by K. A. Tucker
The Rohn checkpoint is just under two hundred miles into the race, but the stretch they need to navigate to get here is the highest on the thousand-mile trail, the elevation over three thousand feet in the Alaska range. And once they pass that, they face the Dalzell Gorge, which, depending on the weather, can be either a delightful excursion or a white-knuckled ordeal. More than one musher has arrived at this stop with broken sleds and injuries—everything from bloodied foreheads to fractured ankles.
Fortunately, the weather has cooperated this year, and the snow bridgeways the trail crew built over the creek have held.
“Who do you think it is?” Keenan, the big-bellied man who has been running the checkpoint for the past two decades, asks no one in particular, squinting past the spruce trees and into the murky distance. It’ll be pitch-black soon; the gift of a full moon is useless behind the thick ceiling of clouds.
Each sled has a GPS tracker pinned to its front that tells fans following along exactly where the racers are and how fast they’re going, but out here, where there’s only a small generator to keep the communications team collecting and sharing race data, information is sparse and spotty. Besides, it’s more exciting to find out in person.
“My money’s on Hatchett,” Marty declares. “He was the first to Rohn last year.”
“Skip has been training hard,” Roger counters. “I’ll bet it’s him. In fact, I’m betting he wins this whole thing.”
I school my expression. I’ve worked with all these volunteers before, so I know them well. Roger’s a helpful and kind man, his only fault being his taste in mushers.
For my sake, I hope he’s wrong because Terry, the head checkpoint veterinarian, assigned me to the first team in.
“Look! There’s another one!” someone else hollers, pointing to the light trailing not far behind.
I huddle in my parka and watch the teams approach through the thicket of trees, mentally preparing myself for the steady stream of dogs arriving between now and tomorrow morning. The more competitive racers will be in first and gone quickly, while the teams racing simply to say they finished the Iditarod will trickle in through the night and rest for five or six hours. But short of any issues, they’ll all roll out of here by tomorrow night.
Once mushers clear the mountain range and begin taking their required twenty-four rest stops at a checkpoint of their choosing, the stretch between the first and the last racer at a checkpoint expands. I expect to have teams in Cripple spreading over three days.
The volunteers tasked to record entrance times prepare, and the round of cheers and applause collect in the deep, silent valley between the looming peaks, the checkpoint marked with battery-operated lights, fires for warmth, and a banner to welcome them.
“It’s Skip!” someone declares, at the same time I make out his round face.
Tension stirs inside me. I shift my focus to the dogs charging in, watching their gait. He still has all fourteen, and I don’t see lameness in any.
With a deep breath, I step forward.
“Boyd? Why don’t you take this one?” Terry declares, jerking his head toward Skip. “Marie, get the next.” His blue eyes say nothing and everything as they meet mine. I’m no fool. Wade told him to run interference. I’m fine with that, as long as whoever’s checking Skip’s dogs is doing their job.
Boyd marches for the sled team, tugging his trapper hat low on his head. They’ve parked in the short-term area, meaning Skip plans on leaving shortly.
Thank God.
I wait patiently for the next musher, ignoring the trickle of reporters snapping pictures of Rohn’s first arrival.
Two minutes later, Harry slides in.
I smile at the dogs, their tongues lolling, as volunteers descend on the team. I know each one by name, and have treated all of them from birth. There’s an unmistakable wave of relief as I count fourteen, all strong on their legs without a hint of stiffness or struggle.
“Glad to see a friendly face, Doc!” Even bundled in layers and furs, Harry’s cheeks are rosy, windburned.
“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter declares in mock upset, his clipboard out to mark down Harry’s exact time in. “We’re all friendly faces around here.”
Harry grins. “Fine. A pretty face.”
“Can’t argue there.” Peter gives his straggly, snow-coated beard a stroke.
I ignore the flirtation—Harry’s made comments like that in the past, but it’s all for show and empty of meaning. I’m about fifteen years too old based on the girls I see him around town with. I trail him as he directs the dogs to another short-stay lane, securing the sled with his snow hook.
By the time I’ve reached him, the photographer has snapped their shot and I can do my job. “All good out there?”
“It’s been better, but it’s been worse, too. A lot of icy spots.” He hops off his sled and digs out his dog team diary to hand to me. “They built those bridges narrow this year. I thought I was gonna slide off one, for sure.” He drops to his knees and strokes Bowser’s and Sheeba’s napes. “These two kept that from happening.”
“Any concerns?” I quickly scan the notes from the veterinarians at the previous stops.
“Nope.” Harry punctuates that with a head shake. “They’re running like a well-oiled machine.”
“Good.” And, unlike Skip, I know Harry will be watching his team intently. I’ve had to put down dogs for him before. He’s held their head and cried every time. For all Harry’s faults and ways in which he annoys me, I will be the first to defend his love for his dogs.
I nod toward the safety cabin. “Keenan’s got a pot of his moose chili on the stove.”
“Nah. Wanna put some more distance between me and the others.” His gaze flitters toward Skip before he looks over his shoulder, down the trail. “Saw someone not too far back but couldn’t tell who it was. Hopefully not that asshole Brady.”
Harry was not happy when he called for an update on Nymeria and I explained the situation. He was clearly pinning his hopes on a different outcome. “You really that worried about a rookie?”
“No,” he scoffs. “This is my fifth time running this race. I’m gonna win this year, you watch.” He pulls a pack of frozen salmon from his sled and doles out a snack to each dog. “I don’t get why everyone’s making such a big deal about him, anyway. His dogs are nothin’ special. I’ll bet he’s getting a rude awakening about what Alaska’s really like, after coming here and thinking he’s hot shit.”
He’s not the only one who thinks he’s hot shit. Harry’s used to having more than his share of the spotlight—being a Hatchett, being so young. He doesn’t like that there’s someone else who might be getting more attention. “Forget about your neighbor and take care of your dogs.”
“I always take care of them.” He rubs Comet’s hind leg, the one that has caused her issues in the past. “You got my back for the Leonhard Seppala, right?”
I stumble on a suitable response. It’s the most prestigious award, next to winning the race. What is he asking me to do?
“Relax, I’m just kidding.” He smiles coyly—as if that could win me over. “You done after this stop?”
“No, they need me in Cripple next.”
“Perfect.” He drops his voice and looks around. “I’m doing my big rest there.”
The mushers keep their game plan close to their chest while race fans spend countless hours speculating on where they’ll rest based on the supply drops at the various checkpoints and previous race plans. Stopping in Cripple means he’s pushing on past McGrath and Takotna, where most mushers take their required twenty-four-hour stop.
Twenty-four hours dealing with Harry Hatchett? Not perfect.
“You’re going for the gold, huh?” The first musher to the checkpoint gets $3000 in nuggets, in honor of the old gold rush town. One of many baiting prizes along the trail.
“’Course I am. I need everything I can get. Running this kennel is … expensive.”
It
seems he was going to say something else—hard? Impossible?—but decided against it. Would admitting either of those things feel like failure to him?
My dad and I have both often wondered what the Hatchetts’ financial situation looks like now that Earl is gone, how they’re managing. Harry’s coat still wears the embroidered stitching of his sponsor—a construction equipment supply company that has operated in Alaska for decades and was willing to support the sport when Earl was alive. Are they as willing now?
This is the part of this race—and this industry—that raises alarms in me. Harry may care deeply about his dogs, but when prize money and prestige dangles ahead and financial burdens weigh on his shoulders, will his ego let him make the right choices? That, I’m not so sure. “Don’t push the dogs too hard.”
His expression turns sour with annoyance. “How about I leave the vet stuff to you, and you leave the racing stuff to me, ’kay?”
I force a polite smile.
Ten minutes later, I’m happy to be watching the back of Harry’s navy parka vanish into the night, the dogs barking excitedly as they pursue Skip’s team.
From there, three more teams arrive in tight succession, keeping the Rohn crew busy as we do our best to welcome and care for each. Not all mushers are in a rush to keep going after such an arduous trek through the pass. A couple spread straw for their dogs to rest and retrieve the drop bags that hold snacks and meals, gabbing and laughing with volunteers who mill around, helping where needed.
Two hours later during a lull, Keenan bellows, “Two coming in!” followed by a perplexed, “What in Sam Hell?”
I navigate around piles of dog poop to join in his watch. Ahead of us, two head lamps approach, moving slower than the usual six to seven miles per hour, one after another, the musher in front turning back frequently to check over their shoulder.
They’re twenty feet out when I realize one of them is Tyler. I recognize his jawline, covered in a short layer of scruff and set with grim determination.
He eases his team to a halt before dropping the snow hook to keep them in place and hopping off his sled. “We need help over here!” he hollers, guiding the team behind him in with a soft whoa.
The other musher is hunched over the front of his mangled sled, blood trickling down his forehead. It’s Larry Reese, a veteran racer and another contender to win, having placed in the top ten a handful of times.
“Get Monica out here!” someone calls as volunteers charge forward, followed closely by the photographer and news reporter.
Within moments, the checkpoint race judge is charging out of the cabin, tugging on a hat over her graying hair and wiping a palm against her mouth to catch any residual chili. “What happened?” She inspects Larry with a worried frown.
“I’m not sure. I heard the dogs and saw a faint light, way off the path. Looks like he took a bad spill in the gorge. I found him unconscious, with his dogs tangled up in a fallen tree,” Tyler explains, pausing long enough to scowl at the photographer who just blinded him with a flash. “He came to shortly after I arrived, so I got him up and his dogs unraveled. He didn’t want to call in for help, so I hung back to make sure he got here okay.”
Because activating his emergency transmitter for help would mean an automatic withdrawal from the race.
Larry may be conscious now, but he doesn’t seem completely aware of his surroundings, squinting against the spotlights. Still, he tries to wave it off. “I’ll be fine. I just need a few hours to regroup.” He steps off his sled and his legs wobble, forcing Monica and Tyler to dive for him.
I’ve seen mushers roll through checkpoints with scrapes and bruises. I’ve heard stories of veterinarians stitching up gashes for them on their way through. After months of training and thousands of dollars to keep a team, no one wants to withdraw from the race. But it doesn’t take a doctor to see that Larry knocked his head hard in that fall, and likely has a concussion on top of whatever else. Plus, his sled is mangled, beyond a quick patch job.
If Larry’s not smart enough to make the right call to scratch, Monica had better withdraw him.
In all the commotion, I hear myself ask, “What about the dogs?”
Tyler’s head snaps to me, and he falters, as if shocked to see me there. He shouldn’t be; he knows I volunteer on the trail.
“Did you notice if any of them were hurt?” I didn’t get a good look at them running in.
“One of the wheel dog’s hind legs is bothering her. The one on the left. But otherwise, they’re all fine. I’ve already checked.”
I’ll be the judge of that.
As the others deal with Larry, I head straight for the dog in question, a beautiful blue-eyed husky with deep caramel markings. A quick examination tells me she’s not cut by branches or ice, but she has injured her hind leg. No matter what’s decided, she’s gone as far as she can go in this race.
I shift to the other wheel dog for an inspection, earning a lick against my cheek for the attention. From there, I slowly move through each dog, who seem in fine spirits despite their ordeal.
“An Iditarod rookie, and you’re already playing Good Samaritan,” Terry declares, his booming voice dividing my attention from my task.
Tyler has left Larry to the others and is now tending to his team, handing Terry his dog diary. “I’m just glad I was there to help.” He pushes back the hood of his red musher’s down jacket, revealing a black knit cap that hugs his head and shows off his pleasing side profile.
A visceral reaction—that same instant admiration for a handsome face that sparked when I first met him—stirs in my stomach. It’s quickly quelled by the reminder of his abrasive personality. But he can’t be all bad. If Larry was as far off the marked trail as Tyler claims, he could have claimed to not see him and sped past. Not that I know a single musher—including Skip—who would consider doing something so callous. Still …
“He wouldn’t be the first one. That stretch can be a nightmare. Claimed more than one musher’s hopes over the years.” Terry reviews the notes with an intense frown. “Your dogs sure looked real good coming in, though.”
“As they should. They’re the best team here, and they’ve been training hard.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes at his arrogance.
“They all run in the Finnmark race with you?”
“All of them.” Tyler yanks off his gloves and leans down to massage one of the wheel dog’s front legs.
I note the various badges sewn into his sleeve. A common practice for both mushers and volunteers who don the various emblems to highlight previous races they’ve participated in, clubs they belong to, their kennel, even sponsors. A black-and-white patch that’s larger than the others sits prominently on his shoulder, of a musher’s sled and the words “Team Mila” below it.
“How is she?”
I realize Tyler’s talking to me. Even in the dim night with nothing but the overhead spotlight, I can make out the pretty hazel of his irises.
He must be asking about the injured wheel dog. I find my voice quickly. “Likely a sprain. She’ll heal, but she’s done for this race. The rest of them look okay so far.” I offer a head scratch to the mottled beige husky I’m inspecting.
He shifts his quiet focus back to his own dogs, murmuring softly to each.
The reporter comes around to ask a few questions about Larry’s accident, which will surely front all the Iditarod-related news tomorrow, but Tyler dismisses him after ten seconds, claiming he needs to focus on his dogs.
“You’re a bit of a mystery around here,” Terry says, shifting from dog to dog.
Tyler chuckles. It’s a deep, unexpectedly pleasant sound. “I’m not very interesting, and I’ve never been one for cameras. I like to keep to myself.”
“You’re in the wrong sport, then, champ. Especially in Alaska. Where you from again? Finland?”
“That’s right.” Tyler gives the blond husky a head scratch and then moves on to the next.
“And before that? Som
ewhere in the lower forty-eight, I’m guessing.”
My ears perk up for his answer, my curiosity overpowering my contempt for the man.
Tyler pauses, as if considering answering. Clearly, Terry has disregarded the keep to myself comment. “Montana, originally. Near Whitefish.”
Terry makes a sound. “Been there! Drove through one summer with the wife, back in ’92, on our way to Yellowstone. Beautiful area.”
“It is. But so is Alaska.” There’s a pause and then Tyler asks, “You ever been, Marie?”
“Huh?” I feel like I’ve been caught eavesdropping.
He smirks, like he was aware I was listening intently. “Whitefish, Montana.”
“No. Never made it that far.” I shift back to Larry’s dogs.
“So Montana to Finland to Alaska. That’s quite the route,” Terry says. “How’d you end up in Finland, racing sled dogs, anyway?”
“It’s just where my path led me.” Tyler crouches in front of a lean black husky. “How is my team?”
“They look good!” Terry signs the diary and hands it back. “I know things got kind of scrambled with all the chaos comin’ in. Not sure if Peter asked if you’re gonna rest here?”
Tyler juts his chin in answer, to the dark stretch leading out of the checkpoint. “I have some ground to catch up.”
Terry chuckles. “You’ve got at least seven days to make up the time, but you can grab your straw over there.” He directs Tyler to the bales with a pointed finger and a “good luck” before strolling away, heading toward the warmth of the cabin.
“Do you want to check over my dogs for me?” Tyler asks suddenly. “You know, make sure they have your approval?”
I set my jaw. I’m guessing that’s some sort of reference to last year’s debacle with Skip. “Nope, sounds like you’re good to go.”
“Are you sure?” he frowns. “Because you seemed to be watching that veterinarian very closely.”