With the start signal, race anxiety melted away

Jeff Wells

Published Saturday, March 31, 2007

Every dog in the team was lunging into their harness and barking at the top of their lungs: “It’s time to go boss! Let’s go!”

They had had two weeks of easy, short runs; their bodies were wound and ready to explode. Except for two of them: Texas and Tahoe, 7 and 6 years old respectively, they had been there many times before. They knew, even much more than me, what was to come in the next 1,000 miles.

They knew it was a long ways, and there was no point over-exerting themselves at the starting line.

The date was March 4, 2007, and we were minutes away from starting the 2007 Iditarod.

For me, one of the hardest parts of the Iditarod was the days and hours leading up to the start.

For every minute we got closer to our start time, my yearning for the countdown grew stronger and stronger. The second the official starter yelled “GO!” my anxiety and worries wilted away.

From then on, at least until I reached Nome, there was nothing in my life that mattered except my 16 huskies and I.

I picked 76th position out of 82 to start in this year’s Iditarod. No particular reason why 76, other than I wanted to start towards the back and six is my lucky number.

From the time I left the starting line to the moment I pulled in Nome, this year’s Iditarod was an adventure, to say the least.

For the first several hundred miles of the race, we were hounded with fierce winds easily exceeding 50 mph at points.

The wind was especially intense between the Rainy Pass and Rohn checkpoints, where the highest point on the trail, well above treeline, is reached.

The wind was so strong that at many points I couldn’t see my leaders, much less the trail.

Cold is one thing, but wind and cold put together is like being put in a freezer with needles poking you across your whole body.

Luckily, my faithful leaders for this run, Texas and Tin, pulled us into Rohn with few problems.

From Rohn all the way to Nome, the trail can be summed up to this: little to no snow, cold, and more wind.

Between Ophir and Iditarod, the halfway checkpoint of the race, there was 60 miles of trail across bare tundra. No snow, none what-so-ever. And if you have never walked on tundra before, it’s like walking on dried up mud that cattle once walked through when it was wet and mucky.

From there we went 150 miles up the mighty Yukon River before we reached the final leg along the Bering Sea coast.

At one point, we actually crossed a portion of the Bering Sea (small portion at that) via the Norton Sound between checkpoints Shaktoolik and Koyuk. I tell you what, 40 miles of nothing but sea ice will make you feel small on this earth again.

Mentally, this was the hardest run of the whole race, dogs and myself alike. We were being hammered by a wind harder than I’d ever experienced before, the trail was difficult to follow, and we were miles and miles away from the nearest point of land.

After all I’ve written thus far, you are probably wondering why anyone would want to put themselves through this. To tell you the truth, there were points where I wondered the same.

I was told before the race that during the two-week span I would be on the trail, I would have the worst day of my life, and I would have the best day of my life. Maybe they are both true, but I can tell you for a fact that the second is true.

I will never forget the northern lights in Iditarod or the sunsets over the Bering Sea. Nor will I forget the natives I visited with along the way or the friendliness of the volunteers who give up two weeks of their life for this race.

But most of all, I won’t forget my dogs. The effort they put forth and the faith we put into each other is something that cannot be described. At one point on the Norton Sound I stopped to give the dogs a break and a little snack.

I walked up to the front of the team, where I expected a little pep talk might be needed due to the brutal headwinds we were facing. Not the case. All 11 dogs I still had with me at the time were looking at me with wagging tails, and several were already lunging on their harnesses ready to be off again. This was after 750 miles of trail. I swear the hearts of these dogs must be the size of an elephant.

I pulled into Nome at 5:30 in the afternoon after 14 days, 5 hours on the trail. I was the 48th musher to do so. But 2nd, 48th, or 80th place, the joy I felt would have been the same.

The feeling I felt pulling into Nome cannot be described, but I know we all have, or will, feel it in our lives at some point. I was ready for the race to end but at the same time I wasn’t. After what my dogs and I had gone through, I felt we could face anything.

But all things must end, and end on a good note we did. The dogs charged into Nome like they had left the start line only miles before.

Mark Nordman, the Iditarod race marshal, walked up to me after I finished, congratulated me, and said “You really can’t describe what you just did to anyone, can you?”

Try as hard as I might, this is the truth. I f you would like more detail feel free to check out my blog.

Thanks to everyone for all the e-mails of support and congrats. Now that my first Iditarod is completed, I am already dreaming of the next one. But this won’t be for awhile, so until then, happy trails and enjoy the warmth of spring.

Jeff Wells is living in Denali Park, Alaska, having just run the Iditarod race. He can be reached at fsjjw15@uaf.edu. His blog is http://wellsiditarod2007.blogspot.com