As we approach Flathorn Lake, about 35 miles out from Knik, I’m passed by several of the top-20 fast movers, including my neighbor John Barron; the dog he gave me, little Maybelline, is running like a champ even though she’s barely 20 months old. I’m impressed at the speed and power of their teams, which have a several-mile-an-hour advantage over my second-stringers. As in the Copper Basin 300, I’m definitely drifting to the back of the pack, but at least there will be lots of room back there.
Just past Flathorn Lake, where the trail enters a belt of trees before crossing a two-mile-long swamp, I hear enough barking ahead for what must be two dozen teams. Apparently everyone has had the same idea: give the dogs a break here before heading out onto the Susitna River for the run up to Skwentna. I figure my guys can use a break from the scorching temperatures and pull into an inviting side trail when we reach the tree line. I unhook the dogs’ tuglines and let them cool off in the deep snow while I dig out some more herring for them to munch on.
While I’m there Wayne pulls into the next turnoff. We chat awhile and agree to try to run together on up the trail after everything stabilizes, and then he pulls out. I follow 15 minutes later and we head out onto the wide-open swamp, which has been packed into a boulevard maybe 300 feet wide by the myriad of dog teams and snowmachines that have stopped there over the past couple of months.
About halfway across the expanse, Slipper begins to drift over to the right side of the packed area, apparently following her nose to one of the places where other teams have stopped and snacked. When I try to call her back over to the main trail, she swings completely around to the right and heads back the way we’ve just come. I notice I’m not the only driver with this problem: one of the Japanese mushers is trying to get his team pointed westward as well.
I stop the team and run up and line everyone out in the proper direction. However, when I give the “Okay!” Slipper comes around to the right again and I have to repeat the procedure. We do this a few more times until I finally just let her keep coming around in a full circle. We cut a couple more doughnuts on the wide-open dance floor before I finally get her headed off the swamp to the west. I hope this isn’t a harbinger of things to come; just in case, I decide to put Pullman in the lead at Skwentna, now that we’re away from the crowds.
Things go more smoothly out on the river. The trail is wide and well marked and Slipper keeps up a good pace. As night falls I pull out my headlamp and use it to spot the trail markers, four-foot pieces of wooden lath with bands of reflective yellow tape. In the headlamp’s beam, the markers are visible for a mile ahead, making it almost impossible to get lost in the dark.
I know Slipper is getting on in years (she’s 10) and her night vision is failing. However, Bea has always acted as a sort of seeing-eye partner for her and we’ve never had any problems at night. Now, though, Slipper keeps wandering to the right, off the beaten path and onto the less-packed snowmachine trails paralleling the mainline. Still, there’s no real problem because all of the trails are going to the same place and rejoin each other every few hundred yards. Nevertheless, I think putting Pullman back up front for tomorrow’s run makes good sense.
Almost before I realize it, we’re at Yentna Station, the first checkpoint on the river. This is one of the checkpoints to which we couldn’t ship anything this year, but there’s still a full staff of checkers and vets, as well as straw to bed down the dogs if we want to rest. There are a dozen teams still there when we arrive. When I pull in I tell the checkers to keep the team out of the straw because I intend to go out fairly quickly, and I don’t want the dogs to get settled in.
I also ask about the pistol I lost back down the trail; they say it was picked up and returned to race headquarters, and the race judges will probably decide to get it back to me at Rainy Pass or Rohn. I’m relieved, not so much at having the pistol to defend against moose, but because it belongs to Bert and I’d have felt bad about losing it. I quickly set up the alcohol cooker and heat some water to mix with the dry dog food; the dogs will certainly need the water after their hot trip this afternoon.
While the dogs are eating and resting I wander into the lodge where the checkpoint is located. The race judge here is Bernie Willis, who built the sled I’m running and whom I know. He says the race is moving very quickly and there haven’t been any problems so far. I go back out to check on the dogs just as Barrie pulls in; she says she’s going to move straight on to Skwentna, and I wish her luck and tell her I’ll see her there.
Back in the checkpoint I talk with Bernie while I wolf down a plate of spaghetti and a quart of Tang. Then I stretch out for a quick nap to rest my cracked rib, which is bothering me again. I also ache all over and feel as if I’m coming down with a bad cold. But I’ve made it to the first remote checkpoint in good order, and I figure I’ve earned a little respite. Before I realize it, I fall fast asleep curled up against the wall behind the stove.
March 6, 1995—The Iditarod: Yentna Station to Skwentna (35 miles) Skwentna to Finger Lake (45 miles)
When I finally wake up I discover I’ve overslept and finally pull out of Yentna Station just after midnight, about four hours after I arrived. I know this was probably too long a stay, but rationalize the dogs can always use the rest. The run to Skwentna should only take another four hours, which I figure we easily can do nonstop. We still won’t be very far behind my schedule, and should be able to move on to Finger Lake and Rainy Pass by noon.
One of the assistant checkers leads the team out of the checkpoint and we accelerate onto the outbound trail. The crescent moon has set and my headlight provides almost the only illumination on the half-mile-wide river ahead. We have the broad trail entirely to ourselves and we make excellent time.
Five miles later Slipper starts veering to the right again, and this time she gets us almost to the river bank on an obscure track leading up to somebody’s cabin before I realize where she’s going. When I turn the team around, the males in the back of the team suddenly pull the snow hook and surge up into the females. A massive tangle ensues in the waist-deep snow, and it’s so complex I can’t readily get into it to start sorting it out.
While I’m working to get a handle on things a spat breaks out among half a dozen of the females. To my surprise, they’ve all ganged up on Pullman; by the time I can get her out of it she is terrified, although not really hurt. This bothers me because she may be too spooked now to lead effectively for awhile. But I don’t have time to worry about Pull-man because while I’ve been breaking up the fight Yankee has gotten rather intimately involved with Blues, who is apparently a lot more in heat than I realized.
This is not good, but I’m able to get the team straightened out while the two lovebirds are consummating their shotgun marriage. On the bright side, I was going to breed Blues anyway, and Yankee was a leading suitor. I just wish he could have waited until Skwentna.
Once we’re back on the trail things are reasonably orderly for another four or five miles, when Slipper again veers onto a side trail. This time I decide enough is enough and put Pullman up front with Blackie, one of the males I borrowed from Steve Adkins. Pullman seems reluctant, but Blackie is eager and starts the team. Once we’re underway, Pullman seems to be doing okay and we cruise for perhaps another 15 miles.
Then for no apparent reason Pullman simply slows down, pulls off to the left side of the trail, and lies down. I try to coax her into going on but she doesn’t want to move. She’s not tired, and all I can think of is she’s just scared of the females behind her in the team who apparently have it in for her.
I start to swap leaders around, but discover nothing works. Even Slipper and Bea won’t go; they are both in heat and just turn around to try to get to the males. The males have become completely crazy trying to get to the females, and every time I pull the snow hook to try to get the team to go, they surge up into the females and I have to jump to keep a major tangle—and more Iditapups—from happening. I even try to put old Socks up front with Blackie, bu
t the two amorous males immediately turn around and head for the females behind them.
A dozen teams are already resting at the Yentna Station checkpoint, 20 miles up the Yentna River and the first checkpoint off the road system. Most will spend less than an hour here before moving on to Skwentna, 35 miles upriver.
I continue to swap leaders and use every trick I know to get the team started. I try to pull the leaders by hand to get them going, but the hormone-driven males in the rear of the team always pull the sled up into the females before I can run even a few steps. I sort out a dozen tangles—with a couple of attendant snapping matches—resulting from my efforts to get going. However, nobody is hurt and I’ve still got plenty of time; I reason a cooling-off period won’t hurt so I just sit down on the sled and wait.
While I’m biding my time, a couple of other teams come by. Fellow rookie Kjell Risung says he’s also having leader problems, but at least he’s moving. I hope my dogs will follow one of the passing teams and get us on into Skwentna, but they don’t. Pretty soon I’m all alone on the river; I know I’m fairly close to Skwentna, but if I can’t get the team to move I might as well be on Mars.
After awhile I stretch out on the sled and nap. In a few hours I wake up as the first hint of dawn tints the sky behind me. I rouse the dogs and start switching leaders again. On about the tenth try I pair up Weasel and Maybelline; neither is really a start-up leader but Weasel is spayed and Maybelline isn’t in heat, and I’ve tried everyone else.
Sure enough, little Maybelline, who never ceases to amaze me, jumps off on her own as soon as we’re ready and Weasel joins in. We’re on our way—several hours behind schedule and with leaders who aren’t leaders—but at least we’re moving. With Maybelline bouncing and playing up front, we roar the last five miles into Skwentna, arriving in grand style about 7:30. The checkers ask where I’ve been, and I just tell them I’ve had a little problem with some dogs in heat. They shake their heads knowingly and lead the team to a vacant line of straw.
I get the dogs settled down and locate my food drop bags. I heat some water and start the dogs off with a quart of so of soup to combat dehydration. They all drink and eat ravenously and I feed them as much as they can stand, to the approval of the hovering vets, who are watching carefully for tired dogs after yesterday’s hot afternoon run.
Talking with Ben Jacobson, another pilot and rookie musher from the Eagle River area, I decide not to leave until after the heat of the afternoon. I have to think the previous two days of hot weather have worn the dogs out more than I realize, and Ben is of the same opinion about his team. We decide to let the dogs rest in the sun during the day and plan to pull the hooks about four p.m. for the run up to Finger Lake and Rainy Pass. Ben and I feel it will be best if we run together for awhile; after all, two heads are better than one, especially when neither head is thinking quite correctly from fatigue and dehydration.
While I’m feeding the dogs, my friends Rich and Jeanette Keida find me. They were on the handler team at Wasilla and flew out last night in their Cessna, expecting to meet me here about midnight. When I didn’t show up, they waited the night in the New Skwentna Roadhouse and came out to see if I’d arrive this morning. I explain to them about my leader problems and apologize for not keeping to my advertised schedule. They can’t help me with the dogs (no outside assistance is allowed to mushers) but the moral support is most welcome.
I wander up to the checkpoint, located this year as always in the spacious cabin of Joe and Norma Delia. Joe is Skwentna’s permanent postmaster and has played genial host to just about everyone in this end of the valley at one time or another. He’s been the checker here since the first Iditarod, and is as much a fixture of the race as the traditional start on Fourth Avenue and the burled arch on Front Street in Nome. I’ve met him many times in the past, usually while flying for the race. He doesn’t immediately recognize me because of my post-retirement beard, but then he recalls me from my Iditarod Air Force days.
As many as 50 teams can be bedded down on the Skwentna River in front of Joe and Norma Delia’s cabin. The Skwentna checkpoint is a popular viewing spot for race fans flying out from Anchorage, who often clog the small nearby airport with up to a hundred light planes.
Inside Joe’s comfortable house, some of the local ladies are providing breakfast to mushers and race volunteers, and I gratefully wolf down a stack of pancakes and some excellent sausage, along with enough water and Tang to float a battleship. Then I pull off my outer parka and bib, which are soaked with moisture—mostly my own sweat wicked away from the inner layers—and stretch out on the floor for a long nap.
When I wake up there are only three teams left on the river: mine, Ben Jacobson’s, and Tim Triumph’s; Tim pulled in shortly after I did but I didn’t really notice him because I was so focused on my own dogs. I find Ben and we get ready to move out at four o’clock; Tim says he’s going to try to get out ahead of us and we wish him well.
We’re ready to go at four. Ben gets his team out of the checkpoint without any problems, but Slipper and Bea, now back in lead, balk and turn into the nearest pile of leftovers. I need some help from the checker to get us pointed out of town, and by the time I’m on the outbound trail Ben is a couple of miles ahead. I don’t expect him to wait; I figure I’ll catch him at Finger Lake, after which we can run together to Rainy Pass and points beyond, like we’d planned.
A couple of miles out I meet Tim; he’s headed back inbound with a sick dog he wants to drop. I tell him I’ll see him up the trail and not to worry about us getting too far ahead of him. We all need to hang together back here in the caboose.
Slipper and Bea and the rest of the team are running like the solid unit they should be. The nightmare of the previous evening fades and I put it out of my mind. I decide it will be a good idea to drop Blues and Rosie, the two females most obviously in heat, at Rainy Pass, but they’re pulling well for the time being and I see no need to cut my power if I don’t need to.
We cruise smoothly across the Skwentna River and toward the Shell Hills, making excellent time toward the Finger Lake checkpoint, 45 miles from Skwentna. After three hours I stop the team at dusk and give them chunks of chicken, which they polish off quickly. After a 30-minute breather we’re off again, heading west into the twilight.
About half an hour later, just after dark, Slipper stops for no reason at all. All my fears from the previous night flood back. I begin the process of switching leaders, but nothing works, not even Weasel and Maybelline. The males and females are completely infatuated with each other and nothing I can do seems to distract them. After four solid hours of manipulating and swapping and coaxing all I have to show for my efforts are several major tangles, another girls-only squabble with Pullman the target, and two more litters of pups on the way, this time from Slipper (courtesy of Rocky) and Bea (from master Socks).
Toward midnight the moon sets and I’m at my wit’s end. Just then Tim Triumph pulls up behind me. He says he’s having leader problems, but I don’t think he’s having anything approaching what I’ve got on my hands. I help him get his team around me in the hopes my dogs will follow his. When he pulls out, mine actually take off after him for maybe 200 yards, but then stop again. I yell to Tim to keep going and to tell the checker at Finger Lake I’ll camp out here tonight if I can’t get the team going again.
After another hour or so of fruitless motivation attempts, I give up for the night and make the dogs some soup. I sit on the sled bag for awhile watching the dogs curl up to sleep and think for the first time about how far back I’m dropping in relation to the rest of the pack. I’m in dead last and am stopped cold again for who knows how long.
I slowly admit to myself the problem with the females in heat—I now have six of them—is much more serious than I’d first believed. The female leaders are all affected and aren’t reliable; I can’t put my male leaders up front because they just turn around and go back for the females. What’s worse, the heat cycle lasts for 21 days, and
is only likely to get worse. If I can’t get the team to start, much less keep them moving reliably, there’s no way I can continue the race. On this depressing thought I crawl onto the sled bag in my arctic gear and collapse; I sleep soundly until the sun comes up five hours later. My dreams are not pleasant.
March 7, 1995—The Iditarod: Finger Lake to Rainy Pass (30 miles)
The bright dawn wakes me about 7:30, beautifully illuminating the Alaska Range to the west in the rich, low-angle morning light. To me, the mountains now represent the impossible dream; I don’t see how I’ll ever get there, much less through them and into the vast interior of Alaska beyond. Just behind me, I can see we passed Shell Hills last night, which means we were making excellent time before the wheels came off.
I fire up the alcohol cooker and melt more snow for water, as much for me as for the dogs. I inadvertently left my Thermos back at Skwentna, loaded with half a gallon of precious drinking water, and I’m plenty thirsty. I improvise a makeshift water container with a soft cooler normally intended to carry a six-pack of beer. I’ve brought several of the collapsible containers because they can be kept warm by tossing in a couple of charcoal hand warmer packets and I use them for medicines, film, and batteries I don’t want to freeze.
As the snow melts in the cooker pot, I dip a couple of quarts of still-cold water into a gallon-size freezer storage bag, press it shut, and put it in the soft cooler. Then I fire up a few charcoal hand warmers, of which I brought dozens because they’re so useful, and put them inside. I don’t think the manufacturers of the cooler or the heaters ever quite intended them for this kind of application, but it works. I figure I’ll buy another real Thermos at McGrath if I ever get there.
Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers Page 19