Rohn checkpoint, mile 205, is a 15 by 20 feet log cabin and a two-holer outhouse situated among 100 feet high spruce trees, and all in the cleft of the 7,000 feet high saw tooth mountains adjacent to the mighty Kuskokwim. We’re on the north side of the Alaska Range at 3:00 pm. And it took only 11 hours! Jasper, the nicest and best cookin’ Iditarod checker on the trail invites us in to his toasty cabin. Peter’s already in his sleeping bag, having arrived 20 minutes ahead of us by riding his huge, 5 inch-wide tires on marginal trails. Jeff and I collect our final checkbag, loading batteries, GU, GU2O electrolyte mix, smoked salmon, chocolate, MyCoal heat packs, extra inner tubes, and other trail goodies. Jasper feeds us some other- worldly fried potatoes, onions and beef, washed down with much hot chocolate. Thank goodness for Jasper’s hospitality. The wall tent and facilities that Ron and Rich were to provide for our human powered race isn’t even up yet! Jeff and I lie down for 45 minutes; engage in yogic breathing to relax mind and body. But we can’t sleep: too much activity in the cabin, concern about loosing the daylight, and when Peter might escape down the trail. By 5:00 pm its trail time again. Snow continues to lightly fall, temperatures are -15 to -10 F, and the trail is marginally ridable. Our next stop, some 40 miles north, is Buffalo Camp a group of Native wall tents used for hunting the local buffalo population. Located in the Farewell Burn, a 40 year old ‘forest’ fire area, Buffalo Camp is not an official check point. No one will be there but one tent has a woodstove. After that, northward another 45 miles to Nikolai, a checkpoint in the small Native village on the Kuskokwim River.

Riding and walking, and walking and riding, these sharp hills and descents mark the transition from the Alaska Range foothills and the generally downhill grade into the Kuskokwim- and Yukon River lowlands. We’re following essentially the only continuous trail for hundreds of miles northeast or southwest along this flank of the Alaska Range. This county has 100 times more moose, wolves, buffalo, beavers and martins than people, but seeing one is a trick. Entertained by the 1000s of wolf tracks, Jeff and I check in often with each other, monitoring each other’s physical and mental state. At 2:00 am, after passing Peter on the side of the trail in his bivy bag, we also begin to spiral downward. By 4:00 am we’ve been out for 11 hours, 24 hours since we’ve slept, and 60 hours into this epic race on less than 3 hours sleep. At -10 F or less, the sandman getting the best of us, and we make a bivy under some spruce trees. We’re in the bags immediately: 1.5 hours of blissful rest and sleep is finally ours. Within two hours of we’re out of the bags and done roasting ourselves next to a massive fire. We’re rolling again riding the majority of the trail. Soon we pass another of Peter’s bivy spots: guess he couldn’t make it through the night either. The Farewell Lakes are a series of short portage-connected frozen ponds and lakes that we ride across until we enter the Farewell Burn. In the Burn, only the downhills are ridable. We’re shocked since it’s in the snow shadow of the Alaska Range and commonly has NO snow. Turns out this is the most snow in more than 20 years. And locally drifted snow forces us to post-hole over our knees.

Buffalo Camp, mile 245, is an oasis, however basic. Peter has been here 25 minutes and has a smoky fire warming the tent, which seems like the inside of a freezer at the moment. Not much to eat in the tent: some U.S. Army MREs and packets of oatmeal, plus some Tang and frozen peanut butter. But, food is food! The three of us work together melting snow, cooking food, planning our departure and then all pass out for 1.5 hours in the one huge bed like the three little pigs. Bloodless sun low on the horizon, clear sky and crisp temperature (-15 F and falling) portend a frigid Interior Alaska night. Heading out together at 5:00 pm to share the work of the drifted snow and unbroken trail, we plan to arrive at the USBLM cabin some 20 miles distant. From Buffalo Camp Nikolai is 45 miles. The night just gets curiouser and curiouser. Clearly, this trail had seen no use in the last 7 to 10 days. Thus, we are reduced to pushing through intermittent deep snow, and only rarely riding. Within several hours the temperature drops to below -30 F (and we learn later that it hit -37 F). All of us are from Alaska. We know the seriousness of such frightful conditions. Tonight the race is off. We are in this together and no one will be left behind. Cold seeps into everything. Survival now depends on remaining mammalian: we must continue producing our own heat by working hard, eating, drinking and focusing positively on our goal. To pull inward and becoming reptilian results in torpor, immobility, and, well I don’t want to go there. We check in with each other constantly, trying to keep up spirits, strength, and focus. We share food and drink but very rarely stop. Cold continues to stab at us: hands and feet are the first to go. Head gear and facemasks are caked with frost and ice, eyelashes become caked and heavy with ice, and every breath sucks heat and moisture from us. I’m wearing relatively few clothes because of the vapor barrier shirt adjacent to my skin. All of my moisture stays next to my body with no evaporative heat lost. My mittens and socks are the same RBH Designs Vaprthrm material, and I swear by it, as does Jeff. Peter’s ensemble is traditional, and he must wear many more layers… most of which are saturated with sweat. To add to Peter’s woes: his freehub no longer engages due to frozen grease.

2:00 am: we’ve been out for 9 hours and cannot find the cabin that we know is near the trail: no branch trails, no signs, no markers, just stunted, spindly black spruce, squeaky-frigid snow, dark, and cold: world-class cold. Onward until 5:00 am: 12 hours on the trail, when fatigue, cold and darkness become overwhelming; we collectively build a killer fire. The fire warms (a little) one side at a time, but we break off headgear ice and melt and dry some gear while replacing boot heat packs, and psychologically prepare for the final 6 hour push and ride into Nikolai. Departing, we ride some of the trail and I suffer my 2nd pinch flat of the race. Changing my tube at -35 F is a trick and much more challenging than when it’s 100 degrees warmer! By mid morning trail conditions are marginally ridable.

Nikolai, mile 290, turns out in force when they see me ride up the banks of the Kuskokwim River and past the Russian Orthodox Church. I find it hard to disarm their friendliness with honest kindness. I arrive at Nick and Olen Petruska’s home which serves as our checkpoint. A hug from the couple and then lots of food and drink are perfect. Peter is 10 minutes back and Jeff is 40 minutes back; they say they must sleep. Lying down, I go through my well-practiced yogic breathing. But rather than sleep, I’m on the trail an hour after arrival. No sleep is a risky move, and I know it. Four days and four hours of sleep is asking a lot of my mind and body. But I reckon the final fifty into McGrath is typically ridable. I suspect it will take 8 to 10 hours to cover nearly 50 miles. And starting the ride at 2:00 pm instead of 4:00 pm or later is the payoff.

The initial 20 miles goes well… until I drop onto the Big River. The trail splits, I debate the correct route, but go left: the ‘overland’ trail as the race director instructed, rather than the Kuskokwim River trail. I push a mile downstream then push back. I then ride 2 miles on the river trail… and then ride back. Neither trail is marked. No snow machines or other traffic has passed in a day or more. I’ve now wasted nearly two hours and a heck of a lot of adrenaline. With headlight on I press on down the overland trail, and two miles further see Iditarod markers. But the trail is locally blown over, punchy and difficult to follow. I continue to eat and drink… this is going to be a long, hard night I have no doubt. Peter, and later, Jeff will hit the same intersection and after frustrated confusion follow my final direction. Broad open, frozen lakes and marshes with beaver lodges are juxtaposed with slightly higher ground with spruce, and brush. Sixty percent of it is ridable with 8 psi. The object is staying off the rims! Pitch dark now, with a trace of falling snow, the temperature is ten below or so and the northwest wind is, say, 10 mph. A lot better than last night! In the middle of a 2 mile by 1 1/2 mile lake and swampy area the trail becomes completely blown over. I follow cryptically faint snow machine trails, pushing my bike through 6 inches of snow, sometimes punching through to 18 inches. My race is over. I’ve been out for 8 hours since Nikolai. I haven’t slept in 30 hours. My sleep total for the last 4 1/2 days is less than 4 hours. I shine my powerful Princeton Tec 3 watt LED in every direction looking for a reflector. My compass says go west. My map says go west. My intuition says go west. I head west for another hour, punching through deep snow as more snow falls. It’s over. I must go back and take the Kuskokwim River route. I face it: the game’s over. Survival is all that matters now. How quickly my slow mind makes this change.

Heading back I spot what looks like Peter’s dim headlight some mile away. I signal with my bright strobe as we laboriously wallow across this dismal swamp. We’re equally relieved to link up and conclude that our chances of finding the Iditarod Trail are sketchy, even with his GPS, my compass, map, bright search light, and experience. Nonetheless we make a pact that if we get out of this safely, we’ll do it together, and no matter the finish position we’ll finish together. We shake on it. After two hours of dead ends and questionable trails, we discuss possibilities, weigh the dangers, and finally seem to find the correct trail. Now begins what can only be described as the most disturbing, difficult, and frustrating adventure of this long, strange, epic trip. And regarding trips… this will soon become hallucination hell. No sleep in 40 hours, ground down to a physical and mental pulp, my body never leaves the trail but my mind takes me places I’ve never been. I see sights I could never have imagined. I gamely and tenaciously persevere as my body and mind beg me to stop and sleep. Finally my body gives in: I can’t eat or drink for the final five hours. Falling snow continues assaulting our eyes and consequently our minds. Piles of snow become snow machines. Spindly spruce become a variety of man-made structures. I hear myself definitely speaking to people along the trail. No answer! No matter, I will continue to speak to ‘others’.

5:00 am, mile 340: the 10 mile hilly road to McGrath. Airing-up our tires for what is finally a firm rolling surface, we congratulate ourselves, thinking we’re home! Not so fast. The fast falling snow, the headlamps, the bright large flakes directly in front of our vapid eyes: we’re hypnotized. Neither of us can ride five minutes without crashing into the other, the side of the road or just falling. I’ve never experienced such a feeling of helplessness. It’s as if someone is pushing us off our bikes. No matter how hard we try we can’t continue. We stop, resting our head on the handlebars for 30 seconds. Thus energized we’re off. The battle is royal: fighting demons so heavy, powerful and oppressive. And ironically enough it’s these tiny, light, bright-white snowflakes that are completely confounding us. I try one last effort to hold them at bay; head down, I hammer the pedals with every bit of remaining strength. I reason that I can’t fall asleep if I’m in pain. It’s working. We make steady progress, seeing the first lights of McGrath, a town of a couple hundred souls. It’s 7:00 am, still pitch dark, and we arrive at our final oasis.

We congratulate each other. The hardest couple of days of my life are over. Absolutely everything after this will be unimaginably easy. I will now covet warmth, sleep, food, drink. I’ll find complacency in my mundane life because I have striven beyond myself to achieve an unachievable goal. I’ve achieved this goal with the help of others not with me on the trail. I have been to the edge, and indeed over that edge, and though not a place to dwell, I have perhaps learned where that edge is for me. To those who helped me pursue that edge, and to those who believed I could come back, I sincerely thank you for your help.