Once upon a time, when the rivers in Alaska still carried gold nuggets in size of a fist, thousend of fortune seekers broke up in the extreme north of America, settled on the banks of the Yukon and followed a common dream: to find Eldorado. Alaska flourished, fast as a wildflower after snowmelt. Settlements were built hecticly and steamers began to go up the Yukon, bringing even more people, goods and mail into the wilderness which wasn't no more from now on. Alaska outlasted the bloom of wildflowers, the heyday didn't stopped when the first snow fell, didn't stopped when the settlers began to tremble in their huts, didn't stopped when the steamers fell into hibernation. Horse and dog teams now supplied the prospectors, making their way across frozen rivers and through deserted forests. At that time the Iditarod National Trail was born: A one thousand miles winter path through Alaska's outback, from Seward on the Golf of Alaska to Nome on the Bering Sea.

Over a hundred years have passed. The gold mining dream have ended, but when in November the swamps solidify, when the first snow falls and the sea ice starts to crack, then the trail breakers of Alaska start their snow machines and make their lonely way up north. They lay the track, which has survived all the dreams and time, preparing the path where in the beginning of March the mushers start for the "Last Great Race on Earth", the toughest sled dog race of our time.

Two days after the launch of the dog sled race, we are at the Alaska Golf. Our new bicycle adventure: Iditarod unsupported. Whether and how far we manage to go, only the Northern lights know. We think in short stages, do not put us under pressure. Unlike the mushers because these have already covered about 500km in the past 48 hours. New breeds, carbon sleds and a host of volunteers who support the teams from the air and on the ground, have more than doubled the pace of the race since the seventies. On such support we cannot count. The Iditarod Invitational Race for fatbikers and runners, which takes place a week before the dog sled race, is reserved only for a select group of athletes. And so we are now at the trailhead, with normal 2.2" studded tires, a minimum bikepacking equipment, but otherwise on our own. We know of a handful of cyclists, which have ridden the trail in recent years. The certainty that these came through and the know-how, which we have acquired on previous winter trips, give us courage.

"Where are you heading to?" A group of snowmobilers stops beside us. Well, actually there is only one option to choose from. "To McGrath" we answer. "With this bikes?! - No way!" Sure, we have narrow tires, but also the prospectors, to whom the bikes were sold as a miracle machine to reach the gold fields in the 19th century, had certainly no Faties. "Faster than the dogs" was the advertising slogan and many a prospector probably invested the 85$ in the "wheels". And indeed we find evidence in the - unfortunately out of print - magazine "Wheels on ice", a reprint of diary collections in 1900, that some crazy "wheel men" have found their way by bicycle. Max Hirschberg was one of them.

As the owner of a roadhouse in Dawson he saw the prospectors pass toward Nome daily and one day he decided, "to see what he could do" and to follow them. He sold his roadhouse and his gold claims in Dawson and prepared for his journey by dog ​​sled to Nome. But fate decided otherwise. The night before his departure the local hotel burned down and while fighting fires Max stepped on a rusty nail and found himself a little later in the hospital with a serious blood infection. When he was released, it was already beginning of March and thaw was imminent. So he decided to start by bicycle instead the slow sled to reach Nome before the big "break up".

"The day I left Dawson, March 2, 1900, was clear and crisp, 30° below zero. I was dressed in a flannel shirt, heavy fleecelined overalls, a heavy mackinaw coat, a drill parka, two pairs of heavy wollen socks and felt high-top shoes, a fur cap that I pulled down over my ears, a fur nosepiece, plus fur gauntlet gloves. On the handlebar of the bicycle I strapped a larche fur robe. Fastened to the springs, back of the seat, was a canvas sack containing a heavy shirt, socks, underwear, a diary in waterproof covering, pencils and several books of sulfur matches. In my pockets I carried a penknife and a watch. My poke held gold dust worth $1,500 and my purse contained silver and gold coins. Next to my skin around my waist I carried a belt with $20 gold pieces that had been stitched into it by my aunt in Youngstown, Ohio, before I had left to go to the Klondike."

Our equipment list reads almost as long, but is more handy, as we have access to some achievements of the 20th century with high-tech materials. Two sets of thermal underwear, a trekking pants, a fleece sweater, two pairs of thick socks, mittens and gloves, hat, scarf and cold mask, Goretex kit plus down jacket. But unlike Max, who in those times could use a road house every thirty miles as a restaurant and overnight stay, we also carry a tent, camping mats, sleeping bags, a stove and food for six days with us, which probably makes our bike at last heavier than Max' wheel at the time.

In the first days the trail is just perfect. Groomed by the snowmobiles and the approximately three thousand dog paws, the path is hard pressed with icy sections and fast to ride. But we know that the region around Rainy Pass got a pile of fresh snow and that there even the fatbikers had to push when passing through a week earlier. But the Alaska Range is still far. For now, we follow the major rivers of the region, the Yentna and Skwentna. In big meanders they find their way westward and lead us deeper into the woods of Alaska.

After we have been lucky to sleep inside twice, we make our first bivouac at Shirley Lake. We caught a warm winter, but with the wind and the clear weather it is really cold this night. Time for a fire. The dead larch trees with their black lichen burn like tinder. Sparks fly out into the blue-black night sky. A satellite follows its trajectory under myriads of stars. After two hours the snow for our thermos bottles is melted, the dinner eaten, mats, vapor barrier liner, sleeping and bivouac sacks ready. We do not set up a tent. Getting up in one, icy from the breathing air, belongs to the most unpleasant things winter camping has to offer. The fire still glows in a warm red when we go to bed. And then the cold encloses from all sides. It rises from the ground and reflects from space. The fire falls victim, not an only cloud stops it. Like a rabid animal it bites firmly into everything it finds. Wheels, luggage and shoes freeze. Getting up will be icy, but until then a thick air and down layer protects us.

We are tired, but we do not sleep long. Only a few hours later wakes us a glimmer of light on the mountains. First, a fine milky appearance, it is rapidly increasing in brilliance. With intense green veils the Aurora Borealis travels pulsating and flickering across the sky, shrinks, expands and hunts as lightning over our heads. A spiritual being, extraterrestrial, filigree, seemingly alive and beautiful. We could watch for hours. We try to take a few pictures as a memory, but we must be careful that we do not cool down to much when sitting in the cold by minus 25 degrees Celsius. In addition, we need our sleep to reach Rainy Pass Lodge the next day and get there our first food drop.

Around noon we are standing under the archway of Rainy Pass Lodge, Alaska's oldest hunting lodge. The Perrin family operates it for several generations already and Robin immediately invites us in the warm lounge when we park our bikes in front of the door. "Are you the Swiss cyclists?" she asks, as she pushes a cup of hot coffee in our hands, "we have here a parcel for you." Perfect, it has therefore worked. In fact the trail preparation in Anchorage had been more complicated than expected. While we could send our other food drops to the official post offices in McGrath and Ruby by General Delivery, we had to use here the private supply plane of the Lodge to secure our next six-day supplies. Although it is less than a week ago that we have packed the things we are as happy as a child under the christmas tree when we unpack the parcel. In addition to pasta, cereals, trailmix, beef jerky and peanut butter we find two packs of gummy bears in the box. A motivation booster to keep our good mood.

From Puntilla Lake, the trail climbs to the 1000 meters high Rainy Pass, the crux on the 350-mile route to McGrath. Increasing height also means more snow and for us this means pushing. For consolation not an only cloud on the sky and around us the impressive peaks of the Alaska Range. Pristine mountains, nobody has trailed the slopes. A few ptarmigan flutter disturbed off the bushes, its black tail feathers contrast with the white. And then we reach the Happy River. It is not frozen. Open water in winter, no "happy" surprise for cyclists.

"The days were warmer and the trail had begun to thaw and at times became indistinct. Water was flowing in the creeks and rivers. As I crossed the Shaktoolik river, I broke through the ice. Water was running under the surface ice, although there was still ice on the bottom of the river. I succeeded in breaking the surface ice and, hanging on to my bicycle, reached the opposite shore."

Here Max lost his watch and his bag with the gold dust worth 1.500$, but at least he was able to save his bike - and himself.

Our river crossing is fortunately far less dramatic. The water is only about ankle deep. We pull heavy duty garbage bags over the shoes and fasten them with Duct tape around the knee. Then we push the bikes as quickly as possible to the other side. To get wet feet would be devastating.

The downhill from the pass is great. Now we can even imagine that bikes can be faster than a dog. The flowy downhill brings us from the shady Dalzell Gorge into the light. Every branch, every twig is covered with dense ice crystals, which now glitter and sparkle in the morning sun; a magical winter wonderland.

In the next few days the landscape opens. The peaks and ridges of the mountains are removed by gently rolling wooded hills, wide moors and lakes. Taiga landscape. Also behind, we have left the stable anticyclone when reaching Interior Alaska. The weather is now unpredictable. On the same day, there may be fog, snow and sun shine, plus it is windier and markedly colder. The trail is blown off, we often roll over rock hard frozen mud or brown swamp ice. At least we are on the right side again with our tire choice.

"The ice was free of snow, and for 20 miles my bicycle skidded on the slippery ice, causing me numerous falls. About five miles out of Tanana I skidded on the glare ice. When I picked myself up, I found I had broken a pedal. I returned to Tanana, and, with the help of the storekeeper, cut out wooden pedals and drilled a hole through the center of each. The pedals wore out about every 75 miles."

In McGrath we take a well-deserved break. That is where the finish line is reached for most of the fatbikers and runners of the Trail Invitational. Only a few head out to the long way to Nome and we are not quite sure if we want to continue. The next three hundred kilometers lead through deserted areas, without daily snowmobiles, only two Safety Shelter Cabins on the way and hopefully a still well-marked trail. After we picked up our food parcel at the post office and sort all the provisions, we decide to head out to Ruby as planned and thus make the Yukon our next destination. Would be a shame for the new gummy bears otherwise.

"Eagle City was my next stop. Calico Bluff was about 10 Miles farther and at the mouth of Seventymile River was the mushroom town of Star City. There were many log cabins, saloons, a hospital and an Episcopal Church. Then I came to Rampart City and another Native village. Rampart City consisted of stores, log cabins and saloons. It furnished supplies for the placer gold mines on adjacent creeks."

While some of the "citys" on the Yukon, Max headed for on his journey still exist as small towns at least, there are not many of the former gold washing towns at the Iditarod. And so are the next three villages, which are marked on our map a mere ghost towns. In Ophir still witness a few dilapidated huts of old times, Buick cars and an old VW Beetle, half covered from snow, a rusty carrier hangs in a ditch. Hard to imagine that here once lived over a hundred people and in the seventies, even gold was mined.

In the evening, after passing Ophir, we are able to reach a Public Safety Cabine. We are always happy when we find a warm place to stay, even if it means that we have to chop a pile of wood after a long and exhausting cycling day. That night wolves howl around the cabin. Creepy beautiful, but also a bit scary when we remember that we have to camp tomorrow evening. And the next morning when we follow hand-sized paw prints on the trail, we find it suddenly more creepy than beautiful.

But the next night we are lucky again. At the shoulder of the old mining road, which we follow since Poorman, another ghost town, a Chevrolet broke down years ago. And there it is now, at the front right wheel a flat tire, with the yellow "Alaska - The Last Frontier" - license plate and an unlocked luggage room. Enough of an invitation for us. Voilà Hotel Chevrolet. It keeps us warm and dry in a night when another weather front pulls over the land.

We awaken from drums of raindrops on the car roof. Not good! In recent days the temperatures have increased dramatically. Much too early for the season. Worried, we pack, but amazingly, we still can ride the trail to Ruby despite plus degrees. And in the late afternoon, we are finally on the banks of the Yukon. Another milestone has been reached.

At the Native Community Council we ask for a place to sleep because the prices of the regular accommodation in the small villages blow our budget by far. Ed and Evelyn, the two community managers invite us spontaneously in their cabin. Two stranded prospectors from New Mexico and as we little later see, two old hippies. When they show us our bed in the basement of the house, we are amazed: A proper hemp plantation grows under the heat lamp and soon the smell of grass moves through the house. Ed explains enthusiastically his method to inspire the Nativs for horticulture. "First I learn them how to grow marijuana, and if they've got it they are motivated to grow tomatoes, you know." Even on many other topics Ed has his very own ideas and theories, which we are not always able to follow without the fantasy-promoting effect of hemp. But take it easy, the main thing is we can wait in the warmth till Monday when the post office opens and we can pick up our third food drop.

Monday morning at ten o'clock we enter the post office. The thermometer shows -15 degrees Celsius again and during night twenty centimeters of snow fell. "You should quit here, you know, there's no trail to Galena," said the postman and another man adds: "Last week was all glare ice, but with the new snow from this weekend you will not get far. It will snow again, and then comes back the rain." We do not like to hear this, but we have come a lot further than we and many others have thought, so we do not want to throw in the towel. We pack our new food and ride down to the Yukon. The trail is completely over blown and only visible thanks to the Iditarod marks. They are our life insurance because the Yukon has already open holes, and who does not know the river, is well advised to strictly follow the markers. We can hardly ride, we mostly break us our trail ourself. A single snowmobile comes by, an old trapper and prospector who lives thirty kilometers downstream.

We camp the night on a sandbank. The locals were right and again it is snowing. The constantly blowing wind accumulates deep snowdrifts. The next day the sun shines, but we can ride not an only meter. When we finally reach Galena in the evening, we first get invited to the elderly home for a warm soup. The right place for us, then after eighty kilometers which we have pushed in the last two days, we look really old.

In the background, the local radio announces the weather forecast. Heavy snowfall for the next three days, then thaw weather with rain. The end for us. Under such conditions, it is no longer possible to travel further. Almost 1,000 kilometer we have traveled on the trail. But here our story ends. With a small Beechraft we fly out the next day to Fairbanks. A hundred years ago, Max had definitely not to struggle with such climat changes. He was on the ice road till mid-May, reaching Nome fast and furious:

"I skidded on glare ice. When I picked up my bicycle, I discovered the chain had snapped and broken. There was a fair wind blowing toward Nome, so I picked up a stick, put it on my back inside my mackinaw coat, and began sailing for Nome. At times the wind was so strong that I was forced to drive into some soft snow to stop my wild flight. Without my chain I could not control the speed of my bicycle..."

Max reached Nome on May 19, 1900. On the way he celebrated his twentieth birthday. What then happened to him, we do not know. But we hope he found his gold and lived happily ever after.

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Used Diary texts from Max Hirschberg "Wheels on Ice", Northern History Library, Alaska Northwest Publishing Company (out of print), the original source "My Bicycle Trip Down the Yukon", Alaska Magazine, February 1978, free translated from Brigitte & Ivo Jost, www.globoride.ch

The pictures of the "Wheelmen" are photographed out of "Wheels on Ice", Northern History Library, Alaska Northwest Publishing Company (vergriffen). Originalquellen: 1.) University of Alaska Archives, 2.) Northern History Library, 3.) Seattle Public Library, other pictures from Anchorage Historical and Fine Arts Museum