by Jim Misko
“You scared me half to death,” he yelled.
“Thanks for being my alarm clock, John.”
“I’m Walt.”
By then he was too far away to hear Bill. His team looked strong. Bill wondered if Walt had passed John with speed or because John had stopped longer in Kaltag. He walked back to the dogs, who were alert now that Walt’s team had passed.
He was right. They’d caught him about halfway to Unalakleet. They would stop in Unalakleet for the night, having made about a hundred miles that day. If he kept to his schedule he’d be there too, but he would only have gone fifty miles in the last twelve hours while they’d have done their hundred. Still, if the dogs stayed healthy and there were no more accidents, his team could drive up the coast in a series of four-hour drives and win this race.
Wouldn’t that be something? He shook his head. Wouldn’t that be something?
“Okay, saddle up,” he said. He pulled the hook and the team slid onto the trail 100 yards ahead of John Scribner. And behind him, coming over the last rise, were two more mushers. The top end in this race was getting crowded.
“Hyaaa!”
Before they passed over the next rise, Bill looked back. He had widened the distance between the two teams by a quarter of a mile. His fresh dogs made an early difference.
We’ll see how it works the last 300 miles to Nome.
Towards sunset he heard a siren. It reminded him of Anchorage, but he couldn’t for the life of him think of why a siren would be out here. Then he heard church bells ringing.
Is this Sunday? Come on, pull the day up—what day is this?
The siren and bells quit just before he rounded the corner and saw the lodge, three stories tall, amongst a group of tents. The siren again started its low moan, and the church bells began clanging faster and faster. Bill stopped beside Walt.
“Bill, you scared me to death out there. Took ten years off my life, but it sure made my team go faster.”
“I didn’t know if I could wake up any other way.”
“Where do you drop the dogs?” Walt asked.
“What do you mean drop dogs?”
“The slow ones or sick ones.”
“I don’t know,” Bill said. “I didn’t know you dropped dogs.”
“You only want the fast ones from here on.”
Bill checked in and was grabbed by an Eskimo family who had chosen him to stay with them. A boy and girl, both about eight or nine, guided him to their home and helped him put the dogs up. When they took him into the house, a wave of dizziness hit him. He’d been numbed and invigorated by the cold, had lived in it for days now, but the warmth and the smell of food stopped him. He was unsure of his foot placement.
“I need to sit down,” he said.
The two kids took his hands and led him to an overstuffed chair. He collapsed into it.
“This is our Dad’s chair,” the boy said.
He and the girl each untied one of Bill’s boots and helped him off with his parka and coveralls. He felt like a patient. The woman handed him a cup of coffee. He looked up to thank her.
“I’m Ida. My husband is on a trip but he thought he’d be back before you got to town.” She smiled, her hands clasped across her apron.
“Thank you.”
He looked at the two kids, one standing beside each of his legs. He put the coffee to his lips, and it almost spilled. His eyes closed for a second. He felt someone take the coffee and then he nodded off for a few minutes and dreamed of the passage through Hell’s Gate.
When he awoke the kids were sitting in a chair watching him.
“I might as well be awake,” he said. “My dreams are harder than running the race.”
“We picked you,” the girl said. “You want to know why?” She rocked back and forth.
“Sure. Why?”
She pulled up her feet and crossed them under her. “We heard on the radio about you and that you were last. And now you’re first.”
He sat in the chair and nodded his head. A dozen responses flooded his brain but he couldn’t speak while the lump in his throat grew. These kids…these kids. What do they know of my life? I’ll be a one-day flash in their memories, today’s leader in the Iditarod. Maybe I won’t win. Maybe I won’t even make it to Nome.
Ida put food on the table and the kids helped him out of the chair. He picked at the food, trying to get some of the good heavy meal inside him. He needed the fuel, he knew that, it was just that getting it down was a long, tedious process at this moment.
He noticed they’d hung his clothes around the stove to dry, but the slow movement of his eyes caught little else. He answered their questions but he couldn’t remember them afterward. The warmth surrounded him, and with his stomach full, he asked if he could sit in the big chair again and would they wake him after three hours.
When they did, a man was there, eating at the table. Bill started to get out of the chair and the man waved him back into it. He was larger than most Eskimos, with broad shoulders and long straight legs.
Bill sat up. “This is a good chair. If I had this chair I’d never leave my house.”
“It’s easy to nap in, isn’t it?” the man said.
“Your kids took off my boots, your wife fed me, and I slept in it. I don’t think a man needs any more furniture than this.”
“You’re probably right. A chair and a snow machine, and a guy could be pretty happy. You going on to Shaktoolik today?”
Bill nodded. “I’m running four hours and resting four hours. Do you know how many teams have come in?”
“Five.”
“Five?” Bill sat back. They’re all catching me.
The man stood up. “The weather’s going to get worse. You should stay. I think a lot of wind and snow.”
“Is the weather here now?” Bill asked.
The man shook his head. “No—but I came down in front of it, and you’re going into it. It’s coming off Norton Sound, so it’ll be blowing sideways. Hard going up the hills. The trail might be blown over.”
Bill wanted to stay. He wanted to eat good hot food again. He wanted to sleep in the chair.
“I can’t stay,” he said. “Some good people think I can do this, and for me…,” He bit the side of his lip. “I’ve got to do this for me.”
He thanked them, put on his outer clothing in the arctic entry, and inhaled several times to get his lungs ready for the cold air.
Ida came out to the porch. “My man, he’s Eskimo. I know there are Eskimo and Indian and white people running this race, and I want you to win it. If I had a gold medal, I’d give it to you now. No matter what, just try and keep going, even if you don’t win. You set out to do this thing—now you just keep going. It’s not far, and you can do it. My man says your team looks good, and you can do it. When you get to the end of the line, I’ll be a real proud person that you were in our house and ate here.”
Bill looked at her and smiled. “My mother died when I was born,” he said. “I’ve never had a woman tell me anything good like you did now. Thank you.” He zipped his parka. “Can I leave some things here I won’t need and you mail them to Arctic Village for me? I’ll send you the money when you tell me how much it is.”
She smiled and nodded vigorously. “Forget about the money. We’ll mail it for you. You just go out there and keep going even if it gets hard.”
Bill piled everything except the mandatory equipment in a tarp. She took it. He put out his hand and they shook hands like old friends, Bill holding hers a bit longer than he should have.
Walt had gone ahead. Good. He’d have a trail to follow. They side slipped down the bank and onto the trail to Shaktoolik, running sometimes on the ice and sometimes on the shore. The bag had a new supply of treats for the dogs and him, but thinking about food right now didn’t set well with him.
He could be in Shaktoolik in four hours if everything went right. It would be deep night by then, but at least he had Walt to follow for a while.
H
alfway to Shaktoolik he caught Walt camped where the hills gave way to the frozen marshland. He passed and waved, but he wasn’t sure Walt could see him from the tent. Tiny ice crystals hurtled sideways and bit into his face. He pulled the parka hood tight around his head to avoid the sting, which left him with only one eye to see what there was of the trail.
Rusty and Napoleon slowed down. Now that they were in the lead and with the wind drifting snow, it was harder for them to find the trail. Bill stopped the sled and walked up to the dogs, who looked at him with expectant faces.
He rubbed their heads. “We gotta get to Shaktoolik. We’ll have a rest there, okay?”
My god—here I am talking to the dogs like I expect an answer. If they answer me I’ll know something’s wrong.
He looked at each dog as he walked back and spoke to first one, then another. They were tilting their heads away from the searing wind, but they looked good. Looked like they could go all the way.
When they came to Shaktoolik, Bill tried to find a spot to park the dogs out of the wind. A huge snowdrift blocked the only street in town. He found a place that wouldn’t require him to walk over that drift every time he went back and forth, then signed in with the checker.
He walked back, dead on his feet. Coming through the wind had shrunk his muscles and pulled the vitality out of him. He fed and checked the dogs like a robot and for the first time worried that he might freeze to death. He couldn’t shake the fear. But he tipped the sled on its side and bundled up with the caribou skins, not trusting himself to wake up in a house. Four hours—that was all he could stay here. He would never hear another team come into town unless they drove right over him, so he had to wake up and be ready to go. His sleep was fitful and cold.
When he got up, he didn’t see the dogs. He looked and couldn’t believe it. He walked up alongside where he had left them.
“Rusty. Napoleon. Come on, boys. Where are you?” The crust broke, and a dog’s nose looked out, then another. Like caribou coming out of a river, the dogs rose out of the snow and shook themselves, then stretched. Bill felt a wave of relief, but only for a moment. A vision of two shadowy figures digging his frozen corpse out of the crusted snow passed before him. He shuddered. He had never thought of his own death, not even during the war.
He fed and watered the dogs, the wind turning the water to a thick icy slush before they even got it down. He looked at their feet, but the poor light made it difficult, and he decided they looked good enough to make the last couple of hundred miles. He walked over to sign out and woke the checker up.
“Anyone come in while I was here?” he asked.
The checker pulled his glasses forward on his nose and tilted his head to look through the bifocals.
“Scribner, Peski, Branigan, and Green. And I thought you were the only one crazy enough to run at night.”
Damn. He’d come into the village in first place. Now he was in fifth.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
“Watch that you take the right fork out of town and don’t run out towards the point,” the checker said.
Bill nodded and closed the door. As he neared the sled, he heard sounds that made him run. He vaulted over a small drift and jumped into the middle of the team, where two dogs were in a fight. He grabbed the whip and cracked it over their heads. They paid no attention. He used the heavy handle in his hand like a club and brought it down on the shoulder of the top dog. The dog let go and looked up. The dog under him grabbed him by the neck. Bill swung and hit the lower dog, but he held on. Bill dropped the whip, grabbed the dog, and bit his ear.
Instantly the lower dog released his hold and let out a yelp. Bill could taste the blood in his mouth, and with his heavy clothes and greater weight he held the dog under him.
The fight was over. Bill’s heart was thudding in his chest.
Let’s see the damage.
He inspected both dogs. The bottom one had a cut on his back leg. Bill unhooked him and walked him around. The dog was limping. No telling how bad he would be on the trail.
The dog looked up with sorrowful eyes. “So you’re sorry, huh? Don’t you know how much I need you out there? You think you can just fight anywhere and its ok and no one will care? Well—I care damn you. You’re gonna be left behind.”
He took the dog to the checker’s cabin. “Can I leave a dog here?”
“I need you to fill out a form, but you can put him over in that pen. Has he been fed and watered?”
“Yeah. He got in a fight and lost.”
“How’s the other one?”
“He can make it, I think,” Bill said.
The wind had died down and the howling, pushing snow had stopped. Bill climbed onto the runners and lifted the hook.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Hyaaa!”
Rusty and Napoleon turned onto the trail, and the swing dogs towed the rest of the team over to it. When one of the wheel dogs reached down for a bite of snow, the sled almost caught him in the back legs. If it isn’t one thing it’s another. He glanced from time to time at the dog that had been in the fight. He didn’t appear to be suffering.
When the team got out of town, Bill gave a speech.
“Okay…” he began. “We’re going to run to Nome and then drop dead. You and me together. I don’t want any slackers. If you’re not pulling your share, you’re gonna get the whip—and I’ll give your food to those that are pulling.” Some of the dogs looked back at him as he talked, his voice the only sound in the beginning light of the day.
He had at last developed a smooth rhythm with his kicking, and it made him feel good to be a working part of the team. Fifty-eight miles to Koyuk. I’ve got four teams to catch and I have to follow my plan. But following my plan has let four teams get ahead. What’s wrong with it? Maybe when I get near the end I won’t be able to stop for four hours. Maybe I’ll have to keep going and kill myself. The dogs can take it or they can quit—but they’ll outlast a man.
The tempo of his kicking increased, and the sled picked up speed. He began a mental exercise of putting events in his life in sequence and wondering how his life might have gone had they worked out differently.
What if I’d killed the black bear and the grizzly? Would I have stayed in the village and married Ilene and had a nice place and family now?
What if I’d made sergeant in the army?
What if I’d found Herb’s gold? Come back with a pan full of it? Would Verda and I have gotten together or just stayed partners in the gold find?
The sun came over the horizon and created a glare landscape. He stopped, dug out the sunglasses, and snacked the dogs. They looked good except for the fighter. Bill took him off the harness and hooked him in the basket. They would have to give him a ride to Koyuk, then ship him home. He now had fourteen dogs.
One of them wouldn’t drink. He tried hand-watering, but the dog turned his head. When Bill forced his mouth open and dripped water on his tongue, he moved just enough to eject the water. He looked at Bill with sorrowful eyes and lowered his head when Bill released his jaws. He could not be cajoled or threatened. He had run as much as he could. He joined the other dog in the basket.
One stop and I lose two dogs. Now I’m down to thirteen.
Back on the trail, Bill changed kicking legs. It was difficult to get into the same rhythm with his left leg kicking, and his head dropped far enough over the drive bow that the dogs in the basket tried to lick his face. But after a mile he could kick without changing the course of the sled.
Plans began to fill his head now. He would check in at Koyuk and feed the dogs. Maybe he couldn’t afford to rest four hours there, would make a quick start for Elim.
He couldn’t believe how far they’d come. It was as if he’d been kicking behind a sled since he was born. The wind rash on his face had become a natural texture, the grit in his eyes, normal. This race was lasting longer than his escape from the Bulge—and it was tougher, too. He’d had friends there. Guys who shared the daily strug
gle of battle. Here it was Bill Williams against the elements and the other mushers. Or was it? The elements were against everybody. The mushers had been receptive of him, kind and helpful. They weren’t against him—he was in the race of his life with them.
What was it Patrolmen Pat had said when Wayne died? Life either wears you down or polishes you up, depending on what you’re made of. Well, we’re getting a little polishing up right now.
He saw no mushers on the trail to Koyuk. He thought if he was able to see one it would give him an extra shot of motivation. The dogs, too. They liked it when they could chase someone. They got bored just like people. Run for twenty miles in all the same kind of country, no animals or birds to see, just pulling with your nose to the trail—dogs wore down just like mushers. He sang to them for a while but it didn’t seem to help either the dogs or him. He went back to kicking. He knew it moved them faster toward Nome, a good bed, a good meal, and maybe some winnings.
What do I do after this is over?
It was the first time he’d thought about the end of it.
My life won’t be the same. What do you do after you’ve been two weeks on a winter trail with dogs? Who needs a dog musher the rest of the year?
His kicking pace had slowed while he was thinking, and now he tried to kick off every second. The pace was killing, but when the mountains behind Koyuk came into view he figured they’d be in town in half an hour. Several hours went by, and they seemed no closer. He stopped, snacked the dogs, and collapsed on the sled. If he got to Koyuk in a couple of hours he could rest some, find out the weather ahead, and get ready for the last dash.
The guys who passed him had planned this race pretty well. They’d let him lay a trail and followed it, just like he’d done the first half of the race. Only now, they cleared out their weak dogs and got rid of their extra stuff and ran towards Nome without a foot on the brake. Smart guys.
He checked in at Koyuk and dropped the two dogs. They gazed at him and the team as it pulled out, but they didn’t try to tear down the fence they were tied to.