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.