Part 3: Iditarod Trailbreakers: Ruby to Nome

Part 3: Iditarod Trailbreakers: Ruby to Nome.

     "Life is a journey.  When we stop, things don't go right."-Pope Francis   

    

      It was the morning of the sixth day and the weather was clear and cold.  The leaders were coming and it was time to go.

     Much of the trail between Cripple and Ruby is on old mining roads.  After losing the trail briefly around the abandoned mining town of Poorman, we regained our route eventually passing an old steel bridge spanning the Sulatna River.     

      

Irondog cabin at the old Poorman townsite     

       From there we would wind our way down and out of the hills and onto the streets of Ruby. 

     "Make yourselves at home," she said.  Rachel and Ryan own and operate the Wild Iris bed and breakfast in Ruby.  She had prepared a delicious meal for us including chicken thighs, mashed potatoes, gravy and a garden salad. Four of us would stay in the bunkhouse;  It was a small heated cabin with four beds and was perfect.  The other two, (Spencer, and Kody) would spend the night down the hill at Rachel’s mom's house.   

     On the table in this cabin I found a fascinating book called “Iditarod The First Ten Years” an Anthology compiled by The Old Iditarod Gang.  It was a collection of early Iditarod stories written by a variety of authors.  I quickly thumbed through it and found two articles on the first Iditarod Trailbreakers.

      As aforementioned, I have had lingering questions about how things were done in the early years in regards to breaking trail for the Iditarod.

      What I learned

       One of the Old Iditarod Gang authors was Al Crane who contributed a chapter called "MILITARY TRAILBREAKERS LED THE WAY".  As the story goes, Joe Redington sr. was a super charismatic guy and whoever he talked to about the idea of this crazy Iditarod race was soon onboard.  The most notable of which might have been Major General Charles M. Gettys who gave considerable military support for the trailbreaking effort.  Gettys was the commander of Fort Richardson at the time and was all-in to help.  According to Crane he issued “an official order to send a team of Army snowmachiners on a winter survival skills exercise into the Alaskan Wilderness, where they would test their skill and equipment in-and-against the harsh Alaskan environment”.

     “Twenty two snow machines and that team of trailbreakers and communication specialists would be the first people over the Iditarod trail to Nome in decades.  The first since the gold-rush days early in the twentieth century;  The first to do it with a modern, motorized vehicle.”

Four members of the original military trailbreakers lined up in front
of the historic Nugget Inn on Front Street in Nome.  

       Another of the book's contributing authors was Don Rosevear who penned the what's next part of the trailbreakers story.  After the military team had finished and three weeks prior to the start of that first Iditarod, another group of five civilian volunteers set out ahead of the mushers to re-pack and mark the trail.  Rosevear was 17 at the time and was riding his Dad’s Alpine which had two tracks and one ski up front.  

Don Rosevear with his Dad's Alpine ready for action.  Photo by Don Rosevear.

      The misadventures on that first trip were many.  One of the trailbreakers named Bob Stone broke through ice on the Kuskokwim near Rohn.  After pulling Bob and the snowmachine out of the river, they were able to make it back to the safety of the Rohn cabin where they would have to cut off Bob’s frozen pants.  Ironically, Bob was the only one of the five to make it to Nome, crossing the burled arch just ahead of Iditarod’s first winner Dick Wilmarth.

     Snow machines of the early seventies were a far cry from what we were riding on our trip.  Mechanical breakdowns were a daily part of life on the trail back then.  Additionally travel through deep snow was a non-stop exercise in getting un-stuck. 

     I thought about what it must have been like riding an Alpine all the way to Nome as I packed up and stretched a bungee over the top of my gear bag.  By stark contrast, we were riding 20,000 dollar skidoos with four stroke engines and heated handgrips.  The sled I was riding was on its third trip to Nome and would be sold the next season. 

Civilian trailbreakers in 1973 in front of the Knik Bar before hitting the trail.  Photo by Don Rosevear.

         

      "Let's keep em tight," said Spencer as we dropped down onto the Yukon River.  Visibility can be a problem while running big rivers so closer spacing of the lath is necessary.  It would be a long flat ride today of 135 miles.  We would stop in Galena and Nulato to re-supply fuel and lath on our way to Kaltag where we would stay the night.  

The boys headed out of Ruby, down the hill to the Yukon.

         In Kaltag we would stay at the community hall called the Roundhouse.  It was an incredible eight sided log structure with a big wood stove and bench seating around the entire perimeter of the inside.  I'm sure the Roundhouse was the site of every wedding, funeral, and potlatch.  Before we arrived there was a big birthday party for the Chief of the village, who was turning 94 years old.  They were gracious enough to leave some of the leftover food for us.  

A minor hiccup outside of Kaltag negotiating Ten Mile Creek.

Cameron packing a soft ramp off of Ten Mile.

      

Another day in paradise between Kaltag and Unalakleet.

Taking a break at the Tripod Flats safety cabin.  Cameron, in the doorway finally finds what 
we have been looking for!

The geography in this part of the world is breathtaking.

The boys taking a break just outside of Unalakleet.

     

     The last ten miles into Unalakleet I felt like I was riding through a Fred Machetanz painting.  Low angled white mountains rolled on both sides of us as the Unalakleet River snaked along below us in concert with long bands of spruce trees.  One again, the urge to ride off and explore the landscape was undeniable. 

     In Unalakleet we stayed with Cameron's folks at their place in the middle of town.  Cameron's dad Chuck is a successful mechanical services contractor and has an impressive shop and house. Chuck himself was a trailbreaker for 14 years and was an amazing story teller with an incredible memory for detail.  I was mesmerized listening to all of his Iditarod adventures.

     Cameron's mom Marie was a sweetheart and had prepared NewYork steaks and baked potatoes for us when we got there.  It was agreed that the accomodations in Unalakleet with Cameron's folks were the best along the whole trail.   I ended up with my own room with a shower. 

Hanging out in Chuck's shop with the boys.  Race director Mark Nordman holding court.

Between Unalakleet and Shaktoolik.

Headed out of the hills to the barren coast leading to Shaktoolik.  Super windy here.

      Once we hit the coast the wind was considerable.  The ambient temperature was hovering around 20 degrees below Farenheit.  With 20 mile per hour winds, according to the wind-chill chart had us traveling along through 48 below temps.  I had busted out the expedition weight parka and down pants at our last break in the brush before dropping down onto the coast and was super comfortable.   The stark beauty of this flat barren country was breathtaking.  We warmed up at the Iditarod checkpoint in Shaktoolik and it took me a solid ten minutes to take all of my layers off once inside.  We were offered hot coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich.  "Yes please," I said. 

     It wasn't long before we hit the trail due North.  About nine miles up-trail we crossed a section of Norton sound to a crude safety cabin called Island point. From there it would be a straight, flat, ride North across Norton Sound to the village of Koyuk. 

Island Point cabin.

     Although this is a well traveled route across the Sound to Koyuk, the winds serve as a giant eraser on the daily and there was no trail to be found as we headed across.  Spencer followed a direct line on his GPS from Island Point to Koyuk and we fell-in-line stabbing tight lath along the way.  Little did we know that some of the locals in Koyuk, who were expecting us were tracking our progress with binocs and could see us coming (headlights) from miles away.  We too could see the lights of Koyuk from at least twenty miles away but it would take us a while as we methodically stuck lath into the stubborn snowpack on the sea-ice. 

Sunset while crossing Norton Sound.

      We were greeted by a local Koyuk man."You're staying over there," he said, "Five star".  The man pointed across the street.  The five star reference, in my opinion, was at least three stars off but nonetheless we wheeled around and started unpacking our sleds.  It was the mushers quarters which was the old library of Koyuk (I think). There were two toilets and two showers.  They brought us dinner cooked by one of the local teachers and we settled in with our sleeping bags and pads.

     The next morning I was up early and was recruited to help pack the mushers area nearby.  A lone red fox darted by as I was packing up my sled.  Soon we would head down the trail along the Bering Sea passing through the small villages of Elim and Golovin collecting lath on our way to our next night's stay in White Mountain.  Along this stretch was some of the coldest temperatures we would experience on the whole trip.  The prevailing wind whips from the North so the right side of our faces and bodies took the brunt of it.  I stuffed one of those cheap hand warmer packets under my facemask on my right cheek to mitigate the biting cold....it worked!

Another safety cabin break on the way to White Mountain.

           Just before Elim, I rode around the corner of the trail and could see that Jerney was visibly agitated in the middle of the trail.  "I'm done," he said "My suspension is busted".

      Upon closer inspection, one of the rear suspension bars broke and poked up into the track.  Jerney came to a screeching halt in the trail because that metal bar rubbed against the track as it spun until it had cut it in two pieces lengthwise.  Two tracks just like an old-school Alpine!

Modern day Alpine?

      Soon enough the rest of the crew came back to help and was able to replace a couple of bent suspension bars, tighten the track and off we went.  Jerney's snowmachine would roll all the way into Nome without a hitch!

     

On our way to White Mountain.

White Mountain.

         White Mountain would be our last overnight stay before Nome.  We stayed in a community center that also served as Iditarod headquarters.   We slept in the library portion of the building and I was stuffed between two tight rows of library books that didn't seem to be organized in any particular order.  I may or may-not have thumbed through a nearby book called "Kosher Sex".  Don't judge me.  

     The next day after fueling/ lathing up we headed down the Fish River and onto the trail for our final day of snowmachine travel. 

     Mid day we took a break on a large open expanse between rolling hills.  As per usual, the wind was a constant but we were trail-hardened by now.  In the near distance was a long band of willow bushes running along a small creek.  "Are those snowballs?" Spencer asked.  Upon further inspection the "snowballs" were beautiful willow ptarmigan.  Our trail would take us through these willows.  Flock after flock after flock of these plump white birds took flight as the winds pushed them all in the same direction.  I stopped briefly for the sole purpose of getting an estimate on their numbers.  Although it would be hard to claim any kind of accuracy with such a flurry my conservative estimate of 900 birds couldn't have been too far off.  

      Wonderful white rolling hills took us to the best safety cabin of all the Topkok hills safety cabin.  This cabin was built by the city of Nome and was dialed in!  There were solar panels charging batteries with an inverter providing lights and power.  A robust barrel stove with sturdy welded steel legs was set 2 feet off of the floor.  High on the wall near the door were three "golden hammer" plaque awards for excellence in construction.  I couldn't have agreed more.  We cut up some firewood, lit a fire and stayed there for about an hour and a half as the cold wind whizzed-by outside.  

     From here we would ride along the coast of the Bering Sea.  There were so many interesting gold mining cabins along this section. Before long we pulled into the last checkpoint of all:  Safety.

     Safety is a bar.  

Safety.

     Safety is 22 miles from the finish line in Nome and has a rich history dating back to the early 1900's.  Inside the walls are covered with memorabilia including hundreds of dollar bills stapled to the walls and ceiling.  Each dollar bill is written upon with markers.  We all signed a dollar bill and stapled it to the ceiling as well....when in Rome!

Check out this cool article in the Safety bar about the Trailbreakers by Jay Croft.

The excitement was real as we got closer.

The Bering Sea

Kody zooming by with a full box of lath.

     

Under the burled Arch on Front Street in Nome.

     That night we whooped-it-up in Nome.  Many people thanked us and bought us drinks at the bar.  Myself being the oldest member of the crew found myself ducking out a little earlier than the rest.  We would stay down the road about a mile at the old youth detention center.  It was a cold clear night and it felt good to stretch my legs. As I walked along the streets of Nome, I couldn't help but feeling a touch of melancholy in my heart   It had been a glorious wild ride but now it was over.  A certain song played over and over in my brain as I pulled up my hood up and slowly strolled back to my bunk. Song link