The Cold
It's cold in Alaska. Temperatures here at the kennel have been reaching -25 each night for the last week or so. The training trails through the frozen swamps are colder. So far we've recorded -37. This is normal and expected for this time of year, and training continues. Mushers on the Yukon Quest are experiencing -40 and colder. What is it like to mush hundreds of miles in extreme cold? My first race was 200 miles long, and the temps dropped to -55 F.
The snow squeaks under my boots with each step. Warm snow "crunches". The colder it gets, the higher it's pitch. I instinctively tuck my nose down into my fleece neck gator to keep from getting singed by the frigid air. Row upon row of sleeping dog teams sprawl across the moonlit lake.
My team is curled up under their jackets on deep straw. 12 boulders crusted with frost. Boots “screaking” up and down the line as I prepare to leave. Food and Heet in the sled. Straw on top. The next run is 110 miles. We’ll camp. On my knees in the straw fishing around under each dog for paws to bootie. I quickly bootie each foot before it’s snatched back to the warmth of the nest. My hands are freezing. The flesh of my pinky finger has turned to slush. I warm them against furry dog bellies, but they turn cold again as soon as I start to bootie the next foot.
Dogs barking and lunging to go. I pull the hook and the leaders surge towards the exit trail. A clear night. Gliding through the snow crusted distance. My feet are cold. They are ok as long as I can feel them and wiggle my toes. I lean forward and dig through my handlebar bag and pull out the sole shaped foot warmers. My gloved hands have a tough time opening the orange wrapper. I wrest my Leatherman out of a parka pocket and almost drop it from the moving sled.
Check the dogs every half hour. Check and re-check through the night to make sure that their gear has not shifted, exposing them to the wind chill that can otherwise be caused by running. Make sure nothing is rubbing, and keep every foot in a dry bootie. Batteries are dead and my fingers cannot be trusted to change them on the go. I run in the dark. Getting light headed but cannot fit much food through my frozen neck gator and have sorta lost the will to try. Temperature still dropping. The snow’s screech is so absurdly high pitched now that it is nearly silent.
We make camp up against the riverbank. An icy haze hovers above my sleeping team. Dogs are restless as the ice underneath us pops and groans in the cold. Every movement seems to hang suspended in time as I make camp. I try to dry the frozen pee off of my male wraps. The fire has no heat. A flame only slightly warmer than the air. Zipper is frozen on the sled bag and I almost pull my gloves off to get a better hold. I catch myself. Contact frostbite at this temperature. I remind myself, “Do not take them off. For any reason.” I pull harder and the metal zipper pull shatters into pieces. Reaching into the stiff frozen nylon bag the back of my wrist brushes against the fabric. Burning frostbitten skin.
We are moving. Sun is up, but shares no warmth. Frozen male wraps peek through the gaping zipper of my sled bag. My extra clothing is wrapped around my boys and girls. Fleece socks, shirts and pants tied around their flanks to protect their under parts. The sled is reluctant and the runners squall in protest. Erie sounds that make me glance back at what must be coming up behind us. The dogs just lean in and pull harder. They act immune to the oppressive cold. It seems almost unnatural to be moving at this temperature. Maybe the only thing that moves in this cold are the beautifully strong and wild ones… the moose, the wolf, the raven…and a dog team.
CONTRIBUTOR JEN SEAVEY WRITES WITH UNIQUE INSIGHT FROM HER DECADE OF INVOLVEMENT IN THE DALLAS SEAVEY KENNEL. WITH THE KENNELS FOUR IDITAROD CHAMPIONSHIP AND COUNTLESS OTHER ACHIEVEMENTS IN THE SPORT, SHE IS AN ACCOMPLISHED DOG TRAINER, KENNEL MANAGER AND SLED DOG CARETAKER.
