by Steven Swaks
“Maybe we should go back now.” Martha muttered.
“Yep, you should back off,” Joe, my neighbor, chuckled.
I swiveled to look behind me, startled. “I did not hear you coming!”
“Not surprising with all that ruckus!”
The dogs were agitated by the three humans around their territory. Five or six of them barked, others pulled on their chains. The light weight leaders observed us with a sharp eye. They stayed calm and waited to react according to the new situation. The wheelers, the dogs doing most of the pulling right in front of the sled, the brainless locomotives, rolled on their back, paws towards the sky, unable to figure out that a different species had come nearby.
“These dogs look different, are they Huskies?” Martha asked.
“Well, I guess they’re Alaskan Huskies… That’s a nice name for a bunch of mutts. Huskies are for the movies. They look great on TV, they are very strong and can pull a whole lot of weight, but they ain’t gonna go very far.” Joe looked at the dogs. “Those guys are long distance, they are light but they can run a hundred miles in a day. It’s like comparing a Ferrari to a truck.” He consulted his watch. “Got to go help the musher prepare the food, was nice chatting with you.” Joe walked away trudging in the deep snow.
The next morning started on a lighter note, the great race was still a day away, and we decided to take Martha to the river. Just like any other drive in Bethel, the ride to the sea wall was short. I left the gravel road and passed a narrow parking lot onto a small beach. I slowed down, looked at the yellowish overflow and was pleasantly surprised to find an entire solid section of ice which started on the snow covered beach. Only a narrow crack ran parallel to the shoreline and did not present any obvious threat. I cautiously drove onto the river and entered the smooth ice road. The K300 starting chute was already installed along with two large masts holding the start/ finish banner. Tomorrow, the river would become a parking lot with dozens of cars and trucks, hundreds of spectators, anxious competitors, and overexcited dogs. We drove further and stopped on a wide section of the road. Lydia, Martha, and I stepped out of the forest green 4Runner and enjoyed the silence. A light breeze swept over the icy river and twirled into nearby groves. The snow covered branches did not move, they only carried the weight of winter and waited for spring with its life giving warmth. We quietly walked for a minute and enjoyed the peace. There was nothing to talk about, we only wanted to take the experience in. The deep silence was among us, it was surrounding us.
“Did you lock the car?” Martha asked. Even in the middle of the frozen river in Alaska, her Los Angeles mentality dictated that a car could not be left unlocked, ever. Lydia and I looked at each other amused, we glanced around, contemplated the utter emptiness of the area, and finished our sweep on Martha.
“No, but… I think we should be fine.” I peeped at the car fifty yards away. There was no one else within a mile.
“You know Steven; I did not pay attention last night, the dogs next door… where do they spend the night?” Martha asked.
“They stay outside.” My answer even surprised me.
“They must be cold!” She replied.
I shrugged. “I know it’s very cold and the wind is pretty strong… but I guess they are used to it. Many animals are always outside, there’re wolves, foxes, wolverines in the area… I’ve even heard about arctic rabbits further north!”
“Arctic bunnies?!” Lydia said.
“Yeah… wolves feed on them!” I laughed. She frowned.
As we walked back to the car, we thought about the upcoming race, it teetered through our minds; it hid and came out in a burst of excitement. Tomorrow, the competitors would run through this very spot, but it would be dark and lonely in this mile one of another three hundred to go. The racers would run 150 miles of ruthless trails all the way to Aniak, a village located north of Bethel on the shore of the Kuskokwim River. They would remain there for a six hour mandatory break, after which they would run back south to Tuluksak where they would stop another four hours before finally heading back to Bethel. Throughout the route, they would encounter checkpoints where they could feed their dogs or drop off exhausted ones.
Up to twenty racers joined the competition with the winner cashing $20,000, the runner up $15,000, the third $10,000, and the last one received a pat on the back still worth a little over $1,000. To warm up the spectators, the Akiak Dash, a baby version of the K300, left on Friday evening around 5:00 pm ninety minutes before the big race for a grueling 150 miles. While the forty or so competitors ran and hoped to beat each other, the action thirsty spectators were entertained on Saturday with the Bogus 50. Besides the shorter distance, the Bogus 50 came with the contestants aligned for a group start up. In a sadistic and shallow point of view, it was interesting to see the dog teams tangling each other right after the starting line, or to witness a team leaving without the musher after the sled brakes had failed.
The next morning was unoriginal, an occasional car drove by the house, the headlight beams swiping the snow covered front yard. Once in a while, a dog barked followed by dozens of his teammates, or perhaps adversaries, who knew? Besides the tedious routine, that day had nothing conventional, it was K300 day. This day was all we had been waiting for, it was the logical conclusion after a year of patience. The day progressed like an unavoidable crescendo to a forbidden heaven, but as the sun went down, the generators came to life and the tension rose. The once quiet frozen river turned into a center of life and excitement. Forty dog teams were groomed and prepared, helpers attended their tasks and fed the dogs, mushers dressed up with layers of thick clothing and focused on the races to come. Onlookers walked by from team to team and took hundreds of pictures, the ahs and ohs of the children and cautious mothers, the officials attending the last minute preparations, the journalists interviewing mushers and the photographers snapping pictures in a blasting array of shots. Like a stadium before a game, the river lit up with a constellation of flashes and lights.
We walked in the middle of the frenzy, our breaths steaming in the cold air, roaming from team to team, cameras in hand. Some dogs quietly stood and waited for the action to begin. Others, especially the leaders, could not wait, their hind legs flexed and relaxed. Not yet, not just yet, but soon, so very soon. In a moment they would race and lurch to their fate. They were made to race and they were there to win. Their tail rose in defiance, there was nothing they could not do. Nothing would stop them, not the cold, not the wind, nor the ice would step across their paths. They barked, they sprung forward only stopped by their straps and harnesses. Their muscles bulged out under the tremendous pressure, it was time to go, now. Their eyes showed determination; there was no fear, only the insatiable quest to win.
“Look mommy, they have shoes!” A young girl yelled pointing to the dogs. The leader barely glanced at her, snarled and barked ahead of him to an invisible adversary. “Why do they wear shoes mommy?” The Yupik little girl asked bundled up in a handmade traditional coat with a furry hood.
“It’s to protect their paws, so the snow won’t freeze between their toes.” The mother kept her daughter at a safe distance from the animals and hugged her in a loving embrace. She kneeled and ran her hand up and down along the child’s back.
The officials called the Akiak Dash first. The team rushed down the starting chute and left into the darkness. Soon, the mushers and their dogs became a flickering light in the Alaskan night.
The minutes went by, one by one. The fever was rising. By 6:10 pm, the river was a controlled chaos, hundreds of pickup trucks and SUVs parked on an endless frozen parking lot. Cars turned into party cocoons with children and parents waiting for the big moment in a make shift shelter, but most spectators came out and paced the crowd to find a familiar face. They strode down to see the dog teams and came back to the starting chute.
6:15 pm, a loud speaker announced “FIFTEEN MINUTES.” Most of the dogs were harnessed and strapped. The journalists gathered a few last co
mments from the competitors. “TEN MINUTES” the host mechanically commented.
6:22 pm, another call on the loud speaker, “THE FIRST TWO TEAMS TO THE START POINT PLEASE.” There was no waiting, no wait a minute I am not ready yet, the opponent would be ready. The crowd massively surged to the starting point and flocked each side of the start chute.
“FIVE MINUTES.” The first team approached. The musher led his team on the left side of the departure point, right under the banner. Helpers guided the dogs and held them with straps. The large musher stepped on the metal break and buried the large metal claw in the ice. The athlete was content; it was the moment he had been waiting for, he was already in his zone, away from the agitation, the cold, and the cheering crowd. He stayed in the back of the sled, focused on the task to come, his red arctic combination would be his only comfort for the next two days, and his puny head light would soon be the only lighting in the darkness of the moonless night. The second contestant approached behind and stopped on the right side of the chute.
“TWO MINUTES.” Everybody was in place, the crowd had reached the best spot, or so everybody thought, the contestants were holding their breaths; the photographers were snapping shots in an endless burst of flashing lights.
“ONE MINUTE.” The dogs were overexcited, barking and pulling, lurching and howling. With every jump the sleds jolted barely staying in place.
“THIRTY SECONDS.” In an eerie feeling, the crowd quieted down and held its breath.
“TWENTY.” Hundreds of cameras pointed to the teams.
“TEN, NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN…” the crowd counted with the host. “SIX, FIVE, FOUR, THREE…” The moment was frozen in time. “TWO… ONE… GO!!!” A roar of applause and cheers rose from the crowd in an explosion of claps and flashes. The breaks were released and the twenty dogs lurched forward to their destiny. The mushers went by with the skids of their sleds scraping the ice. The clamor was still floating in the air as they went away. The crowd died down; the night was upon them, surrounding them. The sounds, the dogs panting, the crackling snow, the musher’s heart beating, it was only the beginning of a long night.
“THIRTY SECONDS!” The process started all over and became routine. The excitement was the same, the scene replayed itself every two minutes another nine times. The dogs rushed and escaped into the night. The mushers met their fate and disappeared, two at a time, their small bouncy headlights was the last sign of life before the first check point. The last two teams left with the same enthusiasm.
After the first start, Martha and Lydia had strategically retreated into the 4Runner to escape the -5°F. I did not blame them, it was indeed a little nippy. I opened the front door and hopped onto the driver seat.
“That was great!” Martha said still excited.
“Well, now we have the 4th of July fireworks!” Lydia claimed.
“But, it’s January… what are you talking about?” Martha frowned.
“Well, it’s kind of hard to have fireworks when it is not dark. They would have to wait until three in the morning to get some kind of darkness in July.
“That’s right, I never thought about that,” she smiled.
The fireworks exploded and reflected in a kaleidoscope of reds and blues against the night sky. The crowd stayed silent and enjoyed the end of a perfect evening. The final explosion announced the conclusion of the show and scattered personal cars and trucks. Little beams of lights spread over the river, the head lights bounced towards the harbor or the beach and accessed the road system. Other bolder drivers stayed on the river and went to nearby villages such as Napakiak, or Napaskiak only a few miles away.
If spectators went home, it was only the beginning for the racers. For the next two days, they endured the arctic winter mostly by themselves and away from supporters. They stopped at a few check points, rested, and fed their dogs. Some mushers surrendered to the cold and gave up. The race headquarters became the heart of the organization, and coordinated everything from keeping track of the times, to sending planes to pick up the forfeiters and drop off dog food.
The end of the race was at a slower pace. Forty five hours after the start, the first mushers arrived after the grueling 300 miles. They passed the finish line in a slow cruise or a last sprint in front of a small crowd. Applause welcomed them as they stopped and removed their goggles. They stepped away from their sled and hugged a family member or thanked a helper, they shook a few hands and told stories about their adventure. The last ones arrived up to twenty hours later. Other spectators had waited for them in a seamless rotation until the last one passed the finish line. The next day, the banquet and awards ceremony was held in honor of the competitors.
The K300 was a black check mark on the calendar, it was a beacon of life in the middle of the winter. It gave something to look forward to and gathered hundreds of volunteers for a common cause. After the last person turned off the light on banquet night, we all went home in the cold and found ourselves day dreaming about the next K300.
Stuck!
January
I can hardly remember how it all started, I was playing ping pong ball between Eek and Quinhagak, two villages southeast of Bethel twenty minutes apart. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon following the K300 and locals flew back and forth to visit friends and family. The mood was peaceful and refreshing, for once, there was no weather to wrestle with other than a crisp blue sky and an endless visibility. The first sign of trouble (if I could label that trouble), came mixed with the radio chatter. A pilot reported a distant fog moving along, but there was nothing to be concerned about, the fog bank seemed well north of Bethel and far away from my flight path.
I was flying back from Quinhagak with four bratty kids and their passive parents. What was supposed to be an easy loading -here are your seats, jump in and let’s go-had turned into an organized battle. I was not even done unloading my inbound mail when the little terrors had already boarded the small Cessna. The 207 was a new playground with seats to hide behind, seat belts to strangle the brothers with, and even a large cargo net to trap the little sister in. An arm length further, my defenseless cockpit was the bridge of a spaceship. A plethora of knobs and instruments had braced in front of the approaching enemy, the child was coming with an unquenchable thirst for discovery and need for destruction.
Meanwhile, the parents had stood outside the plane, oblivious to my growing distress. I had stepped out of the cargo bay and gave the kids my meanest look, the expression of the cold and emptiness, I was the soul reaper on my way to collect.
“OUT! NOW!” The message was unequivocal and hit the spot. The little rascals looked at me with bulging eyes, caught in their mischievous act. The adult was rebelling; it was time for a strategic retreat. The party was over and the little misfits came out without a word.
We had finally taken off for our twenty minute hop to Eek, it was routine. In a few minutes I would be there, just like I had already done twice that afternoon, I would taxi on the ramp, shut down, let the troops go, and go back to Bethel. That would be all.
But it would not be all. As we approached Eek, I started to see a fine layer of whiteness standing over the ground, far away, just above the horizon towards the North. I checked the weather in Bethel, which was also north of us, to get a better understanding of the fog’s location. “Bethel information Sierra, 23:53 Zulu, wind zero four zero at 5, visibility less than one quarter, sky condition overcast three hundred, temperature minus two three Celsius, dew point minus two three Celsius, altimeter two niner six zero…” Bethel was already blanketed under an impenetrable layer of fog, Eek would be my final destination.
The plane was approaching the village. What used to be a fine white layer on the horizon rapidly morphed into a wall. It was not very thick, maybe 300 hundred feet high at most, but it seemed very dense. Eek was right there, but it was a right there just beyond the fog line. I flew closer to the dividing line, the edge of the tundra and the beginning of emptiness. A mean giant had laid a white blanket over
the ground, there was nothing, no terrain fixture, no maybe, perhaps I could see the runway if I look hard enough. The white coating contrasted with the crisp blue sky above.
The 207 was over an ocean of nothing, I was so close to our destination. I circled twice over the airport location. I could see the little drawing of the runway on the GPS, but the big sister was not there, nothing below my wheels but a blank stare of emptiness.
I was like the defeated fighter after a confrontation, I rose, looked at my opponent for a last time and reluctantly turned around. I flew back to Quinhagak before the fog creeped all the way there and erased all options for a safe landing. I had been so close to the destination, so close to the edge of the fog, but it remained unreachable. My passengers were not surprised, it was one more flight to nowhere, a sightseeing outing, maybe even a chance to spot a caribou, no more.
“Quinhagak 1549, Norton,” I called on the VHF radio.
“Norton, 1549,” Theresa, our agent at the village answered.
“Eek is fogged up, I am coming back to Quinhagak. I’ll be there in 12 minutes with my 6.” My voice was neutral and professional, beyond the ease and false intimacy of talking alone on the radio, hid hundreds of unseen listeners. They were villagers in their homes, mothers and children in their living rooms in front of the television, husbands and friends in the kitchen around a cup of coffee. The words were not anonymous, the Delta was listening.
“Ok, you’re coming back to the airport,” she calmly answered.