Summary of Trip:

Sometimes, one completes the unthinkable. A few years back, I wouldn't have even dared to think about skiing alongside the Bering Coast and over Norton Sound, away from civilzation, away from rescue, entirely dependant on myself and my skills to survive. Yet, with focus and determination, I acquired the skills and confidence to ski this trail.

Gale pulled me 350 miles along the Iditarod Trail, from Kaltag to Nome. This is the last third of the historic 1000 mile long Iditarod Dog Sled Race, which also ends in Nome. I wanted to ski under the famous burled arch. Gale wanted to run the trail of her ancestors, and I wanted to see it too. We were afraid, afraid of the cold and blizzards. We were afraid of dissappearing through the ice. Yet, we went forward anyways, with intense preperation we had a plan for how to cope with our fears, and move forward with courage.

Throughout our trip, while the weather was cold and wind was fierce, I met unexpected warmth. The trail goes through many villages that are located off the road system, places which retain a rich history of living off the land. In these villages, I met people who welcomed me into their homes, fed me warm meals, pointed me in the right direction, and prayed I would make it safe and sound to wherever I was going. Along the trail, there was many shelter cabins with wood stoves. Instead of sleeping in the cold, I only had to make it to a shelter, where I could (sometimes) start a warm fire and rest.

Our challenge then laid in the navigation between villages and cabins. We had no established trail laid before us, but often the villagers use the trail to go hunting or travel between villages. This means, that if there wasn't a snow or windstorm, I had a good chance of findng a trail, but no guarentee. We pulled our tent, sleeping bag, food, and gear in a pulk sled. I could deceide to sleep anywhere I wanted! Yet, much of the land I crossed was unhospitable to camping out. It was wide open country where the wind would whip all warmth (and my tent) away. Here and there would be a snug notch, a groove of trees, that would help protect me from the elements. I just had to get there....

Day by day, mile by mile, Gale pulled me down the trail. We typically traveled 30 miles per day, with some shorter and longer days. We spent some extra time in Unalakleet due to a snowstorm and poor visibility, and in Elim (they put me up in their school!) due to another 2 foot snow storm. The curious people in these towns asked me who I was, where I was going, and wished me well on my way.

To say there was no struggle would be a lie. This is the most challenging thing I've ever dared to achieve in my life. It came with joy unmatched, a joy when watching the sunset. A joy when eating a warm meal. A glorious feeling going over a mountain, and gliding down the hills. With struggle and challenges, I overcome odds I never felt I could achieve.

Down below these pictures, I'm writing a long detailed account of this trip, village to village.

Draft - long and unedited work in progess!

Kaltag to Nome, a humans perspective

The Preparations

I had a secret. I let on to a couple good friends, they knew that it rumbled in the back of my head. A whispering of a dream that was too big to express. I was simply thinking about going on another big ski trip. Too afraid to commit. Was it folly for me to go out into the Alaskan wilderness alone with my Alaskan husky Gale? Would I come back with Gale alive and healthy? Why were we even doing this?

We wanted to ski the final third of the Iditarod Trail. In March 2022, Gale and I ski'd the first third of the Iditarod Trail, 300 miles from Willow to McGrath. What's the big deal, how is this any different? Allow me to elaborate. While the first third of the trail is challenging and difficult, it has terrain features I'm familiar with: river travel, knotted and twisty forests, a mountain pass, open stream crossing, extensive frozen swamps and lakes travel. I train this type of terrain. For the first half of the trip before crossing over Rainy Pass, there are occasional remote lodges and remote cabins speckled down the trail along the rivers. I had a fair chance of meeting travelers and opportunities for warm lodging along the way.

The final third of the trail is different. Far from the road system of and dense human populations of Alaska, I would meet one of Alaska's most influential individuals, the Bering Sea. In the whole wide world, there are few natural events which are more dramatic than the annual advance and retreat of the sea ice over the Bering Sea shelf. On this trip, I would be forced to shake hands the great Bering Sea. First, we would meet the great and awesome Bering Sea in the village of Unalakleet, translated “place where the east wind blows.” Later on, we'd have to step onto the sea ice, passing over an inlet of the Bering Sea called Norton Sound. This is scary stuff, especially for a midwestern raised farm girl who has no comprehension of frozen sea ice and the vast flat expanses that it presents. Bering Sea's influence would be ever-present throughout our journey over the frozen lands. Intimidating and seemingly ruthless from stories I'd heard, would Gale and I quiver, quake, and flash freeze-frozen in our boots, utterly unable to move when we met Mr and Mrs Bering?

As I researched and spoke with friends about the route, I realized that this final portion of the Iditarod trail has multiple public use cabins along the trail. One of the reasons for this, with the trail so near to the Bering Sea, weather can change becoming awfully awful awful fast. Village travelers, hunters, and other travelers have an opportunity to hunker down and shelter from the wind, snow, and cold if the weather becomes so fierce that travel is not possible. The trail also passes through multiple villages along the way.

As I learned that the trail had multiple keenly placed cabins and that the villages along the way were known to be kind and supporting of travelers along the trail. I thought to myself – well maybe, just maybe – Gale and I can do this. And with that inkling of confidence, I began putting ideas and dreams into a plan, and putting that plan into motion. Confidence grew as I saw the trail laid out in front of me. Yet, I still had my fears. I wrote them down. I addressed them ahead of time.

Would I have the skills to become unlost when I took a wrong turn? What happens when a blizzard hits and I'm all alone? If I'm on the open flats, where do I take cover? How do I navigate if the trail disappears? What if my fingers get so cold I cannot set up my tent? What if the snow is so hard and wind so strong I cannot set up my tent?

I said hello to my fears. I wrote down this is how I vanquish you. I thought out how I prevent X from happening, so I do not meet you. As a solo traveler, I am highly aware of being alone. I am extremely risk adverse. While I carry a Garmin InReach, where I can send out a text or an SOS if need be, that is the worst case scenero. Often in the arctic, when rescue is needed, rescue cannot reach the individual due to extreme adverse weather conditions. Therefore, I am solely reliant on myself and Gale. I put myself out into whatever situation. I must get myself out of said situation.

In my training and shorter trips, I've found that the less weight I carry, the more fun both Gale and I have traveling down the trail. As Unalakleet is a major hub with regular air travel, I sent the majority of my food cache and some gear (extra dry socks!) to this location. Then I booked a flight to Kaltag, a smaller village along the Yukon River with my gear, and just enough food to get me to Unalakleet. Then, further on down the trail, I took advantage of the USPS post office in the village towns, which receive weekly air mail. I sent a food resupply flat rate box to the villages of Koyuk, Elim, and White Mountain.

I chose to ski the trail a week before the start of the Iditarod Sled Dog Race. This way, I would either beat the Iditarod Sled Dog Racers to Nome, and watch them come into the finish line. Or, I would have a higher likelihood of meeting the race trailbreakers or dog teams on the trail in a hairy, scary, notorious wind tunnel section along the Bering Sea coast, just 40 miles or so from Nome.

Flying to Kaltag

The day came, the evening before filled with last minute panic, shipping my drop bag packages, topographic trail map cramming, speaking with others whose been on the trail. I shut the door of the minivan and hoped nothing was forgotten and drove to Fairbanks. I checked into my hotel, trying to calm my nerves before the big day. Then, my trip began with the inevitable, weather problems and poor visibility. My flight to Kaltag was canceled for the day. Try again tomorrow.

The next day, we took off, the canceled flight a blessing in disguise, as we went flew direct to Kaltag instead of village making some stops at other villages. While initially I planned have to camp this first day, the extra couple hours gave me hope that I could reach cabin one, Tripod Flats, on my first day.

Summary Trip Report:

Kaltag to Unalakleet: The beginning of the trip began as trips do, with momentous energy. With great strides and a hop in each step. A mission and a smile and an awe that we've made it to the trail. All of the effort, training, and preparations have put us out on this adventure. I often speak with Gale out on trips and quote Biblo Baggins said as he set out: “ It's a dangerous business, Gale, going out your door. You step onto the trail, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off too.” Where would we end up?

While we began with speed, ease, and great glide, it was not long before the snow began to fall. Our bodys melted the snow as soon as it hit us. There was no way not to get wet, one of the cardinal rules of winter travel. It was above twenty degrees, so I'm down to my baselayers. I can either let the snow fall on my baselayers, and we get wet. Or, I put my shell on and get wet from sweat. Life goes on. I have spare baselayers clothing for this reason. Our first trial was an open stream crossing, not more than a foot deep but about 8 feet across. I risked traveling over a sketchy and unproven snow bridge. First, skiing five feet near vertical down into the creek ditch, and praying the bridge holds. It went splendid, until I heard great cracking of ice when my pulk sled also took the dive. I hurried as quick as possible over the snow bridge, and our gamble paid off, our boots stayed dry. I didn't have time to spare if I wanted to make the cabin this night. This trail was deeply wooded in spruce but climbed slow and steadily up to a low pass known as the tripod flats.

As daylight waned, the snowfall steadily increased. Heavy, wet, and flurried. A gentle wind blew. Night came as we neared the top of the pass. While inter-village snowmachine travel from a recent basketball competition had a made a packed trail a couple days before, this fresh and sticky snow and gentle wind on the flats was quickly eradicating the faint traces. Blinded in the night from the snowflakes reflecting off my headlamp beam, I looked left, right, and far ahead for any lines in the snow. Zig and zagging from left to right I wandered looking for traces. Occasionally, I found a line that I thought might be part of the trail. Occasionally, and seemingly one per mile, I'd see a reflector nailed to a tree, a sure sign I was on the trail. Occasionally, I'd pull up my Garmin GPS device and check my saved track to see if I was going in the right general direction, and adjust when needed. I thought to myself: “Sure would be nice to have trail markers like those sled racers!” Eventually, after much zig zag travel, we crested the pass and started our descent. As we neared treeline, I eventually zagged into a very clear trail nestled in the protected space of the trees. Hallelujah! The mental stress of trail navigation is taxing and tiring. Now, I could finally relax, put my head down and ski. Here in the trees, without the wind, the snow had built up to a significant depth. About a foot of fresh snow had fallen by now. Time slowed down. We slowly made our way down the trail. A slow plod. Just a few miles to go before the cabin.

I saw a sign: CABIN, ONE MILE. Almost there! We are tired. Its been a long day. Step after step. Suddenly, in front of my face is the odd apparition with 18 eyes. Indeed, it was 18 reflectors staring back at my headlamp. What? What is this? Oh, its a bridge. A bridge? Yes, a bridge. The cabin is before the bridge. What? I studied the maps, its just before the bridge. I MISSED THE CABIN? WHAT? The cabin comes before the bridge. I turned around. I then turned down my headlamp to its lowest setting. I couldn't see past this falling snow with a bright lamp. There, now with less reflected light, I could see in the not-far distance a welcoming shape.

Ski ski ski. Ski over the deep and unbroken snow. Just 50 meters before the cabin, was a short 3 feet near vertical hill, with snow that had been long unbroken. As Gale and I tried to crest this hill, I fell on my knee's scrambling to pull up and over. I lamented that they, they, whoever they were, would find my body exhausted from fatigue, just meters from a cabin. I laughed at my silly jokes, and managed to get over the small bump, and to the cabin. It was a very nice cabin. It was late at night. There was no wood inside. I was too tired to go get wood. Besides, the temperature was still quite warm. I changed into dry clothes. Tomorrow, we had a short day, just 15 miles to Old Woman Cabin. We would have time there to collect wood and dry out. I fed Gale, cooked snow into water, made a meal, set an alarm, and we both went to bed and fell quickly asleep.

Tripod Flats to Old Woman

The morning sun rose and the alarm rang loud. Still dark, Gale and I had to eat our breakfasts and start packing our gear. With all the snowing from the night before, I wondered if we could find any trail. Who knows when or even if it stopped snowing by now. This pass is unpredictable. I was very glad to just have a short 15 miles in front of us planned, for it very well might take the whole day. Peaking out, I was glad to see my sled still exposed, not covered from the nighttime snows. I too was glad to see the clear air, unfilled with flakes. Pulling my sled inside the cabin to load it up, it looked to be a very fine day indeed.

Just before dawn, Gale was pulling me down the trail. The snow was deep, yet since it was a warm snow, it compacted beneath my skis and sled, and we sank only a few inches, as opposed to sinking to a bottomless depth. Travel was going to be slow, but this I already knew. Dawn came with streaks of light peering over the mountain and through the trees in an awe-striking dazzling display of radiance. I smiled. Today will be a joyous day. This kaltag portage trail is often remarked by Iditarod mushers as one of their favorites, if they manage to hit it on a clear day. Nestled beside the verdant Unalakleet river valley, birds were singing. I hit it not only on a clear day, but after a snowfall which made the world shine. Alas, with the depth of snow and the immense glide-y-ness of the snow, I wasn't able to get grip to climb small uphills, so I decided to travel with ski skins. This reduces my speed, but allows me to get up inclines, which too is necessary.

This day was about as perfect as a day could be and I remember it with great fondness. The toil was great to haul our sled through the snow, yet without pressure of traveling a far distance and the prospect of a cabin and warmth in the near future, we were at peace and all was right with the world as we made our way through the land. Naturally, we had to navigate some open streams and hunted for ice bridge crossing. Our pulk again was nose-diving and cracking ice on creeks. Gale, as true and loyal as gravity itself, listened as I asked her to navigate trees and jump over open water creeks and scramble up vertical creek ditches. As we neared Old Woman Mountain, I gazed upon this flat topped and tall figure who stands high watching over her splendid and verdant garden. Finally, we crossed the Old Woman River, and I began scanning the land as I ski'd for the cabin near the base of the mountain. Soon enough, we were leaving the mountain behind, the wind was immediately picking up as I left the river valley and mountain behind. I started to wonder. I stopped. I looked behind me. I was just past Old Woman Mountain. The cabin was right by her base. I was entering land that was now speckled and loosely scattered with trees, instead of filled with trees. This was not right. I missed it. Again! Two cabins. Two days in a row. The sky is blue and daylight still shines. I pulled out my Garmin and looked where the cabin should be. Aha, I passed right by it. It was right where it should be, near the base of the mountain, back about a quarter mile. Back we went and found nestled in the trees back away from the trails, this small yet ample homely log cabin that looked gloriously comfortable and welcoming. Without the trace of an inbound or outbound trail or trail sign, I passed it right by. I dropped my sled at the front door, unloaded the contents, and picked up a bowsaw hanging from a nail, and went out a wood collecting mission. While this cabin had a few proper split logs left behind, I wanted to be sure there was wood left behind when I left in the morning, so I went out to load my pulk of wood. I was going to be roasty toasty tonight. It took us 7 hours to travel 15 miles, and every moment was wonderful.

With a crackling fire and in my long underwear, I melted snow on the wood stove and prepared food for both Gale and I. My boots hung over the fire, along with other damp gear, drying out. At 11pm, I woke up to a whistling and a howling. The wood stove had come alive, while still crackling and seething embers, it was singing a disturbing tune. We had a visitor, not of fur and blood, but still of great power. I opened the door, the spindly spruce were bowing their heads down to her in forced spineless obedience. The wind had come. Now, it was again snowing, but the snow came from below and went up. Up up to the tree tops, the boughs were pelted with snow. I quickly pulled myself back inside and was thankful for the stash of wood. Who knows, perhaps we'll be here more than one night. For now, back to bed, and wait for the morning. Now is not the time to fret, it is the time to sleep, rest, and recover.

The morning alarm rang, curious of what the world was like outside, and cautious about what the world would look like outside, I peeked out the front door. With pleasant surprise, the trees were stretching straight up into the morning sky, the air was clear, my inbound trail was still present, and the outside world looked a grand place to be. We ate, packed, and went out the door.

I had heard stories of dog mushers in this section becoming utterly bogged down in winddrifts, heading in the wrong direction struggling to find the correct route, being blasted in the face with a strong headwind. To say I was apprehensive as I started traveling would be true. Yet, providence calmed all my nerves and questions. Shortly after we started plodding down the trail, following faint yet discernable trail lines, with the rising sun we also met three villagers on snowmachiner who were traveling the portage trail from Unalakleet to Kaltag. They stopped, smiled, and waved as I passed by. I knew now, I would have no problem finding the trail. The morning held clouds high in the sky. To the west, the direction of my travel, heavy dark clouds loomed, yet above me the sun peeping through.

We strode through the day, step by step, and a glorious day smiled at us. Moment by moment, we made strides down the trail, the sun shone through and we stopped to eat our cinnamon roll. Sweet sugar mixed with butter, a joy of life best enjoyed in wild places. As we contined onward, the whalebone mountains one one side, the Unalakleet River Valley to the other, there was much to see. I felt I was being watched as I moved through the lands, not alone at all.

As the sun rose, the snow became so warm and full of moisture, it started to cling to my skis. Mounds grew on my ski-base, preventing forward motions. I released Gale, as my glide has become non-existant. I figured I may as well save her strength. Soon enough, I deceided I may as well stop as well and save my own. I said "at that patch of trees, we will nap for a half hour" but as soon as I got to that patch of trees, I felt the snow change, I felt it release. Our break I had entitled myself too I no longer met the conditions to redeem. Gale got re-hooked, and on we went. What a change a mere fraction a degree makes in the snow for a skier.

We crossed into some trees and soon found the Chirosky River, it mostly stays open all winter except at this location. We then saw a black dot in the distance. A man on snowmachine came up to us, with a smile bigger than the pacific ocean, he asked what I was doing out here. I said taking in the scenery that this world has to offer, what about you? He said he's meeting a friend and going fishing on the Chirosky. He snapped some photos of me and shared them with a common friend, which delighted me so!

14 miles to go to Unalakleet, so near yet as my energy wanes, shorter distances seem longer. Not long after, I hit the Unalakleet River. The river was a new monster, here suddenly those dark clouds looming were now above me. Big Snowflakes began to fall, monsters they were! I had just taken Gale's booties off, yet on this river, the ice was not smooth. It was cracked and jagged, smooth as pickle relish over toast. Sharp and cutting, the booties promptly got put back on. I added layers, as I had been down to my t-shirt during the sunshine hours. I hoped this river would be quick.

Overflow here, overflow there, yet nothing as bad as it could be. Gale's paws would often sink, yet my skis would glide on top. As the weather was still warm, the wet we passed over sheered off the bottom of my skis. We will manage, we must manage, and this isn't so bad. Up up up over the river bank we had to rise, as the trail bypassed some treacherous bends of the river, this took brute force to climb out of the steep banks. Then we'd portage a bit, and drop back down. Repeat, and soon, soon, the everlasting "soon" that enters the mind I near a destination, surely I must see Unalakleet soon. Not a blinking radio tower light, nothing. Finally, I climb up a river bank edge, and I remeber now we're about to portage over the mouth of the river, where the river meets the ocean. All now is is dense fog, a bleary white, just the trail remains in front.

The passage becomes more wet, more water on top the trail. Gale is sinking deeper, and so are my skis. Now laden with heavy slush, we move slower. Suddenly, a great spiked wall appears in front of me. Confused, I wonder what this is. Then, I recall its the sea wall to protect the town of Unalakleet. I must be very near. A snowmachiner passes me. I stare into the distance, surely I can see the town. In another minute, I am rewarded, with a view of black specs not far off. My boots are sometimes sinking under slush, we waddle through the mire, with hope in our hearts, we've almost arrived. Unalakleet, the land of the west winds. Neighbor to the Bering Sea.

Unalakleet to Shaktoolik: The Blueberry Hills, The Cold & The Wind

Unalakleet is home to a couple of the warmest and most generous souls I've met on this good planet earth. My host Donna not only fattened me up, she loved and encouraged me. Her home was warm and full of spirit. I met her friends who passed through her door, a woman named Mille with a smile so broad and a zest for life. Mille put a wolf ruff on my parka while I was in Unalakleet. Unfortunately, Everts Air failed on their promise to deliver my drob boxes. After promising "we'll get this box there before your arrivial" (it was not) and then promising "we'll get this box there on the next flight" (it was not) and "we'll send this box out on the flight that goes tomorrow morning" (the customer service lady was apparently unable to read a flight schedule, there was no flight that came). Their utter failure and inability to communicate had profound impacts on what I'd been training for all season and was extremely frustrating to say the least. Thankfully, the people of Unalakleet had my back. Donna provided me with ramen, walnuts, and oatmeal. She introduced me to a local sled dog owner who pulled out some whole beavers, entire beavers with furr and head, and chopped off pieces for Gale. He also provided me with Perch. These food supplies helped me get out of town and down the trail! Thank you, thank you - thank you - thank you, from the bottom of my heart!

So when I heard to my dismal dismay my major food drop was not shipped, I couldn't sit still any longer. I said yes to the help of the people of Unalakleet, and left on a beauiful sunny day into the blueberry hills, towards the Foothills Cabin.

Joyous to be on the trail again, I set out with a bound in my step, with a new layer of fat from Donna's cooking, I was toasty warm in the cool clear air. I quick became aquainted with this thing, this thing called arctic snow. Windblown, cold, and slow.

I didn't know I was hauling a rhinosaures to Nome, yet this if what my pulk sled felt like. in fact, I'd frequently look back to make sure a mega-ton astroid didn't land in my pulk. Am I dragging lines? Am I dragging a branch? No, I'm not dragging a thing except my sled how it should be. That snow was painful. Painful slow. The moisture sucked out by the cold and the wind, I was left to drag this pulk sled over granular, course, sand-like snow. To accept fate is the one choice during winter trips, and accept it with a grin is the best course.

So through the Blueberry Hills we traversed, up and down gentle slopes, with a gentle breeze in our face, and gentle wisps of snow falling. A glorious day to be moving through the land.

Shaktoolik to the Point Cabin: Meeting the Sea Ice of Norton Sound. Still, clear and cold.

Point Cabin to Koyuk: A long and weary day over Norton Sound

Koyuk to Elim: Wind Whisperer.

Elim to Golovin: A JOYOUS day, utter wonder

Golovin to White Mountain: A quick trip

White Mountain to Quatalka Shelter Cabin: I thought this was hilly

Quatlkak Shelter Cabin to Safety: Okay, THESE are hills. The coast is NOT flat.

Saftey to Nome: Exhausted, ate something bad and trouble eating. Just get me to Nome. -40 is predicted for the next few days, and high winds. Lets get to Nome!