The Iditasport Extreme Foot Race by Rocky Riefenstuhl
Rocky Reifenstuhl writes:
Foreword:
I have raced wilderness races in the Arctic and sub-Arctic for more that 15 years. Some of those races have been on the Iditarod Trail, the Yukon Quest Trail, and still others in areas with no trails. On February 10th 2003 I will race the 300 mile Yukon Arctic Ultra, which starts in Whitehorse, Yukon Territory, Canada. Our race gets started just after the Yukon Quest Dogsled Race, the most difficult dogsled race in the world.
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After 15 years of racing in human-powered winter events on the Iditarod Trail, I am opting for the Yukon Arctic Ultra race. From what I’ve seen so far, this is by far the best organized, best planned, and potentially the finest human-powered ultra that any dog sled trail has ever seen. The local community is behind the race, the checkpoint localities are behind the race, and all the trail users are behind the race. The Yukon Arctic Ultra looks to be very well managed by it’s creator, Robert Pollhammer of Germany. Robert is an excellent organizer, communicator, facilitator, and manager. I expect the Yukon Arctic Ultra to be extremely challenging, extremely well organized, and extremely cold. If you want to discover personal insights that would otherwise remain forever unknown, come to the Yukon Arctic Ultra, come to the Arctic wilderness, come find out who you really are. Finally, Alaska Native elders who live in this forbidding country say that, 'wisdom is derived from direct experience with the natural world'. I believe it. Come experience the raw, pure natural world. And you will believe it too.
The Iditasport Extreme Foot Race, Alaska
The Iditasport Extreme is a winter race, for runners, bicyclists and skiers, along a 350-mile segment of the Iditarod trail. In March 2000 fifty-five competitors lined up to experience this wilderness adventure in its millennial year, to taste Alaska’s sub arctic backcountry like few in the world have, or could.
I’ve spent my share of time racing on the trail over the last 15 years. In 1999 I placed third in the Iditasport Extreme’s bike category after placing 1st in the 100 mile Iditasport bike race a week earlier. In February 2000 I again placed 1st in the 100 mile bike race, and then, a week later, I entered the running division with my brother Steve. Strong-Steve, from Sitka, Alaska, is an expert at wilderness races, winning the Iditasport 100 footrace twice and placing 2nd in the bike with me one year. He would be my soul-mate for the next 5 days. During that time we would rely on each other for everything. Steve and I each knew that we would never let the other down, no matter the circumstances. This is part of our fundamental bond. And although it has been repeatedly tested, it has never weakened, but only become more ironclad with each trial.
The race has almost no regulations, which is an indication of a true and pure wilderness event. Some of the pertinent include a required campout the first night, signing in at the six checkpoints, and the rule that warns "no outside support". Each racer is allowed two 20-pound, airdropped re-supply bags: one at Skwentna (100 miles) and one at Puntilla Lake (170 miles). Other than that, you’re on your own. As one reporter wrote, "Forget the Eco Challenge, the Raid, and the Beast, those races are merely dangerous, Iditasport Extreme is potentially deadly". But the real beauty of the Alaska races and the new Yukon Arctic Ultra relative to their better-known southerly events is obvious.
Steve and I set off from the start at Knik Lake at 3:00 p.m., heading for the required campout 25 miles down the trial. Pulling our homemade sleds that contain food and survival gear we’re stoked with optimism but tempered by a very healthy respect for the power of the Alaska winter wilderness, which tolerates no weakness.
The gear we carry is standard outdoor equipment of the highest quality. And the fact is, the clothing that we have come to rely on for its quality, durability and versatility seems always to be Patagonia. Our trail running shoes are 1/2 to 1 full size larger than normal to accommodate liner socks, Gore-tex socks and outer socks, and to allow room for the expected foot swelling which, along with assorted blisters and lost toenails, is unavoidable in this race.
After the first night we fall into a pattern: traveling 20 to 22 hours per day, dozing less than 2 hours per night. Sleep deprivation brings on hallucinations, especially in the dark. Steve and I know, on some level, that the things we’re seeing can’t be real, but images created by a mind with none of the normal filters become that mind’s reality. These visions become part of a hazy fog we travel through. We leave Skwentna (mile 100) at 4:30 a.m., and trek to Finger Lake (mile 130). This is the third checkpoint, and we spend 30 minutes in the luxurious warmth and comfort of a beautiful lodge. Sleep and rest beckon us, but the snow is falling, building up.
We break free of the lodge’s grip and dive into thick darkness speckled with a swirl of fat flakes. It’s going to be a psychedelic night, no doubt. After hours of climbing, sometimes hand over hand up dangerous snow chutes, we decide we must bivy despite the storm. I feel like I could easily perish here. Thank God for my brother’s skills and our confidence in each other. Cold, wet, tired, no…exhausted, we methodically setup a double bivy bag, put in two pads, two individual bags and then another open bag over those. I suck down some chocolate for fuel, pull my poor feet out of wet shoes, place everything where I hope it won’t freeze solid, and hunker-down into full-mummage. It’s 3:30 am; we’ve been on the trail for 22-1/2 hours. I’m asleep in less than 60 seconds.
6:00 am comes early. Now for the tough part: pack up wet gear while snow continues to fall; put on cold, dry socks, shoes, gaiters; and go. After 3 miles we come upon a biker huddled in a bivy bag beside the trail. It’s Pierre; a naturalized Frenchman who last year was circled by a snow machine, then deliberately hit from behind while he was riding to the finish on wide-open Big Lake. Here he is, back for more abuse. But pushing a loaded bike through this deep snow is too much. Soon after we leave, Pierre catches us. He has only a hydration pack and some food. "I leave the damn bike behind. I’ve had enough pushing. I’m going home."
The next checkpoint, Puntilla Lake, is on a five-mile long glacial lake above tree line. We arrive at 3:00 p.m. and leave at 4:00. That time is spent in a flurry of activity. We gather and pack airdropped gear we’ll need for the next 170 miles; change socks, mend feet, layer clothes for the inevitably colder temperatures on the north side of the Alaska Range: and, finally, shove as much warm food into our faces as possible. The new snow is only several inches deep here, and in many places the winds have removed it, leaving a crust which we inevitably break through just often enough to destroy our rhythm. For the next 15 miles we pick our way through a barren, desolate country of snow, ice, rock, and wind. The 3,700-foot elevation of this pass might seem minor, but try it in February after 3 nights on the trail, at 1:00 am, with the thermometer plunging past zero. I’m now limping on a twisted ankle. Not good. I keep a careful eye on Steve, figuring that he’s silently considering whether or not he’ll have to shoot me. Trail conditions become rougher as we descend the Dalzell Gorge. Many Iditarod dog sled teams damage sleds, dogs, or drivers on this section of the trail to Rohn. Finally, the gorge opens up to reveal a series of frozen lakes. Dawn chases the hallucinations away just as they threaten to become overpowering. It’s well below zero when we pull into the checkpoint (one very small cabin and a two-holer outhouse) at 9:00 am. Jasper, Rohn’s official Iditarod Sled Dog Race checker, has some extra pancakes. We gobble them along with anything else not nailed down. We fall all over ourselves thanking our generous proprietor, and plan to include him in our will.
Nikolai, 85 miles distant, is our next objective, with a midpoint way station at 40 miles called Buffalo Camp, a Native encampment used when hunting bison. We slide across a vast river valley punctuated with tree carcasses and other river flotsam. Crossing frozen water with no help within 50 miles or more makes us discuss our vulnerability, our insignificance, our fear. Soon we’re in the "rain shadow" of the Alaska Range. Incredibly, we find ourselves pulling our sleds across grassy tundra tussocks, like naked sentinels awaiting their white blanket. Apparently this is buffalo country; there are tell-tale scat piles everywhere Nightfall finds us in the Farewell Burn, a vast area consumed by fire in the late ‘70’s. I can’t help thinking of Jack London’s line: "in the winter the land is locked tight as a drum". It is tight, rigid, absolutely unyielding. It’s now the middle of the night, five below, and the hallucination monster is pretty much in control. We’ve "seen" the Native camp at least 50 times. Finally, the real thing appears, complete with barking dogs! But alas, we’re too late, there’s no room, and the residents are probably too unhappy at being awakened to let these foolish pilgrims in for a rest. Another camp, another fire; it’s bivy time again. We’ve been moving for 16 hours, and savor our 2 hours of blissful sleep.
At 6:30 a.m. we head north for Nikolai, only 40 miles distant. Mt. McKinley dominates horizons across much of southern Alaska. Here it’s no different. There is a twist though. The last time we saw it, McKinley was directly in front of us. Now it’s behind our right shoulders. As always, the journey to the next official checkpoint takes us through an infinite number of mental checkpoints, each marked with a small indulgence. Guess I’ll have another smushed almond butter sandwich now, or would I rather have a cheese tortilla? I already ate all my butter. Damn good it was, too! Finally we cross the southern branch of the Kuskokwim River and make out Nikolai’s onion-domed, Russian-influenced church. We check in at the Teen Center, where Native townspeople are playing bingo as we begin our business of drying clothes, doctoring feet, sucking soda and eating food. The normal heat inside the building feels shocking, oppressive. I actually wash my face and feet, and a few other selected areas. After the bingo game is over we are treated with a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. "You really just walked 300 miles?" Yep. "In those sneakers?" Yep. "You really like those sodas, don’t you?" Yep, love ‘em. McGrath is our last leg, so to speak. And I don’t have much in way of legs left. Most of this stretch follows the Kuskokwim, which forces us to follow its frightfully lengthy meanders. Some are as long as 6 miles, but cutting across them without a trail is nearly impossible. Before 1:00 am, two snowmachiners, traveling from the wet town of McGrath to dry Nikolai, stop to chat. They pull out a bottle of beer and offer it to us. Sure, give me a couple! The walking is good on the river, but Old Man Sleep is overpowering and forces us to lay down on our sleds and catch a 10-minute nap. We’ve been on the trail without sleep for 20 hours now. This is hard; this is very hard. We are forced down twice more. Willpower is something we discuss for a while. I walk arm-in-arm with Steve, partly for my own support, partly for the closeness that I feel for him. It has gone back and forth during the days on the trail, but right now it is I who receives his strength. We make our way toward McGrath in the swelling light of dawn, and it becomes crystal clear why the ancients worshipped the sun. We decide that the luxury of a 35-minute bivy on the brightly-lit trail will aid our overall progress.
Yes! Rejuvenated by the rest, Steve and I press on at 4 to 4.5 mph for quite a while. But some sad soul has moved a couple of the official Iditarod Sled Dog Race markers, causing us to follow a wrong trail for half an hour. We must be careful here. Frustration, in our condition, could be deadly. Night is approaching and our feet are pretty shot. Suddenly an angel appears in the form of a Cessna 172. The pilot circles, flies 50 feet over our heads and drops us a note: "You’re three river bends from McGrath". This guy is in our will also! There’s still another 10 miles to go, but the news is a tremendous psychological boost. The temperature drops to five below, then ten. No matter, the lights of McGrath suddenly loom ahead.
We cross the finish line after 6 days, 10 hours, 50 minutes on the trial, taking first place in the foot division, 10th overall, and finishing ahead of all the skiers and a slew of bikers. Steve and I have shared 6 1/2 days of soul-rattling intensity that reaffirms our unshakable love for each other. Upon refection we hope we captured a small kernel of what Alaska Native elders have passed down for thousands of years, 'wisdom is derived from direct experience with the natural world'. Steve and I live for these times: to become one, to see what the other sees, think what the other thinks. We have melded during this epic, building on the bonds formed during childhood days of tree houses, forts, and explorations into our local ‘wilderness’. The blisters, sore muscles and tendons will fade, but the hauntingly intense experiences are etched in our memories forever. Sharing this journey is a gift; one that deepens our respect for untamed places, and our understanding of each other. Nothing in the future will seem difficult or undoable. This is a uniquely powerful event, in a spellbinding country. It leaves no one unchanged.
BIO Rocky Reifenstuhl, lives in Fairbanks, Alaska where he admits to being raised by his two teenage daughters, Alexis and Kirsten, and his wife, Gail. He and Gail have been entering "extreme" foot and bicycle races for 20 years, and have no plans of stopping. And Gail, is the only person to have more Iditasport wins than Rocky!
visit the arctic ultra website here
(N.B Iditapsort are no longer in business)
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