This time there’s a tangle which takes me several minutes to straighten out, and two teams pass us. Luckily the crowd has moved back so I don’t have to worry about shooing a lot of people out of the way. In fact, a couple of bystanders help me by lining out the dogs as I untangle them, which is perfectly legal under race rules. (Anyone can help control an unmanageable team, under which category mine definitely falls at the moment.)
After we’re pointed the right way again, I unhook Pullman and switch her with Slipper, who has done all this before. I lead Slipper back onto the snow and head back for the sled. I don’t even have to say anything and the old veteran leaps off down the street with the team in perfect order behind her to the cheers of the crowd, who no doubt have recorded everything on video. I’m not sure I want to see their footage.
Now we’re moving out, swinging around the 90-degree corner onto Cordova Street, making good time as we pass clumps of spectators, all of whom wish us well. I’m starting to feel a lot better and even Ron is wearing a smile on the second sled behind me. Although the sun is shining brightly and the temperature is an unseasonably warm 25 degrees, the dogs don’t even seem to notice they’re pulling two sleds and three people. Luckily, I’m not carrying any gear in the front sled because of my passenger; gear could add another 100 pounds or more.
I’m still amazed at the power of the dogs, pulling their 600-pound-plus load with graceful ease. This is the first time I’ve run a team of 16—I only ran 14 in the Knik 200, and the Copper Basin only allowed 12—but it seems completely natural and I’m not worried about keeping them under control on the trail. I am glad, however, we’re not starting with 20 dogs as in previous years; that would be just too much.
After a southbound run of 10 or 12 blocks we come to the hill at the end of Cordova Street leading down to the 200-mile city bike path network, which in the winter doubles as a maze of cross-country ski trails—and is occasionally used as a dog track. We pound down the hill and onto the perfectly groomed trail as if we actually knew what we’re doing. The bike path runs along the extensive city greenbelt system and there are fewer people down here; the dogs relax and so do I. We’re on our way at last.
After another half mile or so I figure the team has settled down enough to let my passenger from the Big Apple get a taste of the real thing. We’ve already talked this over, and as soon as I stop he and Ron swap places. We’re off again in less than 15 seconds, with my passenger-turned-instant-musher hanging on for dear life on the second sled. He quickly seems to get the knack of it and keeps things in reasonable order as we roar around a couple of sharp turns. I look back now and again and I think he’s smiling, but I’m not sure.
I certainly hope he’s enjoying it, because not many mushers are letting their guests ride the runners today. If he can go home and tell everyone back east how much the dogs enjoy this, maybe we can overcome some of the bad press the animal rights crazies have heaped on the race in the past few years. Besides, the race can always use new supporters to offset our horrendous loss of major sponsors over the past year or two, most of whom have been scared off by groups like Friends of Animals and the Humane Society of the United States and their single-issue cohorts, who are apparently more interested in raising money for themselves than in trying to understand what it’s like to run dogs.
We all know the Iditarod is a vulnerable target for these people, who would have every dog be nothing more than a “companion animal” to lie around and get fat and lazy and probably die early from boredom and too many table leftovers. To my dogs, such enforced inactivity would be a fate worse than death. Running is as natural to them as flying is to birds. They’re smart, inquisitive animals and they live for the trail. They even get bored when we run the same training trail too often.
Some mushers have suggested the “animaniacs” establish their credibility by going after heavyweights like greyhound or horse racing. Both of these are high-stakes, money-oriented industries which have little room for mediocrity in their animals and even less patience for meddling do-gooders. If the animal-rights folks did poke their noses into their neighborhood horse tracks or greyhound emporia, they’d probably receive intimidating visits from menacing squads of corporate lawyers in expensive suits with shiny black briefcases and no sense of humor, urging them to direct their well-meaning attentions elsewhere, or else. The Iditarod doesn’t operate that way, although it’s certainly a thought to bear in mind. In the meantime, we far-from-affluent mushers can only head on down the trail and try to circle our sleds when the heat gets too intense.
Soon we reach the dropoff point for my passenger, who seems mildly dazed by the whole experience, but is apparently happy. Ron hops back on the second sled and we roar off toward Eagle River. After a few more miles we slowly pull up on Wayne Curtis and his purebred Siberians. My guys are a little faster than his, and just like in the Knik 200 and the Copper Basin 300 he lets me by. His leaders immediately start chasing my team and we run together for five or six miles, until his team gets distracted at a congested road crossing and takes a wrong turn.
Ron and I basically have the trail to ourselves for the rest of the way into Eagle River. The weather couldn’t be more beautiful (if on the warm side) and the dogs have never run better. If the rest of the race is anything like this, I’ll be kicking myself for not doing it sooner. As we cruise across the snow-covered Moose Run golf course on the Fort Richardson Army post I remark to Ron I’ve always wanted to run a dog team from Anchorage to Eagle River (where I lived for six years), but I never figured it would be in the Iditarod.
The leg from Anchorage to Eagle River is a favorite for spectators. Teams are pulling two sleds for this stretch. Here the author and neighbor Ron Aldrich (on second sled) pass a group of well-wishers.
After a tricky section leading down to the crossing of the town’s namesake stream, we haul up the long hill to the Eagle River VFW post, which has been the traditional first checkpoint for the Iditarod since the race’s inception. Like the other 20-odd teams ahead of us—and the 30 or so behind us—we receive a rousing reception. The first 20 miles of the race are under our belt. Even if it’s just been ceremonial and the times aren’t officially recorded, we’re still on our way.
Bert and Reb and Kim and Mike and Julie and all the rest of my endlessly patient handlers/sponsors are out here to put the dogs back in the truck. I’m inexplicably tired, probably from lack of sleep as well as the heat. I didn’t realize it on the way out but I got extremely warm in my heavy-duty arctic gear, which will keep me toasty down to 40 below or worse. The entire ensemble is constructed to wick away moisture in order to keep the layers next to the skin as dry as possible, so I’ve never noticed how much I’ve been sweating.
I’ve been warned about this loss of moisture and the risk of dehydration, but I never fully realized how insidiously it can manifest itself.
And if it affects me this way, how must the dogs feel in their permanent cold-weather outfits? I wander into the refreshment area and down a half-gallon of Tang without even thinking about it. If this happens out on the trail, away from ready sources of water, I can see how I could be in real trouble. Samuel Taylor Coleridge could never have imagined how true his ancient mariner’s complaint would ring here in the frozen north country: “Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink.” At least I’ll have my trusty Thermos, and there’s always my alcohol cooker, which can melt three gallons of water from snow in 15 minutes.
But today is done and I can continue my last-minute errands. Unlike previous years, when the teams were loaded up at Eagle River and trucked immediately out to Wasilla for the restart only four hours later, we have a respite until tomorrow morning. This development resulted from a dearth of snow in Anchorage and Wasilla just before last year’s race. The start in Anchorage was limited to six dogs running a mere 16 blocks or so, down to the bottom of the Cordova Street hill. The restart was moved all the way out to Willow, 20 miles northwest of Wasilla, the closest place with enough snow
to permit a link to the Iditarod “main line” west of the Susitna River.
Because it would have been impractical to move the dogs and thousands of spectators the 60-plus miles from Anchorage to Willow over a congested, mostly two-lane highway, the restart was postponed a full day.
Sleds make good places to catch naps. Tired mushers sleep in, on, and beside their sleds on the trail to Nome. Here the author rests after the run to Eagle River.
The 24-hour delay before the restart proved to be a smashing success, and the format was formalized this year with Wasilla resuming its normal role as the restart location. For the mushers and the dogs, it’s a godsend, allowing an easy shake-out run from Anchorage to Eagle River, followed by a full night’s sleep for the drivers and some quality rest for the dogs before heading out on the real trail.
For me, the extra day is a necessity so I can find the last items I need to complete my mail-out packages as well as my gear for the sled. By design, I didn’t use my real sled this morning; for that matter, neither did most of the mushers. My good Willis sled (actually it belongs to Bert and has been to Nome twice already) has been completely overhauled and is waiting at Bert’s for the ride out to tomorrow’s restart.
Like all rookies, I wanted to take so much gear it would never fit into the sled and would likely break the dogs’ backs if it did. Bert and Kim helped me weed out the unnecessary stuff, which fills a couple of good-sized boxes, but I’ve still got a steamer trunk full of odds and ends of dubious utility, but which I feel I’ll really need somewhere out there.
Bert assures me I’ll have a truckload of stuff to dump by the time I get to Skwentna. He insists I take a bag for just that purpose, ready to be stuffed full of previously essential gear and mailed back to town from the Skwentna checkpoint, which also happens to be the post office. I’ve seen it happen every year while I’ve been flying for the race, so I don’t know why I’m shocked I might have grossly overestimated my own equipment requirements. But this is different—this is me doing it now and I just can’t see how anyone could ever survive on the trail without all of these things. Bert just smiles at my rookie foibles; as he says, he’s been there, done that, and there’s not much he can do except let me find out for myself.
I finally get to sleep at four a.m. after sorting everything from batteries to booties into bags to be mailed out to the remote checkpoints. I’ll only get a few hours’ sleep, but at least I got everything done. Now I’m ready to head out on the trail. No more false starts—the next countdown will be the real one.
March 5, 1995—The Iditarod: Wasilla to Knik (14 miles) Knik to Yentna Station (50 miles)
Yesterday was the rehearsal; today it’s show time. When I leave the starting chute in Wasilla in a few hours I’ll be well and truly on my way to Nome. By nightfall I’ll certainly find out if the months of training have paid off. In any case, there’s no turning back now.
I only get three hours of sleep; I’m still groggy when I meet Bert and Kim at a local donut shop for a quick cup of coffee and a sugar fix before we head out to Wasilla. We go over our checklists to make sure we’ve remembered everything; there have been instances where harried, hurried mushers have shown up at races without things like harnesses, ganglines, and even sleds.
On the 30-mile drive to Wasilla I pass the dog trucks of a dozen mushers, most of whom I recognize. At the old airstrip in Wasilla where the restart will happen, I find a much more informal arrangement than on Fourth Avenue yesterday. The crowds are downrange near the starting chute and along the 14-mile trail to Knik, which parallels a main road for most of its route. The marshaling area is pretty much left to the mushers, which is a blessing because everyone has a lot of packing and serious last-minute preparations to complete.
Almost immediately we realize we have forgotten the bag containing the dog blankets, which I will almost certainly need for some of the thinner-coated dogs. Bert whips out his cellular phone and calls wife Reb, who is standing by for just such a contingency. She says she’ll be out well before I move into the starting chute, along with some frozen herring for me to feed the dogs enroute to Skwentna—something else we forgot about.
In the meantime, we go through another sled packing drill, during which Kim tosses out another 20 pounds or so of my hitherto absolutely essential gear as Bert looks on in amusement. I don’t dispute her judgment since I’m only running on a couple of cylinders at the moment. Looking at the still-bulging sled bag after she’s done, I’m sure I’ll still have more than enough to get me through whatever the trail has to offer.
A stream of mushers passes an impromptu fly-in trail party on the Yentna River. Hundreds of people make their way out along the first hundred miles of the Iditarod in skiplanes, on snowmachines, or even behind their own dog teams to watch the race.
The blankets and herring arrive as advertised, and before I realize it I see Martin’s nattily attired and professional-looking handlers hooking up his team for the run down to the starting chute. Like yesterday, he’s surrounded by a crush of well-wishers and a cloud of media people. I’m glad they’re pestering him and not me; I doubt I could provide them two coherent words.
Now we’re in the chute like yesterday, deja vu all over again except Slipper and Bea are up front; I don’t want any sudden dives into the crowd today. Ron is on the second sled, but this time there’s no passenger up front. We’ll drop the back sled at Knik and I plan to move on from there as quickly as is decently possible.
“Five-four-three-two-one-GO!” and we’re off. Slipper and Bea rocket down the starting chute—for about 50 feet. Then they stop while Slipper relieves herself in a ladylike manner right in front of about 1,000 spectators. Ron and I just look at each other; there’s not a lot to be done when Nature calls, especially when the called party is one of your lead dogs.
Having tended to business, Slipper responds smartly when I yell “Okay!” and we’re off again, the amused good wishes of the crowd ringing in our ears. Just like yesterday, I’m sure somebody caught everything on video; I hope Slipper’s answer to the call of the wild doesn’t wind up on “America’s Funniest Home Videos,” or if it does, that my name isn’t mentioned.
Once we’re out of the starting area we cross the busy Parks Highway as the crossing guards frantically shovel snow onto the road for the sleds even while they hold back 20 or 30 cars. Then we roll out onto frozen Lake Lucille, where the Junior Iditarod started and finished a week ago. Clumps of people are scattered all along the trail, some on snowmachines, some with their cars, some on skis, and some even with their own dog teams. They all wish us a good trip, and I sincerely hope their wishes come true.
The run down to Knik goes remarkably smoothly. We’re only passed by a couple of teams, which I take as a good omen. Once again I overtake Wayne Curtis and his Siberians and we trade good-natured jibes about the relative merits of our teams. I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of Wayne out on the trail because our teams are quite closely matched in most respects.
As we pull onto the lake in front of the bar at Knik, I think to myself how far things have come in the two months since I blasted out of here on the Knik 200. The next 100 miles of trail will be more than familiar, an advantage I can certainly use to help me get everything sorted out for the trail beyond.
Bert and Kim grab the leaders as soon as I check in and lead the team off to the side so we can drop the second sled as well as a bulky bag of booties I’ve decided I won’t need because of the spring-like temperatures and excellent trail conditions. Within five minutes I pull the hook and Slipper and Bea are leading us across the lake and around the old Knik museum, out onto the original Iditarod.
At last we’re embarked on the real journey to Nome, leaving the road system behind. The trail is superb and we make excellent time. We’re passed by a couple more teams, but not nearly as many as I’d feared. The dogs are cruising marvelously and I can honestly say I’m enjoying the ride. If we can hold this pace, we’ll be in Skwentna by midnight, a respectable first
day’s run.
About seven miles out of Knik I make a quick stop (on Seven Mile Lake, naturally) to throw some herring to the dogs for a snack. Fish is an excellent hot-weather snack because it’s got lots of moisture and protein, just what the dogs need to counteract their own dehydration.
While I’m stopped, I cinch up the pistol and cartridge belt I’ve borrowed from Bert. We’ve been warned about heavy moose concentrations on the trail and every musher is armed. In my case, I’m packing a .357 magnum around my waist like an Old West gunfighter. I hope I don’t have to use it, because it’ll mean I’ve got bigger problems than just figuring out how to get it unlimbered and pointed in the right direction.
Even wide-open trails on major rivers can conceal dangers. The crossed trail stakes here warn of open water just off the trail up the Yentna River to Skwentna.
After the fish break, we’re off again; Nine-Mile Hill is the next landmark, and the dogs take it at a lope. Coming down the other side, though, I notice that the cartridge belt feels a little light on my hips. I check quickly and find that the pistol and its holster aren’t there any more. The only thing I can figure is that the holster simply broke loose from the belt somewhere back down the trail.
I briefly consider turning around to go find it, but realize I’d probably cause more trouble running into outbound teams. Besides, it’s almost a certainty that a musher behind me will find it and bring it on to the next checkpoint at Yentna Station, and the race organization can return it to me up the trail somewhere. In any case, I sincerely doubt I’ll really need it; Ron has run seven Iditarods without a firearm, and I’ve never needed one on any of my races so far.
So, I press on into the wilderness unarmed. Actually, I figure the dogs will appreciate not having to tote the extra few pounds. They certainly seem to run a little better as we roll on across the Little Susitna River and past the “Nome 1049 Miles” sign I remember from the Knik 200—this time, of course, it’s for real.
Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers Page 18