My lead dog was a lesbian - Brian Patrick O'Donoghue [102]
Daily sensed his dogs were nearing their emotional limit. He was being sandblasted by the wind and was starting to doubt his own judgment. The trail ahead looked awful, but Tom wasn’t at all sure he could find the way back to the village. Less than 15 miles out from Shaktoolik, Daily’s sled abruptly stopped. Curling into balls, his dogs lay down in the storm.
Begging my way onto the Associated Press plane one year, I got a look at what mushers faced crossing Norton Sound. The pilot, Larry, swooped low over several teams so Rob Stapleton and I could get pictures. The light was magnificent. The sun, already low on the horizon, threw long shadows off the dog teams, which were cutting a straight line through patches of white snow and dark blue sea ice. As Larry circled and banked, Staple-ton and I leaned out the windows, chewing up film in our motor drives.
Mushing across the ice wasn’t bad, not at first. The dogs were rolling. My runners neatly sliced the crusty mounds. In the areas free of snow, numerous white cracks showed through the dark ice, but the visible depth of the fractures was actually a comfort. I caught Mormile whenever I pleased. He was conscientious about checking on me. Every five minutes or so he turned back and flashed his headlamp, awaiting my response. The bouncing lights of the full convoy stretched out half a mile or more into the darkness. Odd shouts floated back across the ice, mixing with the wind and the steady crunch of sleds on the move.
It was the perfect moment for listening to my much-traveled Miles Davis tape. I was still amazed at the journey the tape had made. A race volunteer had found it on the trail leaving Rohn, where the tape had fallen out of my overturned sled. It had then been sent ahead to Unalakleet, via Iditarod’s air force, and the checker there surprised me with it. I had the tape with me, but it was purely a good-luck charm. My Walkman had quit. Too bad, the trumpeter’s wail would have suited this forlorn place.
Another annoyance: my thermos was empty. I had meant to refill it when I melted snow for cooking in Shaktoolik. But I had forgotten and used all the hot water for mixing dog food. I was thirsty.
As the temperature dropped, I reached inside the sled bag and pulled out my parka. Wearing the coat loosely over my shoulders helped, until it got colder. The parka zipper was icy, and I had trouble sealing it. I needed that full hood—the breeze was turning vicious. Balancing on the runners as the sled continued to bump and slide across the ice, I gripped the zipper tab with Channellock pliers. I had worked the zipper to just below my neck when the goddamn tab tore loose. Lurching backward, I almost fell off the sled. I swung my arms until I regained my balance on the runners.
The hood on my parka now became a wind scoop, funneling the subzero breeze into my chest. I held the neck of my parka shut with one hand, while I gripped the sled with the other. Hunched over the handlebar, I concentrated on keeping Mormile in sight. Northern lights were rippling overhead, neon green, soft white, and hints of red, but I was in no mood to appreciate them. I was cold, damn cold. Too cold to care.
Later, I don’t know how much later—time having become secondary to the absolute necessity of clinging to the sled and staring at Cyrus’s and Rat’s steps as they ran in wheel—I came upon the others. They were stopped for some reason, talking and snacking their dogs. I watched them, making no move to get off my sled.
“You OK?” Terhune asked.
I had trouble even processing the question. And when I sorted “yes” from “no,” my mouth just wouldn’t work. I shook my head. By then, I was surrounded by headlamps.
“Drink this,” someone said, handing me a cup of warm juice.
The liquid was startling, rolling down my throat like fire. I drank several cups and felt the energy spreading through my body. Snapping out of my delirium, I babbled about the zipper. “You need a shell, something to block that