Deb “Danny” Glenn Bids ‘Farewell’ to 2006 Alaskan Iditarod Aspirations

Nature, the wild, untamed adventurous places like the spirit in all of us has always been my best friend; a place I can go to find comfort and solace.  I feel right there.  To me, it’s a relationship that transforms itself into a reality where dreams are alive and spirits soar.  This deep kinship with the wild has enabled me to be inspired by the wolves who came out of their silent hiding places to feel kin with my team, to watch a black bear cub pass within feet of me as I lay over my sled under two feet of snow, to view a pair of bald eagles perching on the same trunk with a pair of golden eagles, and to hear the synchrony of breath sounds made by my team as we navigated our way down the trail by the light of the moon.  There is nothing in the world more breathtaking, more incredibly beautiful than landscape that personified personal freedom and the adventure that can be found there conquering new frontiers.            The snow is gently falling here in Wisconsin, a passive reminder of the landscape my dogs and I lived, played and worked in over the last year and a half as I trained for Iditarod 2006.  The magnificent snow that makes dog sledding possible is one of the reasons why I cannot pull the hook on Fourth Avenue this March; during the last qualifier we got about four feet of snow in just a few hours, making the trails through the Cascade Mountains impossible for me to navigate.  I was completely lost for about 24-hours, finding comfort with my dogs as search and rescue could not find me.  There was beauty there too.  I could see the moon from the small opening in my sleeping bag encrusted by a veil of ice that had formed as my headlamp I had left on as a beacon melted snow that fell as moisture then refroze.  I was surprised I could see at all because my eyes were almost swollen shut from the ice crystals that pelted them as I searched for a place to make camp.            The start of the race was my second attempt at completing qualification.  I was part way through my first qualifier, making good time, but the trail turned to glare ice and I felt my team who had a few injuries were at risk for more, so I chose not to continue.  Perhaps everything would have been fine, but nonetheless it was a decision I made.  I started with my team extremely pumped.  After harnessing them, they screamed and jumped in crazed anticipation until I pulled the hook propelling me towards the mountain range.  We were all mentally and physically eager, having run over 1,500 miles together on some of the most rugged terrain and in some of the most brutal weather in the lower 48.  When I became aware that the snowfall, measured in feet not inches would call the race, and having been disqualified for being lost, I knew my chances for this years’ Iditarod were probably over.            I was going to try Race to the Sky, but the dog truck broke down in another snow storm leaving the Cascade Mountains.  I stayed with the dog team while my dog handler hitched a ride to get help.  We shoveled our way out and the truck was loaded onto a flatbed.  We lived in a garage of a remote village until the truck was fixed, too late to get to Montana.  But by then, the dogs hadn’t been run in several days, so it would not have been a good idea to run a 300 mile race anyway.  Deeply saddened, I drove 11-hours to Montana and put my hand up to my eyes like blinders on a horse so I would not see my dogs pull away in my handler’s truck.  I sobbed on and off for days and I was numb.  What to do with all that love; what to do with all that training, the folks I was honoring and those who have been as immersed in my story as I have been to complete the journey.            I boarded a plane back to Wisconsin where the slow process of returning to reality must be like an astronaut re-entering the earth’s atmosphere.  I’ve been in places unfathomable even by my own imagination.  The poetic romance of Iditarod is still running through my blood and with my dogs.  Through hard work and perseverance my team and I felt ready to try it.  Like an Olympic athlete with an untimely injury, I had to work through the disappointment and move on.  I felt the expense of preparing for Iditarod prohibited another try, having sold my nursing home and new car to afford the time and money, almost $100,000.00 to date.  But we all know life is full of disappointments, and I’ve always said some of life’s greatest disappointments come along to break trail for some of life’s greatest joys.  I look forward with faith to what lies ahead.            Time itself can loose meaning out in nature, making impressions that never leave; yielding memories that last a lifetime.  Simple existence.  Magical moments.  We are free in the wilderness to be vigilant of our own destiny.  With courage, we can do anything; our only predator would be our self if we chose to hinder our own possibilities.  Any experience in the wilderness reminds me of who I am, where I come from and all that is possible.  Sometimes we can lose ourselves because we get caught up in the struggle and strain of life, but freedom in the outdoors is a spirit calling.  Nature and its’ wilds have been inspiration to humankind since the beginning of time, and I’m constantly amazed by the grip the wilderness has on the American imagination.  I’m reminded of John Denver’s lines, “Come dance with the west winds, touch on the mountaintops, reach for the heavens, be all that we can be, not just what we are”.            If somehow through the hodge-podge of tales (pardon the pun) I’ve written, one reader will envision hope, sense faith, feel love, become empowered, realize courage or decide to follow a dream no matter how remote it may seem, then my journey to date will have served the greatest of purpose for me, and will honor my magnificent furry friends and my selfless family to whom I am grateful.  Mother Teresa once said, “We can do no great things, only small things with great love”.  God bless you all.  Love, Deb “Danny” Glenn