Across a Thousand Miles

by Nadia Nichols

  “BUT SERIOUSLY, Mac, you can’t mean you’re in love with Rebecca!” Brian shifted gears and the old truck groaned in protest as they swayed down the Klondike Highway toward Whitehorse. They were fully loaded and then some, with fourteen dogs, two sleds and hundreds of pounds of dog food and gear. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” He laughed outright at the absurdity of it.

  Mac shifted in the passenger seat and glanced out the side-view mirror, reassuring himself that the dog-box doors were all securely shut. His brother’s words rankled. “What’s so funny about that?”

  Brian shook his head. “Nothing,” he said hastily. “Well, I mean, it’s just that you swore last summer you were never getting involved with another woman. Remember? You mentioned something about becoming a monk.”

  “That was before I met Rebecca. I didn’t set out to fall in love with her,” Mac said. “But somewhere along the line I did. I’m hooked.”

  “Rebecca and Bruce were pretty tight. I guess I just never imagined she’d ever fall in love with anyone else again. She’s like a wolf, Rebecca is, bonding with her mate for life. Some wolves wander off and disappear when their mate dies. I just kind of figured she’d become a loner. She’s…I don’t know, it’s hard to describe. She’s very quiet, but she’s…intense. You know what I mean?” Brian glanced across at him. “I just can’t imagine her as being anything but Bruce’s grieving widow.

  “She’s not in love with me,” Mac admitted to his brother. “Actually, she thinks I’m a jerk. And I guess I am, kind of. I owe her a lot of money.”

  “Sam told me that was why you decided to run the race.”

  Mac stared out the window at the cold white blur of Yukon winter. “Yeah,” he said softly, knowing he wasn’t telling his brother the whole truth. Running the race had become much bigger than his debt to Rebecca. It was a personal challenge, an incredible adventure through some of the wildest and most beautiful country he’d ever seen.

  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you about Rebecca,” Brian said. “I’ve known her for five, six years now. She’s a great girl. Beautiful, smart and grittier than an egg rolled in sand. Just don’t get your hopes up.”

  “KANEMOTO, IS THERE any coffee left?” Rebecca asked as she guided the big lumbering dog truck down the highway. “I didn’t get much sleep last night and my brain is pretty fuzzy.”

  Much sleep? That was an understatement. Nighttime had meant lying awake in a cold sweat with her heart pounding in fear, imagining all the catastrophes that could befall her. Sleep was a place she drifted to, off and on, a place of thin ice and overflow, misplaced trail markers and dogs who were too sick to eat or drink. Sleep became the nightmare where she lost her team and wandered in the darkness calling out for her lead dogs while the snow deepened and the cold intensified. In her dreams the ice broke and the strong current sucked her and her team to a cold and watery grave. In her dreams she let Bruce down, over and over again.

  “Here,” Kanemoto said, handing her a steaming cup poured from her thermos.

  “Thanks.” Had she remembered to pack everything? Dogs, harnesses, sleds, gang line, booties, mandatory equipment, food drops and a hundred other items too numerous to possibly remember. Why on earth was she doing this? Ellin Dodge was right. All mushers had dog biscuits for brains!

  AT THE DRIVERS’ MEETING the night before the race, the participants drew bib numbers for their starting order, paid any fees they owed and listened to a long and interminable description of the trail by the race marshal, including rules and regulations. Then came a few comments from the chief veterinarian and another hour of personal testimony from trail crew members and volunteers on the status of the race trail and what would be happening at each of the checkpoints.

  By 10 p.m. the lecture was finally drawing to a close. Rebecca sat next to Mac, and when the meeting was done, he turned to her with a wry grin. “Kind of like the military,” he murmured. “Ninety-nine percent bullshit.”

  Rebecca sighed. “They really expect us to remember everything. That’s the part that scares me.” She glanced down at her notes and made a face.

  “Just take it as it comes.” Mac yawned and stretched. “Boy, I’ll sleep well tonight! Brian kept me up late last night, reaming me with last-minute advise.”

  “You’ll sleep tonight?” Rebecca said, disbelieving.

  “Sure. We have a nice hotel room. I’m going to take a two-hour shower and hit the sack. What’s the matter? You need a place to hang out?”

  “No,” Rebecca said. “I won’t sleep a wink, and I don’t need a place to hang out. And by the way, I hate you for not being the least bit nervous.”

  “What’s to be nervous about? What’s going to happen is going to happen. Worrying about it won’t help. If I don’t win, I don’t win, and that’s all there is to it.” He grinned at her disarmingly. “Smile, Rebecca,” he said. “The worst part’s over.”

  “It is?”

  “Sure. Training was hell. The schedule was exhausting. Making up the food drops was one of the biggest logistical nightmares I’ve ever experienced. The race is going to be easy compared to everything that came before.”

  Rebecca stared at him, amazed, and then laughed again. “You’re probably right,” she said.

  “So will you sleep tonight?”

  “Nope. Sorry. It must be the woman thing.” She stood up and waved to Kanemoto, who was waiting patiently by the door. “See you in the morning, Mac. And good luck.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Have you known the Great White Silence, not

  a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?

  Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed

  your huskies up the river,

  Dared the unknown, led the way, and

  clutched the prize?

  Robert Service, from The Call of The Wild

  RACE DAY. Ten a.m., and the staging area was pandemonium—a wild uproar of noise, chaos and color. Rebecca knelt beside her truck with her arms around Raven, steadying her lead dog for the veterinarian who was in the process of drawing blood. “We’re doing random drug testing,” the veterinarian explained as the vial filled with bright red fluid. “We’re also running some baseline tests to check blood chemistries and monitor any changes that might occur during the race. We’d like to test Raven again in Dawson and at the finish in Fairbanks, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind, but Raven probably will,” Rebecca said, rubbing the black dog’s ears.

  The vet laughed, straightening and handing the syringe to an assistant. “Your team checks out fine. No problems that I can see. You’ll need to keep this notebook with you and present it to the vets at the checkpoints. This is your first run on the Quest trail, isn’t it?” The vet gave her a pat on the shoulder before departing. “Good luck. See you in Carmacks.”

  Rebecca’s stomach was churning as she harnessed her dogs. Keeping busy helped, but the crowds of curious onlookers kept up a constant barrage of questions, and her dogs were shy with the children who wanted to pet them.

  Last night she had drawn bib number fourteen out of twenty-five. The teams would leave the starting line at three-minute intervals, beginning at eleven o’clock, which meant Rebecca had well over an hour before she had to get her team to the line. She was harnessing them up too soon. She took the harnesses off and paced nervously to and fro, answering questions, checking the contents of her sled bag for the hundredth time, patting her dogs and glancing down the line of trucks to where Mac’s was parked. He was starting in tenth position, twelve minutes ahead of her. She’d probably overtake his team within an hour and never see him again. Why did that thought trouble her so?

  Kanemoto asked her a question, and she stopped pacing to look at him.

  “Booties?” he repeated, holding up a nylon bag.

  “Yes, we’d better bootie.” It was too soon for that, too, but she had to do something or she’d go crazy. She bootied slowly and carefully, checking the dogs feet thoroughly as she did, though there was no
need. The veterinarian had found no problems. Her dogs had great feet. She’d used booties on every training run, and the precaution was paying off now.

  At quarter to eleven she harnessed her dogs. The noise was deafening. Three hundred dogs were yelping and howling in their excitement to get going. Rebecca lifted a package off the seat of her truck and walked down to where Mac and Brian fussed over their team while Sadie looked on anxiously. “I have a little something for you,” Rebecca said, leaning close to Mac so he could hear her over the mind-numbing din. “Ellin made it. Snack food for the trail!”

  “Cinnamon rolls?” Mac said hopefully, tucking the package carefully into his sled bag.

  “Better than that,” Rebecca said. “Fruitcake!”

  “Fruitcake!” he exclaimed with exaggerated pleasure. “This sure makes me feel like Iron Will! Guess I’ll just have to win the race now, won’t I?”

  “I guess you have no excuse not to.” Rebecca smiled. “Good luck, Mac.”

  “Same to you.” As she turned away, he touched her arm. “Hey,” he said with a grin. “If it makes you feel any better, my nerves are pretty bad right now.”

  HER MOUTH WAS DRY. Swallowing didn’t help, so she fumbled for a stick of gum in her pocket, found one, popped it in her mouth and began to chew. Her stomach was doing flip-flops. She checked her watch. Ten minutes to go. “Let’s hook them in!” she said to Kanemoto.

  Volunteers appeared to help with the hookup, one volunteer standing just behind each pair of frenzied huskies holding on to the gang line. The sled was snubbed to her truck, and Kanemoto was going to ride it into the starting chute while she led Cookie and Raven. The team ahead of them had already gone into the chute.

  It was time. She waved an arm to Kanemoto, and he pulled the snub line free. The dogs surged forward, dragging six strong volunteers, heels braced and leaning back, toward the starting chute. She could hear the loudspeaker counting down for the team ahead.

  “…three, two, one, GO!”

  And then she was leading her dogs into the chute. Lines of spectators stretched as far as the eye could see down Main Street. The voice over the loudspeaker blasted deafeningly. “And here comes musher number fourteen, Rebecca Reed! This is Rebecca’s first time on the trail of the Yukon Quest, folks, but she’s running a great team of dogs! Most of these dogs finished this race three years ago in second place, driven by her late husband and champion musher Bruce Reed, who, as many of you recall, was tragically killed in an accident not long afterward. Rebecca’s lead dogs are Cookie and Raven, and, folks, notice that she’s running a twelve-dog team, the smallest in the race, but that’s no handicap for this lady! She also runs a very successful dog-tour business out of her home near Dawson and writes a weekly column on the outdoors for our very own Whitehorse Star! Okay, folks, we’re coming up on the thirty-second countdown. Good luck out there, Rebecca! We’ll be rootin’ for you!”

  Rebecca had been kneeling beside her leaders. Now she stood and walked slowly back down the length of her team, pausing beside each pair of dogs to give an encouraging pat or straighten a tangled line. Kanemoto relinquished the runners to her as the announcer’s voice blasted out,

  “…five…four…three…two…one…and GO! Good luck, Rebecca Reed!”

  The volunteers holding her sled jumped back. She took her foot off the brake, put it down firmly on the section of snowmobile track between the runners, and called out an unnecessary, “All right!” for her dogs were already pulling for all they were worth. There was no stopping them now. They were as anxious as she was to get away from the crowds, the blaring loudspeakers, the chaos of the city, and onto the familiar quiet of a wilderness trail. The spectators passed in a blur of color and sound and soon were left far behind. Rebecca heaved a sigh of relief and felt her body relax.

  It was approximately a twenty-mile run to Lake Leberge. She checked her watch as soon as they were out of town. By 2 p.m. at the latest they’d reach the lake. More than likely it would be pitch-dark before they were off it, and, as she’d learned at the meeting last night, long sections of lake trail had been blown clean of snow. Yes, there were trail markers—tall bitch-pole tripods with reflectors nailed to them—but Rebecca had little faith in markers, especially at night. The trail crew tended to space them too far apart to be spotted in the beam of a headlamp, which at best gave the musher only a hundred feet of visibility. Rebecca enjoyed night runs when the moon was full, but other than that she could do without them, especially on an unfamiliar trail.

  Within the first hour she passed four dog teams, making up as much as fifteen minutes on some of the slower contestants, but none of them was Mac’s. By the end of the second hour her dogs were still loping, showing no signs of tiring, and still no sign of Mac. She was beginning to think she had underestimated the average traveling speed of his team, or perhaps overestimated hers.

  And then came Lake Leberge, famous for its fickle winds and whiteouts. Ahead of her by at least half a mile she could see another team moving along, and knew that as long as she could keep it in sight she’d be okay. She wouldn’t mind closing the gap a bit and trailing behind that other musher until they were off the lake. Already daylight was leaning toward darkness, and it was cold. She cinched up her hood to thwart the stiff breeze that blew across the lake, lifting streamers of snow over the backs of her dogs.

  Could that be Mac’s team up ahead? Were his dogs finally beginning to slow down after the excitement of the start? Should she pass him? Or should she trail after him like a scared pup? What was the matter with her? She was far more experienced than he was. He should be the one who had spent all those sleepless nights tossing and turning and imagining the worst!

  It was dark before she finally caught up with the musher ahead of her, and she was greatly disappointed to discover that it wasn’t Mac. The musher wore bib number eight, which meant Mac had to have passed him.

  “Bib number ten? Hell, yes! He passed me a couple of miles before we came onto the lake. Damn good-looking team he was driving, by the way, cruising right along. Passed my team like it was standing still. Do you want to pass, too?”

  “No, I’m fine right where I am, if you don’t mind me tagging along behind.”

  “Glad for the company.” He grinned over his shoulder. “I don’t care much for this lake.” He faced front again and was quiet for at least another hour before he turned around again. “There’s a poem about this lake. The Cremation of Sam McGee, by Robert Service. You know it?”

  “Yes, I know it. It’s a great poem.”

  “Would you mind if I recited it to my dogs? I sing to them quite a bit, and sometimes I recite poetry. This seems a fitting place to recall those immortal lines.”

  “Please do,” Rebecca said, and so he did. In a boisterous voice that carried back to her clearly, he launched into a dramatic rendition. Head thrown back, one arm gesturing, he gave life to the lines written so long ago by an English immigrant living in the Yukon. Up one verse and down the next, he never missed a beat.

  There are strange things done in the midnight sun

  By the men who moil for gold;

  The arctic trails have their secret tales

  That would make your blood run cold…

  Rebecca shivered and jumped up and down on the sled runners to warm herself as her dogs trotted on, mesmerized by the deep, dramatic voice of musher number eight.

  …The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

  But the queerest they ever did see,

  Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

  I cremated Sam McGee.

  Another gust of wind spiraled up the lake, whipping the snow into a whirling vortex, blinding them temporarily. Rebecca was relieved when they made it off the legendary lake without mishap. When number eight stopped his team to check his dogs, Rebecca bade him farewell and ordered her leaders on by. She was going to try to keep to her planned schedule of six-hour runs followed by six-hour rest breaks. By her calculations she still had anot
her hour and thirty-five minutes to go. She had programmed the alarm on her watch to alert her at six-hour intervals. Time lost all its familiar dimensions out on the trail. The days had no beginning and no end. It was just the team running and running and the trail leading on and on until it all became one long, endless blur. No matter where she was, when the alarm went off, Rebecca was going to keep to her strict regimen. The only exception would be when they arrived in Dawson for their thirty-six-hour layover.

  When her alarm sounded, she found a good place to pull off the trail. She snubbed the sled to a spruce, pulled out the cooler and feed pans and immediately fed her dogs the thick meaty soup she had prepared for them in Whitehorse. This was probably one of the easiest meals she’d feed them during the race. They wolfed it down with great enthusiasm, and she dished out a chunk of frozen liver to each dog for dessert. Then she pulled forty-eight booties off forty-eight feet, unsnapped tug lines and gave each animal a brief rubdown before slogging back to the sled, reloading the cooler and feed pans, and pulling out the sack that held her own meal. She sat on the sled bag, leaned back against the driver’s bow and began to eat her peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. She poured herself a cup of hot tea and switched off her headlamp to save the batteries.

  “Where’s Mac?” she pondered aloud, chewing the stiff, icy peanut butter. Her dogs were curled up and sleeping soundly, which was good. They’d get six hours of rest and be more than ready to go again by midnight. Rebecca ate her sandwich, sipped her tea. She was tired. It would be nice to take a nap, but if she fell asleep, would she wake up when the alarm went off? She eased her body into a more comfortable position, zipped up her parka to her chin and snugged the hood down over her hat. Warm and toasty. The temperature wasn’t too bad, maybe thirty below. Farther along the trail, it would drop to fifty, fifty-five below. There were cold spots along certain sections of the Yukon River that froze the very thoughts in a musher’s head.