks and dead-ends at the hot springs. For mushers, that is where it all begins. That is all my wanderlust needs to take root, although I had no long-distance racing experience, or any real mushing experience, at that point.
Looking out over the hills, I dream about the Far North wilderness mushers venture into. I want to experience that for myself. The history of the trail is fascinating. It follows old gold-mining and mail-delivery routes opened in the late 1800s by miners, trappers, and
mail carriers. In 1984 they ran the first Quest. Its purpose was “to offer an experience that reflects the spirit and perseverance of the pioneers who discovered themselves in their wild search for adventure, glory, and wealth in the Frozen North” and “to recognize and promote the spirit that compels one to live in the Great North Land, an international spirit that knows no governmental boundaries, and to bring public attention to the historic role of the Arctic Trail in the development of the North Country, and the people and animals that strove to meet its challenge.”
The Yukon Quest is infamous for extreme cold and desolate landscapes with endless days of solitude. There are four notorious summits: King Solomon’s Dome, American, Eagle, and Rosebud. The Yukon River has mazes of broken-up jumble ice that lasts for miles. One stretch of trail from Pelly Crossing checkpoint to Dawson is two hundred miles long. The enthusiasm for the trail does nothing to reduce my outright fear in the months leading up to the race. I have nightmares of the race, and the preparations for it haunt my waking and sleeping hours.
In Yukon Quest: The History of the World’s Toughest Sled Dog Race, Lew Freedman writes, “There will come a time and a place along the trail when the body is weakening, the cold is penetrating to the bones, visibility is non-existent because of blowing snow, when the dogs and musher would prefer to lie down in the night. At such a time, the musher must reach down to find out if he has the right stuff.” This is the source of my massive feeling of unease. I stared down my demons on thousands of miles of lonely trail leading up to this point, and think I have what it takes.
Writer John Schandelmeier said, “The Quest trail demands the highest caliber of skill and readiness from mushers and their teams. Many who start don’t make it to the finish.”
I know what I am getting into. Perfect. I am hungry for that connection found when driving yourself to the edge of what most people consider sane. Or maybe I am overconfident.
Four weeks before the Iditarod, the Yukon Quest runs from Whitehorse to Fairbanks, alternating direction every year. This means that the dogs and I will run in two different thousand-mile dogsled races with little more than a two-week break between. I have the company of Nina Schwinghammer and her mechanically inclined fiancé, Alan Spangler. They are working as handlers to support the race by driving a truck two thousand miles to pick up any dropped dogs and clean up the straw and leftover food after we leave the checkpoints.
I have a great team of dogs snuggling in their straw-filled boxes in a sixteen-foot toy hauler. My main leaders are Blondie, Joy, Katherine, and Giant. All four of them have significant racing experience. Joy is the only one who has completed multiple thousand-mile races with me. The team includes four brothers: Flash, Shadow, Stark, and Loki who came back strong from the 2015 Iditarod. To fill out the twelve-dog team, I also have Neo, the oldest gal on the team at six years old.
It is amazing that no matter how prepared you are going into race week, there are always last-minute details that somehow create a disproportionate amount of stress. If left behind, little things like extra AA batteries, zip ties for the sled banners, or toenail clippers for the dogs can create massive problems. Using checklists is a great “type A” way to eliminate most disasters. But there is always something that ends up making me cry out, “My race is ruined!”
Race day is here. I wake up and fill my coffee and hot water thermoses. Nina, Alan, and I look for the entrance to the musher parking and get settled in. Three hours until lift off, I put on my parka. It is about ten below and I don’t want to get cold before heading out. I zip up my beloved $800 can’t-live-without Arc’teryx jacket, when—snap!—the zipper breaks. I am in disbelief. I have to leave in three hours and have a useless parka I can’t zip, and now I will freeze in the frigid Far North of the Quest.
“My race is ruined!” I yell while crying.
I always seem to cry at race start lines. I have to go ten days without talking to Amelia. I get torn up knowing how nervous and scared she will be. She won’t be able to hear my voice. I cry in the back of the trailer, hoping no one comes in and sees me. I’m panicking over this zipper and Amelia and crying. Great. This is where having resilient friends, family, and handlers around you can make or break your race experience.
“How about I go over to the local ski shop and get a replacement,” Alan says.
In my mind, I determine there is no way they will have the exact one. It won’t suffice, and even if it does, it will cost $1,000. I have no choice. The biggest rule of thumb for Arctic travel is that you always test your gear. I am heading out for ten days with my main piece of clothing untested. Having no available car, Alan physically runs to the store one mile away and begins the shopping process. They don’t have the same style or anything close to it. Arc’teryx designed a new layer system for improved flexibility, and I have no clue as to its effectiveness. I know what works for me. Pretty much just Arc’teryx Gore-Tex outer layers, wool inner layers, and Arc’teryx synthetic down. Although the zipper failed me, I trust it keep me dry and warm. Alan runs the mile back to the dog truck so I can try on what he found. They don’t fit.
We are now at T-minus-2 hours, and you guessed it: “My race is ruined!” I cry on the phone to Mom. I prefer to be alone in the prerace hours. I know and accept that I am irrational and work to minimize the fallout on poor innocent bystanders. Nina and Alan are unfortunate, being stuck with me.
Alan runs back, another mile, to shop around for new sizes and styles. He returns with another option, and it fits! The new gear is lighter, warmer, and more comfortable. Despite costing loads, the new gear might save my race. Mushers need a lot of coat pockets. We stuff everything we don’t want to lose or that can’t freeze into them. It is easy to get lazy and want to keep your survival gear in a bag on the sled, but if you fall off of it during the race at forty degrees below zero, that could pose a problem. I fill my pockets with lighters, two 5-Hour Energy shots, a pocketknife, a GPS, hand warmers, backup contact lenses, eye drops, a headlamp, a headlamp battery, etc.
T-minus-1.5 hours. The next hurdle is to put on new plastic—my biggest racing obstacle. No matter what I do, putting on new sled-runner plastic always results in crisis. You want to wait until race morning so the plastic doesn’t get damaged in the trailer before the start. This time, the company who sells the runners neglected to drill holes into the hard plastic. We can’t secure them to the nine-foot sled runners.
“My race is ruined!” I cry out again.
At that moment, Tyrell Seavey comes up to say hi. A racer himself, Tyrell is the brother of Dallas Seavey, four-time Iditarod champion, and no a stranger to race-start issues. To make me feel better, he tells me of a time when Dallas ran the Denali Doubles sled dog race.
“My brother drives up from his home in Wasilla, has his dogs harnessed and sled out. About one hour before race start, he realizes he forgot one important piece of gear: his gang line. Most people give up at that point. Not Dallas. Dallas nonchalantly puts a gang line together with a rope he finds in the back of the truck. Despite having young dogs, known for chewing, he takes off on time. Plus, Dallas wins the race. His cool temperament proved to be an asset.”
I take the hint: breathe, and work to stay calm. Tyrell and Alan take over working on the sled plastic by finding a drill and bit from somewhere. We go through all the plastic and find that none of it has holes. This means that they also screwed up all the plastic in my drop bags along the trail. I have to drill out whatever plastic I can find in the trailer and carry it with me as I won’t be able to do so on the trail.
T-minus-1 hour. I pack the sled. Nina and I harness the dogs. It’s time to put booties on each of their paws. I have on all my gear and load my pockets with critical items. People want to laugh, talk, and share in the excitement of the trail ahead. I sneak away into the front of the truck to call Amelia to say goodbye because it is time to hand my phone over to Nina—the Yukon Quest board does not allow two-way communication
devices on the trail. Amelia is worried, but she doesn’t let me hear it in her voice. She is used to the routine from the Iditarod, but the unfamiliarity of the Yukon Quest trail creates uncertainty.
We are now at the starting line. I have Blondie and Joy in lead to get us to the first checkpoint, Braeburn, which is one hundred miles away. I relax, knowing I can’t do any more to be ready. My race is not ruined.
A thousand miles of brand-new trail stretches out ahead of me, taking me to places I have only read and dreamed about. The dogs are frenzied with excitement, jerking on the line trying to pull the sled loose, wagging their tails, and barking. It is thrilling and contagious. They know we are ready to go.
The timekeeper says, “Go!”
I pull the hooks, volunteers let go of my sled, and we fly down the trail. I leave Whitehorse behind with a sigh of relief and a sense of excitement, knowing that an uncharted territory lies in store for the dogs and me.
Fifteen miles into the race, on the way to Braeburn, is the first trail crux. There is open water on the Takhini River, so the trail needs to go overland on a new trail. We pass through trees and prepare to drop onto the river in the next few miles. Soon I hear dog teams stopped ahead of me. The wooded trail is too narrow to attempt passing. The dogs are riled up, barking, and jerking. Needing to see what the problem is, I find a small tree to wrap my hook around and walk up to talk to the musher in front of me while keeping an eye on my team. Together we figure out what is going on.
The trail ahead zigzags with four extreme 90-degree turns within twenty feet of each other. The last of these is a left turn with a sheer three-hundred-foot drop-off to the right. To make matters interesting, this left-corner turn also has trees. Right now, a sled is stuck to one of them, and the musher is working to free it, with all dogs jerking, while trying to not fall over the edge.
Epic Solitude Page 23