Upper School biology teacher Ryan Johnson has done some interesting things with his life, including once riding his mountain bike from New Mexico to Maine. He topped that this summer when he embarked on one of the world’s most challenging adventure races. “If you have not done the Alaska Mountain Wilderness Classic, do not too widely brag about any extreme adventure races you have done,” cautions on the Alaska Alpine Club’s website. “If you have done the Alaska Mountain Wilderness Classic, and survived, you might not brag about things anymore.”

We’re pleased to report that Johnson made it back to civilization with all ten fingers and all ten toes. Here’s his report.

There is no finish line tape. There are no spectators greeting us, there are no banners proclaiming “Congrats” and “Great Job!” There are no television crews, ticker tape parades, or support vehicles. No orange slices or hot dogs or vitamin C drinks or high energy bars. No volunteers doting out smiles and grandmotherly welcome home smiles. The “end” is a concrete boat ramp in Circle, Alaska.

There is a little celebration as the afternoon heat warms our aching bodies. The four of us pull our pack rafts out of the Yukon and stare at the town of Circle on an 80 degree, windless day. This is what we came to Alaska for?

A shirtless man pedals up on a bicycle.

“You guys see any canoes down here?”

We shake our heads.

“I was supposed to pick up some canoes. Didn’t see any canoes on the river?” He is sunburned and aged, and rests the bicycle admiring our small boats. We shake our heads again.

“How far did you folks come?”

Oh the stories we could tell and will tell. Twenty minutes later Kyle, Nora, Brook and I are falling asleep to Ed’s stories of dog mushing and salmon wheels and life at Fort Yukon. His pickup eases across the gravel road as my eyes slip into sleep mode. Conversation sifts away into a cloud of dust that trails the vehicle, heading to the official finish line of the race, in Central.

I’m not sure that words can completely capture six days and two hours of 200 plus miles walking and paddling in the Alaska bush. And when I say “bush” I mean whacked, paddy whacked, corralled, cajoled, loved, hated, flirted, and disavowed. The Alaska Mountain Wilderness Classic does not land you on your feet at the end. It lands you in some sort of tepid state of sleep deprivation where licking the inside of chocolate wrappers for sustenance makes as much sense as driving down the block to the supermarket.
Six days earlier I found myself at the starting line in Chicken, sandwiched between what I could only call a “rogue group of worldwide adventurers.” As an accomplished outdoorsman, my own status was whittled down to amateur in the company I now stood with. Racers had lost fingers on Everest, won ultra marathons (quite modestly in the process “Oh yeah I got first in that one”), skied off Denali, broken backs doing telemark jumps, and survived Arctic man (dragged on skis behind a snowmobile at 90MPH over an obstacle course). My jaw hung wide open at the hardy adventurers, men and women alike. What the hell was I doing here?

The plan was simple: join my long-lost-never-really-knew-him high school buddy Kyle on a five day “race” through the Alaskan wilderness. In its 27th year, the current course ran about 180 miles from the desolate mining village of Chicken to the town of Central. Rules were simple: no roads, no motorized equipment, no re-supply, just you and all your necessities. Or lack thereof. We carried food, rafts, clothing and a sat phone. No sleeping bag, no tents, no bivies.

Get set, go!!! I’ve never started a race where contestants head off in all sorts of directions. With the nerves gone, Kyle and I made good time on the ridge trail, covering over 25 miles in around 11 hours. That was the high of the trip. After that a series of mistakes followed. We bombed off a ridge and our original route, salivating at the fact of rafting a wild waterway known as Fish Creek. What looked like glistening water from 2000 feet above on the ridge turned out to be frozen ice when we were standing next to it. Rather than return up high, we spent the next 24 hours dragging our boats and butts through a maze of swamp, alder and ice water. Weary from a lack of sleep and sick of carrying my raft I opted for abusing my body through the mosquito chocked woods. Kyle stuck to the water. After 30 minutes we switched, Kyle carrying my backpack and myself rowing Kyle’s boat. Then we got lost. Not only lost, but separated. Nine hours later we rendezvoused on the Fortymile river, after a hellish miscommunication that forced me to make three 911 calls on my SAT phone (nothing went through) and start a fire because I was nearly hypothermic and dreading that Kyle lay face down in the bush somewhere, my 49 lb pack having asphyxiated him in a mess of mosquitoes and bramble.

The next few hours only got worse. One hour of sleep in 40 hours of hiking and moving. We started the bushwhack to the upper Charley basin battling more alder and suddenly, I was battling an upset stomach. I was no longer capable of holding water and food and delivered along our ridge line course no less than 17 massive piles of vomit. Everything I had eaten the last 12 hours came roaring back to life. Near the end of the ridge I was so weak, I started laying down and sleeping. My body trembled at the fever that raged in my broken, viral filled body. I started to lose the mental focus. I hated this hike, I hated this race. Drink some water, puke, pick a scraggly ugly looking fir and hike. Four steps. Five. Six. Seven. There is the tree, Dry heave. Okay, now pick another tree. Wet feet, cold wind, haggard, torn body.

We lost 10 hours nursing my ailing body back to health - a full fire and some sleep and a packet of sour patch kids eased my mind back into a mental state of “I think I can go on.” But we still had issues - a ravenous, murderous, gang of blisters had ravaged Kyle’s feet since the first wee hours of the trip. This was the low of lows - we were an aching bunch and the “best” was still yet to come.

Before any notion of “self rescue” could be made, we had to hammer through eight miles of Tussock swamp. My feet were damp and cold and wet within the first 100 yards. We tried the trees. No luck, the alder compacted us to such a slow pace we nearly cried. We tried closer to the creek - football field sized ponds with knee deep mud prevented us from that route. The “diabolical” tussock mats that twisted our ankles left and right was our only choice. And so we slogged on for about 10 hours though a hellish concoction of cold water, uneven matted lichens and tundra - a frozen hell.

Kyle’s condition improved at the implementation of several codeine, while I was reduced to tears at the thought of another four miles of this roly poly land. I guessed my feet had been wet for most of the past 48 hours. I was too tired to take pictures. I could hardly say “Hey bear.” I ignored Kyle’s hallucinations and plugged on.

Yet there were moments I gazed in awe at the magnificent land. Tundra swans circling a pond at the headwater of the Charley, caribou grazing in the distance. The Charley river grew little by little. Snow capped mountains haunted us in the distance. The lazy sun, circling the sky and finding some solace in a mountaintop around midnight, only to rise again at 2am. Land of the midnight sun. Something burned brighter inside. Something started to turn around.

Perhaps it was the promise of the brighter future in the kayaking. Or the amazement at passing other groups - groups we thought were Gods and immortals and Alaska legends. People like us, broken by the Alaskan wilderness. The military men stopped 19 hours at a campsite by a ruptured raft. Brook and Nora ravaged by blisters and low food supplies. Alaska always has the last word.

Then the river became the savior. Sort of.

88 miles. 88 miles of churning froth - first a joy ride on my ass, with low water levels forcing perfect execution of left, right, and center channels. I was done thinking! I chose the wrong channel. Had to get out, carry the raft, get back in. Repeat 40 yards downstream. Repeat again. Again and again. Tired, but done with the devilish tussock.

Just going. A blur of whitewater insanity. The most beautiful place on earth. A gorge a thousand feet deep, with igneous intrusions cutting architecturally designed walkways and paths across in some sort of surreal mathematical sense. A midnight sun that paused to give true reflection to the Charley River. Dall Sheep at the top of the cliff, offering pause before saying “watch out of that hole!”

The Charley River was one of the finest places I have ever floated. Untouched - untouched by the rankers of man, of civilization. Moose and caribou swimming the river on their own time. Not one trace of fire or footprint, or of mine or cabin. Nothingness as the waterway meandered towards the Yukon.

Yet what provokes great inspiration always brings with it great hardship. Our lack of foresight in not bringing waterproof pants forced Kyle and I to the shore many times for fires. Fire was our other savior. It sang to the river and provided our bodies with warmth. Shivering in our boats as the night came, wet from the whitewater waves, we scrambled ashore, teeth chattering, seeking flame, like primitive early humans, communicating in grunts and groans. Roaring fires meant sleep came fitfully, on rocks and on boats.

The day had finally dawned. Sleep deprivation provided the final, operatic number. The Charley churned and the mind spun endless fantasies. I could not see the rocks or driftwood any other way. The river sang and spoke to me. I saw friends, colleagues, cousins, uncles, aunts, teachers. Graffiti spilled out demonic messages on the cliffs and riverbanks. Shadows from clouds spewed dreams of Dune and Harry Potter magic. Old women washed clothing in the river; cabins sprung up; a fence surrounding a castle; a screaming goblin raked apricots across a finely textured tablecloth. Things fell apart….

Miles and miles on the river. Time was irrelevant. We paddled, slept, yelled to keep each other awake. Kyle fell asleep in several rapids. I almost ended up under a strainer. I could not keep my eyes open as the Alaska interior beat me down. The river slowed and meandered, an endless puzzle.

There lay the Yukon. Brook and Nora to raft up with. 14 more hours of floating and sleeping and shivering and taking turns on watch. A mighty swift silty snake. A mile wide at points. I was lost - was this Alaska or Brazil? The sun sank at nearly 1am, with the pinkish tinge of altocumulus sunset blurring together with the two am sunrise. It was the solstice. Fitting for sure, that on the longest day we should “finish” this course, even on this self rescue route.

The Yukon spoke, the gray silty waters of snow far up in Canada weaving an endless tale, stirring the bottom of the rafts as though air was leaking from it. Constant. Always moving, never ceasing. We were simply grains of sand in this huge expanse of power. I didn’t feel defeated by Alaska. Just tired. Sleep ranged ahead of me, the sun shone brightly and I closed my eyes and napped, dreaming of sleep….