Here is a short, edited version of our trip... I have a much longer version in the works... As a backcountry ATV and snowmachine tour guide and as a retired dog musher, I had always thought that traveling across Alaska would be an amazing adventure. Although I had flown from Big Lake to Nome and over the Alaska Range numerous times in the past, I wanted a more palpable experience and decided to test my snowmachining skills in the 1,000+ mile Iron Dog Trail Class. The trail class is a non-competitive, long distance trek, which takes approximately 4 and a half days to cover some of the most unforgiving terrain in the world. Day one was a mix of our familiar home trails, but we soon were beyond our normal turn around points. Radical, gnarly trails, glaciated side hills, tight trees and wide open flowing river water were only some of the first day’s challenges. With a winter that had failed to drop any significant snow, we were running on bare ice for much of the first day. I had two sets of ice scratchers on my sled, two on my skis and two on my rails to ensure that I was getting some snow into the heat exchanger. Without that cooling mechanism, any sled with a traditional set up wouldn’t be able to go very far without overheating the motor, but I knew that I was in good hands with Evans Waterless Coolant. We hadn’t even traveled 150 miles and I was already thrilled with the results I was seeing. Not one temperature light and my gauge only read 14 degrees, above normal operating temperature, at the highest. While other participants were stopping to cool their machines, I was able to keep running and could maintain a more consistent motor temperature through some of the craziest conditions that I had ever seen. We spent the night at Rainy Pass Lodge, surrounded by the mountain peaks of the most awesome mountain range in North America, and took off the next morning to attack what is known as the most intense snowmobile trail in the world… Ptarmigan Pass, Hellsgate and down onto the snow free South Fork of the Kuskokwim River. So much gravel; drum ice that falls through as you cross and stacks of driftwood are not typically terrain that one would choose to travel through on a sled, but there we were. There was literally no snow and very few places to safely stop without worrying about the integrity of the ice. After refueling at the very remote Rohn checkpoint, we took off into the infamous Buffalo Tunnels and onto the Farewell Burn. This area is known for having no snow and a plethora of roots, stumps, downed trees and huge tussocks. This is no four wheeler trail… it is literally covered with rock hard, boulder sized grass clumps and it takes every ounce of one’s energy to not get bounced off the trail and into the thick tracts of trees lining the route. Immediately I broke off two of my ice scratchers and was very concerned about cooling my sled properly. I still hadn’t seen any unusually high temperatures and hoped to continue that trend. For the next 75 miles we battled the most frustrating and sled murdering terrain, but not once did I overheat or come close to having any problems, even without adequate supplementary cooling devices. Eventually, we found the snow again as we reached Nikolai and the sleds continued to run magnificently on the way to McGrath. Day three was the longest we had seen yet, although we were pleased to find out that it would be much easier than day two, between a combination of easier terrain and more snowpack to not only cool, but cushion the ride. We traveled 63 miles to Ophir, most of which was routed on an old, remote mining road that began in Takotna. Ophir to Poorman was 99 miles of mostly swamps and the beautiful, sunny, although cold day was a welcomed change from the past two days’ physical and mental challenges. After a delicious bowl of stew in Poorman, a checkpoint set up for only for these cross country events, we departed on a narrow, tree lined trail, traveling pretty much in a big group of trail class riders. A small bridge marked the 1/3 point of the 75 mile run to Ruby and we were able to separate ourselves and run solo for the last 45 or so miles to the village. This section of the ride was an absolute joy and pleasure, an unplowed 40 foot wide mining road, sweeping up and down over hills, reminding me of my home trails in Petersville. Normally what I would find slightly boring, the sunset was incredible, shooting off colors that you really only see during the incredibly cold evenings in the interior of Alaska. At -20 degrees, the only stressful part of the run was having to stop and change out fogged up goggles. A warm bed in Ruby and stories from the trail led to conversations of a very cold morning to come, running down the Yukon River. We awoke early and headed out to thoroughly warm up our machines, as the temperature was hovering around -25 to -30 degrees and we knew we’d be hitting temperatures much lower on the River. The sleds were running great, even after two days in super low temps and we were ready to rock and roll. Extra clothes, two balaclavas on and plenty of tape on our faces to protect them from frostbite, we waddled out and rode off onto the amazingly huge Yukon River. You could immediately feel the temperature drop to what we think was around -40F, but we were cruising right along, not wide open, but holding the sleds steady between 60 and 70 mph, watching for ice shelves to come up and surprise us with an unplanned flight. I was having some oil pressure issues and by the time we rolled into Galena, 50 or so miles downriver, the sun was up and we were slightly chilled. We took the day to thaw out and repair my sled, with only one false attempt at taking off that ended with my being towed back to Galena to reattempt a repair. Luckily enough, we were given the opportunity to watch the big dogs; the front runners, in the pro class, pull in and fuel up, some departing and some deciding to take a rest. We saddled up and headed back out onto the Yukon River, toward Kaltag, with no apparent sled issues. The river had a thin layer of soft snow and was flat and fast. Before we knew it, we were in Kaltag, chatting with the pro class racers who had arrived before us. We decided to push on, even though it was dark and there were suggestions that it might be a better idea to travel this more challenging section in the daylight. We, however, were not too keen on staying overnight, which would force us to travel on the narrow climbing trail with the pro-class guys, not to mention that we would be way behind the other trail class participants. We decided to push on in the dark, leaving around 7:15, after a cup of coffee and stripping some layers, for the warmer run on the more challenging trail. Spotlight, lead dog and headlights on, we lit up the forest and wound our way up on the 95 mile Kaltag portage trail. Up and up through the woods for 15 miles, enjoying the decent snow and relatively warm temperatures, but it all changed when we reached the summit of the portage. Now we were back on the tundra, dirt and grass and plenty of bumps, marked only by some faint track marks in the dirt and a handful of tripods with yellow reflectors. Every so often on the descent, we were able to find some decent snow, but it was becoming less and less common as we came closer to the coast. We continued to plug on through the grim terrain and eventually dropped onto the Unalakleet River, almost immediately sighting the airport beacons off in the distance. It was around 9:45, not a bad run through there at night, and I was really happy to see those three red flashing lights. We pulled into Unalakleet not long after spotting the lights, and were really thrilled to see a group of fans who had waited up for us. We headed to bed, so sure that tomorrow would be easier. Day 5 started early. With the excitement of the final day ahead, sleep had been hard to track down and Rachel and I were up, fed and ready to head out early. After checking out, we followed the markers out of town on a trail that had even less snow than we had seen up to that point… and it got worse. We reached the Blueberry River and had a heck of time figuring out where to cross the jumble ice, which would collapse immediately under my sled. It was quite a scary sound to behold, with the cracking and popping, not to mention the thudding of my terrified heart. We hadn’t seen snow in some while, but I was impressed to see that my temperature was still steady and normal. We finally picked our way across the river and were welcomed with a sight of unending hills of dirt and grass. Literally no snow. And it did not get any better for many, many miles. We bumped over the brown and barren Blueberry Hills toward Shaktoolik, a very long 45 miles away. Once again on the Norton Sound side of the hills, we were pummeled by gale force winds, that literally tried to blow us off our sleds. Even with my Yamaha, a 600 lb beast, I could feel my studs skidding sideways on the glare ice. My right ear was freezing and my right arm was becoming numb from holding my body up against the wind. Once at Shaktoolik, we took a short reprieve from the wind and added layers to keep our ears from freezing, before heading out to cross the sea ice, a generally dangerous and intense adventure. I never imagined that a 55 mile run could be quite that intense… With a thick layer of ground storm, blowing snow (I have no idea where it could have been coming from, as I hadn’t seen any snow for many miles) we put our heads down and hoped that the wind would let up and let the sun shine through. The “trail” started out with an immense flood zone, littered thickly with huge pieces of driftwood, right into enormous chunks of jumbled sea ice. We did not see an iota of snow for the entire journey across the sound, and after losing the markers, we followed two faint scratcher marks, sometimes just aiming toward land. Criossing the sea ice was unlike any other experience in the world. Constant ski chatter, the inability to go much faster than a crawl and the mental and physical responsibility of having to pick our way through the barren, alien landscape. We were crossing a 40 mile stretch of what amounted to giant slabs of fractured ice that had been slammed together with the influence of the tides and wind. We had to pick our way up onto 8 foot high ice mountains and then down the back side, often times teetering on one or no skis and part of the track. There was never a time where you could relax or feel stability under your sled. Almost 2/3 of the way across, I hit a pressure ridge hard and, with my hands in a deathgrip on the bars, the handlebar yanked forward and I felt a searing pain in my right shoulder. I stopped. I swore. I teared up a little. I continued on, hoping that it wasn’t a major injury, but fear of stopping on the unstable sea ice trumped any pain that I was feeling. We continued on to Koyuk, and finally picked up the trail markers coming in from the east, way off track of where had crossed. The other trail teams had pulled in right ahead of us, even after leaving Shaktoolik a half an hour ahead of us and it became apparent that we had taken and extremely risky route. I was incredibly glad that I didn’t have any overheating issues, as it could have become a life threatening issue out on the ever changing sea ice. I was in an intense amount of pain and knew that something was seriously wrong with my shoulder, but there was no stopping here! My thumb was still working so it wasn’t even a question of continuing. We were so close and there was no stopping us now. We headed back down onto the trail after fueling, speeding along the coast on the fast glare ice. It was exuberating to be able to open the throttle up after such a slow slog and I hoped that we wouldn’t be encountering any more barren stretches of dirt. We popped off the sea ice and began traversing many miles of open swamps and partially forested narrows; every once in a while a pro class support plane buzzing us from above… we knew the fast guys were close and we wanted nothing to do with getting in their way, so we continued at a pace that was becoming quite a challenge for my gimpy shoulder. Past the old village of Elim and then up onto the snow covered road, a bypass as the sea ice was too unstable for travel. I was shocked awake by a pro class racer flying by at what seemed to be twice our pace and then his partner close behind. It only took a moment to pass through the new village of Elim and then we were climbing a narrow trail with the most decent snow we had seen since just after Kaltag. Up and up and up, paranoid about a pro class team coming up behind as there was absolutely no place to pull off and let them pass, finally cresting a gorgeous treeless ridge with an incredible view of Norton Sound. We traversed the ridgeline for quite a few miles on the windblown hardpack, sometimes crossing over sections of shale rock and exposed caribou grass, before dropping back down toward the coast. About half way down, the snow completely disappeared and we were back to running on bare dirt and grass clumps, and the trail looked exactly the same for many, many, many miles. It was honestly depressing and between my injured shoulder and my blown suspension, I was getting really beat up. I tried to imagine how fun and fast this ride would have been if there was adequate snow. We finally managed to get out of the hills and down onto the ice, heading toward Golovin. What a dream! Absolutely no snow, but there was absolutely no bumps either! Wide open throttle, hitting speeds nearing the triple digits and trying to reclaim time lost bumping through the tundra. Through Golovin and back out onto the glare ice. The last 18 miles on the Golovin Lagoon were incredibly fast, with little to slow us down on what amounted to an ice skating rink. Pulling into White Mountain, we were relieved to have completed that 95 miles and were ready to tackle the last 75 into Nome. After a water break and taking time to chat with the locals, we headed out on what is by far the most frustrating trail that anyone could ever travel. Forty miles of more dirt, grass and tussocks through the Topkok Hills and still no issues with overheating, even with my traveling incredibly slowly and with little throttle control from my right arm, with its injured shoulder. The barren hills led into the flats and lagoons, outside of Nome, with less than 40 miles to the finish line, but the Iron Dog trail wouldn’t give up a completion that easily. Driftwood and intense winds, glare ice and a bare gravel road were our last obstacles, not to be taken lightly. It was at this point that I discovered that my ice scratchers had been destroyed, not helping a lick to cool my sled and I was shocked that I had been able to keep plugging away on the most barren trail that the race had ever seen. We jumped back and forth across the road, trying to find an iota of snow or at least a flat section of trail, past Safety Roadhouse, which sits only 20 miles outside of Nome and along the Bering Sea Coast, where we could see open ocean water not far off shore. The last miles were a blur; I was in pain and wanting to reach that finish line with all of my being. All of a sudden cars and media, fans cheering and a flagger directing us onto the road. As we turned left, we saw the finish chute and a group of cheering friends and family. It was so surreal. Rachel and I looked at each other and raised our hands in a high five. My eyes were tearing up so I left my goggles on as I shook hands with those who had come out to greet us. There’s no crying in snowmachining. But, it had been an incredible journey; one that started years before we reached the starting line and after some thought and recovery time, one that will continue in next year’s Iron Dog and hopefully for many years to come.
Posted on: Tue, 18 Mar 2014 20:17:07 +0000
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