As Luck Would Have It

“As luck would have it” often refers to good luck, but apparently it can also be used for bad luck. For whatever reason, I rarely use the phrase in reference to bad luck. Perhaps it sounds too sarcastic. Like a sad trombone playing “wah, wah” in the background. We arrived in Unalakleet, but as luck would have it, the dogs and our gear did not. Wah waaaaaah. Meh. I like utilizing the phrase in a more positive light. I prefer the twist from negative to positive. And as luck would have it, a recent trip to the North Slope provides lots of opportunities to use the phrase.

There were no shops in Fairbanks with time to perform the alignment on Tucker’s new truck, but as luck would have it, the old dog truck was up for the task.

The original plan was Tucker’s. He wanted to go North to look for sheds, test out his camping gear, and have a little vacation after a summer of firefighting. The Brooks Range is one of my favorite places on Planet Earth, so when I noticed a lull in tours and projects, I jumped at the chance to tag along north. We were going to use his new-to-him Tundra. However, new tires and an alignment are in high demand in Fairbanks in October (changing seasons and all), so the job of bringing us North fell to the old dog truck. Old Blue’s made the trek many times, but there’s always a question mark. Equipped with two 5-quart jugs of oil, bottle jacks, a spare tire, a specialized jumper pack thingy (that is the technical term), and an inReach to beg Derek to come rescue us in the event of truck trouble- we headed north in the dog truck. But not to worry, I checked and we have free towing through the insurance. Fine print says it covers only up to $200 worth, but as long as the truck breaks down by Hilltop Fuel Stop, insurance has us. Spoiler: as luck would have it, the dog truck reliably carried us to the North Slope and back with zero issues.

The Dalton Highway was exceptionally icy, setting us back in our planned itinerary, but as luck would have it, arriving at 6:00 PM was perfect, for us and others.

Hunting along the Dalton Highway corridor is very popular. Perhaps not to the extent of the Fortymile caribou road hunt, but we were still anticipating possibly meeting other hunters in the area. And truthfully, while I did tote a rifle, I was more excited to just travel with the dogs. I planned to only be an opportunistic hunter and see what luck had in store for us as we mushed around and explored. The first people we met hinted that we might just get lucky.

As we pulled into the parking lot, we passed a couple of guys driving out in a pretty Toyota 4Runner. Like the kind you would see at a ski resort in Colorado, shiny and fancy with loud, hip music blaring as they strap on their ski boots. It didn’t quite equate in my brain that they were hunting, as they flagged us down, asking if we had any spare gas. Did they go backcountry skiing? Ah, interesting- dragging behind the 4Runner was an otter sled with four large caribou heads. To this day, I’m confused as to how exactly their logistics worked. Were they sleeping in the idling 4Runner and used up too much gas? Did they have a truck stashed somewhere or did they drag the otter sled down the Dalton Highway? Either way, they were friendly, and as luck would have it, the fuel required for a cool, new stove contraption that Derek had designed for the Arctic Oven tent was gas, and I had brought extra. I pulled an old oil container from behind the seat, handing it to the guy. I know it’s in an oil container, but I promise it’s gas. It’s probably just a gallon, but it’ll get you a little farther down the road. They were kind and appreciative, saying they harvested three caribou with a rifle just beyond the five mile, no-rifle corridor, and the other with a bow within it. Seeing their gut piles later, it all seemed awfully close to the boundary. Then again, with a dog team, I wasn’t too worried about keeping precise mileage, knowing that my powerful canine quartet could transport us way past the boundary, so what do I know.

Since we arrived so late and the sun was setting, we opted to sleep in the truck. This allowed us to keep our tents dry and wrapped tightly in their bags. To stretch our legs after a long day of driving, we ventured into the mountains for a short jaunt. Cooke at the lead, Fox, then Elmer and Muenster in wheel drug me effortlessly up the first big climb. Tucker headed off in a slightly different direction with Dwight and Charlotte as walking companions. I reached the top of the hill and surveyed the terrain, making a plan for the next day. On the way, we bumped into two other hunters. After a nice chat, I promised we’d steer clear of where the hunters planned to hunt the following day. Ah don’t worry about it. It’s big country, the guy said, ironically reciting back verbatim the words I’d said to Tucker when he was worried about Dwight or Charlotte disrupting my hunt and wondering if he should leave them at home.

We climbed into the truck that evening, appreciative of the ease of sleeping on the big seats with the dogs tucked away in the straw-filled dog boxes rather than camping out in the cold. Other than a midnight protest by Charlotte (she didn’t like sleeping alone, and so was moved into a box with Dwight), we woke up the next morning well-rested with dry equipment and ready to hit the trail. Except oops…

Tucker dropped his inReach in the snow during his hike the night before, and we had no way of communicating. As luck would have it, our timing would work perfectly without external communication (although unfortunately, Tucker never did find his inReach).

Ok, I’m going to head over the first big hill, then northwest. It should be easy enough for you to follow my tracks. I’ll drop my tent at a good camp spot, and we’ll just meet there later this evening? My dog team was faster than Tucker’s walking, so we coordinated how we would meet up in the future. Loaded down with gear, the team and I started climbing the first big rise. Holding onto the handle bars, I tromped behind the sled since the dogs weren’t able to pull both the gear and me up the steep incline. Every time we stopped for me to catch my breath, Cooke would stand rigid and forward, leaning into his harness, resembling one of those ski jumpers as they launch off jumps. Once Cooke deemed the rest long enough, he’d give a little jerk on his harness accompanied by a “woof, woof!” Alright, alright, I’m ready, let’s go.

tangle

After a couple hours, I found a campsite, dropped the tent, and continued on with a lighter sled. We crossed a couple fresh sets of wolf tracks, but no fresh caribou tracks so far. As luck would have it, I spotted a group of three through the fog. I stopped the dogs beneath a rise, setting a front and back hook, asking them to please be good and no fighting while I’m away. We’re all on the same team remember. As luck would have it, they were perfect angels, though they were in a big ball upon my return. If dogs had fingers, I imagine they’d have each been pointing a finger at another dog, insisting they’re the culprit. I told them I got lucky, and we’re so fortunate to live in this incredible place. Cooke put his nose to the ground and eagerly chased the fresh caribou smells. As I began to quarter and process the caribou, I looked around. I messaged Sam on my inReach asking if she’d heard from Tucker. I can quarter by myself, but it sure is nice to have another set of hands. Nope, she said, he must have not found his inReach. I began processing on my own, then my team alerted me with a few short barks. I looked up, and in the northern hills, I spotted a big, white shape. A polar bear? A direwolf? No, as luck would have it, it was Dwight! I called PUP, PUP! Dwight! encouraging him to relay to Tucker our location. Torn between allegiances, he looked at me then disappeared back over the hill towards what I assume was Tucker. Not a minute later, as luck would have it, Tucker came striding over the hill. It’s big country (as the common saying goes), so what luck to have Tucker arrive right as the real work was beginning.

Tucker held legs and heckled my haphazard field dressing technique, but eventually, the job was done and it was only about 1:00 PM. I loaded up the sled, and the dogs and I (yes I did in fact help pull when we’d get bogged down) heaved the meat back to camp. I let the dogs loose to romp and play as I set up Derek’s Arctic Oven and fancy new stove. A short while later, Tucker, Dwight, and Charlotte arrived. Tucker wanted to practice his winter camping set up, so he brought his little 1.5 man tent, which Dwight insisted was actually just a 1 Dwight tent.

It was a trip that was put together with the least amount of planning, but as luck would have it, the trip was efficient, smooth, and exceptionally enjoyable.

The next day, the dogs and I hauled out the meat first then returned to take down camp and haul it back to the truck. Tucker came striding to the truck at around 3:00PM. Rather than camping another night at the truck, we opted to make a marathon drive back to Fairbanks. With the help of copious amounts of coffee, the dogs and I arrived home at 3:00 AM with meat for the freezer. It was a perfect adventure, full of “as luck would have its.”

Fall Training!

Here we are, September 1st, and so begins the official mushing season! Though today is officially the start, we have been running fairly regularly over the last two weeks because the rainy conditions have allowed it. In fact it’s rained almost every day since middle of August. While it’s great for dog training, I’m looking forward to some drier days.

Yesterday, Kendra and her husky Flight joined the Ryno Team for the upcoming season. We’ll do a more formal introduction later on, but we’re super excited to have them both here.

Sam and Tucker purchased a cabin on the other side of Fairbanks. Dwight will be joining them as soon as Tucker finishes his first season on the Midnight Sun Hotshot Fire Crew. We’re hopeful Tucker, Dwight, and Charlotte will be regular visitors throughout the winter. Sam is down at Dallas Seavey’s Kennel, gearing up to compete in the Iditarod in the future! The current plan is for Sam to help Dallas train his team this winter, and then Dallas will have a team for Sam to race in the 2025 Iditarod, so be sure to follow along!

Other exciting news- Kalyn is starting their own dog team! Kalyn’s crew went from Boone and Ripley (the Jack Russell Terror) to Boone, Ripley, Maple, Dolly, Otis, Mario, Mose, and Havarti! Since we train and work directly with Kalyn, it’s like they’re still at Ryno Kennel, except someone else is scooping their poop. Such a perfect situation. Kalyn also added two Alaskan Husky pups to the team- Mr. Sandman from Squid Acres Kennel and Dex from ATAO Kennel. It’s a slippery slope, this dog mushing obsession.

One new pup joined the kennel- Dune! Dune joined us from our friend Laura Allaway. After not having pups for three years, it’s been fun having a little youngster ripping around the kennel again.

So that brings us to this winter and our plans. Honestly, I’m not sure! We will for sure be doing reindeer and sled dog tours at Chena Outdoor Collective. AND we will for sure be having adventures, but what those adventures are…I’m still working that out. I do think I’ve lost the racing bug. Last year allowed me to take a year off racing while having the two-year-olds get valuable racing experience with Sam and Tucker. The idea being, if I missed racing, I’d have a great group of experienced dogs with whom to jump back in the racing scene this winter. Turns out though, I didn’t really miss racing. I’ve enjoyed having more flexibility to try other activities and go for fun runs that aren’t hindered by the structure of formal race training. However, I do know that I love having big adventures and trips, so currently, I’m still trying to figure out what that trip will be for this season. Another coastal skijor trip? Perhaps an expedition down the Yukon River? Perhaps more winter flying practice? I have too many exciting ideas, and I’m working on settling on one. It’s a tough life, this one.

Since I’m the Queen of Wishy-Washy right now, and we probably won’t be doing races, I do not plan on opening the dog sponsorship program this season. That being said, I hope you all continue to follow along. I’ll be trying to post regularly on the blog. If you enjoy reading the blog, I will have the donation option open on the website if you’d like to help support that. A big thank you to all the dog sponsors who have supported us for years and years. Do not worry, I am not getting out of dogs. These canines are exceptional, and I’m rather attached. But we are pivoting and probably just keeping this group of dogs for awhile.

If you do love the racing side of mushing, I encourage you to support another racing kennel’s dog sponsorship program. The economics of owning a racing dog team have become even more skewed over the last few years. Dog food has rocketed from about $2400 a ton to $3150 a ton in just the last five years or so. Straw prices have gone from $7-8/bale to $15/bale. Veterinary costs have similarly increased. I always knew that racing sled dogs never made financial sense, but it makes even less sense these days. I encourage you to redirect your sponsorship to a racing kennel and help keep the racing world alive. Or support the races themselves. The Copper Basin, the Yukon Quest, the Iditarod- these three races in particular have so many incredible volunteers struggling with similar increases in expenses. The 13 years of racing will forever be some of my most treasured memories, and I’d love for others to have the opportunity to make their own.

Thank you all for following Ryno Kennel, and I can’t wait for the adventures that the 2023-2024 season will bring!

Reindeer Backpacking with Mom

Alright Mom, we could drive to Kennicott and explore around there. We could go backpack around the Tangle Lakes area. We could just relax around the kennel. (Me knowing this isn’t actually an option. Hanging at home inevitably turns into projects for which guests are unknowingly “volunteered.”) Or we could take the reindeer and hike the Chena Dome Loop.

All of my family members have experienced the old “come visit Alaska and get roped into work” trick, so recently, I’ve been trying to set aside time for actual vacation-esque activities. And yes, one could argue that handling for the Yukon Quest at -40F is an exciting vacation activity, so maybe I should clarify a bit more: less Type 3 fun, more Type 2 or perhaps even Type 1.

Let’s hike the Chena Dome Loop! Mom said enthusiastically.

Excellent! The 29-mile Chena Dome Loop had been on my list, and I’ve also been scheming about how to offer expeditions with the reindeer. Here was the perfect opportunity to test it out with a very willing guinea pig: my mother.

After picking Mom up from the airport, we ate lunch, then made all the essential stops to grab food and supplies for our three day, two night backpacking trip. The weather forecast looked promising and barring hordes of mosquitos or unwelcome predators, conditions looked perfect. We decided on the crew- Pilot, Sailor, Cartel, Sasha, and the newest addition to the kennel, little puppy Dune. That evening, we piled all our gear, weighing each item and strategically arranging them for each pack the deer would carry. I’ve been told the deer can each carry 40 pounds, but also, there’s not really a robust deer packing community. Google says that the Tsaatan people of Mongolia ride their reindeer and Tucker gave me this packing book, so that combined with the occasional overnight trip with the reindeer and our previous day hikes made me feel moderately confident in our abilities. Ultimately, we settled on keeping the deer’s packs 30 pounds or less. I’m sure a trail-hardened deer could pack more, but we want this first multi-day to be a fun experience for everyone.

The Chena Dome Loop is actually a horseshoe shape rather than a loop. Derek helped with the shuttle, staging a car at the terminus, then dropping our clown crew off at the Upper Trailhead. I won’t lie, that first day was a little rough. The Chena Dome Trail does not believe in switchbacks. And while hiking straight up a mountain is challenging, what really got us was the heat. Even though the deer are in their summer coats, they prefer to sleep in the shade through the heat of the day, and hiking in the blazing sun directly up a hillside is not where they excel. Over the steepest sections of trail, we were stopping regularly and averaging about one mile per hour. That day, we traveled about 7.5 miles. My skewed mushing brain kept thinking a dog team would cover that distance in like 45 minutes. I actually struggled this winter with re-calibrating my brain while skiing too. Dogs are just amazing. I will always be slower.

At camp, we filtered water from the small puddles, picketed the deer out in a patch of tasty forage, and settled in for what I hoped would be a restful night. I should have known better. Dune took a nap from 7:00 - 9:00 PM, then like a husky on a race, she bounced back up ready to tackle the next leg of the journey. No Dune, we now sleep for 10 hours. I zipped her out of the tent and she romped around camp until about 3:00 AM when she finally decided it was time for another nap and insisted on being back in the tent. The night continued like that. Unzip, zip, unzip, zip, unzip, zip. The next million dollar idea is a silent tent zipper. I thought it would be the deer who would keep me awake, but they settled down and relaxed tranquilly all night long.

For much of the next day, we lived in the clouds. The deer loved the cooler temperatures and motored right along all day. While I enjoyed the cooler temperatures, I would have appreciated a bit more visibility. We were crossing the actual Chena Dome that day and even though the trail just follows the ridgeline, we did manage to lose it for a bit. The trail is marked by cairns, and when the trail is enveloped in a cloud, it would be nice to have twice as many cairns as there are currently. We took a slight deviation at the top of the Dome which resulted in us stumbling around through the rocks for awhile. When we finally found the trail again, Mom would proceed slowly, always checking that she could see the previous cairn over her shoulder. I’d hike faster in what seemed like the most likely direction, always making sure I could see Mom over my shoulder, until I could spot the next cairn, then holler back and say- I see it! For the most part, the cairns were spaced the length of two-people’s eyesight, if that makes sense.

Eventually, we descended below the clouds, and that evening, we stopped for camp at a shelter cabin. Mom opted to sleep in the cabin to hopefully get a better night sleep. I set the tent up on the porch, so I could keep an eye on the deer. Dune once again came alive at night, so while it was less than the first night, there was still constant unzip and zip action.

With the next day forecast to be sunny, we woke up early to beat the heat. Yes, our heat is only 75-80F, but for whatever reason, it feels like 100F! The final day was glorious. Lots of vertical climbing and descending. Big vistas. Pilot was a rockstar. Sailor was a plodder and made sure to never miss a mushroom on the side of the trail. Dune was a trooper- working hard then napping even harder during our breaks. Overall, the adventure was a SUCCESS. Reindeer backpacking trips are definitely on the horizon for Chena Outdoor Collective, and like my 1000-mile races, I feel so fortunate that my mom was there for the adventure!

Aviation

I’ve had several incredible mentors in my life. From sports to schooling to accounting to business to dog mushing, there have been people who have helped me navigate each respective field and helping hands to raise me to the next level. They shared knowledge that took them years to compile, and for that I will be forever grateful. And what’s more, the knowledge was shared with no strings attached; there was no sense of possessiveness or underlying motive. When the time would come for me to pivot in a new direction, I was met with even more support, helping me find the next step even when that meant leaving. That has been one of my biggest takeaways over the last decade and something I strive to emulate- what makes a good leader and mentor. It’s a person who teaches and develops, yet when the time comes, they support the change and transition. I’m sure there was an initial frustration when after a few years of training, I approached Melody at the accounting firm and said, “Thanks for training me all these years, I want to go race sled dogs.” To which Melody’s response was for her accounting firm to provide a yearly sponsorship for many years. Or Aliy and Allen when I said, “thanks for the amazing Iditarod experience, I’d like to start my own kennel and directly compete against you.” They responded with allowing me to breed a few litters of puppies and teaching me to build a faster sled. This blog post is taking a rather philosophical turn, and I’m struggling to bring it back around, because while the discussion of what makes a good mentor/leader is important, what I really set out to write about is one of my most recent mentors- Derek.

The last couple years, I’ve been putting more effort into learning to fly. In 2012, I got my private pilot’s license, but I didn’t really utilize it until the last couple years. And just because I have my license, it doesn’t mean I know how to fly. It’s like getting six dogs and mushing a 5-mile loop then wondering, ok now how do I do the Iditarod? There are a million steps between the two, and once again, a mentor can make all the difference.

My goal is to become competent at remote flying, meaning landing and taking off on short strips, assessing weather, navigating through remote Alaska, judging length and suitability of potential landing strips, maintaining a plane in cold temperatures, etc. There’s not exactly a How to Be a Bush Pilot Guide, except that lucky me, I married one.

Derek and I met one afternoon when I was on a walk with Kaz’s son Sam and Ray Crowe. I later learned we tactfully strolled through Derek’s yard as he was prepping his plane for a flight.

Wow, that’s cool.

Would you like to go for a flight?

Yeah! That’d be awesome!

Where do you want to go?

How about the Yukon Quest trail and Eagle Summit?

And off we went. It wasn’t until dinner was suggested afterward that I realized, ah, this was a date! Since then, I’ve been lucky enough to accompany Derek on spectacular trips in the backcountry. And while the trips were amazing, it wasn’t until I started flying that I truly realized what a wealth of knowledge Derek possessed.

Now I jump at any chance to have him fly along, whether he’s sitting in my backseat or I’m trailing behind him in his plane. I pepper him with questions, and he points out specific landmarks.

Memorize that rock formation. That’s your cue to turn up this drainage for the low pass between these watersheds. And see that old cabin floor, that’s your next indication that you’re headed down the correct drainage. Stay right. That swath of braided riverbed is always overflowed, and once you see that you know you’re headed in the correct direction. If you go left it’ll dead end, and if the ceiling is low, it would be really hard to turn around in something so narrow.

camping last fall at one of the first Trickier-for-me strips

I’m pretty sure this man doesn’t need a GPS. Before my family panics reading this, I’m not flying in low ceilings or risky conditions, but this knowledge is invaluable anyway. Derek’s brain also holds wisdom from decades-worth of exploring as both a private pilot and a smokejumper. He knows of several strips that function as stepping stones as I ever so slowly start to improve. He knows the weather stations to follow and how to plan trips. I couldn’t ask for a better mentor.

Now being married to your mentor also brings its own challenges. Picture driving with your significant other- do you ever bicker about directions or where to park? Well, just because we’re talking over the radio doesn’t mean that doesn’t happen.

Why are you going that way? Go north around that peak.

But the south side sets you up for the next pass better. Don’t you think the south side of the peak would be faster?

No, that’s why I said go on the north side. Turn left. LEFT!

Camping at chickenstock

Or maybe your significant other is looking for something in the fridge. You know exactly where it is and are describing it, but your significant other insists it’s not there or they can’t see it.

Look down. See those rocks? The white rocks? That’s the edge of the strip.

I see lots of rocks.

Look down. See right there. The rocks. Do you see the rocks. They’re in a line.

I see so many rocks.

Ok do another pass. There! Right there! See the rocks?!

WHICH ROCKS??

I still have yet to land at the strip we were circling during this conversation.

Derek’s knowledge can also act as crutch when flying, so he regularly encourages me to fly places without him and test my own knowledge and assessment abilities. Earlier this summer, a friend Alyssa and my flying buddy Jess Panko (and Smoky’s sponsor!) flew to the Coal Creek airstrip and hiked down to Slaven’s Roadhouse. The conditions were PERFECT until we arrived at the Yukon River, where squalls were numerous. After dodging a couple squalls, we managed to land at Coal Creek. It didn’t rain again the entire time we were there. Being a Vet Stop on the Yukon Quest, Slaven’s Roadhouse is the place of many memories although all are in winter. It was pretty cool to add some summer experiences to the Slaven’s memory bank. Only one other time had I explored the gold dredge: several years ago with Deb Davis (Tobin’s sponsor!). Climbing around the gold dredge and checking out all the old tools takes you back in time to early gold mining days. I can’t imagine shipping all those parts up the Yukon then building the dredge and moving it up little Coal Creek.

Squalls over coal creek

Me, Alyssa, and Jess in front of the coal creek gold dredge

Cartel checking out Slavens Roadhouse

Ultimately, I’m beyond excited about this new opportunity, and I feel lucky to have one of the best mentors. Cartel doesn’t seem to mind traveling by plane either. And sorry this post wasn’t more about dogs.

The No-ski Skijor Trip

I figure it’s about time I sit down and write a blog. As I type, I’m sitting outside next to our current construction project, a 12x12 log addition to the cabin to be used as primarily an “old dog living room.” As we start to get a larger group of retirees, we realized we need a little more couch space. A couple chainsaw cuts through our wall and lots of stacked logs later, we’re well on our way to a lovely addition.

Currently, I’m tucked away in a little patch of shade because it’s 80F outside going on 120F. There’s not much movement right now with dogs and deer all sprawled out in the shade. I’ll always be in awe of the extremes of the Interior of Alaska. Highs of 90F with continuous daylight in the summer balanced by -50F with long hours of darkness in winter; it’s amazing how many animals have adapted to survive in such extremes. Since it’s the end of July, we’re starting to have a little bit of darkness around 1:00 am - 3:00am. January-me could never fathom I’d be excited for darkness, but July-me feels a sense of cozy comfort as the sky darkens and temperatures drop slightly so that we’re no longer laying atop our comforters, sweating in the endless summer sun, drooping a forearm or pillow across our eyes to block out the 3:00am light. And don’t get me wrong, I love summer. But the allure of the change of seasons is just too mesmerizing.

I should probably share some stories from the past several months because there were some good ones. I’ll start with the skijor trip in Unalakleet. The term “skijor trip” is a bit of a misnomer because we never, in fact, ended up skiing in Unalakleet, much less skijoring.

The day before our flights left out of Anchorage, Tucker, Wingman, Cooke, Munester, and I loaded up into Tucker’s Toyota Tacoma along with a ski bag encasing two sets of skis, a pulk sled, a backpack, a sack of dog food, human food for a week, three dog crates, and a bundle-full of enthusiasm. I was so excited. The weather looked promising for the coast and this stretch is one of my favorite on the entire Iditarod Trail. Our plan was to drive to Anchorage, stay the night with our friends the Moody’s, and fly the next day to Unalakleet with the intent to return one week later. The dogs and gear would fly with Northern Air Cargo, and Tucker and I would fly on Ravn Air. Ravn Air only allowed two dogs per flight, hence why we had to coordinate with a cargo flight.

The drive to Anchorage was a breeze. Traveling with just three dogs is exceptionally easy compared to a full dog team. We met the Moody’s for dinner and drinks, made a game plan for the Moody’s to collect Tucker’s truck from the airport the next morning, then headed to bed. The next morning is when I started to make a few timing errors. In an effort to not leave the dogs sitting in their crates too long at Northern Air Cargo, we only gave ourselves a couple hours between dropping the dogs and gear off at Northern Air Cargo and checking ourselves in at the Ravn Air Flight. Northern Air Cargo is where we drop our “second sleds” off during Iditarod to be shipped to McGrath or elsewhere on the trail as a backup in case we bust a sled going down the Dalzell Gorge. I was familiar with Northern Air Cargo and believed I’d made the correct assumption on timing.

As we went from one loading agent assisting us to four loading agents (Heet bottles and IsoFuel canisters for JetBoils apparently have quite the packaging and hazard sticker requirements) I realized that we’re starting to get crunched for time. The dogs were in the crates, loaded on pallets, along with the pulk sled and skis. All we planned to carry with us on the Ravn Air flight was a small personal bag and a 44 pound bag of dog food. After the friendly loading agents had adequately hazard-stickered and caution-taped the fuel, loaded it on pallets, zip-tied the crates, and weighed everything, one agent says- oh, the flight is going to be about 30-minutes late, but it shouldn’t be an issue. Why don’t you fill out here on the form, a contact in Anchorage in case there are longer delays, but we don’t foresee that happening. It is here that I listed our friend Megan in Anchorage and sent her a quick text to ask permission, assuring her it’s just in case of emergency and she should be able to continue her day as normal. As I look at the clock, I realize we really need to boogey if we want to make our Ravn Air flight. I take a photo of my credit card, and text it to the woman at the front desk saying just charge me whatever but we need to GO.

I sprint out of the cargo bay, hop in Tucker’s Tacoma, and we hurriedly tap “Anchorage Airport” into the GPS. Should we have probably already had directions, yes. But we didn’t. Luckily, the terminal was close. As we pulled up to the parking area, a worker in orange was hanging a “caution” sign. He flags us down and asks if we can see the sign. We confirm that it’s great placement. We then eye the parking garage concrete ceiling rafters. I can’t remember the exact height, but eyeballing it, the ceiling looked awful close to the Thule box on top of the truck topper. We ask the worker in orange to watch as we edged closer and confirm that we were in fact going to squeeze under. He gave us the thumbs up, but as we drove by, he did say- you made it under that one, but I’ve measured all the rafters and they’re not all the same height, so you might not make it under the others. Excellent. We risked three more rafters then slid the truck up at the end of a row of cars. It wasn’t a designated parking spot, but it’d have to do. I texted Megan the truck’s location, grabbed my small bag, the 44lb bag of dog food, and my wallet, and we started sprinting for the check in kiosks. As we sprinted up, out of breath, lugging our bags, the front desk agent just frowned, said “You’re late, let me make a quick call” but confirmed she’d check us in, and we had about 10 minutes before the doors of the plane closed. I continued to shift from foot to foot, at which the agent said relax, there’s no security, you’ll make it to the gate in under 10 minutes. Phew.

Shit. I stuck my hand in one pocket to confirm my wallet was there, then stuck my other hand in the other pocket but couldn’t find my phone. I hastily checked my pockets again. Nope. No phone. The zippers in my jacket pockets no longer function, so it was with wide eyes that I said to Tucker, “I don’t have my phone. I have to go find it. It’s either laying on the ground somewhere between here and the parking garage or sitting in the truck. You go to the gate. Stall as long as you can, but if I’m not there in ten minutes, fly to Unalakleet so you can get the dogs, and I’ll meet you tomorrow.” I spun on my heel and took off like a gazelle. Or maybe an Olympic sprinter. Or maybe… alright. I probably looked like the McCallister family in Home Alone, sprinting through the airpot. Ok, ok, I didn’t even look as composed as a frantically running Hollywood family. I pride myself in packing light, so at that moment I was dressed ready to ski. Not just like, beanie, neck gaitor, puff jacket, but like beanie, neck gaitor, puff jacket, fleece pulloever, skiing bibs, and massive clonking ski boots. Yes, I was wearing enormous ski boots. They were billed as boots of Arctic and Antarctic explorers, capable of hiking or skiing, so why not just wear them as my everyday boot as well as my ski boot on this week long adventure. So there I was, hurtling through the airport, boots clonking, breath panting, jacket open and rippling in my wake, thinking “THIS is what you trained for. It’s time to go anaerobic.” Alright, that was a bit dramatic, but I sure didn’t want to miss my flight to Unalakleet and lose out on a nice weather day on the coast. So I went anaerobic. I coughed and gasped to janitors in the hallways- have you seen a black iPhone? Have you seen a black iPhone? I crashed into the parking garage, swirling my way up and down the levels since I’d completely forgotten where the truck was parked. Finally, I looped around a corner, and there it was. I found the hidden keys, opened the door, and aha! There was my phone. I shoved it in my pocket, wiped the sweat from my eyes, looked at my watch… five minutes until gate closing. I took a big gulp of air then hurtled back through the parking garage, loud boots echoing like a herd of dinosaurs. I sprinted past composed yet confused travelers. I ignored a disapproving glare from the Ravn Air checkin desk. I galloped toward the escalator. Out of order. I football faked over to the elevator and repeatedly pressed the button, willing it to move faster. Doors open slowly. The elevator painfully grinds down a level, allowing me a short respite. Doors open a few inches and I’m back out in the hallway. Clonking down the terminal hall. My phone rings. I glance down, it’s Tucker. I have no breath to answer, so I silence it. I put in a last burst of power, round the corner and there is the gate. I clamor to a stop, gasping, laughing, sweating. We walk out to the plane and the agent closes the door behind us. Phew. We made it! We’re going to Unalakleet!

The plane is full of travelers, and I’m the recipient of several side-eyes. I’m sweating and probably already smell, and we haven’t even started skiing yet. But none of that matters. We’re going to Unalakleet, and we’re going on an adventure! I smile and watch out the window. As we arrive in Unalakleet, the pilot had to do a “go-around” before landing. This should have been a hint that perhaps the skijor adventure wasn’t guaranteed yet. On the second attempt, the pilot sticks the landing. We unload into a small room. Locals leaving Unalakleet for the big city mingle with those of us arriving. Tucker and I stick out like a sore thumb, but we’re given smiles and friendly nods. The desk at the back of the room serves several aviation companies, Ravn and Northern Air Cargo included. I meet the the Northern Air Cargo agent and ask when the plane is scheduled to arrive. The agent said, “well, it hasn’t left Anchorage yet. Are you staying at Bret Hansen’s place? I’ll call there when I know more.” At first I was surprised he guessed that we were staying at Piece on Earth, a pizzeria that brings pizza to Iditarod mushers and regularly houses travelers and friends alike. But then I realized, Unalakleet is a small town of maybe 750 people, so I shouldn’t be surprised.

While I was sorting out Northern Air Cargo, Tucker bumped into Bret Hansen. Bret said he’d be right back to pick us up, but also, the pizzeria wasn’t too far away. We decided to walk. Not too far into the walk, I was glad another local truck passed offering us a ride as I lugged my small gear bag and the 44lb bag of dog food.

At the pizzeria, we were greeted with delicious food, a very hospitable Bret, and a fish tank filled with strikingly neon colored fish. In remote Alaska. On the coast. So strange. Not long later, we learned that Northern Air Cargo decided not to fly to Unalakleet that day, but don’t worry, they’ll try again on Saturday. It was Wednesday. This began an elaborate string of calls and texts and finagling, trying to find some way to get the dogs, skis, and gear to Unalakleet. In the meantime, the Moody’s came to our rescue and picked up the dogs from the Northern Air Cargo terminal in Anchorage. Not only that, but the Moody’s took them on a little skijor around the neighborhood after their long stint in crates at the airport! Talk about good friends! I finally had the sad realization that the dogs, gear, and skis weren’t going to arrive in a timely manner. We had to change our return flight to the next day.

I did allow myself a small pity party as I lay sprawled out on a repurposed church pew at the pizzeria which doubled as seating and my bed for the night. While our single night in Unalakleet was a far cry from the original plan, it did allow me to make connections and have a better understanding of how to make a coastal trip happen in the future. Namely, only bring two dogs so everyone can fly together on Ravn Air. Bret let us borrow a couple fat bikes the following morning, so we were able to at least go for a short ride before our return to Anchorage.

Views from the Fat Bike Ride

Views From the Fat Bike RIde

As we arrived back in Anchorage, loaded up Wingman, Muenster, and Cooke, and headed north, I was less disheartened than I thought I’d be. It was still an adventure and a good learning experience. Until next time Unalakleet. I’ll be back.

Sam's Quest 300 Recap

The ~300 mile jaunt out to the big city of central ought to take around 3 hours with a F-350 diesel dog truck… Ought to take 3 hours if the weathers right.. 

Ok.. But the more exhilarating jaunt to central with THE cadillac of sleds, AKA a dog paddle…. will take you about 3 days and some change. You’ll come barreling into the Central checkpoint, elated, forcing your 110 lb body into the claw break below you as your string of 12 dogs tries to blow past the finish line… If I'm being exact, the Cadillac route covers 303 miles, 2 summits, 75 miles along Birch creek to the second most bustling town of Circle, and back to our good ole roadhouse in Central. 

The directions are quite simple…

If you make it to the start line, you’re already bound for glory. Ok, check. 

Drink your coffee, devour your strawberry nutella crepe, enjoy your stomach ache brought on by nerves, bootie dogs.. Check.

11:32 leave from the truck.. Check.

Run Paige (who is helping guide the team to the start line) over with the sled. Check.

Say “Hi, I love you” one last time to all your teammates. Check.

Awkwardly stand at the start line as 3 large men hold back your sled… Check.

3, 2, 1, “And she’s off"

This is where directions can stump a person if you allow your attention to be diverted. Let me warn you… There will be a considerably large amount of people crowding the trail as you travel down the Chena River.. It will be lovely and encouraging. And you WILL be fed. Incoming - A sloppy joe!!! Wrapped in tinfoil and warmer than your body will ever be in the next 3 days. A hot dog! Tossed over - tastier than ever. A healthy serving size of a home brewed IPA, carefully handed over like a newborn baby as the team passes by at 9.7mph. A rolling rock that's held by a beautiful, red haired friend - Thanks May!!! A shooter of apple whiskey, carefully zipped into my pocket - all gifts to Tucker in 39 miles. And last but absolutely NOT least…

An *Organic* Coors Banquet to drown my nerves in, paired with a freshly baked cookie. Also a gift for Tucker. Meal #1 - Check

Unlike you, the team and I continued onwards. No amount of tastiness could derail us as we bound down the coiled up, icy trail. 

After the excitement of cheering humans, the team tried to fall into what we do best… The Chena river had other plans though as we awkwardly fell into this pace where dodging open water and overflow holes became a dance. We waltzed with the river for 27 miles, slowing often to change iced over booties and shake off my clunky cabela pac boots. Hopping up onto land at last, the dogs and I took a deep breath as we settled onto our home trails, finally relaxing into what felt like just another training run.

We flew into the Two Rivers checkpoint, Dracula clapping in swing as Beasley screamed “We made it!!”. I bedded down the dogs with an elegant meal sitting by their side and went to fetch some coffee… Meal #2 - Check. 

The second stretch of 72 miles has been logged as one of my favorite runs to date. We left Two rivers strong and eager. Just as quickly as we fell into our comfortable pace, my brain got lost in the monotony of the passing black spruce, a blurred glimmer under the full moon light. Thoughts drifted down streams of rivers. The Au Train on a hot summers day, a cold splash drenching me from a dogs graceful leap into the water. Thoughts drifted back towards the moonlit trail, -15 degrees, 12 dogs checking off mile after mile. 

We made it past the first checkpoint with a feeling of relief rushing through me - I giggle, “The parties just getting started guys!”

30 miles in, we find ourselves lunging into the night past tiresome teams camped on the side of the trail. Mushers exchange a quiet “Hello, have a good run!” A short conversation that warms my heart each time. Like-minded individuals, all on the same trail, sharing that same love for their dogs that radiates through my body. 

As we searched for our nesting spot, Thresher vetoing every location I deemed suitable for the sleepy team, we passed the 7th team, 8th team.. 36 miles in. I let out a hum of laughter as we crested a small hill. “Hey guys, we're in first!'' Cheddar looking back, surprised. I like to think they all chuckled, listening as I nonsensically chatted with them.  “Enjoy this now, as It won't last for much longer.” 

*A headlamp quickly emerging from the trees behind us* I curse, thinking our champion position would last longer than just a few minutes. 

3 miles later, we pulled onto the exit ramp and decided to call it a night. Thresher and I finally agreeing on the perfect campsite..

"Ok, lead line hooked into leads, check. Back to sled. Wait no, Ok.. Tug lines off. Shit, move Etta. Alright, here we go. Start cooker.... Snows melting. Sweet. Shit better take off parka. Thought I was better at this. Ok. Booties off. Incoming musher - “HI!" Ah… Right… Ok.. Ok..” A checkpoint routine I've done many of times, yet here I am, rehearsing it in my head like the dogs will judge me for not executing it perfectly.

A sizable meal of kibble, fish skins, and hot water. 3 hours of sleep and a few massages later, booties and jackets are put on and we’ve got a screaming team ready to hit the road. With a heavy dose of grace, the team scurries across wind blown plains and up, up, up. Sweating, letting out huffs of breath, I try to keep up with the team as we summit our first big climb. Rosebud. 

At 3,640 feet, she stands there tall and mighty, beautifully soaking up the full moon as it casts its midnight light upon us. The team comes to a pause, mostly for the frail and clumsy human that stands on the runners behind them.. We blissfully basked in the deep winter peace that Rosebud offered and for some moments, my brain is relocated to a chilly November afternoon. Ryne and I gleefully skip away from our snow machines in order to watch Tucker and his 6 dog team trudge their way up the summit. We cheer, teasing him for being out of shape as he sweats his way to the top…. 

I eat my words, creating a mental note to apologize for the all heckling months ago..

With the other side of Rosebud being more of a leisurely descent rather than the extreme plummet I had envisioned it to be, the last 20 miles into the checkpoint of Mile 101 were filled with pure delight. A moon dog haloed the full moon, holding tight as morning light crept its way through the sky. White tailed ptarmigan contrasted against the bright blue hues of the glare ice that the runners were too graciously gliding across. Skeletal trees, feathered with hoarfrost - glistening in the morning sun. Streams of fog rising from the distance, dancing to the songs of rumbling engines - a frigid struggle. Mile 101. We made our grand entrance into the checkpoint as if we were just leaving the starting chute… Cheddar screaming, Old man Otis harness banging, and Dracula… Still clapping.

Climbing Rosebud Summit

Checkpoint #2 was a breeze. I fell into my routine without having to rehearse it like I'm preparing for some Broadway show… Bed down dogs, tuglines off, remove booties, no need to move Etta, feed, massage, sleep… Set out for human food. 

Before the dogs enter a race, each team is required to attend vet checks - typically taking place the day before race start. You pull up with your team, vets crowd the dog truck and begin their examination of each dog - Checking in on their weight, vitals, and overall confirmation (The externally visible details of a dogs structure and appearance). The vets chuckled as they sauntered up to our Thresher boy and examined his weight, giving him a high 6 on the scale. “Who’s pet dog is this?!” they jokingly asked. Threshers ears perk up as he begins his full body squirm of excitment…

The team crossed the start line with high appetites, eating just about every snack I offered up. Thresher continued to keep that extra love packed onto his hips and even Etta, who can be the pickiest eater on the planet, ate each meal I cooked up for her. Wishing I had their appetite, jealousy began taking over as we made our way through the 300 miles. After the 3 course meal each musher was given along the Chena River, I reached in for the obscene amount of tasty snacks I packed for myself and not even the beef sticks nor the chocolate excited my taste buds. Before shutting my eyes, I tried one last food brought to you by Mile 101 volunteers. Bacon. Meal #3…. Check.

As I prepared to leave Mile 101, Tucker and I stared off into the distance, conversing about which peak was out next big summit.. We're both rookies to the Quest and sitting there pointing at each peak made that quite apparent. We finally agreed on one small mountain sitting a few miles from us.. The climb over Eagle summit begins shortly after the checkpoint, yet far far past that mountain we pointed to. Dumbies. 

As the team ambled past peak after peak, the trail slowly began to steepen. The breeze growing with each step we took. For minutes there, I stand on the runners as wind slaps my hood, realizing that this could potentially be very unpleasant if it kept up…. Yet there I stand with a shit eating grin on my face. I hollered! The dogs were letting loose, digging in with the type of energy that radiates from them, swirling in the air. We rode that high until we reached a point where the trail curves slightly, revealing 12 small dogs and a human floating up a wind-scoured 30-degree headwall. I stop the team to marvel at the dogs before us, clawing their way to the top of Eagle Summit. 

Another giggle ricochets through my body and we begin our climb. 

This headwall was nothing out of the ordinary for the team I traveled with, digging in with every ounce of muscle they had. Tuna and Beasley, delving into their well of pure strength. Cheddar using her crazed energy to lunge into her harness. Thresher… Don't even get me started on that tough as nails dog. We trudged our way towards the summit, with that 50 pound “pet” dog in lead as he unhinged his cheerleading skills; eloquently narrating the climb from his lead position, sending a wave of energy through the gangline. Thresher, Cheddar, Dracula, Beasley, Fly, Otis, and myself all hollered our way to the top, purely out of bliss… Reaching the plateau, I stop the team next to a photographer as he began speaking about how he could hear us at the bottom. I lumbered up to the front of the team, gave them each a good pat on the head and thanked them. 

Sitting at 3,652 feet, Eagle Summit in winter is seldom so benevolent and here we were, graced with a sliver of sun peaking through.

top of Eagle Summit

Climbing our way to the top is a task in itself, but what goes up must go down right? The biggest worry along this entire race - The "eagle summit plummet”. I drive the team just over the edge until the sled stands tall above the 12 dogs, I breathe, removing my foot from the claw break. Before I could exhale, Etta and Thresher led us down the steep slope, following the rutted out path from previous claw breaks. With the next inhale, laughter interrupts, bellowing out of me. Glee has always been my favorite train to catch.. Soon I am letting out shrill hollers and woo-hoos. The dogs wondering what the hell is going on behind them.. Soon we find ourselves on flat ground, screaming for more. We catch up to the team in front. “Shit, what a ride!!” If this weren't a dog race, I’d turn that team around to experience that thrill just once more. 

Reaching the town of Central, the team travels along the road system until the sound of low howls begins to fill the air. Dancing Christmas lights, a barrel fire and laughter surround us as we make the 90 degree turn into the Central roadhouse. Volunteers crowd the sled, a photo is taken of my sleepy smile, and a familiar face walks up, reaching for the sled. 

The checkpoint in Central is 76 miles away from Circle. With only 26 miles under our belt after leaving Mile 101, we decide to “blow through” central in order to make headway on our long run on Birch Creek. I declare that the team I are not staying. Wild stares are thrown at me. “You’re not staying? What about your free burger?” I stop in my tracks. The dogs stop in their tracks. Free burger? Shit, Do I stay? I contemplated for what felt like an hour as I repacked my sled. I could stay for a burger. The dogs aren’t very tired…. But I could stay for a burger… I’d share that burger with all 12 dogs If I had to….. 

With a huge amount of willpower and a slightly broken heart, I step onto my sled and guide the dogs away from that free burger. Appetite aroused? I think so. 

Blowing through the checkpoint means that we pick up our drop bags, repack the sled with necessary gear and continue on. The race plan Ryne and I talked about has us running about 20-25 miles onto Birch Creek, finding a resting point and camping for 5. This section of trail has a reputation of being downright frigid. 50 below. 60 below. I toss on my parka hood, cinch the ruff, and settle into the tunnel of light beaming from my headlamp. The sun set just shortly after leaving the checkpoint giving me 16 hours until sunlight - For hours, the trail snakes back and forth following the course of an old mining stream through a quiet, willowy valley. A night time odyssey on Birch Creek. At mile 46 on the GPS, I make the executive decision to pull off on a small snow machine track, tucked behind a large beached log - protecting us from the wind. Thresher finally agreeing with me on this choice.

From the hoarfrost collecting on the dogs top layer of fur, my guess is the temperature has reached 20 to 30 below. Knowing the cooker will take much longer in these temps, I start melting snow and move on to bedding everyone down. Each dog received a hot meal and a fleece blanket to ease them into their trail dreams. After watching each one curl up, I hopped into my 40 below bag, zipped it over my head as the arctic-like breeze sent dreams through my sleepy brain, tucking me in, and calling it a night. 

camping on Birch Creek

Hours after departing our campsite, the team slogs on along Birch Creek. Etta genuisly traversing the team away from open water, Tobin and Louie driving hard as if we were chasing a squirrel down the trail. The GPS which I am now obsessively checking is blinking to life and rudely suggesting were only a quarter of the way to the checkpoint…. 

I was just settling into my 4am head bob on the runners, because if there's anything an 8 hour run during the “bewitching” hours makes me feel…. Its sleepy. When a burst of energy hit the lead dogs, spiraled down the gangline and smacked me in the face with its bare hand, Gibbs style; The act of slapping somebody on the back of their head after participating in something downright stupid…. (NCIS). I quickly realized, as I threw both hands onto the stanchion, that the team was hurling themselves across a patch of rough overflow. My tiresome body being tossed back and forth until it jerked me into hyperfocus. Back at it baby. Back it. 30. more. miles.

Arriving in Circle felt like it took forever and a day… Etta (again) navigated the team along the fluttering helix’s of oxbows as I continuously shook my head to rid it of sleepiness. The trail markers guided us along the small road systems of Circle, pulling us into the checkpoint at 7am, exactly 6 hours behind the lead team, Matt. Circle has a mandatory 6 hour layover for the team where the dogs eat, sleep, undergo a full vet check, receive massages and rest some more… The mushers are also spoiled as ever as the checkpoint volunteers crafted up burritos, served coffee, cookies, tea, and more coffee…. Meal #4. Check. Tucking myself in for a long hour of sleep, my mind trails off to the hum of the truck.

I awoke feeling nourished, revitalized, and whatever bullshit inspiration that was written on my yogi tea bags…. 

Filling up the Stanley with coffee and snagging a small package of nutritious cookies, I journeyed out to the sleepy team who were using every last second to rest before our final push. I silently filled water bowls, laid out BLT snacks and patiently waited for the tasty scent of a frozen meat snack to wake the snoozing dogs. The moments before taking off for a run, the quiet preparations of getting the team ready are some of my favorite moments that are shared with these dogs. For those short minutes, life is so peaceful it feels as if we're frozen in time. The gentle snuggles and yawns, the warmth of their paws as I begin to bootie each dog; it fills my little heart with gratitude. Gratitude for the adventure we've shared together but mostly for them allowing me to join - as a student, coach, and teammate.

74 miles, here we go.

Conditions aligned for us to bag an idealist run to the finish line in Central. The sludgy slow motion trail we came in on hardened during the 6 hours and 14 minutes we stayed in Circle allowing us to cruise over the soft, punchy trail that once was… Following the same course we traveled on the previous night concerned me for it was an exceptionally tough run for me mentally and the dogs picked up on that. Making sure the negativity didn't creep back into the team throughout the last run, I focused heavily on the six minute gain of daylight that has not so subtly been dragging me out of that deep winter meditation.

I polished off that Stanley full of coffee, took a mental image of the dog team weaving through snow covered black spruce; a watercolor painting in the making, and logged back into the dog world where assessing dog butts feels most natural. Glee once more finds it's way through the team, this time in the form of familiar faces - Jeff; a neighbor and friend comes hurtling towards us with a sleepy smile plastered on his face. We stop to chat like we're both not trying to hold back a team of 12 dogs, a casual conversation you'd typically have passing on a city sidewalk. We wish each other good luck and continue on in different directions. Not long after, Lauro comes cruising by. Another sleepy smile that brings warmth to the world. We chat, wish each other good luck and are off. 

At 40 miles in, the team is traveling as if we have someplace to be.. I wondered if they knew of the burgers and kibble waiting for us at the finish line… I knock that thought down, not yet. I check the GPS a few times, blinking at the speed to convince myself I was reading it correctly - 9.8mph? At mile 270? “Holy shit guys!” The dogs were digging in with a disgusting amount of joy. There was no way in hell I could stop this momentum for a camp so the decision was made to push onwards until we reached 303 miles. My eyes kept dancing between the 2 years old, checking in to see how they felt. Mozzie and Cheddar are both focused in, ears flopping back and forth - telling me their gaits are damn near perfect. Fly, who is right behind them, has never been a concern. Her little 45lb body digs in as she blissfully checks off each mile. Beasley and Tuna in wheel - A force to be reckoned with. Strong and determined. Tobin, a 3 year old goofball runs in swing, easily distracted but is driving harder than anybody in the team… The veterans - Etta, Thresher, Yoshi, Dracula, Louie, and Otis… The teachers, and coaches. Leading the team through the last stretches of Birch Creek, through golden hour and nightfall - All 7 of us rookies relying on them to guide us as we journey through our last 10 miles of the race. 

At 10:35PM, the team and I cruise back into Central. Laughter fills the air, a barrel fire lighting the trail, friendly faces cheering and….. a dog team screaming. At 303 miles, all 12 dogs crossed the finish line with me. After three days of traveling, those 12 dogs wanted nothing more than to keep going and as I sit next to the wood stove, coffee in hand, reflecting on those miles, I want nothing more than to keep going with them. 

At mile 303, the dogs received a big bowl of kibble, fish, and BLT… And I received that damn burger. Meal #5. Check.

Sam won the Vet’s Choice Award!

Team at the finish line!

To simply say “Thank you" to Ryne and her dogs doesn't quite cover how thankful I am for these experiences. It's hard to put into words how lucky I feel to have a community of knowledgeable friends that I have found myself immersed in. A community that knows we must act on our dreams and make shit happen…. So the biggest thank you goes to Ryne for helping me take the right steps to make my shit happen and for entrusting me with the dogs!

Thank you to Tucker, for supporting me as we make our shit happen together!

And thank you to all the family, friends and sponsors for following along! 

The most important thank you goes to those 12 doggos…. Etta, Thresher, Yoshi, Dracula, Tobin, Louie, Mozzie, Cheddar, Otis, Fly, Beasley, and Tuna.

Skijor Trip

With spring quickly approaching, so is our skijor trip! Full disclosure- I haven’t been training as much as I probably should. It’s easy to get caught up in the day-to-day operations of a kennel and not make time for more overnight trips. I don’t have a good reason really. The kennel and business could function just fine without me for 48 hours. But here we are, less than a week away from the trip, and I’ve only ventured out with a heavy sled for one overnight this season. What could go wrong?

I haven’t been too vocal about our trip because there’s still a chance it won’t happen. We’re going to be choosy with the weather. If the stars align, we plan to go to Unalakleet and skijor back down the Iditarod trail towards Kaltag as well as farther along the Iditarod trail towards Shaktoolik. It’s not uncommon for this region to have low snow (or stretches of no snow), ground blizzards, or coastal storms. Just yesterday, winds were blowing 40 mph in Unalakleet with gusts up to 60 mph. While conditions like that sound exciting, I don’t feel inclined to be blown out to sea, so if the weather looks tumultuous, we have other fun adventures lined up for Plan B and Plan C.

Weather aside, the logistics for traveling to a remote community as two humans (Tucker and myself) and three dogs (probably Cooke, Muenster, and Wingman though this roster hasn’t been finalized) plus our gear has been quite the puzzle. Our original plan was to fly to Kaltag on the mail plane from Fairbanks then ski to Unalakleet and fly out of Unalakleet back home. Seems easy enough; however, we can’t reserve space for the dogs on the Kaltag mail plane until the day of the flight. If there isn’t room, then we’d get pushed to a future day. Not ideal. We’d also need to coordinate shipping the dog crates back to Fairbanks and arranging their pickup. On the other end in Unalakleet, our only flight option is Ravn Air. Ravn can only take two dogs at a time, has only one flight per day only certain days a week, and only flies to Anchorage. All three dogs could fly Northern Air Cargo; however, there are only two days a week NAC flies to Unalakleet, and only one of those days lines up with Ravn Air’s schedule. We’d also need to arrange separate crates to be sent to Unalakleet. And we still have the question of how to get back to Fairbanks once we arrive in Anchorage. As we gained more information, we’ve been piecing together the puzzle. Currently, the itinerary looks something along the lines of: drive to Anchorage, fly Ravn for humans and NAC for dogs to Unalakleet, explore up and down the Iditarod trail as weather and conditions allow, then fly back to Anchorage a week later and drive back to Fairbanks. If I’ve learned anything from remote travel in Alaska, it’s to be flexible and have a long list of backups and contingency plans. And who knows, we might just get lucky!

The below video is a silly clip I made of different lessons learned during my first failed overnight camping trip.

Here are some clips from my 2016 Iditarod outside of Unalakleet and in the Blueberry Hills. You might recognize some retired faces in the team! There wasn’t much snow around Unalakleet that year, but I still absolutely loved it. At the moment, it sounds like there’s a bit more snow! (Which is good, because skis don’t glide over frozen tundra quite like sled runners).

Tucker's Copper Basin Recap

It’s difficult for me to write a race report for the Copper Basin 300. Social media takes care of the basics: the team ran, photo, then camped, photo, then ran, photo, then finished! Now, left with providing some deeper dialogue, I struggle with sincerity. I tend towards light-heartedness and humor when I write about running sled dogs for a reason. What’s the word I’m looking for? Hackneyed? Why? Well, it stems from a couple of things. First, reading books like Gary Paulsen’s Winter Dance doesn’t help — A popular, thoughtful book written with romantic prose, good humor, and within the realm of modern day reality. Writing like that covers a lot of bases. If Jack London had only made White Fang take a messy dump in Weedon Scott’s cabin it’d almost all be said and done. On top of all the other mushing books and blog posts out there, I’m sure it more or less has.

Then, there’s sitting around, having a beer or two, and listening to Ryne (who’s finished seven 1,000 mile races and won the Copper Basin 300) casually chat with the neighbor, Matt Hall (the youngest winner of the Yukon Quest 1000 and who’s also won the CB300). Yak-sled-yak-dogs-yak. To call it “yak-ing” is not to say that it's mundane but that it is very second nature for tough, humble people in the mushing community to sound nonchalant about some incredible feats. 

For example, we had a Sunday night get-together with some other mushers at Angel Creek Lodge. Another neighbor, Laura Allaway, had been asking about my Copper Basin experience. I’ve had a number of conversations with Laura about running dogs, just talking. Back at home later in the night Sam asked me, “Did you know that Laura’s run the Iditarod and the Quest 1000?” No, I had no idea. You learn fast enough to assume that the person who meandered up at a race start and is conversing politely with Ryne about your popular dog sled might have completed or won any race, or even built the sled.

This is all a long-winded-way of saying that I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t a little self-conscious about sharing a rookie experience standing on a sled in the dark, picking my nose for almost 300 miles, and alternating which leg to lean on like a guy in a long line at the DMV. I’ve heard the phrase passed around that dog sled races really start at the 300 mile mark.

Ryne straightened me out, though:

“How do you think I feel after handling for Aily [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aliy_Zirkle]?” She asked. “And this is Martin Buser’s first year not running the Iditarod since 1986. Feeling like it’s already been said and done is just something you have to get over. Whatever you want to talk about, the way you feel is the way you feel. Also, you’re trying to talk to a community of people who aren’t necessarily mushers — who want to know what we’re doing. And they would appreciate hearing almost anything you want to share about running dogs.” Ok, she’s right. I’ve said my piece.

First of all, this year’s Copper Basin was warm as relative hell. I don’t know if it ever went below -10F. There was even a portion where I was driving the sled barehanded, something I’ve never done outside of springtime mushing. When we got back to the kennel, Kalyn (who ran Ryne’s second CB300 team in 2020 when it was hitting -60F) asked me if I knew that I was a “spoiled shit.”

“Yes,” I said, “it is my favorite thing to be.”

Day before the race we showed up in Glennallen with plenty of time for vet checks. I wandered into a squat, log building and a tiny, white-haired woman bossed me around about what I needed to do. 

“Who’s dogs are you running?”

“Ryne Olson’s.”

“Oh, yes, I know Ryne,” was the common refrain. 

At race starts they have every musher autograph race bibs and posters. It was quite the novel experience. After that, I wandered out to the truck where the vet check was finishing up. Then I wandered back in and bought a sweatshirt. Then I wandered back out. Ryne, being pretty popular, was off fraternizing, so I stood in the middle ground for a while. The vet jokingly accused me of loitering. This vet had found a tiny patch of healed frostbite on Spit’s (Spitfire) empty nutsack. 

“Wow, she really had to look for that,” said Ryne as she felt around down there afterwards. “Well, keep an eye on it.” Aye, aye, captain.

Every musher is given a vet book — a yellow Write In The Rain notebook — required to be on their person at all times. My vet book had two things written in it. “Yoshi: right tricep. Spit: frostbite on testicle sack.” How’s that for sincere? (Added note by Ryne- Yoshi was 100% and did not have a tricep. She’s a senstive gal, and if someone she doesn’t know extends her shoulder and pinches, well, I’d get a little startled too).

In the humming truck cab, with a few hours to burn before the musher meeting, Ryne and I began the task of timing out our equal-run-equal-rest schedule. Doing so involved a complex algorithm based off of last year’s middle-of-the-pack run times and Ryne tamping down her competitive compulsions for the rest times. It looked like this:

And it was pretty damn accurate. The largest discrepancy being the first rest time at Tolsona Lodge. I’d been told by Ryne that I was a “bad sled dog” and to go rest in the truck. When I wandered back down to the team, Ryne and the dogs were bubbling, and if they weren’t going to keep resting there was no point in staying. 

After that, it became very trancelike. I ran a lot in the dark, in a fairy godmother bubble of light, just watching dog butts, just staring at tug-lines and waiting for dogs’ gaits to change (indications of injuries or illness). In my light bubble I let the thoughts percolate. Lots of creative bar names were born: The Straw Dog, The Dropped Dog, The Bagged Dog, Water for Dogs. Other than that, there were catalyzed memories from my summer job packing horses and mules under similarly crepuscular schedules, where the constancy of covering ground took precedence to everything. Tack up, move, unload, tack up, move, unload. It is an antediluvian mode of living that does not tarnish the beauty of the world around you but your appreciation of it is undeniably altered because ultimately there is a job that needs doing. With sleep deprivation mixed into the equation, it’s trancelike. 

Then, at the checkpoints, on top of being a bad sled dog, I was (am) very much a learning musher. I had poor rhythm, I was slow to feed, I wasted a lot of the dogs’ resting time. To be completely honest, the first 150 miles of the race felt like a job I was struggling to do at par while my boss stood over my shoulder. As a rookie, I needed Ryne there. She was my coach. She watched dogs that I wasn’t, noticed details that I couldn’t, told me things I did not know, and saved me from making more rookie mistakes than I already had when she wasn’t looking. Yes, Ryne was my coach, but she is also my boss and these are her dogs. And hell, man, it’s not a psychological cinch to switch from a work mentality to a play mentality just because people tell you that now you are supposed to be having fun. That said, I do the jobs that I do because I think that they are fun. But the pressure to find more fun in doing something I already do for work, I could not find it in the first half of the race. I won’t speak for all handlers, but that is one of the emotional realities.

Because we weren’t racing, the main job was to take care of the dogs. Mose’s gait had changed on the run from Tolsona to Lake Louise, though his tug-line stayed tight as ever. He’s a stalwart dude. When I checked his wrists and shoulders, he was stoic. Still warm early at the checkpoint, he wasn’t limping. I was taking my time feeding when Ryne told me to look up. There was an old looking eddy of green light above us. When the lights act like water, it’s about as good as it gets. I stared up a second and then finished with the dogs, walked into the lodge, drank a sprite, a water, and a coke at the bar, and then went to the truck to sleep for two hours. Mose got up from his rest limping. We left him behind. The lights had gone out. 

It was after the Sourdough checkpoint that the dogs really started to stand out. Beyond Sourdough was beyond what the dogs had run this year in training. For the rookies, the furthest they’d ever run. Veterans: Dracula, Thresher, Elmer, Tobin, Yoshi. Two-year-old rookies: Fly (Firefly), Spit, Beesly, Tuna, Mose, Mozzie (Mozzarella), Muenster. 

Back at the race start, tucked into our corner of the parking lot, we dropped the dogs to let them wiggle around and started to gear them up. I’d drawn bib #20. With teams leaving at two minute intervals, that meant we had 40 minutes from the first team leaving. Well ahead of go time, after a quality poop, Dracula began what can only be termed as jack-in-the-box barking. So termed because it appears that this dog’s mind goes completely vacant except for the jack-in-the-box jingle, on repeat. Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark, etc. “Look at her,” said Ryne. “She knows exactly what’s about to happen, too.” Dracula lead for the entire 300 miles. I owe her one.

I rotated Tobin, Elmer, and Thresher in lead with Dracula. Those three boys lived in lead or swing for the race. Tobin, a 3-year-old, is such a hard driver (puller) that he’s a very valuable lead and swing dog. He holds out any slack that tends to develop in the line. His faults are that he lacks some confidence, is extremely left-handed, and will completely stop to poop. If Tobin has the open space, he’ll try to run on the left side of a road or wide trail and if he’s unsure of where to go and there’s a trail leading left, then the team is going left. When he poops, if the lead dogs aren’t driving hard, or if he happens to be in lead, the team will scrunch up fast. Suffice it to say, I’ve learned a lot from Tobin. Thresher, what a good little man. He’s smart and reliable, he’s finished a number of 1000 mile races for Ryne. It brought me comfort to have him with us. I had Mozzie and Muenster, the cheese brothers (Dracula’s sons), in the middle of the team. Consistently strong pullers, no hitches, they were the backbone of my gangline. Then there was Yoshi, a cute, little 6-year-old with a svelte trot and no real complaints. Alongside Yoshi had been the 80-some-pound tank of Mose. Next were the fire siblings, Fly and Spit. Fly seemed more or less unfazed by the whole event, a happy dog. Spit ended up making it within eight miles of the finish line, but it was a little too much for him near the end and he got plopped into the sled bag with Elmer, who had started limping halfway into our very last run. Finally, The Office siblings, Beesly and Tuna, were paired up and looked great together until Meiers Lake — where Ryne noticed visible swelling on Beesly’s back leg. To play it safe, little Beesly stayed with Ryne. Running alone after that, Tuna held the line as tight as ever, good boy. 

I share a lot of training miles with the two-year-old dogs. I was introduced to them when they were yearlings, harness broken, but still learning. When we met, their amount of experience was more or less equivalent to my own. Since then, we’ve been learning together. When I talk about trying to find rhythm, being bad at resting, having a boss over my shoulder, I might as well be talking from a rookie dog’s perspective. I don’t think that’s too much of an empathetic stretch. So I’m not being treacly when I say that it’s been a unique privilege to watch Fly, Spit, Mozzie, Muenster, Beesly, Tuna, and Mose develop into badass, professional-grade, bonafide sled dogs. To delve into each dog’s transformation would take more than a paragraph or two. Another time, perhaps. 

On the TV at Meiers Lake Lodge some chubby Louisiana Game Warden was giving bayou boaters a ticket for not having enough life jackets in their vessel. It was mesmerizing. A lot of people in the room were watching with me. Ryne, with her back to the TV, was sleepily struggling to calculate when I should leave.

“Twenty-one hundred hours is?” She paused, calling upon her degree in accounting for help. No help. 

“Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…twenty-four. 9:00 PM?” I counted on fingers, unsure. 

“So leave at 2:30 AM.”  

We left Meiers Lake with half a bale of straw, planning to camp in the middle of the 70 mile leg. We started along the pipeline. No stars…sleepy. It was around this time that whenever I gave the “Ready-Let’s-Go” command my voice started sounding prepubescent. What is happening to me? I drowsily thought. Am I reverting? Is this a Freudian thing? Will I be ten-years-old at the end of this race? Am I ten now? Wake up, Tucker. Wake up.

We left the pipeline. The trail breakers had done some serious work navigating us around open water via ice bridges and a couple wicked 180s. Awake, we came to what is called “The Hump”. We climbed in the dark. Watching dogs dig in and pull, just chug and chug when you’re all in the thick of it, it’s a kind of grace. Huff, puff, over the top into a high tundra terrain, I think — it was still dark. And then we camped, and as the sun finally rose everything began to feel pleasant, peaceful, and fun. The weather was friendly enough so I employed a technique which I’d read about earlier in the winter called a “shiv and biv”, where you just fall asleep in the snow with all of your gear on until you wake up shivering. Supine on my parka, I dozed off next to the dogs and slept well for an hour.

I woke up staring into a senseless blue sky, completely lost. Yes, this is where we are, I realized, and began to fiddle around. Soon came the distant tones of Lauro Eklund talking to his dogs, not because they needed the encouragement, it was conversing. We could see him coming a good ways off. He rowed along smoothly using one ski pole and floated up next to us. 

“Great view from The Hump with the sunrise, beautiful. How long you been here? You got 31 miles? Ah well, we’ll probably find a place to camp a little further on. I heard from Jake that it’s all downhill from here! Ah well, see ya soon.” 

Then came another musher. “What mile are we at?” 

And then one more. “Ya, I’ll probably camp just up ahead too.”

It is time to go. With bare hands I reach into the center of a whorl that is a little dog. It is soft and warm and does not want to wake. I whisper nonsensical sweet nothings. The paws are dry and hot and booties go on like nothing. We move along.

Chistochina had a wonderful checkpoint setup but the coffee was on the verge of toxicity. I woke up from a final nap groggy, wandered into a cozy garage-lounge with a nice fire going, poured out some caffeinated sludge and chugged it. “You awake enough for the final leg, Tucker?” Some friendly handler asked me from a couch. “The coffee tastes like I will be,” I managed to reply before wandering back outside. Again, we left. 

Because it was so warm, my feet had been sweat-soaked for the first 230 miles and they were pruny as all hell. When I finally switched to my light, dry mukluks for the last run I felt like skipping. So I jogged every little hill that I could and for no real reason that I could detect the dogs started cruising. I had to hold them back. After one of their random surges I even let out an involuntary schoolgirl giggle. We’ll be there in no time, I thought. Easy.

But about two hours in, Elmer got a hitch in his step. Elmer is a solid dude, but he’ll pee in your house, and he’d definitely be the one to poop in your sled :[ He was happy enough to be unhooked, but when I stuffed his poop covered butt into the sled bag and hooked his collar in he protested. 

“This is stressing me out, Tucker. I don’t want to ride in the sled,” he said. 

“Come on, buddy, settle in. You have more experience than I do. You’ve finished this race in lead before. Riding in the sled is easy compared to that. Just sit down.” 

“No, I’m going to stand. I don’t want to sit.”

“Elmer, work with me here."

“No."

The dogs had really been favoring fish skins mixed in with their water for meals and, holy god, the intestinal aftermath was potent. With just his head sticking out of the sled bag as we picked back up, Elmer started nervously farting. He must have been. Because I swear it smelled like he’d taken a massive, fishy dump in the sled. I started complaining. 

“Elmer, why? Why? All over my sleeping bag, Elmer. My thermos, Elmer. Why?” 

Right away came a couple of trail marker X’s indicating “Trail Hazard” AKA pucker up.

“Trail X’s, Elmer. Pucker up. Please, just pucker up. Good boy. You’re a good boy, though.” I scratched his head.

When there are a bunch of mushers ahead of you and no broken sleds or bodies along the trail, you know that everyone must have made it through some of the sketchier sections alive. I can’t help but wonder if it was as graceless and with as much cussing as my own navigation. 

Well, we made it through alright, wishing luck to those behind, and then finally came to the home stretch along the highway. When I had to put Spit in the sled bag, I was deflated. You can’t help but feel that way when you’re responsible for these little personalities. The good news was that there was not a fishy dump inside of the sled, it was just a gaseous spritzing, and my sleeping bag was clean. My poor thermos, though, it’s seen better days. And that’s how we came across the line. 

The vets were right there; the dog truck was right there. We got the two boys out of the sled for the vets to look over (they were both happy and fine) and started to gear down. 

Ryne kept bugging me, “Your friends sent you something. You should open it.”

“What are you talking about?” I had my arm under Thresher’s belly as I was lifting him over the drop chain and I squeezed out a loud, fishy, godawful fart.

“Some random guy just came up, handed me this paper bag, and walked away,” Ryne said. “You should open it. I’m pretty sure it’s beer.”

Somehow my college roommate had suckered some poor, wonderful son-of-a-bitch in Glennallen to deliver a six pack to the finish line at three in the morning. Cheers, Micah. 

Between the RynoKennel Facebook page and my mother, this is about as publicized as my life has ever been. So cheers to everyone who followed along, to our wonderful Glennallen hosts, the Bobowskis, to all the dog sponsors, to Ryne, Sam, Derek, Kalyn, to that beer delivery guy, and to, of course, the dogs.

Copper Basin- Success; Next Up- Willow 150!

We returned home last Wednesday from a successful Copper Basin, unpacked the truck, did a few tours, and are turning around and heading back onto the race trail! Sam, handler Tucker, Etta, Smoky, Bowser, Louie, Otis, Havarti, Cheddar, and Gibbs are leaving tomorrow bound for the Willow 150.

If you have Facebook or Instagram, check out Ryno Kennel stories for a photo/video recap of the race. Tucker is working on a little write-up, which we’ll be posting soon!

Race Season is Rollin'

Tomorrow morning at 7:30 AM Coach Cartel, 12 canine athletes, Tucker, and I will be hitting the road and heading for Glennallen and the Copper Basin 300! After a few year hiatus, I can’t wait to head south and see many familiar humans and canines at one of my favorite races. PLUS, by a stroke of good luck, the weather looks perfect with temperatures ranging from -10F to 10F (which is a huge improvement from the -60F temperatures we saw the last time we were at the Copper Basin).

So which canine athletes will be competing in the Copper Basin? Enjoy Tucker’s video to find out!

The final team roster was difficult to pick since we have a big pool of race age dogs in training. Ultimately, we prioritized youngsters. Every two-year-old is racing except Havarti (100% healthy but a little on the thin side), Cheddar (100% but she had a slight wrist after the Solstice 50 so she missed some training runs), and Fox (one of the strongest two-year-olds but he was a teeensy, tiny bit stiff after a camping series). We hope to get these three in a race or two later this season! You’ll notice some other big names missing like Etta, Smoky, Bowser, Louie- honestly, a lot of the core team in the past. They’re giving the youngsters a chance to shine. Tucker will be taking lots of rest on the Copper Basin and showing these youngsters how exciting racing can be! Cartel and I will do our best to rake straw and not haggle them all from the sidelines.

And if you were unable to watch the video, the Copper Basin team is: Tobin, Elmer, Thresher, Dracula, Mozzie, Muenster, Beesly, Tuna, Mose, Yoshi, Spit, and Fly. Oh and Tucker!

While we’re on the topic of racing, last Sunday, Faff, Cooke and I attended our first Alaska Dog Mushers Association race at the Mushers Hall in Fairbanks! We competed in a 6.2 mile skijor race. We learned a lot (like how to get passed by speedy, speedy hounds) and had an absolute blast. We also cheered on Rose, Rachel, and Gregory as they competed in the kids races!

Winter Musings

This winter is the first winter in 12 years that a one thousand mile dog sled race hasn’t been my focus. I didn’t race in a one thousand mile race every one of those 12 years- a few of the years were spent qualifying and building Ryno Kennel- but for over 1/3 of my life (and the entirety of my adult life), one thousand mile dog sled races have been the driving factor for all my decisions. They’ve provided purpose and structure even at times when perhaps I wished I had more flexibility and downtime in my schedule. They’ve provided comfort in routine and a sense of identity. So this winter, without that overarching thousand mile goal, it feels…. well… weird. Not good. Not bad. Just different. A bit like a dandelion in the wind.

I’ve always been a person who loves a good quest. Whether it’s a fantasy novel or a long distance hike or a thousand-mile race, there’s something so vitalizing about traveling with a purpose and destination in mind. And I’m not trying to necessarily romanticize it. Ask Derek or my family or those around me- I can be a real piece of work sometimes during (or in the preparation stages) of these quests. But there’s something about them that also brings me such calmness and direction. This year, without the goal of a one thousand mile race, I’ve found my brain concocting other quests. Often quests that are completely outrageous and irrational, as if searching for that purpose. During a summer visit on the Mickey boat with Aliy and Allen in Prince William Sound, my brain thought- let’s sea kayak from Valdez to Whittier. Yes. That sounds like a great quest. Doesn’t matter that I’ve never sea kayaked, am a terrible swimmer, and don’t particularly like water unless it’s frozen. Come on brain. Let’s just enjoy relaxing on the boat and drinking cocktails each evening. Or my brain, on a one night camping trip with the reindeer- let’s hike the entirety of the Brooks Range one summer and bring the reindeer to pack our supplies. Jogging one evening on the river loop by the kennel- let’s run a marathon. Skijoring 15 miles- let’s skijor the Iditarod Trail. Better yet the Yukon Quest AND Iditarod trail. In one winter. Consecutively. It’s rather obnoxious really. My mind always trying to imagine farther and longer and not just enjoying the little moment. Especially since this winter has been great. The dogs are still being conditioned and miled up by Tucker and Sam. I’ve been able to actually make money instead of just spending it- what a strange phenomena. But there’s this uneasiness. Something is missing. I find myself sitting on the couch when the sun sets at 4:00 PM rather than running dogs or staying active. I always thought I’d have more discipline, but I think a long quest gives me that necessary motivation and structure. Yes we have fun goals and adventures planned- Copper Basin 300, Quest 550, week-long skijor trip. But that deeper, overarching goal is a bit hazy right now. And I’m not complaining. This winter has been wonderful. I guess what I’m saying, is that there will be another quest. I just haven’t figured out quite what that will be yet.

Endnote: I also must acknowledge that great quests (or at least mine since I’m not charged with saving Middle Earth) come from a place of great privilege. From the support of Derek. From the support of my family. From the hard work of handlers and generous sponsorships of friends. So a thank you to all of you, for giving me the privilege to daydream and scheme. To imagine what we can do next.