My lead dog was a lesbian - Brian Patrick O'Donoghue [23]
“Five,” the voice boomed. “Four. Three. Two …”
The howls ceased. Noses dipped toward the snow. Tug lines snapped taut as my 17-dog team bent to business, effortlessly yanking our two sleds forward. Loosely fastened booties flew from the paws up front. I briefly scowled, conscious that I faced a booty shortage, but the regret was soon overwhelmed by the thunderous cheers greeting my team.
Pumping my right fist at the sky, I mushed the dogs down the center of Fourth Avenue, savoring my moment as front-runner on the Iditarod Trail. Butcher, Swenson, Runyan, Buser, and King—all the name mushers were chasing me out of Anchorage today.
The start was broadcast live across Alaska. Watching at a friend’s house in Two Rivers, Rattles leaped to his feet as the camera zoomed in on a manic dog in the rear of my team.
“That’s CYRUS! That’s CYRUS! CYRUS!” the Rattler shouted. “He’s going to Nome!”
Five blocks from the starting line, the trail hung a sharp right turn onto Cordova Street. Rainy and the White Rat guided the team through the curve in a fine tight arc. My sled neatly skidded around the berm piled on the corner. Riding the handler’s sled, my brother Coleman wasn’t so lucky. Slamming into the hard snow wall, his sled flipped over sideways. Coleman understood that I wasn’t going to stop, certainly not as long as we were leading the pack. Fortunately this was the one mushing maneuver my brother had actually practiced.
The week preceding the race had largely been consumed with official meetings and last-minute chores. The dogs, sitting on their chains in Cyndi’s yard, had energy to burn. My brother Coleman also needed a sled-riding lesson if he was going to man that second sled. Finding a few hours free, I grabbed the chance to take the dogs on a short run. It would be my family’s first chance to see a real dog team in action. Bonnie, who was three months pregnant, asked if she could go along for the ride.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think it would be a good idea, Bon.”
She was disappointed and somewhat offended by my protective attitude. I felt guilty. Her father had made this thing possible. But bringing her along would be asking for trouble. I was taking 14 dogs, leaving behind only Skidders and the two casualties. Too many things could go wrong.
We didn’t get started until after dark. Coleman was zipped inside heavy Carhartt coveralls, wearing bunny boots and a headlamp for the first time.
“These dogs are stronger than they look,” Blaine said appreciatively, unloading them from the truck. Until that moment, when he felt his arm being twisted by my squirming bundles of muscle and fur, my younger brother hadn’t been impressed by sled dogs.
As the moment of departure drew near, Screech and Digger began leaping in place, straining to go. The excitement spread, and my sled bounced and wobbled under the team’s pressure, but we were firmly tied to a pole. I positioned the second sled about ten feet behind mine, attached by a thick poly towrope. Coleman planted himself on the runners.
Bonnie was feeling apprehensive. The dogs were much wilder than she had imagined. The landscape stretching before her, an icy field giving way to a dark mass of trees, was forbidding. “I would feel a lot safer if we were doing this in daylight,” she said.
Coleman’s sled trailed slightly at an angle to mine, but I figured it wouldn’t matter.
“Ready?”
“You got it,” Coleman said.
I yanked the anchor rope. The dogs surged forward, whipping both sleds across the hard-packed crusty snow.
Coleman’s sled slammed into the anchor pole, and he lost his footing on the runners. Remembering what I had said about never letting go of a dogsled, he hung on for all he was worth. The dogs dragged him, facedown, into the darkness.
My eyes stayed glued on the dogs, alert for hints of a tangle developing in those first crazed minutes. Coleman’s sled remained upright,