February 26, 2005

American Birkebeiner Ski Traverse:  Cable to Hayward 

Telemark Lodge
Road OO
Lake Hayward

Trip Report Summary

Region: Wisconsin

Sub-Region: Northern Highlands

Sub-Sub-Region: Gogebic Range

Areas: Bayfield County & Sawyer County

Starting Point: Telemark Lodge in Cable (Elev. 1400 feet)

Way Points: Powerline Hills & Firetower Hill & Bobblehead/Sledder Hill & County Road OO & Bitch Hill & El Moco & Lake Hayward & Downtown Hayward (ski tour via Birkebeiner Trail)

Ending Point: Main Street in Hayward (Elev. 1200 feet)

Approximate Stats: 32 miles / 52 kilometers traveled; 1800 feet gained; 2000 feet lost; 5.6 hours elapsed.

Full Trip Report

Prologue: A Brief History Lesson

What, you would be justified in asking right off the bat, is a “birkebeiner”?  As I’ve come to learn over the years, birkebeiner (pronounced BIRK-a-bye-ner) really means several things.  For one, it is a Norwegian word that translates literally into English as “birch-barker.”  For another, it’s the name of an ancient group of Norwegian skiers who actually peeled bark off birch trees and tied it around their ankles to give protection from crusty snow.  Because this attire was quite distinctive and apparently not part of the normal Norwegian wardrobe, the whole regiment of skiers who wore birch-bark leggings—precursors to our modern-day nylon gaitors—became collectively know as “Birkebeiners.”

I suspect that the Birkebeiner skiers—and the word itself—might have faded from memory if not for one very significant incident during the 13th Century of Norwegian history.  In the year 1206, while Norway was being ravaged by civil war, the ruling king and first lady came under attack by rebels and were taken into hiding.  Their 18-month-old son, Prince Haakon, was likewise at grave risk and needed to be smuggled out of Lillehammer.  So, in an epic journey that ultimately shaped the future of Norway, a small group of loyal Birkebeiners strapped on their birch-bark leggings, packed up the infant prince, and skied many miles through a raging blizzard (according to folk lore, anyway) to reach safety in Trondheim.  The little prince eventually grew up to become King Haakonsson IV.

Since 1932, a cross-country ski marathon has been held annually in Norway to commemorate the Birkebeiners’ historic escape and to ensure that their heroic legend never dies.  The marathon covers about 50 kilometers, and each participating skier carries a 15-pound knapsack to simulate the burden of young Prince Haakon.  It was perhaps inevitable that our fellow Scandinavian-Americans would latch onto this whole idea and start a similar event in the United States.  Sure enough; in 1973, an enthusiastic group of 35 skiers completed a 50-kilometer traverse between the small Wisconsin towns of Hayward and Cable.  A larger group repeated it the next year, and each year thereafter the number of participants increased exponentially until stabilizing at around 6000!  After several variations, the route itself has also stabilized as a 51-kilometer (31½-mile) traverse from Telemark Lodge in Cable to Main Street in Hayward via a permanent Birkebeiner Trail corridor.

From such humble beginnings, the American Birkebeiner (that’s the official name, but insiders affectionately refer to it as simply the “Birkie”) has since lost the 15-pound knapsack requirement and evolved into the largest and most prestigious cross-country skiing marathon in North America.  The Birkie now functions as America’s contribution to an international ski-marathon series called the “Worldloppet” (in Scandinavia, “loppet” or “lopet” means “tour”), which features one race held in each of 14 different countries.  Furthermore, as part of the international Marathon Cup circuit, it draws Olympic-caliber athletes from around the globe.  In simple terms, the Birkie has become the “Boston Marathon” of cross-country skiing in the United States;  although there might be tougher courses, probably no race bib or finish line is as highly coveted.  Being an avid participant in nordic ski sports, which include cross-country, back-country, and downhill-telemark skiing, I have dreamed of skiing the Birkie ever since hearing about it 10 or 15 years ago.  “Someday…” I always thought to myself.

Act 1: Warming Up In Washington

My story begins unceremoniously on a Sunday morning in late January of this year.  As I do on many weekends in the winter, I went cross-country skiing near Snoqualmie Pass.  But this day wasn’t like most ski days, and this winter hasn’t been like most winters, because Washington is suffering from the worst snow drought in over 30 years.  Due to El Nino, my usually reliable ski trails displayed alarmingly large patches of bare ground.  This simply would not do!  I felt that a strong pre-emptive ski strike was needed to redeem the month of January before it was too late.

Upon arriving back home later that day, I immediately made calls to several lodges in the Methow Valley, hoping to find accommodations for the following weekend.  If any place in Washington were to have good ski conditions, it would certainly be the Methow Valley area.  Luckily, I was able to find space at the Mazama Country Inn, a small but well-respected lodge situated 15 miles up-valley from Winthrop.  I had helped my brother Ted do some electrical work on this lodge while it was under construction some 20 years ago, and although I hadn’t stayed there since then, I’d never forgotten its vaulted log-frame interior and rustic ambiance.

Exactly one week later, I found myself lounging in the Country Inn’s great-room before a crackling fire.  I had just returned from a warm-up skate-skiing loop through the valley and felt thoroughly tired.  One of my enduring traditions associated with skiing in the Methow Valley is that I always arrive feeling fit and able, and the valley’s ski trails always prove me wrong.  It was reassuring to know that this fine tradition would continue for at least another year.  But I had bigger plans for the next day:  to do a 50-plus-kilometer (31-plus-mile) ski tour somewhere in the valley.  If I never get around to skiing the American Birkebeiner, I figured to at least simulate the distance on my own.  There I sat, hunched underneath a birch-bark lampshade, studying a map of the nearby Rendezvous Mountain trail network.  The fire snapped and popped, the lamp glowed, the music of George Winston and Secret Garden wafted among the ceiling timbers, and my route came together.

At 10:00am the following day, I clipped into my cross-country skis and headed out from the Cub Creek Trailhead.  It was snowing heavily, and there was already a 3-inch layer of fresh snow covering the groomed trail.  Given the hilly terrain, mild temperatures, and new snow, I was glad to have opted for waxless striding skis rather than skating skis.  My route took me up a switchbacking road to Rendezvous Pass, the 4000-foot high-point of the Rendezvous ski trail network.  From there, the snowfall gave way to sunshine and the trail began an up-and-down traverse to the Fawn Hut, 24 kilometers from the trailhead.  I reached the vacant hut in early afternoon, ate a quick lunch in the warm sun, then turned around and headed back toward my starting point.

The return trip seemed much longer because the snow had become a bit sticky and my arms and legs were running out of steam.  Moreover, I had badly underestimated the amount of Gatorade that I would require for this outing;  as a result, my legs incessantly threatened to cramp and seize up.  By the time I crested Rendezvous Pass again, the sun had dropped out of view and the air had become frigid.  In order to get my total distance above 50 kilometers, it was necessary to take a deviant return route, despite emphatic protests from my throbbing hip-flexor muscles and aching feet.  A packet of energy gel (a brown-rice syrup and electrolyte mixture, which looks, tastes, and sounds pretty unappealing but actually has a purpose) and a couple ibuprofen tablets temporarily quelled the protesters.  In the late-afternoon dusk, I hastily skied out the remaining 10 kilometers to Cub Creek Trailhead, arriving just as darkness fell.

My 7.5-hour out-and-back ski tour had covered 52 kilometers (32 miles) and 3500 vertical feet.  By a healthy margin, this was the farthest I’d ever skied in one day—and the farthest I ever wanted to ski in one day.  I felt totally thrashed but completely satisfied.  It hurt so good!  Although my tour lacked the pomp and people of the real Birkebeiner (I saw only three other skiers all day), it seemed that I had managed to redeem the entire month of January on its very last day.

Act 2: Heading To Wisconsin

The second part of my story gradually unfolded throughout the month of February.  Our El Nino drought had continued well beyond January, squashing nearly every skiing plan I made.  Even the Hog Loppet, an annual Mission Ridge-to-Blewett Pass ski traverse that normally marks the climax of my cross-country ski season, got cancelled due to inadequate snowcover.  Once again, the situation demanded drastic redemptive measures!  My ski frustrations were combined with a stern invitation (almost an order) from my very best cousin Chrissie to visit her and her family in Wisconsin, and with the impending first-year mark of my girlfriend Laura’s death due to cancer.  On the next-to-last Sunday of the month, after all of these disparate events had been given some time to gestate, another thought popped into my head:  “Hey, isn’t the American Birkebeiner next Saturday?”

Some hasty Internet searching revealed that I had missed the deadlines for mail-in and on-line Birkie registrations, but I could still register in person during the two days immediately before the race.  A phone call to Chrissie in Wisconsin confirmed that her guest room was very much available for the coming weekend.  Would my 11-year-old daughter Brooke be joining me?  Another phone call to Brooke’s mom, Dianne, answered that question:  she and Brooke were all over the idea, despite the short notice.  Dianne even got on-line to find us a decent airfare.  She typed in my credit card number, then asked me one last time whether I wanted to commit to these non-refundable tickets.  “Submit!” I shouted quickly, not wanting to give rational thinking any chance to complicate a good half-baked plan.

Four days later, on Thursday afternoon, Brooke and I were airborne and Birkie-bound.  Chrissie and her 10-year-old son Jesse picked us up at the Minneapolis-St. Paul Airport and took us to their woodsy home near Siren, Wisconsin.  Due to my concerns about the current snowpack in this region, I was delighted to see fresh snow on all the roadways.  It may be surprising for you to learn that El Nino weather patterns over the last decade have subjected Minnesota and Wisconsin to the same unseasonably warm weather and drought conditions as the Pacific Northwest.  In fact, the 2000 American Birkebeiner was completely canceled due to lack of snow, and several other years have served up bare patches and rain during the race.  However, my concerns proved to be unfounded this year;  Chrissie reported getting several inches of snow each day for the past week or so.

That night, Chrissie’s husband Gene stayed out until midnight plowing driveways for their neighbors.  Brooke and Jesse had fun indoors getting acquainted and bonding as second cousins, while Chrissie and I stayed up chatting.  She expressed to me how much her little family has fallen in love with northwestern Wisconsin ever since moving out from California about 10 years ago.  But it is a “hard love”;  jobs are scarce, wages are low, and the economy is flat.  She and Gene fear that they will have to move elsewhere—perhaps even Washington or California—to find better work.

Act 3: The Junior Birkie

Friday morning, using Chrissie’s vehicle, Brooke and I made the two-hour drive northward to Telemark Lodge near the tiny town of Cable.  I needed to register for the Birkebeiner there, and we also wanted to get Brooke entered into a children’s ski race called the “Junior Birkie.”  Naturally, this name mutated into “Junior Brookie” by the time we reached the lodge.  In keeping with the theme of our entire trip, we beat her registration deadline by a scant few minutes, and Brooke ended up being the 206th starter out of 209 total entrants.

A glance at the many dozens of nordic ski team uniforms in the starting corral told us immediately that Brooke was grossly overmatched by these local youngsters;  after all, she hadn’t even skied once in the last 2 years!

Her race involved a 3.5-kilometer figure-8 around the hilly resort area, and it proved to be quite challenging for her.  She came in 40th place out of 42 girls in her age bracket, but the hefty bronze medal that the race officials hung around her neck at the finish line (every finisher gets a medal) was a very effective salve for her initial disappointment.

After the Junior Birkie, we wandered through the hallways and convention rooms of Telemark Lodge, where a nordic skiing exposition was underway.  Brooke picked up lots of free promotional swag, and I got myself registered for the next day’s Birkebeiner.

Later, during our drive back to Siren, I took a detour along County Road “OO” (all Wisconsin counties designate their roads with letters, first ranging from “A” to “Z” then starting over with “AA,” “BB,” and so forth).  This particular road, with the very peculiar designation of “OO,” happens to intersect the Birkebeiner Trail near its midpoint;  as such, it has featured prominently in every Birkie race since 1973.

Locals always refer to both the road and surrounding area by the succinct and evocative pronunciation “double-oh.”  When the asphalt was originally laid for this nondescript country lane many decades ago, who might have guessed that it would become the most famous road in the annals of North American nordic skiing?

After scoping out “OO,” we made a stop in Hayward to take in some Birkie Week festivities.  The race organizers had compacted a 1-foot-thick layer of snow over the entire length and width of downtown Main Street in preparation for tomorrow’s Birkie finish.  Today, however, Main Street was the venue for an afternoon of citizen ski-sprints, in which two competitors at a time race up and back down the street.

Brooke and I watched for an hour, cheering the racers and admiring the high level of skill exhibited by local recreational skiers.  Upon our return to Siren, Chrissie had a traditional pre-race (for me) and post-race (for Brooke) spaghetti dinner waiting for us.  I went to bed with a full belly and a healthy case of jitters but managed to sleep pretty well anyway.

Act 4: Skiing The Birkie

At 6:15 the next morning, I was on the highway heading back toward Cable.  It was crystal clear, and a bank thermometer in downtown Spooner showed a temperature of zero degrees—primo cross-country skiing weather.  The drive gave me plenty of time to contemplate my lack of physical readiness for the 51-kilometer Birkie tour (I tried to avoid using the word “race” now).

Thanks to El Nino, I’d gotten only a half-dozen ski-days behind me this season, and only three of those had been on skating skis—my chosen tools for such a long and ostensibly gentle course.  I just hoped that my general conditioning, from hiking, snowshoeing, and backcountry skiing combined, would pass muster in lieu of sport-specific conditioning.  My deep Norwegian heritage would surely count for something too (ok, ok, I’m only one-fourth Norwegian, but that’s better than nothing).  I also recalled my friend Carolyn, who is an avid runner, saying that one of her best marathon times ever came from a “cold” effort (no specific training).  Obviously, I was grasping here.

Through the support of innumerable volunteers, bus transportation and other logistical matters surrounding the Birkie are handled with remarkable efficiency.  Before long, I was standing in the starting corral with hundreds of other Wave 10 skiers, all waiting for our 10:00am start.

We Birkie skiers were intermixed with a similar number of skiers who had opted to do a half-marathon version called the “Kortelopet” (I believe this translates to “cropped tour”).  Wave 10, which constitutes the Birkie and Korte caboose, serves as a catch-all group for skiers with no record whatsoever in terms of long races.  We were all unknown and unproven in the eyes of the organizers and, therefore, deserved no better than to be stuck in the rear.

On the positive side, Wave 10 skiers have the self-gratifying opportunity to pass many other skiers without the risk of being passed themselves!  Irrespective of position, such mundane administrative issues were pushed aside by the bright sun, crisp air, perfect snow conditions, and hordes of fellow skiers in colorful spandex regalia.

The mass start of a big cross-country ski race is really something that needs to be experienced in an up-close and personal way.  Thousands of arms, legs, poles, and skis flail in all directions, and a certain percentage of skiers inevitably take comical wipe-outs.  Skate-skiing, even more than stride-skiing, is definitely not what you would call a “compact” activity;  the lateral skating motion requires a good 5-foot buffer in all directions around each skier.  Just try to imagine everyone in the Boston Marathon carrying sideways a 10-foot-long 2×4 with carbide points on both ends, then you’ll begin to get part of the picture.

En masse, we strided and skated up and down hills along the 100-foot-wide trail.  I tried not to get swept up in the adrenaline rush and go out too fast, but I still managed to get a side-ache within the first kilometer.  All the way to our first food break at Kilometer 4.5, my feet hurt, my stomach hurt, I was out of breath and overheated, and my technique was ragged;  otherwise, things were looking good.

At the break spot, I doffed my ski jacket and stuffed it into my ski pack, where it stayed for the remainder of the day.  (Because I always ski with about 15 pounds of gear in a small pack, there was never a doubt as to whether I would be carrying the traditional “Prince Haakon” burden today.)  I also consumed some of the warm (body-temperature) Powerade and cold orange and banana slices that the kindly volunteers were handing out.

Things improved dramatically after that first stop.  My pains subsided, my breathing settled down, my technique smoothed out, the Kortelopet skiers branched off, and the crowds thinned.  What ensued for the next 40 kilometers was cross-country skiing at its finest.  The Birkie Trail narrows to a uniform width of 30 feet as it winds through the pine, maple, and birch forests of northwestern Wisconsin.  Or were these the forests of Norway?

Frankly, it was hard to tell which.  In defiance of the race clock, I stopped frequently to take photos with both my film and digital cameras.  The terrain here was very much like I had always imagined—and hoped—it would be.  Well, one part wasn’t exactly as I had imagined:  Somehow, I’d gotten the notion that the Birkie Trail is very flat;  in reality, the majority is quite hilly.  The hills certainly aren’t steep or high by Washington standards, but they are numerous and demoralizing.  Consider that the net elevation gain is only about 400 feet, but the cumulative gain approaches 2000 feet!

By the time I reached County Road OO, the preceding 23 kilometers and 1300 vertical feet had taken their toll on me.  Now 2.6 hours into the tour, my feet, legs, shoulders, and arms were feeling heavy and tight.  One attentive volunteer must have known this, because he jabbed a packet of energy gel in my face and ordered me to partake.  “It’ll cut your time in half!” he barked in a gravelly voice.  Gosh, do these things have some Norwegian DNA mixed in with the rice syrup?  Regardless, I wasn’t about to argue with him.  I downed the gel with more warm Powerade, adjusted my socks and boots, did some stretching, and tried to ignore the discouraging fact that I wasn’t even quite halfway yet.

South of “OO,” the trail gradually flattened out and the snow conditions became slightly faster due to afternoon consolidation.  The forest also opened up a little and offered wider views.

Even at my most tired point, I couldn’t help but admire this splendid ski trail—a white ribbon slicing through 50 kilometers of the Great North Woods—and the marvelous history behind this granddaddy of a ski race.  When I crested the final hill at Kilometer 45, another adrenaline surge overcame me, and I gave all I had left for the last 6 kilometers across a large pasture and frozen lake.

The 500-meter “home stretch” of the Birkie takes skiers straight through downtown Hayward on Main Street, which even the Olympic-class skiers from other countries say is a special place to finish a race.  That’s an understatement!  Thousands of spectators line the sidewalks, cheering, clapping, and ringing cowbells, while the public-address announcer calls out each racer’s name, hometown, and number of Birkie completions.  Sprinting down Main Street toward the finish line was truly a thrill I will never forget.

My watch read 3:40pm when I skied into the finish-line corral, feeling like one tired cowboy after more than 5½ hours on the trail.  Someone hung a big medal around my neck (all first-year Birkie finishers get a medal, whereas subsequent-year finishers get a commemorative pin) and snapped my picture.

Other courteous volunteers whisked me back to my waiting vehicle in Cable.  Through my post-race numbness, I only vaguely recall driving back to Siren while a warm sunset colored the sky.  Brooke and Chrissie had congratulatory signs, dinner, and a freshly baked carrot cake waiting for me at the house.  Daughters…cousins…redemption…carrot cake—these are all beautiful things indeed!

Epilogue: Licking Statistical Wounds

Back home, I checked the Internet for Birkebeiner results.  My search quickly revealed that an Italian skier named Marco Cattaneo had won Saturday’s race in the rather astonishing time of 2 hours + 3 minutes.  (I’m guessing that he didn’t stop to take as many photos as I did.)  In fact, the Italian ski team swept the top three spots in the men’s overall division and the top two spots in the women’s overall division.  As for me, I finished with an official time of 5 hours + 37 minutes, which put me at a humbling 523rd position out of 546 men in my freestyle (skate-ski) age bracket.  Surely, though, they MUST have a special category for “first-time, El Nino-induced-drought-stricken, last-minute-planning, scenery-gaping, dual-camera-toting, Pacific Northwestern tourist skiers”!  I know they do and I’m sure I did well in that category, but I have yet to find the official results.

If nothing else positive comes from the statistics, at least Brooke and I can commiserate in knowing that we both received nearly equal spankings from our respective peers.  I was every bit as outgunned by the hundreds of Midwestern men in my bracket as Brooke was by the dozens of Midwestern girls in hers.  Make no mistake about the fact that cross-country skiing is the primary winter activity for these folks (the vast majority of Birkie skiers are from Minnesota and Wisconsin), and they are good at it.  Just how outgunned were we?  One interesting and very fitting statistic says it all:  Brooke’s finishing position was about 95 percent back from the leader in her bracket, and my finishing position was…you guessed it…about 95 percent back from the leader in my bracket.  Statistical humiliation notwithstanding, Brooke is already talking about returning sometime soon to ski the Prince Haakon 12-kilometer race while I repeat the Birkebeiner.  After all, we have almost nowhere to go but up!

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