Read Part 1 of Maya’s epic adventure here!
Day 5: CP5 Rohn to Bear Creek Cabin (mile 228)
Miles ridden: 23
Miles pushed: 20
Wrong turns: 1
Total hours of sleep: 27
Total hours on the trail: 5 days 12 hours
Rohn checkpoint is a canvas tent with bales of hay that serve as bedding for eight racers. They also have a strict first-in-first-out policy, which means if I arrive there and an hour later, eight more racers come through, I’m stuck sleeping in my bivy.
I sighed in relief when I got there and saw an empty spot with three other racers getting ready to leave. It meant I’d be able to sleep in a warm tent for at least a couple of hours. The moment I stepped inside, Tony (one of the volunteers) immediately started taking care of me: fired up the grill to cook veggie brats, hung my wet clothes above the wood stove, and served me bottomless hot Tang. All the while, I looked empty and lifeless, barely able to function.
I rolled out my sleeping bag, deleted two veggie brats, drank about a gallon of Tang, shoved fistfuls of mini peanut butter cups in my mouth, and completely passed out.
I woke up a little before 9 am to the voice of Adrian, another volunteer, saying, “And there’s Mayella, who has been snoring for 3 hours nonstop!”. This was proof of how beat up I was.
Adrian served me oatmeal in bed (hay bale?!) and more bottomless hot Tang. I slowly mustered the strength to go outside and retrieve my second drop bag. I was so deprived of nutrients that I ate almost half of my food right there, resorting to the drop bags of scratched racers to make up for what I had consumed.
Before leaving, determined to stop riding in a constant state of dehydration, I attempted to fix the Camelbak hose. Back at Yentna, someone took one of my Dachstein gloves, leaving me with only one hand (the hand that had then been put to use as an extra insulating layer for my broken thermos). Since the problem was the hose freezing at the connection point because the neoprene cover kept moving, I cut the glove fingers off and, with the assistance of a little Tyvek tape (duct tape turns brittle at -30°F), made a little wool hose cover. I had no idea if it’d work, but at least I was being proactive at finding a solution.
Around 11:30 am, I was ready to leave and asked for directions: “Go the opposite way you entered.” Well, little did we know I had entered through the exit and naturally was going in the wrong direction again (Skwentna flashbacks). I only realized this after passing through an “Official Checkpoint” banner and having no recollection of seeing such a thing the night before.
Crossing the South Fork of the Kuskokwim River is also best done in daylight. This section is famous for overflow, with certain years even being open water. It’s the main reason why many of us carry lightweight waders (better have and not need than need and not have). Fortunately, it was frozen solid for me, and the only adversity I faced was headwind.
Despite being tired and with a literal torn-up ass, it was another bluebird day. There was no wind once I was out of the river and back in the forest. I was enjoying that moment as much as I could since I’d soon be entering Farewell Burn.
The Burn, a charred stretch of landscape leading out of the Alaskan Range, is the site of Alaska’s largest forest fire that burned 1.5 million acres in the summer of 1978. And it’s not uncommon for winds to rip through it.
But once in the Burn, there was only stillness. No wind. No snow drifts. No pushing. For the first time in 2 days, I was having fun again. In fact, it was the most fun I’ve had in the race, which is, in fact, uncommon since this section is often riddled with moguls and plagued by wind. In McGrath, I was told that I “must’ve had a really shitty time if the best part was at the Burn!”
I passed through some beautiful scenery of frozen glistening lakes, an entire pack worth of wolf tracks and a couple of wolverine tracks while seeing the other side of the Alaskan range. The trail was flowy, with ups and downs, and despite many of those ups being absolute monsters of a hike-a-bike, it can always be worse. I couldn’t bring myself to complain about it, especially when I had sunshine and zero wind.
Nikolai, the next checkpoint, is 75 miles away. Leaving Rohn and feeling good that the crux of the race was behind me, I hoped to make one big push. Most people bivy after the Burn, and there’s the option of staying at the Bear Creek cabin, 42 miles in and 1 mile off route.
Around 6 pm, I find Becca making a Backpacker’s meal on the side of the trail, enjoying the pinks and purples of the sunset that had just begun.
I stopped and returned the kindness of the night before, asking if she was okay.
“I was getting so tired and realized I needed fuel, so I stopped.”
I grab an Uncrustable out of my gas tank, “I am just thankful for how today turned out; I’m actually riding this thing!”.
She asks if I’m stopping at the cabin, and I say I’m not sure. We chat for a few minutes while I bite into a very frozen Uncrustable. I begin to feel cold and have to ride away.
With a stunning sunset and no clouds in the sky, it soon dawned on me (pun may be intended) that we were about to face a very cold night.
My McGuiver’s attempt at the wool hose cover didn’t work, and soon enough, I’d find myself with a frozen hose. I was craving water so bad that I bit the valve too hard, ripping it open. This completely ruined the system since it wasn’t able to hold pressure, and water leaked even when the valve was closed. If there were any liquid on the hose, it’d flow nonstop. The only solution was to disconnect it – so it wouldn’t leak on me – and use the bladder purely as a reservoir. Remember when I mentioned Leah having a spare bite valve on her repair kit? Yep. Lesson learned with this one.
And just like that, one of my best days on the trail quickly turned into one of the worst. Temperatures dropped fast, and the section was riddled by steep and absolute beast climb-a-bike hills—steep to the point of aiming the headlamp ahead and seeing a straight-up wall of white amidst the darkness—over and over again, for miles.
Demoralizing.
That much steep climb-a-bike annihilated my shoulder. I was in a lot of pain, swearing at every deity known to humankind, asking if what I had gone through at Rainy Pass and Tatina wasn’t enough. I was putting in a lot of effort and not keeping up with hydration. I had a little bit of water left in the thermos, and the Camelbak was practically full, but with the Camelbak under all my layers, at -30°F and being sweaty, taking most of the clothes off to access water wouldn’t be the smartest idea.
Fatigue, pain and bonking slowed me down—a lot. I was about to set up a bivy when Becca caught up.
“We’re only 15 miles from Bear Creek; let’s keep pushing”.
“Becca, I’m exhausted. I’ve got nothing left in me.”
“It’s -30°F, it’ll be a miserable night. You’ll feel much better at the cabin. I’ll ride with you.”
Those were the longest 15 miles of my life (on the following day, I also had the longest 20 miles of my life on the way to Nikolai).
I had been going through hell and high water alone since Puntilla. I was having major (de)hydration issues caused by no one else, and I didn’t want to make another rider “pay the price” for my slowness. But Becca insisted we ride together.
“We don’t have to be fast; we just need to keep moving. It doesn’t matter if it’s pushing or pedaling. We just move forward”.
There are no words to describe her kindness. She is truly one of the most genuine people I met on the trail, and it brings me tears to think of how much humanity she carries in her.
I struggled to keep myself upright on the bike and constantly hit the sidewalls of the trail (a trail that had been obliterated by moose). At times, it was easier to walk the bike. Becca would wait for me and only start moving once she could hear my squeaky brakes approaching.
At one point, she caught me on the side of the trail eating fistfuls of snow, much like Gollum and offered some of her water (note to self: eating snow at -30°F will burn your tongue). I still had about five sips in my thermos, but the snow seemed much more accessible than having to dig a bottle out of a bag.
We passed a sign saying the cabin was 5 miles away, and I finally understood why some people shoot signs. Alas, we keep moving forward.
I reached another low. I thought of how well I was doing up to Finger Lake and how everything changed after Puntilla. Then I looked up and saw a green hue. I turned the headlamp off, and Wham! A full explosion of northern lights! We took a moment to appreciate the magic and only moved once Beat caught up to us on foot.
We got to the turn-off, meaning the cabin was only a mile away, and Becca asked if I wanted her to make me a dehydrated meal when we got there. Again, her generosity is out of this world. I told her I had plenty of food and planned to drink all the water my body could withstand, take an unrecommended dose of Ibuprofen and get some rest.
At about 1:40 am, we arrived at Bear Creek, joining 10 or 11 other racers so deep asleep that they all let the fire die. Being the absolute wonder of a woman, Becca went outside to collect firewood and restarted the fire. Stephanie woke up and came to help, bringing a giant bag of snow to melt and make water for everyone. I noticed the nail on my middle finger was purple. It looked much more like when you slam your finger shut on a door than frostbite, so I didn’t make much of it.
The cabin is small, with only four bunks and a loft space—all of which were already occupied. I found some floor space between a trash can, two people’s feet and a table. Becca squeezed on a bunk between two other people. We passed out.
Day 6: Bear Creek Cabin to CP6 Nikolai (mile 300)
Miles ridden: 31
Miles pushed: 3
Wrong turns: 1
Total hours of sleep: 32
Total time on the trail: 6 days 5 hours
After about 3 hours of sleep, I’m woken up by the group getting ready to leave. Since I’m inconveniently laid across everyone’s way, including blocking Perry in a corner, I move to a new open bunk. I remember hearing someone say they had a flat tire and were having a hard time fixing it, and also George (from my group back on day 2) asking “how bad his eye was.” Apparently, he got corneal frostbite in one eye and is legally blind in the other, so things weren’t looking that good for him (the pun is absolutely intended).
I was so tired I didn’t care to eavesdrop. I fell right back asleep as soon as my body hit the bunk, waking up two hours later, around 7:30 am, when Faye and Jeff walked in.
I had a lot of self-care to do in the undercarriage department and was taking time to get ready. Becca asked if I’d be okay on my own, and I told her I was feeling much better and we would see one another in Nikolai.
Aside from the assassination (yep, I went there) and constant shoulder pain, those 5 hours of sleep really helped me reset. I took a better look at my finger and questioned if it could be frostbite. My other middle finger nail was also starting to turn purple, but I’ve never seen frostbite like that, so I convinced myself it must have been a simple injury from one of the many falls I took.
The following 35 miles to Nikolai were mostly uneventful, which was a welcome change considering the previous three days had been packed to the brim.
I left Bear Creek around 11 am, solo, and rode most of the way at my own pace. Race mentality was long gone and I was grateful to be on my way to the last checkpoint before McGrath.
With an overcast day and major steep hills behind, I had a lot to look forward to.
Except for the crosswinds on the open areas, which I could swear were going to become a tailwind once turning east toward Nikolai, but apparently, I was in a vortex of cross and headwinds.
I peeked at the GPS, and by my calculations, I should be 15 miles out of Nikolai. I’m happy and thankful for having a body that allowed me to push through so much. Then I came across a sign saying, “Nikolai 20 miles”. Remember the urge to shoot signs? Yep. I swear these Alaskan miles aren’t the same length as Continental U.S. miles.
Alas, I keep moving. I passed by a couple of foot athletes, one of whom seemed to have gotten into a brawl with his trekking pole, given that the pole was left in pieces on the trail (grab your trash, yo!).
Around 6:50 pm, I roll into Nikolai and am welcomed by the Kiwi committee. As I walked in, the first person I saw was Becca, who gave me a big hug. I told her once again how much gratitude I have for her and how much of a difference she made on my trajectory.
I sat at the “Kiwi Bar & Grill” (the name given to the checkpoint by the crew of Kiwi volunteers) to catch up with Leah while deleting two veggie burgers and a bucket of hot Tang. Leah opted to push through the night, and we said our goodbyes.
After a good couple of hours of socializing with racers and the Kiwi crew, I roll out my pad and bag, eat a Snickers bar and a stroopwafel, and snore myself away.
Day 7: Nikolai to McGrath – the finish line (mile 350)
Miles ridden: 40
Miles pushed: 8
Wrong turns: 1
Total hours of sleep: 38
Total hours on the trail: 168
I slept for about 6 hours, waking up occasionally, parched and/or starving. One of these times, I rolled to the side and saw a can of Sprite and a Snickers bar—they vanished in less than 30 seconds.
My plan was to take an extended rest and leave by 7 or 8. I woke up at 4 am and couldn’t go back to sleep—partially because I needed more food, partially because I was excited to be on the final stretch.
I made my last dehydrated meal, sat by the “Kiwi Bar & Grill,” drank two cups of coffee, and reassessed my fingers. Given that a blister was forming on the thumb, it was safe to assume what was going on under my nails was frostbite (later confirmed by someone who had the same thing happen to them).
The number one rule for frostbite is to not get it refrozen. Indeed, there were “only” 50 miles to go, but you never know how the trail will be, and I didn’t feel like taking chances. I taped all my fingers and put a vapor barrier (nitrile gloves) underneath the liners. It would make my hands very clammy, but at least they would stay warm.
Becca left 1.5 hours before me. I gave her a big hug and told her we’d catch up in McGrath. I made my way out around 630 am under a glittery sky with more stars than negative space. I had never seen that many stars in my life.
With a smile that couldn’t be wiped off my face, I was on the last 50 miles of my Iditarod journey. Despite a cold start of -23, everything was great. The trail was firm and fast-rolling, and I only had to stop and adjust layers twice.
At 7 mph, I was getting excited. I was going to be in McGrath by noon and have a sub-7-day finish. But if there’s one thing ITI will teach you, it’s never to count your eggs before they hatch.
The closer I got to McGrath, the softer the snow got. The fast-rolling roads had now turned into pushing sections of mashed potatoes, with countless sideways falls on deep snow. I got so tired of it that many times, I considered not even getting up. “This seems good enough. Someone will find me,” I thought. Every fall on my injured shoulder was a reminder of how bad it was.
I passed a couple of people bivying (one of them was Leah), which, at times, can be an indication that the trail isn’t good. And my hopes of being in McGrath before noon got slimmer by the pedal stroke.
Then it happened: the worst pain I have ever experienced in my life (grossness alert to all of you who get tickled about people going to the bathroom in nature).
Twenty-two miles out, I stop for a pee break—and I’ve been riding with deep open wounds on the chamois zone for seven days. You can only imagine how much that combo does not get along.
I let out the most guttural swear word. I had never screamed that loud, over that much pain, in my life. And I’ve had kidney stones and broken my knee before! Do you know the scene in Little Miss Sunshine when Dwayne finds out he’s color blind and breaks his silence vow? That was me, but in the middle of nowhere, Alaska. If there was any hunter in the area, I guarantee I scared every single animal in a 2-mile radius. When Leah caught up to me in the middle of my meltdown, I asked if I woke her up with my yelling at the sky.
Anyhow, back at me being literally butthurt. I tried getting on the bike and let out a follow-up and equally guttural swear word— I couldn’t sit down. And for the first time in 7 days, I broke down, bursting into tears. Not because of the pain but because I was only 22 miles away, facing the very real possibility of having to push the bike all the way to the finish line. And I knew I could do it—hell, I did it through a mountain pass! But I simply didn’t want to walk for another 22 hours. Not that close to the end.
The only way out is through.
I collected myself and reassessed (yep) the situation. I still had a bit of chamois cream left, which stung like hell when I put it on (especially because I couldn’t take my gloves off due to frostbite, and who knows what was on those gloves). After a few minutes, the numbing agent kicked in, and I was able to find a good position on the bike.
The trail remained soft, and at times, I questioned if I was heading in the right direction. Then I saw yellow snow and knew it was the right way. On the final stretch, yellow snow became the official trail marker, and I started singing The Wizard of Oz songs, telling myself to” follow the yellow snow road.”
About five miles later, I came across a hidden overflow that caused one of my feet to get in the water. With a double vapor barrier (one between sock liner and main sock, the other between boot and boot liner), I wasn’t too worried. Worst case scenario, I’d stop and change socks—at that point, I had accepted that Mother Nature was still dealing her cards.
Not even half an hour later, it started snowing. Again, never count your eggs before they hatch. Why am I saying this? Well, the last 13 miles leading into McGrath are on a wide-open rolling road that is usually quite fast. But with a couple of inches of fresh snow, I had no fast-rolling road. Instead, there was a constant grind on endless ups and downs, where I couldn’t even get speed on the downs at the cost of fishtailing and crashing.
Then, at 9 miles out, you get these spray-painted mileage countdown signs, showing, once again, that Alaskan miles are their own measuring system.
Eventually, the hills flattened, and I saw the first signs of a small village.
I took a moment to thank our ancestors, who walked these paths before us, allowing us to do so now. I thanked Mother Nature for revealing herself in such raw beauty and intensity. I thanked my body for enduring so much adversity and carrying me through 350 miles of extreme winter conditions. I thanked my parents and everyone who believed and cheered me on.
And I broke down in tears. I was about to cross the finish line of the Iditarod, my dream. I pushed myself beyond my limits and revealed a whole new level of what I’m capable of. I have become truly fearless and unstoppable. I’ve gained full control over my mind, and it feels absolutely bewildering.
At the Outpost, I was welcomed by Cynthia, Julie and Jorgen (Asbjørn’s dad, who was volunteering there). I believe my first words were, “This is unreal! I’ve been crying for the last 5 miles!” I briefly told them how much that meant to me and explained that the tears were out of happiness and pride as they patiently waited for me to dig my Brazilian flag out to take a finisher photo.
My finish time was exactly seven days.
Inside the lodge, Perry brought me a beer (that I couldn’t even open because of frostbite), and all I could do was emphasize how tough that was and how much I couldn’t believe it was real.
Once stripped of the wet layers, I drag myself upstairs and see Becca right away. I give her another hug, congratulate her on her finish and reiterate how much her actions mean to me. Later, I find out she has mushed the Iditarod before and has her own dog team.
I’d then spend the next three days waiting for the charter flight back to Anchorage. Activities included painful showers (you know why), detangling all my dreads that turned into one beaver tail, checking in with friends, family and work, dozing in and out of sleep and eating like a wooly mammoth. I was burning between 6 and 8 thousand calories a day, and since I can only consume about 30% of that, running on a deficit left me with a hunger I had never experienced before.
Between brownies, pizza slices and mancakes (giant, dense, delicious pancakes), I was asked how it feels to be part of “the small group of best fatbikers in the world,” and I’m still pondering on that. Honestly, I find it much more honorable to know I’m one of the 50 women in the world who completed this journey. This takes me back to a conversation with Brian at Shell Lake. Upon mentioning he was only then realizing how popular these races have gotten among women, I said, “Well, dudes do it. How hard can it be?!”
Final Damage Assessment
- Four frostbitten fingers – two first-degree and two third-degree (I have since drained the blood from under the nails)
- First-degree frostbite on one cheek, the exposed parts of the nose that didn’t get tape, and under the chin
- I was able to sit without wincing for the first time seven days after finishing. That says a lot about how bad the wounds are
- I have not seen a doctor for the shoulder yet, but it is safe to assume it is in much worse condition than it was two weeks ago.
- I had extremely swollen feet and legs for the following four days. They only went down when I got home to my Normatec boots, and they went down almost immediately after one full cycle.
- The bike is absolutely fine – aside from the rubbing, squeaky brake.
I can’t wait to go to Nome!
