Don’t they say that your first time is the most memorable, or is it that the first time is over the quickest? Either way I am not sure that is true for our first Yukon Quest although I do remember very clearly leaving the start chute into the mass crowds of the Whitehorse populace on that first Saturday in February 2013; the rest of the race comes back to me more as a series of disjointed fragments. When I think back now over the Quests we have run, memories of specific years are always triggered by significant weather events: the bitter cold for the first few days of the 2015 Quest; stuck in the storm on Top of the World Highway in 2016; exposed to some of the worst winds imaginable on top of Rosebud with Brian Wilmshurst in 2017; spending an hour dragging ourselves through, at times, thigh deep overflow coming into Braeburn in 2018 caused by a rapid warm up; being in horrendous winds on the Yukon River in 2019 (y’all thought I was going to say the Eagle Summit experience didn’t you ;) ); 2020 was just a crappy year all round so I’ll pass on that for now J. The most significant thing I can say about the weather on the 2013 Quest was that it was around +1C and trying to rain when we got to Eagle; perhaps if the weather had been a bit more obligingly tough in 2013 then 2015 to 2020 may never have happened.
Having finished the YQ300 in 2012 we spent a day recovering at Melinda’s and then did a rapid run back to Willow, packed up the remainder of our gear and grabbed the rest of the dogs at Lev’s and immediately hit the road for the journey back to the East Coast in the hope that we would get back in time, and in good enough shape, to run the Can Am 250 and try to use that as our second Quest qualifier. Fortunately the trip from west to east was much less eventful than the east to west trip of six months hence had been and we made it back to New Brunswick in around 9 days. Recovered and reacclimatised (as much as we could) we ran and finished the Can Am 250 at the start of March and with it we completed the qualifying criteria for the Yukon Quest. The plan had been to recover physically and financially from the Alaska experience for a couple of years before attempting the Quest so no one was more surprised than me (well OK maybe Louise was more surprised than me when she eventually found out) when on the first Saturday in August 2012 I signed us up for the 2013 Yukon Quest. As I think back now there are so many stories I could tell of preparing, driving back west and north to arrive at Sebastian Schnuelle’s Blue Kennel north of Whitehorse where we would be renting a dry, off-grin cabin for the winter; waking up on a -40C morning and realising the woodstove had gone out and genuinely thinking I might die; Louise’s own ‘epic’ journey to join us in the Yukon on Christmas Day; my first introduction to the Quest team in the Yukon and then subsequently telling them how honoured they should have been to meet me (sorry Marie J, my previously mentioned humbleness was disappearing rapidly); but all that is for another time perhaps.
We had been talking about taking part in the Quest since 2004 and had completely turned our lives upside down as a consequence: we had gone from being a lower middle class couple living on the edge of English suburbia having a good career with great opportunities to being penniless bums living in a remote, off grid cabin replete with functional outhouse but lacking showering facilities and 30+ dogs – oh and no jobs or money J However despite all these prerace trials and tribulations we did make it into the staging area on that first Saturday in February 2013 with 14 happy and healthy dogs and ready to take on our biggest life challenge to date. Despite the enormity of what lay ahead I don’t remember being particularly nervous although Louise does recall there was a five minute period when I had suddenly decided I couldn’t actually do this, but after a swift talking to the moment passed.
It is hard to describe the emotions around the start of the Quest unless you have actually been there. With the first team due to leave the start chute at 1100, you are actually encouraged to be in the staging area from 0700 onwards. Fans, sponsors, the media and the public are allowed into the area between 0900 and 1000 and with photos to be taken, constant questions, talking to the media, every just stopping by to wish you luck, the time just flies by and you don’t have much time to think about what lays ahead. Then at 1000 the area is cleared of all but mushers, handlers and volunteers and it is time for one final check of the sled, harness and booty the dogs, several runs to the toilet, a final hot cup of coffee and a few minutes of quiet reflection before the mayhem of getting all the dogs hooked up at just the right moment (not too soon that they get overly excited, not too late that you could miss your start slot). Then with what seems to be one volunteer per dog, and standing with full weight on the brake, you edge slowly away from the truck and normalcy, and fall in line behind the team going out ahead of you, the screams of the overly excited dogs drowning out any last minute instructions to the handlers. As you edge towards the start chute you can hear the announcers, the frantic barking of the dogs in front, the cheer of the crowds as a team takes off but it is not until your time comes to enter the chute that things really hit you. There in front of you, for as far as you can see, are hundreds, if not thousands of cheering fans on either side of the trail, separated on either side of the trail by about 20 feet at the start but with the gap quickly shrinking to less than 6ft as you get going (in later years as confidence in my own sled riding abilities grew I would be able to reach out with both hands as we flew down the trail and high-five fans on both sides of the trail at the same time so close are the spectators – I am amazed that it never phases the dogs). Finally we were in the start chute, I could barely hear as my bio was read out, I rushed to pat each dog, and each handler before rushing back to get on the break as the countdown from 10 seconds began. After 9 years of chasing this dream the release of emotion as our countdown reached “GO, GO, GO” was incredible, I remember cheering louder than anybody and punching the air – I was now a Yukon Quest musher.
After a couple of miles we left the city and the fans behind and started to head down river on the Yukon. The noise of the crowd was replaced by the gliding of the runners over snow, the jingling of the lines and harnesses and the smooth, effective, effortless breathing of the dogs broken only by the occasional burst of excitement as another team would go by.
Long distance mushing is short on excitement and long on protracted periods of nothingness with lots of time for thinking, particularly if the weather and trail are in good shape; not that this is boring: the wilderness is spectacular and the dogs amazing company. The weather and trail were generally good in 2013. Looking back now I didn’t seem to be in any sort of rush: I remember spending forever in the first checkpoint at Braeburn, I have very limited memories of both Carmacks and Pelly although I guess I must have slept some, even in Dawson I seem to remember a lot of sitting around and talking as opposed to recovering sleep or stressing over the dogs; everything just seemed to be happening slowly around me. I did of course make some pretty dumb mistakes along the way: not dropping Circeline in Braeburn when it was becoming obvious she was coming into heat (she stayed with the team for the next 800 miles and barely troubled her tugline once); making the huge error of leaving Pelly with a dog with a minor injury, thinking I could drop him in Stepping Stone only to be told that there was no dog drop there so I carried Moley for 95 miles in the sled to Scroggie Creek; repeating the mistake in Eagle and leaving with an off-colour Gyro in the team and carrying him 80 miles into Slaven’s Cabin; camping out on the river instead of resting at Trout Creek Cabin (that truly was a rookie error that I would never repeat). Having made the sensible decision to drop a sore Paris and a now in standing heat Circleline in Central before attempting the ascent of Eagle Summit on the steep climb (the last thing I wanted was to be sat on Eagle Summit watching dogs make puppies), it would be nice to say the stupid mistakes were behind me; alas as those following the spot trackers that year know only too well, I had one more dumb mistake left inside me.
Anyone who has shown any interest in the Yukon Quest will know of the reputation that Eagle Summit has gained over the years: it has decided the eventual winner on more than one occasion; it has made and broken races; teams with many more miles and much more experience than I have been turned around on the summit as teams balked at the final climb. By the time I reached Central I was pretty much running on my own, there were still a couple of teams behind me but they were quite a way back; the other teams that had been in Central when we had arrived were long gone – we were going to face our first ascent on our own. We left Central after a good rest into the fading afternoon and slowly began edging our way ever higher. As dusk began to envelop us we passed a hand written sign on the side of the trail stating that this was the final sheltered spot to stop before the summit and then, before we knew it, the treeline was behind us and we had begun our first ascent of Eagle Summit proper. As with the experience of entering the Yukon Quest start chute for the first time, it is hard to understand what taking a dog team up Eagle Summit is like without actually experiencing it yourself. Even when there is little wind the trail seems to blow through easily and can be hard to see, especially as markers have often been taken out by the teams in front. The fact that you often have you head between your legs as you gasp in every bit of air that you can as you push like crazy to keep the team moving does help with staying on the trail; knowing that you are still on the ‘easy’ part of the climb and up ahead there is a short plateau before you start on the really steep part of the climb. I had had the ‘advantage’ of coming down the steep side of eagle Summit the year before so should have known somewhat what to expect (I say somewhat because the first part of the 2012 descent had been spent on my back underneath the sled and the second part I think I had kept my eyes shut until we hit the treeline out of abject terror at the uncontrolled and overly rapid nature of our off summit travails); anyway I digress (probably to delay having to tell the next part of the tale). The final part of our climb in 2013 is a bit of a blur – I say this because there is absolutely no logical explanation for what happened next other than gross stupidity so I will feign forgetfulness over stupidity. We reached the plateau, made the left turn that marked the final climb and started to really work as a team to cover the final, virtually vertical ascent. As I huffed and puffed, and occasionally looked up to assess our snail like progress, I was (and somehow still am) convinced I saw a series of trail markers climbing steeply to the left somewhere in the distance; somehow, and despite knowing to the contrary, I convinced myself we still had one final climb to make. We stopped climbing and hit a section of flat trail, waiting for the final climb that I am sure I had seen I was somewhat surprised when the trail, and trail markers, started to descend. Convinced we should be going up and not down, and following the mountaineers adage that you never give up height if you don’t need to, I figured that somehow we had turned around without me realising and we were now heading back towards Central. Obviously not wanting to go back from where we had just come and having expended so much effort to get where we were; I decided to turn the team around and find that final ascent I was so sure I had seen. So having turned the entire team around we headed back whence we came. After a couple of minutes it dawned on me that there was absolutely no way the team had turned around without me realising. (I had suffered similar mistaken thoughts on the Yukon River days before which had resulted in me literally crawling around on my hands and knees in front of the team trying to work out which way the paw prints in front of the team were going (I am absolutely amazed the dogs still agree to take me along)). So, and with no paw prints to see this time, I resolved that we must have been going in the right direction the first time and so went through the challenging procedure of turning the team around again and set off looking for the elusive final climb that I am sure I had seen. Again the trail began to descend, again I decided that we were going the wrong way. Now I knew that if I turned the team around again the dogs would know with absolutely no doubt that the fat guy on the back was not only deadwood but was deadwood without a clue and so instead of turning he team around again I took the eminently more sagacious decision, hooked the sled down and wandered off on my own. One of the Yukon Quest books tells of the amusing after the fact events around Bill Pinkham hooking his team down one night on the top of Eagle Summit in the middle of a storm and not being able to find them until day break when he discovered he had spend a cold and lonely night sat barely yards away from his team. Anyway, ignoring this cautionary tale, I wandered off to establish exactly where this final (fictitious) ascent was. After a few minutes of wandering around I came back to the start of the descent where I had last turned the team around. Looking around I noticed at my feet an old tire fused into the bare rock. I knew from experience that the tire has been secured there so that teams going in the opposite direction have something to tether their sleds in order to attach chains to runners, secure sled bags, drop tug lines etc. before starting on the steep descent off eagle and towards Central. Slowly the realisation crept up on me – I was stood on top of Eagle Summit, we had made it onto the summit and there had been no final climb. Slightly more quickly the realisation leapt at me kicking and screaming that I was stood on top of Eagle Summit with no dog team in sight! I turned quickly and ran as fast as heavy boots and tired legs would allow praying that the dogs were still there and I could find where there was. As always the dogs are way smarter than I, after a frantic few minutes (which was probably in reality mere seconds) I came across the team exactly where I had left them although looking slightly more bemused as to what the fat moron had been up to this time. We agreed (silently) that we would never discuss this again and made our way confidently off Eagle Summit and towards Mile 101 – the penultimate checkpoint on our rookie Yukon Quest. It would of course be nice to leave the story there and say nothing more was ever said about my lonely adventures on top of a remote mountain in interior Alaska – unfortunately I reckoned without the eagle eyed observers of the spot trackers. Only slightly embarrassed I resolved to keep this story to myself when we got into 101 and all seemed to be going pretty much according to plan until a fresh faced Julien Schroder came running into the foot hut to announce that everyone on social media wanted to know why I kept turning the team around on top of Eagle Summit – my humiliation was complete.
Such events are not, however, reasons for great dismay (I have done stupider things before and since – but not when the trackers have been watching) and certainly this would be no reason to scratch. And so we left 101 later that night, had a relatively uneventful crossing of Rosebud, an enjoyable 8 hour layover in Two Rivers and slowly but surely made our way into Fairbanks, to the finish line, our first Yukon Quest finish and equal measures of gin and sleep.
And that should have been that – the end of the nine year quest for a Quest, the end of the dream. This does kind of beg the question as to why we have found ourselves on top of Eagle Summit six more times since then (always though going in the right direction), but maybe that is best left for another day – tomorrow perhaps!
Having finished the YQ300 in 2012 we spent a day recovering at Melinda’s and then did a rapid run back to Willow, packed up the remainder of our gear and grabbed the rest of the dogs at Lev’s and immediately hit the road for the journey back to the East Coast in the hope that we would get back in time, and in good enough shape, to run the Can Am 250 and try to use that as our second Quest qualifier. Fortunately the trip from west to east was much less eventful than the east to west trip of six months hence had been and we made it back to New Brunswick in around 9 days. Recovered and reacclimatised (as much as we could) we ran and finished the Can Am 250 at the start of March and with it we completed the qualifying criteria for the Yukon Quest. The plan had been to recover physically and financially from the Alaska experience for a couple of years before attempting the Quest so no one was more surprised than me (well OK maybe Louise was more surprised than me when she eventually found out) when on the first Saturday in August 2012 I signed us up for the 2013 Yukon Quest. As I think back now there are so many stories I could tell of preparing, driving back west and north to arrive at Sebastian Schnuelle’s Blue Kennel north of Whitehorse where we would be renting a dry, off-grin cabin for the winter; waking up on a -40C morning and realising the woodstove had gone out and genuinely thinking I might die; Louise’s own ‘epic’ journey to join us in the Yukon on Christmas Day; my first introduction to the Quest team in the Yukon and then subsequently telling them how honoured they should have been to meet me (sorry Marie J, my previously mentioned humbleness was disappearing rapidly); but all that is for another time perhaps.
We had been talking about taking part in the Quest since 2004 and had completely turned our lives upside down as a consequence: we had gone from being a lower middle class couple living on the edge of English suburbia having a good career with great opportunities to being penniless bums living in a remote, off grid cabin replete with functional outhouse but lacking showering facilities and 30+ dogs – oh and no jobs or money J However despite all these prerace trials and tribulations we did make it into the staging area on that first Saturday in February 2013 with 14 happy and healthy dogs and ready to take on our biggest life challenge to date. Despite the enormity of what lay ahead I don’t remember being particularly nervous although Louise does recall there was a five minute period when I had suddenly decided I couldn’t actually do this, but after a swift talking to the moment passed.
It is hard to describe the emotions around the start of the Quest unless you have actually been there. With the first team due to leave the start chute at 1100, you are actually encouraged to be in the staging area from 0700 onwards. Fans, sponsors, the media and the public are allowed into the area between 0900 and 1000 and with photos to be taken, constant questions, talking to the media, every just stopping by to wish you luck, the time just flies by and you don’t have much time to think about what lays ahead. Then at 1000 the area is cleared of all but mushers, handlers and volunteers and it is time for one final check of the sled, harness and booty the dogs, several runs to the toilet, a final hot cup of coffee and a few minutes of quiet reflection before the mayhem of getting all the dogs hooked up at just the right moment (not too soon that they get overly excited, not too late that you could miss your start slot). Then with what seems to be one volunteer per dog, and standing with full weight on the brake, you edge slowly away from the truck and normalcy, and fall in line behind the team going out ahead of you, the screams of the overly excited dogs drowning out any last minute instructions to the handlers. As you edge towards the start chute you can hear the announcers, the frantic barking of the dogs in front, the cheer of the crowds as a team takes off but it is not until your time comes to enter the chute that things really hit you. There in front of you, for as far as you can see, are hundreds, if not thousands of cheering fans on either side of the trail, separated on either side of the trail by about 20 feet at the start but with the gap quickly shrinking to less than 6ft as you get going (in later years as confidence in my own sled riding abilities grew I would be able to reach out with both hands as we flew down the trail and high-five fans on both sides of the trail at the same time so close are the spectators – I am amazed that it never phases the dogs). Finally we were in the start chute, I could barely hear as my bio was read out, I rushed to pat each dog, and each handler before rushing back to get on the break as the countdown from 10 seconds began. After 9 years of chasing this dream the release of emotion as our countdown reached “GO, GO, GO” was incredible, I remember cheering louder than anybody and punching the air – I was now a Yukon Quest musher.
After a couple of miles we left the city and the fans behind and started to head down river on the Yukon. The noise of the crowd was replaced by the gliding of the runners over snow, the jingling of the lines and harnesses and the smooth, effective, effortless breathing of the dogs broken only by the occasional burst of excitement as another team would go by.
Long distance mushing is short on excitement and long on protracted periods of nothingness with lots of time for thinking, particularly if the weather and trail are in good shape; not that this is boring: the wilderness is spectacular and the dogs amazing company. The weather and trail were generally good in 2013. Looking back now I didn’t seem to be in any sort of rush: I remember spending forever in the first checkpoint at Braeburn, I have very limited memories of both Carmacks and Pelly although I guess I must have slept some, even in Dawson I seem to remember a lot of sitting around and talking as opposed to recovering sleep or stressing over the dogs; everything just seemed to be happening slowly around me. I did of course make some pretty dumb mistakes along the way: not dropping Circeline in Braeburn when it was becoming obvious she was coming into heat (she stayed with the team for the next 800 miles and barely troubled her tugline once); making the huge error of leaving Pelly with a dog with a minor injury, thinking I could drop him in Stepping Stone only to be told that there was no dog drop there so I carried Moley for 95 miles in the sled to Scroggie Creek; repeating the mistake in Eagle and leaving with an off-colour Gyro in the team and carrying him 80 miles into Slaven’s Cabin; camping out on the river instead of resting at Trout Creek Cabin (that truly was a rookie error that I would never repeat). Having made the sensible decision to drop a sore Paris and a now in standing heat Circleline in Central before attempting the ascent of Eagle Summit on the steep climb (the last thing I wanted was to be sat on Eagle Summit watching dogs make puppies), it would be nice to say the stupid mistakes were behind me; alas as those following the spot trackers that year know only too well, I had one more dumb mistake left inside me.
Anyone who has shown any interest in the Yukon Quest will know of the reputation that Eagle Summit has gained over the years: it has decided the eventual winner on more than one occasion; it has made and broken races; teams with many more miles and much more experience than I have been turned around on the summit as teams balked at the final climb. By the time I reached Central I was pretty much running on my own, there were still a couple of teams behind me but they were quite a way back; the other teams that had been in Central when we had arrived were long gone – we were going to face our first ascent on our own. We left Central after a good rest into the fading afternoon and slowly began edging our way ever higher. As dusk began to envelop us we passed a hand written sign on the side of the trail stating that this was the final sheltered spot to stop before the summit and then, before we knew it, the treeline was behind us and we had begun our first ascent of Eagle Summit proper. As with the experience of entering the Yukon Quest start chute for the first time, it is hard to understand what taking a dog team up Eagle Summit is like without actually experiencing it yourself. Even when there is little wind the trail seems to blow through easily and can be hard to see, especially as markers have often been taken out by the teams in front. The fact that you often have you head between your legs as you gasp in every bit of air that you can as you push like crazy to keep the team moving does help with staying on the trail; knowing that you are still on the ‘easy’ part of the climb and up ahead there is a short plateau before you start on the really steep part of the climb. I had had the ‘advantage’ of coming down the steep side of eagle Summit the year before so should have known somewhat what to expect (I say somewhat because the first part of the 2012 descent had been spent on my back underneath the sled and the second part I think I had kept my eyes shut until we hit the treeline out of abject terror at the uncontrolled and overly rapid nature of our off summit travails); anyway I digress (probably to delay having to tell the next part of the tale). The final part of our climb in 2013 is a bit of a blur – I say this because there is absolutely no logical explanation for what happened next other than gross stupidity so I will feign forgetfulness over stupidity. We reached the plateau, made the left turn that marked the final climb and started to really work as a team to cover the final, virtually vertical ascent. As I huffed and puffed, and occasionally looked up to assess our snail like progress, I was (and somehow still am) convinced I saw a series of trail markers climbing steeply to the left somewhere in the distance; somehow, and despite knowing to the contrary, I convinced myself we still had one final climb to make. We stopped climbing and hit a section of flat trail, waiting for the final climb that I am sure I had seen I was somewhat surprised when the trail, and trail markers, started to descend. Convinced we should be going up and not down, and following the mountaineers adage that you never give up height if you don’t need to, I figured that somehow we had turned around without me realising and we were now heading back towards Central. Obviously not wanting to go back from where we had just come and having expended so much effort to get where we were; I decided to turn the team around and find that final ascent I was so sure I had seen. So having turned the entire team around we headed back whence we came. After a couple of minutes it dawned on me that there was absolutely no way the team had turned around without me realising. (I had suffered similar mistaken thoughts on the Yukon River days before which had resulted in me literally crawling around on my hands and knees in front of the team trying to work out which way the paw prints in front of the team were going (I am absolutely amazed the dogs still agree to take me along)). So, and with no paw prints to see this time, I resolved that we must have been going in the right direction the first time and so went through the challenging procedure of turning the team around again and set off looking for the elusive final climb that I am sure I had seen. Again the trail began to descend, again I decided that we were going the wrong way. Now I knew that if I turned the team around again the dogs would know with absolutely no doubt that the fat guy on the back was not only deadwood but was deadwood without a clue and so instead of turning he team around again I took the eminently more sagacious decision, hooked the sled down and wandered off on my own. One of the Yukon Quest books tells of the amusing after the fact events around Bill Pinkham hooking his team down one night on the top of Eagle Summit in the middle of a storm and not being able to find them until day break when he discovered he had spend a cold and lonely night sat barely yards away from his team. Anyway, ignoring this cautionary tale, I wandered off to establish exactly where this final (fictitious) ascent was. After a few minutes of wandering around I came back to the start of the descent where I had last turned the team around. Looking around I noticed at my feet an old tire fused into the bare rock. I knew from experience that the tire has been secured there so that teams going in the opposite direction have something to tether their sleds in order to attach chains to runners, secure sled bags, drop tug lines etc. before starting on the steep descent off eagle and towards Central. Slowly the realisation crept up on me – I was stood on top of Eagle Summit, we had made it onto the summit and there had been no final climb. Slightly more quickly the realisation leapt at me kicking and screaming that I was stood on top of Eagle Summit with no dog team in sight! I turned quickly and ran as fast as heavy boots and tired legs would allow praying that the dogs were still there and I could find where there was. As always the dogs are way smarter than I, after a frantic few minutes (which was probably in reality mere seconds) I came across the team exactly where I had left them although looking slightly more bemused as to what the fat moron had been up to this time. We agreed (silently) that we would never discuss this again and made our way confidently off Eagle Summit and towards Mile 101 – the penultimate checkpoint on our rookie Yukon Quest. It would of course be nice to leave the story there and say nothing more was ever said about my lonely adventures on top of a remote mountain in interior Alaska – unfortunately I reckoned without the eagle eyed observers of the spot trackers. Only slightly embarrassed I resolved to keep this story to myself when we got into 101 and all seemed to be going pretty much according to plan until a fresh faced Julien Schroder came running into the foot hut to announce that everyone on social media wanted to know why I kept turning the team around on top of Eagle Summit – my humiliation was complete.
Such events are not, however, reasons for great dismay (I have done stupider things before and since – but not when the trackers have been watching) and certainly this would be no reason to scratch. And so we left 101 later that night, had a relatively uneventful crossing of Rosebud, an enjoyable 8 hour layover in Two Rivers and slowly but surely made our way into Fairbanks, to the finish line, our first Yukon Quest finish and equal measures of gin and sleep.
And that should have been that – the end of the nine year quest for a Quest, the end of the dream. This does kind of beg the question as to why we have found ourselves on top of Eagle Summit six more times since then (always though going in the right direction), but maybe that is best left for another day – tomorrow perhaps!