Our only possible concern is for the polar bears reported by other mushers about 10 miles north of town near the fishing camp of Egavik. Jerry Austin, who lives in this area and ought to know a polar bear when he sees one, claimed he was charged by two of them a couple of days ago. There have been other reports as well, and it seems a sow and two big cubs have crossed 100 miles of ice from St. Lawrence Island to check out the hunting in this area.
Polar bears are definitely not common along this part of the coast and have never before been seen on the Iditarod. However, this has been a surpassingly strange winter and no one is discounting anything. Just in case, mushers have been urged to travel in groups if possible, especially during the evening. The potential danger lies in the fact that polar bears are the only bears which will intentionally stalk humans. What’s more, they’re huge—10 feet tall or better when standing, and weighing as much as 1,500 pounds, much bigger than the biggest blacks or grizzlies or even the monster Kodiak brownies.
Slim and the trail sweeps roar out ahead of us; they’ll be in Shaktoolik later this evening. Andy pulls out not long after they do, followed an hour later by Lisa and me. The weather is clearing rapidly and the wind is blowing 15 miles an hour from the north, which usually means the front has passed and the snow is over. If the wind doesn’t pick up too much, this will only be a six-hour run, followed by a short stop at Shaktoolik and a quick push on to Koyuk, 60 miles farther north across the ice of Norton Bay.
The trail basically follows the coast north from Unalakleet for 25 miles and then runs along a low-lying spit northwest for 12 miles to Shaktoolik. Enough of the coastline is rock-bound and cliff-lined to force the trail inland before it reaches the Shaktoolik spit. This necessitates about 10 miles of heavy climbing right up the spine of the Blueberry Hills in a series of several long grades.
The last climb is an endless pull up to the 1,000-foot crest of the hills, followed by a notorious three-mile downgrade to the beach. The screaming descent from the summit has devoured more than a few mushers over the years. In 1992 Lloyd Gilbertson broke a leg when he missed a twisting downhill turn. Last year Diana Moroney wrecked so badly she had to scratch at Shaktoolik, and the list goes on.
Musher Steve Adkins runs along the coast of Norton Sound during the 1994 race. Coastal trails are some of the toughest on the race because they are completely exposed to the wind, and because the emptiness can sometimes cause teams to hesitate.
Before we get too far out of town Lisa and I stop to lock and load for our safari. She’s carrying a .45 automatic and I’ve got my ancient single-action .44 magnum Virginian Dragoon, which is so big and heavy I’d probably get better results using it as a club.
As we make our last checks and put the pistols where we can find them in a panic, we realize even this artillery would only annoy a polar bear. Indeed, someone in Unalakleet reminded me to make sure the front sight of my hand cannon is filed down so it won’t hurt so much when the bear takes it away from me and sticks it up my nose.
We enter the alleged bear territory in an hour or so. The trail comes back down to the beach after skirting inland around a hill, passes an old building at the fish camp, crosses Egavik Creek, and then heads back up a steep hill. As we move toward the building the dogs seem to be nervous, but we don’t see anything which might resemble a bear nor do we see any tracks. We have the distinct feeling of being watched, though, and we decide not to go looking for an Ursus maritimus just to say we saw one.
The brush-lined creek has a 50-foot stretch of overflow and the dogs balk, requiring us to stop and lead them across. We are not at all comfortable being stalled in such a vulnerable position and move on with unseemly haste. A few hundred yards later we lose the trail in a windswept area and again have to dismount and lead the dogs back to the markers. We still haven’t seen any sign of the bears, but we’ve both got a strong feeling they’re not far away, almost certainly watching us. The dogs are jumpy and looking around and we’re intensely relieved when we start back up to the open ridgeline.
Once up on the ridge we have a more immediate problem: the wind. It’s apparently been blowing quite hard up here for some time. This isn’t the promised new snowstorm, but a persistent wind can be just as troublesome and maybe even worse. With all the new snow on the ground from last night to move around, the gale has already piled drifts across anything it can reach, including the trail.
I know the trail sweeps came through here not an hour or two ago, and Andy has been here even since then, but I can see only the faintest signs of their passing. In places Andy’s sled tracks are covered by foot-deep drifts. It seems our run over the Blueberry Hills to Shaktoolik won’t be as easy as we’d hoped.
Fortunately the trail is well marked and Socks is able to find his way as darkness falls. Whenever we drop into the lee of the ridge and have a chance to look around, we can see it’s a beautiful moonless night with stars almost bright enough to illuminate the trail by themselves.
After an hour or so of slogging up hills, breaking through drifts, and careening back down into intervening valleys, we see Andy stopped ahead in a sheltered grove of trees. He says the wind and drifts were tiring his dogs and he had to rest for awhile. We wait while he gets his team up and then move on with him in the lead.
It’s slow going as his leaders break trail and we make frequent stops. After a steep climb up an exposed 100-foot slope in howling wind which requires us to break through hip-deep drifts on foot so the dogs can follow, he says his team has had enough leading. It’s time for Socks the Wonder Dog to do his thing.
I move out front with Socks in the lead. We are by now running mostly along the treeless ridgeline, steadily climbing, but with occasional surprise drops into ravines. The trail is marked well, but the wind is gusting to more than 50 miles an hour and at times I can’t even see the front of my team in the swirling snow, much less the markers.
Socks pushes resolutely forward, feeling out the trail and heading for the markers when we spot them. Between gusts I scan among the drifts to find the intermittent snowmachine tracks of the trail sweeps. Occasionally Socks misses the trail and I have to redirect him; all I can do is shout “GEE!” or “HAW!” at the top of my lungs and hope he hears above the screaming wind.
Finally we catch glimpses of the lights of Shaktoolik out on the flats to the west and we know we’re nearing the top of the Blueberry Hills. Although the lights are barely 15 miles away they seem impossibly far, a tiny island of amber sodium-vapor light in a vast sea of darkness, a cluster of stars fallen from the glittering sky above. It’s already taken us eight hours to cover 20 miles from Unalakleet; I don’t want to guess how long it will take us to cross the black windswept snow desert to the golden oasis hovering in the distance.
After fighting through a final mile of blasting wind and drifting snow across the barren mountaintop, the hurricane suddenly calms as we come to what appears to be the edge of the earth. Christopher Colum-bus would have appreciated this; I wonder what he would have told his superstitious sailors to convince them to push on into the unknown.
Of course, our crewmen don’t need any urging, and there’s the rub. The trail drops abruptly down a steep slope into the tree line and our dogs will try to do it at warp nine if we let them. It looks like the entrance to the world’s most dangerous luge run and we’re about to try it in the dark with rocket-powered sleds.
Lisa has been here before and suggests we spread out and go down the long hill at least 10 minutes apart. This will give each of us time to recover from any spills and get moving before the next juggernaut comes hurtling through the forest. The dogs will be moving at 15 miles an hour, so we should reach the bottom easily within half an hour.
We agree this sounds like a plan and Lisa disappears over the edge. I wait nervously for another 10 minutes, pondering where the wind has gone and estimating my chances of reaching the beach intact. Finally I give Socks the okay and hold on for dear life.
The dogs obviously appreciate t
he rest they’ve just had and respond by trying to drag the sled and me through the sound barrier. Whatever other problems I may have, I don’t think I need to worry about their strength and spirit. We hit the tree line at better than 15 miles an hour despite my booted foot jamming the brake so hard we’re leaving a rooster tail of snow behind us. I barely scrape through several turns lined with heavy brush and spruce trunks as the trail plunges down the mountainside.
If this continues I’m going to miss a cue somewhere and imitate Linda Joy’s dances-with-trees routine. In one singularly fascinating series of switchbacks I graze one spruce, kick away from another, and take a face full of willow branches within about five seconds. Just as I’m about to intentionally spill the sled to try to regain control of the situation the trail levels out briefly and the brake begins to take effect. The dogs have blown off their excess steam and I’m able to get them slowed to a fast trot.
Now I can drop into my Dalzell Gorge mode and concentrate on basic sled driving. The trail is actually in good shape after its recent fresh snow and packing by the trail sweeps. When taken at a velocity slower than a speeding bullet the curves aren’t all that bad. However, like the Gorge, there are more than enough hazards waiting to ambush an inattentive driver and abruptly end someone’s Iditarod.
We reach the bottom of the hill in about 20 minutes; at least for this little stretch of the trip we’ve gone as fast as the front-runners. As the trees scatter out and the terrain levels I see Lisa stopped ahead. We’re back in a windswept area and she’s lost the trail. Andy thunders up in a few minutes and we all fan out to try to find a trail marker. After our experience on the tundra outside of Unalakleet we’re getting good at this and I locate a tripod and then a reflector within 15 minutes.
I point Socks at the marker and we’re off. The wind picks up again as we leave the shelter of the hills. We pass a deserted cabin, cross what looks to be frozen overflow, and then pull up a 20-foot rise. Suddenly Socks disappears over a steep bank and I slam on the brake. After I set the hook and walk up to see what’s happened, I’m shocked to find we’ve run right over the barrier dune and onto the beach. My headlamp shows nothing but jumbled slabs of sea ice.
As I lead Socks back from his beachcombing excursion Lisa and Andy have found the trail leading along the slough which runs behind the dune. It’s already heavily drifted and the wind is picking up. We know we’re only 12 miles from Shaktoolik and decide to push on, taking turns breaking trail up the slough. It is tortuously slow and laborious going, each of us making only 100 yards or so before yielding the point position to give the dogs a rest.
With every yard the wind seems to increase. After a couple of hours of banging through the drifts it is howling from the north at 40 miles an hour or more, creating a vicious ground blizzard which reduces our visibility to 50 yards. If we only had to contend with the wind I have no doubt Socks could get us to Shaktoolik. Teams in the front and middle of the race managed to get through here with winds as bad as we are experiencing. However, with fresh snow to shove around, the wind has obliterated the trail and constructed a virtually impassable jungle of drifts; the darkness compounds the problem.
The slashing gale is inescapable; there is no shelter out here. The slough is completely exposed to the north wind and there are no trees of any consequence. At one point I stop and climb over the barrier dune to see if conditions are any better in its lee, but the beach is choked with drifts and if anything the wind is stronger. And the sea ice is a nightmare of upended floes jammed onshore by south winds earlier in the season.
Finally we come to a particularly nasty series of drifts. The wind is screaming and the driven snow stings our faces when we try to peer up the darkened slough to see the next marker. Socks simply stops and looks back at me. I know it’s time to go back to the cabin we passed and wait this out. Besides, I’m worried the dogs will become hypothermic in the wind and I want to get them sheltered from it as quickly as possible.
Lisa and Andy turn their teams around without difficulty. As I lead Socks back, however, the other dogs anticipate me and begin a retreat from the maelstrom on their own, causing an instant tangle. In the mess, Silvertip and Bear decide to chew on Yankee. I pull them apart and with steadily mounting frustration start to undo the Gordian knot.
I’m cold and tired and my hand is hurting fiercely and I’m finally out of patience. I shout at Lisa for help so we can get moving back to the cabin. In a daze I begin to undo snaps and lines. As Lisa starts to work with me I’m becoming so upset I don’t notice when I inadvertently unhook Yankee’s neckline and tugline and he wanders away from the confusion.
When I realize he is loose I bolt toward him, shouting at Andy to try to intercept him. This only spooks the normally gentle giant, who turns and flees up over the barrier dune toward the sea ice with me chasing clumsily in my heavy gear. I watch in paralyzed horror as Yankee vanishes over the snow-crusted dune in the black, gale-swept night.
The image sears itself into my mind; as long as I drive dogs I know I will never forget it. I am overwhelmed by a wave of total desperation. If I can’t catch Yankee I’m out of the race. Worse, there’s no way he can survive out there on the ice in the piercing wind and cold with no food. Everything has come unglued with frightening swiftness and is spinning out of control. This is my absolute worst nightmare come true, far more terrifying than anything I experienced last year.
I keep plodding after him, hoping he will let me get close enough to capture him. I can only see him when he turns to look at me and my headlamp catches the flickering blue gleam of his frightened eyes. He runs out into the jumbled maze of floes; I stumble after him, shouting. I’m chasing yet another ghost, by far the most important specter of my whole mushing career.
Suddenly I come to my senses and stop. I call Yankee’s name as gently as I can and he turns and looks at me. I kneel down and call him again and he slowly shambles toward me, head down, almost apologetic. When he finally comes up and sniffs my outstretched hand and lets me wrap my arms around him I am almost in tears with relief and affection.
I hug him for what seems a long time in the howling wind and enfolding night and slowly the world comes back into focus. As I lead him back to the team the events of 10 minutes ago are already ancient history. We’ve got work to do, and quickly. We must return to the cabin we passed and get the dogs out of the wind and get warm food into them. We need to get a fire going for ourselves and we must prepare to push on out to Shaktoolik once daylight evens up the odds with the wind.
As I crest the dune Lisa has finished unsnarling my team and I hook Yankee back into his slot. Andy leads the way as we retrace our tracks for what I now see is a very short distance: we worked for three hours and probably didn’t even break a mile of trail through the drifted slough.
We discover the cabin to be an under-construction plywood shack, barely 10 feet square. It has no door and is strewn with lumber and boxes, but it has a wood stove with a ready supply of split wood. As far as we’re concerned, it’s the Hilton and we check in.
The sky is brightening as we bed down the dogs behind whatever windbreaks we can improvise. I use a shovel I find in the cabin to dig holes in a snowdrift for my team and then stick fragments of plywood in front of them to further deflect the insistent wind. We set up our alcohol cookers on the cabin’s tiny porch and pack them with wind-hardened snow for hot water.
As our designated pyrotechnic expert, Lisa gets a fire started in the wood stove. Unfortunately she doesn’t have any more atomic fire logs so she has to do this one the old-fashioned way. We discover the flue has no damper and most of the heat is going up the stack, but the fire still goes a long way to warm up the cabin’s frigid interior.
As I sit semicomatose in front of the stove I realize I’ve become mildly hypothermic myself and spend some extra time inside warming up. I don’t want to think what our situation would be if we’d kept pushing toward Shaktoolik and gotten stalled somewhere in the open.
Wit
hin a couple of hours of our decision to turn around the dogs have had a hot meal and are resting. Andy and Lisa and I have decided to wait several more hours to give the dogs—and ourselves—a chance to recover from the long cold night. If Slim and his trail sweeps come back to look for us, we’ll follow their tracks in to Shaktoolik. If not, we’ll resume our trailbreaking efforts later in the morning and punch our way through somehow. We’re not about to be denied our trip to Nome by a little breeze.
About mid-morning we hear the sound of snowmachines above the wind. A few minutes later Slim and his cohorts materialize from the direction of Shaktoolik. They roar to a stop in front of the cabin as we step outside to greet them. It’s as happy a reunion as I’ve seen since Yankee came back last night.
Slim says everyone has been worrying about us since yesterday evening. The wind in Shaktoolik blew 50 miles an hour or more all night and they feared we’d been caught up in the Blueberry Hills and wandered off the trail. The tempest died down somewhat this morning and they headed back to find us.
Their best hope was that we’d stop at this shelter cabin if we got this far. To say they were relieved when they saw smoke coming from the chimney would be an understatement. This has been the kind of unexpected windstorm which kills people in this part of the country. And it’s not over: we need to get moving and on out to Shaktoolik before the wind comes back up this afternoon.
Lisa and I are hooked up and moving in 45 minutes. Andy says he’ll be along shortly. Shortly after we’re back on the slough Lisa and I discover we still don’t have a trail to follow: the snow has already completely drifted over the snowmachine tracks. We hope Andy is moving behind us because it’s getting worse and he runs the risk of getting stuck all over again.
After an hour and maybe two miles Lisa’s leader won’t go any farther through the drifts on the slough, which are just as bad as last night. The only difference is now we can see everything, and the revelation isn’t reassuring. I knew this country was bleak, but out here in the middle of it I wish I was back in the relative lushness of the Farewell Burn.
Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers Page 43