At the Anchorage end of the race, a volunteer staff hundreds strong does things like staging various pre-race banquets and social events, dealing with the media, sorting mushers’ food for shipment, picking up and caring for dropped dogs returned from the checkpoints, manning public information booths and hotlines, operating concession stands and souvenir shops, purchasing supplies, soliciting donations, coordinating with sponsors, working with city and state agencies, running a taxi service for race personnel, acting as trail guards for sections of trail in populated areas, and dozens of other functions associated with a major sporting event.
At Nome, a large staff of volunteers does all of the million and one things needed to bring the race to an orderly and enjoyable conclusion. This includes handling the worldwide media blitz and running the massive dog lot at the west end of Front Street where teams which have finished wait for their airplane rides home.
Nome volunteers also put on the sumptuous Awards Banquet in the Nome Convention Center, routinely attended by 2,000 people or more, where every musher gets a chance to speak and the awards are given out. Every finisher is entitled to a banquet and a chance at the podium to receive the coveted belt buckle and finisher’s patch. Since not all of the mushers are finished by the time of main banquet, the volunteers also put on a smaller but no less popular Red Lantern Banquet for latecomers.
Because the race lasts more than two weeks (only the top teams make it in under 10 or 12 days), the turnover of volunteers is continuous. In keeping with the nationwide and multinational flavor of the race, volunteers come from all over the Lower 48 and abroad. To accommodate individual schedules, people filling positions along the trail must be periodically moved ahead to high-traffic areas or into the hubs for their ride back to Anchorage as the race progresses.
The IAF runs what amounts to a mini-airline before, during, and after the race, moving 100 race volunteers from checkpoint to checkpoint. Even within the IAF, pilots rotate back to their regular jobs during the race, so there are never more than 10 or a dozen airplanes actively working the trail at any given time.
Joe Redington, Sr., the “Father of the Iditarod,” takes a break at Kaltag in the 1997 race. He finished a very respectable 36th at the age of 80.
It can safely be said no other single event (not even politics) captures Alaskans’ enthusiasm so completely and enlists their support so wholeheartedly as the Iditarod. Indeed, the race and everything about it constitute one of the few things which can unite Alaska’s normally fractious and independent-minded people for a single purpose, if only for a few weeks each year.
No one who has ever run the Iditarod—or even part of it—would ever trade the experience for anything else. The volunteers who make everything run smoothly year after year against daunting obstacles would echo this sentiment. It is truly a voyage of personal discovery, even for veterans and perennial contenders, and every year is different in a thousand significant details. It is truly the Last Great Race on Earth.
Honor Bound
The story of an Alaska dog’s journey home, how he fulfilled his honor-bond to his girl, and became a true dog—a great dog.
Written by Amanda Kirsch
Illustrated by Samantha Hayes
PO Box 221974 Anchorage, Alaska 99522-1974
[email protected]—www.publicationconsultants.com
ISBN 978-1-59433-375-0
eBook ISBN Number: 978-1-59433-376-7
Copyright 2013 Amanda Kirsch
—First Edition—
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical or electronic means including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in whole or in part in any form, and in any case not without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Manufactured in the United States of America.
Dedication
Honor Bound is dedicated to the memory of Rob (Robby) Zombie (as was his full name),
The goofy looking-possibly part coyote mixed mutt,
who shared several years of his life with me and my family.
It took great courage to live in the reality of our home,
But you stayed without fail.
Patiently waiting by the back door every morning and every night with Nana.
Maybe you were foolish or horribly ignorant,
But thank you.
Just for being there.
one
Lightning cracked, brightening the dreary black night. The rumble rolled through the hills, distant mountains, and wide river valley lined with a great wall of steel-gray granite. The rain came down in a sudden burst, but the warmed summer breeze making the whole of the storm not as horrible as it could have been. The storm clung to the dreary outskirts of Sutton, Alaska, around mile 64 of the highway to be correct.
The rain tossed down by the storm dripped from ferns and leaves making the grass lay close to the ground. The misty sweet smell of rain clung to the rich smell of warm pine trees as it pounded on a hollow log. The chaos above disturbed the animal that had crawled into the log to take refuge. Despite darkness, the animal’s bright golden fur was gleaming, lighting the dreary shadow of the hollow space. Its black nose was stuck down between muddy paws, muffling its sorrowful whines as it shivered.
It wasn’t but five hours ago that Robby had been standing in the back of his family’s blue Ford pickup truck. He had stood catching some air as he had leaned out, tongue sailing in the wind as they cruised down the twisting highway. Robby remembered what happened, and was angry with himself. He was standing on the edge of the truck bed leaning out too far tugging at the very end of the leash that was meant to keep him down. But he had tugged and pulled on it until it no longer served its purpose to protect him.
He had fallen through the air for what seemed like forever until he had hit the hard, unforgiving blacktop. His collar slipped off with a hard jerk wrenching his neck; his shoulder hit the tire; his back hit the pavement. Over and over he had tumbled; pain, horrible pain, flared in his body.
He had heard the truck screech to a halt, its rubber tires crying out on the death-black pavement. Three of its four doors had flown open, but it was too late. Robby ran and ran, never looking back. He was so frightened and so hurt he could not stop himself. Shrubs and willows smacked his bloodied nose. He heard a faint cry that he knew to be dear to his heart; it was his girl calling him back. But he couldn’t stop himself; he ran on; he left her. She sounded so scared and so sad, but he ran on until not even the rumble of the big blue Ford pickup could be heard.
He had left her.
Darkness surrounded him now as he stumbled over the roots and squirrel holes. He had blacked out, waking to his current misery. He could taste the rain mingling with the blood off the tip of his nose. Why had he run? Why? He asked himself the question over and over again, thinking of the heartbreak he had brought upon his girl.
He could barely lift his head from the pain it caused him. His hip was skinned up, burning with bits of gravel and pavement in it. He was cold. Lying on his side he could feel a broken rib tugging at the skin it tried to cut through. He could not fall asleep all that night in the moldy log that he managed to find in the darkness. His head ached too much and his stiff neck made him cough.
Before long, night had become day, as was normal in the summer time in Alaska, but still he lay as the rain came down. He watched it drizzle off of the plants and trees. A moose he normally would have jumped at the chance to chase, walked by lazily before catching the scent of Robby and his blood. It raced in fear through the wood like a spring windstorm, tearing a path through the damp plants. Robby took comfort in knowing that he wasn’t the only one frightened and alone at the moment.
two
By the next morning he was stiffer and weak. Bracing himself, he dragged his body out of the hole in the cottonwood log and stood. He was dizzy with pain and hunger, but he moved on with determination. He lifted his abused nose
to the wind finding a game trail that had been used regularly by a male dog. He followed it for a long while at a slow, painful pace before finding a cabin with a chicken coop and a stocky horse in a corral being followed by a potbellied pigmy goat.
He lay just beyond the yard to watch. He looked for a garbage can to dump over in the night or a bag of hanging meat. The smell of fresh meat drifted to him. Tender, aging caribou meat hung in the shed, but his nose drew him to another source. He drooled, feeling hunger wrench his stomach and loudly tell him it needed food.
He suddenly caught the scent of the male dog that commonly used the trail he had come in on. He was in no shape to fight, but he had to eat, just a scrap to get him moving. He crept forward, his golden red coat as obvious as a black bear in spring snow. From behind him came a low angry growl.
Robby’s heart skipped a beat. He slid to the ground, submissively showing his belly. Robby looked at the dog he had foolishly let creep up on him. It was large with thick bushy fur and deep golden eyes. Robby gulped. The dog had an off smell to it and he knew why. It was a wolf dog mix, a hybrid. Robby knew he’d never win a fight with the graying dog even in tip-top shape. Dogs were no match for a hybrid; yet a hybrid was no match for a wolf, Robby told himself every time he had a chance to meet the moody mix breeds.
“Who are you?” The wolf dog growled. He was huge with gangly legs that dwarfed Robby’s stocky mangled body. “Speak up or I’ll shake you ’til your eyes go cold.”
Robby swallowed speaking in a quiet growl.
“Robby, sir.” The hybrid looked him up and down with wise old eyes.
“Lost, ain’t ye?” he huffed looking beyond Robby to his yard. Lying down with a groan, Robby relaxed a bit not having the energy to stand once again.
“No, I know where I’m going. It’s getting there that’s my worry,” Robby growled tiredly raising a hearty chuckle from the wolfish dog. He thumped his tail approvingly.
“My name is Kodiak. Don’t much let strangers on my pack’s land, but you’re no tenderfoot, and your Miss is in a might of worrying for you,” Kodiak growled, squinting his old gold colored eyes.
“Miss?” Robby whined.
“Your girl. You smell as if you were snuggled up tight with a young lady before this mess.” Robby whined again, dipping his head and wishing he hadn’t because of the pain in his neck made his vision swim. Kodiak took pity for he had been rescued not long ago from a savage man with a club by a brave, hard headed girl. Now she was grown with little ones that Kodiak watches out for night and day.
“My Miss just butchered some hens; them laying in the back on a table. Take one and don’t be seen. I’ll stir up the horse and that ornery little goat for ye.” Kodiak stood with a groan and creaky joints before he loped toward the corral.
“Kodiak, how can I repay you?” Robby asked feeling like a beggar not worth a sniff. The hybrid stopped and looked back with his wise, gold-colored eyes.
“Get home to her, and take care. You a going south?” Robby nodded shakily gaining his feet, feeling as old as Kodiak looked. “You got to walk through that city. Ain’t no place for no one but man. Trust no hand.” With that he disappeared to the side of the cabin near the corral. Robby heard a horse whinny and a goat bleat in anger. He found the butcher table in the back and took the smallest of the plump hens already plucked and gutted. He limped away grateful to the wolf dog, knowing he was to meet none other like him on his way home to her. He was determined he would make it.
He had to.
He laid down savoring his meal near a river runoff not far from Kodiak‘s home. He was near to town; he could smell and hear it all. Each sweet juicy bite he took made him stronger and more ready to move on. Finally, he licked his paws clean and the ground around him. Standing, he stretched as much as he could. His wounds were calm for now, no pain flared. He would have to clean them later. He wanted a few miles between him and this next town the Miss had called Palmer.
What he didn’t know was that 300 miles separated Robby from his Misses—300 miles of some of the most rugged terrain in Alaska and it was not a dog friendly journey in the least bit. Like Kodiak had said,
three
The sweet-sour smell of horses and cattle filled his head as he trotted along the highway within the cover of the thickly overgrown woods. Rabbits dashed away from him and quail made their annoying cry that reminded him of a hurt pup. He came upon the remains of a pig that had been dug from its pen. He wanted no part of that trouble so he picked up the pace, following the road he knew very well from years of travel back and forth with the Miss in the big blue Ford.
Soon the trees broke away and pavement replaced it. He couldn’t run out in the open fearing the people. He sighed, slinking from the back of one business to another and through people’s back yards. He wouldn’t be so uneasy if everyone in the town hadn’t owned some kind of livestock. He could be shot for just looking at the penned animals. He took to open pastures, increasing his speed, running when he could. He found himself using his bad leg with little or no pain. Cows, horses, pigs, chickens—it drove him crazy. He had to get away from here before he took a bullet, or followed his stomach where his nose lead him.
He met few dogs, most barked angrily at him from their fenced yards, but the smells made him believe that this place was different at night. He knew too well what good little dogs did under the cover of night when no masters were looking. He stumbled upon more dead livestock, and it wasn’t coyotes or wolves that had done it. He decided it was best to be gone before the rogue pack of dogs he smelled everywhere added him to their menu.
Palmer was a nice little farm town that gave way to more of a city-like look as he ambled along, but he wouldn’t miss it. He liked the back roads and mud trails of home. He could torment coyotes and spruce hens all day back home. If he took a long trip, he liked to go and listen to the wolves, past where the roads no longer ran, and the smell of man was gone. Home, that’s where his heart was. He took a deep breath; his heart lightened by memories of home.
It was night now. The cooling air made him stiffly shuffle along, following the road he knew to be the way home. His heart was heavy, a slight whimper now and again escaped him. His head hung low, he never knew how much he loved his Miss, or how far he would go for her.
He knew now; he’d go to the end of the world for her.
He had been lost before, long, long ago following the steps of Nana, an old black dog, grayed by time, that raised him at his Miss’s side. Miss called her Taco, but to him it was Nana. Nana took him far, far from home many times telling him of the wonders of the world and the places she had been. Robby only half listened, believing he knew all he needed to, but he was so wrong.
Nana had left him one cold rainy night to teach him a lesson.
She left him where the salty water crashed upon the sand. He had been scared and angry until he made it home and realized that Nana was waiting at the trail’s end to welcome him home. He was no longer a puppy, but a dog with eyes and ears open to the lessons of the world.
Robby stopped scenting the wind.
Rain was coming again, so he took cover in thick willows that shed most all of the rain. He laid his head on his paws and thought back again to Nana. She had died last winter, when the snow was thick and the nights freezing cold. The Miss never smiled, her face wet with salty water, like the water that tasted bad out by the sandy shore. Robby had seen Nana before they wrapped her in her favorite blanket and set her in a wooden casket freshly made by the Miss’s pa. He didn’t know what to do. He was angry when they put her in that box and put her in the ground. So Robby ran for days and days, slinking to and fro, growling deep within his chest and snarling at all who came to near him. He was so raw with pain, loss, and anger.
One day, Bumper, a dark eyed, light-haired human friend of the Miss’s wrapped him up in her arms despite his snarls, and whispered in his ear. She spoke so kindly to him that his cold shell melted away. He always counted on Bumper to brighten his day;
he loved her as much as he loved the Miss. He went on without Nana at his side. He felt stronger and wiser, using all she had taught him to keep Miss and Bumper safe as long as he was on this earth. He remembered Nana every day and whispered to her on the wind often, hoping she would hear him.
He didn’t notice the rain as he fell asleep thinking of the Miss and Bumper, and even the Miss’s ma and pa, and even the runty rats of dogs no bigger than snowshoe rabbits that he shared his home with. He even thought about the ferrets that chased him, biting with their tiny, needle teeth. He awoke to a warm, clear sky all pink and orange. He yawned, a great big yawn with hope thick in his chest. Two ravens took flight after being started by him; he snorted.
“I’m still alive, you savage garbage eaters,” he yelled to them as they playfully whisked across the tree tops. Standing, he sniffed the wind. A gruesome smell hit him like a lucky kick from an irritated moose and he felt a little uneasy as he realized it came from the land where man was cold and merciless. The place Kodiak had warned him of. He felt fear well up, but he continued there was no way around it.
He had to get home to her.
The black road that he followed was loud and crazy with shifty cars going recklessly fast. The thunder of the massive cargo trucks overwhelmed him at times. He stayed out of the way, walking through the tundra and grass. Many times he choose to swim with the muskrats rather than brave the edge of the road. Once or twice he felt them nip at his belly, but they were not as brave as the ones he tangled with at home.
Alaska Dogs and Iditarod Mushers Page 50