Sam's Quest 300 Recap

The ~300 mile jaunt out to the big city of central ought to take around 3 hours with a F-350 diesel dog truck… Ought to take 3 hours if the weathers right.. 

Ok.. But the more exhilarating jaunt to central with THE cadillac of sleds, AKA a dog paddle…. will take you about 3 days and some change. You’ll come barreling into the Central checkpoint, elated, forcing your 110 lb body into the claw break below you as your string of 12 dogs tries to blow past the finish line… If I'm being exact, the Cadillac route covers 303 miles, 2 summits, 75 miles along Birch creek to the second most bustling town of Circle, and back to our good ole roadhouse in Central. 

The directions are quite simple…

If you make it to the start line, you’re already bound for glory. Ok, check. 

Drink your coffee, devour your strawberry nutella crepe, enjoy your stomach ache brought on by nerves, bootie dogs.. Check.

11:32 leave from the truck.. Check.

Run Paige (who is helping guide the team to the start line) over with the sled. Check.

Say “Hi, I love you” one last time to all your teammates. Check.

Awkwardly stand at the start line as 3 large men hold back your sled… Check.

3, 2, 1, “And she’s off"

This is where directions can stump a person if you allow your attention to be diverted. Let me warn you… There will be a considerably large amount of people crowding the trail as you travel down the Chena River.. It will be lovely and encouraging. And you WILL be fed. Incoming - A sloppy joe!!! Wrapped in tinfoil and warmer than your body will ever be in the next 3 days. A hot dog! Tossed over - tastier than ever. A healthy serving size of a home brewed IPA, carefully handed over like a newborn baby as the team passes by at 9.7mph. A rolling rock that's held by a beautiful, red haired friend - Thanks May!!! A shooter of apple whiskey, carefully zipped into my pocket - all gifts to Tucker in 39 miles. And last but absolutely NOT least…

An *Organic* Coors Banquet to drown my nerves in, paired with a freshly baked cookie. Also a gift for Tucker. Meal #1 - Check

Unlike you, the team and I continued onwards. No amount of tastiness could derail us as we bound down the coiled up, icy trail. 

After the excitement of cheering humans, the team tried to fall into what we do best… The Chena river had other plans though as we awkwardly fell into this pace where dodging open water and overflow holes became a dance. We waltzed with the river for 27 miles, slowing often to change iced over booties and shake off my clunky cabela pac boots. Hopping up onto land at last, the dogs and I took a deep breath as we settled onto our home trails, finally relaxing into what felt like just another training run.

We flew into the Two Rivers checkpoint, Dracula clapping in swing as Beasley screamed “We made it!!”. I bedded down the dogs with an elegant meal sitting by their side and went to fetch some coffee… Meal #2 - Check. 

The second stretch of 72 miles has been logged as one of my favorite runs to date. We left Two rivers strong and eager. Just as quickly as we fell into our comfortable pace, my brain got lost in the monotony of the passing black spruce, a blurred glimmer under the full moon light. Thoughts drifted down streams of rivers. The Au Train on a hot summers day, a cold splash drenching me from a dogs graceful leap into the water. Thoughts drifted back towards the moonlit trail, -15 degrees, 12 dogs checking off mile after mile. 

We made it past the first checkpoint with a feeling of relief rushing through me - I giggle, “The parties just getting started guys!”

30 miles in, we find ourselves lunging into the night past tiresome teams camped on the side of the trail. Mushers exchange a quiet “Hello, have a good run!” A short conversation that warms my heart each time. Like-minded individuals, all on the same trail, sharing that same love for their dogs that radiates through my body. 

As we searched for our nesting spot, Thresher vetoing every location I deemed suitable for the sleepy team, we passed the 7th team, 8th team.. 36 miles in. I let out a hum of laughter as we crested a small hill. “Hey guys, we're in first!'' Cheddar looking back, surprised. I like to think they all chuckled, listening as I nonsensically chatted with them.  “Enjoy this now, as It won't last for much longer.” 

*A headlamp quickly emerging from the trees behind us* I curse, thinking our champion position would last longer than just a few minutes. 

3 miles later, we pulled onto the exit ramp and decided to call it a night. Thresher and I finally agreeing on the perfect campsite..

"Ok, lead line hooked into leads, check. Back to sled. Wait no, Ok.. Tug lines off. Shit, move Etta. Alright, here we go. Start cooker.... Snows melting. Sweet. Shit better take off parka. Thought I was better at this. Ok. Booties off. Incoming musher - “HI!" Ah… Right… Ok.. Ok..” A checkpoint routine I've done many of times, yet here I am, rehearsing it in my head like the dogs will judge me for not executing it perfectly.

A sizable meal of kibble, fish skins, and hot water. 3 hours of sleep and a few massages later, booties and jackets are put on and we’ve got a screaming team ready to hit the road. With a heavy dose of grace, the team scurries across wind blown plains and up, up, up. Sweating, letting out huffs of breath, I try to keep up with the team as we summit our first big climb. Rosebud. 

At 3,640 feet, she stands there tall and mighty, beautifully soaking up the full moon as it casts its midnight light upon us. The team comes to a pause, mostly for the frail and clumsy human that stands on the runners behind them.. We blissfully basked in the deep winter peace that Rosebud offered and for some moments, my brain is relocated to a chilly November afternoon. Ryne and I gleefully skip away from our snow machines in order to watch Tucker and his 6 dog team trudge their way up the summit. We cheer, teasing him for being out of shape as he sweats his way to the top…. 

I eat my words, creating a mental note to apologize for the all heckling months ago..

With the other side of Rosebud being more of a leisurely descent rather than the extreme plummet I had envisioned it to be, the last 20 miles into the checkpoint of Mile 101 were filled with pure delight. A moon dog haloed the full moon, holding tight as morning light crept its way through the sky. White tailed ptarmigan contrasted against the bright blue hues of the glare ice that the runners were too graciously gliding across. Skeletal trees, feathered with hoarfrost - glistening in the morning sun. Streams of fog rising from the distance, dancing to the songs of rumbling engines - a frigid struggle. Mile 101. We made our grand entrance into the checkpoint as if we were just leaving the starting chute… Cheddar screaming, Old man Otis harness banging, and Dracula… Still clapping.

Climbing Rosebud Summit

Checkpoint #2 was a breeze. I fell into my routine without having to rehearse it like I'm preparing for some Broadway show… Bed down dogs, tuglines off, remove booties, no need to move Etta, feed, massage, sleep… Set out for human food. 

Before the dogs enter a race, each team is required to attend vet checks - typically taking place the day before race start. You pull up with your team, vets crowd the dog truck and begin their examination of each dog - Checking in on their weight, vitals, and overall confirmation (The externally visible details of a dogs structure and appearance). The vets chuckled as they sauntered up to our Thresher boy and examined his weight, giving him a high 6 on the scale. “Who’s pet dog is this?!” they jokingly asked. Threshers ears perk up as he begins his full body squirm of excitment…

The team crossed the start line with high appetites, eating just about every snack I offered up. Thresher continued to keep that extra love packed onto his hips and even Etta, who can be the pickiest eater on the planet, ate each meal I cooked up for her. Wishing I had their appetite, jealousy began taking over as we made our way through the 300 miles. After the 3 course meal each musher was given along the Chena River, I reached in for the obscene amount of tasty snacks I packed for myself and not even the beef sticks nor the chocolate excited my taste buds. Before shutting my eyes, I tried one last food brought to you by Mile 101 volunteers. Bacon. Meal #3…. Check.

As I prepared to leave Mile 101, Tucker and I stared off into the distance, conversing about which peak was out next big summit.. We're both rookies to the Quest and sitting there pointing at each peak made that quite apparent. We finally agreed on one small mountain sitting a few miles from us.. The climb over Eagle summit begins shortly after the checkpoint, yet far far past that mountain we pointed to. Dumbies. 

As the team ambled past peak after peak, the trail slowly began to steepen. The breeze growing with each step we took. For minutes there, I stand on the runners as wind slaps my hood, realizing that this could potentially be very unpleasant if it kept up…. Yet there I stand with a shit eating grin on my face. I hollered! The dogs were letting loose, digging in with the type of energy that radiates from them, swirling in the air. We rode that high until we reached a point where the trail curves slightly, revealing 12 small dogs and a human floating up a wind-scoured 30-degree headwall. I stop the team to marvel at the dogs before us, clawing their way to the top of Eagle Summit. 

Another giggle ricochets through my body and we begin our climb. 

This headwall was nothing out of the ordinary for the team I traveled with, digging in with every ounce of muscle they had. Tuna and Beasley, delving into their well of pure strength. Cheddar using her crazed energy to lunge into her harness. Thresher… Don't even get me started on that tough as nails dog. We trudged our way towards the summit, with that 50 pound “pet” dog in lead as he unhinged his cheerleading skills; eloquently narrating the climb from his lead position, sending a wave of energy through the gangline. Thresher, Cheddar, Dracula, Beasley, Fly, Otis, and myself all hollered our way to the top, purely out of bliss… Reaching the plateau, I stop the team next to a photographer as he began speaking about how he could hear us at the bottom. I lumbered up to the front of the team, gave them each a good pat on the head and thanked them. 

Sitting at 3,652 feet, Eagle Summit in winter is seldom so benevolent and here we were, graced with a sliver of sun peaking through.

top of Eagle Summit

Climbing our way to the top is a task in itself, but what goes up must go down right? The biggest worry along this entire race - The "eagle summit plummet”. I drive the team just over the edge until the sled stands tall above the 12 dogs, I breathe, removing my foot from the claw break. Before I could exhale, Etta and Thresher led us down the steep slope, following the rutted out path from previous claw breaks. With the next inhale, laughter interrupts, bellowing out of me. Glee has always been my favorite train to catch.. Soon I am letting out shrill hollers and woo-hoos. The dogs wondering what the hell is going on behind them.. Soon we find ourselves on flat ground, screaming for more. We catch up to the team in front. “Shit, what a ride!!” If this weren't a dog race, I’d turn that team around to experience that thrill just once more. 

Reaching the town of Central, the team travels along the road system until the sound of low howls begins to fill the air. Dancing Christmas lights, a barrel fire and laughter surround us as we make the 90 degree turn into the Central roadhouse. Volunteers crowd the sled, a photo is taken of my sleepy smile, and a familiar face walks up, reaching for the sled. 

The checkpoint in Central is 76 miles away from Circle. With only 26 miles under our belt after leaving Mile 101, we decide to “blow through” central in order to make headway on our long run on Birch Creek. I declare that the team I are not staying. Wild stares are thrown at me. “You’re not staying? What about your free burger?” I stop in my tracks. The dogs stop in their tracks. Free burger? Shit, Do I stay? I contemplated for what felt like an hour as I repacked my sled. I could stay for a burger. The dogs aren’t very tired…. But I could stay for a burger… I’d share that burger with all 12 dogs If I had to….. 

With a huge amount of willpower and a slightly broken heart, I step onto my sled and guide the dogs away from that free burger. Appetite aroused? I think so. 

Blowing through the checkpoint means that we pick up our drop bags, repack the sled with necessary gear and continue on. The race plan Ryne and I talked about has us running about 20-25 miles onto Birch Creek, finding a resting point and camping for 5. This section of trail has a reputation of being downright frigid. 50 below. 60 below. I toss on my parka hood, cinch the ruff, and settle into the tunnel of light beaming from my headlamp. The sun set just shortly after leaving the checkpoint giving me 16 hours until sunlight - For hours, the trail snakes back and forth following the course of an old mining stream through a quiet, willowy valley. A night time odyssey on Birch Creek. At mile 46 on the GPS, I make the executive decision to pull off on a small snow machine track, tucked behind a large beached log - protecting us from the wind. Thresher finally agreeing with me on this choice.

From the hoarfrost collecting on the dogs top layer of fur, my guess is the temperature has reached 20 to 30 below. Knowing the cooker will take much longer in these temps, I start melting snow and move on to bedding everyone down. Each dog received a hot meal and a fleece blanket to ease them into their trail dreams. After watching each one curl up, I hopped into my 40 below bag, zipped it over my head as the arctic-like breeze sent dreams through my sleepy brain, tucking me in, and calling it a night. 

camping on Birch Creek

Hours after departing our campsite, the team slogs on along Birch Creek. Etta genuisly traversing the team away from open water, Tobin and Louie driving hard as if we were chasing a squirrel down the trail. The GPS which I am now obsessively checking is blinking to life and rudely suggesting were only a quarter of the way to the checkpoint…. 

I was just settling into my 4am head bob on the runners, because if there's anything an 8 hour run during the “bewitching” hours makes me feel…. Its sleepy. When a burst of energy hit the lead dogs, spiraled down the gangline and smacked me in the face with its bare hand, Gibbs style; The act of slapping somebody on the back of their head after participating in something downright stupid…. (NCIS). I quickly realized, as I threw both hands onto the stanchion, that the team was hurling themselves across a patch of rough overflow. My tiresome body being tossed back and forth until it jerked me into hyperfocus. Back at it baby. Back it. 30. more. miles.

Arriving in Circle felt like it took forever and a day… Etta (again) navigated the team along the fluttering helix’s of oxbows as I continuously shook my head to rid it of sleepiness. The trail markers guided us along the small road systems of Circle, pulling us into the checkpoint at 7am, exactly 6 hours behind the lead team, Matt. Circle has a mandatory 6 hour layover for the team where the dogs eat, sleep, undergo a full vet check, receive massages and rest some more… The mushers are also spoiled as ever as the checkpoint volunteers crafted up burritos, served coffee, cookies, tea, and more coffee…. Meal #4. Check. Tucking myself in for a long hour of sleep, my mind trails off to the hum of the truck.

I awoke feeling nourished, revitalized, and whatever bullshit inspiration that was written on my yogi tea bags…. 

Filling up the Stanley with coffee and snagging a small package of nutritious cookies, I journeyed out to the sleepy team who were using every last second to rest before our final push. I silently filled water bowls, laid out BLT snacks and patiently waited for the tasty scent of a frozen meat snack to wake the snoozing dogs. The moments before taking off for a run, the quiet preparations of getting the team ready are some of my favorite moments that are shared with these dogs. For those short minutes, life is so peaceful it feels as if we're frozen in time. The gentle snuggles and yawns, the warmth of their paws as I begin to bootie each dog; it fills my little heart with gratitude. Gratitude for the adventure we've shared together but mostly for them allowing me to join - as a student, coach, and teammate.

74 miles, here we go.

Conditions aligned for us to bag an idealist run to the finish line in Central. The sludgy slow motion trail we came in on hardened during the 6 hours and 14 minutes we stayed in Circle allowing us to cruise over the soft, punchy trail that once was… Following the same course we traveled on the previous night concerned me for it was an exceptionally tough run for me mentally and the dogs picked up on that. Making sure the negativity didn't creep back into the team throughout the last run, I focused heavily on the six minute gain of daylight that has not so subtly been dragging me out of that deep winter meditation.

I polished off that Stanley full of coffee, took a mental image of the dog team weaving through snow covered black spruce; a watercolor painting in the making, and logged back into the dog world where assessing dog butts feels most natural. Glee once more finds it's way through the team, this time in the form of familiar faces - Jeff; a neighbor and friend comes hurtling towards us with a sleepy smile plastered on his face. We stop to chat like we're both not trying to hold back a team of 12 dogs, a casual conversation you'd typically have passing on a city sidewalk. We wish each other good luck and continue on in different directions. Not long after, Lauro comes cruising by. Another sleepy smile that brings warmth to the world. We chat, wish each other good luck and are off. 

At 40 miles in, the team is traveling as if we have someplace to be.. I wondered if they knew of the burgers and kibble waiting for us at the finish line… I knock that thought down, not yet. I check the GPS a few times, blinking at the speed to convince myself I was reading it correctly - 9.8mph? At mile 270? “Holy shit guys!” The dogs were digging in with a disgusting amount of joy. There was no way in hell I could stop this momentum for a camp so the decision was made to push onwards until we reached 303 miles. My eyes kept dancing between the 2 years old, checking in to see how they felt. Mozzie and Cheddar are both focused in, ears flopping back and forth - telling me their gaits are damn near perfect. Fly, who is right behind them, has never been a concern. Her little 45lb body digs in as she blissfully checks off each mile. Beasley and Tuna in wheel - A force to be reckoned with. Strong and determined. Tobin, a 3 year old goofball runs in swing, easily distracted but is driving harder than anybody in the team… The veterans - Etta, Thresher, Yoshi, Dracula, Louie, and Otis… The teachers, and coaches. Leading the team through the last stretches of Birch Creek, through golden hour and nightfall - All 7 of us rookies relying on them to guide us as we journey through our last 10 miles of the race. 

At 10:35PM, the team and I cruise back into Central. Laughter fills the air, a barrel fire lighting the trail, friendly faces cheering and….. a dog team screaming. At 303 miles, all 12 dogs crossed the finish line with me. After three days of traveling, those 12 dogs wanted nothing more than to keep going and as I sit next to the wood stove, coffee in hand, reflecting on those miles, I want nothing more than to keep going with them. 

At mile 303, the dogs received a big bowl of kibble, fish, and BLT… And I received that damn burger. Meal #5. Check.

Sam won the Vet’s Choice Award!

Team at the finish line!

To simply say “Thank you" to Ryne and her dogs doesn't quite cover how thankful I am for these experiences. It's hard to put into words how lucky I feel to have a community of knowledgeable friends that I have found myself immersed in. A community that knows we must act on our dreams and make shit happen…. So the biggest thank you goes to Ryne for helping me take the right steps to make my shit happen and for entrusting me with the dogs!

Thank you to Tucker, for supporting me as we make our shit happen together!

And thank you to all the family, friends and sponsors for following along! 

The most important thank you goes to those 12 doggos…. Etta, Thresher, Yoshi, Dracula, Tobin, Louie, Mozzie, Cheddar, Otis, Fly, Beasley, and Tuna.

Skijor Trip

With spring quickly approaching, so is our skijor trip! Full disclosure- I haven’t been training as much as I probably should. It’s easy to get caught up in the day-to-day operations of a kennel and not make time for more overnight trips. I don’t have a good reason really. The kennel and business could function just fine without me for 48 hours. But here we are, less than a week away from the trip, and I’ve only ventured out with a heavy sled for one overnight this season. What could go wrong?

I haven’t been too vocal about our trip because there’s still a chance it won’t happen. We’re going to be choosy with the weather. If the stars align, we plan to go to Unalakleet and skijor back down the Iditarod trail towards Kaltag as well as farther along the Iditarod trail towards Shaktoolik. It’s not uncommon for this region to have low snow (or stretches of no snow), ground blizzards, or coastal storms. Just yesterday, winds were blowing 40 mph in Unalakleet with gusts up to 60 mph. While conditions like that sound exciting, I don’t feel inclined to be blown out to sea, so if the weather looks tumultuous, we have other fun adventures lined up for Plan B and Plan C.

Weather aside, the logistics for traveling to a remote community as two humans (Tucker and myself) and three dogs (probably Cooke, Muenster, and Wingman though this roster hasn’t been finalized) plus our gear has been quite the puzzle. Our original plan was to fly to Kaltag on the mail plane from Fairbanks then ski to Unalakleet and fly out of Unalakleet back home. Seems easy enough; however, we can’t reserve space for the dogs on the Kaltag mail plane until the day of the flight. If there isn’t room, then we’d get pushed to a future day. Not ideal. We’d also need to coordinate shipping the dog crates back to Fairbanks and arranging their pickup. On the other end in Unalakleet, our only flight option is Ravn Air. Ravn can only take two dogs at a time, has only one flight per day only certain days a week, and only flies to Anchorage. All three dogs could fly Northern Air Cargo; however, there are only two days a week NAC flies to Unalakleet, and only one of those days lines up with Ravn Air’s schedule. We’d also need to arrange separate crates to be sent to Unalakleet. And we still have the question of how to get back to Fairbanks once we arrive in Anchorage. As we gained more information, we’ve been piecing together the puzzle. Currently, the itinerary looks something along the lines of: drive to Anchorage, fly Ravn for humans and NAC for dogs to Unalakleet, explore up and down the Iditarod trail as weather and conditions allow, then fly back to Anchorage a week later and drive back to Fairbanks. If I’ve learned anything from remote travel in Alaska, it’s to be flexible and have a long list of backups and contingency plans. And who knows, we might just get lucky!

The below video is a silly clip I made of different lessons learned during my first failed overnight camping trip.

Here are some clips from my 2016 Iditarod outside of Unalakleet and in the Blueberry Hills. You might recognize some retired faces in the team! There wasn’t much snow around Unalakleet that year, but I still absolutely loved it. At the moment, it sounds like there’s a bit more snow! (Which is good, because skis don’t glide over frozen tundra quite like sled runners).

Tucker's Copper Basin Recap

It’s difficult for me to write a race report for the Copper Basin 300. Social media takes care of the basics: the team ran, photo, then camped, photo, then ran, photo, then finished! Now, left with providing some deeper dialogue, I struggle with sincerity. I tend towards light-heartedness and humor when I write about running sled dogs for a reason. What’s the word I’m looking for? Hackneyed? Why? Well, it stems from a couple of things. First, reading books like Gary Paulsen’s Winter Dance doesn’t help — A popular, thoughtful book written with romantic prose, good humor, and within the realm of modern day reality. Writing like that covers a lot of bases. If Jack London had only made White Fang take a messy dump in Weedon Scott’s cabin it’d almost all be said and done. On top of all the other mushing books and blog posts out there, I’m sure it more or less has.

Then, there’s sitting around, having a beer or two, and listening to Ryne (who’s finished seven 1,000 mile races and won the Copper Basin 300) casually chat with the neighbor, Matt Hall (the youngest winner of the Yukon Quest 1000 and who’s also won the CB300). Yak-sled-yak-dogs-yak. To call it “yak-ing” is not to say that it's mundane but that it is very second nature for tough, humble people in the mushing community to sound nonchalant about some incredible feats. 

For example, we had a Sunday night get-together with some other mushers at Angel Creek Lodge. Another neighbor, Laura Allaway, had been asking about my Copper Basin experience. I’ve had a number of conversations with Laura about running dogs, just talking. Back at home later in the night Sam asked me, “Did you know that Laura’s run the Iditarod and the Quest 1000?” No, I had no idea. You learn fast enough to assume that the person who meandered up at a race start and is conversing politely with Ryne about your popular dog sled might have completed or won any race, or even built the sled.

This is all a long-winded-way of saying that I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t a little self-conscious about sharing a rookie experience standing on a sled in the dark, picking my nose for almost 300 miles, and alternating which leg to lean on like a guy in a long line at the DMV. I’ve heard the phrase passed around that dog sled races really start at the 300 mile mark.

Ryne straightened me out, though:

“How do you think I feel after handling for Aily [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aliy_Zirkle]?” She asked. “And this is Martin Buser’s first year not running the Iditarod since 1986. Feeling like it’s already been said and done is just something you have to get over. Whatever you want to talk about, the way you feel is the way you feel. Also, you’re trying to talk to a community of people who aren’t necessarily mushers — who want to know what we’re doing. And they would appreciate hearing almost anything you want to share about running dogs.” Ok, she’s right. I’ve said my piece.

First of all, this year’s Copper Basin was warm as relative hell. I don’t know if it ever went below -10F. There was even a portion where I was driving the sled barehanded, something I’ve never done outside of springtime mushing. When we got back to the kennel, Kalyn (who ran Ryne’s second CB300 team in 2020 when it was hitting -60F) asked me if I knew that I was a “spoiled shit.”

“Yes,” I said, “it is my favorite thing to be.”

Day before the race we showed up in Glennallen with plenty of time for vet checks. I wandered into a squat, log building and a tiny, white-haired woman bossed me around about what I needed to do. 

“Who’s dogs are you running?”

“Ryne Olson’s.”

“Oh, yes, I know Ryne,” was the common refrain. 

At race starts they have every musher autograph race bibs and posters. It was quite the novel experience. After that, I wandered out to the truck where the vet check was finishing up. Then I wandered back in and bought a sweatshirt. Then I wandered back out. Ryne, being pretty popular, was off fraternizing, so I stood in the middle ground for a while. The vet jokingly accused me of loitering. This vet had found a tiny patch of healed frostbite on Spit’s (Spitfire) empty nutsack. 

“Wow, she really had to look for that,” said Ryne as she felt around down there afterwards. “Well, keep an eye on it.” Aye, aye, captain.

Every musher is given a vet book — a yellow Write In The Rain notebook — required to be on their person at all times. My vet book had two things written in it. “Yoshi: right tricep. Spit: frostbite on testicle sack.” How’s that for sincere? (Added note by Ryne- Yoshi was 100% and did not have a tricep. She’s a senstive gal, and if someone she doesn’t know extends her shoulder and pinches, well, I’d get a little startled too).

In the humming truck cab, with a few hours to burn before the musher meeting, Ryne and I began the task of timing out our equal-run-equal-rest schedule. Doing so involved a complex algorithm based off of last year’s middle-of-the-pack run times and Ryne tamping down her competitive compulsions for the rest times. It looked like this:

And it was pretty damn accurate. The largest discrepancy being the first rest time at Tolsona Lodge. I’d been told by Ryne that I was a “bad sled dog” and to go rest in the truck. When I wandered back down to the team, Ryne and the dogs were bubbling, and if they weren’t going to keep resting there was no point in staying. 

After that, it became very trancelike. I ran a lot in the dark, in a fairy godmother bubble of light, just watching dog butts, just staring at tug-lines and waiting for dogs’ gaits to change (indications of injuries or illness). In my light bubble I let the thoughts percolate. Lots of creative bar names were born: The Straw Dog, The Dropped Dog, The Bagged Dog, Water for Dogs. Other than that, there were catalyzed memories from my summer job packing horses and mules under similarly crepuscular schedules, where the constancy of covering ground took precedence to everything. Tack up, move, unload, tack up, move, unload. It is an antediluvian mode of living that does not tarnish the beauty of the world around you but your appreciation of it is undeniably altered because ultimately there is a job that needs doing. With sleep deprivation mixed into the equation, it’s trancelike. 

Then, at the checkpoints, on top of being a bad sled dog, I was (am) very much a learning musher. I had poor rhythm, I was slow to feed, I wasted a lot of the dogs’ resting time. To be completely honest, the first 150 miles of the race felt like a job I was struggling to do at par while my boss stood over my shoulder. As a rookie, I needed Ryne there. She was my coach. She watched dogs that I wasn’t, noticed details that I couldn’t, told me things I did not know, and saved me from making more rookie mistakes than I already had when she wasn’t looking. Yes, Ryne was my coach, but she is also my boss and these are her dogs. And hell, man, it’s not a psychological cinch to switch from a work mentality to a play mentality just because people tell you that now you are supposed to be having fun. That said, I do the jobs that I do because I think that they are fun. But the pressure to find more fun in doing something I already do for work, I could not find it in the first half of the race. I won’t speak for all handlers, but that is one of the emotional realities.

Because we weren’t racing, the main job was to take care of the dogs. Mose’s gait had changed on the run from Tolsona to Lake Louise, though his tug-line stayed tight as ever. He’s a stalwart dude. When I checked his wrists and shoulders, he was stoic. Still warm early at the checkpoint, he wasn’t limping. I was taking my time feeding when Ryne told me to look up. There was an old looking eddy of green light above us. When the lights act like water, it’s about as good as it gets. I stared up a second and then finished with the dogs, walked into the lodge, drank a sprite, a water, and a coke at the bar, and then went to the truck to sleep for two hours. Mose got up from his rest limping. We left him behind. The lights had gone out. 

It was after the Sourdough checkpoint that the dogs really started to stand out. Beyond Sourdough was beyond what the dogs had run this year in training. For the rookies, the furthest they’d ever run. Veterans: Dracula, Thresher, Elmer, Tobin, Yoshi. Two-year-old rookies: Fly (Firefly), Spit, Beesly, Tuna, Mose, Mozzie (Mozzarella), Muenster. 

Back at the race start, tucked into our corner of the parking lot, we dropped the dogs to let them wiggle around and started to gear them up. I’d drawn bib #20. With teams leaving at two minute intervals, that meant we had 40 minutes from the first team leaving. Well ahead of go time, after a quality poop, Dracula began what can only be termed as jack-in-the-box barking. So termed because it appears that this dog’s mind goes completely vacant except for the jack-in-the-box jingle, on repeat. Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark, etc. “Look at her,” said Ryne. “She knows exactly what’s about to happen, too.” Dracula lead for the entire 300 miles. I owe her one.

I rotated Tobin, Elmer, and Thresher in lead with Dracula. Those three boys lived in lead or swing for the race. Tobin, a 3-year-old, is such a hard driver (puller) that he’s a very valuable lead and swing dog. He holds out any slack that tends to develop in the line. His faults are that he lacks some confidence, is extremely left-handed, and will completely stop to poop. If Tobin has the open space, he’ll try to run on the left side of a road or wide trail and if he’s unsure of where to go and there’s a trail leading left, then the team is going left. When he poops, if the lead dogs aren’t driving hard, or if he happens to be in lead, the team will scrunch up fast. Suffice it to say, I’ve learned a lot from Tobin. Thresher, what a good little man. He’s smart and reliable, he’s finished a number of 1000 mile races for Ryne. It brought me comfort to have him with us. I had Mozzie and Muenster, the cheese brothers (Dracula’s sons), in the middle of the team. Consistently strong pullers, no hitches, they were the backbone of my gangline. Then there was Yoshi, a cute, little 6-year-old with a svelte trot and no real complaints. Alongside Yoshi had been the 80-some-pound tank of Mose. Next were the fire siblings, Fly and Spit. Fly seemed more or less unfazed by the whole event, a happy dog. Spit ended up making it within eight miles of the finish line, but it was a little too much for him near the end and he got plopped into the sled bag with Elmer, who had started limping halfway into our very last run. Finally, The Office siblings, Beesly and Tuna, were paired up and looked great together until Meiers Lake — where Ryne noticed visible swelling on Beesly’s back leg. To play it safe, little Beesly stayed with Ryne. Running alone after that, Tuna held the line as tight as ever, good boy. 

I share a lot of training miles with the two-year-old dogs. I was introduced to them when they were yearlings, harness broken, but still learning. When we met, their amount of experience was more or less equivalent to my own. Since then, we’ve been learning together. When I talk about trying to find rhythm, being bad at resting, having a boss over my shoulder, I might as well be talking from a rookie dog’s perspective. I don’t think that’s too much of an empathetic stretch. So I’m not being treacly when I say that it’s been a unique privilege to watch Fly, Spit, Mozzie, Muenster, Beesly, Tuna, and Mose develop into badass, professional-grade, bonafide sled dogs. To delve into each dog’s transformation would take more than a paragraph or two. Another time, perhaps. 

On the TV at Meiers Lake Lodge some chubby Louisiana Game Warden was giving bayou boaters a ticket for not having enough life jackets in their vessel. It was mesmerizing. A lot of people in the room were watching with me. Ryne, with her back to the TV, was sleepily struggling to calculate when I should leave.

“Twenty-one hundred hours is?” She paused, calling upon her degree in accounting for help. No help. 

“Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…twenty-four. 9:00 PM?” I counted on fingers, unsure. 

“So leave at 2:30 AM.”  

We left Meiers Lake with half a bale of straw, planning to camp in the middle of the 70 mile leg. We started along the pipeline. No stars…sleepy. It was around this time that whenever I gave the “Ready-Let’s-Go” command my voice started sounding prepubescent. What is happening to me? I drowsily thought. Am I reverting? Is this a Freudian thing? Will I be ten-years-old at the end of this race? Am I ten now? Wake up, Tucker. Wake up.

We left the pipeline. The trail breakers had done some serious work navigating us around open water via ice bridges and a couple wicked 180s. Awake, we came to what is called “The Hump”. We climbed in the dark. Watching dogs dig in and pull, just chug and chug when you’re all in the thick of it, it’s a kind of grace. Huff, puff, over the top into a high tundra terrain, I think — it was still dark. And then we camped, and as the sun finally rose everything began to feel pleasant, peaceful, and fun. The weather was friendly enough so I employed a technique which I’d read about earlier in the winter called a “shiv and biv”, where you just fall asleep in the snow with all of your gear on until you wake up shivering. Supine on my parka, I dozed off next to the dogs and slept well for an hour.

I woke up staring into a senseless blue sky, completely lost. Yes, this is where we are, I realized, and began to fiddle around. Soon came the distant tones of Lauro Eklund talking to his dogs, not because they needed the encouragement, it was conversing. We could see him coming a good ways off. He rowed along smoothly using one ski pole and floated up next to us. 

“Great view from The Hump with the sunrise, beautiful. How long you been here? You got 31 miles? Ah well, we’ll probably find a place to camp a little further on. I heard from Jake that it’s all downhill from here! Ah well, see ya soon.” 

Then came another musher. “What mile are we at?” 

And then one more. “Ya, I’ll probably camp just up ahead too.”

It is time to go. With bare hands I reach into the center of a whorl that is a little dog. It is soft and warm and does not want to wake. I whisper nonsensical sweet nothings. The paws are dry and hot and booties go on like nothing. We move along.

Chistochina had a wonderful checkpoint setup but the coffee was on the verge of toxicity. I woke up from a final nap groggy, wandered into a cozy garage-lounge with a nice fire going, poured out some caffeinated sludge and chugged it. “You awake enough for the final leg, Tucker?” Some friendly handler asked me from a couch. “The coffee tastes like I will be,” I managed to reply before wandering back outside. Again, we left. 

Because it was so warm, my feet had been sweat-soaked for the first 230 miles and they were pruny as all hell. When I finally switched to my light, dry mukluks for the last run I felt like skipping. So I jogged every little hill that I could and for no real reason that I could detect the dogs started cruising. I had to hold them back. After one of their random surges I even let out an involuntary schoolgirl giggle. We’ll be there in no time, I thought. Easy.

But about two hours in, Elmer got a hitch in his step. Elmer is a solid dude, but he’ll pee in your house, and he’d definitely be the one to poop in your sled :[ He was happy enough to be unhooked, but when I stuffed his poop covered butt into the sled bag and hooked his collar in he protested. 

“This is stressing me out, Tucker. I don’t want to ride in the sled,” he said. 

“Come on, buddy, settle in. You have more experience than I do. You’ve finished this race in lead before. Riding in the sled is easy compared to that. Just sit down.” 

“No, I’m going to stand. I don’t want to sit.”

“Elmer, work with me here."

“No."

The dogs had really been favoring fish skins mixed in with their water for meals and, holy god, the intestinal aftermath was potent. With just his head sticking out of the sled bag as we picked back up, Elmer started nervously farting. He must have been. Because I swear it smelled like he’d taken a massive, fishy dump in the sled. I started complaining. 

“Elmer, why? Why? All over my sleeping bag, Elmer. My thermos, Elmer. Why?” 

Right away came a couple of trail marker X’s indicating “Trail Hazard” AKA pucker up.

“Trail X’s, Elmer. Pucker up. Please, just pucker up. Good boy. You’re a good boy, though.” I scratched his head.

When there are a bunch of mushers ahead of you and no broken sleds or bodies along the trail, you know that everyone must have made it through some of the sketchier sections alive. I can’t help but wonder if it was as graceless and with as much cussing as my own navigation. 

Well, we made it through alright, wishing luck to those behind, and then finally came to the home stretch along the highway. When I had to put Spit in the sled bag, I was deflated. You can’t help but feel that way when you’re responsible for these little personalities. The good news was that there was not a fishy dump inside of the sled, it was just a gaseous spritzing, and my sleeping bag was clean. My poor thermos, though, it’s seen better days. And that’s how we came across the line. 

The vets were right there; the dog truck was right there. We got the two boys out of the sled for the vets to look over (they were both happy and fine) and started to gear down. 

Ryne kept bugging me, “Your friends sent you something. You should open it.”

“What are you talking about?” I had my arm under Thresher’s belly as I was lifting him over the drop chain and I squeezed out a loud, fishy, godawful fart.

“Some random guy just came up, handed me this paper bag, and walked away,” Ryne said. “You should open it. I’m pretty sure it’s beer.”

Somehow my college roommate had suckered some poor, wonderful son-of-a-bitch in Glennallen to deliver a six pack to the finish line at three in the morning. Cheers, Micah. 

Between the RynoKennel Facebook page and my mother, this is about as publicized as my life has ever been. So cheers to everyone who followed along, to our wonderful Glennallen hosts, the Bobowskis, to all the dog sponsors, to Ryne, Sam, Derek, Kalyn, to that beer delivery guy, and to, of course, the dogs.