Well, this segment was really hard to write. Just like then, I didn't really want it to be over. We often refer back to times on the trail in our daily conversation. Every time we glance out at the Alaska Range, which now seems much closer than 150 miles, our smile is a bit more knowing. We are more connected, to each other and Alaska, the people and the place. Nikolai and Rohn talk about going down the trail again, some other method, dog team for Nikolai, Irondog for Rohn.

I am in total AWE of anyone who ventures along the Iditarod trail, the bikers, walkers, skiers, snowmachiners, pilots and those who go by dog team and all the folks who live along the way. My perspective of the race is totally changed. The yellow brick road is where ever you deem it and there really is no place like home, except for Nome, of course. happy trails, Kathy

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Sunday, March 24 – Thankfully, the wake up call did not come very early on Sunday morning at Winterlake Lodge. We were treated to pancakes, fruit, fresh coffee and juice. I spent some time chatting with two Spaniards who were attempting to cross country ski to McGrath. They barely spoke English so I tried to answer the questions they had about the trail as best I could. I just wanted to make sure they had tennis shoes so when I said the word dirt it really got their attention. They thought it would take them another week to get to Rohn. They seemed concerned but not disheartened by the trail news. Two more travelers who set out on a quest with a goal, that’s the spirit the Iditarod Trail conjures.

Martin had gotten up early and warmed up the machines. It had been exactly three weeks this morning since he had gotten up from his own bed. It had been an epic journey for him and he was ready to get home now. While we all felt the sense of urgency, Martin had one last task to take care of before we left. He resurrected the American flag that had been battered on the Bering Sea Coast and began affixing it to a piece of rough-cut lumber. Peter helped with materials and once the flag was securely planted, we, once again, said our goodbyes to folks we felt like we had known for years, folks so willing to take us in, feed us and chat.

The trail was reported to be a freeway and we drove like commuters leaving the city on a Friday night. Coming into Skwentna we felt like we were just around the corner from Happy Trails,

No trip on the Iditarod Trail would be complete without a visit with Joe and Norma Delia, long time residents and keepers of Iditarod’s history in that neck of the woods. Joe was in the shed skinning a wolf when we got there. He’s been a trapper in that area forever. He has more respect and admiration for wolves than anyone I’ve ever met. Nikolai, having always been a wolf lover, listened intently as he explained the balance and mutual respect of man and the wildlife. He told of some of his escapades, like the time his beagle got into a fight with a wolf and Joe had to rescue him. Joe has to be one of the greatest storytellers of all time. After quite a few Iditarod stories and a rehashing of this year’s race, we just had to be on our way. Norma pointed out that Doug Swingley was surely racing when he got to Skwentna so they were pretty puzzled about his announcement at Finger Lake. “There are strange things done in the midnight sun,” so it goes.

From Skwentna, we boogied down the Yentna River passing lots of travelers on snow machines, coming and going to their remote cabins. We briefly stopped at Yentna Station, a lodge with a restaurant, and a common day trip for snowmachiners out of Big Lake. The Gbersack family runs the place and plays host to an untold number of races such as the Iditasport, Iron Dog, Iditarod and Junior Iditarod. They told us that the Junior Iditarod kids do the best job of cleaning up after themselves and keeping things in order.

Sixty miles to go and I was even beginning to recognize things, especially when we crossed the Big Susitna River. We had been here before on a training trip in February. Seeing all the ice fishermen on Flathorn Lake was like coming onto the home stretch and we started to encounter lots of friendly, waving traffic. That American flag was a sure giveaway of who we were and unbeknownst to us, the local radio station, KMBQ, was broadcasting our progress toward home.

There was so much traffic that I could hardly stop to go to the bathroom without folks pulling up to chat and say hello. We thought there were surely a lot of Sunday drivers out and about.

Our last stop was at a sign along the trail that pointed north and said, “NOME 1,049 miles”. We lingered there not really saying much, took some pictures and headed down the bumpy, very well traveled trail toward Big Lake.

The light had been flat all day, making the distinction of trail and sky almost indistinguishable. A light snow was falling; but the green eye on the snow machine was our signal that we really were close. Kent had driven out on Trina’s Arctic Cat, which she had modified with a lime green cover on her headlight to match her lime green sunglasses. It’s really cool looking and we were glad to see it approaching.

After big hugs, Kent asked if I’d ever forgive him. He had set the stage for me to go and probably wondered about my survival. For a forty-eight year old who worked indoors for a living, the trip could have ended up being nightmarish. But nothing of the sort had materialized and we had had the trip of our lives. I thanked him for the encouragement and will never be able to repay his coaching me on the many training runs to get me ready for the big game.

The final score was just down the trail as we drove toward our back yard with fireworks lighting up the stadium just like at the Superbowl. So many friends had come out to meet us and they were waving flags and cheering. I couldn’t get off my machine fast enough to hug them all. Gracing the event in full dress eveningwear were several Iditarod fairies looking more radiant and red, white and blue than ever before. We couldn’t have dreamed of a more perfect finish for a perfect March. I asked how many folks had bet that I wouldn’t make it and a few sheepishly raised their hands, mumbled something about me flying out of McGrath. Before the trip, I had considered that a Plan B but once on the trail there was never a notion of not making it. There’s something to be said for all those Iditarod clichés: “Never Give Up”, “Never Turn Back”, “Don’t Quit unless a Bone in Showing”, etc. It’s infective! You can’t help but keep on keeping on. Martin always said, “The trail makes sense. It gets you from one place to the next,” the operative word being “it”.

We celebrated with many of the same people that had consoled us last year, hung in there, believed in Martin and our team. We thank you all for your faith, which surely helped get the team from “Worst to First,” (a term actually coined by Ken Skidds in Nome at the close of the 2001 Iditarod.)