by Sue Henry
Place: Between Shaktoolik and Elim checkpoints (106 miles)
Weather: Overcast, decreasing wind
Temperature: High –14°F, low –21°F
Time: Early morning
After four hours of fitful sleep, they woke to find the storm had died again. It was warmer, and so dark in the shelter of the sleds that Jessie thought she had only slept a few minutes. When Schuller pushed at the canvas roof, wind-packed snow cascaded from it, allowing light and cold wind into their retreat.
They struggled out of their warm sleeping bags and back into cold parkas, pants, and boots. When Jessie stood up to yank on an extra wool sweater, she looked out to find them alone in a world of endless white. Not a dog was in sight, but close to the jury-rigged shelter was a barely perceptible set of tracks. Someone had passed them as they slept.
Martinson whistled and shouted his leader’s name. In a moment three teams of dogs were shaking themselves out of snow-covered resting places, where they had slept warmly buried, tails to noses. Their survival had been less at risk than that of their human companions.
“Should we get a fire going?” she asked Tim Martinson.
“With what?”
“I’ve got some charcoal somewhere, and a can of Blazo.”
“Too much trouble. Let’s cold-snack the dogs and run on into Koyuk while the wind’s down.”
Schuller agreed and Jessie was glad, not really wanting to fuss with the usual routine. The dogs would be fine. There would be hot coffee and food at the checkpoint.
All the gear from the sleds was buried under drifted snow. They dug it out, repacked, and went on, taking turns breaking trail. The going wasn’t so bad in the dim, early light, especially with the tracks to follow.
“Wonder who it was?” Schuller said just before they took off.
“And why he didn’t stop,” Jessie added.
“Wanted to get a jump on us,” Martinson determined, “and it worked.”
“Doesn’t look like Harvey. He’s pushing that toboggan rig, and it doesn’t drag like this. It might be Bomber’s.”
When they came off the ice at Koyuk, Schuller’s speculation proved correct. Bomber Cranshaw’s sled was parked at the checkpoint. Inside, he was cleaning up an enormous breakfast of sourdough pancakes, eggs, and sausage, which made Jessie almost break her rule of always feeding her dogs before herself. She warmed her hands and face quickly and went back out to care for them.
Martinson finished feeding his twelve and disappeared toward the food. Jessie, caring for eleven, wasn’t far behind him, but everything seemed to take hours. She was working on the dogs’ feet when Schuller stopped beside her.
“Hey, Jess. Can you spare any of that super goop you put on your mutts’ paws? Old Betsy has a problem with a front foot. The boot tore last night, and she picked up some grainy snow between the second and third pads. Got a pretty deep split in the webbing. Your stuff really worked on Widget during the Kusko.”
“Sure, Dale,” she said and handed him the tube.
He squeezed out enough into two fingers to do the job and gave it back.
A few minutes later, as she collected the empty dog bowls so they wouldn’t blow away, he reappeared with a cup of coffee and a sausage patty folded inside a pancake. Thankfully, she drank the coffee, then ate the sandwich as she repacked the sled bag.
It was enough to make her stomach clamor for more. Inside, she ate enough pancakes and protein for three people. Though she was stuffed, she still felt the urge to eat, her system telling her how many calories she had burned to stay warm on the ice.
They stayed only three hours in Koyuk before heading for Elim. Neither Harvey nor Murray had come in while they rested.
Bomber was the first to pull out. Like Martinson, he still had twelve dogs in harness.
“If I don’t see you guys again, it’s been nice racing with you.”
“Don’t count on it,” Martinson told him. “You’ll see the back of me soon enough.”
“I don’t know. A couple of your dogs look pretty short-legged.”
“You’ll think you’re running dachshunds if you try to keep up once I shift into high gear.”
Nome was now only 150 miles away. The closer they got, the more Martinson’s temper seemed to improve. He thinks he has a good chance of winning, Jessie thought. But so do I.
As she booted up her dogs, she wondered what had happened to Murray and Harvey.
Schuller was leaving two of his, including Betsy, which she knew must disappoint him. For the first time in his four years of Iditarod racing, this dog would not cross the finish line with him. He also took a young male named Pepper out of harness, which left him with a strong team of twelve. Jessie watched him rub Betsy’s ears affectionately as he talked to the checker who would take care of her. The vet knelt beside the old dog, going over her injured paw with gentle fingers. She licked his hand but had eyes only for Schuller, knowing she was being left behind.
He looked back at her as he pulled out. As soon as he was out of sight, the dog laid her head down on her paws dejectedly. Jessie let Tank get her team going just behind him, a little sad herself.
The trail from Koyuk to Elim swung back to the sea ice, following the curve of the shoreline, which was surrounded by steep rock cliffs topped by projections like sentinels. Then the trail turned back abruptly onto land and into low rolling hills. Just before reaching the checkpoint, they were on the ice once again, with more cliffs to the right.
By midevening Jessie was in Elim, forty-eight miles beyond Koyuk. The wind had whipped across the sound all day. Though airborne granular snow blasted head-on at times, scouring her exposed skin, she was able to complete the trip in just under seven hours.
Martinson, good as his word, had passed Cranshaw halfway between the two checkpoints and disappeared into the distance. Schuller, then Jessie, both passed Bomber just before Elim, but he repassed, to arrive five minutes ahead. They pulled in to Elim to find him in serious conversation with the checker.
“You’re sure you only saw him once before you went onto the ice?”
“Yeah, sure. He pulled over to let me by. I saw his light for a minute or two in the storm but went on into Koyuk without seeing anyone else. I even missed the ménage à trois camped out there. That snow was blowing pretty good.”
His comment on their emergency shelter, obviously intended for their ears, infuriated Jessie. She could tell it angered Schuller, too.
He snapped. “If you didn’t see us, how do you know we camped together?”
Bomber grinned maliciously. “I said I missed it, not didn’t see it,” he said. “Maybe I should have stopped, huh?”
Schuller took a step in his direction, but Jessie caught his arm.
“Don’t, Dale. It’s not worth it. He’s just being stupid.”
“You’re right.” Shaking his head, Schuller turned to the veterinarian, who stood ready to check the condition of his dogs.
Cranshaw stared at Jessie until the other two were out of hearing.
“You’re doing pretty good this year, Jess,” he said.
“I’ve got a good team and they’ve stayed healthy.”
“No better than mine.”
“Well, we’ll see. Don’t forget two years ago.” She reminded him of the year she had passed him just a few miles from the finish line.
He didn’t respond, but stood looking at her belligerently.
“See you lost your trailbreaker,” he said finally, with a sneer.
“You mean Mike?”
“Yeah. Wore out his dogs.”
His insinuation stung. She felt anger flare again, but caught herself before she spoke. He’s trying to get you. Don’t let him.
Silently, she looked at him, feeling her face grow hot. Her lips felt stiff.
“That’s not fair, Bomber. I break my share of trail.�
�
“So you say.”
“What’s wrong with you?” she burst out. “I don’t deserve that and you know it.”
“Aw, come on, Jess. You’ve had help all the way up the line. Just like Murray and all the other women. If not from Ryan and Solomon, then from that idiot trooper.”
She was incapable of speech, so angry she wanted to hit him. Incredulous, she struggled to hold her temper.
Bomber scowled at her, assessing the effect of his accusations.
Jealous. He’s jealous, she thought. But it seemed more than that. He was also tired and really angry. I think he actually believes it, she realized. He’s afraid I’ll beat him again, and he’s setting up excuses in case I do.
Carefully calm, she said, “I’m sorry you feel that way. It isn’t true and you know it, if you’re fair.”
He whirled and stomped off toward the checkpoint.
Jessie watched him go, feeling limp, as adrenaline drained from her system, leaving her more tired. She had thought he was over this prejudice.
“What are you smiling at?” Schuller asked. She hadn’t seen him return, and she jumped at the sound of his voice.
Smiling? She realized she was and why. She was exhilarated. Bomber was afraid she would not only beat him, but the rest, too. For the first time in the race, she really knew that, given the right conditions, she could.
“Nothing important,” she told Schuller. “Just the same old stuff.” She wouldn’t let Bomber reach the finish line ahead of her. He had just guaranteed it.
She studied Schuller for a moment.
“What’s wrong, Dale?”
His frown of concern told her it wasn’t good news.
“T.J.’s been hurt,” he said. “Solomon and Murray found him unconscious by his sled last night, in the hills before they went down onto the ice. Looked like he parked his team to give them a snack, tripped over something and fell, hitting his head on a block of frozen fish he was about to feed them.”
“God. Is he okay?”
“Yeah, I guess. They turned around and took him back to Shaktoolik. He came to after they got him in. He’s got a lump the size of a baseball on the side of his head and can’t remember much about it.”
They looked at each other, both thinking the same thing. Jessie expressed it.
“Are they sure he just fell?”
Schuller considered his answer, kicking at the runner of her sled.
“Hell, I don’t know, Jessie. I guess if they weren’t wondering about it, they wouldn’t be asking questions, would they?”
“He’s out of the race, then?”
“Oh, yeah. No chance. They’ll fly him out as soon as the weather clears.”
“Are the troopers in Shaktoolik?”
“No. They’re in Nome. The storm drove them up the coast yesterday and they haven’t been able to get out. Holman finally got in there this afternoon from Koyuk.”
“He had to want to get there pretty bad to fly in this stuff.”
30
Date: Tuesday, March 12
Race Day: Eleven
Place: Nome checkpoint
Weather: Overcast, decreasing wind
Temperature: High –15°F, low –24°F
Time: Late afternoon
Holman wasn’t alone in wanting badly to be somewhere else. Throughout the day the storm had progressed in waves up the coast to Nome, driving Alex to new heights of irritation.
“When it dies down here, it’s still blowing like a son of a bitch down there, and vice versa,” he complained to Caswell and Becker. They were having coffee at Iditarod headquarters on the south side of West Front Street, a block beyond the finish line.
On their way to check out the current race positions they had passed a well-guarded group of prisoners from the Nome correctional facility. The men were setting up slatted snow fence and shoveling snow to create the chute, a 175-foot-long raised area where, tomorrow, the winner would cross the line and officially complete the race. The fences would hold back the crowds, while the raised finish line would allow them to see what was going on.
Crowning the chute was a massive long arch with two enormous burls on either end. It was supported, fifteen feet in the air, by heavy wooden tripods. Into one side was carved “END OF IDITAROD DOG RACE, 1049 MILES, ANCHORAGE, NOME.”
“There aren’t any trees that big out here,” Alex said to Caswell. “Where’d they get that thing?”
Caswell smiled, glad to find something to distract Jensen from his preoccupation with the weather.
“Fairbanks,” he said. “A logger named Red Olson, who owned the log back in 1974, thought the race needed a finish-line monument, which he conned the Fairbanks Lions Club into building. When they had it done, they put the whole thing into a plane and had it flown to Nome. When it got here, the race committee found he had shipped it C.O.D., over five thousand pounds of it. There was over a thousand dollars of freight due.
“They took up a collection from everybody in town to pay the bill on something they hadn’t even seen. Then Olson came to town, they put it together and set it up. It’s beginning to need some repair after standing outside for years, but it sure makes a great finish-line marker, doesn’t it?”
Fans and officials came and went from the race headquarters, which was located in a medium-sized auditorium. One small room held radio and computer equipment, operators keeping close track of the racers as they went through the checkpoints. Behind a counter near the door, Iditarod volunteers sold souvenirs: enameled pins, sweat shirts with the race logo, mugs, suspenders, posters. Another booth did a brisk trade in soft drinks, hot dogs, cinnamon rolls, and whatever else the cooks of the community brought in. All three troopers had sampled bowls of moose stew a short time earlier.
A large hand-drawn map of Alaska, the race route carefully marked, filled one wall. Officials moved colored flags with individual names along the line as they received word of the standing of the mushers on the trail. Those who scratched were pulled off to one side.
From the map, Alex knew that Murray and Solomon had made it in and out of Koyuk. The other four—Martinson, Schuller, Arnold, and Cranshaw—had completed more than half the forty-eight miles to Elim. The weather was slowing the race, not stopping it.
The news of T.J. Harvey’s accident had come through on the headquarters radio. Alex spoke to Holman, who had talked to Harvey and the village health aide in Shaktoolik.
A community of less than two hundred people, Shaktoolik has no resident doctor, dentist, or pharmacist. Daily health and medical needs are met as well as possible by a resident health aide. Medical professionals visit once or twice a year. Anyone requiring emergency treatment is flown to the Norton Sound Regional Hospital in Nome.
“We’ll bring him in as soon as this weather clears,” Holman had assured Jensen over the radio. “He’s not in any danger that we can tell. Has a massive headache but seems to be holding up okay.”
“What do you think, Matt? Was it an accident?”
Holman’s answer came slowly. “Don’t know. Could have been. T.J. doesn’t remember anything. Says if someone hit him, he didn’t see them. I didn’t see where it happened, but Solomon’s no dummy. Said he looked for footprints, but the damn blowing snow had covered everything, even Harvey. Lucky they found him. He could have frozen to death.”
“What did he hit his head on?”
“Chunk of frozen fish he was about to cut up for his dogs. Solomon brought it in with him. Harvey’s blood’s on it, and it matches the mark on his head. Would have had to fall awful hard to make a lump that size.”
“So it’s possible either way.”
“That’s a roger. You got anything else?”
“No. You coming up?”
“Soon as I can. Holman, out.”
“Is he going to fly in this stuff?” Becker qu
estioned Jensen.
“Not if it’s bad. I think he had about all the flying he could take getting into Shaktoolik.”
“I can relate to that,” said Becker, still unfavorably impressed by their trip from Unalakleet.
Although the storm had momentarily subsided, fierce wind swept the street, and the temperature hovered menacingly in the minus range. Jensen was glad to step through the door of the Nugget Inn, where Carpenter had found them a room by calling in a favor from the owner. It was tiny, dark, and once again short on beds. This time Caswell insisted on taking the floor. “We’re not going anywhere soon,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”
The lobby was crowded with out-of-town race fans seeking shelter from the wind. In the Gold Dust Saloon, ten feet and two steps down the hotel’s front desk, Alex could see that most of the tables were filled.
“Let’s get a beer,” Caswell suggested. “You’ve got to see this bar.”
They crossed the room to climb up on tall bar stools. To one side a large picture window faced the ocean, though in the dark little could be seen but snow, whipped up off the sea ice and flung against the glass with some force. The bar was impressive, filling one whole wall with polished wood, mirrors, and shelves of glassware. The heavily carved bar, with its old-fashioned lamps, recalled the gold rush days of not so long ago.
“This is what an Alaskan bar should look like,” Caswell enthused. Overhearing his comment, the bartender smiled.
“Thanks,” she said. “We like it. You guys here for the race? Of course.”
“Yeah, sort of.”
“They’ll be in tomorrow. Late. Martinson is running first just outside Elim, but Cranshaw, Schuller, and Arnold are right behind him. They’re all moving fast, even with the snow.” She nodded toward the window. “We’ll get a report soon.”
“What time is it?” Alex asked her.
“Almost eight. Where you from?” She smiled and set their beer in front of them. During a quick and casual check, which Caswell observed with a grin to Becker, she had assessed the wedding-ring status of both the other troopers. Turning to Alex, she set his brew down last and addressed the question to him.