Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers

by Mike Dillingham

  That’s why there are shelter cabins scattered along most of the winter trails in this part of the state. Some are like the one at Tripod Flats: a snug log cabin set in a wooded swale, built and maintained by the town of Kaltag and the Bureau of Land Management, with a good stove and bunks and stocked with firewood. Others are plywood shacks belonging to local fishermen or hunters standing austerely on bleak shorelines or expanses of tundra. But they all provide refuge to whomever needs it in this land where an hour’s jaunt on a snowmachine or dog team can turn into a week-long survival exercise.

  When I finally pull up to the Tripod Flats cabin Lisa’s team is stopped in front of it. As much as we’d like to stay here a few hours we decide it’s best to push on before dark to the Old Woman cabin, 15 miles ahead. Then we’ll be only 40 miles from Unalakleet and in a better position to check out any changes in the weather.

  The snow flurries continue to come and go. I still don’t see anything serious—but then, I didn’t see anything coming back in 1991, either. We move smoothly down to Old Woman, marked by its namesake flat-topped hill jutting immediately behind it. Andy is there when we pull in just after sunset; he says he’s been there for a couple of hours, which just shows how fast his speed merchants are. He decides to wait a while and then move on with us just in case the weather turns bad.

  Like almost all shelter cabins this one has a wood stove. While our cookers are steaming next to the sleds making hot water for dog food we decide to get a fire going in the stove to warm up the cabin. Lisa rummages around in her sled bag and produces three artificial fire logs; she says she’s shipped them out to most checkpoints and carries them in case she needs to camp out. I can’t argue with her logic as the logs start instantly and make a cheerful fire. Besides, I learned years ago to carry a 20-pound bag of easy-lighting charcoal in my plane for exactly the same purpose.

  Old Woman cabin is just in front of its distinctive flat-topped namesake mountain. The hill is a prominent landmark on the long run from Kaltag to Unalakleet.

  We tend to the dogs for awhile as their food soaks. After a few minutes we become aware of a strange glow dancing in the treetops, much like firelight. Since we’re done with the cookers, I look around for the source. To my chagrin I see bright orange flames shooting two feet out of the chimney of the cabin. Waves of heat are radiating from the cabin’s roof and sides. We run inside and find the stove starting to glow cherry red.

  The fire logs are burning hotter than a meltdown in a nuclear plant and my overriding thought is we’re going to be responsible for torching the Old Woman cabin. We don’t have any water to throw on the logs so all we can do is shut the damper and hope for the best. As we wait anxiously for the inferno to simmer down I look at the discarded label from one of the logs. One warning says never to use more than one at a time, another says don’t stack any wood on top of the one on fire, and a third cautions never to use these in a wood stove. We’ve managed to flaunt all three simultaneously and the result has been spectacular. The folks at Underwriters’ Lab will use us as their poster kids for the next decade.

  After several minutes the blast furnace returns to merely volcanic levels and we retreat outside to escape the sauna we’ve created. I’m certain there’s an inch less snow out here than before we lit the stove, and the dogs seem to be panting like they’ve just run all day in the sun. I hope it’s just my imagination as I start to feed.

  Working down the line with the dog food, I remember an experience Aaron Burmeister told me he had here in 1994 on his rookie run. He had eight dogs in Kaltag but dropped one before moving on to Unalakleet. At Old Woman, he stopped to feed, and put out eight bowls of food without thinking. When he looked around, he saw eight dogs eating. The eighth dog was a wolf. It finished its food and vanished instantly into the trees, leaving Aaron to wonder exactly what was going on.

  The new Bureau of Land Management shelter cabin at Old Woman, 50 miles west of Kaltag on the trail to Unalakleet, replaces an older plywood shack a mile away. It is one of two similar BLM cabins on the 90-mile Kaltag Portage. Like many such refuges along Alaska’s trails, it offers a secure haven to any traveler who needs it.

  I have a wolf eating with my team as well, but Silvertip has been with us since we left Fourth Avenue and is doing quite well for an accidental sled dog. I wonder what he thinks about our trip so far, and whether he can sense his cousins lurking in the shadows.

  Some of the old-timers ran wolves and wolf hybrids, raising them from puppies or breeding them with huskies. In 1932 and 1933 Slim Williams ran a team of wolf hybrids from Alaska to Chicago for the World’s Fair to promote what would ultimately become the Alaska Highway. It was quite a sensation at the time, but wolves haven’t been much in vogue as sled dogs since then.

  We nap for an hour or so in the almost charred cabin. Before we depart we are careful to leave some food for ghost of the old woman, as is the tradition; she is said to watch over those who remember her. We make sure we set her a proper feast: we almost incinerated her house tonight and we certainly don’t need her mad at us—it’s still a long way to Nome. We’ve already chased enough ghosts and we don’t need any chasing us at this point.

  As usual Andy pulls out a half hour ahead of Lisa and me. It’s snowing as we follow the trail up onto the open tundra paralleling the south side of the river. Despite the stereotypical scenes of treeless ice and barren tundra most people associate with the Bering Sea coast, there are actually quite a few trees out here. Most of the larger rivers have substantial green belts and the Unalakleet River which flows down the western part of the Kaltag Portage is no exception.

  Some of the checkpoints on the Iditarod can be almost 100 miles apart. At some point on these marathons, mushers must “camp out” for several hours to feed and rest the dogs. In a few instances, conveniently located shelter cabins are popular camping locations, such as the Old Woman Cabin.

  The trail from Old Woman to Unalakleet stays mostly just up out of the tree line, on the tundra a few miles south of the river. While this is a more direct route, it is much more exposed and is especially vulnerable to any snowfall and accompanying drifting. Over the years hundreds of permanent reflectors have been put up to mark the trail through this section, nailed to any convenient bush or tree. Where there are no trees there are crude wooden tripods.

  However, the permanent markers only give a general idea of where the trail runs at any given point. They outline a corridor up to 100 yards broad, while the actual hard-packed trail is only six or so feet wide. The uncompacted snow off the trail can be a couple of feet deep and can be very difficult going for a dog team.

  The exact track is marked by Iditarod-standard four-foot-high wooden lath stakes with reflective tape. When the hard trail becomes obscured by snow, the trail stakes are the only effective way to accurately trace it across wide-open stretches of tundra. Tonight we notice there are already a couple of inches of snow from earlier showers covering everything.

  Fortunately Andy seems to have had little trouble following the trail and Lisa is following his sled tracks. I am also reassured when I can see the reflection of the rhythmic flash from the powerful beacon at the Unalakleet airport almost 30 air miles away. As long as I can see the beacon flash I know there is no snow falling between us and our destination.

  So, while Lisa’s leader (aptly named Brains) does a good job of following Andy’s increasingly faint tracks I scan the western horizon for the comforting strobe from the beacon. After half an hour of good progress, however, I start to lose the beacon; shortly thereafter it begins to snow fairly heavily. Since the snow is moving up the valley toward us, Andy’s tracks grow steadily harder to pick out, even though we know he can’t be far ahead.

  Brains keeps moving but the snow squalls continue to increase in frequency and intensity. Finally the tracks from Andy’s sled all but disappear under as much as six inches of new, wet snow. Brains slows to a crawl as she works to find the trail. Lisa and I discuss whether we should stop and wait
out the snow or push on.

  Finally we creep over a rise and see Andy and his team waiting at the bottom of a ravine. He says the new snow became too deep for his leaders to find their way and he decided to wait for us. We have a quick council of war. We know the trail drops back down onto the Unalakleet River about eight miles prior to Unalakleet, and by our best guess we are within 25 miles of the town. Our main concern is to get off the open tundra before we get trapped out here by heavier snow or—my real fear—winds which will instantly create impassable drifts.

  We decide to see if Socks can take us marker-to-marker. Lisa says if Socks can get us out of this she’ll buy him a steak. I don’t add that I already feel I owe him a week’s worth of T-bones for what he’s already done for me. I move my team to the front and shine my headlight on the next trail stake.

  Socks picks up the cue immediately and sets off for the bright reflector. Soon we have a pattern worked out: I spot the marker and Socks takes us to it. Once in awhile when we have to rely on the imprecise permanent markers he wanders off the narrow packed trail and we flounder until we can locate it again. Still, we make slow but steady progress.

  After a couple of hours a lull in the snow gives us hope; I can even see the reflection of the Unalakleet beacon again. But the respite is short-lived and the next squall strikes with renewed intensity. In a few minutes it’s so thick we can see barely 50 yards because the headlamps are reflecting off the swirling snowflakes. Socks continues to do yeoman duty, pushing through fresh snow sometimes up to his chest.

  The trail sweeps are important to every musher running in the back of the pack. Often they use their big snowmachines to re-pack trails and to help mushers as far as the rules allow.

  Soon the snow is falling so densely we can’t even see 30 yards. Every few minutes we have to stop, set our snow hooks, and go ahead on foot to try to find the next marker. The heavy, wet flakes are sticking to everything. We’re completely soaked right through our parkas and cold-weather gear, and the extra exercise of stomping through the deep snow on foot adds oceans of perspiration to our discomfort.

  After an hour we’re so involved in slogging ahead and then moving the teams forward we don’t realize we haven’t seen any more markers for maybe 10 minutes. Again we fan out on foot to try to find the trail, but to no avail. Without hesitation we turn around and go back to the last marker we passed.

  Our tracks are already fading under the thickly falling snow as we reach the marker. Now we move out on foot again, this time feeling for the packed trail underneath the snow. After half an hour we realize the trail turns at the marker; we had gone straight on without thinking. By repeated stomping forays we determine the trail’s new orientation, but we still can’t see any markers in the new direction.

  I notice part of our problem: the snow is sticking to the reflective tape of the stakes, making them difficult to see even in the direct beam of a headlamp. Since it’s near dawn we decide to wait for first light, which should improve our visibility and allow us to see the wooden tripods. After another half hour the snow lets up for a few minutes and I pull out my powerful reserve headlamp to try to spot a marker.

  Sure enough, the lithium-powered sealed beam reveals a faint reflection in the direction we’ve determined the trail should be headed. We immediately pull the hooks and Socks takes us unerringly to the marker. By the time we reach it I see the next one, and then a tree line appears ahead out of the swirling snow: we’re dropping back onto the river. Socks has brought us off the tundra and back to concrete reality.

  We greet the river like a long-lost friend. In the glimmering dawn I direct Socks down the wandering channel as the still-obscured trail jumps from side to side to avoid icy patches and overflow areas; he responds crisply to my commands like the pro he is. After a few miles a snowmachiner pulls up alongside us; he says we’re only five miles from Unalakleet and he’ll be glad to break the trail on into town for us.

  I let Andy and Lisa pass; Socks has been breaking trail for almost five solid hours in abysmal conditions and has never missed a beat. He and I have been working as a team in a sense I never imagined possible. It’s almost as if we can read each other’s minds, and it’s a good feeling. We happily follow Lisa’s team along the newly opened trail while Socks takes a well-deserved break from his duties as the point man in our expedition.

  The snow tapers off markedly as we near Unalakleet. The people at the checkpoint probably didn’t have much idea what we were going through as we struggled in from the east. It’s typical of the weather out here: a few miles can make all the difference in the world. By the time we skate across the frozen lagoon to the windswept, treeless spit on which Unalakleet perches it’s been almost 23 hours since we left Kaltag—on a run which normally takes 12 to 15.

  We made excellent time over the first 50 miles to Old Woman cabin, but battled for 12 hours to cover the last 40 in from there. Even if we’d left earlier we’d still have had problems: the half-dozen other tail-enders who left Kaltag shortly after we arrived there yesterday took 18 hours. Interestingly, we never saw any sign of their tracks even though they left only 10 hours ahead of us, which is an indication of how rapidly conditions were changing.

  For the moment, though, we’ve made it to a safe haven. We’re all still in good shape, if a bit tired and wet. Most of all, we’ve finally made it to the coast, and we’ve done it well under the five-day deadline. Jeff King roared through here four days ago on a fast trail under fair skies—a far cry from what we’ve encountered. Of course, nobody ever said the weather played fair out here, but if there’s any justice, now maybe we’ve earned a couple of days of easy runs.

  The trail arrives on the Bering Sea coast at the ancient village of Unalakleet, perched on its treeless spit at the mouth of the Unalakleet River. The “place where the east wind blows” has been has continuously inhabited for at least two thousand years.

  March 14-15— The Iditarod: Unalakleet to Shaktoolik (40 miles)

  The first thing we hear on pulling into the checkpoint is the checker telling us we need to get moving up the trail as quickly as possible. Ostensibly there is more snow coming and we must take advantage of what appears to be a 24-to-36-hour weather window. It would be a good idea, he says, to be across Norton Sound to Koyuk by the time things deteriorate. Nobody debates the wisdom of his suggestion, but we are beat. We’re soaked to the bone and must get our gear dried out, and the dogs are plainly in need of a rest after their snowplowing marathon.

  When we announce our collective decision to stay here for as long as it takes to put things in order, the checker responds by hinting he will send the trail sweeps on up to Shaktoolik in a few hours, and if we want to have a decent trail we’d better be moving by then. We don’t appreciate the roust and Lisa takes matters into her own hands with a phone call to race officials in Nome for clarification.

  In the makeshift kitchen in the Unalakleet checkpoint during the 1994 race, mushers Bob Ernisse (at table, left) and Ron Aldrich (right) grab a bite to eat and discuss the race with checker Doug Katchatag (center).

  The compromise result, agreeable to all concerned, is an eight-hour stay here in Unalakleet. We all concur a few extra hours won’t make much difference if the forecast holds; we’ll make Koyuk in plenty of time. Besides, I want the extra hours in the checkpoint to work on Buck, who’s starting to show shoulder and wrist problems. By careful massaging with liniment and applying leg sweats I’ve been able to keep a couple of dogs in the team the vets thought I should drop. However, in my opinion only three or four hours in a checkpoint doesn’t give enough time to bring a shoulder or wrist around. I want to keep Buck if I can because he’s my main reserve leader—and now we’re on the coast where you can never have enough leaders.

  I notice Linda Joy’s team is still here, as is her handler. Linda, running in the group ahead of us, came in last night with extreme swelling in her legs. She’s been in the local clinic for observation, but there seems to be no change this morning an
d no one knows what’s causing the problem. Everyone thinks the best course is to fly her to the hospital in Nome.

  Some mushers change to lighter sleds once they reach the coast at Unalakleet to let their smaller teams go faster on the last 275 miles to Nome.

  Unfortunately, this means she has been withdrawn from the race, and her handler says she’s not in very good spirits right now. I feel badly for her; she’s worked as hard as anyone I know to make this dream come true and has already gone through an incredible journey of her own just to get this far.

  After a couple of hours to work on the dogs Lisa and I head over to the restaurant for a real burger. We’re joined by Harry Johnson, the local airport manager whose beacon was our lodestone on the way in from Old Woman. His sister Harrilyn taught the fourth grade across the hall from mine while I was student teaching in Anchorage in the fall of 1994. Their brother Paul raced in 1986 and the family is well known in coastal mushing circles. As the saying goes, Alaska may be a big place, but it’s a small world.

  I wish we had more time in Unalakleet; it’s the biggest town between Wasilla and Nome with 800 people, mostly Yup’ik Eskimos. (Fewer people are using the term “Eskimo” these days; it was once a derogatory term used by French-Canadian voyageurs and has been applied indiscriminately to half a dozen different Native peoples.) Nowadays the town is a major fishing center and the beaches which surround it on three sides are lined with all manner of boats hauled out for the winter.

  We’re ready to go by late afternoon. Old Buck looks fit and I’m thankful for the extra rest he got. There’s been no word of any trail problems out to Shaktoolik. In any case, the trail sweeps are leaving ahead of us so we will again be the beneficiaries of their trail grooming.