Jess Alford

At Mile 101 I quickly realized that I was in trouble. The rest of the class was concerned when I showed up for the trip without snow pants. I wasn’t worried. I had shot at 40-below before with fewer layers.

But at Mile 101 the wind bit into you. My glasses fogged up as soon as I stepped outside. My auto focus was useless in the dark. Since I could make out headlamps, I focused on their light and hoped for the best. The wind cut through the two pairs of gloves I was wearing like they weren’t even there making it hard to take the shot.

I gave my camera battery regular breaks as an excuse to discretely try to warm up my trigger finger, which felt like it was on fire from being out in the wind even with two layers of gloves.

As my eyes watered from the cold, freezing my camera to my nose, I was sure I was going to get frostbite. Familiar voices bundled in layers asked me how I was doing. I told them my legs and core were fine. I secretly took comfort in knowing that the pain in my feet meant they were still alive.

After my audio kit fell apart, I gave up all together and spent the rest of my time at Mile 101 doing my very best not to get left behind. This was easier said than done.

Between the darkness and my frequently fogged glasses, I was nearly blind and thought everyone had headed to the parking lot to leave. Fearing it may already be too late, I stumbled away from the voices and towards the parking lot hoping Sarah’s truck would still be there. As Fate would have it, we got there around the same time and she had a few extra sets of hand warmers which I graciously accepted.

Nick Brewer

I guess “Audio Guru” is a fitting title since I've been living in the editing bay for the past few weeks. I've had a blast being able to take all the material everybody came back with and turn it into little snapshots of the race. Listening to these characters, Mark Sass bragging about his son (musher Brent Sass) and Louie's accent is just great.

The first few weeks were easy, importing a few hours of audio is a cakewalk. The hard part began when we divided up into groups. There are five different groups, with five very distinct concentrations. I had maybe a dozen quality interviews to get all our material for the project. It was a challenge to come up with five audio tracks that didn't recycle the exact same people for all of them.

I wasn't the only one to take on an audio project; Megan Sullivan did a great job editing the Ham radio operators and saved me a ton of time when it came to the crunch.

Although I was not able to join the class on the trek out into the wilderness for coverage of the Quest, I feel as if I was right there with them only without the scars. I've heard all the results of their work over and over for the past few weeks. For a class of photographers, a lot of great audio came back.

My favorite was the class troubles audio track. I'm a big fan of conflicting information and the fact that nobody brought a thermometer cracks me up. I have over a dozen people telling me the temp ranged from 20 to 60 below zero. Nobody was lying when they answered the question, but I didn't think I would get such a wide range.

Chris Cruthers

It’s cold.
Very, very cold.

So cold that when I take off my gloves in the 40-below weather (mainly to adjust my camera settings with it’s frustrating little dials and switches) in mere seconds my hands are completely robbed of any heat. Heat that my body had worked so hard to provide to them steamed away into the night air.

My body is completely covered from head to toe in a multitude of layers. So many in fact, that fellow students and even my own professor didn’t recognize me initially, or even when I talked them. It is only when I remove some of the clothing wrapped around my head that I’m finally recognized.

I’m not the only one that is hard to recognize; I’m like everyone else, completely covered in layers of down feathers and polyester synthetics indistinguishable from man to woman.

I heard reports of fellow student batteries dying as fast as the temperature was dropping. My own camera battery managed to survive that night. But if it hadn’t, I had a fully charged spare stored safely next to the warmth of my body.

My lens on the other hand did freeze—on several occasions.

Anytime I moved between the deep freeze of the outdoors and the snug warmth of the tiny cabins I had problems with my lens. Because of my love of not freezing to death, this was quite often.

Ah the tiny cabins, where everyone milled about at one point or another. This was where a lot of the action was at; in addition the surrounding environment outside was uninhabitable, devoid of detectable life except for the coalition of mentally unwell people that chose to make dog sled racing their profession.

Mushers choose to race in darkness so complete that without the assistance of headlamps the concept of being able to see was laughable. I mean, we’re talking about blackness so rich that the stars stood out like diamonds, a sight I had only previously seen in Hawaii, a place I would have much rather have been that night.

The emphasis of light, or lack there of, is especially distressing to a photographer. Auto focus and the luxuries of modern photographic equipment was made a mute point. Old school focusing was where it was at that night, which was especially difficult considering one had to either fumble vainly with bulky gloves or sacrifice precious body heat in order to get the shot.

To be honest, the limited opportunity for shots and crushing conditions forced a distinguishing creativity to show in every one of the journalism students. Who, to have done such a thing may well be as mentally unwell as the subject they shoot and write about.

Amy Egan

I’m the type of person who will avoid going outside when the thermostat drops below zero. I knew when I stepped out of the car at Mile 101 it was going to be a long night; it was miserably cold out.

The only thing in sight was a couple of port-a-potties and in the distance a small cabin. The first thing I had to do before gearing up was use the bathroom. Going on a port-a-potty at 40-below is something I had never experienced and hope to never again.

The next challenge was taking pictures of the first team arriving. I’d have to say, besides worrying about my camera freezing up, the most technical part about the experience was trying to maneuver my camera with bulky gear on. Being as it was so dark out I had to use flash, that posed problems because it put out such harsh light.

The next step was driving to Central; I’ll admit I’m a terrible driver, let alone on an unfamiliar winding road with no street lights. It was dark out and I was tired. Missing a turn and almost causing us to go off of the road, I felt for the passengers in my car. Once in Central the worst part for me was the cold. My body was stiff from sitting in the car for so long but the thought of walking it off outside was not an option for me. I was outside for only as long as I had to be in order to get some photographs. Luckily there was a roadhouse to recoup and warm up in.

I was so cold from being outside that entering the roadhouse, which is an average Alaskan bar, felt like paradise.

This 24-hour adventure is an experience that will stay with me. The ambition that every one involved in this race had will stand out in my mind almost as much as the cold did.

Naomi Hagelund

I’d been to Chena Hot Springs before, but on this trip there was no time for a relaxing soak in the water or smoked salmon alfredo in the restaurant. Bundled from head to toe with malfunctioning hand warmers in my pocket (apparently they don’t work if it’s too cold out), I set out with two fellow journalism students, looking for the action. Turns out there wasn’t a whole lot.

A big sign on the musher’s door stated, ‘MUSHERS ONLY’. A handler yelled at us to keep out of the staging area. Volunteers glanced sideways at us, answering questions with “I don’t know” or “you should probably ask someone else.” The blue press passes we had been so proud of the day before seemed to be invisible to everyone around us.

We finally got wind of a musher about to leave. As far as we knew, he was the only one at this checkpoint, and he was due to leave in 10 minutes. We decided on a quick warm-up in the bar and then we headed out to catch him. We set up our cameras and audio recorders and waited for his departure. The bells on the dog's harnesses jingled nicely for my recorder as they ran by. The team then stopped so a dog could relieve itself. They jingled some more, making it about 10 feet before another dog had to pee. Once more the jingling was interrupted and then the team was finally on its way. We discovered later that we missed another musher leaving while we were waiting in the bar.

All in all, we spent about three hours in Chena and captured only a few newsworthy minutes of the Yukon Quest in action. It wasn’t all in vain though; if I hadn’t gone to Chena I wouldn’t have gotten this cool blue press pass.

Theresa Jacobo

Being up for 24 hours straight, in below-zero temperatures, in complete darkness, with a driver that was equally as exhausted, is not a walk in the park.

What I expected to be a fun class road trip turned out completely opposite when I was given the job of being co-pilot to a friend and a fellow student, Amy Egan, who is a terrible night driver. I had to make sure she stayed awake and on the road.

The Steese Highway on the way to Central was a curvy, barely maintained road, with cliffs that drop steeply on the sides. Being a passenger is a scary experience when there are no lights or reflectors to light the way to your destination along a road that is riddled with rough icy patches.

As for the cold, I thought I was prepared for making the class road trip to Mile 101 and Central for the Yukon Quest checkpoint coverage. I underestimated my preparation. Two layers of pants, socks, sweaters, Carhart overalls, gloves, along with the necessary boots, hats, scarf and coat, were not enough to shield the biting wind that hit my body once stepping out the car at Mile 101. The extreme cold proved to be the major hurdle during the assignment, especially when braving the outhouses. The layers of clothes that kept me warm were the hardest to remove when needing to use the bathroom. And using an outhouse in freezing weather for a woman who is not used to the outdoors proved to be a challenge. Taking off my gloves to unhinge the straps of my Carharts was a clumsy task, with freezing, shaky hands.

Trying to photograph in almost pitch-black conditions was difficult. Making out faces during the night was nearly impossible especially with layers of clothing covering almost every inch of everyone’s body and faces. After a while, memorizing the color of coats and hats became essential, especially to distinguish mushers. Worrying about my batteries dying in the middle of photographing and dealing with harsh, blinding flashes were technical difficulties that I faced among the rest of the photographers out there. Luckily, Central had a roadhouse that offered outlets to charge up dead batteries in between photo opportunities. My eyes had a hard time adjusting in the freezing wind while photographing. I had to constantly blink and roll my eyes around in their sockets in order to keep my contacts from drying and popping out. With no extra contacts available, and being as blind as a bat, I couldn’t afford have my contacts falling out.

I thought that this assignment would be a breeze, but it was anything but that. Shooting in the dark, worrying about a frozen gear, being dead tired and cold, I don’t think I have ever whined so much before. But, it was an experience that not everyone can say they did. It really makes you admire the mushers and appreciate the warmth of having car with remote start.

Needless to say, after that long night, I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow when I got home.

Laureli Kinneen

Kelley Griffin was applying pink ointment to her dogs’ paws at Circle. She was getting ready for the run to Central. There she was—a real dog musher, running a real race and I got to ask her questions.

Growing up in Unalakleet, a fishing village at the heart of the Norton Sound, I was fortunate to grow up running to the river to cheer for Iditarod mushers on their way to Nome. In 1992, Martin Buser was the first musher to get to Unalakleet, the first village on the coast. I was in awe. I watched him working with his dogs and wanted to ask questions, but I was too shy. He was the first to finish in Nome a few days later.

The same thing happened the night we covered the Quest. Griffin was the first musher I approached in Circle. She, like Buser, was very friendly and smiley. I just stood there watching her. She was talking with O’Donoghue, our instructor. He’d ask questions and she’d give a colorful answer. Still, I just stood there.

Finally, I managed to force out my first question. After that, the night was full of learning. I was able to talk to mushers and learn about what they go through while running a race. I felt really lucky.

Still, interviewing was tricky. Race officials and volunteers were tired and sometimes grumpy. We had to be considerate, but our mission was to capture potential stories while people slept on tables and inside the fire truck. I didn’t want to wake people up, but I really wanted to get good interviews.

Following mushers and volunteer checkers in the 45-below zero conditions was interesting. The headphone wires that connected to the audio kit froze and were stiff. I was afraid they’d crack if I moved too quickly.

I wore two jackets that night and kept the audio kit inside to keep the batteries from freezing. It was comforting, knowing we had a warm fire hall to run to if our fingers started getting stiff. I kept wondering how the mushers dealt with the cold while on the trail and was giddy knowing I could simply ask.

Jay Leppanen

Monday night, Amber, Naomi and I went out to the Chena Hot Springs Resort, a checkpoint located about 60 miles from town by road and 100 trail miles from the finish line.

I brought a mini-DV camcorder. Amber had a digital camera. Naomi was outfitted with a audio recorder. We found the media room set up in a banquet area of the resort’s big log cabin restaurant. Photographer John Hagen and writer Matiais Saari, of the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner, were already set up inside. They were using laptop computers to transmit photos and stories back to their newsroom in Fairbanks.

At about 10 p.m. we headed outside to look for mushers. It was quiet and very cold.

The old resort is a sprawling place, marked by numerous cabins, a bathhouse and other outbuildings. It was difficult to find mushers or anyone else connected to the race for interviews. Matias had told me that the dog teams were camped for the night on the resort’s airstrip. I couldn’t find it in the dark.

In the morning I finally found the airstrip, along with a sign; “No Media,” it proclaimed. Teams apparently were camped in the trees, but you couldn’t see them until mushers were on the move. Interviewing racers was only practical upon their arrival at this checkpoint.

The cold seemed to affect the camcorder in several ways. The first few seconds of video had blue horizontal lines through it. It would only clear up when watching it; even then the tape was ruined.

We interviewed a handler who worked for Hans Gatt. She had two of his dogs dropped from his team, McKinley and Ruby. They were excited and playful. One of them was a lead dog.

It was minus 35 degrees that night at the finish line. I almost froze along with the camcorder while waiting an hour for Gatt. I had to put the camcorder in my jacket to keep it warm. I had looked up his estimated arrival time on the internet and didn’t expect to stay there for so long. It was an interesting time because there was a lot of media, fans and UAF students. Many people huddled around a bonfire in a burn barrel, but I was stuck with the rest of the shivering media on the wrong side of a fence.

Rosie Milligan

It’s 6 a.m., 30-below zero, and I’m in the middle of nowhere at the North Pole checkpoint. All that exists in this desolate location is a tent set up that’s manned by Eielson Air Force Base volunteers. They baked cookies and kept coffee hot. A large, loud generator was set up to heat this large army-style tent There wasn’t enough heat produced to take your coat off upon entering, but it was still a relief from the harsh outside.

I was waiting for Lance Mackey, the front-runner, to pass through on his way to the Fairbanks finish line. The tent held two veterinarians that were waiting to greet Mackey’s dogs. I kept my batteries inside my jacket to ensure they would work when Mackey showed up. Periodically I would take them out and warm them with my hands and hot breath, just to be on the safe side. But, every time I stepped outside and used my camera or tape recorder the batteries would lose their chemical charge due to the cold weather. Then I would have to heat them up again.

The biggest problem, however, was personal, my feet. They were freezing and I would say they were numb, but the truth was they hurt way too much to call them numb.

Mackey flew by in mere minutes and luckily all my gear worked, my truck was idling, warm, to greet my feet.
Chena Hot Springs was even colder. It was reported to be around 40-below and there was also a wind chill. It was cold. I was wearing four pairs of pants and my thighs could still feel the outside elements. That doesn’t happen in normal places. That night I wore bunny boots and eliminated the issue of painful throbbing feet.

It was dark and my camera would not focus. When I put my face up to the viewfinder my breath would leave a frosty edge where the moisture had frozen. The camera could not think when it was that cold. The chemicals in the batteries were delayed and the shutter speed couldn’t operate fast enough.

The dogs at Chena Hot Springs proved to be the toughest. They’re amazing athletes. It was so cold and everyone was bitching about how cold it is and meanwhile these dog teams are sleeping in a windy field, cuddled in straw, trying to sleep. They don’t get shelter from the elements. For the entire race they are left vulnerable, open to the harsh elements. And then they get up and have so much personality, like they can’t wait to race again, rearing to run. They were amazing.

The biggest problem I had was my truck. Keeping it warm was almost impossible. I pulled it in next to the Chena Hot Springs lodge when I got there and started it 30 minutes before leaving, but still when I tried to drive away the transmission fluid was the texture of peanut butter. It would stall every time I tried to get it going and the four-wheel-drive kept slipping out of gear. It was really embarrassing. I could get it to idle right and then I would stall and spin out on the ice because I couldn’t get it to stay in four-wheel. I eventually got out of the parking lot, turned up the heat and made it home.

Sarah Sperry

It’s about 50-below and I’m kneeling in the snow waiting for a musher to re-start the race. The auto focus on my camera can’t seem to lock onto my subject in the darkness. The problem is, neither can I. I have to shine a headlamp onto the sign that marks the re-start just so I have something to focus my camera on. Now, all I can do is wait. Wait for the musher to get his dog team running. Wait for the handlers to start cleaning the mess left behind. And dream of the warmth and comfort of my own bed, which is now over 150 miles away.

What am I doing out here anyway? I wasn’t bred for this type of situation. Hell, I’m not even prepared for it! Granted, I’ve stolen my husband’s cold weather gear - everything from his overalls to his long underwear – all of which is about five sizes too big on me. Still, I’m a California girl! I’m used to wearing a tank top and sandals. It doesn’t matter how many layers I put on, it will never be enough to keep me warm.

OK. Focus! Here he comes! I can see my flash light up a small patch of sky surrounding me. Did I get the picture? Better snap off a few more frames just in case. But, before I know it, he’s back out on the trail, headed for Fairbanks. As for me, I’m headed to the firehouse. Maybe I’ll be able to feel my fingers again soon.

Inside the firehouse, a handful of people have the same idea – sleep. After all, it is two o’clock in the morning. But, our group still has a job to do. We have to document this crazy scene in every way we can. I raise my camera to take a picture of someone wrapped up in a sleeping bag on top of a fire truck. But, my lenses are fogged up. I have no choice but to wait until my camera adjusts to the change in temperature indoors. Hopefully, they’ll still be sleeping then.

In the meantime, I hang around while the rest of the group starts interviewing anyone and everyone they can. To my surprise, almost all of the volunteers and mushers we encounter are more than willing to talk with us. And, everyone has a great story to tell! It’s these stories, simply meeting these extraordinary people, that make this trip worth taking. After all, it has proved to be a greater challenge than expected to come up with good photos in the dead of night.

Megan Sullivan

Photographically, I was discouraged from the very first checkpoint, Mile 101. No, that’s a lie. I was discouraged when we were told two weeks beforehand that we would be taking pictures in the dark for 14 hours in severe cold of an event that few of us even followed in the newspaper. The race officials and volunteers didn’t help these already low spirits, giving the impression that our Extreme Alaska class wasn’t “extreme” enough to be out there in the first place, calling us teenagers and telling us to be sure to stay out of the way. I suppose they had a right; we weren’t hard-core mushing fanatics to begin with, much less generally informed spectators.

Spirits livened, though, at the next checkpoint, the Steese Road House in Central, Alaska. If the Yukon Quest were a football game, Mile 101 would be the by-the-book referees and Central would be the fans and hot dog vendors. The vibe in this community was energetic and encouraging, even though they must have been tired from the 24-hour workdays serving the race affiliates. The restaurant was rustic and warm - crowded one minute, sparse the next. Unlike Mile 101, this checkpoint offered a good place to get warm, store our gear, and recharge batteries.

The kindness of these people in Central was unreal. I had on every piece of winter gear I owned, and it still wasn’t enough. I must have looked even colder than I felt, because the checkpoint manager went to her truck and pulled out a parka and literally put it on my shoulders and pushed my arms through the sleeves.

Cold was still a hindrance, though. It killed batteries, stalled flash units, and could have badly damaged the cameras. When an object goes from a cold of minus 40 degrees to 60 degrees above, like my camera did when brought indoors, condensation forms inside the camera. The only way to avoid condensation is to put the camera under your clothes and warm it up slowly before going inside. Imagine putting an ice pack on your stomach while standing in a freezer.

When I was told that we were going to cover the Yukon Quest from dusk till dawn, I remember thinking how much that was going to suck for pictures. And did it ever. Besides the difficulty or working with flash, in the dark, against white snow, my new Canon camera didn’t sync with my old flash unit. Using an off-camera cord, I held the flash in one hand and used the other to adjust aperture, shutter speed, zoom and focus – things that aren’t that easy with only one hand. Auto focus doesn’t work in the dark, especially when mushers and dogs won’t stand still. The cold slowed down the recharge time of the flash; many of my shots came out black. I remember thinking I had a great shot of a musher, the “Cover My Ass” shot for the night, only to look at it later, and see that it was out of focus. Looking at my pictures, I’m not sure if it was worth the trouble it took to push the shutter.

I broke even on the Yukon Quest; the experience compensated for the lack of decent photos; I learned a lot, worked with an awesome crew of journalists, and got a fantastic view into the culture of a small community centered on one race.

Amber Wilson

Driving to Chena Hot Springs twice in less than 24 hours was not fun. My car wasn’t happy starting at 35-below; I had to let it run for an hour before leaving my house.

Chena Hot Springs is plush compared to the other checkpoints. The hotel has water, sleeping rooms, and an area to spread out the tired dogs. It’s close to Fairbanks and the end of the race so the mushers and dogs are tired and just want to cross the finish line.

This checkpoint is different than many of the others because of the location. Many of the checkpoints are in small villages and the whole town comes out to meet the incoming mushers.

At the hot springs, tourists walked around not knowing that an international sled dog race was headed their way. One tourist we talked to at the resort was from California said he planned his trip to Fairbanks and didn’t know anything about the Yukon Quest until he got here.

The race attracts many international staff who help organize and handle dogs during the race. Within an hour I had talked to handlers from three different countries. Seeing how quickly they adapt to the area, and deal with stresses of the race is admirable to say the least.

I was stressed when trying to take photos in the sub-zero temperatures with my digital camera. The three batteries I had with me kept dying because of the cold. I had to recycle them often and keep them warm with my body heat by putting them between my long underwear and thick Carhartts. While my batteries kept warm under the layers, my lips and face felt stiff and frozen as I asked handlers questions in the 30-below weather. I went inside to warm up for about 10 minutes and a dog team left without me knowing it. It was a catch-22 situation; I knew I had to keep myself warm, but also get photos of the race.

The resort was disorganized when it came to finding race officials and checkpoint staff to figure out when mushers were leaving. No one working at the resort we asked knew much about the race so it was a challenge to find the dog lot and mushers to interview.

Overall it was a fun experience. Watching the interaction between the mushers, handlers and dogs definitely makes me appreciate the sport in a new way.