ON TO FINGER LAKE
It’s dark and I use my headlamp on its brightest setting to help me spy the trail markers. While at the checkpoint I watched as a musher left and came back, and seemed to go in circles with his team. The musher was irate and blaming a poorly marked trail for his return to the checkpoint. I shutter thinking about getting lost and having to turn my team around. I know that there are far worse things that could happen out here, but the mental toll that it would take on the team and on my rookie nerves would be substantial. I resolve to use my high-beam and be on high alert until day-light so as not to miss a marker. I wouldn’t mind “chasing” a veteran musher out of the checkpoint who knows the trail, but as I looked around, I didn’t notice anyone else preparing to pull a hook. Oh well… nothing new. I have a strong tendency to move alone in races, and apparently even sandwiched among 71 teams there won’t be exceptions.
After a short time I head into the woods. Daylight is slowly creeping up on us. I am able to shed my headlamp and while doing so pull out my ball cap. Snow has begun to fall and I need the bill of the cap to dissuade it from landing on my eyes which impedes my vision, but also stings really bad. Later in the race I run into my friend Newton (Marshall from Jamaica) who passionately professes to me his dislike of snow, “It makes my eyes hurt,” he admits without any need to feel macho. He discussed this same section of the race with the crystalline flakes rushing the face, and we commiserate over our highs and lows, snow in the eyes being a low (but really just an ironic nuisance).
As daylight rose, so did the mercury. The “warmer” temperature brought a snow storm, or more likely the storm brought the warmer temps. This snow was the kind that hits your body and instantly melts. The dogs are strong, but as we approach mid-morning, their pace begins to lull. I think about what to snack, and with the desire to keep them hydrated in the warmer conditions I decide on fish (which for those of you reading this not from Alaska, is wild sockeye salmon caught at the beach ¼ mile from our house… far better that what you could find in your “Lower 48” grocery store).
Halfway into my run an interesting sign catches my attention. “Assholes ahead” it reads. I suppose it’s a good landmark, but I’m wondering if I should be nervous, you never know what you’ll encounter with a self-proclaimed a-hole.
I move along a lake and pass a camp that appeared to be where the party was at during the darker hours, but at this time not much life was stirring. The open lake gave me an opportunity to see how close other teams were, and seeing one several minutes behind me I determined I had enough time to snack the team.
Moving along through what I would guess to be swamps the trail becomes very narrow, doubtfully wide enough for two sleds side-by-side. Of course this is when I catch a team. I time it out and watch for a while, both to conclude I have the faster team (no sense passing if I can’t pull ahead) and to decide if the trail will offer a safer spot to pass. I deduced that I had a much faster team, and that the trail would not yield in my favor. The musher in lead also read the situation and came to the same conclusion. She did her best to find a passable section, but the bigger challenge was handling the sled. If the musher moved too far to one side, the trail was too soft to hold back the team, but by being on the hard-pack, there wasn’t enough room for two sleds. Most of her team moved over while my guys plowed on by. Unfortunately her leaders swung left and blocked off the trail causing the need to muscle my sled further to the left and encourage the team to go around them and not duck under her gangline. I was in waste deep powder and not only lost momentum, but also my footing. I held onto the handle bar and gracelessly dragged behind the sled so as not to give the dogs pause. Not sure if it’s good or bad, but I often reassure myself by thinking, “well it could have been worse.”
Soon after the minor fiasco two teams came cruising from behind. Mushers are often unrecognizable all bundled up, but I quickly knew who the first team was as I had trained many of the dogs about to pass me six years ago when they were pups. The driver had leased the team and was not touching the drag mat. I moved my sled off the trail to the right so that I could still claim a piece of the hard-pack with my snow hook. I stomp it in solidly and quickly scramble to the front of the team to keep them clear of the passing team. I don’t want to risk tangles or injuries. The passing team moved fluidly by my guys until it came to the driver who made no effort to steer just a bit to the left to keep it clean. He stood frozen on the sled like a line backer and careened into my back stanchion. A bolt or something must have caught my sled bag because as he passed my sled moved with his and turned so the back end was out completely blocking the trail. I winced, hoping the snow hook would hold, and that nothing major on the sled was broken. In the meantime my dogs recognized their neighbors passing by and got pretty amped up to chase. Crud, here come two more teams. In an instant the next team’s dogs were already over my sled runners. Nothing I can do now, just hoping the hook holds as it gets run over. Luckily the seemingly more experienced musher in this team had witnessed the debacle and was prepared to maneuver his sled to where it barely scraped over mine. Can’t say who it was, our eyes greeted each other, I might have mumbled a sorry, and I noticed he was tall.
The next team was approaching quickly but started to slow and the musher waved me on. I realized it was the team I had already struggled by. I straightened everything as best I could and pulled my hook. I notice perkiness in my team as we gave chase. I kept the other teams in my sight for an hour or so, but then my discomfort with the speed we were going forced me to ease back on the drag mat and slow the team down. “Still day one” I tell the team, “Let’s just focus on making it.”
Finger Lake checkpoint emerged through the torrent of snowflakes. I check in and was given directions of where to park and where the hole in the ice was to retrieve water from. A checker lead me to the parking spot, but in such soft snow combined with a strong 16-dog team, I couldn’t slow them down and ended up being greeted by a barrage of accusations. I don’t like being yelled at, never have, never will. I choke back my own feelings and focus on the dogs. My chores go smoothly, and I’m careful not to leave my sled bag open or gear out because of the falling snow. I look around to take in another famous name on Iditarod.
At this moment, I witness what may be one of the worst spots a dog team could be parked. Luckily I’m at least a half dozen teams over from the spectacle. I don’t know if it’s affiliated with the race or the lodge or what, but not 30 yards from the teams is a helicopter attempting to take flight. The noise alone has teams suddenly cowering, but even more disturbing is the artificial snow squalls it sends smashing into the resting teams. I watch the chopper rise into the wind and come right back down. Word is they’ll try again in a bit because the machine just can’t cut through the storm. I note that my team is currently ignoring the calamity and resting well. I head up the steep hill to where I’ve been told there’s a hot meal for mushers. Honestly I’m just hoping to dry out.
There’s a back entrance for mushers and a small area in the kitchen for us to sit. The kitchen was buzzing with activity, a gourmet staff in a back country world. A hot breakfast came my way, indicating it was still morning, a surprisingly delicious plate of black beans and eggs. I force myself to also drink as much water as possible. I move to the water jug with a sign indicating drinking water and read a caution sign hung in the kitchen on what seems to be an invisible boundary. “Mushers watch your ass” it reads. I waste valuable energy contemplating what it means and then give up… too scared to ask. As mushers come and go I hear bits of anything from grumbling and complaining to bragging and reminiscing about other races. I cling onto any information about the trail ahead, but it’s a typical group of racers, everyone’s opinion is different and everyone’s is right. Time to go check on my friends and offer them more broth and food to rehydrate. I leave what I can to keep it drying and head back out to the falling snow.
