Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers

by Mike Dillingham

  After I mix up warm food for the dogs and get the sled repacked I start the endless round of find-the-leader again. Slipper is cranky after her night in the snow and snaps at any other dog who gets close. Bea is more personable, but she won’t start the team by herself. About 10 a.m. I finally put Pullman back up front, even though I don’t think she’s going to go.

  When I hook up Pullman, Slipper is right behind her in the swing position. Slipper seems to have a grudge against Pullman and promptly tries to bite her in the tail, which causes Pullman to start forward with a jerk. With Slipper and the other females growling behind her, Pullman takes off, apparently running for her life. Unbelievably, we’re moving again, although not in the manner I’d quite intended.

  After a few miles, though, Pullman settles into her normal leading routine and Slipper and the rest of the female heat (or hit?) squad quiet down. It looks like we’re back on the trail, and I’m overjoyed because we’ll cruise into Finger Lake and on to Rainy Pass in no time at this clip. I’m back in the race and we’re making up time.

  Now I can relax and look at the scenery and appreciate where we are. I suddenly realize we’re within five miles of my 40 acres of wilderness land on Red Creek, where I hope to finish a cabin one of these years. I staked it out with a couple of friends 12 years ago, picking out the land I wanted and then brushing out the boundary lines with a machete and a hand compass. I fly out here frequently during the summer in my little float plane to visit my neighbors’ working homestead and to just sit on my 200-foot bluff above the creek looking at the storybook view of Denali to the north.

  I wish I had time to detour over to the property. We’d planned to make a trip out there with the dogs before the race, but we were overtaken by events, primarily my cracked rib. Now I wish we’d found some way to make the four-day out-and-back from Montana Creek; the experience of being out on the trail would have been good for the dogs and for me as well, and I might have learned how to anticipate some of the problems I’ve run into the past couple of days.

  But now I have to refocus on the task at hand—keep the dogs running until I get to Rainy Pass, where I’ll obviously have to drop several of them. Fortunately, this part of the trail is in remarkably good condition and we’re really cruising. For the most part, it’s a snow-packed highway maybe six or eight feet wide, running up long snow-covered meadows and cutting through the occasional stand of birch and spruce.

  The dogs are thoroughly enjoying themselves and have apparently forgotten about the sex bomb which seems to detonate every time we stop. For now, I have almost nothing to do except stand on the runners in the glorious sunshine and silently thank whoever is listening up there for getting me back in the race.

  A little after noon we drop down onto Finger Lake and steam into the checkpoint. The checkers are there to meet me, again wondering where I’ve been. Tim Triumph is still there and he’s glad I made it; he was concerned after my guys wouldn’t follow him last night but he had to try to keep his own team moving. I explain about the unexpected slumber party back at Shell Hills and say I want to move on to Rainy Pass as soon as I can. The dogs can’t be tired—after all, they’ve done a lot more resting than running since we left Wasilla.

  Some remote Iditarod checkpoints are little more than tents thrown up next to a frozen river or lake where skiplanes can land.

  It’s barely 30 miles to Rainy Pass Lodge, the next checkpoint. The dogs are moving well and I’ve got time to make up. I think about dropping Blues and Rosie and maybe even Bea and Slipper, the main actors in the ongoing sex scandal, but decide to wait until Rainy Pass since they’re pulling strongly for now and I may need them on the long ascent I know is coming. I tell the checker I’m just going to snack the team and keep moving without dropping any dogs, but I’ll need more Heet for my alcohol cooker.

  While the assistant checker is getting the Heet, I chat for a minute with one of the chief pilots for the Iditarod Air Force, for which I flew last year. He wishes me well and I tell him I hope to be flying next year after I get this trip completed. We’re ready to go barely 20 minutes later. The checker takes the leaders’ tuglines and runs the dogs out of the holding area, past the inviting straw and distracting bits of food left by previous teams. Pullman and Bea hesitate, but pick up after maybe 50 yards of pacing by the checker, who is quickly out of breath. I thank him profusely for his help as we head off the lake and into the woods.

  We quickly leave the checkpoint behind. The team is running as if nothing untoward ever happened, keeping up a solid 10-mile-an-hour pace. This is the team I’ve trained all year and I finally start to believe we’re back on track.

  The trail meanders through the woods and down onto two-mile-long Red Lake, then up a long draw onto a wooded plateau leading to the infamous Happy River. The dogs show no sign of flagging despite the bright sun and temperatures nearing the thirties. Fortunately, enough of the trail is in cool shadow to keep the sun from heating the dogs’ dark fur coats.

  We periodically break out of the woods onto easy open swales where I can see we are making significant progress into the mountains. Then we plunge back into the forest for another mile or two of twisting excitement as I try to dodge trees and ruts, not always successfully. The dogs seem to be enjoying the run as well, looking off to the sides of the trail. Every tugline is tight and we are covering ground quickly.

  After 10 miles or so the trail begins to dip into gullies as it approaches the main declivity to Happy River. The Happy River steps are a series of several precipitous sidehill cuts by which the trail descends a couple of hundred feet to the Happy River at its junction with the Skwentna River. Every year numerous mushers crash and burn here; the spot is notorious enough for cameramen to go to great lengths to make the trip out on snowmachines and helicopters for action shots of mushers in various states of disarray. I’ve seen some of the clips from previous years and I wish I hadn’t: sleds and mushers hurtling through thin air, wrapped around trees, rolling end over end down the impossibly steep slope beside the narrow trail.

  There won’t be any media vultures here today, though—they’re all up the trail with the leaders. I’ll have to do this without an appreciative audience. Of course, I have no idea what condition the steps are in, especially after they have been battered and gouged by almost 60 other teams and who knows how many snowmachines. I’ve become completely fatalistic about it all. The only thing I can do is slow the team down as much as I can and hope I can keep the sled slick side down between the curbs.

  I’m anticipating the steps, which are still a mile or so ahead, when the team shoots down a draw into a 50-foot-deep gully. As I stomp on the brake I catch a glimpse of an overhanging tree on the right side of the trail. The dogs swing abruptly into a right turn at the bottom of the ravine and cut the sled straight for the snag.

  I have about half a second to avoid disaster. I try to throw the sled over onto its side but miss by a hairsbreadth. The handlebar catches on a protruding knob and the sled comes to a instant stop, suspended about an inch off the trail. The dogs are still pulling, keeping the gangline quiveringly taut. Several fingers of my right hand are jammed between the handlebar and the tree and even through my glove I can feel the beginnings of pain.

  With some difficulty I lever my fingers loose; I’ll worry about them later—at least they don’t feel broken. This is a very interesting situation, especially considering dog teams don’t go backward—not easily, anyway—which is what I will need to back the handlebar off the snag on which it’s hung up. I’m not even to Happy River and I’ve already got a mess on my hands.

  Looking at the tree, one solution pops into my mind. I can get my ax out of the sled bag and hack the four-inch protrusion off. Before I start swinging with a sharp blade in a confined space at a branch under immense tension, though, I figure it’s worth a try to see if I can yank the dogs back momentarily even an inch or so. I go around and grab the wheel dogs’ tuglines and yell “Back!” Surprisingly, they yield an inch or
two. The handlebar slips down a little on its obstruction and I go back to see if I can work it off.

  As I take hold of the handlebar to try to work it free, the team figures it’s time to go and gives a tremendous lurch forward. The rotten wood of the snag suddenly splinters and the sled shoots off with my previously damaged fingers wrapped around the handlebar, ensuring they receive yet another blow from the vengeful tree as we careen off toward Happy River.

  In another 10 minutes we finally come to the dreaded Happy River steps, marked by a handmade sign inscribed “Hill Ahead” and illustrated with a stair-step line. I stop the team to make last-minute mental preparations and to make peace with whomever seems appropriate. Then I tell the dogs to go, with the brake applied as hard as I can stomp it into the yielding snow.

  The first step is a sharp downgrade with a very deep rut, which we negotiate surprisingly easily. The passage of the teams ahead of me has actually helped, because my sled settles into the foot-deep trench in the middle of the trail as if it were on railroad tracks. The second step is a 100-foot sidehill carved diagonally down a 70-degree bluff; again, everything stays stable and upright thanks to the brake-gouged ditch which confines us. The third and fourth steps are equally anticlimactic and before I realize it we’re out on the ice of Happy River headed downstream. It’s a shame the photographers weren’t here—I would have loved to see their looks of disappointment at my relatively dignified passage. I’ve either been lucky or good, but at least I’m still in one piece.

  After another half mile we come to the flip side of the steps: the Happy River hill. This is a quarter-mile upgrade leading from the riverbed up a narrow draw at about a 45-degree grade. The sides of the trail at the bottom of the hill have been wiped out and the sled slides off despite my best efforts. I manage to get it upright, but now I’ve got another problem: the team won’t pull up the grade. I figure it’s mostly the heat—it’s almost 40 degrees and the entire hill is in full sunlight—so I have to dismount and walk the leaders up the slope.

  As soon as I start the ascent, the males in the rear pull the sled up into the females and I have another major tangle on my hands. Fifteen minutes later I manage to get the team lined out on a part of the hill steep enough so the males can’t catch up easily. Painfully slowly, I walk the team up the killing slope. I’m so hot I strip off my coat and hat and unzip my fleece liner. And if I’m this warm, the dogs must be miserable.

  After half an hour of stop-and-go plodding we crest the hill and I quickly find a place to rest the dogs in the shade. I undo their tuglines and let them lie in the cool snow while I unlimber the alcohol cooker to make water, as much for me as for them. I make a quick soup for them, which they appreciate; I figure this is just what they need to get moving again.

  After 45 minutes of quality rest, I hook them back up and try to go, but my nemesis has returned. Pullman won’t go; instead, she goes right back over to the side of the trail and lies down. Bea won’t start on her own and just looks back at me. I put Slipper back up front with Bea but she won’t move either. The only thing my efforts produce is yet another tangle. The males are screaming to get at the females and the females just don’t want to go.

  It’s happened again. I try every combination of leaders and non-leaders I can think of: Bea and Weasel, Pullman and Weasel, Pullman and Slipper, Wild Thing and Bea, Wild Thing and Slipper, even little Maybelline and all of the others. Nothing works. I think to myself we’re stopped cold because of the heat, but somehow it doesn’t seem very humorous.

  After what seems like an hour of frustration, I hear several big snow-machines coming up behind me. These are the trail sweeps, whose job is to police up the trail behind the race. They also help tail-end mushers within the limits of the rules and generally keep the rear of the race moving. I ask them if they can help me get my dogs started by running the leaders for 50 feet or so on foot, like leaving a checkpoint. I’m reasonably sure this will get the dogs moving so they will switch back out of the “sex” mode and into the “run” configuration.

  However, the sweeps say they aren’t sure they can do that, even though I tell them I don’t think it constitutes outside assistance. They say they’ll have to go on up to Rainy Pass Lodge and see what the officials say. Half an hour later I hear another team coming up behind me. This can only be Tim Triumph, who I know is the last musher on the trail. He pulls to a stop and I tell him my problem. We agree my dogs might follow his so he pulls around and stops. After several false starts I put Bea and little Maybelline up front and we finally start and keep going.

  We immediately come to yet another hill, not as bad as the one we’ve just ascended, and Tim leads us up and around a sharp left turn at the top. As we round the turn, my gangline catches on a tree at the side of the trail; the team hesitates for a minute and then lurches ahead. The sled pulls free of the grabbing tree but something is not right; indeed, it quickly becomes apparent everything is terribly wrong.

  Once around the bend I can see the team lined out ahead. Yankee is stretched out prone and seems to be choking. I set the snow hook and run up to him, where I see to my horror the impossible has happened: the cable gangline has broken, right next to Yankee and Silvertip. Yankee is caught in the middle with his tugline attached to the sled and his neckline attached to the forward section of gangline. Silvertip would be in the same situation except he has slipped his collar.

  Yankee’s neckline is the only link holding the still-straining front 12 dogs to the sled. He is being brutally clothes-lined and I frantically try to find a way to free him before he strangles. Unfortunately I can’t just cut his neckline because the dozen dogs in front of him would bolt down the trail. Without the restraint of the sled they could easily wrap themselves around a tree or tangle up even worse than they are now, with possibly fatal results.

  Luckily, Tim has quickly stopped his team ahead of me and is running back to help. He yells to me I have another dog down; I scream at him to cut it loose while I work on Yankee. Tim quickly frees the front dog (Blackie) who is only tangled in a line but is also in danger of choking. Then he rushes back to help me secure the remains of the gangline so the front part of the team won’t run off while we cut Yankee loose.

  Yankee and Blackie regain their equilibrium within a couple of minutes and are apparently uninjured, but I am shaken almost to the point I cannot stand up. The whole episode, from stopping the sled to finally freeing Yankee, took less than 60 seconds but it seems like a year. Without Tim’s help I could have had a major disaster and very possibly a dead or seriously hurt dog, not to mention a runaway team.

  I sit down heavily in the snow and try to think. This isn’t supposed to happen. Cable ganglines just don’t break. It’s so rare I don’t even have a spare section in the sled. After a few minutes of searching for the best solution, I decide to use the heavy line from one of my snow hooks. It’s not as strong as the cable sections so I’ll have to put it up front where it’ll only have to handle the leaders.

  Tim stays around while I tie off dogs to trees and pull the broken section of gangline; after 30 minutes or so I finally get the new section in place and get everything hooked up again. The repaired gangline seems to be in good working order and I figure we can try to get moving again. Before we start off, Tim brings back a bag with 20 pounds of dog food and offers it to me in case I get stalled again. Having already spent an unexpected night on the trail I’m short of food and gratefully accept.

  Tim pulls his hook and Maybelline and Bea fairly leap after his sled. This isn’t the same team that wouldn’t start back at the top of the hill. In fact, they’re running so well we repeatedly overrun Tim, forcing me to use the brake to keep a decent interval. Once again I start to feel like we’re really going to make it. We’re less than 15 miles from the checkpoint at Rainy Pass, where I can drop my problem dogs and sort everything out.

  After another five miles we drop onto Long Lake, a mile of wind-polished snow and ice sunk between brooding forested hills. Tim s
tops in the middle of the lake to make some adjustments, as do I. But when he pulls out, Maybelline and Bea don’t follow. I yell to Tim to wait a minute, but he’s already out of earshot. I frantically try to get the team moving, but nothing works. The bomb has gone off again.

  It’s only an hour until sunset and I know it’s going to get very cold out here in the middle of the lake. I do everything I can think of to get the team moving again, or at least to get the dogs to move the half-mile or so up to the trees at the end of the lake, where we can have some decent shelter and I can make a real fire.

  The only result of my efforts to get moving is the worst tangle I’ve had so far as the males practically leap into the middle of the females, who obligingly turn around and come back to join in the fun. All 16 dogs are involved in a massive knot I can’t make a dent in. In the middle of it, Blues is getting bred again, this time by Blackie. I don’t even want to think about the population explosion that will swamp my place this summer.

  Worse, the big males are fighting and before I can get them separated, Silvertip has cut Yankee’s eye and normally docile Socks has gotten Rocky’s muzzle so badly the indestructible Rock is snorting blood. I quickly determine both dogs will be all right, but I’ll have to have them checked by a vet when—or if—I make it to Rainy Pass.

  While I’m tending to Rocky, Silvertip hooks up with Blues. I miss getting them apart by a couple of seconds as the orgy continues. It takes me an hour to get the tangle undone and the team lined out again, during which time Blues enjoys yet a third roll in the snow, this time with Yankee, whose eye is obviously not bothering him as much as I thought. I kick myself again for not dropping Blues and the others at Finger Lake.

  By now it’s dark and the dogs simply won’t move no matter what I try. I even try to pull them ahead to the shelter of the shoreline but nothing works. Finally I give up in despair and start to hack holes in the thickly crusted snow for them to lie in to escape the rising wind and plunging temperatures. I put dog coats on the ones who need the most protection and then break out the cooker to make them some hot food.