by Jim Misko
He shook the sled, but the dogs were slow rising. He wanted to cruise White Mountain and see where the mushers were. There was Scribner’s and Peski’s sleds parked beside the school, the dogs curled up, the mushers nowhere in sight. He turned down another street and found Branigan and Green beside a large house. Wilmarth’s team was stashed behind the checker’s house in the sun and close to the checkout. He would know it when anybody left for Safety and Nome. His team was still in harness, and they could be on the trail in minutes. He thought he saw a window drape being pulled aside as he drove by. Maybe Wilmarth was awake and about to head out.
Didn’t make any difference. He needed to rest, if only for an hour. There was a place where the sun would catch them for a while before it went behind a hill, and then maybe the cold would wake him. It was also close enough to Wilmarth’s team that he might hear him leave. He buried the hook in the snow, turned the sled on its side and put the caribou hides down, then pulled three on top and buried himself in them. Sleep found him instantly.
It seemed like just minutes before he awoke with cramps in his legs and a sore hip. He straightened his legs and yelled, which woke the dogs. He grabbed his legs—they felt like tree trunks, the muscles knotted into a tight ball, the pain almost more than he could handle. He stood up and limped around. The dogs raised their heads. When they saw him limping in a circle and yelling, they knew they weren’t going anywhere and they lay their heads down and closed their eyes.
“When you guys are hurting, I help you. I rub your legs, give you water, give you a sack to sleep on. When I’m hurting, what do I get? A sorrowful look. That’s it.” Bill looked around to see if anyone had seen him talking to his dogs. People were all over the village, but no one seemed to think it strange that a musher would talk to his dogs. If the dogs talked back, then they’d be interested.
The sun hadn’t set, but Bill didn’t want to risk going back to sleep and letting the cramps take him again. While the dogs slept he cooked a double batch of food. The dog food he wouldn’t need he put in a sack and dropped off at the checker’s along with camping equipment he no longer needed. He noted the check-out times for the teams ahead of him. He hoped they’d camp between White Mountain and Safety for the night, then get an early start and sprint to Nome. Of course, he couldn’t count on that.
If he could hold up, he felt sure the dogs could do it. They could go harder than a man could. He dug the flashlight out of the sled bag and stuck it in his parka.
He shook the sled but didn’t shout to the dogs. Wanting to leave White Mountain as quietly as he had entered it, he rolled the sled down the bank to the icy muskeg. The sled felt wonderfully light. With the beaver carcasses and salmon out and the extra equipment left behind, Bill was the weight for the team now and not the gear.
He kicked hard down the icy trail and when they reached the Topkok hills he got off and ran, and the dogs, released from the weight, charged the hill. He could see a musher on the next hill when they got to the top. The dogs saw him too. It gave them something to chase, and when they started downhill Bill had to stand on the uphill runner and pull and jerk to keep the sled in the trail—at one point it almost overran the wheel dogs. He was forced to push it into the wind. On the curve he dug the brake into the snow and threw his weight to the uphill side, his breath coming heavy now and sweat trickling down his back. At the next crest the musher was two-thirds up the hill. They had gained on him.
There was no time to plan the final run. Going up the hills and sliding down took all of his concentration. His clothes were sweat-soaked and he worried about coming into the funnel, where the high winds would cut right through him.
“Haw, Rusty—come on, pull! Napoleon…haw, haw!”
The leaders listened and turned and the sled angled off, then righted and caught the edge of the trail.
There was a howl to the wind before he felt it. Coming over the hill it sounded like a flood coming down a canyon. The dogs cocked their ears and kept moving, their eyes fastened on the two teams now in view from the top of the hill.
“Perk up, you buggers—we’re going into it.”
The dogs didn’t hesitate. The wind funnel was like a car wash. Blown snow and dried particles of leaves and bark whipped across his face. Then the wind caught him and tipped the sled over on its side like an empty garbage can. Bill hung onto the drive bow with one hand, his body stretched out behind the sled. The packed snow made it easy going for the dogs, and when he tried to stick the snow hook it bounced and jerked.
He had to get a leg up where he could catch a runner. The heavy clothing slowed him, stalled him—he swung his right leg up in an arc over and over. At last he caught his heel on a stanchion, pulled up enough to reach the hook, and jammed it in, holding it firm with his body weight. The forward momentum ripped up the wind-packed snow until the drag forced the team to give up.
Bill stood up. “Damn you guys, anyway. Can’t you hear anything?”
They looked at him, but the gusts were pushing them around on the snow pack and they skidded when they weren’t running. The dogs wanted out of there. He lifted the hook and righted the sled. It seemed to him that they were in the middle of the valley about halfway through the funnel. If they could get out of it, they’d be on the sea ice again.
Bill tied himself on the sled. The wind gusts hit hard and frequent with no warning, and staying ready for them all the time was exhausting. Three dogs to windward were knocked over but got back on their feet in the blink of an eye.
A trail marker. It was the first Bill had seen since leaving the hills, and he had to lean uphill hard to avoid hitting it. The wind noise dominated all other sensory perceptions. The wind tugged at his clothes and tried to get past the fur and leather. Bill pulled the parka closer to his face. He didn’t know where the others were but he had a good idea where he was. The marker made it clear but it was at the edge of the funnel, where snow-machine trails and dog sled tracks went everywhere.
He stuck the hook and walked ahead with the flashlight. Rusty and Napoleon wanted to turn right and follow the spider web of trails. The snow forced him to half- shut his eyes and he couldn’t see well with the batteries so low, but he could see enough to read that most of the tracks led northwest off the ice. He thought he remembered the trail should run southwest on the ice. There were no markers out front in sight, and Bill didn’t want to leave the team. He wasn’t sure he could find them again if he left. There was no way he could look at the map in that wind, but the compass confirmed the direction.
Whoever had taken the right-hand turn first had led the other four mushers on the wrong trail. They’d probably gone to Solomon by mistake. This was his chance.
He shuddered. The wind had reached inside him, stealing his body heat, and as he turned back to the sled he saw three dogs on the windward side shivering, their hair standing out. They all needed to get out of the wind, get a fire going, eat, and get some rest. They were maybe twenty miles from Safety, the last checkpoint before Nome. He made a mental list: run out of the wind; find some bunched-up logs for a fire, feed the rest of the food and get rid of the weight, sleep for the last push.
I don’t want to be buried in a windy place. I wonder if anybody who might be burying me would know that? And I told that hospital attendant to mount my head and put it in the Union Club Bar and feed my body to the wolves. Half of that might happen on this trail if I don’t do this right.
He pulled the hook. “Hyaaa! Haw…haw!” Rusty and Napoleon looked at him. They had to find and follow the trail. The other teams had turned right. That’s where the trail was. They had turned right either by mistake or to get shelter. He wanted neither.
“Come on! Haw…haw!”
The leaders heard him and moved to the left. The team followed. If the shivering dogs didn’t have food in them it wouldn’t make any difference how long he ran them, they wouldn’t build up enough body heat. He jumped off and started running beside the sled, hoping to find a bunch of beached logs out
of the wind.
He came upon a pile of logs from sweepers, trees that hang over a river bank. They were frozen hard, every crack and crevice filled with snow and ice.
He set the hook in the packed snow and fumbled at the zipper on the sled bag. It was frozen. Every zipper joint glistened with ice crystals. He removed his glove and put his bare hand on it. The cold metal burned and stuck to his skin, but the zipper moved an inch. He used his other hand. This time he could get a hand in the bag, and he pulled out the dog sacks, Blazo, and the last flare. He shoved the sacks like caulking between the logs and poured the Blazo on them. Then he ripped the cap off the flare and struck it. It sparked. He blew on it and held it away from the wind.
Maybe it’s wet. Maybe it will never light.
He blew on it again, lined the two pieces up, and pulled the striker fast across the flare tip. Sparks erupted into a shooting red flame. He closed his eyes for a moment, then aimed the flare at a sack. There was a whump as it exploded and burst into flame. It scared the dogs and singed off Bill’s eyebrows but oh, was it warm. It took a few minutes for the frozen logs to catch fire, by then Bill had the food out and a stick of jerky in his mouth.
In five minutes the flames were twenty-five feet high, the frozen logs cracking and popping and the snow melting in puddles around it. The dogs ate and curled for a nap while Bill lay on the sled and let the fire toast him one side at a time. He would only sleep a few minutes. The mushers would have realized their mistake by now and be headed for Safety, and they could surely see this fire rising like a beacon in the wilderness.
The freezing side of Bill woke him up and he started to turn over. The fire was so big that the sled was sitting in melted snow water. There was nothing to put back in the bag, but he zipped it to cut down on wind resistance, pulled the hook, and moved out.
For several miles the lights of the Safety Roadhouse were visible as Bill urged the team on. The lights didn’t seem to be getting any closer—in fact, they appeared to be fading in the distance.
How could that be?
Then buildings began to take form, and lights with the distinctive arctic halos shone from prominent points. He stopped the team at the roadhouse. The checker and several townspeople gathered in the surrounding light, the sight and sound of them almost outside of his senses. He signed in and out at the same time and got back on the runners. He was number one and Nome was twenty-two miles away. It had taken him almost twenty days to get here, but he spent only three and a half minutes in Safety.
He didn’t trust himself to talk. He could hardly even think. Best to take the team out of there and get into high gear. They could be in Nome in two hours—or maybe five hours. But from here and now, we run all-out. We don’t sleep, we don’t eat, we run.
Out on the ice a dog wavered, then fell. Before Bill could stop the team the dog had skidded on his nose, then he jumped back up and took off. In a minute he fell again. Bill stopped the team and went up to him. He petted him and roughed him up, and the dog fell asleep. Bill shook him and stood him up. Before he got back to the sled, the dog was down. He unhooked him and brought him back to the sled. As soon as he put him on the sled, he fell asleep.
“Hyaaa!”
The team started off at a trot.
“No—run Hyaaa!…Hyaaa!”
He shouted the dogs into a lope. They held it for a short distance, then fell back into a trot. Bill thought that would be all right until he looked behind him and saw flashlights. The mushers had discovered their mistake and were coming on hard.
“Hyaaa!”
The frame of the Fort Davis Roadhouse was just visible amongst the fish- camp structures, and he strained to see the point where he would leave the Bering Sea and head into Nome up Front Street. He wanted to have the finish line in sight before he took the last remaining strength from his dogs. He heard a musher behind him yell “Trail!”
Bill moved to the right, close up to the snow bank that defined the street. He could feel the electricity of the other team and hear their dogs panting, their harness creaking, and now his dogs went into a lope, their tongues flipping from side to side, saliva dripping, tails like batons in the air, snatching glances at the passing team.
The team pulled even with him, but he didn’t recognize the driver. It had to be Wilmarth. They edged past little by little, passed one dog and then another, then the sled eased by in slow motion. It took the heart out of Bill’s dogs. They had been passed. Bill held off until he could see the finish line. He wanted to make sure that when he took the next step he had a minute left.
He reached into the sled bag and pulled out the whip. Wilmarth was a hundred feet in front of him when he cracked it. The dogs leapt forward, their feet pounding the snow like someone had forced energy into their lagging bodies.
Wilmarth glanced over his shoulder and saw Rusty and Napoleon narrow the gap between them. He reached into his bag. The crack of his whip sounded like a pistol shot, and his team burst forward.
Bill’s elbow was beside his head when he swung the whip again, the crack so loud it hurt his ears. One of the swing dogs stumbled, then gained his feet, but the team had slowed. The gap between the teams was less than sixty feet. The people lining the streets jumped and shouted and the town siren wailed, but Bill was deaf to anything but his heartbeat in his ears. He jumped off the runners and lost his footing. They were going too fast. He made it back onto the runners and kicked with his right leg.
Wilmarth’s team pulled ahead. Bill looked behind him. Scribner and Peski were twenty yards back. He could see the whips in their hands, snapping the leather ends in the air. He turned back.
Wilmarth’s team veered and then plunged into a group of people on the left side of the street. He jumped off the sled, grabbed the lead dog, and dragged him back into the street, pulling the team behind him. Then he spun around, took the harness in his left hand, and sprinted up the street.
Bill’s team was now twenty feet behind him. He dropped his whip and kicked hard with his right leg.
Bill’s team closed the gap—almost.
Napoleon had his nose between Wilmarth’s legs when they crossed the finish line. Wilmarth fell on the street, his team coming to a halt halfway across the line. Rusty and Napoleon looked back at Bill, their chests heaving and their tongues hanging out.
Bill stumbled down the team line, spoke to each dog and rubbed and petted it. When he got to Napoleon he fell on his knees and hugged him with his eyes closed, tears running down his face. Rusty nudged with his nose and licked him. He reached out and brought Rusty into the hug.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up. He tried to stand, his knees stiff and unbending, and then she was in his arms. He reached around her and brought her to him. Even through his thick parka, he thrilled to the touch of her. When at last he released his grip on her, the flowered scent of her hair lingered on his chest.
“Ilene…”
“Hello, Bill.”
He hugged her again and smiled at the people standing behind the berm.
“Who’s the guy who took second?” he heard one of them ask.
“That’s Bill Williams.”
“Where’s he from?”
“It says Arctic Village. Where’s that?”
“Somewhere in the interior.”
“I thought they all drove snow machines up there. I didn’t know they had any dog drivers.”
“Looks like they’ve got one.”
Ilene broke loose and took his hand. “I’ll help you with the dogs.”
“Good. I’d like your help with the dogs.”
She smiled at him. “For how long?”
She took Napoleon’s harness in hand and Bill stepped on the runners.
“From now on!” he shouted.
She reached up and put a soft hand over his mouth.
“Shhh…you’ll wake the neighbors.”
Bill kissed her fingers. “By God…it feels good to be in Nome.”
SPECIAL THANKS TO
> Dick Mackey for the hours I caught him on the phone and asked him questions about the Iditarod and especially the 1973 race and for his reading of the race section for any obvious errors.
Perry Green for the generous donation of his time for an interview on the early days in Anchorage.
Norman Vaughan for his time explaining the race and how it works and some of his adventures during it.
Cyndi Goff and Lorraine Thibault for transcribing my original manuscript into a reasonable document on paper.
To Julie Christensen and Glenn Bracale for their work in preparing the copy for publication and getting it done and done right.
Renni Brown of The Editorial Department for editorial work that was accurate, fast, understandable, and very much appreciated.
And to my readers who caught inconsistencies and other author errors and had good fun pointing them out to me.
Jim Misko, December 2004