Paul B. Cox

The pre-race meeting instructions were clear and extensive, but what I heard above all else was this: You could die. Really.

The Yukon 1000 race directors weren’t embellishing on the seriousness of the adventure we were about to undertake. They would also say if their words made any competitors too nervous, then those racers might want to reconsider even starting the longest unsupported paddle race in the world.

My team, 10thLifeKayaking, was among 14 sets of paddlers (rules required teams of two; nobody could go it alone due to safety reasons) who in mid-July lined up on the banks of the Yukon River in the city of Whitehorse, YT, ready to race up to 18 hours per day until reaching the finish line at the Dalton Highway Bridge nearly 1,000 miles downriver in Alaska. More than twice that number of teams submitted their resumes, which the race directors vetted extensively. Racers paddled canoes, tandem kayaks and stand up paddle boards. We’d rented a tandem kayak — a massive beast with a very fussy rudder but loads of space for gear and up to 10 days of food.

Salli and I had raced against each other a few times and she had been my ground crew in the Texas Water Safari. We'd only paddled together once – an overnight on the beautiful Suwannee River in North Florida, but we'd certainly have plenty of time to get to know each other. Rules required racers to camp for at least 6 hours per night so we’d spend about 18 hours per day in our kayak seats. But while the time on the water provided much of the challenge, the nightly stops provided just as much struggle and reward.

The historic gold rush town of Dawson City lies about 450 miles downriver from the start. In the 1890s, Dawson City was the destination for thousands of dreamers looking to make their fortunes pulling nuggets from the Klondike River that joins the Yukon at that point. Racers would have few options for rescue after Dawson. We’d need to rely on our paddling and expedition skills, navigation ability, determination and plenty of optimism to be successful. I’d raced a bunch in remote and tough areas. But, I'd never had to stuff bear barrels into my race boat. And this time I thought there was a real chance I’d use that helicopter evacuation insurance I bought a few weeks earlier.

The river runs swift, clear and wild at the start of the race in Whitehorse, winding its way through high, rocky bluffs that could have been lifted straight from a Bob Ross painting. Twenty-five miles downstream from Whitehorse, the Yukon passes through 30-mile long Lake Laberge, notorious for sudden winds that can slow and torment paddlers. This was my second time crossing the lake, and I lucked out AGAIN (I’d previously crossed the lake during the Yukon River Quest). We cruised with no headwind and even enjoyed a few minutes of wind at our back. We finished crossing the lake in third place and welcomed the return of the current and 11 mph speeds.

We caught up with the second place team along the way to our first night's camping. The Hobo Squad — Patrick Broemmel and Will Rich — was taking a little break when we snuck up on them. Thankfully, Patrick and Will were a couple of really nice canoe paddlers who didn't mind trading some conversation and company. We’d bump into each other multiple times the following week. They even offered to let us camp with them as they pulled off the river at about 11 p.m. the first night. Salli and I decided we'd continue on until we found our own spot.

Ten minutes later we spotted a lovely beach. The pebbles were small so it wouldn't be hard to get comfortable in our sleeping bags, and there was a nice eddy where we could safely pull off the river and unload our kayak, which we did promptly … but before giving the site a thorough inspection. After unpacking nearly the entire boat, we discovered that the beach was covered with paw prints and even some patches of fur certainly ripped from the poor critters who also lost their skulls also laying on the beach. Salli and I didn't want our noggins added to the display, so we hastily threw our partially set-up tents and unpacked gear back into the kayak, sat on the deck and poled the boat about 30 feet away to another beach — not exactly a safe distance but it would have to do. We were spent.

We got a decent amount of sleep, about 3.5 hours, despite our concerns over sleeping next to a killing field. Salli and I started the next day's paddle after roughly 6 hours on the beach, ready to hit it for another 18 hours

At mile 365, the glacier-fed White River mixes its cloudy, sediment-laden contents with the Yukon River. It was here that Salli and I encountered the first of many forest fires along the river. For the next several hours, the thick smoke obstructed the expansive views we had enjoyed since the race start. The smoke and the smell of burning wood combined with the milky-colored water and piles of river debris to form an almost post-apocalyptic scene. It was crazy eerie, and not at all how I remembered that section of the river. It was here, too, that we nearly got submerged by a barge steaming up behind us. At least we knew we’d chosen the fastest channel around all the islands. Route choice was going to be key.

The third night of camping was the most memorable of the race. By now, Salli and I had our camping-spot-picking-formula down. We started scanning the shore for a suitable spot about 11 p.m. It never gets completely dark in the evening so close to the Arctic Circle, so visibility was never a problem. We’d pull over as soon as we found a beach that was fairly rock-free, but most importantly wasn’t littered with remnants of past animal kills.

At about 11:15 p.m., we found a perfect spot on an island – except someone apparently was already there. A lone tent sat about 50 feet from the shore. But, we didn’t see a boat. Weird! How did the tent get there? Our watches said it was time to get off the river and Salli was bravely battling some back spasms, so we quickly made sure the coast was clear of animal prints and set up our tents for the night. Each of us went to bed wondering who the mystery camper was. Without discussing our theories, we’d both come to the conclusion that whoever was inside the tent certainly was dead. Remote island. No boat. Complete silence. All signs pointed to an untimely end for our new neighbor. We were pretty exhausted that night, so we decided to just check on the body in the morning and report our findings later in Dawson City. We fell asleep quickly.

The next morning, we decided to approach the tent together. Our plan: Salli would find the deceased’s ID in the backpack outside the tent and take it with us. Made sense, right? In hindsight, it’s a bit disturbing how matter-of-fact and calm we were as we approached the tent. When we got within 20 feet of the tent, we called out an obligatory “good morning” – you know, just to be sure our poor friend inside was truly dead. Almost immediately came a faint — but quite alive — “hello?” Guess we had it all wrong. Surprising, I know.

Relieved that we’d only been fooled by fatigue the night before, we paddled on to Dawson City. Later that morning we paddled past the clear waters of the Klondike River that feeds the Yukon just upstream of the town. I tried to imagine how the river must have looked back when the miners arrived 120 years ago. The small town had grown up quickly from a small community of miners just before the turn of the 20th century to a thriving town with nearly all the conveniences of society to support – and sometimes swindle – the hordes who’d come searching their fortunes. I’d had a chance to spend two nights in town previously after finishing the Yukon River Quest, but the Yukon 1000 rules prohibited racers from stopping and resupplying anywhere along the river. The town is a bit of a time warp, as much for the facades that span the fronts of the wild west-style buildings as for the throwback friendliness of the people I’d met there. One day I’ll bring the family and spend more time.

The river scenery changed dramatically almost as soon as we paddled into Alaska. The wind had been beating us backward for about a full day. Now we lost the high, rocky mountains that had flanked the river. We were entering a much flatter section of country. And that meant plenty more wind.

Within a few miles of crossing into the U.S. from Canada, we had to pull out at the town of Eagle and check in with border patrol. To do that, we had to waddle through the tiny community on our sea legs looking for a wooden phone booth, which we found attached to an outer wall of a laundromat. We each picked up the phone and rattled off our personal info to the surprisingly friendly agent on the other end of the line. For some reason I’d been nervous for months that I’d be refused re-entry to the U.S. and I’d have to spend weeks in river purgatory in tiny Eagle. Neither Salli nor I had such bad luck.

After making the required call, we ferried across the river from Eagle to a lovely wide and sandy beach where we decided to camp for the night. The best part was finding our friends The Hobos already there. They welcomed us as they had done before and encouraged us to set up camp close-by. In this remote corner of the world, we’d again managed to find friendly faces.

Salli and I wanted our nightly stops to last only the required six hours, so our daily routines were all about efficiency. Each night I’d do most everything in roughly this same order: secure the boat on the beach, change into warm camp clothes and dry shoes, set up the tent, secure my food and smelly stuff in bear barrels and set them away from the tent, and finally climb into my sleeping bag with the bear spray within arm’s reach. I’d usually climb right into my sleeping bag without eating and wish a goodnight to Salli, whose tent was always within about 30 feet of mine.

I don’t think I ever got more than 3.25 hours of sleep at night. As tired as I was at the end of each day, it took at least 10 minutes for my mind and body to relax enough to let sleep come, and I woke up several times during the night. Each morning, my watch alarm would go off an hour and 15 minutes before we needed to leave. Then the rest of the morning usually went like this: struggle out of my sleeping bag, rub lidocaine on my back and shoulders and force down a few Ibuprofen tablets, poke my head out of the tent to see if any critters had visited (no documented sightings), purify some water and make a few VERY bland cups of oatmeal with my tiny backpacking stove, then pack everything up and shove it into the kayak as quickly as I could, and before Salli gave me that “get your ass in gear” look. Salli and I each had our own separate routines. She usually got in the boat a few minutes before me, so it became a little personal challenge to get my butt in the kayak seat first. My least favorite part of each morning was pulling on the cold, damp clothes from the day before. About day three I started strapping the previous day’s wet shorts to the deck of the boat to dry in the sun. That made all the difference.

The river becomes a tangle of side channels after flowing past the small settlement of Circle, Alaska, at roughly mile 700. Think of the river in this section as a giant rope, pulled apart into its individual braids. The high, rocky walls are now gone from the banks. The openness of this section, known as The Flats, allows the wind to build strength and pummel paddlers in a consistent headwind. It’s this section that separates the contenders from the rest, and it’s where Salli and I dropped from a solid third place to where we finished in fifth place. The low water made it extra hard to read the current and choose routes around islands and gravel bars.

As the person with the rudder controls, it was my responsibility to get us through the maze of shallow islands. In retrospect, I probably put too much effort on following the track we’d mapped into the GPS rather than relying on my experience reading water. The worst part: Hours of deafening wind made it impossible to trade conversation – or sing -- with your paddling partner. We essentially paddled alone for a full day. This section was so vastly different from the first half of the race. The aloneness was huge, and really crept into your head.

People sometimes ask how I can paddle, run or ride such long stretches without completely losing my mind with boredom or getting overwhelmed thinking about how much mileage is left to cover. I’m a very social guy, so I really enjoy sharing these challenges with a race partner. Salli was great company, and she apparently didn’t mind my singing. It would have been a very long race if she had.

But even team expedition races are largely solo challenges as hour after hour pass with plenty of time for thought and internal battles over where your mind goes. It helps to break down huge distances into smaller bits. Salli and I tried setting daily mileage goals, but those changed as conditions changed. So, rule two: Be flexible. Races (or any outdoor adventure) almost never go perfectly or exactly as planned. And in remote places such as the Yukon, you’ve got to trust your experience and partners, and shake off discouragement. Rule three: Keep eating. Nutrition is directly related to your state of mind. Keep the calories coming. My go-to foods for this one were pepperoni sticks and spicy crackers. And to keep my brain occupied — and off how much I miss my kids — I play math games in my head almost continually. I don’t really even like math that much, but estimating and re-estimating how far you’ve gone and when you’ll finish really helps pass the time.

The realization that Salli and I were going to finish healthy, happy and in time to catch the bus to Fairbanks (it just comes twice a week; miss it and we’d have to hitch a ride) hit me after we passed the tiny community of Beaver at roughly mile 830. We had just about 120 miles left to paddle, and the worst part of The Flats was behind us.

We’d enjoyed almost perfect weather the entire journey and along the way had seen two bears (one swimming), several moose, a lynx, a dozen bald eagles and even some wolverines. The last night on the river again was gorgeous, and the final day of paddling that followed was truly enjoyable. Salli and I had worked out our navigation – she’d watch the map and I’d watch the GPS and current and make sure our big boat didn’t get ripped down a side channel. The river picked up speed again for most, but not all, of the day. Seeing the Dalton Highway bridge brought on pure elation. We’d certainly not had a perfect race, but we’d knocked off nearly 1,000 miles in 7 days, 9 hours and 45 minutes. We’d taken care of our bodies and each other along the way. We earned that post-race beer.

The winning team from New Zealand — Wendy Raich and Ian Huntsman — crossed the finish line after 6 days,14 hours and 55 minutes – a blazing finish.

But the best result was that all but one of the 14 teams that started the race made it to the Dalton Highway.

A HUGE thanks to Jon, Harry and Petra for putting on a great race! We all appreciate the concern you showed for racer safety, the huge logistical effort, and the spirit of adventure you are cultivating with this great event.