Lessons in Endurance: Our 1,000-Mile Yukon Journey

What 1,000 miles on the Yukon taught me about endurance, pain, and learning to flow.

Ever since passing beneath the Dalton Bridge in the heart of Alaska, my dreams have been filled with endless paddle strokes, the surreal hiss of sand rushing beneath our kayak, and the steady pull of the Yukon River carrying us north.

It’s funny how a place can leave such a permanent mark on you. Even after you’ve gone home, a part of you is still there—floating downstream, chasing the current, listening to the rhythm of the river.

Nine months earlier, I was sitting in our living room when I confirmed out loud that I was in for the Yukon 1000. 

The words left my mouth before I had fully grasped what I had just agreed to. Almost instantly, excitement collided with fear. Some how I could feel that The Yukon 1000 wasn’t just another race. It was a 1,000-mile journey through one of the most remote wildernesses on Earth—a test of endurance, partnership, navigation, resilience, and the unknown.

There was just one small problem. I didn’t really think of myself as a paddler. I knew endurance. I knew suffering. I knew how to keep moving when everything hurt. Years of expedition racing had taught me that. But paddling was different. Technique and efficiency mattered. And when I looked around, I was surrounded by two of the best paddlers I knew—Dan and Jason. They made a kayak glide effortlessly through the water while I was still trying to understand how to make every stroke count. 

I’ve never been the most naturally gifted athlete. My greatest strength has always been my willingness to work hard, stay stubborn, and refuse to quit. Maybe, I thought, a 1,000-mile paddle from Canada to Alaska was exactly the challenge I needed. The biggest goals are the ones that force us to become someone new, and even though I was nervous, I knew it was time for a big unknown challenge. 

When I looked up, I saw complete confidence in both Dan’s and Jason’s eyes. They believed I could do this long before I believed it myself. That carried me long before my paddle ever touched the Yukon River. And when the miles became endless, when exhaustion blurred the days together, and when my body and mind were tested in ways I couldn’t have imagined, their belief became one of the strongest currents pulling me forward.

I traveled to the Yukon believing the race was about proving I could paddle 1,000 miles. I left realizing the Yukon had never been interested in proving anything.

It was there to change me.

Preparing for the Yukon

For the next nine months, the Yukon quietly lived in the background of almost every decision I made. Preparing for this race wasn’t simply about building fitness. It was about creating the capacity to show up as my best self for something that demanded everything I had.

It meant balancing motherhood, homeschooling our boys, running businesses, racing, and all the beautiful chaos that comes with everyday life while quietly pouring an incredible amount of energy into one race that felt extremely foreign to me. 

There were endless garage and on the water paddle sessions, strength work outs, physical therapy appointments, acupuncture, mobility work, daily meditations, recovery, pee practices in the bathtub (yes for real!) and research. Every detail mattered. I obsessed over gear, we tested and refined our systems, I walked through all the transitions in my head on how to eat and drink with out missing a paddle stroke, how to pee fast, what to wear, what not to wear, what tent to get, what music to listen to, how to charge said music speakers, what would go on top of the kayak vs in the kayak – every detail added up to minutes which I needed more than anything.  

I respected what this race and the Yukon river demanded. It was big in all the ways and very different than anything I had done before. I knew fitness alone wouldn’t get me to the finish. Preparation, mind set, adaptability and partnership would all matter just as much. 

And honestly, I loved that part of it. I loved the uncertainty, the challenge and stepping into something that felt just beyond what I knew I could do. 

Essentially, once I started asking myself “Could I do that race?” I knew I would never get it out of my head until I went and found the answer. 

Racing for the Win

We didn’t travel to the Yukon simply hoping to finish. We went to race. Our goal was ambitious, we wanted to win and to chase the course record. Standing on that same start line, was Nathan Faavae and Sophie Hartmwho are arguably two of the most decorated and best adventure racers in the world. They are also amazing paddlers and had done the Yukon once before. They knew the river, they knew its currents, its moods, its pace and the lessons it demanded. 

And beside me was Dan. Who is easily one of the world’s best endurance paddlers. He was also the current record holder for the Yukon 1000 along with Jason. The pair set it in 2022, and every year since he had been dying to go back. 

I couldn’t have imagined a better teammate. We have an insanely long history, and probably know each other better than we know our own brother and sister. We have been through countless expeditions, long missions, family celebrations and grief. In short, other than Jason going, we were a great pair. 

For months he had studied maps, satellite images, river flow, previous GPS tracks—anything that could help us make smarter decisions once we were on the water. I trusted him completely. All of our “test” paddle trainings and trips checked out and I gained so much knowledge and grew more and more confident in myself. 

I had done everything I could physically and mentally to prepare. But there was one thing I couldn’t “prepare” away or check off my “Yukon To Do list.” Years earlier, another expedition race and years of acrobatics had left me with an overuse injury in my right shoulder, forearm, and wrist.

I had spent months trying to heal it. Strength, rehab, mobility, and technique work all got me pretty dang far, but it was still always there like an annoying little brother or sister. I hoped that by focusing so much on paddling, I’d finally leave it behind, but it just wanted to hang on. And so, I started the race knowing that it would flare up, I just didn’t know when or how it would happen. 

Day 1: The River Opens

After a few days of waiting and preparing our boat in Whitehorse, Canda – the starting place of the race, Dan and I were beyond ready. Jason, our coach had us on a strict recovery protocol so that on the morning of the race, we would be raring to go. And that we were. 

As soon as the race started, we blasted the opening miles. Despite being off in our cadence, we felt good and were able to hold a great pace. Coming off the lake we were only six minutes behind Nathan and Sophie. By the time we reached the mouth of the river they had disappeared around the bend, but we felt great and relieved that we were finally in the current after 5 hours of pushing hard. 

In many ways, we were exactly where we wanted to be. Just behind them, but able to slow down a bit and recover.  The start of the Yukon was enormous, yet somehow intimate enough that you could still see both banks. Mountains rose ahead of us, and the current carried us faster than I imagined possible. It felt crazy to see whole mountain ranges in front of us, and actually paddle through them. Our distance each day easily took us between 150-180 miles. I immediately started to joke that that was way longer than our usual VW Van trips. The combination of the massive landscape and the speed we were traveling made me giddy with joy. I had done it. I made it to the Yukon! 

For a brief moment, I even let myself think…Maybe. Maybe we can actually do this. Maybe we can break the record. But I immediately scolded myself. “Don’t think that Chelsey! It’s far too early!” 

Three hours before camp, the Yukon reminded us who was really in charge. The sky darkened and lighting cracked overhead. Thunder boomed and then came the walls of water and hail. For three straight hours we paddled through one of the wildest storms I’ve ever experienced. 

Every time lightning struck, Dan counted how many paddle strokes away it was.

“Five paddle strokes!” A few moments later… “Three!”

“What do we do when it’s one?” I yelled.

“I don’t know!” he yelled back. “Just keep paddling.” 

And so, another mantra was born for the next 5 days- “Just keep paddling” 

When the storm finally passed, or rather when we finally paddled through the storm- we were soaked, freezing, and unbelievably grateful to pull into the first muddy little campsite we could find. 

It wasn’t pretty. But it was home and it was dry. That night, 4 Hour Fuel Expedition Mash had never tasted so good. And while I did not sleep that great, I was so happy to be lying vertically in a nice warm tent. 

The next morning I woke up with a swollen right hand. The top of it was so puffy I could barely squeeze my glove on.

“Well, okay… here it is,” I thought. It wasn’t at all how I expected it to show up. In the past, the swelling had always been in my forearm or wrist.

“Maybe the fact that it’s different is a good thing?” I wondered, trying to be as optimistic as possible. After a few strength tests, Dan and I decided I could still hold a paddle and help propel us downstream. Game on.

The first hour hurt and was incredibly frustrating and a bit scary, but eventually my body warmed up and I learned how to recruit different muscles. As the day wore on, the pain settled enough that we found our rhythm again. Later that day, we unexpectedly crossed paths with Nathan and Sophie. Seeing them gave us both a boost, and we traveled together until camp before they continued farther downstream.

Just as we were approaching our camp for the night, a huge bald eagle sat perched on a dead tree not more than 5 ft away from us. Even as we glided onto shore, he didn’t budge. He wasn’t hunting or preparing to fly. He simply sat there, looking downriver, completely still. He wasn’t hunting or preparing to fly. He simply sat there, looking downriver, completely still. He wasn’t hunting or preparing to fly. He simply sat there, looking downriver, completely still. I smiled, thanked him for watching over us that day, and for nearly three minutes we simply shared the silence. Eventually, he spread his wings and disappeared down the river.

Some moments are too meaningful to explain, you simply accept them as the gift they are.

That evening I stumbled out of the kayak with a swollen hand, wobbly legs, and a thoroughly taxed brain. It took everything I had just to get out of the boat and start doing the basics—changing clothes, eating, and getting ready for bed.

After watching me nearly collapse into the river, Dan quietly took over my camp chores. He set up the tent, filled our water, made sure I ate enough calories, and, for all intents and purposes, tucked me into bed.

Day 3: Breaking

The next morning both of my hands were swollen and both wrists hurt. Again we tested my strength and again I could paddle. Not the way I wanted to, not efficiently, not “beautifully”-  but enough. 

This was the day everything fell apart for me. And also, somehow the day everything started rebuidling. Shortly after passing Dawson City, Dan gently asked,

“Can you reach just a little farther with your paddle?” I immediately became defensive.. and then I burst into tears. “Everything hurts,” I told him. “This is the only stroke I can do.”

For a few minutes I felt completely defeated and very confused. I was racing. Shouldn’t we be pushing harder? Isn’t that the answer? To just use whatever you possibly can to keep pushing forward? My brain and body did not yet understand that sometimes you had to slow down to then speed up again. 

Instead of getting defensive himself, Dan calmly gave me drills. He also reminded me how capable I was and that we’d get through it. But only if I listened to what was going on inside my body. I was suddenly reminded of all my years as a raft guide, where I learned that paddling and making your way down the river isn’t about brute force, it’s about finesse. When I slowed down, everything around me seemed to be telling me the exact same thing. The current, the gentle forward motion of the boat, the river and even the picture of my family in front of me – especially Max.  Max has always been the king of slowing down. “Don’t rush me Mom” is his most common line to me. He notices everything, he moves carefully, he is never in a hurry,  and there I was, thousands of miles from home, realizing I needed to learn from my own child.

Finally I said it out loud. “Okay Dan. I give up. I surrender.”  The river had broken me. The only way forward wasn’t through force, it was through patience, breath, and awareness. 

By the 18th hour I was exhausted, but I’d figured something out. I didn’t know exactly what yet, but it was coming. 

That night, using my teeth and a series of awkward movements, I managed to fill water bladders, make dinner, and set up our sleeping gear.

I wasn’t helpless, I just had to adapt and change my mindset. 

Day 4: Alaska, The Flats, and Learning to Flow

Early on the fourth day, we crossed the border into Alaska. It was the day I had been looking forward to the most. We had paddled home!

The actual border crossing was wonderfully uneventful, we simply called customs on our satellite phone and said we were paddling back into the US. But the feeling of being back in Alaska, the place where I grew up, was surprisingly emotional. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, but I swear even the air smelled different. Suddenly, memories of my childhood came rushing back, keeping me company for what felt like hours as we paddled further downstream.

Later that day we entered the Flats. This was the section Dan had been talking about for months. Here, navigation mattered and smart route choices could save precious time—or cost you dearly. For most of the afternoon, I rode on Dan’s excitement. Every decision we made came with another story from when he and Jason had raced through here years earlier: which channels they’d chosen, what they’d learned, where they’d made mistakes, and what they had been feeling in those very same stretches of river. For the entire day, it felt like Jason was somehow paddling alongside us. And somewhere along the way, something shifted inside me.

I stopped paddling against my injuries and started paddling with them. The pain hadn’t disappeared. My hands were still swollen. My forearms still ached. My body was still exhausted. But instead of resisting what hurt, I accepted it. I stopped wishing I felt different and simply worked with the body I had.

I was also definitely sleepier than Dan that day. I had completely miscalculated our caffeine supply and was one full day short. The night before, lying in the tent, we had decided that if one of us was going to go without caffeine, it should be me—and it should be Day 4 rather than Day 5 or 6, when we hoped we’d be pushing even harder toward the finish. So I survived on a handful of five-minute naps, Dan’s contagious excitement over navigating the Flats, stories from his previous race, and a perfectly curated soundtrack that somehow always played the right song at exactly the right moment.

By the time we reached camp that evening, I was unbelievably tired.

“This is, by far, the hardest and most humbling race I’ve done in a long time,” I said aloud, mostly to myself. “I feel like a complete beginner.” Without missing a beat, Dan replied,

“What do you mean? This isn’t the chillest river trip you’ve ever been on, Chelsey?”

I laughed so hard I peed.  It was exactly what I needed.

Over the previous days, I learned that laughter can be just as powerful as food, sleep, or caffeine. Every joke chipped away at the heaviness, and I was endlessly grateful that Dan knew exactly when to deliver one. Despite my swollen hands, I noticed something else that evening: I was helping around camp far more than I had been just a few days earlier.

My body was adapting and so was my mind.

“How cool,” I thought just before falling asleep for another precious three and a half hours.

Day 5: Finding Rhythm

Oddly enough, I remember the least about Day 5. Maybe that’s because nothing felt like a fight anymore.

In expedition racing, this has always been my favorite moment—the point where suffering stops feeling temporary and simply becomes your new normal. I wasn’t sure that feeling would ever arrive on the Yukon as we were getting more sleep than I was used to in expedition races, and the rhythm felt different. But eventually, it came.

This was simply my life now: Wake up. Eat. Paddle. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. We had essentially turned into two simple systems moving down the river together as fast as we could go, working on one single objective: get to the bridge.

We woke swollen, squeezed ourselves back into the kayak, warmed up our stiff bodies, paddled, listened to music, ate, drifted into long stretches of silence, talked about life, experimented with my evolving stroke, and thankfully—I had caffeine again. That alone improved my outlook dramatically.

By the end of the day, we emerged from the maze of braided channels and found one final beautiful campsite. Maybe it seemed so beautiful because we both knew it would be our last. As we looked over our numbers that evening, we realized something neither of us had expected. If the river kept flowing, if the wind cooperated, and if everything aligned – we might actually have a chance to break Jason’s course record. It would be incredibly close. Deep down, we both knew it probably wouldn’t happen. But possible is a dangerous word. Possible gives you permission to dream. Possible gives you something worth hurting for. And as we crawled into our sleeping bags for one last short night, we both knew exactly what the next day would demand.

Day 6: One Last Push

Knowing this would be our final day changed everything. We packed efficiently and loaded every bit of food where we could reach it. No matter what there was no possible way we would be out another day. It was the day to push, not forcefully, not gently, but somewhere in between. After warming up, everything clicked. Dan I found our rhythm almost immediately and I felt like my body finally understood what we’d been trying to teach it all week. And then, the current slowed and the wind picked up even more. Our speed dropped drastically and there was no amount of changing our stroke or pushing harder that we could do. So we took turns reminding each other: 

“We’re doing everything we can.”

“We’re having a great race.”

“No matter what happens…”

“We’re giving it everything we’ve got.”

Those words carried us much like an extra dose of caffeine would.  Around every bend I asked, “Where’s the bridge?” Both Dan and Jason remembered seeing the Dalton Bridge nearly an hour before the finish. Seven miles left… Nothing. “Our memories must have been wrong” Dan yelled up to me. “Yes, I yelled back – VERY WRONG.” Then, with only about two miles remaining, we rounded one final corner. There it was. The bridge and the finish. Those final fifteen minutes somehow felt both impossibly slow and impossibly fast. 

Nine months of preparation. A thousand miles, 480, 000 paddle strokes, 103 hours and 46 min of paddling – all coming to an end. I looked over my shoulder at Dan. “No matter what the outcome is,” I said, “this has been the most profound and amazing race I’ve ever done. I love you. Thank you.”

When we landed on the beach, the race director, Jon was waiting.  “Congratulations,” he smiled.  “You’ve just paddled the third-fastest time in Yukon 1000 history.” Those words should have felt incredible. And what he said afterwards was very meaningful, but honestly I didn’t hear any of it. 

Instead… that first sentence landed like a ton of bricks. Nathan and Sophie had broken the course record by forty minutes and they had won. We were genuinely happy for them. They paddled an incredible race. But yes… I would be absolutely lying if I said we were not disappointed, and unbelievably tired. There wasn’t much brain power for processing that night. What we really needed was a burger, a nap and a shower. 

The Gift

After sleeping, I woke up to a body that was swollen from head to toe. My hands barely looked like my own and it still felt too soon to process everything. But underneath the soreness and the fatigue, there was peace and a deep feeling of being proud of us. The Yukon didn’t just teach my body new paddle strokes, it taught my mind a new way to exist.  For most of my life, I’ve been incredibly good at pushing through pain. As endurance athletes, we learn to compartmentalize discomfort. We think about the next checkpoint, the next discipline and the next challenge. The Yukon gave me no such escape. When you paddle eighteen hours a day on a river so massive that it almost breaks your brain, there is no next discipline. 

There is only the river. And when you’re hurt, there is nowhere to hide. I couldn’t force my way through, I couldn’t overpower it. I had to breathe into it and not just say that I was doing it, but actually do the work of being present for every single stroke, every movement, and every sensation. There was absolutely no distractions. I had to listen before reacting, I had to learn to push gently. And damn, was it exhausting! But somewhere during those five and a half days, my body did something remarkable: the muscles that had compensated for years simply stopped working. I was forced to recruit new muscles, to relearn my stroke, and to reconnect my brain and body. By Day 5 and 6,  I was producing more watts than I had on Day 1. It’s crazy to think that the thing I feared most became the greatest teacher I’d ever had. It sounds incredibly cliché to say I learned to “go with the flow.” But that’s exactly what happened. The Yukon was too powerful to fight and way too big to control. The only choice I had was to pay attention, to adapt and to move with it. 

I arrived at the start of the Yukon in Canada believing success would be measured by a record or a win and I left the Yukon in Alaska understanding that the greatest victories aren’t always the ones written in the results. The Yukon taught me patience, awareness, to slow down, to feel before reacting, to listen before forcing and to trust. 

Of course, part of me will always wonder where I could have found another minute, and another stronger paddle stroke. That’s the competitor in me and what keeps my fire lit. But those thoughts have now grown much quieter than the lessons the river gave me.

Even now, many days later, I still wake up hearing the surreal sound of sand rushing beneath the kayak and feeling the gentle rocking of the river. Some races end when you cross the finish line.

I have a feeling this one never will.