Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers

by Mike Dillingham

  I discover I only have five bottles of Heet and about 30 pounds of food left. This won’t last very long. In fact, I’ll be in a real survival situation by midday tomorrow because the dogs absolutely must have food and water. I figure in a pinch I can take the dogs one by one over to an abandoned cabin on the far shoreline, but there’s probably no food there, and the best I could hope for would be better shelter until somebody comes back for me.

  It takes the ax to chop enough polished and hardened snow for the cooker, and two of my precious bottles of Heet only yield a few gallons of cold water. I mix up some of Tim’s food and give the dogs enough to get them through the night. I save some water and refill my makeshift Thermos; my thirst is reaching unquenchable proportions and I realize I’m badly dehydrated from my efforts, despite my attempts to drink water wherever possible.

  But my main concern is keeping warm during the upcoming night. My thermometer already says it’s below zero and the wind is gusting to 10 or 15 miles an hour. I empty the sled and unstuff my arctic sleeping bag inside it. After making sure the dogs are resting as comfortably as can be expected, I take off my boots and crawl inside the sleeping bag still in my heavy overalls. I zip the bag shut and pull the flaps of the sled bag in over me.

  I find I stay warm and cozy despite the wind moaning around the sled. Mentally, however, I’m a wreck. I can’t see any way to continue the race even if I can get the dogs into Rainy Pass. I’m so far behind there’s no way I can catch up, especially after I drop what will amount to at least a third of my team. I drift off into a troubled sleep about midnight as the crescent moon dips below the mountains to the west. I think to myself it’s a cold moon indeed.

  March 8, 1995—The Iditarod: Rainy Pass Checkpoint

  The wind howls fitfully across the lake all night, but I’m warm in my cocoon. I peek out once or twice; the dogs are sleeping soundly, their dark shapes dimly silhouetted against the lake’s frozen white surface. Their apparent good condition gives me some comfort.

  The sun rises about seven and I slowly muster the courage to face the coming day. Up on the ridgeline above the lake, I can see big spruces whipping wildly in the wind blowing down from Rainy Pass. Here in the deep depression enfolding the lake, only an occasional gust penetrates and the temperature stays down around 10 below zero.

  I quickly fire up the cooker with my last three bottles of Heet. I manage to get the water moderately hot, which I know the dogs will appreciate after their cold night on the ice. I mix the warm water in with the last of the dog food and give the dogs their breakfast. They all eat hungrily, which is a good sign in itself.

  When they are finished I collect the bowls and begin the normal getting-ready-to-go routine, which I hope will get them focused on moving. After I pack the sled and finish hooking up, the team actually starts, although they stop after maybe 50 yards. Trying not to lose momentum, I keep switching leaders, but nothing seems to work and gradually the dogs start to lose interest and lie down in the rapidly warming sun.

  I’m beyond hope. I have to assume this is the absolute, bitter end of my year of work; I can’t think of anything more I can do. I just sit down on the sled and wait for somebody to come back from the checkpoint to see why I’m not there yet. I even consider stomping out a message in the snow in case one of the Iditarod Air Force planes comes over.

  About noon I finally hear the whine of snowmachines coming down the trail from Rainy Pass. It’s two of the trail sweeps who passed me yesterday. One says Jack Niggemyer, the race manager, has told them to get back down the trail and find out what happened to me. I figure if Jack has had to personally order my rescue I’m already counted out of the race. At least I can make a good show about getting into the Rainy Pass checkpoint to scratch.

  The trail sweeps offer any assistance I need and I repeat my request of 24 hours ago—grab the leaders and lead them on foot while I drag the brake to hold back the males. I put Slipper and Bea up front; they are still my best bet despite their being wildly in heat and thus the ringleaders of the conspiracy that has defeated my best efforts. I figure they can have one last chance for glory as we make our final run into Rainy Pass Lodge.

  A hunting lodge on Puntilla Lake serves as the Rainy Pass checkpoint. This is the last checkpoint before mushers push on to Rainy Pass itself and down into Dalzell Gorge.

  One of the sweeps begins to trot with the leaders and they seem to respond. After a couple of tries and 100 yards my new assistant is completely winded but the team is moving. The other sweep pulls ahead of the team and Slipper and Bea accelerate off the lake and up the trail behind his snowmachine. He maintains position ahead of me for maybe a mile and when I am sure the dogs are moving on their own I wave him on. Unfortunately, I’m almost positive his actions constitute mechanized assistance, or at least pacing, and I’m reasonably certain his help will cement my disqualification if I don’t scratch when I reach Rainy Pass.

  Nevertheless, it’s a grand ride and the team is once more running like the finely tuned machine I trained over the past nine months. But it’s all bittersweet because I don’t see any way I can go on after Rainy Pass. In the bright sunshine we sweep onto Puntilla Lake and roll into the checkpoint. The checkers and the vets are waiting for me and give me a warm welcome.

  But there are three Iditarod Air Force airplanes on the lake waiting to go with their engines warm, and everyone is obviously ready to close down the checkpoint and move on. This only reinforces my belief I’ve been declared surplus and without giving the matter any further thought I tell the checker I want to scratch.

  The vet immediately gives my dogs a thorough examination and tells me I should drop three of them: Weasel has broken a tooth and has very sore feet, Yankee’s eye looks a mess although it really isn’t serious, and Rocky’s nose has stopped bleeding but he still looks like an old boxer who’s gone too many rounds with the new champ. If I also drop the four most troublesome females— Slipper, Bea, Blues, and Rosie—I’ll be down to 10 dogs at best, even if I’m not disqualified and I can talk the vet into letting me keep Yankee or Rocky.

  When the checker brings me the official scratch form a little later, I sign it quickly, wanting to get this depressing business behind me. I’ve met the checker on previous races and we talk for a minute before he moves on to load the planes. He says he would have liked to see me go on, and I tell him I thought I would have been disqualified. He doubts that would have been the case, but thinks my decision may turn out to be a good one anyway because the wind is coming up in the pass and it could be a nasty turn in the mountains tonight.

  We part and the planes are quickly loaded—Yankee and Weasel get free rides back to town since they were dropped before I officially scratched—and the checkpoint staff disappears toward their new posts on up the trail. I bed down the remaining dogs and trudge into the lodge to make a call on the radiophone to charter a plane to pick up me and the dogs and the sled. I also call Bert, but he’s not back from work yet and I have to tell Kim I’ve scratched because of six dogs in heat. (This is the official reason given to the media as well; I’m sure I’ll hear about my doggie bordello for months to come from people I don’t even know.)

  I grab a sandwich in the lodge and guzzle about a gallon of Tang while I try to put everything into perspective. In the fullness of time—actually only a few hours—I come to realize I may have made a serious mistake in scratching. Now that I’ve come to my senses, I can see things from a broader perspective. True, I would have had to drop at least five and possibly seven key dogs, and I would have been hard pressed to keep up the necessary pace with the remaining ones. Indeed, I would in all likelihood have been forced to withdraw at McGrath for being more than 72 hours behind the leaders (who are blazing a record-shattering pace on the near-perfect trail).

  But I might have regained the use of my male leaders, which would have given me at least a couple of good dogs up front. I could probably have made it over Rainy Pass and tested myself on the Dalzell Gorge and the Farewel
l Burn. I might even have discovered less really is more, without the unending disruptions of the previous days. After all, plenty of mushers have completed the race from this far back with fewer dogs than I would have had.

  Now I’ll never know, at least not until next year, and that’s rapidly becoming one of the hardest pills I’ve ever had to swallow. I wish I could roll back the clock a few hours and reconsider my hasty decision. But what’s done is done, and I’ve made myself a very thorny bed to lie in for the next 12 months. About the only thing I know for certain is I absolutely, positively have to go again next year.

  The Iditarod Air Force hauls everything from dog food to passengers along the trail. This skiplane holds 600 pounds of dog food for an isolated checkpoint.

  March 9, 1995

  Rainy Pass and Montana Creek, Alaska

  I spend the night tossing and turning in the recently vacated checker’s cabin, alternately imagining myself out on the trail to Rohn and points west and trying to figure out how I can do it next year and what I’ll do differently. After one of the worst nights I can remember, I’m up at dawn and out with the dogs. The wind that whipped up three-foot drifts overnight has abated and the temperature is still warm, in the twenties. I am tempted almost beyond resistance to hook up and head for the outbound trail, prominently marked a few yards from my sled.

  Even as I look wistfully toward the ramparts of Rainy Pass, only 10 miles distant, the lodge manager rumbles by on his snowmachine picking up the lath trail markers. As I watch him dismantling the trail itself, I realize it is all now really, finally over. I try to busy myself breaking down the sled and getting my gear ready for pickup, but every few minutes I catch myself gazing westward and wondering if I’ve done the right thing.

  Early in the afternoon the plane I’ve chartered arrives and we load the dogs and some of my gear. The sled and the rest of the equipment will have to wait a few days. As we head back to civilization we roughly parallel the trail, which I now see in a completely new light.

  Long Lake glitters like cut crystal in the sunlight, looking just as cold as the endless night we spent in its icy embrace. The hill up from Happy River and the site of the broken gangline look even worse from the air. At the foot of the hill, though, are several teams waiting to ascend it—Joe Redington’s “tour to Nome” with half a dozen paying customers-cum-mushers. Last year rumor has it he charged $15,000 a head for what amounted to a mushing dude ranch with all the trimmings, running a few days behind the race all the way to Nome. He sold out the trip, and did the same this year. They seem to be having a slow time of it up the hill, and I can understand why. I wish them well as we speed eastward overhead.

  I’d forgotten how marvelously a plane can compress the trail. In a few minutes we pass Finger Lake; the checkpoint shows no sign of activity now. My impromptu campsite near Shell Lake hoves into view shortly. I really was a lot farther along toward Finger Lake than I believed—much more than halfway—but it might as well have been a hundred miles as long as the dogs wouldn’t go. The trail still looks good; I hope it’s as inviting next year.

  Overhead Skwentna I can see life has returned to normal at Joe Delia’s. Most of the straw has been cleaned up from the river and even the mountain of Idita-trash has been airlifted out by the Iditarod Air Force. My first night’s unwilling stopping place on the Yentna River is just around the bend from the checkpoint; again, even if I’d known how close I was, I couldn’t have done anything about it.

  On down the Yentna we soar, speeding over miles of river I’ve flown hundreds of times in my own plane. Now I know it intimately in a way few people can. It will never be the same for me now that I’ve run it with dogs. In fact, I don’t think I can ever fly anywhere any more without unconsciously wondering how it would be on the ground with a smoothly running team. All too quickly we glide to a stop at Kashwitna Lake on the Parks Highway. Boyd Gochanour, an old friend who runs the air service, meets me and listens to my tale in the office over coffee. Again, I’ve been here many, many times, but everything seems different now. Boyd ran dogs many years ago and understands; the sympathy is more than welcome.

  March 10-22, 1995

  Montana Creek, Talkeetna, and Anchorage, Alaska

  Within a few days I’m trying to get back to civilian life but it’s not easy. I’ve got a lot of things to think about and it’s tough to put everything back together.

  Among other things, I busy myself getting on the substitute teaching roster and working on my full-time teaching application for next fall. In talking to other teachers, I do make the happy discovery that most principals in the Mat-Su School District (the home of the Iditarod, after all) are more than willing to let their teachers run the Iditarod, although it involves a week or two of unpaid leave.

  I make a quick stop in Anchorage to thank the kids and teachers at Mount Spurr for their support. Before I’m three steps inside the front door, the principal collars me to offer his condolences, but he also says everyone was proud of me for even making it to the starting line. I don’t know what to say; apparently what has been a calamitous disappointment for me has been seen quite differently by others.

  Then my former host teacher walks in and adds the touch that brings me back to the world of the living. He says the day after I scratched at Rainy Pass, the kids ran frantically into the classroom carrying the sports section of the Daily News, in which my scratch was listed along with the reason. They couldn’t wait to tell him how “Mr. Bowers’ dogs overheated and had puppies!” Leave it to the kids to put it all back in perspective.

  I also get a real boost when Hudson Air Service in Talkeetna hires me on for the season as a regular pilot. Cliff Hudson is one of the most respected of the old-time bush pilots, having helped pioneer the thriving Mt. McKinley aviation business almost 50 years ago. Cliff’s son, Jay, the chief pilot, tells me I’ll be flying climbers to the glaciers within a month, as well as taking tourists from all over the world on sight-seeing flights around The Mountain.

  Working as a “Denali Flyer” is something else I’ve always wanted to do, almost as much as running the Iditarod, and flying for Cliff is the best of all possible worlds. Even better, Cliff also agrees to lease my idle and increasingly unaffordable Cessna 206, which I’d been trying to sell. It seems things are actually working out for me; maybe my travails weren’t in vain.

  To prove to myself I really mean to go again next year, I call John Allison, a well regarded local musher who hasn’t run the Iditarod but who has an excellent line of dogs, and tell him I’m interested in two lead dogs he tried back in February to get me to take on the race. Since Bert has said he might want to run the race next year, I can’t count on using his dogs, which means I have to try to put together a new team. John and I meet that evening and close the deal and I take the dogs home with me. Buck and Black Ace are older dogs, eight years old, but Buck in particular is a proven leader, and I’m never again going to be without a trustworthy dog up front who will start the team under any conditions.

  Any outside observer would probably still think I’m not of sound mind, throwing money and hope at next year’s race when the front runners in this year’s trek aren’t even to the coast. But this is important to me, a sign of commitment I have to make. Besides, now I have another month of decent snow to solidify my new core team, an advantage I wish I’d had last year.

  Despite my determination to do the race right in 1996, I still have to live with this year’s ongoing coverage. The race roars to a shockingly fast finish. Montana musher Doug Swingley wins all the marbles (and $52,500 plus a new Dodge truck) in an astounding 9 days and 2 hours. While I was dejectedly camped on Long Lake he was rocketing out of Iditarod, more than 300 miles ahead of me, with nobody even close to him. Even Martin Buser can’t catch him; Martin knocks several hours off his own record-smashing 1994 run but it’s only good enough for a distant second.

  Of course, I never planned to run anywhere near the big boys (and girls). Every day I check the newspaper to se
e how far my friends and fellow rookies—the ones I should still be running with—have progressed. On Saturday I find out Barrie has been forced to scratch at Iditarod. Two of her leaders were hurt going across the Farewell Burn, and her last decent front-end dog pulled a shoulder on the trail between Ophir and Iditarod. Without leaders, she can’t get her team started, and once started can’t maintain headway for more than an hour or two. By the time she finally limps into Iditarod, she’s completely burned out. I can sympathize, because that’s exactly the same position I was in, only for a different reason.

  A few days later, Diana Moroney, who gave me my first four dogs, is running for a solid top-20 finish when her sled rams a tree in the Blueberry Hills north of Unalakleet. She barely limps into Shaktoolik with painful injuries. She’s hurt badly enough to have to scratch.

  My friend and fellow rookie Wayne Curtis plods on with his Siberi-ans, slow but sure and holding in the forties; he finishes in just under 15 days in 41st place. I hope his final leg into Nome from Safety was as memorable as our last few miles into Meier’s Lake under the northern lights and the full moon in the Copper Basin two months ago.

  Rookie Max Hall, a Briton whom I got to know reasonably well before the race, makes it to Nome after braving a horrendous series of storms that bedevil him almost all the way from Unalakleet. He arrives on Front Street chilled to the bone and looking like the abominable snowman, but is cheerful and polite and very, very British to the end. The newspapers hail him as a reincarnation of the gallant explorers and adventurers who built the Empire.