Asharp wind gusts up from the deep glacier-cut valley, and it claws its way under my rain jacket. the cold fingers slither up my spine and send shivers down to my toes. i am resting on the landform that was the curse of thousands of people more than a century ago, during the alaska gold rush in 1898. the chilkoot trail is 33 miles long; the pass, which is more than a mile in elevation, is near the halfway point. i glance up at the summit and think to myself, this is going to take a while, isn’t it? what is the writer about to do?