The 2006 human-powered race on the Iditarod Trail across the Alaska Range hurled endless challenges at racers this year: making this the most difficult Iditarod Trail Invitational race yet. The first hurtle was six inches of new snow falling at race start. An icy base left the snowy trail ridable. Four hours after the 2:00 pm race start the snow storm gave way to rapidly falling temperatures: from +15 degrees F to -15 F. Even before the 4000 feet high Alaska Range pass at mile 190, thirty percent of the field dropped out. For some it was dehydration, for others it was hypothermia or frostbite or a physical-mental or equipment failure. And for a few it was the unmarked and wind blown course that stymied progress. By race end the scratch rate is more than 50%, the most ever.

Luce’s checkpoint, mile 50, is the first respite from well-below zero temperatures on the winding, quarter-mile wide Yentna River. My Fairbanks neighbor and racing partner, Jeff Oatley, and I quickly complete our tasks including banging ice off face masks, putting heat packs in boots, eating and drinking anything warm not nailed down and without delay heading into the cold, moonless night. As we pedal over the crunching snow of the Yentna River two headlights appear down river. We must have 45 minutes lead. The surface of the river is anything but flat. Combined with hard crystalline snow, extreme friction of below-zero temperatures, and the 6 to 10 feet high hummocky river topography, we try to maintain a seven mile per hour average speed for the 36 miles.

Skwentna Roadhouse checkpoint, mile 86, is a welcome sight at 2:00 am. We’re now in our 12th hour of racing. Methodically running through checkpoint protocol we also succumb to one hour of seductive sleep in the wonderful warmth. By 4:00 am we’re on the trail at -10F, beneath a blanket of stars and northern lights dancing with greens and reds. Riding 45 miles to the next check point, the trail is set up enough to make riding generally good. However, in the dark we take a wrong trail, burn valuable energy and squander a two hour lead. An absolutely critical aspect of this type of event is to quickly accept mistakes, take the corrective actions and put destructive angst behind you. The trail will beat you up, no need to do it yourself. Focusing on frustration destroys. Stay positive, learn from mistakes and press on: it’s a long race! Climbing and pushing through the Shell Hills as the sun rises, the Iditarod Trail leads us across the marshy, stunted spruce woods to the base of the Alaska Range at Finger Lake.

Finger Lake checkpoint, mile 130, has the first of two ten pound check bags. Small fixed-wing aircraft on skis fly everything in to this remote lodge. Arriving at noon we restock our bikes with trail food, partake in hot food and drink, hang up clothes, sleep for only ½ hour, so as not to waste the daylight, and hit the 30 mile hilly, scenically and often spectacular, gradual climb into the foothills of the Alaska Range. Third place biker, Peter, is sleeping as we leave. We figure 6 to 7 hours for this leg. Since leaving Skwentna, some 18 hours ago, we sight the first trail users: two snowmachiners. One hill is so steep that some racers make two trips up this pitch. The down hills are treacherous with ice. With the temperature stuck at -10 F there is no melting going on here now!

I drink GU2O, and eat as much as I can stomach, knowing that I’m consuming more than a pound of my body every day at my racing pace while on the Iditarod Trail. At 11:30 pm we ride into Puntilla Lake checkpoint, having ridden nearly the entire trail thus far. In the heart of the Alaska Range now, even at night I can discern the ragged peaks thousands of feet above in every direction. The raw mountains are a strong draw for Jeff and me and a fundamental reason that we live in Fairbanks and repeatedly enter the Iditarod Trail race. Every year is different in nearly every way. But every year is also the same: it is the ultimate test of physical and mental stamina, perseverance, planning, adaptability, and focus. Being a Zen master of bike mechanics prior to race start, along with fastidious component selection allows needed inner calm. Torturing a machine for 350 miles in such hostile conditions demands a lot. And no less than I expect of myself.

Puntilla Lake checkpoint, mile 160, is a small, low, weather beaten log cabin. Two checkers inform us that the 40 mile trail over the pass is not yet broken out. With some six to ten feet of snow from here to Rainy Pass this is a problem for us, but they will snow machine out at 5:00 am, so we’ll worry about it later. The wood stove crackles and we forget the -10 F temperature outside as we eat, drink and are generally merry, if weary. Hanging up wet clothes, we find a horizontal place to pass out for a luxurious two hours of sleep. We have been racing for nearly 36 hours now and this will bring our total to 3 hours of sleep. The 45 remote miles to Rohn checkpoint are typically the most difficult: above tree line, windy, cold, blown-over trails, a 2,000 feet gain to Rainy Pass, deep snow, avalanche hazards, and, oh yeah, fatigue… deep fatigue. Ah, but the scenery! Stark white, wind-blown mountains towering above at 7,000 feet or more: this is primeval land. I know it takes no prisoners. Just last week an Iditarod Trail snow machiner was swept to his icy death in an avalanche.

Leaving at 3:45 am, it’s still -10 F with a light wind. Darkness (along with cold) will define the world for nearly four hours longer. The one- and three-watt LED lights of my powerful Princeton Tec headlamps are the breach into the inky and lonely darkness. Peter is already gone. He arrived an hour after us, slept and left at 2:30 am. For the first time he is now leading the charge. For the moment we’re content to follow his tracks into the unknown. We ride for only 1 1/2 miles then begin the push to the pass. Trail conditions are unridable due to lack of base, deep snow, low traffic and wind. We soldier on. It’s looking like a three way race now, and no one is giving in. Following the thin ribbon of ‘trail’ from the two snow machining checkers who have just passed, we also note their sleds full of Rohn checkpoint gear. It becomes obvious that they can not find the trail either. Dawn’s milky light reveals a labyrinth of paths from the two machines. Pushing our bikes in soft, unset-up snow, we punch through up to our mid-thighs every 20 steps. Difficult just got more difficult. I’ve never seen such poor trail conditions. We forge toward the pass as the winds pick up and the icy sentinel mountains peer down, clearly questioning our sanity. The snow machines and sleds are stuck now and we push past them in thigh-deep, wind-blown, -10 F snow. This is completely out of control now. And with four miles to Rainy Pass, Peter is just minutes ahead. Strung out from the surrounding menagerie of 7,000 feet peaks are elongate flags of blown-snow clouds thousands of feet long. Winds must be in excess of 70 miles per hour on top. Guess I’m thankful for a mere 20 mph here!

To manage the deep powder, the snow machiners, Rob and Rich, have ditched their sleds and will establish a trail to the pass, returning later for gear. Finally, we have a walkable, if not ridable trail. Rainy Pass, in all it’s glory is ours after some 7 hours of horrific post-holing and slogging. The good news is Rainy Pass… the bad news is that the western descent from Rainy Pass to Pass Creek isn’t established, and is crisscrossed with avalanche chutes: a jumbled mixture of hard blocks of snow in a granular matrix. But, hey, we’re going downhill! After five miles we approach the accident sight where Richard Strick was buried in an avalanche ten days ago. The location is in the middle of Pass Creek and looks innocent enough save for the 5,000 feet of extremely steep, snow-laden slopes in every direction. A small cross affixed to the rock wall is located where Richard lost his life breaking out the Iditarod Trail. Something he had done for more than a decade. I reflect on our collective human fragility. He came to these mountains for the same rejuvenation, challenge, self-sufficiency, and love of the mountains that I do. I pray for good luck.

As Pass Creek meets the Dalzell River trail conditions are ridable, though with eight psi tire pressure. We dip some water from an open creek, drinking its perfect purity. I’ve never used a filter in Alaska, that’s why I’m here, I don’t want filters, I want the bare naked land. Crossing ten ice and snow bridges built for the dog race we make our way to the 1/4 mile wide Tatina River. Bitter north wind blasts Jeff and me with snow as we snake our way the 6 miles through drifted snow to the Rohn checkpoint on the South Fork of the Kuskokwim River, a 1/2 mile wide braided, frozen artery connecting to the Yukon River.

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.