Dr Mark Hines

In the evening, a section of woodland trail brought me to a short, steep ascent.  The climb was at least a couple of moose high (at the head – so at least 6 metres) and it was brutally steep: any steeper and it would have been an overhang.  I was digging my feet in, and making good use of my poles to stop me from slipping backwards.  

I had no idea how anyone would do this on a fat bike – my alternative mode of transport.  It must have been a mission for the mushers with their sleds and ridiculous dogs.  Presumably, the first two dogs had to be launched over like grappling hooks for the rest to follow.  

There are a variety of skills the professional athlete has at their disposal in moments of impending doom, such as this.  The most important approach to tackling a near-vertical climb of snow and ice, whilst hauling a heavy sled, requires a combination of starting momentum, grunt, fury, misplaced optimism, and a fair spread of denial.  Equipped with all these in spades, I gathered pace and committed to the climb.

A casual glance from witnesses would have led them merely to report a flash of activity, concentrated around whirling arms and legs; all limbs flailing around in an almost cartoonish fashion, whilst movement of the main body and sled progress upwards at a slow but steady rate.  A more careful onlooker would have been rightly baffled by the whole bizarre scene.  The feet complete a combination of scrambling upwards, whilst simultaneously kicking-in steps for themselves, as the trekking poles offer both support against the downwards pull of the sled, and somehow stabilise the feet, whilst also producing upward momentum.  

Succeeding up these steep climbs is so unusual and complicated a procedure that I mostly manage them without any real idea of how it happened.  My brain’s higher centres – preoccupied with both the physical task, and the essential need to prevent me from being terrified at the peril I am being propelled through – ensure that I am only left dazed and confused, with my mind swimming in a grateful fog during and after.

This was the very base of the mountain, and the climb levelled-out after those initial, perilous few steps, so I could gather my composure before the climb-proper continued.  The longer, steep climb – as described in The Guide – was now ahead of me.  I could not discern the height or shape of the mountain, because I was now far too close to it for that, a bit like trying to take-in the scale of a large house when already standing in the porch.  Further away my view had been obscured by woodland.

The main climb would be split into a couple of sections.  From where I stood, what I now faced was less of a slope and more a wall of slippery snow and ice, extending far up above me.  This was presumably only a little worse than the view the Wildlings had directly before their ascent of The Wall.

It was too high for momentum to carry me up this time.  I could see the gradient eased a little about halfway, which was where I would recover myself before continuing on.  I took a few moments for deep breaths, and to get philosophical about this vague mystery called Life, and then it was time to commit to the climb.  The sled still felt heavy as I made my start, but I was grateful for the items I had sacrificed at Angel Creek.

The first couple of steps were the easiest.  At that point I still had the sled sitting on the more level trail beneath.  The steps that followed were tough, because that was when I had to shift my whole body forward, and take the strain of the heavy sled onto the slope, whilst ensuring my footing and poles gave sufficient purchase to prevent a disastrous backwards slip.  

I kicked baby-step, after baby-step, into the slope, straining hard against the resistance, and making it halfway up before I could dare to pause for a moment and take rest.  My eyes were focussed on the trail, and I could see where the dogs had pawed their way up, slipping here and there.

Onwards and upwards.  The strain was telling on me, but I knew I was good to make the end of this section, as long as I avoided a slip.  Instead of the bold chaos of the first short climb, now everything had to be deliberate and controlled.  I brought one foot up a little and kicked it into the slope as best I could.  I repositioned both poles higher up, and took the strain of the sled as I then brought my second foot up.  This was always the point when I felt most vulnerable; most likely to fall.  

The trail was soft and slippery, and my eyes sought-out tell-tale elements that appeared more favourable: a dog print, a section of a few inches that were slightly less steep than the rest, snow a couple of centimetres deeper than the snow around it, some exposed saplings or a spot of mud.  Anything that appeared a better option than the surrounding trail became my whole world, as I focussed intensely on kicking my feet into the slope, and negotiating my way up.

As I neared the top of the first section, I was alert to a strong wind blowing over from above.  Still with some minutes remaining on the climb to the top, I could feel the wind in my face, biting at my exposed skin.  The cold, forbidding wind was something I could do without, and I wanted the climb completed before having this to contend with.

The air alone was not so cold, perhaps a civilised -5F (-20C), but it was a strong wind that took the effective temperature down to below -40F (-40C), and I could not risk frostbite to exposed skin.  I braced myself in my precarious position on the steep climb, tucking my head down to protect it from the wind.  I was wearing a fleece neck gaiter to limit cold air moving down to my baselayer (and to help prevent any zips rubbing against my face), and I had a Buff as a second neck gaiter inside the first.  It was there for occasions such as this.  I quickly took my hand to the Buff, pulling it up to cover my face just below the eyes.  I pulled my midlayer hood over my head too, and continued working my way up the slope.

 

Hiking the Yukon Quest is available from Amazon