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Lucy's 2004 Serum Run Journal

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Pre-Serum Run Journal

6 weeks before trip (January 17-18, 2004)
The group assembles for quick meeting at Willow Community Center. Introductions are made all round as we shiver in a circle; Jim gives us information on the markers to be used on the trail. Our Shakedown weekend is a trip along the Iditarod trail—Willow to Yentna Station Roadhouse (out on Saturday and return on Sunday). I meet Harold my snowmachine partner.

After much packing and readying, last minute peeing at minus 35 in the lee of the truck, we (9 dogs and I) are ready to take off. I’m the last team to leave. This is the first time ever that I’ve hooked up 9 dogs, so I’m a little nervous about the number (the gangline is one segment longer than for 8, plus there’s even more power!) The trail starts out across a lake, connects to another lake, and crosses perhaps one more; it is somewhat residential, so there are road crossings. My team is used to stopping at road crossings, so we manage to pause long enough to make sure no traffic is coming. The snowmachiners help at the crossroads too. Everything goes quickly when the dogs are fast at the start.

We shimmy around the curves of the trail through birch woods, beginning to glimpse that we’re on some high bluffs over what must be the Yentna River (or a tributary). We’ve been forewarned that the trail drops down to the river, but I’m a little taken aback when the trail swoops down on a slight curve to reach the river. But it takes no more than a few seconds; we manage to survive that small challenge and it’s ahead on the river for miles and miles more.

There are huge cottonwoods on the floodplain of the river, with some brushy areas, and some spruce. Intermittently, we can see Denali as a towering ghostly-white peak flanked by lesser Hunter and Foraker, against a blue-blue sky. The landscape shifts as we meander with the river. Changes in direction mean a new hill slope blocks the distance view.

I am not wearing a watch, so it’s hard to say what time we left, how long we’ve been on the river, or how much further we have. Two snowmachines approach from behind while I’m stopped to give the dogs a snack. They offer me some hand-warmer packets, because a second pair I add to my mitts to try to keep my hands warm aren’t functioning. I can’t tell who offers me the packets, as they are so bundled up, but I’m grateful that they have been so generous to share these items of warmth. Soon my hands feel warmer, and I feel less nervous about being cold.

I know it’s important to fuel the metabolic furnace, so I transfer a Ziploc of gorp to my parka pocket for easy access. I reach in the pocket still wearing my glove liner (mitt removed for a minute) and grab a handful of gorp. Next I have to figure out how to eat it. I peel down my face mask from my nose and mouth, and shove the glove with food toward my mouth. I shower peanuts, sunflower seeds, and a few chocolate chips on the river, the sledbag, down my parka opening, and some make it in my mouth. Over the next few hours, I perfect the technique a little. I lean sideways so I’m over the river, not the sled, so the extras fall away. My liner glovers have peanut papery husks sticking to them. (Later when I peer at a mirror at the roadhouse where we are based at Yentna Station, I find a few of the rust-colored shells stuck to my cheeks as well!)

I kick beside the sled like a scooter. I stand on one foot, while bending the knee of the other leg, tapping the foot on the runner where the planted foot is. Dancing on the runners to stay warm.

Finally, I see ahead the cluster of trail markers that mark our approach to our overnight location. A snowmachine escorts me so we make the curve and up the slight bank. Teams are already bedded down in uneven rows scattered among the trees. I’m told that the curving path we’re now on is our spot for the night. I give each dog a hearty slab of frozen meat and try to figure out what’s next. I’m not sure if I’m expected to keep the dogs on the gangline as a picket line, but someone explains how I can string out my picket line along the same path we’re already on, then transfer the dogs to it and reel in the gangline. After some consulting and maneuvering, the picket is stretched between the box-sled being pulled by a snowmachine on the path ahead of us, and the ski tip of another snowmachine behind us. The way we’ve arranged the two sturdy “posts”, the cable line can be straight, even though the lane of packed snow curves. My picket line is durable cable with 10 short drop cable lines (about one foot long), so I snap dogs to them (one is empty because I have nine dogs). The dogs curl up on the snow. Later, Beth asks how she can help and brings straw and arranges it near each dog. The dogs snuggle in the straw, curling up again. They rest. A few seem to be shivering. Later I put on the dogcoats, but Keeper and Pawpaw don’t seem to like the confinement of them. Beth is also able to bring me some warm water, so I am able to feed my dogs water and kibble before too long. I am instructed to check my male dogs for frostbite on their penis sheaths. My four male dogs look ok, but I am not familiar with how such frostbite would manifest itself. Later I am given a tour to a resting dog with frostbite, so I learn how the small area of hairless skin looks blistery.

When the dogs are fed and resting, I make my way into the Roadhouse nearby. The owners are conducting face checks for frostbite. I am one of the few who gets a clear check. I jokingly say it’s the speed of my dogs; we’ve reduced the windchill by being slow! Several men who were on snowmachines have large dark, bubble-blistery patches below their eyes near their cheekbones. The next day they apply a salve, then add patches of duct tape to block the wind!

I also find out that the distance was 40 miles, rather than 35, so no wonder it seemed to take a long time. I have just been out in minus 35 (or colder perhaps) for at least 4 hours. My feet were a little cold, but I managed to be reasonable comfortable.

The Roadhouse has a certain character of its own—with miscellaneous chairs, a long bar-serving area opening into the industrial-style kitchen, a huge woodstove casting out heat for drying mitts and boots and warming three large housedogs and a yowling cat. Part of our arrangement with the Roadhouse is for them to provide dinner and breakfast for us. I eat the spaghetti and salad with gusto. I remind myself that when I’m packing my dinners for the trail, I’d better make them hearty portions, for I am likely to be as ravenous as I am now. The owner plays guitar and sings from a huge book of songs while we rest and decide whether to sleep outside or in the Roadhouse. I lean back in chair and soak in the warmth and listen. At 10:30, I decide I’d better test my sleeping bag in the Arctic Oven tent that Harold has set up. When I get to the tent, I find that Harold is about to abandon the tent and come into the Roadhouse. The packaged-sawdust woodfuel he brought for the small tent stove has lasted about a third the expected time and the heat wouldn’t see us through the night. I decide to skip trying my sleeping bag, and head for a room upstairs that I share with Jane another musher. Through the night, I guzzle cups of water and pee, making sure I am hydrated. Midway through the night, I check on the dogs to see how badly Mesa is shivering. I give them more fat pieces and trust their fur and straw and coats will see them through.

In the morning, the thermometer in the gas shack is bottomed out at –40. We don’t know what the temperature is. While I sip a Dr. Pepper to try to get rid of my huge migraine (probably from combination of lack of caffeine, dehydration, smoke in the Roadhouse, and the fumes from the snowmachines (and trucks at the community center start), I watch the Roadhouse family thaw the water lines before they can fix breakfast. Maybe this is a daily task for them when it’s extremely cold. It is accomplished by torching a black flexible hose. They slip the hook of a plastic coathanger over the hose and run it up and down, presumably to find the wad of ice that still needs thawing. I coax down some fried eggs and waffles, then go to the Arctic Oven tent to pack my unslept-on cot and sleeping pads. For this day’s trip, I decide I’ll try toe warmers in my boots. I rip open the cellophane and affix the slim packages into the boots.

As we take off for the return trip, we are running through a stream of milk. The puffs of snow thrown up from the feet of dogs make a low cloud of white just above the river. Plumes of dog breath shimmer green and red in the sunshine. The dogs are pulling in sync, the sled slides; everything is good. We again have a river view for miles—big cottonwoods or maybe balsam poplars—with some big uprooted trunks as logs in the frozen river. I spy a nest in the trees. One lone raven looks white in the distance with the sunny glare.

By the end of the first hour, I add more handwarmers to each mitt (one on back of each hand, one on each thumb, one near the fingers). My hands are still cold. (I daydream of wearing my new beaver mitts instead of these fabric mitts and wish I had fixed the straps for them already.) Cold hands, cold seat, cold face, cold wrists, cold arms. I move as much as I can on the runners--deep knee bends, shuffle about, kick beside sled, windmill arms—then I stop the team and run up and down the team to give them a snack. Once I’m a little warmer, I risk the cold of taking a mitt off so I can grab some gorp from the plastic bag in pocket. I end up taking no photos because my motivation has dwindled to find my camera in the sledbag, warm it in my bib pocket, and take off my mitts to snap a shot.

What I was wearing: Light long underwear bottoms Heavy long underwear bottoms Polypro turtleneck Heavy long underwear top Fleece pullover with windblock neck and chest section Primaloft jacket Windblock jacket Insulated bib overalls Winter parka with hood pulled up and ruff extended Windblock balaclava covering forehead, nose, and mouth (all but eyes!) Musher style hat with fleece lining Polypro wristies (tubes of fabric worn over the wrist extending to the hand, with hole for thumb) Liner gloves Mitts with two layers of fleece lining Liner socks Wool polypropylene socks Heavy pack boots with foam liners Toe warmers Hand warmers Courage

When we got back to the parking lot in Willow, my lead dog Rowan leads us right to the truck and trailer. Erin, Lisa, and Beth volunteer to take off booties and dog harnesses while I gather my frozen wits about me. Mesa seems to have a cracked footpad. Alice has a sore shoulder. Pawpaw is wearing his armpit raw from a new harness that apparently doesn’t fit right. I make a mental note so I can tend to these things later. But for now, the dogs curl up in their boxes and sleep, while I pack the rest of our gear. None of our trucks are starting, so those familiar with arctic weather (who had planned ahead) have propane weed burners assembled. Once they get the propane to flow with some other method, they flame under the trucks to heat them to the point of reluctantly turning over. I need a battery jump as well. Finally we are all loaded up and head home.

While I have had major trepidations about the Serum Run, I am relieved to find how congenial and helpful the group is. I know I’ll get and give support reciprocally as needed on the trail. I am pleased that I survived the minus 40 or colder for the extended period of time. I am more and more confident we’ll be heading to Nome!

5 weeks before trip (January 23, 2004)
My truck battery indicator needle is swinging wildly, so I take my truck to Healy’s mechanic for a check. I also ask that he inspect the hoses and clamps for the power steering fluid to make sure they haven’t been damaged in the big chill. (My steering wheel was creaky after the Shakedown weekend. On my next trip to Fairbanks, I learned that the power steering fluid had frozen to the point of squeezing out the hoses, and I had to add more fluid.)

While I wait, I walk over to the Chevron station, get an almond steamer, and use the eatery table to label my sturdy white poly bags (to be flown to villages with our supplies) with the requisite information. I use a giant black marker to indicate…what event: Serum ’25 Run; what checkpoint and where the bag would be used: e.g., Ruby (Galena); whose bag: Tyrrell; and which bag: 1 of 3).

Sometime later in this week, I finish filling 50 gallon Ziplocs with dog kibble and move the polybags and the kibble bags to my shed, so I’ll have some more room in my 16’ x 24’ interim-rental cabin for organizing other things!

4 weeks before trip (January 31, 2004)
Today we participate in the Hamburger Run, a 31-mile race from Valley Center to Angel Creek Lodge (near Fairbanks). It is another chance to run all 9 dogs at once (I usually run 5 to 8 in training runs). Because the temperatures are minus 30 or so, the race is postponed an hour. The trail is superb. We finish in 3 hours and 3 minutes to place 13th out of 17 teams. I am pleased with the dogs’ performance at maintaining a good pace, and at being good dog citizens while being passed by the speedier teams (I was bib number 1 so most teams passed us during the race! Good practice.) I stay the weekend at a nearby camp facility where the Denali Quilters are holding a retreat. When I am not racing or caring for the dogs, I enjoy the camaraderie of fellow quilters. Instead of quilting, my project is sewing two dog coats for use on the Serum Run.

~3-1/2 weeks before trip (February 5-7, 2004)
While I’ve been planning and organizing all along, it gets panicky as I realize I’m headed to Willow this weekend sometime to complete my food drop bags so they can be flown to the villages with all the other mushers’ bags. I had originally thought I would drive down to Erin’s on Friday, do food drops on Saturday, and drive back on Sunday. On Thursday, I have piles of booties spread out on my sleeping cot. I package up 20 gallon-sized Ziplocs, each with one set of booties for the nine dogs. Because of their different foot sizes, I count out 8 large, 26 medium, and 2 small booties for each Ziploc. (Dogs typically have back feet that are smaller than their front feet; Alice for example takes 2 medium and two small). To organize my miscellaneous stuff, I label another 5 Ziplocs (one for each drop point), and include handwarmers, toe warmers, extra undies, extra chore gloves, toilet paper rolls with only ¼ of the roll left, matches, batteries for my headlamp, camera film, etc. I consult the suggested food drop supply list to help with my packing.

On Friday, I ready my dinners and breakfasts for the trail. Based on where we will need food and where we will be fed in the villages, I need to make sure I pack at least 12 dinners. I had previously cooked up three dinner portions of linguine and pasta sauce with hamburger added, and frozen them in Gladware tubs. I slip the frozen meals from the tubs to vacuum pack them in plastic. The vacuum packer is a rectangular unit. The lid opens allowing you to put the open end of the plastic bag into the vacuum trough. After you close the lid and press the button, the unit noisily sucks the air out then heat-seals the bag. On the trail, the vacuum-packed food can be dropped in the hot/boiling water of the cooker (warming water to feed dogs) and the meal is ready quickly and without mess.

Around 4 pm I take a break, and give some of the dogs a quick 8-mile run. It’s just impossible for me to do the preparations and run dogs long mileages, so the “triage” of preparations is that the dogs won’t get many additional miles until I get my food drops ready. After the dogs are fed, I take what turns out to be a 3-hour nap at 7:30 pm (Friday), then stay up until 6 am tackling as much as I can of the remaining food packing. After sleeping a few hours, I resume my tasks and keep going all day (Saturday). Again I fit in an 8-mile run with the dogs that didn’t run on Friday. Then, it’s back to the cabin. I cook up vegetable chili, macaroni-and-cheese, and some mashed potatoes to go with some roast beef I had frozen from my New Year’s dinner). Again, I pre-freeze each meal (so the liquids don’t get drawn out with the vacuum packing). With some meals I add a vegetable medley (bulk pre-frozen package from Sam’s Club). I had made chocolate waffles too, and now add butter and syrup before packaging them for a few of my breakfasts. The first batch of waffles that I vacuum packed gets squished into non-recognition, so the next time I don’t remove all the air before sealing. Sometime around 1 am, I use a knife to cut wads of frozen fat blend from a big tub and package it into 17 gallon-sized Ziplocs, again one for each day. My palm and index finger blister before I am finished (the fat is hard and unmanageable because it’s frozen).

3 weeks before trip (February 8, 2004)
After not many hours of sleep in what was left of Saturday night (early Sunday morning), I feed the dogs and load my truck for my trip south to Willow. Erin generously offered that I could stage my food drops there and join her and Dean, another musher, as they prepare their food drops too. Into my truck bed go the block of lamb meat (to be cut for trail dogfood), the bags of fat, and the boxes of bagged kibble. Into the dogboxes (the dogs were staying home) go the labeled but empty-as-yet poly bags, the Ziplocs with my packaged supplies, the vacuum-packed meals, a big box of trail snacks for lunches that still needs to be packaged into day-portions, extra Ziplocs, and large and small garbage bags. Handily for me, Erin has volunteered to pick up at her local distributor what meat I’ll need on the trail, so I don’t have to transport it from Fairbanks to Willow or even pick it up in Willow. Paul, Erin’s husband, uses the neighbor’s meat saw to slice my meat into snack-size portions and into heftier meal portion for morning and evening feeding.

The day is quite warm; water is dripping off my truck tailgate. The thick snow pile on the roof swooshes off suddenly toward their dogyard dumping snow so two dogs need to be shoveled out! When I deliver my lamb to the neighbors to be cut, I notice the neighbor’s roof snow has avalanched off the roof already. I feel lucky that my truck isn’t pulling into the driveway a few minutes sooner in the exact spot where the heavy dump of snow now is.

In Erin and Paul’s driveway, I set out the poly bags in order of our trip and distribute the booties, kibble, fat, dog treats, plastic garbage bags, and people food. My two rows of bags bring the total number of bags to about 75--representing the trip lifeline for three people and their dogs! There is one bag for each day for dog stuff (multiplied by three mushers), plus one bag for each drop point with personal stuff and people food for the 2-4 days until the next drop. We work steadily for about 6 hours (they had an earlier start). I am grateful that Erin is able to help me—she packages the meat (two large chunks for each dog in a Ziploc; two snack bags (11 pieces in each) per day of beef, one of lamb), while I organize my other components. Erin and Paul, Dean and Jean all help tie the bags—threading a piece of poly rope in and out of each bag’s top using a “fid” (acts as a needle for a poly rope), then cinching the bag shut by tying the rope in a sturdy knot. I leave my personal polybags open until I get my lunch snacks packaged with Jean’s help. We cheer when the final bag is tied and heaved onto Erin and Paul’s truck. The bags will go to Anchorage on Wednesday. I reload into my truck the bags that will go to Nenana for the first few days of the trip.

I enjoy a mushroom burger with the group at the local Willow eatery before heading north on my 5-hour trip home. I stop for a few snoozes on the side of the Park’s Highway when I get drowsy, and get home at 2:30 am. I feed dogs and am asleep by 3:30am! I sleep well—relieved and pleased that the drops are done!

2-1/2 Weeks before the Serum Run (February 10, 2004)

The Chinook winds blow strong in Healy bringing more warm temperatures. Runoff from snowmelt is refreezing into black ice on the Parks Highway. Work is dismissed at 4 pm because the roads are so slick. When I get home, it’s 45 degrees (that’s above zero!) and 90 degrees warmer than it was a few days ago. It feels damp and warm, like spring breakup. Later in the evening, it rains. Lots of snow is melting, revealing things that had disappeared in the snow. I find the front doormat 50 yards away, blown by the gusts of wind.

Now, I worry about all the food drops. Is the meat staying frozen in this mild spell? I’m glad I put a small Ziploc with 2-3 icecubes in each polybag with the dogmeat. I’ll be able to tell later if the meat was exposed to higher temperatures. If the ice cubes are melted, the meat may have thawed too, even if it refreezes. I don’t have enough room in my chest freezer for all the bags for Nenana, so I keep them in my truckbed and hope that the spare block of meat is helping to keep things refrigerated.

To do list before the Serum Run • give the dogs more runs • make my plane reservations from Nome back to Fairbanks • arrange a dogsitter for the two dogs that won’t go on the trip • arrange a way for my truck to get back from Nenana and then to Fairbanks • order two new gangline sections • fix new lines for my snowhooks • get new brake points welded on my sled brake • organize things for my sled like foot ointments for dogs, dog first aid kit, spare runners, cooker, Heet (as fuel) • buy a rake and cut the handle short (for raking straw before leaving each village) • finish the belly bands on the dog coats • finish the straps so I won’t loose my beaver mitts as I wear them • vacuum pack an extra pair of long underwear, so I’ll have a dry set in the sled • copy the rabies certificates to take on the trail • confer with Roger my new machiner partner (Harold had to withdraw) about packing • what else??

2 Weeks before the Serum Run (February 14, 2004)

It’s cold again. At least it’s below freezing. I turn my attention from the potential of melting fooddrops to trail conditions. I took a 30-mile dogrun yesterday and the trails are now crusty and packed hard with the melting and refreezing. A few dogs looked sore-shouldered from the run—they were running on snow with no “give” to it. With their coats for minus whatever, 15 degrees is warm for the dogs. We took rest stops more often so they could roll in the snow to cool off.

Today, I drive to Fairbanks to watch the start of the Yukon Quest. This year the race start is in Fairbanks (alternates years with Whitehorse in the Yukon), so even though I am feeling too busy, I don’t want to miss the chance to see the teams and the thrill of the race start. Thirty-one mushers are getting their teams and sleds ready for the 1000-mile race. I say hi to several of the mushers I know and wish them well on the trail. I can now better relate to all their preparations having done fooddrops myself. Many of the dogs are shivering, others calm. The excitement of last minute preparations is contagious and makes me feel nervous for them, or perhaps it’s really for me, in anticipation of our own trip departure in a couple weeks.

While I’m in Fairbanks, I fit in as many errands as I can. I buy a set of new sledrunners, deliberating whether I want the 3/8” thick and 1-1/4” wide runners, or the thinner (¼”) but wider (1-1/2”) runners. I settle on the thicker ones. I buy some more dogfood. Because I ran into Lisa at the Quest start and she highly recommends having a thermos for the trail set up with a drinking tube, I buy some plastic tubing at the hardware store. It will aid in frequent drinking if all you have to do is lean over and take a sip while moving on the sled. The key is keeping the thermos upright with a cord (so it doesn’t spill) because the tube is inserted through the open thermos top. I will have to test this out.

As I finish up my last stop, it is beginning to snow. All of a sudden, I feel rundown like I’m getting a cold or the flu. I can’t afford to be sick, so I decide I’ll be sure to sleep in tomorrow and get some rest. My trip home takes about three hours rather than two because I take my time on the snowy roads. As the trucks pass, they whoosh snow so I momentarily can’t see. When I get to the dogyard, there’s about 10 inches of new snow, even though the forecast was for 3-4 inches! I’m pleased that there’s more snow to cover the icy trails, but it means more shoveling too! I wearily shovel the entryway to each doghouse, so the dogs can more easily get in and out, and a lane between the rows of houses, so I can distribute bowls of food. The spruce have big globs of snow on the branches. It’s still snowing as I finish dog chores and head for welcome sleep.