A sharp 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?