Sleepless in Alaska

LOWA Pro Team Athlete Sunny Stroeer writes about her recent experience - completing her third Iditarod Trail Invitational, biking across the frigid, remote Alaskan wilderness. Images courtesy of Sunny Stroeer.

My husband is fast asleep. He is wedged between a young guy from the coast and a second warm body on his other side; I can’t be quite sure if it’s a woman or a man. I, meanwhile, am curled up in the fetal position on the floor some feet away from their entanglement, seeking cover beneath the planks of a heavy wooden table. I am exhausted yet can’t keep my mind from running circles: sleep does not come easily for me, and certainly not tonight. There is no-one here but Paul, myself, and our overnight companions. We are deep within the Farewell Burn in Alaska’s inaccessible Interior, a hundred and fifty miles from the nearest road. The land around us is frozen in snow and ice; the aurora dances faintly overhead. I have no thermometer but the air’s touch tells me that outside temperatures are somewhere south of zero. The deep, cold solitude is beautiful and unforgiving.

There is no shelter here other than the one we sought: the Bear Creek Public Safety Cabin. Built with bunks for four to six the cabin was beyond capacity when Paul and I arrived; we are spending the night crammed into this space with 19 other souls - but that doesn’t matter. Shelter, warmth, and safety matter. 

Paul and I are six days into a wild adventure: the Iditarod Trail Invitational or ITI. It’s the human-powered stepchild of the storied sled dog race, a 1000 mile journey across Alaska’s remote winter. Without dogs or motorized equipment there are not many modes of travel left available: this race is done by foot, bike, or skis. Race veterans may follow the trail all the way to Nome, one thousand miles in thirty days or less. Rookies first have to prove themselves by getting through the ‘short’ distance, a mere 300 miles to the interior village of McGrath. That’s what Paul and I are doing.

Adventure isn’t new to us: we met rock climbing in Colorado. Our sixth date was a multi-day ascent of El Capitan. Our first vacation as a couple was an alpine climbing trip in Canada. Even though I am mainly an endurance athlete, Paul and I primarily climb together - because Paul is 100% climber, and 0% endurance athlete. That is… until now. 

With 225 miles behind us and “only” 75 left until the finish, Paul has entered the endurance world. Wordlessly we have found a rhythm where nothing matters other than our partnership and joint relentless forward progress. Progress along the Yentna river, through a night where the thermometer touched -35 degrees and the northern lights were otherworldly. Progress through the Alaska range, up and over Rainy Pass pushing the bikes through snow drifts in a ground blizzard. Progress across the glare ice of the Tatina and Kuskokwim rivers, and progress along the moguled trail that leads to Nikolai, the one we’re on right now.

Both of us have different lows: me, at 37 years of age, from saddle sores and cold-impacted lungs. Paul, at 62 years old, from caloric deficits and a case of minor frostbite. We don’t talk much - there is too much to focus on - but we are each other’s rock and reason for being here and now. 

225 miles ago, at the start, we were both nervous with excitement, our bikes set with studded tires and all the gear we need. We both ride the same Corvus Rhino fat bikes and wear the same LOWA Tibet Superwarm boots and mostly carry the same gear, yet there are subtle differences: Paul’s bike is showing chuffs and dings from where he crashed it during training rides. My bike has none of that, an indication of my guarded riding style and also of the fact that I have spent less than 150 miles in the saddle since we got the bikes six months ago. Now those same bikes are parked outside the Bear Creek Cabin, seats covered in sparkling frost crystals while we are holed up inside the tiny cabin with our nineteen roommates. As I am trying to find much-needed sleep my mind is miles ahead: on the trail to Nikolai and to McGrath, the destination for our 300+ mile journey through Alaska. I know what’s coming, too: I have finished this race twice before on skis. 

The first time I raced the ITI was nothing short of transformational; it’s the reason I came back a second time, and the reason that I convinced Paul to join me. It’s why I know that the next two days will end up harder than they look on paper. 

It’s also why, a day or two after we leave the cabin, I’m not surprised when Paul’s energy and motivation wanes right before the finish. It’s why I am not surprised to hear Paul say that this was a one-time deal and that he is happy to be done. And it’s why I am not surprised when, another two days later, he is making concrete plans for next year’s race. 

Which only goes to prove: you're never too old to pick up a new passion - and maybe going forward our vacations won’t ALL be climbing anymore!