Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers

by Mike Dillingham

  Mark comes up to help me get untangled. We can’t believe anyone would try to put a trail through something like this and don’t even want to speculate on what horrific hazard existed on the main trail to force such a drastic rerouting. By the time we creep out of the Maze, as we’ve come to call it, we’ve lost at least an hour. I’m soaked with sweat, which is not good because I’ve got no easy way to dry my heavy outer gear. And as far as I know it’s still 50 miles or more to the hospitality tent at Sulatna Crossing. This is going to be a very long night.

  In a mile or so we’re back on the main trail and moving steadily again. I start to pass other mushers who have pulled off the trail for brief rests. So far my guys are doing okay and I keep going. As near as I can figure, eight or ten of us are out here banging along this part of the trail. Without doubt we’re the only humans within 50 miles. As we pass each other we feel like the last inhabitants of a lost world, slowly working our way to some distant and rumored remnant of civilization.

  The moon finally rises after midnight but sheds no illumination on the endless country through which we are traveling. If anything, the moonlight distorts reality and further frustrates our efforts to orient ourselves. The trail is a faint line cutting through trees and across tundra, ever arrowing toward the northeast. At least the Big Dipper and the North Star are constant above me; everything else seems to be a strange, dimly lit dream.

  At one point I crest a hill and see a string of faint lights strung out over the ridges ahead like ancient Druidic hilltop beacons. They are campfires and headlights of mushers who have stopped to rest for a few hours before resuming the trek. These few nights of the race are the only time this particular constellation will shine all year—actually two years, because the northern route is only used in even-numbered years.

  Again the Tolkienesque images of mysterious fairy lights and murky wilderness and epic journeys flood my increasingly fatigued mind. I usually dust off Lord of the Rings every few years, but from now on it will always remind me of this voyage through a half-imagined landscape far removed from reality as I previously thought it existed.

  Finally I stop the team and climb on to the sled bag for a nap. The temperature is surprisingly moderate but still I wake up shivering in an hour. This seems to be a practical natural alarm clock and many mushers use it. I rouse the dogs and we slowly pull on up the trail as the first hint of dawn outlines the low mountains to the east.

  An hour or two later we cross a major stream I assume is the North Fork of the Innoko, which means we’re making measurable progress. I’m reasonably certain we’re within 20 miles of Sulatna Crossing and the Holy Grail of the hospitality tent and I decide to keep pushing until we get there.

  After another uphill slog and a haul across upland woods and meadows, including a stretch where the trail perilously skirts the edge of a 50-foot cliff, we enter the old mining district. The main signs of human activity are huge piles of tailings from placer mining.

  At one point we climb up to a snow-covered runway lined with shuttered buildings. I’ve seen this from the air; it dates to pre-World-War-II days but is still used occasionally in the summer. For now it’s completely deserted, with doors hanging forlornly open and abandoned 1940s-vintage trucks buried under snowdrifts.

  Leaving the runway we climb up a ridge toward what’s left of Poorman. In the glory days of the Ruby mining district 80 years ago Poorman was a boom-town; this trail was a bustling thoroughfare for thousands of miners year-round. Now, a few old cabins lie half-hidden in the trees, all abandoned. No one has lived here for many years and my sleep-deprived mind can easily imagine the ghosts of departed miners lurking in the shadows.

  We cross a number of old ditches used to drain diggings and channel water to the hydraulic nozzles which could wash a whole cliff into the sluices in a few days. Some gullies are 10 or 15 feet deep with near-vertical sides. To cross them the trail makes abrupt dives and climbs with little warning. In my less-than-alert state I spill the sled more than once.

  The dogs are starting to show signs of fatigue but I don’t want to stop them until we get to the tent and can have a good, long rest. Eventually we start down the long grade to the Sulatna River and the decrepit steel bridge at Sulatna Crossing. Just before the bridge we pick up the 1920s-era mining road leading 50 miles north to Ruby and the Yukon River. Like the road to Ophir, part of it is state-maintained but only a few miles around Ruby are plowed in the winter.

  We trundle up to the bridge and I see the old plank decking has long since rotted away; in its place is a four-foot-wide pathway of modern plywood laid across the rusted girders with a 20-foot drop to the river yawning below. More than a few teams would balk at this kind of obstacle, but Socks casually leads us on across without hesitation; he never ceases to amaze me.

  On the other side of the river I start to look for the tent. I don’t see it in the immediate vicinity of the bridge, so I assume it’s a couple of miles further on where the old checkpoint used to be located. By this time I can’t wait to get the dogs fed and bedded down and have a good rest myself in the tent. I’m surprised when I don’t see anything at the old checkpoint site, but assume it’s got to be close.

  We press on for another mile or two and then I see half a dozen teams parked along the trail ahead, obviously intending to camp out for the remainder of the day. Linda Joy walks over and says this is the hospitality tent, whether the tent is here or not. No one else knows where it is and nobody wants to go any farther up the road chasing what now seems to be a mirage. It’s getting hot and everyone has had a rugged trip up from Cripple. I can either stop here or thread my way past the bivouacked teams and continue what seems to be a wild goose chase for the elusive tent.

  With a sigh I stop the team and prepare for a camp out. It’s late morning and the temperature must be pushing 40 in the warm sun. There’s no way I’m going to drive the dogs through the afternoon in this heat after what we’ve just survived. I chat with Lisa Moore and Linda Joy while I’m melting snow for the dogs’ lunch. We declare this an official meeting of the back-of-the-pack club and compare notes on the trail. We all admit to getting derailed in the Maze and have seen so much overflow we’re worried the dogs will grow webbed feet.

  And we all agree we’re beat, mushers and teams alike; this has been a far tougher run up from Ophir and Cripple than we ever imagined. It’s been almost 30 hours since we left Ophir yesterday morning and the brief rest at Cripple didn’t do much good, nor did the quick naps along the trail.

  Everyone plans to spend at least six hours here before pushing the last stretch to Ruby. It’s only 50 miles and it’s all on the old mining road, but it includes a lot of heavy-duty climbing as the right-of-way skips from valley to valley over 1,000-foot ridges. It will definitely be better this evening when the dogs can keep cool.

  I busy myself feeding the dogs and checking feet, which are in surprisingly good shape considering the glacier’s worth of ice on the trail. After a lazy nap in the sun I wake up to find most of the other teams gone. It’s about four o’clock and the shadows are starting to lengthen. I get the dogs up and off the snow at the side of the trail where they’ve made their nests.

  In the process Silvertip and Bear, who have run happily together for several hundred miles, get into a snapping match. I pull Silvertip away and Bear decides to get in his licks while he can. Unfortunately he misses and chomps my left hand, with which I’m trying to extract Silvertip.

  I react instinctively by flailing my right arm for support, but I hit something very hard with an unintended full-force karate chop. I don’t know if I’ve smashed a nearby six-inch birch trunk or the sled, but I instantly know I’ve done something bad to my hand. Even Bear and Silvertip suddenly quiet down as they realize I’m no longer in a very playful mood.

  Within minutes the area around my fifth metacarpal between the little finger and the wrist is starting to swell and turn an ugly yellow and brown. If it’s not broken, it’s a good imitation. I try to flex
it and find I have no strength left for many movements I normally take for granted.

  I stare at it and can’t believe I’ve done something this stupid: I’ve disabled my hand in the middle of a two-week ordeal in which I already don’t have enough hands. Worse, it’s my right hand, and I’m right-handed. And just for good measure the back of my left hand shows a perfect impression of the arc of Bear’s front teeth; there are several puncture wounds and more than a little blood but I can still move all my fingers so I don’t think he’s hit any tendons.

  I don’t have much choice but to press on as best I can and have everything looked at in Ruby, if and when I get there. Just to be safe I open my medicine kit and take a couple of amoxycillin pills normally intended for the dogs; at least I can try to ward off any infection. I know everything will start to hurt sooner or later but I don’t want to take any of the heavy-duty emergency painkillers I’ve brought along for fear of impairing my judgment, already at a low ebb because of fatigue and lack of sleep.

  Bootying the dogs takes twice as long as normal and I can’t pull the Velcro tabs as tight as I’d like, and I have to work the snaps on the tug-lines with my left hand, but we’re ready to go in half an hour. I can still hold on to the handlebar with my left hand and a couple of fingers on my right, so I give Socks the okay and we move off up the road.

  Immediately we begin to climb, but the dogs are rested and pull steadily. After an hour we creep around an uphill bend and see a mirage floating at the side of the road: the long-lost hospitality tent. It was really here all the time, just eight or nine miles farther than any of us imagined.

  As we get closer I can see it’s the real thing, an old 12-man Army tent, the kind with the pointy top and the inevitable stovepipe poking out. As we pull up a man and woman come out and wave; they’re the first non-mushers I’ve seen for 24 hours. I set the snow hook and go inside the tent.

  It is indeed the haven I’d hoped it would be, except I don’t really need it after spending most of the day camped out back down the road. However, the hosts—one from a communications company in Anchorage and one from Sam’s Club—insist I have something to eat and rest for at least a little while. This is an offer I can’t refuse; I decide on a couple of bacon cheeseburgers.

  While the hostess fires up the grill, I go back out to the sled and toss the dogs some dry food and frozen beef: if I’m going to eat, so should they. In another of the small coincidences I’m getting used to on the race, the kibbles the dogs are happily gobbling are one of Sam’s house brands, albeit their top of the line. To my knowledge I’m the only musher using it on the race. It’s been a big hit with the dogs out here on the trail and I haven’t had even a hint of the diarrhea plaguing other mushers.

  Then I’m back inside relaxing and asking questions. Apparently the tent is 12 miles past the Sulatna bridge because a mining airstrip just up the ridge is the only place the Beaver on skis could land with the equipment and supplies. Most mushers have stopped here over the past several days, some for extended periods, and everyone has pronounced it a Really Good Deal.

  When the host says he’s a med-tech in Anchorage, I remember to pull the thick mitten off my right hand so he can look at it. I’m shocked at the extent of the swelling and so is he. Half the hand looks like it’s on its way to becoming hamburger. He says it’s broken and I’m not in a position to argue.

  Then he says they have something which might help: Sam’s is giving away sample packets of naproxen, a new anti-inflammatory drug supposedly better than ibuprofen, and they’ve got a good supply. It won’t make me drowsy or silly so I decide it might be worth a shot. He grabs a handful and I pop several on the spot and stuff the others in my pocket. I chase the pills with the best burger I’ve had in a century.

  After an hour I have to get moving; Ruby is only 38 miles away, but at the breakneck speed my team is traveling I could be staring at an all-nighter. Back on the road—literally—I notice we have the luxury of mileposts marking the distance to Ruby and the end of this little exercise in madness. As expected, the road climbs repeatedly over ridges and dips down into valleys. What I didn’t expect was for all the culverts and bridges to turn into nightmares of overflow which make the road to Ophir look like a pregame warm-up.

  As an example, not far past the tent the road makes a sweeping horseshoe curve set into the side of the mountain; at least 100 yards of the roadway are encased in ice up to five feet thick sloping down toward the inside of the bend. I have to stop the team to try to scope a way through the mess. There’s no way to stay on the road itself, and the infield is a morass of ugly brown snow and willows. I urge Pullman onto a narrow band of snow in what would be the downhill ditch; it’s laced with water-slicked ice patches but she gets us through and I manage to keep from spilling the sled.

  The road has one of these winter wonderlands every mile or two, some much worse than others. On a couple of them both the dogs and I get our feet wet despite our best intentions. I can’t wait to try this after dark, which will be in an hour or two. I give up all hope of making decent time; this may turn into a tougher test than Happy River.

  The village of Ruby perches on the south bank of the mile-wide Yukon. It was a major boom town in 1911.

  Just at dusk we pull into the semi-ghost town of Long, center of a major gold rush in 1911. It’s strictly a summer place now, and many of the dozens of old buildings and cottages have evidently been kept in repair over the years. But the relatively good shape of the place, combined with the eerie snow-covered stillness, gives the entire town a strange post-apocalyptic feeling, as if it has been abruptly abandoned and suspended in time. As I glide silently through the streets on what is obviously a modern road complete with highway signs, I wonder where all the people have gone. I feel like the only human left on earth after some global cataclysm.

  As night gathers around the hills the road becomes increasingly spooky, with half-concealed old cabins and buildings and mining works scattered along its unplowed route. My acute lack of sleep, aggravated by the increasing pain in my hands despite the naproxen, isn’t helping matters and I’m starting to hallucinate. At least once I stop the team and try to pull them onto the shoulder to let an imaginary truck by. Another time I find myself carrying on a conversation with someone walking alongside the sled; the dogs slow and stop, wondering what strange commands I’m giving them.

  As we work up onto a pass well above timberline (for some reason I remember this on a map as The Hub Hill) the northern lights launch themselves across the sky in ever-intensifying waves of writhing incandescence. Staring at them as the dogs float ahead of me I know I am losing my grip on reality but there is absolutely nothing I can do.

  My sleep-starved mind goes into a sort of free fall, a truly strange but somehow not frightening state in which images and ideas and words and sounds all float together in a primordial mental stew. Hurtling from this free-association zone come combinations which could never have been formed without a breakdown of normal mental barriers. Some are bizarre, some are beautiful, some are surprisingly logical, some are simply improbable. They all sail past my helpless consciousness as I try to grab even one or two to hold on to.

  Through all of this I have intervals of lucidity, apparently frequently enough to ensure the team continues to run smoothly on the road. And the hallucinations continue to pop in and out of focus as well, aided by the powerful stimulus of the undulating aurora overhead. At one point I go for several miles down the road wondering why I haven’t gone under what is unquestionably an illuminated overpass ahead; finally I realize it is the arch of the northern lights.

  I am jarred back to full awareness about 15 miles from Ruby. We’ve just come down a long grade and the road is crossing a valley, but it has completely vanished under overflow for as far as my headlight can probe. It is as if a cascade of ice has oozed from the nearby hillside and engulfed everything in its path. There are no trail markers and no road signs. I try to guess where the right-of-way goes by following t
he fall line of the ice where the freezing water has flowed over the shoulder and created an icy wall as much as three or four feet high.

  By now Socks and Pullman are both in lead, but they balk at the expanse of ice. I finally find a relatively negotiable strip of snow at the foot of the ice cascade and lead them down onto it; they promptly try to climb back onto the ice, which is completely impassable. After 15 minutes of repeated urging they slowly feel their way across to a stand of trees.

  Beyond the trees is yet another sea of water-glazed ice where the road should be, with a trail marker in the middle of it. Socks heads for the marker but I see it isn’t going to work and yell for him to stop. As I flounder up to lead him back to a bypass trail someone has made, I break through the crust of snow into overflow above my knees. I begin to wonder whether Ruby really exists, or whether we’ve wandered into some alternate dimension especially reserved for tormented mushers.

  After at least an hour of work we finally reach the end of the glacier where a recognizable roadway emerges from under the ice. According to the mileposts we haven’t even come a mile since this exercise in futility began. Now the road starts a steep incline back up to timberline. I remember flying over this particular stretch a couple of years ago, but again I can’t put this pearl of knowledge into any useful perspective as we climb toward the still-bright northern lights.

  I am now incredibly tired and drift back into my on-again, off-again dance with reality. The next 12 miles or so are a confused jumble of images. At one point I’m flying for the race and watching myself down below. Then I’m driving a car along the wide, smooth road and am surprised when I turn the steering wheel and nothing happens. Overhead the northern lights provide a flickering celestial illumination for this journey into the surreal.