If he has a serious flaw, it’s his speed: he’ll get you where you want to go, but you go at the “speed of Socks,” which is about eight or nine miles an hour tops—unless he’s excited about something, such as a sprightly young female running next to him. This is why he’s not pulling up front for one of the Big Names any more.
On balance, though, he’s really quite an extraordinary dog. I’ll be the fourth musher he’s guided along the Iditarod. He took Vern Halter there first; Bert bought him for the 1993 race and then loaned him to Bruce Moroney for the 1994 trek. Last year I should have just let him take me to Nome if I’d had any common sense, but I didn’t really realize what an asset he was—and is. This year I’m fully convinced if I can just stand on the runners long enough, Socks will eventually get me to the City of the Golden Beaches.
Just in case, I’ve got four other leaders behind him in the bullpen. Pull-man went to Nome with Vern Halter in 1994 just before Bert bought her; I ran her last year and I know she can add extra speed under many conditions, but she’s not as strong and consistent as Socks. Old Buck may be as steady as Socks, but he’s never been on the Iditarod, and I’m a little uncertain about his performance out on the coast, where the wind and endless stretches of sea ice have caused many a good team to founder.
I’m hoping Lucky will add an all-around boost to the team; he’s got speed and is a good command leader as well. Finally, a couple of weeks ago I borrowed Will Barron’s leader, Diablo. He’s fast, but I haven’t had much chance to run him with the team; if I can get him to go consistently up front we’ll have real speed, but he’s a big question mark.
I’ve got several co-leaders who can run up front to help the leaders. Little Maybelline is up front now with Socks; she’s irrepressible as always and can often tease him into tacking a couple of miles an hour onto his normally stodgy pace. I sometimes think Socks (who is eight years old) speeds up when she’s around in order to impress her. Batman is also good up front, and I know he runs well with Pullman. Bea is usually a good front-ender, as is Steel, another dog I borrowed from the Barrons’ lot at the last minute. Wild Thing is also a known quantity in the wheelhouse, but she can be notoriously moody.
Back in the engine room, I’ve got Bear, Yankee, Rocky, and Kisser, all big, powerful Iditarod veterans and rock-solid under every condition I’ve ever seen. I’ve also decided to take Panda (Socks’ daughter), a promising two-year old; she’s done well all year and can run up front if she feels like it. I’d really like to get her to Nome, or at least as far as I can, so she’ll have the experience for next year’s race. Finally there is Silvertip, my three-quarter wolf and erstwhile personal companion who has become quite a good sled dog, if a somewhat improbable one.
Convoys of teams are not unusual, particularly early in the race, or when difficult trail or bad weather is expected. These five teams on the Yentna are quite content to play follow-the-leader for awhile, occasionally chatting back and forth and checking out each other’s teams.
Putting together this lineup involved some painful trade-offs. I left behind Weasel—one of my favorites—and Rhythm, two good co-leaders and Iditarod veterans, in favor of the Barron dogs; I don’t know if I’ll regret that decision, but what’s done is done. Anyway, I’ve stacked the deck as much as I can, and all I can do now is play my hand as the circumstances permit. Besides, I know every musher on the trail has gone through the same quandary I have: leaving good friends behind on the journey of a lifetime is one of the hardest things anyone can ever do.
I review all of the players as we trundle down the trail to Knik. As I expect, we get passed by several teams—including Rick Swenson’s superbly conditioned powerhouse—which means I’m drifting back to the tail end already. I expected this, though, and my plan is to just keep pushing this first day to get back up into the middle somewhere. If last year was any indication, I need to make sure I get to Skwentna before we take a long rest. I can see what things look like down the trail once I’m there.
We make good if not spectacular time to Knik, passing hundreds of spectators lining the route. Since the trail parallels a main road there is a constant flow of cars and trucks with horns blowing and well-wishers waving and shouting. Many of them stop to take pictures and I eventually give up trying to wave back at everyone. None of it seems to be bothering the dogs, but like me, I’m sure they will be glad to get out on the trail, away from the hubbub.
Bert and my handlers are waiting at Knik. We disconnect the second sled and I spend a few minutes checking booties and making minor adjustments to the gangline. It’s already hot, above freezing, and the bright sun promises a miserable next few hours for the dogs. Nevertheless, we have to press on to stay on schedule. I’m not too worried about overheating because we’ll be going very slowly. It will just be a long, slow slog over soft trails; like the rest of the trip, it’s something we must do one step at a time, until we eventually get to Nome.
The trail leaves the road system at Knik, but roads are a relative concept in Alaska in the winter. This end of the Iditarod Trail is a thoroughfare for droves of snowmachines, and the race itself provides a grand excuse for a series of parties stretching for 100 miles.
Accordingly, hundreds of motor mushers share the trail with us, most of whom are fortunately considerate of the dogs. There are the odd few, however, who roar by the teams without realizing how unnerving and potentially dangerous they can be. I try to be patient as we plod on; nightfall will chase most of the snowmachiners back to town and should bring cold temperatures to firm the trails.
As we pound on through the afternoon we play leapfrog with a dozen other teams. Most of the fast movers have pulled ahead and we back-of-the-packers have pretty well sorted ourselves out. Some are veterans running young teams to Nome for seasoning, a few are semi-veterans like me, and the rest are rank rookies like I was last year.
We know we’ll be seeing a lot of each other over the next couple of weeks and keep up a genial banter as we pass each other and occasionally run together. It’s a little too early to organize convoys; these will coalesce naturally down the trail as conditions require. For the time being we’re all feeling out our teams and getting mentally prepared for the long haul.
By six o’clock we’re approaching Flathorn Lake, 40 miles from Wasilla. Almost everyone else has stopped and rested for couple of hours by now. My team has continued to look strong and I’ve kept going, albeit very slowly, sometimes no more than a few miles an hour along the soft, punchy trail. I’m starting to pass some of the front runners who have camped out during the heat of the day. They’ll be up and running shortly. When they blow by me after their siestas it will probably be the last time I’ll see any of them until Nome.
I can already see this trip will be a hare-and-tortoise exercise, with my plodders playing the turtle. I wish I had some more speed so I could spend less time on the trail and more time in the checkpoints, but it’s just not going to happen. I guess I’ll have to content myself with looking at the scenery from the back of the sled for hours on end. Sooner or later we’ll get to Nome.
The shadows finally start to lengthen after Flathorn Lake. We pick up a little speed as we tumble (literally) down onto the broad frozen expanse of the Susitna River. I’d been warned about the short, steep grade down onto the river, but nobody told me about the reverse curve in it; I manage to hang on to the sled as it bounces on its side onto the river ice. Nothing is hurt, and I’m sure this will be only the first of many spills.
Two dozen snowmachiners are having a trail party near the mouth of the Yentna River. Such parties are common sights for mushers until well past Skwentna. At night their bonfires form a line of beacons strung out for miles up the river.
There are half a dozen parties out on the ice, each with a bonfire and an attendant cluster of snowmachines. The fires twinkle in the deepening dusk, a series of beacons marking the way up the river. As we pass each one Socks wants to go see what’s going on; once or twice I have to stop the team an
d go up to lead him past the temptation of free hot dogs and other goodies.
We quickly move the next 15 miles up to Yentna Station under a brilliant full moon. I leave my headlamp off most of the time; I can actually see more without it. In any case, this is all familiar territory; the dogs have been out here at least half a dozen times in the past couple of months and they seem somewhat bored with it all.
We pull into Yentna Station just before nine. I’m actually ahead of many of the fast teams who are only now moving up the river after their afternoon rests. However, I stop longer than I’d planned to give my guys a breather, and a number of teams I passed roar through with only a brief pause on their way up to Skwentna and Finger Lake. I doubt I’ll see any of them again.
March 4, 1996—The Iditarod: Yentna Station to Skwentna (35 miles); Skwentna to Finger Lake (45 miles)
While I’m feeding the dogs at Yentna Station the checker comes over to warn me about a particularly bad overflow condition up ahead. Apparently water from Moose Creek, a tributary of the Yentna, is flowing out on top of the river ice and has blocked the main trail with cold slushy water as much as two feet deep. He says a trail has been marked around the inundated area, but even as he talks to me someone comes over and says six teams are reported to be caught in the mess.
I decide to wait and go with another musher after we’ve got some more information. Overflow can mean nothing more than wet toes for the dogs, or it can entail a serious swim through chest-deep water. I’d prefer not to get in any deeper than I have to, and I’d rather have someone there if anything untoward happens.
Just before midnight a trio of snowmachiners pulls in from up river with word of a good trail around the overflow. Steve Adkins and I decide to move out and get past it before it gets worse. We run up the river for a few miles and then hit a wall of fog, actually steam from the open water of the overflow condensing in the cold night air. The bright full moon helps, but there are still stretches where we can’t even see our lead dogs. As we’re probing our way through the fog, I feel like we’re sneaking past some malevolent dragon lurking in the mists.
Steve has pulled 100 yards ahead of me when I hear a shouted “Whoa!” Through a fleeting rift in the fog I see Steve wading out to pull his leaders back to a dry stretch of trail. I barely get stopped before Socks goes in, too. The overflow is almost impossible to avoid; I was lucky Steve was ahead of me or I’d have been in it. As Steve maneuvers onto the bypass trail, which we missed in the fog, I try to turn my team around. The effort results in a huge tangle costing me half an hour.
While I’m straightening things out, three more teams materialize from the mist. Two manage to find the dry trail, but one plows through the overflow—which has deceptively grown a thin shell of camouflaging ice thanks to the now-subzero temperatures—before I can yell at him to stop. He immediately breaks through well over his knees and his dogs are in up to their necks, but he manages to get through the 30-yard-wide lake and moves on; I never find out who he is.
After I get my bunch of pound rejects lined out and around the overflow, we resume our stately pace up the river. The moon reflecting off the snow is so bright I can see every detail of the trees along the banks. There is absolutely no need for headlamps, and drivers aren’t even turning them on unless they are coming up on another team and want to pass. My dogs have accelerated to perhaps 10 miles an hour, but I’m starting to have too many interruptions when one or another dog gets tangled or tries to stop for whatever reason.
Getting the dogs fed and bedded down in the checkpoints is always the musher’s first priority. Once the dogs are resting, the musher will often stay away from the team for as long as possible to avoid disturbing them.
At this stage of the race I’m still sorting out who runs well with whom, and in what positions. I’m experimenting with different arrangements while I have the luxury of a good trail; however, the research costs me an extra hour or two because of the repeated stops. When we’re moving, we’re moving well; when we’re stopped, I’m working hard shuffling dogs to find the best all-around combination. As the race goes on I’ll be looking to eliminate disruptions; I can see now I’ll need a smooth-running team that can make up in steady progress what it will certainly lack in speed.
As we move upstream in the moonlight I link up with another driver; my team follows his and we make our way toward Skwentna. We pass all of the spots where my last year’s effort started to come unraveled.
Several are etched in my memory because of the sheer frustration I was experiencing in just trying to get the team to go. This year things are vastly different and we sail serenely on. Slowly but surely I’m starting to leave my ghosts behind.
We finally round the last river bend into Skwentna at six in the morning, just as first light tinges the eastern horizon. I’m only a couple of hours ahead of last year’s pace, but I’m not worried about the team now. My plan is to rest here for several hours and then start working up to Finger Lake. I briefly consider pushing on immediately but the team seems tired, which isn’t surprising considering we’ve been on the trail more than 18 hours with only a couple hours’ rest at Yentna.
Most of the teams that arrived at Skwentna during the night have already headed up the trail. There will be 30 or more of them at Finger Lake by midday, all waiting out the afternoon heat before challenging the infamous Happy River Steps and the 20 miles of bad road on up to the Rainy Pass checkpoint. I’d have liked to push on with them but our slow speed didn’t get us here soon enough. We took six hours to cover 35 miles from Yentna Station; most teams needed only four. I can’t keep up with the speed merchants; I’ll have to run my own timetable and let the chips fall where they may.
Now, however, I have to take care of the team. The first task is to get the dogs settled in, look them over, and get some food and water into them. I start at the front of the team and work back, giving each dog a biscuit, then I reverse and work forward unsnapping tuglines; this is a signal we’ll stay here for awhile—and it also prevents them from inadvertently bolting with the sled while they’re still in the “go” mode. Then I work back to the sled again, pulling off booties and giving each dog a hands-on thank you which doubles as a quick once-over for any obvious problems.
When the dogs are comfortable I take my plastic bucket over to a much-used hole in the river ice for water, which I drag back to the sled and pour into the alcohol cooker. Getting the cooker going is a critically important step; it must be done quickly after arriving to make sure the dogs get food (and the soaked-up water) while they are still in a mood to eat; tired dogs sometimes will simply curl up and go to sleep, ignoring even the most appetizing meal. Because of the intense calorie and hydration demands during the race, the dogs absolutely must eat and drink on a regular schedule; even one missed meal can spell trouble.
Once the water is heating I pull my food bags over and open them; as I half-expected, some of the meat looks like it has melted and refrozen, so I decide not to feed it. The last thing I need is sick dogs from eating spoiled meat; it’s happened before and has knocked entire teams out of the race. I included alternative meats less vulnerable to thawing, so I should be okay. From my “people bag” I extract the booties and necklines and snaps and batteries and gloves and other equipment I’ll need for the next couple of legs and put the rest in my return bag. I’m thankful we can salvage our used and excess gear by shipping it back—none of us wants to waste any more than we must.
After 15 minutes over the hot blue alcohol flames, the water is steaming and I pour it into the buckets, in which I’ve assembled a mixture of dry dog food, frozen meat, and anything else I think will tempt the dogs to eat. While the food soaks, I help the vet check the dogs and work on any problems we find. Usually these focus on feet, wrists, and sometimes shoulders; many small irritations and cuts and aches can be treated on the spot. Diarrhea is another constant threat, and the vets have an extensive arsenal of medications to combat it.
Most checkpoints are o
utfitted with sturdy quonset-type tents dubbed “Dodge Lodges.” They provide places for vets to work on sick or injured dogs or for tired mushers and volunteers to grab a quick nap. This one is at Finger Lake.
As I expected, my guys are in great shape except for some irritated feet from 100 miles of stomping through soft snow. As I kneel next to each dog I massage each afflicted paw with ointment; Martin Buser calls it “praying to the dogs” and I don’t think he’s too far wrong. The dogs are our central concern out here, and our efforts to keep them happy and in good health on the way to Nome may be closer to a prayer than most people realize.
When the dog food is ready, less than 45 minutes after we arrived, I feed it to the dogs, who devour it like I’ve starved them for a week. The sound of 16 dogs slurping water and food is probably the sweetest music any distance musher can hear: it means the dogs are healthy, eating, and well-hydrated.
Only after all this is done and the dogs have settled down in the warm morning sun can I worry about myself. This is all part of the routine I’ll repeat two dozen times between here and Nome. It will become so automatic I’ll be able to do it in my sleep in a few days, and I may well have to. The professional racers have this checkpoint routine down to a fine art. Minutes are precious in their end of the business, and the faster they get the dogs fed and bedded down, the more time they have for a nap and the sooner they can be on their way.
By now barely half a dozen teams remain here; last night more than 40 crowded every square foot of the river. It’s quiet now and at least my guys will get some quality rest. I climb the steep river bank to the checkpoint, located as always in Joe and Norma Delia’s spacious cabin overlooking the river. Breakfast is waiting inside, courtesy of the Skwentna Sweeties. As I shamelessly stuff myself with bacon, eggs, and sourdough pancakes I catch up on the race grapevine.
Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers Page 33