Final Alaska Thoughts

As I sit at home, post-editing my travel journal and my photos, I can’t help but look back at how my feelings have changed for Alaska.  While I was there, the experience was almost euphoric.  As if all the pieces of my heart had finally been linked back together, nothing felt more perfect.   Some of you mentioned how I made the race seem easy.  Honestly, there wasn’t much difficulty to it other than those few miles of soft snow.  But just like a young child on Christmas morning, the first few snowy runs of the year are the best.   If you live in a snowy place, you can agree, right?  I had only two runs in Alaska.  And I made them count.

I still feel like I leave part of myself behind when I return to California, but it no longer aches in the same way.  Tears don’t form in my eyes as the plane takes off.  Maybe I’ve accepted it, moving on both geographically and emotionally in my life.  But I think I’ve finally let Alaska settle into a place in my heart that can be sustained through memory.  I can look back fondly at my memories and possibilities of returning the future, but the present is here, my home on the Pacific Ocean.  And that’s pretty cool too.

Do you remember what you were doing the last time it was February 29th? I do.  It was my first day as an Alaskan.  Kinda fitting that I'm finishing up my visit posts on that same day.  Almost feels like closure or something.

In case you missed the other adventures, here they are:
Tony Knowles 5
Skiing and the Pre-Race Meeting
Little Su Prep Day
Little Su 50K Race Report, part 1
Little Su 50K Race Report, part 2
Hatcher Pass, day 1
Hatcher Pass, day 2

Hatcher Pass, part 2

February 20, 2012:

Matt ventured downstairs for water just as the lodge was setting up for breakfast.  They apologized for the noise and offered us free breakfast.  HECK YES, I can be bought!  It sounded better than the day-long PB&J feast we had planned on having.

Looking through the picture windows, it was hard to tell we were in the mountains at all.  In the low morning light, it was all white.  No contours or varying hues.  All white.  It was like looking at a blank sheet of paper.  The clouds raised and lowered throughout the morning.

  

 

 

People, bushes, and trail markers contrasted with the landscape as we moved along on our morning snowshoe trip.  We never knew for sure whether our climbing effort would yield great views or not.  From the top, one can see all the way to the Cook Inlet on a clear day.  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” I remarked.

 

My illness seemed to be the worst this day.  The dry, cool air helped a bit.  I also saved about 30,000 trees by using snot rockets instead of tissue.  I’m sure you really needed to know that too, right?  My mom always gags when she hears me blow out a snot rocket.  She’s secretly jealous of how good I am at it.  Matt is the master blower.  He shot out green ones.  They splattered into the white snow like a piece of abstract art.

Atop Hatcher Pass, the wind blew swiftly.  I opened the chemical warmers and stuffed them inside my outer mittens to revive my frozen fingers.  Permanently sensitive from bouts of mild frostbite, I always struggle with cold fingers.  

No Cook Inlet today, but daylight soon brought depth to the mountains, snowmobile tracks and Summit Lake.

Turning around to return the way we came, grand views appeared.  Mountains, crystal clear and bathed in a sunshine spotlight stared back at us.  “It looks like a mountain you’d find on a beer bottle,” Matt said.

That night, Matt and I moved to a more spacious cabin.  The view from the window was so spectacular that it appeared fake, perhaps a painting rather than a window.  After a Monopoly rematch game, we went to bed exhausted and happy.

Midnight Shift Survival Mode

Matt works shifts.  Once a month or so, he works a string of midnight shifts.  Sometimes I wonder if these are harder on me than on him.  I'm used to sleeping in bed with him.  His warm feet to snuggle with; his body weighing on the mattress just so; the comfort of knowing someone else is there if an intruder comes knocking.

All that security is pulled away when he works mids.  Sometimes I wonder if those shifts are harder on me than they are on him.  His internal clock is so used to changing that he becomes an opportunist sleeper. 
I sleep regular hours, but when he works mids, I'm all messed up. 
The bed is too cold to sleep.
Our house creaks when it cools at night.  Most sounds are as loud as someone breaking through a door.  Terrifying when my only protection is a 12 pound kitty.

I've finally figured a way to cope with it.
Build Fire.

Make s'mores and any other special treat I think would make this boring Saturday night feel like an event.

Sleep on couch.
Fall asleep with T.V. to comfort me.

(Even though it still sucks, this is much preferred to when I was still working.  Falling asleep at 3am then getting up at 5:30 was just no fun, no fun.)

Yeah, boo hoo Karen, your life is so tough sometimes.

Hatcher Pass, day 1

Feb 19, 2012:

I’m always surprised how few complaints my body makes after a trail race.  Despite the turned ankles, sore back and hips during the race, I felt surprisingly good.  The best I have EVER felt after a 50K actually.  Apparently, snowy trails are easiest on my legs.  Noted for later.

 Matt and I wasted no time getting on with our next adventure.  It was only during a steep uphill climb that I noticed any fatigue from the previous day.  My heart-rate took off.  My lungs gasped for air.  We hiked beyond the sled hill at Hatcher Pass Lodge.  As the late afternoon sun sunk behind the mountains, we turned back.  The pass had become gray and monochromatic.

Best way to assess high avalanche danger: when the mountain makes her own snowmen. 

Snow depth at the lodge?  About 6 feet.

We returned to our tiny room above the lodge restaurant.  Barely large enough to fit a double bed and literally cut in half being at the top of an A-Frame building, it was the coziest place I have ever stayed aside from my backpacking tent.

 

Matt and I holed up in our room for the night with Monopoly and our cheesecake.  Cheesecake Monopoly, you say you’ve never heard of it!?A must try!

A wild company party was taking place in the restaurant downstairs.  Celtic fiddle music and drunken laughter filtered into our room until midnight.  I managed to beat Matt twice at Monopoly in that time.

Little Su 50K Race Report, part 2

You can find part 1, here.  I cut this report in half because it is really long, sorry to leave ya hangin'.

 Sorry for the blurry photo, this is the best mountain one I got.

Finally around 17 miles, we reached the Flathorn Lake checkpoint.  Matt and I were keeping a pretty solid pace for the conditions.  Still in good spirits, we joked a little bit with the checkpoint guys as we refilled our water packs.  At 2:53pm (3:53 into the race), we were headed back.  The 50K course does a lollipop, only repeating the first and final three miles so we traveled across new places most of the way.  Heading south across the lake, we took several blurry photos of the mountains in an already darkening day.  The temperature rose to about 25F and stayed there for the majority of the day, only dropping once in a while when we traversed a calm valley later on.

We continued eating on a schedule.  I think this was the best decision we had made.  Whether we were hungry or not, Matt and I ate every hour.  Without the Garmin, we didn’t know our distance, but Matt’s wristwatch told us when we had to eat.  Keeping our fires constantly stoked seemed to ward off major bonks.  Doses of DayQuil were given before the race and near Flathorn Lake.  The cooler air kept my sinuses open and I could breathe well.  I should have counted how many snot rockets there were, because I’m sure it was an impressive number.

There was an aid station at about mile 20.  The volunteers had built a fire to keep their water supply from freezing.  We assumed that we were at mile 22 or 23, so that bit of news sent me into a sour mood.  I really enjoyed being out running, but it was disappointing to hear that we weren’t as far along as we thought.  I walked away from the aid station and kept a walk-run pattern for the next few miles.  From this aid station, it was about seven until the next one, and in a completely straight line.  Not the tiniest hint of curve occurred in our path.  The Talkeetna Mountains ahead never seemed to get any closer.  

The Iron Dog, Alaska’s biggest snowmobile race, began on Sunday morning, the day following our race.  The race travels 2,000 miles before finishing upon the frozen Chena River in downtown Fairbanks.  The buzz of snowmobiles approaching and pulling away could be heard long before I could see them and after they dropped from sight.  Spectators set up tents along the river, staking claim on their very own front row seat.  This is like the snowmobile Super Bowl and draws lots of people from all over the state.  I was surprised by how courteous they were to racers.  They slowed down to pass, giving lots of room to everyone.  I guess I’m used to running on the NorCal roads where motorists don’t slow down or share the shoulder with anyone.  It sometimes feels like they are intentionally trying to run me off the road.  Anyways, it was a nice change.  We enjoyed watching them go by, towing many different types of gear.  Some had sleds; some seemed to just have food.   

 My dusty trail shoes eventually looked new and clean by the end.  Thanks snow!

Everyone was out for a fun weekend and respectful of each other.  One snowmobile hit a small rift in the trail and flipped over about 100 feet ahead of us.  He quickly jumped off his sled, righted it and drove off.  Apparently, this sort of thing happens often, but it sure looks dangerous to me.  Ouch.

We traveled across miles of flat swamp; no natural features marked our progress.  Danni mentioned this after the race saying, "I ran through this at night.  I think that was preferable."  Yup, she was definitely right. The swamps looked a lot like those near Fairbanks.  I always loved them.  The short, spindly trees draw black vertical lines in an otherwise white landscape.  Nature appeared to be resting, asleep under a blanket of snow.  This is my favorite part of winter.  During my summers here, a flurry of energy rushed through everyone.  Children played in the street until 2am, adults backpacked for 20 hrs. straight before setting up camp.  The midnight sun fed our mania and we nearly burst with energy.  By August, our energy was fading, much like the daylight hours.  With the first snowfall in September, we breathed a sigh of relief.  Finally, it was time to rest.  We snuggled in our down coats, poured peppermint schnapps into our post-ski cocoa, and rested along with the sleepy landscape surrounding us.  That’s what I love most about winter: the slower pace, the restful part of the year, a chance to breathe easy before another rushed summer.  I feel like I missed out on that without even the dark and rainy days here in California this winter.

 Arguably the best photo of the whole trip!

At the mile 27 aid station, we were met by two other runners.  They were struggling to keep up.  We kept moving at a slow, but steady pace.  Every time we caught up to them, they took off fast, arms flailing at their sides.  A minute later, they were walking again.  We caught up to them several times before they had finally fallen too far behind to see.  Then I remembered what someone at the dinner on Thursday night said of ours and Jill’s (also from California) training without any snow, “Even if you haven’t trained in the snow, I bet your endurance is way better than ours.  You can go out for more than two or three hours without becoming too cold to move.”  I had never considered it that way.  We didn’t have the cold to slow our training down.  Matt and I had run several six hour runs throughout the winter.  They were snowless, but very hilly.  We trained on soft sand to imitate the snow slipping.  Race day gave us forgiving enough conditions that it became possible for us non-Alaskans to do just as well, if not better than those that trained locally.  If it had been near zero degrees, they would definitely have the advantage.  Matt and I felt the air chilling as darkness fell; I reached for his thermometer to realize that all but the compass part of it had broken off in the cold.  My guess was that it was about 15F again.

We emerged onto Ayrshire Road once again at mile 29.  Suddenly a familiar voice called out from a car on the road, “WOOOOOOOOOO MATT AND KAREN!!!”  It was Julie.  At one time, the three of us were best friends.  Enthusiasm from a familiar face definitely lit a fire beneath me.

 J. Malingowski photo.

By now, the sky was darkened completely.  Only reflection from the snow allowed us to see without our headlamps.  I could make out someone just up ahead.  I couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, but they were definitely on foot.  Could we really catch up and overtake another racer now?  Matt and I took off at my 5K effort (which by now was probably about 11:00/mi.)  One runner ran ahead and waited for the friend, a second runner, to catch up.  I saw wider hips on the first person:  A WOMAN.  I had to catch her.  She kept looking back at us, determined to finish ahead. Where all this energy came, I don’t know.  Seriously?!  After this far, I still had some kick?  The trail was pretty chewed up and I slid a lot.  Somehow there was no falling.  I zoned into the two runners ahead.  I had to catch them.  Just two more people, please?!  God and I bargained a little bit.  I prayed for wings.  Matt ran behind me silently.  

With only 100 yards to go, we caught up to the others, a man and a woman.  “You are impossible to catch!” I told her.  “Yeah, we tried to keep it that way.  Thanks for pushing us!” Joanne replied.  Her friend, David, caught up and said between labored breaths, “What is this, a sprint to the finish?” Matt and I misheard him and thought he wanted a race to the end.  Matt took off, I was already going top speed so I just kept going on my own, cheering him on.  Joanne and David were left and the three of us finished together.  We crossed the finish line in 7:28, and didn’t have to run in the dark with a headlamp.  That was pretty amazing!  I thought for sure we’d be caught in the dark.

 J. Malingowski photo.

Of 80 people that started, only 74 finished. 

Overall finisher (including bikers and skiers): 43/74.

We finished ahead of six bikers, and sixteen skiers.

Out of the runners, I was third woman (of six).  Joanne and I finished an hour and ten minutes behind one other woman, the amazing Shawn Mctaggart.  Holy crap is that fast!

Matt was 9/16 men on foot.  

Even though this was a personal worst time, I feel like this was my smartest 50K so far.  I fueled properly and felt strong at the end.  That is so cool.  If all my races could end this well, I’d be a happy girl.  I had one minor water freeze-up.  It was about mile 5 of the race and just involved a frozen nozzle.  I sucked on it until it thawed in my mouth and things were all well.  To keep the hose from freezing, I held it in the air and pinched the nozzle after each sip, letting the water drain back into the bladder rather than remain in the hose.  This technique works until about 10F and then actually protecting the hose inside of a jacket is basically the only thing that works.  Hovering just above the Froze Hose temperature, my setup worked out just fine.  Had it been colder, my jacket was large enough to wear over the Nathan Pack.

The next morning, I didn’t even feel like I had gone long at all.  The worst effect I noticed the next day was chapped lips.  In terms of pain afterward: road running >  trail running > snow running.

(This race was completed for the Team Gab Virtual Race. I heard the deadline was extended, so you still have time to join the fun!)

Little Susitna 50K Race Report, p.1

“How was your race?” my sister, Emily asked during our phone chat yesterday.  I told her that the weather was almost perfect and I was really pleased with my time. 

“You ran in snow?” she asked, sort of puzzled.  My family really has no idea what this race was like at all.  I made some sort of sassy comment that yes, it was snow, since basically every inch of Alaska is covered in it this time of year.  She seemed shocked that it was on a snowmobile trail in the wilderness.  The fastest spots in the trail were 1” deep, the worst were nearly 8” deep.  Sometimes I intentionally downplay races until I've completed them, just so they don't have me committed.  They know I like to run, but they don't realize that marathons and 50Ks are just the tip of the iceberg.

“What was your time?” Ah yes, the question that I’m sure you all are asking too.  So without forcing you to wait until tomorrow to see it, it was 7:28.  But really, the time doesn’t mean a thing.  It’s like trying to compare your road 5K to a Tough Mudder race.

We drove to the start under completely clear skies.  The sun was out and it was 28F degrees in Wasilla.  We passed through several valleys where chilly pockets of air sent the outside temperature plummeting.  

 It was fun to see the temperatures decrease and increase along the way.  We could almost predict what valleys were coldest.  Black spruce grew in the cold ones, Birch and Cottonwood in the warm ones.  Our race started in a moderately cool spot at 15F.  

 We arrived early enough to take a final inventory, a quick jog to evaluate the trail, and time to just hang out in the car with the heater on; one final mental preparation to really be ready for what we are about to do.

It’s funny, when I’m getting ready to run a fast road race, I’m all about playing the quick tempo music to prepare.  My long distance trail races, the total opposite.  I sit in silence and listen to my breath, almost meditating.  

The bikers took off first, followed by the skiers.  This is the only race that I have done that included other transport modes.  Racers declared their division at morning check-in.  Matt and I had originally planned to train on ski and on foot and then decide based on conditions, but when we found ourselves with a dry California winter and not a single ski day until we got to Alaska, we knew it had to be on foot.  

 J. Malingowski photo.

Each race yields different results.  Some years it is a skier advantage year, some years, it’s the bike.  Rarely is it a runner year.  As we finally took off at the back of the pack, we were curious to see how it would all turn out.

 Ayrshire Road.

The first three miles travel on a bike path along Ayrshire Road.  It was a really congested area and we often found ourselves leapfrogging with other runners, especially during photo stops.  Eventually the course hit a short stretch of road where we had the firmest conditions of the whole race.  It was maybe a mile.  

About mile 8, Matt and I had to slow down quite a bit for narrow trail and lots of deep snow.  There was a single rut down the middle that was packed, but it was neither level nor wide enough to actually run on.   

The beach training was about to pay off.  I saved a bunch of stress on my calves and Achilles’ by adding more bounce to my step.  Not only did my feet slip less, I also stayed upright a little better.  “Boing, boing, just like Tigger,” I thought.  I slid with every step, flailing my arms about to keep upright.  A biker just ahead of us got caught just outside the rut, stopped quickly and fell over into the deep snow.  She resumed moving ahead by walking.  Seemed like everyone was struggling a bit, so all was fair, right?  The trail was in one of those sheltered valleys, chilly, but absolutely breathtaking.  Snow weighed down on the spindly Black Spruce. Snow weighed down on anything that it possibly could stick to.  Christmas at last!!  This is what Karen Heaven looks like, I swear.

Over a few hills and through the deep snow, we arrived not at Grandma’s House, but in an open swamp.  The course went straight across the lake and I could see nearly a mile ahead.  Bikers for as far as the eye could see, not a good sign.  Moments later, we found out why they had to push their bikes through the snow: eight inches of soft powder.  Absolutely no firm snow was to be found.  

Skiers passed us with ease.  We overtook a few bikers.  One shouted to her friend as she pushed her 40 lb. snow bike through the almost non-existent trail, “I have to laugh right now, because if I don’t, I think I’m gonna cry.”  Matt and I were really glad we weren’t pushing our transportation through the snow like that.  Then a few skiers passed us, almost with looks of “What the heck guys? It’s easy!” written on their faces.  I was red-lining my effort level at a slow walk.  We were warned about this section and just focused on the fact that it would get easier soon.  Matt thought it would be cool if we caught up to our Fairbanks friend, Julie biking on this section.  (We learned later that she thinking the same thing, “Don’t let Matt and Karen catch up to me!”)  Three miles of a slow, labored walk, we reached firmer snow, about 2” deep.  We kept pace with a skier, Isabeau, and runner Keri.  Chatting a little bit about our shared suffering seemed to make things easier.  The struggle to stay upright hurt my hips.  They would remind me of their presence for the remainder of the race.  Meanwhile, Mount Susitna, in her quiet winter repose, stared down at us miles ahead.

Miles 8-13 were up and down through a birch forest.  Our course merged with the 100 mile and we began passing some foot racers.  

 Barbie Doll Corner: where the two courses join.  And Barbie is so not dressed for the weather.

 They were weighed down by sleds full of required gear made me glad that I was doing the short race.  They had a really long list of stuff they had to take, about 20 lbs. worth; the requirements for the 50K: water bottle and a rear and head lamp.  I almost felt guilty running past them so easily. 

Matt stopped off-trail to pee.  He sunk into waist-deep snow.  I laughed aloud at him and he turned to me and gave me his best snarly face.  He decided he could wait until a trail junction.  The web of trails winding through the forests, swamps, and lakes is impressive.  Our trail followed the Iditarod Trail, the same course that the famous dogsled race follows all the way to Nome, some 1,000 miles away.  Sometimes in places far wilder than this, these winter trails are entire villages’ main way of travel.  Frozen rivers become highways.  It is amazing how creative and adaptable the people here are to the natural environment.  Mankind is truly awesome sometimes.

 Almost halfway and loving every second!

......Stay Tuned for part 2......